Alex Preston: The Revelations

It was five o’clock and the church was luminous in the late afternoon light. A gardener moved around the flower beds that lined the churchyard, carefully sinking down onto his knee pads to tend the immaculate bright borders, tempting blooms into the year’s last warmth. The banners were up on the King’s Road, tied to the black railings of the square. The wind caught them and they fluttered, compressing and expanding the C of ‘Course’ like a mouth. Aeroplanes queued to land overhead, following the path of the river, barely moving in the pale, clear air.

The spire was of tawny Portland stone, surmounted by a capstone and cross. Octagonal, the skin of the spire tapered towards the wrist-thin point, supported by dark iron bands. The four columns over which the spire was raised had settled or bent over the years, meaning that it had slipped from its true perpendicular. When completing his renovations, David Nightingale had considered rectifying the spire’s minor but noticeable misalignment. After consulting with the Course members who had raised the funds, however, it was decided that the slight wonkiness was part of St Botolph’s charm.

Inside, the glory of light that exploded through stained-glass windows illuminated a fine gold altar cloth, burnished chasubles and a coracle-sized collection plate. Everything gleamed. Someone was practising the organ: a toccata with fumbled trills. The organ pipes cascaded down the wall at the back of the nave, silver and bronze bars protruding like fangs from a rose-window mouth. Where once a rood screen would have hung, there was now a television monitor bookended by black speakers. Ten years earlier the shabby church had struggled to fill half of its dusty pews with an ancient congregation; now chairs were packed tightly along the side aisles, smaller television screens were arranged in the transept. The music stopped. Footsteps down wooden stairs, the echo of a slammed door. Then silence in the light-filled church.

*

As they walked down the gravel pathway towards the church, Lee tugged at the sleeve of Mouse’s jacket and hung back, her heels kicking up dust. She was slightly taller than him, and looked very slender next to his stout frame. Taking her hand in his and squeezing, he gave her a hopeful smile. Lee looked away. In her ears she wore stones of different colours: one lapis blue, one turquoise. Mouse dropped her hand and followed her eyes to the church’s bright spire. He decided that he liked September. It was a wistful month, a month to curse not having made more of the summer, a month when thoughts turned to night-living winter. Yet on evenings like this, when the sun slanted across the sky, picking out the wrought-iron balconies that hung like birdcages on the facades of the houses surrounding the square, September was magnificent.

‘Are you OK, Lee?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘A wee bit nervous?’

‘Oh, I suppose a bit. I’ve been working too hard. Not sleeping enough. Not sure that I’m up to being a leader.’

‘You’ll be brilliant, you know you will. The Course is going to pull you out of all this.’

‘I know. I’m hopeful, I really am.’

She squinted her blue-green eyes at him. Her legs, emerging from a frayed denim skirt, straddled the path. She was as thin and white as a wishbone. Mouse took her arm and led her past the gravestones of the ancient cemetery that encircled the church. Vines climbed over cracked graves, lichen dappled chipped stones, creeping into the cavities of letters no longer legible. They made their way into the shadow of the portico, through heavy oak doors that sighed in greeting, and into the cool church.

*

Abby was the only one who worked for the Course full-time, and she had been at the church since early that morning. She spent the first few hours of the day bustling around after Sally Nightingale, laying out copies of The Way of the Pilgrim on the chairs in the church, arranging candles in the tall brass holders that led down the aisle. When all of this was done, she made her way down into the crypt, found the room with its circle of wooden chairs and drew out her books. She made notes, read and reread the passages from The Way of the Pilgrim that would form the core of the discussion, but still she felt a jolt of nerves when she thought of herself actually teaching the Course. She rose from her seat and stood very still in the cavelike room, breathing the musty air.

She wore a tartan shirt with its sleeves rolled to the elbow and a grey vest underneath. When she stood, her black leggings seemed to cup her buttocks, holding them disdainfully away from the thighs beneath them. She knew from her mother, who told her often, that her large body would lose its bouncing firmness. That she would begin to sag and become doughy like her sisters. But for the moment, she wore her leggings with pleasure.

‘I thought you might be down here.’

She jumped and turned around. Marcus was standing in the doorway, the gloom of the crypt behind him. His black hair disappeared into shadows at the edges, his handsome face jutted out into the light cast from the spots in the ceiling. He stepped towards her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Warmth rose from her stomach to her chest and sat there until Marcus peeled himself away. His voice was quiet.

‘We should go upstairs. David wants to speak to us.’

She looked at him, frowning.

‘I’m sorry about last night. It was bad again, wasn’t it?’

‘No, it wasn’t bad. It’s too complicated to be bad. Some of it was fine.’

‘Did you think about your dad again?’

‘I wish I hadn’t told you. Not if you’re going to use it against me. .’ Marcus turned and strode across the room. She followed.

‘I wasn’t using it. Why do you think I was using it?’

Marcus looked at her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just nervous about tonight. Have you seen Mouse and Lee?’

Ignoring his question, she took both of his hands in hers until his eyes softened. She leaned forward and kissed him, her lips moist and warm.

‘I love you. You know that, don’t you? I just want to have it all go right this time.’

‘I know. I do too.’

Marcus had reluctantly left work early that afternoon. He found breaks in the routine of the week difficult. He was used to building a protective shell around himself in the office, and had to peel this shell off in layers, slowly shaping his mind for a less combative atmosphere. He hated his job at the law firm, where he helped to restructure hedge funds that had gone bust in the Crash. Abby kept urging him to quit, taking his hand in hers in the shadows of 6 a.m. and begging him to stay in bed, phone in his resignation. But they needed the money, and although Marcus had inherited a small amount upon his father’s death, it wasn’t enough to pay for the mortgage, for their booze and dinner parties. So he stayed at the law firm, and every day that he was there he imagined another little spark of his youth fizzling out. He edged his phone out of his pocket and checked to see if he had reception.

‘Have you heard from work?’ Abby asked.

‘No. I don’t think we expect a judgement until tomorrow, perhaps Thursday. If we’re lucky they’ll settle next week.’

They could hear Mouse’s voice in the church upstairs. Abby placed her hand on one of the wooden chairs, took a deep breath, and then followed Marcus out and into the dark corridor. They made their way past the gift shop, whose illuminated windows were full of Course T-shirts and copies of David’s book, The Way of the Pilgrim , with its bright green cover. They walked past the room in which Mouse and Lee would host their own discussion group later, up the narrow stone stairs, and into the echoing church.