‘The meaning is in the waiting’ from “Kneeling” by R S Thomas
Molly lit the candle, placed it on the stand, and sat down on the wooden chair at the end of the row. She folded her thin hands in her lap and gazed at the flame. Sadness showed on her face and the weariness of grief. She had every reason not to enter the church, after what Reverend Foster had said, but there she was.
Above her towered one of the stain glass windows, a crystal-like distortion devoid of daylight in the late autumn afternoon. From beneath the grille at her feet came the low rumbling of the archaic heating system. It suddenly gave a judder and stopped. There was clicking in the pipes around the building as the heat departed from them, and then they too fell silent. Outside a car passed down the road, the sound made distant and muted by the thick stone walls and the heavy church door which had closed behind her. Overhead the bell struck the half hour. She gave a shiver as she stood up and wrapped her coat around her slight frame. She was half turned to the door, facing Katy. How she wished she could speak to her.
She looks just like mum, thought Katy. And if she could see me, I’d stick out my tongue and make her laugh, like I always did.
Molly’s footsteps echoed through the cavernous space as she walked back down the aisle. The door scrapped a little on the flagstones, the hinges gave a drawn-out creak, the latch clicked heavily back into place and she was gone.
Reverend Foster peered out of the vestry. Seeing that the church was empty, he emerged into the low light and went up the steps to the altar. On the ornate table there was a tall and weighty brass crucifix with a moulding of the Christ-figure. He stood before it and Katy could see his mouth moving, his breath vaporising in the air. Then he abruptly stopped and with an exasperated shrug of the shoulders, let his arms drop in resignation.
‘Life after death,’ she heard him mutter to himself with a shake of the head, as he moved to the lectern where an enormous Bible lay open. Decisively he closed it. With his brow tightly knit, he returned down the steps, where he paused at the candle stand, leant forward, and blew out Molly’s candle. Like its purpose was nothing more than aesthetic.
A wisp of smoke rose up in a quivering line. He watched it, nodding to himself. A brief, knowing smile crossed his face, as though something had been lifted from him. But his expression quickly darkened again, and he pushed his hands through his hair in agitation. There were matches by the stand but even so he did not reach for them. Instead, he sat down in the chair where Molly had been and with a sigh traced the monotonous pattern of the floor tiles with his scuffed shoe. Then he quickly stood up and with a pinch between his thumb and forefinger, extinguished the wick for good.
The funeral service, just over a week ago, was the first time Katy had found herself returned to this life. An observer, or so she had thought. The funeral had been a terrible letdown. Reverend Foster’s stuttered reading of her eulogy, as though it was the first time he had laid eyes on it, was awkward and uncomfortable. Molly had to draw his attention to the poem in the order of service and, most careless of all, he accidentally referred to her as Molly.
And Katy had been there at the church again, the next day when Molly had confronted him. She had watched her sweep between the pews, her coat flowing dramatically behind her. Normally so mild mannered, Katy had not seen Molly like that before. Grief expressed as anger.
‘You couldn’t even get my sister’s name right,’ she had said. Her eyes – clear, and piercing – did not leave Reverend Foster’s face. He shrunk before her.
‘Yes. I am sorry.’
‘That was our one chance to say goodbye to her. We’ll never get that again.’
‘Yes. I know. I am sorry.’
‘How does it help that you’re sorry? It doesn’t change anything. She deserved better. She deserved a proper send off and we trusted you with that.’
Reverend Foster looked down at his feet, and there was a long pause before he spoke.
‘The thing is,’ he said eventually, ‘I don’t believe in any of this.’
Molly stared at him helplessly.
‘It’s just words. That’s all,’ continued Reverend Foster.
Then it was Molly who seemed to shrink, her arms hung by her sides.
At this Reverend Foster had held her gaze defiantly and nodded his head.
‘Just words, that people want to hear in their hour of need,’ he said. ‘I have no idea where your sister is now.’
Katy watched the tears well up in Molly’s eyes. How she wished they both could see her.
‘Well,’ Molly had said, her voice cracking a little. ‘Best that you stay away from mum.’
Then she had slid her hands in her pockets and left.
