So, Death is nothing at all? - 1. Chapter 1

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still...
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval.
Somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well.*

Simon Hogarth paused, studying himself in the tiny mirror hanging behind the church vestry door. A tired, gaunt face belying its twenty nine years stared back. The face pondered: how different things had been the first time it had appeared in that mirror, a mere three months ago! The curate locked the door behind him and, taking up his pen sat down. There was a letter he needed to write. He prayed for inspiration and waited for the words to come. However, the words would not come, just the memories.

He hated the way he’d dealt with that first encounter. Hadn’t he been trained for just such an eventuality? Hadn’t he equipped himself spiritually and intellectually precisely so that no seventeen year old boy could humiliate him and leave him feeling inadequate and ridiculous? But the O’Brien boy had defeated him. From the first moment they’d met Simon had not been able to take his eyes off the youth: even as he exchanged pleasantries with the mother his attention had drifted time and again in the direction of Karl, sprawled across the sofa, watching sport on TV. And the image lived with him; those powerful limbs, that musculature, so developed for one so young.

Simon’s first experience of a northern parish was depressing. St Aidan’s at Farthingwell encompassed a large, deprived, inner-city area, and was a challenge to the recently ordained curate. But, despite approaching his new position with admirable zeal, he was quickly weakened by forces of violence, crime, and drunkenness. The attempted arson of the church satisfied the bishop that a move might be the compassionate thing to do. How grateful, then, was the young priest when he was ‘rescued’ by Joe Barton and installed as curate of All Saints in Grimfell. The former steel town was a far cry from the gentle village where Simon had grown up, but it represented a second chance for him, another opportunity to show the world the seriousness of his vocation.

But his troubles had reappeared almost at once. The vicar obtained lodging for Simon in a one-bedroom apartment next to the Traveller’s Rest Hotel. Soon, quite apart from the noise and brawling that were his constant companions, the curate began to feel ill at ease. He knew he was conspicuous, his tall, slender frame, steel rimmed specs and clerical garb marking him out from the start. But nobody made him feel more vulnerable that the pub landlord’s son, Karl; he of the dirty blond hair and green eyes, the insolent grin and arrogant swagger.

Why should this idle teenager, of all people be so blessed with exceptional physical endowment? Simon believed he could rationalise it. The O’Briens were descendants of Irish labourers who, fleeing death and famine in the 1840s had sought shelter in the harsh steel towns of northern England. Generations of men had hammered their bodies under the yoke of industrialisation, while their womenfolk had undergone the rigours of multiple childbirth and hardship. Why then should this beautiful specimen be so surprising? He was the natural product of such evolution. But Simon’s measured assessment had been rapidly superseded by the boy’s. And it had taken Karl O’Brien only the briefest moment to rate his mother’s visitor, and place him squarely in the ranks of the ridiculous.

How different when Simon last looked in that mirror; Thursday past. Then, the tiny cracked reflection had confirmed that his clothes and hair were soaked. To add to his woes he smelled strongly of stale beer. Passing by the Traveller’s Rest on his way to church he’d heard the angry rumble of a sash window as it was thrust up, then he’d been doused in beer. Of course, nobody had seen it happen, why would they? He wasn’t sure it would have made any difference anyway. Then the window was closed, slammed shut; but it was unable to conceal the guffaws of laughter emanating from the first floor. Simon was burning with rage and indignation. There was only one thing to do; hammer on the door of the pub and demand an explanation from the landlord, but the door was barred against him. The more he sought redress the louder was the mockery from within. He knew it was Karl O’Brien, he just knew it. He bit his lip as his mind somersaulted in a triple confusion of humiliation, anger and revenge. But he had to banish such thoughts; he was on his way to conduct a funeral. He’d need to clean up and get his act together.

The priest fidgeted in his pocket and withdrew a small, white, laminated card on which he’d written the lines from the poem ‘Death is nothing at all’ In fact, the priest didn’t need the card as he knew the words by heart, and would abridge and develop at will. The majority of his parishioners were elderly, and he knew that the poem’s soothing words sat well with them. Naturally, everybody wanted their loved one’s funeral to be special, but people had to realise that he did this job day after day. There had to be a formula; something that made folk feel special, even if they were totally alienated from the church and its faith.

