Mercy Seat Read online

  Do you still feel better?

  I nodded from the pillow.

  Good. Let’s go out today. We could take Chris along the cliff path. Do you feel strong enough for that?

  I’ll be fine. I told Anzani I’d work an afternoon shift today though.

  She nodded. That’s ok. We’ll start out early and get back. I want you to have some time with her too. I want you to get to know each other. She looked hard at me, as if measuring me up for the task ahead. She’s not back from her swim yet. You could get dressed while she’s gone. She bent forward and lifted Michael away.

  It had been quite a while – more than a year, I suppose – since we’d climbed Constitution Hill together to get to the cliffs, and now when we reached the top we rested on the steps of a new, ugly cafe that had been rigged up there since the last time. It was just a low, flat-roofed hut of weatherproofed boards, and some were already starting to warp and split in the rough sea air. It wasn’t open yet and there was no sign of life through the windows inside. I was carrying Michael in his sling on my back; despite the sharp breeze I was sweating and glad to catch my breath.

  I didn’t know this was here, Jenny said. It must be to go with the camera obscura.

  Christine stood up and wandered over to a crude chipboard signpost which read: Opening Soon – Britain’s Biggest Camera Obscura. There was a heap of building materials lying just beyond it. They’d been there longer than the cafe – I remembered seeing them the last time we’d been here. Then we’d taken the funicular railway up the slope because Jenny was far gone in the pregnancy and not confident of climbing, though for some reason she’d felt in the mood for a stroll along the cliffs. I remember the spring weather turning suddenly, a squall of hailstones battering in off the sea, and Jenny trying to hurry back along the path, clutching her big stomach.

  Is this where it’s going to be? Christine called.

  We both shrugged.

  She stepped into the midst of the bricks and steel spines and peered down at them as if the big, spying mirror was already in place there.

  Jenny put her arm out behind me and tickled Michael. He likes being carried, doesn’t he, she said to me over my shoulder. He looks so funny though, doesn’t he, staring out backwards at everything.

  I didn’t answer. Jenny always wanted Michael to sit facing forwards when I carried him, and that was how the harness was meant to go, but the first few times we tried it he got ever more hysterical the longer the walk went on, hitting out at the back of my head. I don’t know what gave me the idea of turning him round, but it worked, and he was immediately calm. When I was young I used to get anxious facing forwards in trains – I preferred seeing everything slipping away to seeing everything coming at me headlong – so maybe it was something we shared.

  That sign’s been up for more than a year, Jenny called across to her sister. And all those bricks and things, she added. They must have run out of money, or changed their minds.

  Slowly Christine turned and picked her way back to us. The wind was gusting in over the lip of the cliff behind us, directly into her face. Her mouth, tensed against the breeze, seemed to be smiling at some secret.

  We carried on, filing away from the empty cafe and onto the path, following its curve away from the cliff-edge and into a stretch of sheltering gorse and bracken. Jenny was walking ahead of me, Christine behind, and when we climbed up out of the bushes, back onto bare rock and into the teeth of the wind again, I remember Jenny glancing back, suddenly fearful, to check that Michael was still safe behind my shoulders, as if he might have been plucked free and flung out onto the water far below.

  We’d been walking for nearly half an hour when Michael started crying. For a while I ignored it – it didn’t sound urgent, just bad-tempered. Jenny was still in front, too far ahead to hear him. It went on for about ten minutes before I felt something sting the back of my ear. I stopped and turned and out of the corner of my eye saw a fragment of grit drop from my shoulder to the ground. At that moment Christine drew level and looked me in the face as she passed. Her eyes were shining, as if she were bristling with an electric pleasure and energy. Without slowing or taking her eyes from mine she reached out swiftly and touched my ear where the tiny stone had hit it. Then she was in front of me, breaking into a run to catch up with Jenny.

