“We understand, believe me,that you have no legal imperative to help us,” says Father Matthew Mackie. “We disagree with the council’s ruling, of course, but we must accept it.”
Mike Griffin, from the Planning Committee, had done his job well, thinks Ian. Feel free to dig up the graveyard, Ian, he’d said. Be our guest. Mike Griffin is addicted to online casinos, and long may that continue.
“However, I do think you have a moral obligation to leave the Garden of Eternal Rest, the graveyard, exactly where it is,” continues Father Mackie. “And I wanted to meet you face-to-face, man-to-man, and see if we can come to a compromise.”
Ian Ventham listens closely, but in honesty is really thinking about how clever he is. He is the cleverest person he knows, that’s for certain. That’s how he gets what he wants. It feels almost unfair sometimes. He’s not just one step ahead of you; he’s on an entirely different path.
Karen Playfair had been an easy one. If he can’t persuade Gordon Playfair to sell his land, then he knows she will. Dads and daughters. And she’d see a chunk of the money, surely. An old man can only turn down a seven-figure sum for a big hill for so long. Ian would always find a way.
But Father Mackie is trickier than Karen Playfair; he sees that. Priests weren’t like divorcées in their early fifties who could stand to lose a few pounds, were they? You had to pretend to have some respect, and maybe you actually should have some respect. After all, what if they were right? Open mind. Which was another example of cleverness being useful.
That’s why Ian has asked Bogdan to join them. He knows this lot like to stick together, and quite right, who doesn’t? He realizes he should probably speak.
“We’re only moving the bodies, Father,” says Ian. “It will be done with the greatest of care, and the greatest of respect.”
Ian knows that this is not strictly true. Legally he had had to put the job out for public tender. Three bids had come in. One was from the University of Kent Forensic Anthropology Department, who would certainly do the job with the greatest care and respect. One was from a firm of “cemetery specialists” in Rye, who recently moved thirty graves from the site of a new Pets at Home store. They included pictures of solemn men and women in dark blue overalls digging out graves by hand. The last was from a company set up two months ago by Ian himself, with a funeral director from Brighton he had met playing golf, and Sue Banbury from Ian’s village, who rented out diggers. That final pitch was extremely competitive and had won the business. Ian had looked into the excavation of cemeteries online, and it wasn’t rocket science.
“Some of these graves are over a hundred and fifty years old, Mr. Ventham,” says Father Mackie.
“Call me Ian.”
Ian hadn’t strictly needed to have this meeting, but he feels it’s better to be safe than sorry. A lot of the residents can get quite “churchy” when it suitsthem, and he wouldn’t want Father Mackie stirring up trouble. People get funny about corpses. So hear the man out, reassure him, send him happily on his way. Donate to something? There’s a thought to keep in the back pocket.
“The company you’ve employed to relocate the cemetery”—Mackie looks at his file—“Angels in Transit, ‘the cremoval specialists,’ they know what they’re going to find, I hope? There won’t be many intact coffins, Ian, just bones. And not skeletons; loose bones, broken down, scattered, half-rotted, sunk through the earth. And every single fragment of every bone, in every single grave, needs to be found, needs to be documented, and needs to be respected. That’s basic decency, but don’t forget that it is also the law.”
Ian nods, though he is actually wondering if it is possible to paint a digger black. Sue will know.
“I am here today,” continues Father Mackie, “to ask you to think again, to leave these ladies where they are, to leave them in peace. Man-to-man. I don’t know what it would cost you to do that; that’s your business. But you have to understand that as a man of God, it’s my business too. I don’t want these women moved.”
“Matthew, I appreciate you coming to see us,” says Ian. “And I see what you’re saying about angels. Souls in torment, et cetera—if I’m reading you right? But you said it yourself, all we’ll find now is bones. That’s all there is. And you can choose to be superstitious, or religious in your case, I see that, but I can choose not to be. Now, we’ll take care of the bones, and I’m happy for you to be there and watch the lot if that’s what floats your boat. But I want to move the cemetery, I’m allowed to move the cemetery, and I’m going to move the cemetery. If that makes me whatever I am, then so be it. Bones don’t mind where they are.”
“If I can’t change your mind, then I will make this as difficult as I possibly can for you. I need you to know that,” says Father Mackie.
“Join the queue, Father,” says Ian. “I’ve got the RSPCA up in arms about badgers. I’ve got the Kent Forestry Something banging on about protectedtrees. With you it’s nuns. I’ve got to comply with EU regulations on heat emissions, on light pollution, on bathroom fittings, and a hundred other things, even though I seem to remember we voted to leave. I’ve got residents bleating about benches, I’ve got English Heritage telling me my bricks don’t qualify as sustainable, and the cheapest cement guy in the entire South of England has just gone to prison for VAT fraud. You are not my biggest problem, Father, not even close.”
Ian finally draws breath.
“Also, Tony died, so is difficult time for everyone,” adds Bogdan, crossing himself.
“Yeah, yep. Also, Tony died. Difficult time,” agrees Ian.
Father Mackie turns to Bogdan, now that he has broken his silence. “And what do you think, my son? About moving the Garden of Eternal Rest? You don’t think we’re disturbing souls? You don’t think there will be penance for this?”
“Father, I think God watches over everything, and judges everything,” says Bogdan. “But I think bones is bones.”
22.
Joyce is having her hair cut.
Anthony comes in every Thursday and Friday, and appointments at his mobile salon are like gold dust. Joyce always books the first appointment, because that’s when you get the best stories.
Elizabeth knows this, and so is sitting outside by the open doorway, waiting and listening. She could just walk in, but waiting and listening are old habits she can’t break. In a lifetime of listening, you pick up all sorts. She looks at her watch. If Joyce isn’t out in five minutes she will make her presence known.
“One day I’m just going to dye the whole thing, Joyce,” says Anthony. “Send you out of here bright pink.”
Joyce giggles.
“You’d look like Nicki Minaj. You know Nicki Minaj, Joyce?”