‘Death is nothing at all’ was Simon’s answer.

The poem, by Canon Scott-Holland was the product of Edwardian England; and spoke of a time before twentieth century warfare sparked off ceaseless questioning. How wonderful it must have been to live in an age of faith, thought Simon: to dwell, not only in the certainty of one’s own convictions, but also the knowledge that no-one would publicly challenge them. Well, that age was gone. The reality of modern church life was that most of the people he came into contact with were elderly, and that was a comfort to the young curate. He took pride in the efforts he made to visit the bereaved and hear their stories. And nothing pleased him more, during his address, than to feel the murmur of recognition from his audience, when one of his carefully rehearsed tales or anecdotes rang true.

Karl O’Brien was only seventeen years old. Just one week ago, father and son had gone to the track for a night’s racing and a flutter on the dogs. At some point they’d come out of the stadium to purchase a hamburger. It was then, fooling around for just a moment, that Karl had grabbed his father’s supper and run into the path of a passing car. He died in an instant. The innocent driver was traumatised, distraught over an accident he could have done nothing to avoid. In a matter of seconds actions took place that ended one life and devastated others for years to come; random,inexplicable and pointless. Visiting the O’Brien family, to console them and discuss the funeral, was one of worst tasks Simon had ever to perform. Mrs O’Brien was heartbroken, naturally, but it was the reaction of her husband that struck the clergyman. The Landlord of the Traveller’s Rest was a broken man. He had taken to his bed and not ventured out of the pub since the accident. It was left to Mary, his wife, to carry on and make all the arrangements. She spoke lovingly but honestly about her only son, but it was as she presented for his inspection Karl’s last school photograph that the priest grew faint. The boy looked radiant, confident, and invincible. Simon endeavoured to say something but the words wouldn’t come. As he got ready to leave, she gently laid her hand on his arm and said,

‘I’m sorry if Karl gave you a bit of a hard time. He was forever playing tricks, but he was a good lad really. And I remember him talking about you’

‘About me?’ asked Simon, astonished.

‘Yes, he said ‘I don’t know how he can do that job’

The boy was now outside the church, in his coffin, ready for the final ritual. The priest clutched the plastic card with its formulaic words, its mantra droning in his head,

Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.

Simon Hogarth drew deep breath, trying desperately to kick start himself out of inertia. What were we to each other? I was nothing to him but a joke, an object of pity and contempt. But what was he to me, what is he to me? Dare I even speak it? The curate steeled himself for the agonising task ahead then made the long walk up the aisle to greet the cortege.

How different it was last Thursay and the funeral then! How he’d been mortified by the muttering as he swept through the church, leaving behind a swathe of beery fumes, thanks to Karl. At least he was sure it was he; Karl, who was alive then, brimful of energy, and malice. But that day had been quite different. It had been the funeral of one of the church’s eldest parishioners, and a congregation of twenty or thirty sat, appreciatively, as Simon put in his usual polished performance. Safe in the comfort that the dead don’t complain he’d routinely recited his words to a clutch of near dead oldsters who were totally unaware of the turmoil in their young priest’s heart.

Today was nothing like that! The church was full, fuller than he’d ever seen it before. And not just with old people and those who regularly drift in from the streets out of curiosity. It was packed with young, strong, vital men and women. But it was strangely muted, like a faded colour photograph of a happy event years ago.

Simon led the coffin into the church, moved into position and announced the first hymn. As the singing droned on he gazed at the full pews: there must be at least four hundred people out there. This, his vicar would have seen as an ideal opportunity to reach out and spread the Word of God. Simon rummaged instinctively in his pocket for the card containing the poem he’d used so many times before. The notes of his address sat on the lectern before him, but with each passing verse of the hymn, his dread increased.