  For a few minutes I followed after them mechanically. Then I stopped, loosened the straps of Michael’s sling, sat down against the grass bank on the landward side of the path and eased my arms free. Sure enough, when I turned him round I could see a clutch of tiny, sharp-edged stones nestled in a fold of his bib. They were dark grey and flinty, the same rock as the cliffs. I checked his face but there were no marks. He was still sobbing but the edge had gone from it. He was just feeling sorry for himself now. I cleared the grit away, then swung him back behind my shoulders and tightened the straps again. I don’t know why, but I didn’t feel angry or protective; all I could think of was the lit expression on her face as she passed and the touch of her finger on me, like a blessing.

  By the time I secured the sling and started walking again Jenny and Christine were almost out of sight, winding their way down the incline to Clarach, the first bay beyond the town. I watched their heads bob down below the ridge, Christine’s dark hair burnished by the morning sun.

  Once they reached the sand they turned together, as if in silent agreement, and waited while I worked my way down toward them. The tide was out but there were no birds on the sand, just a distant armada of gulls resting on the swells in the bay. Michael was quiet again now and the whole vista, from the far off gulls to the rock under my feet, seemed unnaturally still. I had a sudden sense of being suspended above the landscape, pinned in space by the attention of the women below me. Then Jenny put up her hand to wave and broke the spell, and Christine turned away to the sea.

  Smile, Jenny said when I finally reached her. She grinned, showing me what she meant.

  How far do you want to go?

  She looked over to where Christine was standing; she’d wandered out of earshot from us. I don’t know, Jenny said. I think she’s enjoying it.

  We could go on to the village, I suggested. We could get some food. I wouldn’t mind sitting down a while.

  Is Michael getting heavy?

  A bit, I lied. Really all I wanted was to get my thoughts together. Or did I want to see Christine’s face again, as closely as I saw it when she reached out to touch me?

  Let’s do that then. We could show her the old church.

  I hitched Michael higher, ready to carry on.

  At the far side of the bay two dogs were rushing towards the breakers. A faint bark carried down on the wind. They tumbled heavily into each other and as they rolled apart their owner appeared out of the shadow of the cliffs.

  Give Christine a call, I said. She’s almost at the water.

  I’ll run and get her. You go on and we’ll catch you up. She went round to my back and chattered for a moment with Michael before setting off. I turned once and saw Jenny running quickly and lightly as a girl, almost skipping, and Christine, facing her now, unmoving at the sea’s edge.

  The village church stands at a crossroads behind the bay. Eastward the road runs away from the sands and on up the broad valley behind the beach. It’s a modern road, built mainly for a caravan park set up between two sandy bays on drained flatlands. North and south it follows a much older route, linking all the coastal settlements for miles and focusing them on the church. To one side of the crossroads there’s a general store which sells beach toys, newspapers, sandwiches and ice-creams. On the other side a few low cottages cluster round a stone footbridge spanning the brook. The clear, stony spate-stream, just a trickle by the end of summer, is all that’s left of whatever Ice Age torrent once filled the valley. It’s a peaceful place even when the caravan park gets busy in high season. There’s no pub or cafe, and most of the tourists head for town, or for the bigger beach further north where the swimming is safer.

  I
bought some filled rolls and tins of Coke from the store and took everything over to a bench near the brook. I eased Michael’s sling off my back but kept him sat in the harness, settling the whole structure against the arm and back-rest of the bench. He seemed happy with that.

  There was no sign of Jenny and Christine so I wandered onto the stone bridge and watched an old man and a little boy fishing in the shade there. The ankle-deep water was very clear and smooth and every piece of gravel on the stream bed was bright as a gem under the currents. It must have been hopeless for fishing, but the old man was humouring the kid, pointing out where he should be steering the bait. I followed the line of his finger and there was the worm, hanging in the flow. It looked bleached out but still had the strength to loop against the hook every so often.

  Keep him tight in now, the man said. There was a wheeziness in his voice, and occasionally he would cough from deep in his lungs and his whole body would shake. It didn’t seem to bother the boy though. He must have been used to it.

