It could have been high summer on 12th May, save for the still-fresh smell of spring on the air.
The old cloisters of St Michael’s Cathedral surrounded a small grass quadrangle. This was not a burial ground, but memorial stones to members of the congregation were laid here level with the ground and formed a cross. That to Martha Serrailler was one of the last, at the south corner.
They stood in the patch of sun. Richard and Meriel. Cat and Chris with their children. Martha’s godfather, an old medical colleague of Richard’s, leaning on two sticks. Shirley and Rosa from Ivy Lodge. And, just as they were about to begin, Simon, who stood next to his mother, and did not meet Cat’s eye.
The dedication was short and simple. Plain words. A short Bible passage. The first prayer. Cat looked down at the slab. ‘Martha Felicity Serrailler. 1977–2003. Blessed are the pure in heart.’
There were three simple posies of white flowers beside it, one of them from Ivo in Australia. He is never here for anything, Cat thought – marriage, births, deaths. Celebrations or wakes. He might as well not be a part of the family at all. Why? What had made him go to the other side of the world and stay there for seven years without a single return visit home? She wondered if he so much as remembered their faces. Certainly, he would have next to no memories of Martha.
Cat herself felt little now for the fair-haired, speechless girl who had been her sister. Martha’s life had been sealed away and, ultimately, it had been a mystery. Perhaps Simon had been right and her death was a mystery too. Who knew?
She wanted to look at him and could not. He kept his eyes down. He wore a pale grey suit in which he should have looked older but which actually made him seem like a tall schoolboy. She looked down at Felix in his carrying crib, oblivious to the voices and the birdsong and the sun on his face, as well as to the fact that he was dressed in cream silk and lace, the Serrailler family christening gown.
A sudden pain shot through her heart, for David Angus, for Martha. For Simon. After the christening, back at her parents’ house, she would take him aside, out into the garden away from everyone else. This stupid feud had to be brought to an end.
‘Let us pray for Martha. Let us hold the mystery of her life before God and trust her to His care. Lord, grant her the understanding of Your presence, the knowledge of Your love and the grace of Your protection and help her to grow in new life with You.’
‘Bring us, O Lord, at your last awakening,
into the house and gate of heaven.To enter into that gate and dwell in that house
Where there shall be no darkness nor dazzling
but one equal light;No noise nor silence, but one equal music;
No fears nor hopes, but one equal possession;
No ends nor beginnings, but one equal eternity;
In the habitations of thy glory and dominion,
World without end.’
Sam’s small voice piped out into the sunlit quiet before the others. ‘Amen.’ His sister trod on his toe.
Cat looked up. Simon had her eye and could not look away now. Slowly, he smiled.
They went into the Lady Chapel by the cloister door. People were already there, godparents and friends.
Felix woke as he was lifted from his basket, and lay in Karin McCafferty’s arms, his eyes widened in wonder at the flickering candles and the glint of gold and blue on the chapel roof, the shine of the silver christening jug.
He gave a tiny gasp when the water touched him but then was still again, gazing round.
Hannah dropped her candle. Sam grinned in triumph.
They went out into the sunshine of the May afternoon and gathered round Felix in admiration. Cameras clicked.
‘Hi,’ Simon said from behind Cat.
She put out her hand and he held it. ‘Hi.’
There was no need, after that, to take him away into the garden and say anything at all.