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

I took an incredibly deep breath in, as though I was about to go underwater, and then I crashed into her. I held her tightly and wondered if this was what reunions with the dead felt like. I’d spent so long remembering her, thinking of her, imagining her, that I’d forgotten she was a real living human, and now here she was.

‘Congratulations,’ she said to me.

‘Congratulations,’ I said to her.

A sound from several miles away echoed in my ears and it took some time for me to realize that it was the organ, playing the music that would come before my entrance. Originally we wanted piano music, but the priest had offered the parish church’s organist, and I had felt unable to tell him that the music of the sweet hunched lady named Elspeth set my teeth on edge.

On the windowsill that looked out onto the church car park was a bouquet of dried flowers in a milk bottle vase, tied with a ribbon. The pink bud in the middle had been a carnation once. I pulled the stems from the vase and, though I was as careful as I could be, several of the leaves shivered in their skeletal way and disintegrated to the floor.

‘Here,’ I said, handing Meena the posy, ‘be my bridesmaid.’

Over a cold cup of tea, I held her long enough to hear the details. She told me as carefully as possible, but pieces of me still broke and fluttered to the ground.

His (the father’s) name was not important because he wasn’t going to be involved, she’d said. He’d been a colleague and then a friend and then a lover and then a father and then nothing at all. Of course, I knew it was The Professor. His (the baby’s) surname was going to be her own – Star – which, she said, she had finally made legal several years before.

‘If I can help … If we can help …’ I started, but she shook her head.

The cannonball inside her rolled around, and she grabbed my hand and pressed it to the line where her tights met her tummy.

And I was aware, as I sometimes am, of the earth moving. That the earth was rotating and pulling us forwards, and millions of milliseconds were flying by, and that this moment was precious. More precious than my time with Humphrey, which was unlimited and so of much lower value. Time with Meena always passed faster than it should have and it was always more fleeting.

As our eyes caught, she pulled herself up, resting her hand on the back of her chair.

‘You could stay,’ I said, knowing that she wouldn’t.

She kissed me on the cheek.

And then she was gone.

A few weeks later, an envelope addressed to ‘Mrs James’ settled on the doormat. And in that envelope was a photograph of a baby. On the back of the picture, familiar looping handwriting told me that this baby was Jeremy Davey Star, 6lbs 10oz.

Lenni and the First Goodbye

I MET A priest a little while ago. An old man with an empty chapel. I shook his hand and we became friends by accident. I learned nothing about Jesus from him. If anything, I think I’ve made him more confused about God. But that’s not really important.

That same priest emerged from his office today ready to conduct his final Sunday service. Expecting his average audience of two people, he barely raised his head until he got to the altar. And then he did. And his already red eyes widened at the sea of smiling faces sitting before him. Two of Pippa’s art classes made about forty people. Some of us in pyjamas, some in Sunday Best. All of us waiting and listening for Arthur’s last mass. I was in the front row with Margot, Else and Walter.

‘Well, goodness,’ he said, putting on his reading glasses. His voice cracked as he said, ‘Welcome!’

I gave him a wave and he smiled at me, giving a nod. Everyone was holding the playbills I’d made. Nobody was too certain that church services needed playbills, but we have to have something to show our grandchildren. The final great performance of Father Arthur.

‘How wonderful of you all to come,’ Father Arthur said. ‘As some of you may know, this will be my last service at the hospital chapel.’

‘We know,’ Else said. She was dressed all in black and wearing a sequinned black hat. I have no idea what ward she’s in, but I can only imagine she has a large amount of storage by her hospital bed – I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wearing the same outfit twice.

‘So please forgive me,’ he continued, ‘if I get emotional. However, I should add that I’ – he sneezed, excused himself, then laughed and continued – ‘I also have a cold.’

Father Arthur moved behind the altar and took a moment to collect himself. The pinks and reds and purples of the stained glass window gave his white robes a pink hue. I breathed in the familiar scent and took a mental picture of the moment. Of Arthur in the chapel where he belongs. After a moment or two, we all fell silent and he lifted his arms.

‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name …’

There are some words in the Lord’s Prayer that I don’t know. But I do know the word art. It’s a necessary inclusion, I think. We should all be artists. Especially if God is doing art in heaven; we should follow his example.

‘Our lives are rich with blessings. Sometimes we stop to count them and sometimes we don’t. Having worked at this hospital for many years, I have often pondered whether I have made any difference to the hospital, and in the end, all I can really know for certain is that the hospital has made a difference to me. I count myself blessed to have