‘Something else like what?’
‘I don’t know.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Something perhaps like a fairy tale or a children’s book?’
‘Nope, they were always from the Bible. It had gold edges.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Father Arthur looked sceptical.
‘Forgiveness, then?’ I asked, to give him a bit of a hint and get him back on track.
He went on, ‘I’m not sure I agree that forgiveness is less satisfying than revenge, as you put it. And I might add now, I sincerely hope this conversation doesn’t involve any revenge you hope to enact on me. Anyway, perhaps in the heat of the moment it might seem that revenge is the only thing you can do to satisfy your anger, but you might find that after time has passed, forgiveness is what has done you the most good, is what you are most proud of.’
‘But,’ I said slowly, ‘I might not have those months or years to look back on my actions. I might never see the day when I am proud of my forgiveness. I’m only living in the short term, so shouldn’t I just get my fun wherever I can?’
‘When you say fun, do you mean revenge?’
‘Yeah, in a way.’
‘Can I ask, Lenni,’ he said, ‘who are you thinking about forgiving? I know it isn’t me.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know I’ve forgiven you?’
‘You came back,’ he said with a smile, gesturing to the empty chapel.
Nothing dramatic had changed: there was the same stained carpet, the electric piano in the corner draped with its beige cover, the altar with its flickering candles and the noticeboard with more pins than notices. Maybe I’m like the noticeboard. More pins than messages. More contact slots in my phone than friends. More growth in my bones than I’ll get to see. More revenge than forgiveness.
‘So, who are you wanting to forgive?’
‘I’d rather not talk about her,’ I told him. ‘I haven’t seen her in years.’
‘Of course,’ he said, but I could tell he was curious. ‘So apart from ruminations on forgiveness, what else is fun?’ he asked.
‘I’ve made a new friend.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ And he said it without envy. And I saw that he was worthy of my forgiveness. He was deserving of New Testament Lenni.
‘You’ll like her. She’s …’ I paused to examine his face properly. ‘About your age.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll withhold a reaction to that until I meet …’
‘Margot.’
‘Margot.’
So I told him about The Temp, about the art class and the Rose Room, about Margot and our plan to leave something behind before we die.
‘The problem is,’ I said, ‘what if we die before we finish?’
Father Arthur tapped his nose. ‘What if you don’t?’
I saw his point: maybe we will hit the one hundred. Of course, if we both pop our clogs before it’s done then there’s not a lot we can do about that.
‘If it helps,’ he said, ‘I will have a word,’ and he pointed up to the ceiling.
‘Human Resources?’
‘I meant God.’
I inhaled the smell of the chapel – the sweet sadness of the wilting floral arrangement on the altar, the musty smell of the carpet, the dust on the pews.
‘Father Arthur?’
‘Yes, Lenni?’
‘Did you miss me?’
‘Yes, Lenni. Lots.’
Margot and the Night
Cromdale Street, Glasgow, 1946
Margot Macrae is Fifteen Years Old
IT WAS THE middle of the night when the bomb came through our window. It shattered the glass and landed at the foot of my parents’ bed. My father woke in an instant, the muscle memory of the trenches kicking in, and he leapt up. Scrabbling around in the bed clothes, he was grabbing, searching for the bomb, but it was too dark to see.
‘Helen,’ he was screaming, ‘the bomb! There’s a bomb!’ but my mother didn’t stir.
He knew the pin had been pulled from it; he could hear the ticking and he knew the terrible sound that was coming, knew the sight of legs and arms strewn across the ground without anyone to claim them, knew the sight of half-burned faces, melted eyes. He had only seconds before the explosion.
He pulled himself from the bed and threw himself on the bomb, trying to use his body to cover the blast. To protect his sleeping wife and his daughter in the next room from the burst of flame.
And then there came light.