The Memory of Us: A Novel (32 page)

The primary purpose of All Souls was still to manage burial details. My side of the home became a kind of church office. I opened the front room whenever I heard a car pull up and was the first contact that people made here. I pitied them for having to see me in the moment of their bereavement. I hurried through the administrative necessities of the work and ushered them in to Father McCarthy as soon as I could. He did have a calling for this work and was the compassionate ear that they sought. In contrast, I was used to two decades of keeping people at bay, and it was difficult to soften that exterior. I was determined to try, but it would take time.

If they had no priest of their own, he also conducted the funeral services. The bells, in their solemn tones, echoed mournfully through the lonely valley.

When Father McCarthy wasn’t counseling or studying, I would find him in the long-neglected garden. I marveled at his talent for reviving it. Trimming hedges and making plans for the spring, he seemed almost happy when he was there. Save for the black cassock, he seemed like Kyle to me more often than not, and it always brought a rush of emotions. Reconciling the two people in one was challenging.

We never spoke more than necessary, though. We had each become such solitary people since our shared tragedies.

When November came, I sent Lily the carved peacock that Kyle had once made for me. Without knowing where in London they might be, I sent it to Smithdown and left its route to my daughter to fate. And I wrote the same unsigned message that I had twenty times before:

To dearest Lily, I wish you the happiest of birthdays.

I disregarded the guilt I felt, knowing that I was with her father and they knew nothing of each other.

The Advent season approached, and I decided to surprise Father McCarthy with an assortment of boughs with which to decorate the church. I still had some money saved. As all of my necessities were met, save for an occasional plain frock to replace a worn one, it was easy to indulge in this. I wrote up an order and paid a local farm boy to pick some up for me. When they arrived, their evergreen scent took me back to the tree farm in Wallasey.

I ventured into the church when I felt certain that Father McCarthy would be occupied in the garden for some time. I had researched Advent and Christmas customs, and hoped that there might be a storeroom with the appropriate supplies.

I was right. In the sacristy, I found a closet with many such things. I pulled out a large gold ring and five pillar candles that were meant to rest on it. Three purple and one pink would be arranged around the ring, and the white would be placed inside of it. Kyle once told me that the purple represented repentance and the pink stood for joy. The white was reserved for Christmas morning. I added some boughs around it and stepped back to look at my handiwork. It occurred to me that it was a perfect metaphor for my life—a majority of repentance, with scant punctuations of joy.

Finding a ladder, I got to work on the rest of the chapel. I hung swags of evergreen from the altar and from the columns, and highlighted each with tasteful red bows.

Father McCarthy entered just as I was hanging the last one, and I could see that he was stunned by the results. He was not talkative to begin with, but now he was positively speechless. I hoped that meant that he liked it.

“I hope I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “I read about the liturgical seasons first so that I didn’t do anything incorrectly.”

He approached the altar and looked at everything closely. One candle in the wreath had fallen, and we both reached for it at the same time, brushing the sides of each other’s fingers.

Our eyes locked briefly.
See me,
I suddenly thought, and just as quickly I brushed those words from my mind. I turned away before my gaze could tell him more than I wanted him to know. His touch had lit a fire in me, and I was thankful when he took his hand away.

He turned around once more, taking it all in, and finally spoke.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. It is perfect.” He walked up and down the aisle, hands folded behind his back. “You know, I never see you here at Mass. Now you have to come so that you can see how beautiful it is with the decorations.”

“I can see it here without the Mass. But thank you anyway.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I guess it’s just odd that you do so much here, and yet you don’t attend any services. Perhaps my sermons are even duller than I thought.”

“Oh, that’s not it, I promise. In fact, I’ve heard you practice them sometimes, and they are quite good. You put so much work into them. But you are a pastor of souls that have departed. Why labor over them for the few living souls that show up?”

“If I can speak to the heart of even one person on a Sunday, isn’t that worth it?”

“I suppose so. But you are very gifted. It’s a waste to exile you here.”

“I am not exiled here. I requested this assignment.”

I looked at him with surprise.

He leaned back against a pew. “I have dedicated my life to praying for loved ones who have died. Now I can do the same for the loved ones of others.”

The words were right there, on my lips, and I had to bite my bottom lip to keep from asking, “Who are your lost loved ones?”

He cocked his head and looked at me oddly. I suddenly remembered the times when he teased me about my habit of nipping my lip when I was lost in thought. Had it triggered a memory in him? I almost wanted it to.

