ground had been professionally prepared, for Father Angwin was not about to overtax or overestimate his crew. The gravedigger and his assistant had been called in from the cemetery that St Thomas Aquinas shared with the neighbouring parish; the Fetherhoughtonians did not merit a facility of their own. There had been a discussion (heated) in the church porch, and eventually, and after money had changed hands, the two craftsmen had seen the logic of the priest’s case. True, they were not employed to dig holes; it was not their vocation, it did not agree with them. For that he might better have employed, as one of them pointed out, a landscape gardener. But given that the holes were grave-shaped, it might be seen as trespassing on their speciality should he retain some other professional; and the holes need not be so deep as graves, so the work would be easy. They had conceded the point, and excavated the ground behind the garage.
When Father Angwin saw the holes he clasped his arms across his chest, hugging behind his soutane a nameless, floating anxiety; what he saw was a graveyard prepared for some coming massacre or atrocity, and he said to himself, as clever children always say, if God knows our ends, why cannot he prevent them, why is the world so full of malice and cruelty, why did God make it at all and give us free will if he knows already that some of us will destroy ourselves in exercising it? Then he remembered that he did not believe in God, and he went into the church to supervise the removal of the statues from their plinths.
Father Angwin had himself a good knowledge of the principles of levers and pulleys, but it was Sister Philomena who, by example, spurred the Men’s Fellowship on to the effort needed. By the time the statues were out of doors, and the men had coiled their ropes and picked up their shovels, the scent of her skin had seeped to them through her heavy black habit, and they edged away, their celibate frames shaken by what they did not understand. She was a big, healthy girl, in her woollen stockings. You were conscious of the smell of soap from her skin, of her eyebrows and of her feet, and of other parts you do not notice on nuns. It was possible to think of her having knees.
Sister Philomena lifted her skirts a fraction to kneel on the damp ground, watching intently as the saints were lowered into the earth. At the last moment she leant forward, and skimmed her rough housewife’s hand across the mane of St Jerome’s lion; then she eased herself back, settled on her haunches and drew the back of her hand across her eyes.
‘I liked him, Father,’ she said, looking up. He put out a hand to assist her; she rose smoothly and stood beside him, tipping back her head so that her veil dropped itself over her shoulder into its proper folds. Her hand was warm and steady, and he felt the slow beat of her pulse through the skin.
‘You are a good girl,’ he said. ‘A good girl. I could not have managed. I am too sad.’
Philomena raised her voice to the Men’s Fellowship, who were teetering and swaying one-legged, black flamingos, scraping off their shoes. ‘You all gentlemen should go to the Nissen hut now. Sister Anthony has got the tea urn out and is baking you some fruit-loaf.’
At this news, the men looked cast down. Sister Anthony, a rotund and beaming figure in her floury apron, was feared throughout the parish.
‘Poor old soul,’ Father Angwin said. ‘She means well. Think of the good sisters, they have to face it every day, breakfast dinner and tea. Do this last one thing for me, lads, and if it is very unpalatable, you must offer it up.’
‘There’s not more than a handful of grit in it,’ Philomena said, ‘though possibly more grit than currants. You can offer it up as Father says, make it an occasion of obtaining grace. Say “Sacred Heart of Jesus, help me to eat this fruit-bread.”’
‘Is that what you say?’ Father Angwin asked her. ‘I mean, mutatis mutandis, with suitable adaptation? For instance, I believe she burns the porridge?’
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, help me swallow this porridge. Sister Polycarp suggested we might make a novena to St Michael, the patron saint of grocers, to ask him to guide her a little in the foodstuffs line. We wondered if it was the patron saint of cooks we should apply to, but Sister Polycarp said her problem is more basic than that, it is what she can do with the raw ingredients that God alone knows.’
‘And do you all have some pious formula?’
‘Oh yes, but we say it under our breath, you know, not to hurt her feelings. Except Mother Perpetua, of course. She gives her a pious rebuke.’
‘I’ll bet she does.’
‘But Sister Anthony is very humble. She never says anything back.’
‘Why should she? She has her means of revenge.’
The moon had risen now, a sliver of light over the black terraces. Judd McEvoy, a singular figure in his knitted waistcoat, gave a pat to the earth above St Agatha. ‘Judd?’ said Father Angwin. ‘I did not see you there.’
‘Oh, I have been toiling,’ Judd McEvoy said. ‘Toiling unobtrusively. No reason, Father, why you should remark my presence above the others.’
‘No, but I generally do.’ Father Angwin turned away. Philomena saw the puzzlement on his face. ‘I like to know where you are, Judd,’ he remarked, to himself. And louder, ‘Are you going to cut along with the others and get your fruit-bread?’
‘I shall go directly,’ said Judd. ‘I should not like to be marked out in any way.’ He knocked the earth off his spade, and straightened up. ‘I think you may say, Father, that all your saints are safely buried. Shall I take it upon myself to draw up a plan marking the name of each? In case the bishop should change his mind, and wish to reinstate some of them?’
‘That will not be necessary.’ Father Angwin shifted from foot to foot. ‘I myself will remember. I will not be in any doubt.’
‘As you please,’ McEvoy said. He smiled his cold smile, and put on his hat. ‘I will join the others then.’
The Men’s Fellowship, edified by the words of the remarkable young nun, were touching their foreheads to Father Angwin and setting off in ones and twos down the drive towards the school. Their murmur arose through the scented evening: Sacred Heart of Jesus, help me to eat this fruit-bread. Father Angwin watched them go. McEvoy went with the rest, casting a glance behind him. When finally he rounded the bend by the convent, and was lost to view, Sister Philomena heard the priest let out his breath, and noted the relief on his face.
‘Come into the church a moment,’ Father Angwin said.
She nodded, and followed him. They entered together, through the deep shadows that had gathered in the porch. A chill struck upwards from the stone floor into their feet. Clods of earth lay in the aisles. ‘I will see to this tomorrow,’ Philomena said, her tone low and subdued. They looked about. Without the statues the church seemed smaller and meaner, its angles more gracelessly exposed.
‘You would think it would be the other way round,’ Philomena said, catching his thought. ‘That it would look bigger – not that it isn’t big enough. Yet I remember when I was a girl and my Aunt Dymphna died, and when we got all the stuff out into the yard, her bed and the chest and all, we went back in to take a last look at it, and the room was like the size of a hen coop. My mother said, dear God, did my sister Dymphna and all her fancy frocks live in this little space?’
‘What did she die of?’
‘Dymphna? Oh, her lungs. It was a damp place that she lived. On a farm.’
They whispered, as they were speaking of