  The boy tugged the rod and threadline back and ran the worm back down a fresh strip of gravel, this time closer in to the bank. It trundled over the stones until the line tightened and swung up against the current again.

  Tight in. That’s right, that’s the boy. Get him in the shade there.

  Is he in the shade now?

  He’s fine now. Keep him tight in. That’s where you want him.

  There wasn’t any shade that I could see. Even right in at the banks there was no overhang, just one long bright strip of sand and pebbles and gravel under the sun.

  Over the bridge, in the garden of one of the cottages, a slow-moving old woman had started hanging out her washing. Can you mind the banks if you have to fish there? she said, eyeing the boy suspiciously. They’ll be washed away, see, if the grass gets loosened.

  He’s minding the bank all right, the old man answered. The boy glanced up at her, his mouth slack and innocent-looking. He shuffled his feet back an obedient few inches from the water’s edge.

  She finished hanging out the clothes. There were just two shirts and a bed sheet. Some things she left in the basket. She stared at the boy’s back for a while, then shuffled indoors.

  The old man watched her go. Get him tight in again, that’s the boy, he said, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it now.

  Shall I try a spinner? the boy asked.

  You could try a spinner. He nodded carefully, as if contemplating this, but his eyes were wandering away from the water now, taking in the sky, the garden opposite and finally me, on the bridge, looking down at them.

  I like spinners better than worms.

  Well then. Let’s try a spinner, is it?

  A finger tapped me on the shoulder and I turned.

  Hello stranger, Christine said. The old man looked up again and for the first time the boy realised he was being watched and craned to face us too. I tried to think of some reply, but couldn’t.

  Any luck? Christine called down brightly to the boy.

  No, no luck, the old guy answered for him. He nodded at us.

  I had a bite but it might have been a stone, the boy piped.

  We left them and sat with Jenny and Michael on the bench. Food’s in the bag, I said. Just some rolls.

  Jenny handed them out and we started eating. It was warm in the sun and easy to sit there without speaking, savouring the sunshine and the cool sea breeze.

  I heard the old man say something about the tide, then the sound of the boy reeling in his line drifted up from near the bridge.

  You could take Christine to see the church while I feed Michael, Jenny suggested. I was telling her about the carvings on the way up from the beach. Among other things. She leaned forward and grinned at her sister. A cool smile ghosted onto Christine’s lips, but her eyes were closed, lids angled to the sun like petals.

  Don’t you want to go yourself?

  I don’t mind. It’s something for you to do while he’s fed. She looked at me meaningfully, as if I was missing something.

  I looked across at Christine again. Her eyes were open now but seemed unfocused, disinterested. The roll she was eating was less than half finished but she slipped it back into the carrier bag anyway and brushed a few crumbs off her jeans. She took a light sip from her can, then set it down on the bench and said she was ready.

  Neither of us spoke on the way to the church, though when we got to the porch she asked me to wait while she read through a dog-eared booklet which gave some information about the building. When she was done I lifted the heavy black latch and we stepped in.

  I found out about the carvings in the church not long after moving out to Pugh’s farm. I’d walked along the cliffs one cool, lonesome Sunday afternoon and discovered the bay and then the church behind it. An old caretaker was inside, working on one of the iron radiators. When he saw me staring at the woodwork on the pulpit, he called me over to the choir stalls. If you like carvings, look at these now, he said, and pointed out a series of narrow ledges, half-seats set in the shadows of the backmost row. The stall, almost hidden behind the others, was clearly much older than the rest of the furniture in the place. The wood was smoother and darker and made on a smaller scale than the rows in front of it. Nearly a thousand years old, he said, full of satisfaction. Saved from the abbey at Strata Florida, see.

  The ledges were decorated with chunky, stylized carvings of people and animals. Take a good look, he said. Take your time, if you like that kind of thing. He went back to work on the radiator.

  What are they? I asked.

  Misericords, he answered over his shoulder. Mercy seats. They were made for the really old monks so they could rest their arses when the prayers went on too long.

