The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot by Marianne Cronin (e reader books txt) 📗

The chapel was empty again except for Father Arthur, who was sitting in a pew, wearing long white robes over his black suit and reading. Not the Bible, but an A4-sized book with cheap binding and a glossy laminated cover. When New Nurse opened the door and I followed gratefully through, Arthur didn’t turn round right away. New Nurse let the door close behind us, and at the sound of the heavy thud he turned, put his glasses on and smiled.

‘Pastor, um … Reverend?’ New Nurse stumbled. ‘She, um, Lenni asked if she could spend an hour here. Is that okay?’

Arthur closed the book in his lap.

‘Certainly,’ he said.

‘Thank you, um, Vicar …?’ New Nurse said.

‘Father,’ I whispered. She grimaced, her face reddening – which clashed with her hair – and then she left without another word.

Father Arthur and I settled into the same pew. The colours in the stained glass were just as lovely as the day before.

‘It’s empty again today,’ I said. It echoed.

Father Arthur said nothing.

‘Did it used to be busy? You know, back when people were more religious?’

‘It is busy,’ he said.

I turned to him. ‘We’re the only ones here.’

Clearly, he was in denial.

‘It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,’ I said. ‘It must be embarrassing. I mean, it’s like you’re throwing a party and nobody’s turned up.’

‘It is?’

‘Yes. I mean, here you are, in your best white party dress with lovely grapes and things sewn onto it, and—’

‘These are vestments. It’s not a dress.’

‘Vestments, then. Here you are, in your party vestments, you’ve got the table laid ready for lunch …’

‘That’s an altar, Lenni. And it’s not lunch, it’s the Eucharist. The bread of Christ.’

‘What, he won’t share?’

Father Arthur gave me a look.

‘It’s for the Sunday service. I don’t eat the holy bread for lunch, and I don’t eat my lunch at the altar.’

‘Of course, because you have egg and cress in your office.’

‘I do,’ he said, glowing a little because I had remembered something about him.

‘So, you’ve got everything ready for the party. There’s music’ – I pointed to the sad CD/cassette tape combo in the corner, beside which some CDs were neatly piled – ‘and there’s plenty of seating for everyone.’ I pointed to the rows of empty pews. ‘But nobody comes.’

‘To my party?’

‘Exactly. All day, every day, you are throwing a Jesus party and nobody’s coming. It must feel horrible.’

‘That’s … um … Well, that’s one way of thinking about it.’

‘Sorry if I’m making it worse.’

‘You’re not making anything worse, but really, this isn’t a party, Lenni. This is a place of worship.’

‘Yes. No, I know that, but what I mean is that I get where you’re coming from. I had a party once, when I was eight and I’d just moved to Glasgow from Sweden. My mum invited all the kids in my class, but hardly anyone came. Although, at that point my mum’s English was patchy, so there’s every chance they all went to the wrong place, holding presents and balloons and waiting for the party to start. At least that’s what I told myself at the time.’

I paused.

‘Go on,’ he offered.

‘So, when I was sitting there on the dining-room chairs that my mum had arranged into a circle, waiting for someone to turn up, I felt horrible.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

‘So, that’s what I’m saying to you. I know how much it hurts when nobody comes to your party. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I just don’t think you should deny it. You can’t fix a problem until you’ve faced it head on.’

‘But it is busy, Lenni. It’s busy because you are here. It is busy with the spirit of the Lord.’

I gave him a look.

He shuffled in the pew. ‘And besides, a little solitude isn’t to be laughed at. This may be a place of worship, but it’s also a place of peace.’ He glanced up at the stained glass. ‘I like to be able to talk to patients one-to-one; it means I can pay them my full attention, and don’t take this the wrong way, Lenni, but I think you might be a person the Lord would like me to pay my full attention to.’

I laughed at that.

‘I thought about you at lunch time,’ I said. ‘Did you have egg and cress again today?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘Lovely, as always.’

‘And Mrs …?’

‘Hill, Mrs Hill.’

‘Did you tell Mrs Hill about our conversation?’

‘I didn’t. Everything you say here is confidential. That’s why people like coming so much. They can speak their minds and not worry who will find out later.’

‘So this is confession then?’

‘No, although if you wish to go to confession, I would gladly help you arrange it.’

‘If it isn’t confession, then what is it?’

‘It’s whatever you want it to be. This chapel is here to be whatever you need it to be.’

I took in the empty rows of pews, the electronic piano draped in a beige dust cover, the noticeboard with a picture of Jesus pinned to it. What would I want this place to be if it could be anything?

‘I would like it to be a place of answers.’

‘It can be.’

‘Can it? Can religion ever really answer a question?’

‘Lenni, the Bible teaches us that Christ can guide you to the answer to every question.’

‘But can it answer an actual question? Honestly? Can you answer me a question without telling me that life is a mystery, or that everything is God’s plan, or that the answers I seek will come with time?’

‘Why don’t you tell me your question, and we will work together to see how God can help us find an answer?’

I leant back in the pew and it creaked. The echo reverberated around the room.

‘Why am I dying?’

Lenni and the Question

I DIDN’T LOOK at Father Arthur when I asked him the question; instead I looked at the cross. I heard him breathe out slowly. I