derelict church. The south transept and much of the area around it had been curtained off from public view by an arrangement of tarpaulins and black plastic sheeting.
Occasionally somebody would emerge from behind thisveil and consult with others on the site. All who did so,
she noted, were wearing gloves; one or two were also masked. It was as though they were performing some ad hoc surgery in the shelter of the screen. A tumour,
perhaps, in the bowels of All Saints.
She approached one of the officers. 'What's going on?'
'The foundations are unstable,' he told her. 'Appar-
ently the place could fall down at any moment.'
'Why are they wearing masks?'
'It's just a precaution against the dust.'
She didn't argue, though this explanation struck her as unlikely.
'If you want to get through to Temple Street you'll have to go round the back,' the officer said.
What she really wanted to do was to stand and watch proceedings, but the proximity of the uniformed quartet intimidated her, and she decided to give up and go home. As she began to make her way back to the main road she caught sight of a familiar figure crossing the end of an adjacent street. It was unmistakably Kavanagh.
She called after him, though he had already disappeared,
and was pleased to see him step back into view and return a nod to her.
'Well, well -' he said as he came down to meet her.
'I didn't expect to see you again so soon.'
'I came to watch the rest of the demolition,' she said.
His face was ruddy with the cold, and his eyes were shining.
Tm so pleased,' he said. 'Do you want to have some afternoon tea? There's a place just around the corner.'
Td like that.'
As they walked she asked him if he knew what was going on at All Saints.
'It's the crypt,' he said, confirming her suspicions.
88They opened it?'
'They certainly found a way in. I was here this morning -'
'About your stones?'
That's right. They were already putting up the tarpaulins then.'
'Some of them were wearing masks.'
'It won't smell very fresh down there. Not after so long.'
Thinking of the curtain of tarpaulin drawn between her and the mystery within she said: 'I wonder what it's like.'
'A wonderland,' Kavanagh replied.
It was an odd response, and she didn't query it, at least not on the spot. But later, when they'd sat and talked together for an hour, and she felt easier with him, she returned to the comment.
'What you said about the crypt. . .'
'Yes?'
'About it being a wonderland.'
'Did I say that?' he replied, somewhat sheepishly.
'What must you think of me?'
'I was just puzzled. Wondered what you meant.'
'I like places where the dead are,' he said. 'I always have. Cemeteries can be very beautiful, don't you think?
Mausoleums and tombs; all the fine craftsmanship that goes into those places. Even the dead may sometimes reward closer scrutiny.' He looked at her to see if he had strayed beyond her taste threshold, but seeing that she only looked at him with quiet fascination, continued.
They can be very beautiful on occasion. It's a sort of a glamour they have. It's a shame it's wasted on morticians and funeral directors.' He made a small mischievous grin. 'I'm sure there's much to be seen in that crypt.
Strange sights. Wonderful sights.'
89'I only ever saw one dead person. My grandmother,
I was very young at the time . . .'
'I trust it was a pivotal experience.'
'I don't think so. In fact I scarcely remember it at all,
I only remember how everybody cried.'
'Ah.'
He nodded sagely.
'So selfish,' he said. 'Don't you think? Spoiling a farewell with snot and sobs.' Again, he looked at her to gauge the response; again he was satisfied that she would not take offence. 'We cry for ourselves, don't we? Not for the dead. The dead are past caring.'
She made a small, soft: 'Yes,' and then, more loudly:
'My God, yes. That's right. Always for ourselves . .
Occasionally somebody would emerge from behind thisveil and consult with others on the site. All who did so,
she noted, were wearing gloves; one or two were also masked. It was as though they were performing some ad hoc surgery in the shelter of the screen. A tumour,
perhaps, in the bowels of All Saints.
She approached one of the officers. 'What's going on?'
'The foundations are unstable,' he told her. 'Appar-
ently the place could fall down at any moment.'
'Why are they wearing masks?'
'It's just a precaution against the dust.'
She didn't argue, though this explanation struck her as unlikely.
'If you want to get through to Temple Street you'll have to go round the back,' the officer said.
What she really wanted to do was to stand and watch proceedings, but the proximity of the uniformed quartet intimidated her, and she decided to give up and go home. As she began to make her way back to the main road she caught sight of a familiar figure crossing the end of an adjacent street. It was unmistakably Kavanagh.
She called after him, though he had already disappeared,
and was pleased to see him step back into view and return a nod to her.
'Well, well -' he said as he came down to meet her.
'I didn't expect to see you again so soon.'
'I came to watch the rest of the demolition,' she said.
His face was ruddy with the cold, and his eyes were shining.
Tm so pleased,' he said. 'Do you want to have some afternoon tea? There's a place just around the corner.'
Td like that.'
As they walked she asked him if he knew what was going on at All Saints.
'It's the crypt,' he said, confirming her suspicions.
88They opened it?'
'They certainly found a way in. I was here this morning -'
'About your stones?'
That's right. They were already putting up the tarpaulins then.'
'Some of them were wearing masks.'
'It won't smell very fresh down there. Not after so long.'
Thinking of the curtain of tarpaulin drawn between her and the mystery within she said: 'I wonder what it's like.'
'A wonderland,' Kavanagh replied.
It was an odd response, and she didn't query it, at least not on the spot. But later, when they'd sat and talked together for an hour, and she felt easier with him, she returned to the comment.
'What you said about the crypt. . .'
'Yes?'
'About it being a wonderland.'
'Did I say that?' he replied, somewhat sheepishly.
'What must you think of me?'
'I was just puzzled. Wondered what you meant.'
'I like places where the dead are,' he said. 'I always have. Cemeteries can be very beautiful, don't you think?
Mausoleums and tombs; all the fine craftsmanship that goes into those places. Even the dead may sometimes reward closer scrutiny.' He looked at her to see if he had strayed beyond her taste threshold, but seeing that she only looked at him with quiet fascination, continued.
They can be very beautiful on occasion. It's a sort of a glamour they have. It's a shame it's wasted on morticians and funeral directors.' He made a small mischievous grin. 'I'm sure there's much to be seen in that crypt.
Strange sights. Wonderful sights.'
89'I only ever saw one dead person. My grandmother,
I was very young at the time . . .'
'I trust it was a pivotal experience.'
'I don't think so. In fact I scarcely remember it at all,
I only remember how everybody cried.'
'Ah.'
He nodded sagely.
'So selfish,' he said. 'Don't you think? Spoiling a farewell with snot and sobs.' Again, he looked at her to gauge the response; again he was satisfied that she would not take offence. 'We cry for ourselves, don't we? Not for the dead. The dead are past caring.'
She made a small, soft: 'Yes,' and then, more loudly:
'My God, yes. That's right. Always for ourselves . .
Similar Books