But he looked aside, appearing to shake it off. “You know,” he said, “my father is buried here. I also liked the idea of being near him and spending time at his grave.”

“Is that why you take those morning walks out to the west part of the cemetery?”

I knew the answer, of course, but I wanted to keep him here, to keep him talking.

“Yes. It’s a nice way to begin my day.”

“He is a lucky man to have such a devoted son.”

And any prayers you might spend on me are useless, since I am standing here right next to you.

“Well, he was a good father.” With a sigh, he stood straight and went to the sacristy to set up for tomorrow’s Sunday Mass.

My heart delighted in the exchange—the chance to talk with him again.

I heard from the scant parishioners as they exited Mass over the next four Sundays that they loved the decorations, so I made use of Father McCarthy’s library to learn about other liturgical seasons. I laid out green altar cloths on regular days, and red ones on the feasts of martyrs. White on days of celebration, and black on days of funerals. I covered the crucifix during Lent and uncovered it on the Vigil of Easter. I enjoyed delving into the symbolism and could see why Kyle had been attracted to it. Everything had a meaning, a place, a purpose beyond itself. Some traditions came from the days of the early Christians, and others were developed over time.

I read that the Vatican was poised to review some traditions in light of a movement toward modernism. The following Christmas, the pope announced his intentions to convene a council that would address these and many other issues. If I had been Catholic, that would have been monumental to me. But Father McCarthy never seemed affected by outside issues, and he continued to live the life of a humble country priest.

So we lived season by season, day by day, growing comfortable in our habits. Father McCarthy never questioned why I stayed on, why this had never been temporary. He enjoyed evenings reading by his fireplace, and I spent mine by the small television that I had bought. I indulged in
Coronation Street
along with just about everyone else in Britain, enjoying the ongoing drama of the working-class characters. Some nights I sat at my window, waiting, although I didn’t know for what. Save for Lily, everything I wanted was here.

As time went on, there were many days when the name of Kyle never even entered my mind, so fully absorbed was I in my daily duties for Father McCarthy. There were reminders, though.

In late 1963, Father McCarthy fell ill with a terrible fever and was unable to get out of bed for several days. The doctor said that he would improve with time, but I was still frightened. I resolved to tell him everything—about me, Lily, the bombing—when he was better, because I couldn’t bear the thought that he would never know the truth. I covered his duties for him except, of course, the priestly ones, which were left neglected out of necessity. I tended his garden. I had never had a green thumb like Kyle did, but as I held these flowers and watered their roots, I felt close to him. Their velvety petals left their scent on my hands. I remembered that day I’d first met him, when he smelled like earth.

I took up his morning walk, visiting his father.

“Dadaí,” I’d say, “wherever you are, please do what you can to help him recover. I’m not ready to let him go. But if your God takes him, then tell him to take me, too. Because I don’t want to live in a place where he doesn’t exist.”

I delivered meals to him, coming closer to his private space than I ever had. I sat by his door once, laying my head and hand to it. I closed my eyes and recalled the times that we had shared a bedroom.

One evening he didn’t respond to my knocks, so I entered cautiously to make sure that he was all right. I had made a pot of chicken soup, fresh bread, and herbal tea. The room was neat, with the next day’s clothes laid over a chair the way that I used to do it for Kyle. A dusty easel rested in the corner, on which sat one of the pictures of Ireland that his father had painted. As I marveled at this sanctuary, I nearly forgot why I was here. I turned to look at his bed. I saw his form under the blankets and made out the tiniest hint of rhythmic breathing. He must have been so deep in sleep that he just didn’t hear me at the door. I looked around for a place to set the food, and I nearly dropped it when I saw what was on his bedside table.

I was face-to-face with a framed photograph. The sepia tones could not hide from me the dancing green eyes of the lovely, young blond girl sitting in the window of the ruins of a church and smiling for the man behind the camera. I remembered Kyle taking that picture on the evening of our wedding day. In front of the picture sat a small votive candle, burned almost to the nub.

I gasped audibly, and Father McCarthy woke. I must have startled him, because he sat straight up. His gaze met mine, and he saw where my eyes had rested. Immediately he took the picture and placed it facedown. I looked at him, a question in my eyes for which he gave no answer. Apologizing for the intrusion, I set the food on another table and asked if he needed anything else. He shook his head through a fit of coughs and waved me out.

