Never Tell. Claire Seeber

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СКАЧАТЬ windows suffused with gold looked welcoming against the darkening velvet of the sky, and the choir were just finishing their rehearsals as I slipped into a pew at the back of the great building, listening to the last few beautiful lines of what I later learned was Handel’s Messiah.

      I waited as they packed up, calling to each other jovially, agreeing to meet in the pub over the road, and then I wandered down to the great table where the candles were kept.

      The door slammed behind the last chorister. I put my money in the honesty box, chose a candle and then carried it to the wooden rack where the others flickered. I placed it alongside the others, some still lit, some melted to tiny jagged stubs, the flames shining bravely in the dim light.

      As I picked up the matches I thought I heard a footstep, but when I looked round, the cathedral seemed deserted apart from me. I lit my candle and tried to focus my mind, thinking fondly of my grandmother, her funny Anglicisms, her boeuf Bourguignon that melted in your mouth, her horror when my mother cut my infant hair short. (‘Mon Dieu! So common, Lynette. Vraiment, tout le monde dirait qu’elle est un garçon!’)

      Placing the matches back, I felt a draught down the back of my neck. A sudden scraping noise made my heart jump – and then a great gust of wind blew through the cathedral from nowhere. All the flames guttered. My candle went out.

      I tried to stand but I had cramp in my leg. Limping, I hurried as fast as I could towards the great doors – which suddenly seemed very far. I didn’t want to stay and relight the candle; I wanted to go now. But before I reached the door, a slim figure slipped from behind a pillar, framed against the stained glass like an unholy apparition. I blinked. It was Dalziel.

      ‘Hello,’ he said.

      ‘Oh,’ I stuttered. I gathered my wits. ‘Hello.’

      ‘Praying for redemption?’ He arched an eyebrow. Wearing a long black Astrakhan coat, the collar turned up to frame his pale face, he looked otherworldly. ‘Are you the religious type then?’ He regarded me coolly. ‘You don’t really look it.’

      ‘No. I – it was my grandmother. She died – just, a few years – well, I – I just came to remember her, I suppose.’

      ‘Well, All Souls’ Eve is past.’ He flicked his blond hair back.

      ‘So?’ I didn’t know what he meant.

      ‘When, my dear, the boundary is open between the dead and the living. But perhaps she’ll rise again tonight.’

      ‘Oh.’ I thought of how very sick and slight my elegant grandmother had been at the end. ‘God, I kind of hope not. I think she might be happier where she is.’

      ‘Really?’ Dalziel looked amused. ‘Remind me of your name.’ He took a step towards me. ‘Something floral, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Rose. Rose Langton.’

      ‘Ah yes. Rose. “Of sweetest odours made.” Well, perhaps you can help me, now you’re here.’

      I blushed hotly. ‘Help you?’

      ‘Yes. Number Four.’

      ‘You’ve lost me,’ I mumbled. He was so beautiful, close up. Ethereal, almost.

      ‘Never mind. No time to explain. Got to defile Sabbath’s day before the protectors get here.’ Dalziel picked up the bag at his feet. A bright pink feather boa protruded from one end. ‘Jesus needs a little help with his outfit. He’s been feeling a bit chilly.’

      As I watched in amazement, Dalziel produced full suspenders and stockings, crotchless knickers and nipple tassels in red satin, a push-up bra in black lace and a bottle of champagne, still cold, all from his bag.

      ‘You open the Krug.’ He pressed the bottle on me. ‘I’ll dress him. And get a move on. This place is never empty for long.’

      I didn’t dare admit I’d no idea how to open a bottle of champagne. Like a lost puppy, I followed him as he carried the underwear over to the six-foot Jesus, who gazed sadly down at the floor near our feet.

      ‘See.’ Dalziel ran his hand lovingly down Jesus’s torso. ‘He’s freezing, poor bastard. Where’s Mary when you need her, eh?’

      Our eyes met and I felt a strange heat suffuse me, somewhere in the very core of me. Quickly I looked away again, struggled with the champagne’s foil, untwisting the metal. For some reason my hand was shaking.

      ‘Tassels or bra?’

      The cork popped suddenly, nearly taking my eye out. It hit the pillar and ricocheted beneath a pew.

      ‘Oh, you bugger,’ Dalziel was murmuring to himself as champagne sputum poured over my leg, the froth spraying Jesus’s new outfit.

      ‘The tassels won’t stay on. His chest’s too slippery. So that decides it.’ Dalziel clipped the bra round the back of Jesus. ‘There we go.’ He took the bottle from my hand and toasted Jesus. ‘Genius.’

      ‘But …’ I looked at the incongruous idol before me. The suspenders flapped in a slight breeze coming from somewhere. ‘I don’t understand. Why …’

      Voices were audible from the back of the cathedral. Dalziel took a quick slug and then shoved the champagne at me as he gathered up his bag. ‘Come on.’

      ‘You forgot the boa,’ I whispered.

      ‘Too late.’ Dalziel grabbed my other hand, and we ran for it, giggling up the side aisle, dribbling champagne and pink feathers as we went.

      Outside we kept running, expecting to hear angry voices behind us, through the grounds, past the porter in his bowler hat and Crombie, towards the Meadow, ending panting beneath a huge tree as it began to drizzle. Dalziel took the bottle and drank, long and hard. He looked at me.

      ‘You know, you’re more fun than I expected,’ he said, and I felt my heart turn over. ‘Little Rose.’

      ‘I’m not so little,’ I protested. ‘I’m eighteen.’

      ‘Are you?’ He passed me the bottle. ‘Very grown up. What’s the time?’

      I checked my watch. ‘Six thirty.’

      ‘Gotta go.’ He leaned down and kissed my cheek. He smelled a little of something sweet; later I learned it was patchouli oil. ‘Gotta meet a man about a dog.’ He winked at me. ‘See you around. Keep the Krug.’

      He melted into the night. I stood for a moment under the tree in the Meadow, the city bright before me, the night dark behind me. In a window of Christ Church halls, a grinning pumpkin flickered.

      I was more than a little light-headed. I was utterly intoxicated – and not just from the champagne.

      GLOUCESTERSHIRE, MARCH 2008

      James was shouting desperately in his sleep. As I came to, I could hear him moaning that he was being crushed.

      ‘It’s so dark,’ he kept repeating. ‘Let the light in, please.’

      Befuddled СКАЧАТЬ