At the mortuary, a man in white overalls took over from the porter. He was munching a ham sandwich but he promptly stopped when he saw us.
‘What name, old chap?’ he asked Mr Shields.
I could tell what Will was thinking: Blimey, are there other people in ‘ere besides my Mary?
‘Shields,’ I said. ‘Mary Shields. His wife.’
‘Come this way, Pop.’
The attendant conducted us to where Mary’s body was lying, covered by a sheet. Will and I could see plainly that she only had one leg. I gripped Will’s arm to steady him. Even I felt, quite physically, that someone was sawing my leg off.
‘Will you leave me for a mo’?’
The attendant left and I turned to go, too.
‘Not you, Father.’
No greater compliment was ever paid me.
We said a few prayers together. I asked him if he was ready to leave.
‘Take the sheet off ’er face for me, Father.’
‘Pardon,’ I did not want to hear.
He repeated his request and I did as he asked.
Will looked at her. He must have found it hard to believe that this was the woman who had shared his bed and his troubles for fifty years.
He kissed her forehead, brown as parchment, cold and hard as ice, then her crumpled toothless lips, needlessly compressed, surely, by the band of white linen stretched over her head and under her chin.
How small she must have seemed to him, this once-monumental woman of his. Life had worn her quite away. So small a baby’s blanket would have covered her.
From his pocket, Will took out her bronze wedding ring. Fumbling under the sheet he found the finger to put it on and, not knowing what he said, ‘Till death, love.’
I took him home.
On the way, he said, ‘What is it really like where she is, Father, on the other side?’
‘Wonderful,’ I said.
‘Wonderful,’ he repeated. ‘Wonderful.’
Inside the house, he hardly noticed his dog. But he was stroking Rex’s coat rhythmically.
On the mantelpiece above the grate, I saw the commemoration card with my words on it.
Silently, I prayed over Will:
May your sun set in a blaze of gold
and the night creep in.
THE END
About the Author
Neil Boyd is a pseudonym of Peter de Rosa. After attending Saint Ignatius’ College, de Rosa was ordained as a Catholic priest and went on to become dean of theology at Corpus Christi College in London. In 1970 de Rosa left the priesthood and began working in London as a staff producer for the BBC. In 1978 he became a full-time writer, publishing the acclaimed Bless Me, Father, which was subsequently turned into a television series. De Rosa went on to write several more successful novels in the Bless Me, Father series. He lives in Bournemouth, England.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 1981 by Neil Boyd
Cover design by Jesse Hayes
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9859-8
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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