I closed his door and leaned against it. My hand flew to my heart in a vain attempt to calm its rapid beating. He had a picture of me on his nightstand. I was next to him as he slept. Every morning he woke up to me. It was all so dizzying. My love for him felt overwhelming. Love because he still had feelings for his wife. Love and pity because she was gone. I wanted so much to run back in and tell him that I was here. I was here, but I was changed. I was here, and I loved him more than he would ever know. But would he love me back? I had bet my last twenty years that the answer would be no.

When he recovered, he avoided conversation with me for nearly two weeks. From his point of view, I’d seen him as a priest with a picture of a beautiful girl at his bedside. What must I think of him? Since we weren’t going to discuss it, I went out of my way to be extra kind, extra solicitous, just so that he would know that I passed no judgment.

And I reneged on every good intention to admit my betrayal.

But fate, God, destiny had other ideas. We had just settled back into normalcy when the new Advent season brought a surprise visitor to the church.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I was immersed in my third year of decorating for the holiday season. Each year I tweaked it a bit, and this time I was wrapping luxurious ribbons around the candles, matching their color. Fluffing them up, I turned at the sound of the door opening. I expected to see Father McCarthy or one of the old parishioners that dropped by to light candles now and then.

Instead, a young woman entered. She wore a lime-green tunic accessorized with a thick white belt. A matching caped coat was wrapped around her shoulders, and she clutched a shiny gold handbag. Her taupe heels click-clacked as she walked up the aisle toward me. If I were twenty-five years younger, this was exactly the sort of ensemble that I would have worn.

“May I help you?”

“Yes. I am here to make arrangements for a wedding.”

What an odd request.

“A wedding? Are you sure that you are at the right church? We’re more accustomed to funerals here.”

She tilted her head back and smiled. “Yes, I know. My mother said that I should come take a look. She came to this village a few weeks ago and told me that it would be an ideal spot to consider. You see, I grew up in Liverpool, as did my fiancé, so we wanted something close by. But we also fancied a wedding in the country.”

As much as this possibility was surprising to me, I looked around and saw that this could, indeed, be an ideal place for nuptials. The ominous black altar cloth that often adorned the church could be replaced with a brilliant white one. I envisioned flowers and ribbons and a white carpet that was rolled down the aisle. Yes, it could be just right.

“It’s the perfect size,” she continued. “We don’t want a large wedding, just some family and close friends.”

“I’m sure it will be no problem, but you will have to be patient with me, as I’m not accustomed to the details of planning a wedding.”
I was a runaway bride myself,
I thought.

“Oh, I know exactly what I want. I’m sure we can work together to make it happen.”

I gestured for her to sit in a pew, and I joined her. Up close, I was struck by the brilliance of her malt-colored eyes and the shiny texture of her long blond hair. What a lovely, polished young woman. Ready to get to work, she laid down a notebook and pen, and pulled her hair into a thick ponytail. I couldn’t help but see the inch-long birthmark under her ear as she did so, and just as I thought to myself that it looked remarkably like Kyle’s, she said, “First things first. My name is Lily Bailey.” She put her hand out to shake mine.

Lily. Jane Bailey’s Lily.
My
Lily.

The realization swept through me, and I felt cold. I couldn’t breathe and looked away. I coughed until I could get air back into my lungs.

“Are you OK?” she asked with some concern. She moved her vacant hand around me and patted me on the back.

“Yes.” Cough. “I’m fine. I’m not sure what came over me.” Cough, cough.

Jane. She said her mother had been here recently. My pulse raced. I had worked so hard to keep my whereabouts unknown, fearing her anger, or worse, facing her untarnished saintliness in comparison to my great sins. Perhaps this was all some great coincidence, though, and she knew nothing of me. I might be worried without cause. I hoped that Lily would decide that the church was inadequate for her needs and I would never need to find out.

And yet now that she was here, I never wanted her to leave.

When I had composed myself, she continued. “Well, all right. So, again, name is Lily Bailey. My fiancé is Albert Howell. Would it help if I wrote this down for you?”

I searched her eyes, innocent of what she had stepped into. Having no way of knowing what or who was before her.

Picking up the pen and notebook, I replied, “No, I can do that. And by the way, I’m Helen.” I neglected to reveal our common surname.

“Helen. It’s nice to meet you. Now, we are looking at a spring wedding . . .”