As the final strains of ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ died away, he took up his order of service and read the prayer. But suddenly, the words of the poem he’d so casually relied on countless times before flooded into his mind, suffusing it with a terrible doubt. How could he persuade this crowd that what happened earlier in the week was ‘nothing at all’ – that the broken body of the beautiful young man lying only feet away from him was nothing more than a passing sigh? Simon was a well educated man, and he knew all too well that the Canon’s poem, the convenient prop he thoughtlessly relied upon to ease his way through funeral after funeral, was a con. Canon Scott Holland was in fact a man of great humanity and a fighter for social justice. In a sad twist of fate the present age had chosen to select just one of his works and take it completely out of context. Death wrecks lives, is what the Canon thought, and said, and wrote.

The curate stood erect, and clasped his hands together in a pose he felt sure the dead boy would have mocked. He stared out at the expectant faces. How many times would he again have an opportunity like this? They are all waiting to hear what he has to say. But the words would not come. He could feel his heart
pounding and his head swimming. He looked over to the boy’s father, who was bent over with grief, head in hands. Mary O’Brien,sensing what was happening murmured to her husband and he looked up. Simon mimed to the grieving man,

‘Would you like to say something?’

The boy’s father struggled to his feet,

‘I’m here to bury my son, and I don’t really know what to say’.

He paused; then turned to look at the coffin,

‘I love you, son. I never told you enough, but I always meant to. It breaks my heart that I’m telling you now, in these circumstances. I never thought anything like this could happen to us. I know now what they mean by heartache. I’ve cried so much I ache, my heart aches. Your mother and I haven’t slept a wink since….’

He paused to recover himself.

‘I will never see you again, or hear you, or touch you; never.

I know what they say here, in church; what they believe, but I know you’ve gone.

They try to help us and they say kind things, but you’re never coming through that door again.

They can’t bring you back, nothing can. I’m trying to hear your laughter in my head. You we’re laughing all the time, and I’m just so afraid I’ll forget what you sound like. Please, God, don’t let that happen. I always want to remember how you laughed. The dreams I had of holding your children have gone. I don’t know where you are. I want to be with you, whatever that takes. It’s wrong for you to go first. I don’t understand any of this; I just wish I knew you were happy.

Please God, look after my boy.’

Simon gazed abstractedly around the packed church: members of Karl’s close family were convulsed with grief, school friends sobbed:

ordinary men and women from the street struggled to make sense of it all. Simon tried to remember the words of the poem, but the formula was not working this time. Death isn’t ‘nothing at all’ he thought, it’s ghastly. It’s hideous. It’s filthy and unfair. And he knew that the wise old Canon knew that too, but what about this congregation? Why couldn’t he trust these people with that knowledge? Were they too stupid? Did he really think they’d not understand?

He got unsteadily to his feet. A sea of grief was threatening to wash over him, and he felt utterly powerless to calm it.

‘There is nothing I can add. I do not know what to say.

If I knew how to ease your grief, with all my heart, I would do it.

I will pray for you. I can do no more, I wish I could. Just please love one another. For God’s sake, love one another.’

And, dwelling honestly for the first time on the boy’s image, he added silently,

‘As I wish I could love you; as I wanted to love you’

Moments passed as Karl’s coffin was prepared for its final journey. Simon surveyed the church. Everywhere, he could see incipient contact, fingers reaching out for other hands, arms slung about weak shoulders, eyes meeting eyes.The curate faced the back of the church and prepared to process out. It was time to be honest with himself and face his future; for then, and only then, could he start afresh with dignity. And as he walked behind the young man’s coffin words came to him that he knew every bit as well as the poem now known by countless millions world-wide. But these words seemed to be for Simon’s ears alone.

‘Let the dead things go, and lay hold on life. Purify yourself as He

bids you Who is pure. Then the old will drop away from you, and

the new wonder will begin. You will find yourself already passed

from death to life, and far ahead strange possibilities will open up

beyond the power of your heart to conceive’.

When he got back to the church he’d return to the office. There, on the desk was an unfinished letter to the bishop; a letter Simon had struggled to complete. But the words that had eluded him for so long were now his; the fear had gone, and with it the confusion. Only the truth remained.

*

One of the shorter versions of ‘Death is nothing at all’ by Henry Scott Holland