Funeral today for Marion, a regular at the Boar’s Head. People had to stand at the back of the church. She’d been known by half the city, it seemed. Her office colleagues and neighbours in formalwear, a couple of rough sleepers, women from the charity shop, teens from a youth group. The relatives did their best not to break down during their eulogies. She lived a better life than most of us, said the priest. Even towards the end, he said, she was more worried about the woman in the next bed than herself.
At the wake in the pub there were sandwiches, crisps, sausage rolls, small cakes, jugs of orange juice. Everyone had a story about her giving something away: money, plants, food, knitwear: she used to sit and knit in the pub. She made rounds to the homeless when she could still walk. She knew who’d disappeared, who’d got housing, who’d died.
I approached Henry, a young low-church priest who insists on being called by his first name. He was drinking Guinness. He was with Tim, an elderly Congregationalist who lives in the countryside. A retired farmer I think. We were joined by Stewart, with whom I sometimes go on country walks. He’s taking the initiation course at the Catholic Cathedral while also going to the little Orthodox church on Oak Street. He’s unsure where he belongs.
Brave thing to say in a sermon, said Tim over the noise.
What was? said Henry.
That she lived better than most of us.
It’s true, said Henry.
Oh yeah, Tim said. But true in what sense?
Stewart smiled at that, not kindly or unkindly. He has a way of listening as if he’s trying to catch some accent.
In the sense that she loved people, said Henry. Fed them, noticed them, stayed with them. I’m sure God is as interested in that as we are.
Sure, said Tim. But God isn’t just a word for being kind.
Henry said nothing for a moment. Someone near the bar laughed too loudly. A woman in black was crying into a napkin while another woman rubbed her back.
I was tempted to ask where they thought she was now. She’d put us to shame, but hadn’t believed or taken the sacraments, as far as anyone knew. I kept quiet of course; it was an indecent thought.
Stewart said that in the Orthodox church they pray for the dead because love doesn’t stop at death and only God knows the state of a soul. They don’t declare, he said, they pray.
We pray for the dead too, said Henry.
Tim took a sip of juice. The trouble is, everyone wants mercy without judgement.
I thought of the bank app, the man outside the cashpoint, the money sitting there with its quiet power. I thought of Marion making her rounds on a crutch.
Henry said, a bit sharply, I’m not in the business of measuring grace at a funeral.
No, said Tim. Nor am I.
When the glasses had multiplied and the room grew warmer, Stewart talked about the Orthodox liturgy, how at home in mystery they seemed to be, whereas we’re always irritably reaching after problems and ways of working them out. Tim said churches lost their way when they started dressing up the Gospel with all kinds of nonsense. Like what? said Henry. All of it, said Tim. Incense, fancy robes, gold cups. Cathedrals. Popes and bishops. Rock bands in churches. Instead of preaching Christ crucified. Well, I’m with you on Christ crucified, said Henry. I’d keep the incense.
I listened and drank and exchanged a few words with people I knew who passed by. I watched the mourners carrying paper plates and swapping stories about her.
On the way home the question returned. Where was she now? It seemed both childish and terribly serious. It stayed with me for a couple of days until I started to forget about it.
Notes from a Room 