As she continued, I took notes, but the information wasn’t really sinking in.

Lily was here. The baby that I had never laid eyes on. The baby that I had chosen a mother for. The baby that was created through the deep love of Kyle and myself. She was so enthusiastic with her plans that she didn’t notice how my eyes traced every detail of her face. She looked, actually, very much like my mother, and she carried herself in the same way. Poised and chic, she embodied the latest in fashion and style. Her attention to detail also reminded me of Mother. Her eyes were Kyle’s, and her hair was mine. I saw no trace of our fathers, and I imagined that the few unidentifiable features might have come from his mother.

When she was finished, she relaxed a bit, and in her smile I saw her father’s face.

“Miss Bailey, I am sure that we can work out everything that you are asking for,” I said. I was still in disbelief that my daughter was sitting before me, inviting me to participate in her wedding.

“Thank you, Helen. I’ll be by again in a few weeks with Albert and my mother. Should I make an appointment?”

“That’s not necessary. I am here every day. You’ll be able to find me at any time.” I cleared my throat. “So your mother is coming, too?”

“Oh yes. In fact, she’ll really take over most of the details, because I’ve been caught up in a project I’m working on for university. As I said, it was her idea to consider Charcross in the first place. She had planned to be here today, but the poor dear sprained her ankle getting off of the train from London. She’s back at the hotel icing it down.”

“Give her my best,” I whispered, but already I was thinking about the day coming soon when I would again see Jane Bailey.

“I will.” She stood up and smoothed her dress. Cleanly ripping out what I had written, she handed the pages to me, then tucked the notebook under her arm. “I will see you in a few weeks. Thank you for your help.”

Her heels tapped again along the tile floor, and she left the way she came. I watched my baby as she walked away, a smile on my face and a sudden lightness in my being.

The weeks of Advent rolled by, and Lily did not return. I found myself looking for her every time the church door opened or the bell of my home was rung. I knew that she would come back, though, or at least send a note if she had changed her mind. She appeared to be a very thorough young lady.

The last few months, starting with Father McCarthy’s illness and culminating with my introduction to Lily, had stirred the past like a cauldron. I didn’t know what magic would come of it, but I hoped it would be good. If it was, indeed, God giving me a second chance, maybe he deserved the same from me.

On Christmas morning I put on my best dress, gloves, and a hat, and I walked the few yards to the church.

All Souls did not have a choir, although it did have an ancient organist who probably wouldn’t live to see Easter. As he started with a slow rendition of “O Holy Night,” I took a seat in the back and watched people file in from the cold. The church was not full, by any means, but was more so than usual. Some townspeople had visiting relatives and brought them to church on the holidays, and others were too busy on Sundays but wanted to at least celebrate once a year. I had no room to criticize. I had first ignored, then resented God for most of my life, and I was here to amend that.

Mass began, and Father McCarthy came up the aisle, led by an attendant bearing the thurible of incense. Finally, I faced what I had been avoiding: Kyle in the vestments of a priest. Kyle in the role that he should have played all along. And he played the role well. The parishioners, joyous in the season, smiled at him as he made his way up the aisle. I knew that he had spent hours preparing the sermon, highlighting the need for peace of soul and hope for salvation. I prayed to find it.

Surprisingly, the motions of the Mass came back to me. I found the rote posturing easy to keep up with and some of the Latin responses vaguely familiar. I looked at Father McCarthy as little as possible and turned my attention to the details of the liturgy for distraction.

However, I couldn’t keep my eyes from him as he delivered his homily. As he preached, it was as if I were hearing the words for the first time, the recital surpassing the rehearsal. In front of his congregation, I recognized Kyle. The old Kyle. The one who smiled and laughed and taught with every breath. At the pulpit, he was in his element, and for the first time I truly reconciled the two identities that I knew in him. He spoke of the innocence of the Christ child and of how we are called to be like children. To believe simply, to leave complications behind. I knew about complications, and I was here to set them aside. It was as if these words were intended for me. He spoke as if he had lived it. I had always seen the strength of Kyle’s faith. But surely that faith had been tested. War. Death. Loneliness. How did he conjure the strength to still love God as much as he did?

The Mass continued, and I saw him consecrate and lift the host for the first time. I bowed my head like everyone else, and my chest started pounding. Pain shot through my left arm. Feeling faint, I sat down and rested my head on the pew ahead of me. I stayed like that and realized that if anyone took notice of me, I must look like someone lost in prayer. When I recovered from that strange spell, I wiped the perspiration from my brow in time to watch everyone entering the Communion line.

