Page 198 - Eggs and Ashes pages

Good Friday 197

If only Joseph had still been here,
he would have made sure you came home,
and then this wouldn’t have happened.

But, yes, I’ll take care of John,
though nobody can take your place,
not even John.

Yes, John, it’s getting dark … I’ll come.
But you must call me ‘mum’ now,
not Aunt Mary.

Ian Cowie

Good Friday in a northern town

God wasn’t quite sure how she’d got into this position. To be sat on a rat-eaten
armchair in a dark, rank back alley used for dumping rubbish was not a place anyone
wanted to be, whether you’re God or not. But, somehow, it seemed right. The only
place she could be today. One thing she knew for certain: she’d wet herself. Cold
and damp. Cold and damp against the pain of her legs. Pain everywhere. She
wanted to wipe the mess and snot off her face and tried to raise her hand and head
to meet each other. But it was too much and she let them fall. So she just sat there
– a flabby bulk, prematurely aged, in a stained sack that might once have been a
dress, and decayed sandals that were just the worst thing for this time of year. She
tried to shout, but made hardly any sound and what sound there was made no sense.
It was near the end.
Beyond the bin bags and boxes the world carried on. She could hear it – its busy
self-concern echoed even here.
She remembered the look from the girl in the chicken shop yesterday – the look of
one who cares, who knows you shouldn’t judge, but who’s paralysed with disgust and
fear. The others were abusive and filled with contempt, saying she smelled; but the girl
had wanted to act, to … and God had wanted to reach out and free her, but the time
for action had passed.
It was the singing of birds she wanted most. She could have died for a blackbird’s
song, for just one of her children to take up the hymns she’d taught them at the world’s
birth. Instead, there was nothing but the city’s vague industrial noise to counterpoint