I walk downstairs. The photograph shifts in my pocket. I take it out and look at it again. Merry and Joy. One blonde, one dark. Both slight, dressed in baggy jumpers and leggings, friendship necklaces glinting around their necks.
Joy is the more beautiful. Doll-like, with her pale blue eyes and flaxen hair. The girl next to her is not so obviously pretty. Her smile is less open, her eyes guarded. A face that already speaks of lost hope, fear, suspicion.
What became of you?
I tuck the photo away in my Bible hidey-hole and stand in the living room, feeling lost. I consider rolling a cigarette and then change my mind. I need to do something more productive, and better for my lungs. I told Flo I would clean out the cellar, so I might as well make a start.
I retrieve bin bags and rubber gloves from the kitchen cupboard and advance upon the cellar door, which is under the stairs in the nook between the kitchen and living room.
I stare at it. What’s that line from Donnie Darko? Something about, of all the endless combinations of words in history, ‘cellar door’ is the most beautiful.
True. Yet I don’t believe anyone has ever approached a cellar door without a frisson of foreboding. A door that leads down into darkness, a room hidden in the earth. I tell myself not to be stupid and yank it open. A smell of mould and a cloud of dust billow out. I cough and wipe my nose on my sleeve. I spot a limp piece of string hanging near the door. I tug on it. A small puddle of yellow light spills over the uneven steps, like a urine stain. It will have to do.
I make my way gingerly downwards, slightly crouched over because of the low ceiling. Fortunately, at the bottom, the ceiling rises, and the cellar spreads out before me. I stare around.
‘Christ!’
When Rushton said there was a lot of junk, he wasn’t joking.
Box after crumpled cardboard box, yellowing newspapers and broken furniture fill almost every inch of the large cellar. I shine the torch around, revealing more boxes and unidentifiable mounds covered in old sheets. I don’t know where to start. Maybe the best thing would be to call a house-clearance company and let them deal with it.
On the other hand – I eye the boxes mutinously – how much would a clearance company charge to deal with this? Several hundred pounds. The Church won’t contribute, I’m skint, and I’m not sure that fundraising to empty the new vicar’s cellar of crap will rank highly on the parish council’s agenda.
I sigh and approach the least intimidating stack. First, I’ll deal with the boxes, because, I reason, most of those will be full of stuff for recycling. And there’s always the chance I might unearth some long-lost treasure that could turn out to be worth thousands.
Half an hour later, it’s apparent I won’t be troubling Antiques Roadshow any time soon. Instead, I have dumped numerous ancient copies of the Church Times into black sacks. I have ditched old newsletters and sermons, and plastic cups and paper plates no doubt intended to be used at fetes and other events but long since devoured by mould. One box contains a pile of old Christmas hats, streamers and rotting crackers.
I shuffle over to another box. This one appears to be full of DVDs. Reverend Fletcher’s, I presume. Star Wars (originals), Blade Runner, the Godfather trilogy, Ghostbusters. Fletcher had good taste in films. And then I spy Angels and Demons lurking at the bottom (well, I guess everyone has a guilty pleasure). The next box is full of CDs. Mostly Motown and soul. A few generic pop compilations. Some old eighties stuff. Alison Moyet, Bronski Beat, Erasure. Okay. Eclectic. But, as someone who has a penchant for playing My Chemical Romance loudly in the car, who am I to judge?
A third box is full of books. It occurs to me that Clara said she had cleared out most of Reverend Fletcher’s stuff. She doesn’t seem to have done a very good job.
I take some of the books out. Bulky hardbacks. C. J. Sansom, Hilary Mantel, Ken Follett, Bernard Cornwell. Huge non-fiction tomes about history, local legends, superstitions.
It’s clear to see where Fletcher’s interests lay. And for the first time, I feel like I’m getting more of a picture of my predecessor. You may not able to judge a book by its cover, but you can certainly judge a person by their books. I think I would have liked Fletcher. If he’d still been alive, we would probably have enjoyed chatting over a coffee.
I pull out a few more paperbacks. And frown.
The Witching Class. A Shower of Spells. The Coven Seekers.
These don’t quite sit with the others. I flip one over and read the blurb. Some kind of YA series about a school for witches – Mallory Towers meets The Craft.
The author’s name is Saffron Winter. It rings a distant bell. Was she the YA author whose books were being made into films (although that doesn’t really narrow it down)?
I flick to the back of the book. There’s a small black-and-white photo of a woman who looks to be about my age, with a mass of curly dark hair and a knowing smile. I wonder why authors’ photos always make them seem so smug. Look, I wrote a book. Aren’t I clever?
And then I see there’s a piece of paper sticking out of the pages, obviously used as a marker. I slip it out. It looks like an old to-do list:
Summer fete – volunteers?
Coffee morning, new kettle
Speak to Rushton re: plans
Aaron
Sainsbury’s click and collect
I stare at it, feeling suddenly sad. It’s just a mundane day-to-day list. But those are often the things that are the most poignant. I remember a parishioner who had recently lost her husband telling me it wasn’t the funeral or the wake or even the news of his death that broke her. It was when an Amazon delivery for some books he had pre-ordered turned up.
‘He had been looking forward to reading them so much, and now he never will.’
Those pristine, unthumbed pages. That was what had caused her to collapse, howling, on to the floor.
But then, we all make those small investments in our future. Tickets to a concert, dinner reservations, a holiday booking. Never letting ourselves imagine we might not be here to enjoy them; that some random event or encounter might snatch us from existence. We all take a punt on tomorrow. Even though every day is actually a leap of faith, a step out over the abyss.
I wipe my arm across my forehead. The air down here is both damp and stuffy. There must be air bricks somewhere, but they have probably been clogged by dirt and blocked by more of the omnipresent boxes. I’ve filled three rubbish sacks already and still barely made a dent upon the metropolis of cardboard.
Time for a break. I’ll take the sacks upstairs, make a coffee and then tackle some more later. I pick up two sacks. I’m feeling dirty and dusty and …
‘Bugger.’
As I heave the sacks around, one catches the corner of another teetering pile of boxes. I see them about to collapse a moment before it happens, but I’m powerless to stop it. I drop the sacks, grabbing for the wobbling boxes, but it’s no good. The whole lot comes piling down, sending me crashing into the mound of rubbish on the ground, my fall thankfully broken by the bin bags full of magazines. My elbow still connects hard with the rough cellar floor. I curse and cup the throbbing bone, rubbing at it viciously.
‘Crapping hell.’
I curse again and ease myself up, still rubbing at my bruised elbow. I look around. Fortunately, most of the toppled boxes don’t contain anything breakable or skull-crushing – just more old newspapers and magazines. I scramble to my feet and start to stuff them into the black sacks. As I do, I notice something. Another box. It stands out because it’s newer and unmouldy. It is sealed with brown tape. It must have been stuffed in one of the older boxes. Hidden? I slide the box across the cellar floor towards me, get my non-existent nails beneath the edges of the brown tape and eventually manage to peel it off and open the flaps.