At the final hymn, “Joy to the World,” I left and sucked the crisp, refreshing air into my lungs.

When the second Mass of the morning started an hour later, I was sitting at my window when I saw Lily enter the church, accompanied by a man and a woman who must have been her fiancé and Jane. Lily was as vibrant as she had been four weeks ago, in a tight red sweater and gray trousers.

Feverishly, I cleaned the house. I kept it immaculate every day, but the idea of Lily being here made me find dust and spots that I had never noticed before. Soon enough, Mass was finished, and my bell rang. Ellis barked, as he always did, but in his advancing age, he didn’t get up from his spot. Putting the broom back in the kitchen, I ran my fingers through my scarce, graying hair and answered.

“Hello, Helen?”

“Yes, Miss Bailey. How are you?”

“Good, thank you. I’m sorry to intrude on Christmas Day, but you said that you were here every day. With all of us in Liverpool for the holiday, it seemed like the perfect time to show Albert the church.”

I opened the door wider and showed them to the sofa. Lily was followed by a tall, dark-haired young man and by a woman that she introduced as her mother.

But she needn’t have. I recognized Jane Bailey at once. Her hair was gray now, and her hands had taken on the faint brown spots that begin to decorate our skin as we age. But her face was unchanged, as gentle as I remembered.

As I busied myself with offering them a drink and biscuits and gathering up the notes that Lily had left for me, I was aware of Jane watching every move that I made, and I delayed the little tasks as long as possible. Jane had nursed every inch of my face and hands back into life, and she had worked with my muscles to restore their functions. It had been her job to know me inside and out. Time hadn’t changed that. Our eyes met, and she could see that I knew her, too. I had skipped out in the middle of the night, stolen her friend’s money, and left her with a baby without asking her permission. All this after she had given up her days, her nights, her life to care for me.

But there was no anger in her eyes. Saintly Jane. I should have known. And I welcomed it more than I had anticipated.

She turned her attention to Lily, though, as Lily let Albert in on the details of the ceremony. Albert was quiet and gentle and willing to do anything that Lily wanted. They appeared to be very well suited for one another. What a lovely couple. What a nice young man for my daughter.

The affection between Jane and Lily was equally clear. Lily included her mum in everything and accepted suggestions without conflict. She certainly listened to her mother far more than I had ever listened to mine. Then again, she had Jane for a mother. I was more confident than ever in my decision of long ago.

Who would Lily be now if she had been my child? Dashing into danger, following cities that had been destroyed, traveling from town to town and never setting down roots. What kind of life would that have been for a little girl?

Thanking me for the hospitality, they rose to leave. We made plans to meet again in February, setting a final wedding date for 4 April. As I shut the door, I noticed that Jane had left her gloves on the table. As I picked them up, I heard a meek knock at the door.

Jane was there, returning for the gloves.

“Helen—”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s finally nice to attach a name to you after all these years.”

“So you recognized me.”

“Well, yes. But I already knew you would be here.”

I looked at her, dumbfounded. “How is that?”

“You certainly didn’t make it easy,” she said, laughing. “In fact, I came to believe that you were evading me altogether!”

I shifted in my seat. This was exactly what I had done all these years.

She continued. “It started with the first package, on Lily’s first birthday. You sent it to Smithdown. A pressed flower and a little ribbon for her hair. Her hair wasn’t long enough to use it just yet, but I saved it for her. Your note wasn’t signed, but of course I knew who sent it.”

I remembered that ribbon. I had found it in some rubble in Manchester, surprisingly unharmed among the ruins surrounding it.

“And then, every year, I began to anticipate the little gifts you’d send. The doll clothes. The children’s books. The lipstick. The peacock.”

“Her father made that,” I said under my breath.

Jane didn’t hear me. “At first there was no way to find you, but sometimes you sent them from towns so small that I thought there was a chance. I’d correspond with the local postmaster there, but the message was always the same. They knew who you were, but you had just disappeared and you’d left no forwarding address.”

“Why would you want to find me?” I asked.

She reached out and took my hands in her own, and considered the contrast. Mine, ravished by burns; hers discolored with age. But we shared something beautiful—a girl who rose above ashes and time and brought us back together.