  Most of the carvings showed animal scenes – a fox preaching to geese; a monkey playing a cat through its tail like bagpipes; pigs tearing a wolf to pieces with bizarre, dagger-like fangs; a grinning dog parting a monk’s habit with his huge head and jaws, clamping its teeth on his genitals. The farthest was shadowed in the corner of the stall and hard to make out: a fish arched over what looked like flames and a human figure beating an ape with a staff.

  The church was one of the first places I took Jenny when we started seeing each other. She’d found it hilarious that my idea of a date was showing her such odd, grotesque things, and it became one of our few private jokes together. Part of me resented sharing it with Christine now, but I was excited, too, by a creeping sense of symmetry in it all. I’d had a powerful feeling of déjà vu as she crouched to examine the pictures, and I moved away from her and sat down in one of the pews to let the sensation pass. It seems odd to me now that I didn’t confront her about the pellets of grit in Michael’s sling. It was still on my mind, of course, and I half intended to bring it up when we were alone in there, but she hadn’t harmed him as such, and she’d shown no sign of guilt or embarrassment, so I suppose I didn’t know how to begin. And I was curious more than angry. It was as if I couldn’t ask her that question while there were other, much simpler but much more difficult, questions between us.

  Why are the pictures so violent? she said, her voice muffled behind the stalls.

  They’re fables. All the animals are symbols for things.

  Like what?

  Devils and demons, priests, Jews, lust, Christ. All that kind of thing.

  How do you know about all that?

  I read up on them. They’re from an old abbey about twenty miles away. But there are others all around the country. All around Europe, in fact.

  Were they stolen?

  Well, the abbey’s just a ruin. Someone must have saved them. They were in another church for a few hundred years before they were moved here.

  They’re good, she said flatly, then stood up straight again and let her gaze wander round the whole church. They’re so childish, in a way, she added. It’s funny.

  I waited, expecting her to carry on, but she just folded her arms and half leaned, half sat against the back of one of the pews.


  I looked up at the modern stained glass windows: cheery, inoffensive pastels in abstract organic shapes. I felt Christine at my elbow, though I hadn’t noticed her moving towards me.

  Dad was always dragging us off to look at church windows, she said. Real ones though, not like these.

  You and Jenny? I asked.

  All of us, she said. It was his idea of a good day out. Driving halfway across the country to gawk at some old glass. It used to drive Jennifer and my mother crazy, she added. It was the first time I’d ever heard anyone refer to Jenny by her full name, but Christine spoke so flatly it was impossible to guess at any feeling behind her words. Just for an instant my dream came back to me: their father’s face at a high window, staring down at me, mouthing, becoming Christine. It was a face I’d only ever seen in a photograph, and then only briefly before Jenny shuffled it away again. He hated organised religion, she went on. It drove him wild, but he loved looking inside churches. He never told us why, or what we should like about them too. He was a complicated man. I feel like I’ll never really understand him. Nobody did.

  Did you like seeing them?

  She smiled and shrugged.

  I wanted to ask more about the family, but didn’t know how to go about it without embarrassing us both.

  Did Jennifer tell you that our father committed suicide?

  In my surprise I almost laughed. It wasn’t so much the idea of suicide as the idea of Jenny keeping it from me that seemed absurd. I had no idea what to say. In the end I said a simple no, but kept enough surprise in my voice to prompt more information.

  What did she tell you?

  Heart disease, I said, truthfully. She told me you’d nursed him for a while, at the end.

  She sniffed. At the end, she repeated, then strode over to one of the windows and glared at it.

  I cleared my throat. I remember the dry, false sound it made in the dead air. The last time I’d come here there was rotting fruit all over the windowsills, I remembered. It was some weekday after Harvest Festival and the weather had turned hot and humid. Dozens of slow, droning wasps were weaving back and forth, shuttling from window to window as if carrying cargo. It had seemed almost dreamlike; the big, drowsy wasps and the yellow sun pouring onto them through the glass.