25

David leaned against an unkempt family mausoleum in the graveyard outside the church and listened to the faint sound of the choir and organ. His mother had looked a bit hurt when he said he couldn’t go in with her, but he’d given the excuse that Professor Sturrock wanted him to look at gravestones. She was sceptical but when he showed her the book, and the little drawing of a headstone, she accepted it. After God, Professor Sturrock was, for her, the voice of authority.

There were all sorts of gravestones and monuments in front of him, which he hoped would inspire him to do a good piece of homework, and maybe even lift his mood a little. He liked the simple ones best. He found the enormous square plinths with their heavenward-pointing angels over the top. He was no keener on the heart-shaped headstones which were clearly becoming fashionable. He liked a plain slab of marble, with a simple cross, and a simple message.

He started to walk around the cemetery, stopping occasionally to read an inscription. Most were purely factual. Name, dates, brief description. Some stressed work: Malcolm Rowan, banker, for example. David wondered whether it was Mr Rowan (1929–2003) who chose that one-word description of his life, or his family. If his family, why did they not want to be recognised as part of his life and death? Or perhaps he lived alone all his adult life, and being a banker was all he or anyone else could think to say about him. Four stones down lay Iris Silver (1911–1999). Much loved by 7 children, 29 grandchildren and Bertie. He assumed Bertie was a pet, probably a dog. Again, who decided that Bertie should be included as part of the family on her gravestone? And why was there mention of the children and grandchildren but no mention of the man or men who fathered the seven children? Bertie couldn’t have been the father, surely, tagged on at the end like that? David assumed Mrs Silver had a single husband who predeceased her. If so, why no place, on such a large headstone, for a little mention that Iris was joining Mr Silver in heaven?

The graves of children were the most moving, and often the best kept. Martha Rudd (1989–2001). You lit up our lives every second you graced our world. It wouldn’t be true of course. There would have been times, during her twelve years, when little Martha must have annoyed Mr and Mrs Rudd. But they wouldn’t remember those. The tragedy of a child dying young would leave them memories only of the joy and beauty they now missed so much. It was a nice thing to have on a headstone, he thought. He reflected that even Mrs Temple would be hard pressed to say of her own son that ‘he lit up our lives’.

Who would ‘our’ be? There was only his mum really, and truth be told he often darkened her life with his terrible moods and his incessant staring at a fixed point in the near or middle distance, which is why she relied so heavily on God and Father Nicholas. When he felt his equilibrium was kind of OK, he made her life hard enough, but when, as now, he was low, he knew he made it even harder. He loved her for the way she just kept going, trying to make him happy and comfortable, even when she probably thought it was a lost cause, but it wasn’t enough to lift his mood.

If he were to drop down dead right now, he thought, there wouldn’t be many at his funeral. A few people from work, a few more from up and down the street, provided they could get time off, and no doubt Mum would round up some from church. Would his dad come? He doubted it. How would he know David had died? And how would he cope with the guilt he was bound to feel, surely, at leaving him so young, and wondering whether he had something to do with his early death? Or perhaps he wouldn’t feel any guilt. Perhaps he’d forgotten David long ago. Perhaps he had a new family who knew nothing of his old one.

He took out his notebook and tried to write an inscription for himself. Really, it just boiled down to his mum, and his being a troubled soul. ‘Here lies David Temple, a troubled soul, loved by his mother.’ Was that it? Was that how he wanted to be remembered?

He tried again. ‘Here lies David Temple, a troubled man who did his best to look after his mum, and look after himself.’

It didn’t read right. ‘Did his best’ sounded so weak.

He walked a little further to study more graves. He preferred the messages that gave a sense of the person’s character rather than what they were or did. ‘He blessed us with his love’ was a nice one. ‘One of life’s givers’ was OK. ‘You were a friend to all who knew you’ a bit yucky, and probably untrue.

David found a little grass bank opposite a section devoted to overseas servicemen and women, mainly Poles, who died in the Second World War. He sat down and turned to a blank page in his notebook. Then he drew his own gravestone. He based it on the rusty-coloured stone about eight yards away. It was taller than most, with a small cross at the top, then a name, Pawel Dabrowski (1922–1942), followed by a brief message in Polish.

David drew a clutch of flowers at the base. Then he faltered. Did he have any quality that was worthy of note? He thought again of the line Professor Sturrock had put on his homework once. ‘You may think that you are less important than others, but what I think you are is humble. And humility is a fine quality.’

Humility. It was one of Professor Sturrock’s favourite themes. He believed that humility was the key to self-respect and mutual respect. At first when Professor Sturrock had called him ‘humble’, David had read it as meaning he was lowly and insignificant. But gradually he’d come to realise there was a more favourable interpretation, and though he would never go so far as to say it had made him feel special, he felt he understood what Professor Sturrock meant. He remembered an occasion when Professor Sturrock told him there was a humility in the way he gave expression to his feelings that he rarely saw in people far better off and far better educated than he was, and it was something he should be proud of.

He remembered too the time when he was complaining to Professor Sturrock about how some of the people at work treated him.

‘You don’t behave like that, David,’ Professor Sturrock had said, ‘because you have a sense of humility. If you can understand humility, then you have the key to life.’

Looking at the gravestones, David thought that maybe he was beginning to understand why Professor Sturrock had set the exercise. He took his pencil and filled in his gravestone.

Here lies David Temple

A humble and loving son.

Through his mother, and through struggle in life,

he learned that humility is the key to humanity.

He was pleased with it.

Several weeks ago, Professor Sturrock had asked him to write something about humility. Now he felt ready to do so. He turned to a fresh page and started to write, hoping the service inside the church would not be ending any time soon.