#
This was now the third time Katy found herself in the church. Why she was here again she did not know. But despite the gloom, she found that she was filled with all the warmth and light of the place from which she had come. As she watched Reverend Foster gazing at the candle he had just extinguished, she felt a deep compulsion to act, like she was being called all over again. She moved towards the candle stand and reached out. A sphere of white light pulsated and retracted around her hand, and when she moved her hand away, she saw that the candle was relit, a new flame brought to life and burning brightly. An observer no more, she thought.
For a moment Reverend Foster did nothing but stare uncomprehendingly. He crouched and studied the flame, his mouth hung open, moving his head, first to one side and then to the other. Still unsure, he held up his finger and thumb to examine the smudge of charcoal left by the burnt wick.
Katy then went to the lectern and opened the page which Reverend Foster had earlier closed. He caught the movement from the corner of his eye, just in time to see the hard ancient cover land on the lectern with a thud that reverberated between the stone columns. He jumped at the sound and could not stifle a gasp. He walked over to the lectern and stared at the open page, John Chapter 11, the story of Lazarus.
Katy didn’t know what caused his gaze to shift. In life she remembered it sometimes, the irrational sensation of something unseen being present. Or someone.
He froze, terrified, staring right at her.
‘Katy?’ he said in a whisper.
#
It was Molly who answered the door. She was wearing one of Katy’s old jumpers which Katy had left behind when she moved out. Katy remembered buying it because she loved the colour; a deep turquoise, which struck her now as a kind of sad precursor to the many hospital gowns she would be handed. The Reverend’s unexpected visit had evidently surprised Molly, but she waited for him to speak.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was wrong.’
As he said these words, their mum appeared in the hallway behind Molly. It broke Katy’s heart to see her. At the funeral Katy could tell she had spent time on her appearance. Maybe because dad would be there, although predictably they didn’t say a word to each other. But now she looked gaunt and pale, her hair a straggled mess, her face blotchy.
‘We know,’ she said.
Reverend Foster lowered his head, placed his hands together and raised them to his lips, his eyes momentarily closed.
‘About what I said, I mean.’ He was addressing himself to Molly, but their mum responded.
‘We know that too,’ she said, starting to close the door but with her shoulder Molly prevented it.
‘It’s not just words,’ said Reverend Foster. ‘I…’
Katy watched him struggling to speak and felt it again, the compulsion to act.
She stepped forward.
Molly shrieked and put her hand over her mouth.
‘You see it too?’ said Reverend Foster in amazement, but Molly did not hear him. She moved her hand.
‘Katy?’
It was the same hushed tone in which Reverend Foster had spoken her name. Katy smiled at her sister and then suddenly stuck out her tongue, but the joyful recognition that spread across Molly’s face was quickly interrupted by their mum pulling Molly back inside, like she was a little girl who had misbehaved. The whole time her hostile glare had not left Reverend Foster’s face.
‘You sick, twisted man,’ she said quietly.
‘No!’ Reverend Foster reached out, trying to stop the door from slamming but it was too late. He placed his hands on the wooden panels and let out a long sigh, stepped back, and gazed up at the front of the house. Then he returned down the path, leaving behind the stone façade of Katy’s childhood home, cold and hard but for the light glowing in the downstairs window.
#
In the church once more, Katy saw that Reverend Foster had taken one of the knitted prayer cushions which hung in neat, redundant rows on the pew backs, and had placed it on the stone steps before the altar. Above him a clear autumn sunlight had brought the stain glass window to life. Around the building the heating system was clanking and purring. His arms rested on the rail, his hands clasped together, his head bowed, consumed by his unspoken words, held fast in his private communion. So much so that he did not hear Molly enter, nor her footsteps approaching.
‘Reverend?’ she said softly.
Slowly he lifted his head, pushed himself to his feet and faced her. They considered each other gravely and Katy saw then that there were two candles burning on the stand, their flames flickering alongside one another.
Katy went and stood between them and turned first to Reverend Foster and then to her sister. But neither of them reacted this time and she realised she was no longer visible to them. She worried that they would begin to doubt if it had really been her, fully present in spirit.
She prayed that it would not be so.
And then all she could do was wait.
Andrew Senior
Andrew Senior is a writer of poetry and short fiction based in Sheffield, UK. His work has appeared in various places recently including The Honest Ulsterman, Crow & Cross Keys, Osiris Press, Postbox Magazine, Isele Magazine and Abridged. For more on Andrew’s writing visit https://andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com/