cat and careful conversation, he told Dot this was unlikely to last, that she must ready herself; they couldn’t keep Phuc prisoner, even for his own good. But it was still a shock when he vanished the next day and reappeared, high and barely able to speak, an hour or so after Dot had realized he had emptied her purse. Barnaby was still feeling wounded when Phuc disappeared the morning after that and didn’t come back.
He discovered the graffito when he went to say evening prayers in Morvah. Curiously these solitary services – when they were indeed solitary, for Modest Carlsson had an irritating way of showing up with something like glee, as though he had stumbled on some precious secret – were never as troubling to his evaporated faith as the better-attended ones. Speaking the words on his own, whether in the barnlike expanse of Pendeen church or the mossy tranquillity of Morvah, continued to feel like a ritual with significance, perhaps because, Modest apparitions aside, there was no one needing anything of him. Ideally it was just him and these buildings he now knew so intimately and for which he had come to feel such deep affection he no longer truly saw them, any more than one continued to see in detail friends one encountered every week of one’s life.
Even in high summer, Morvah church felt damp. Sometimes there were puddles on the floor, as though a stream were rising there, but the church wardens assured him it was simply the granite geeving . The whitewash was due for a fresh coat as it had marked green patches here and there but still the four words painted across it in blood-red gloss were plainly legible from yards away. They had been carefully placed to be the first thing he would see on letting himself in from the porch. Fuck Jesus , they said, Love Phuc .
Thank God Modest Carlsson was otherwise engaged that evening. Barnaby said the service as usual, adding in a prayer for Phuc, wherever he might be and whatever he might be doing. He examined the defacement closer to and touched it. The paint had not quite dried so stained his fingertips. He pictured his son leaving the church and throwing the paintbrush over the nearest hedge. And the paint? This could not have used an entire tin. He locked the church and walked around the graveyard, fearing some obscenity splashed across a headstone or on the rough granite of the building’s outer walls where it would be that much harder to clean away, but there was nothing. He found brush and empty paint tin under a bush and bagged them up to dispose of at home. The paint had been leftovers; he recognized the tin from earlier in the year when Dot had repainted a wooden, ride-on train from the women’s refuge.
He drove home. Dot came out to meet him as he pulled up in the yard.
‘He took my wallet,’ she said at once. ‘Stupid of me to leave it in my bag.’
‘Have you stopped the cards?’
‘Yes. And he took the Action Aid box from the hall table.’
‘Even if he caught the bus, he can’t have got far.’
‘He’ll have hitched,’ Carrie said, coming out from her workshop. ‘He could be miles away by now. Little bugger.’
Barnaby told them what Phuc had done besides and showed them the paint can. At once Dot was all practicality, as he knew she would be. She packed a wicker basket, as if for a bizarre picnic, with a bottle of solvent, a scrubbing brush, rubber gloves, paint brushes, a can of undercoat and a can of white emulsion. He was amazed afresh at the beautiful order of the big understairs cupboard where she kept her hardware. It gave one the same heartening sense of method and plenty as her larder, but instead of jewel-bright jams and chutneys, displayed identical jars of screws, nails, washers and Rawlplugs all sorted by size and neatly labelled. She kept paint in there too, despite the fire risk it posed, because tins kept in the sheds turned rusty in weeks and the fluctuating temperatures outside ruined the contents.
‘We had
He discovered the graffito when he went to say evening prayers in Morvah. Curiously these solitary services – when they were indeed solitary, for Modest Carlsson had an irritating way of showing up with something like glee, as though he had stumbled on some precious secret – were never as troubling to his evaporated faith as the better-attended ones. Speaking the words on his own, whether in the barnlike expanse of Pendeen church or the mossy tranquillity of Morvah, continued to feel like a ritual with significance, perhaps because, Modest apparitions aside, there was no one needing anything of him. Ideally it was just him and these buildings he now knew so intimately and for which he had come to feel such deep affection he no longer truly saw them, any more than one continued to see in detail friends one encountered every week of one’s life.
Even in high summer, Morvah church felt damp. Sometimes there were puddles on the floor, as though a stream were rising there, but the church wardens assured him it was simply the granite geeving . The whitewash was due for a fresh coat as it had marked green patches here and there but still the four words painted across it in blood-red gloss were plainly legible from yards away. They had been carefully placed to be the first thing he would see on letting himself in from the porch. Fuck Jesus , they said, Love Phuc .
Thank God Modest Carlsson was otherwise engaged that evening. Barnaby said the service as usual, adding in a prayer for Phuc, wherever he might be and whatever he might be doing. He examined the defacement closer to and touched it. The paint had not quite dried so stained his fingertips. He pictured his son leaving the church and throwing the paintbrush over the nearest hedge. And the paint? This could not have used an entire tin. He locked the church and walked around the graveyard, fearing some obscenity splashed across a headstone or on the rough granite of the building’s outer walls where it would be that much harder to clean away, but there was nothing. He found brush and empty paint tin under a bush and bagged them up to dispose of at home. The paint had been leftovers; he recognized the tin from earlier in the year when Dot had repainted a wooden, ride-on train from the women’s refuge.
He drove home. Dot came out to meet him as he pulled up in the yard.
‘He took my wallet,’ she said at once. ‘Stupid of me to leave it in my bag.’
‘Have you stopped the cards?’
‘Yes. And he took the Action Aid box from the hall table.’
‘Even if he caught the bus, he can’t have got far.’
‘He’ll have hitched,’ Carrie said, coming out from her workshop. ‘He could be miles away by now. Little bugger.’
Barnaby told them what Phuc had done besides and showed them the paint can. At once Dot was all practicality, as he knew she would be. She packed a wicker basket, as if for a bizarre picnic, with a bottle of solvent, a scrubbing brush, rubber gloves, paint brushes, a can of undercoat and a can of white emulsion. He was amazed afresh at the beautiful order of the big understairs cupboard where she kept her hardware. It gave one the same heartening sense of method and plenty as her larder, but instead of jewel-bright jams and chutneys, displayed identical jars of screws, nails, washers and Rawlplugs all sorted by size and neatly labelled. She kept paint in there too, despite the fire risk it posed, because tins kept in the sheds turned rusty in weeks and the fluctuating temperatures outside ruined the contents.
‘We had
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