“Where the hell? That was fifty pounds, how am I going to explain that?” he muttered as he looked around the church hoping a piece of scenery would give him a clue of where to look next.
Tom rubbed the back of his head and looked at the rows of pews. Something wasn’t quite right. It felt as though there were more pews than there were last week. He couldn’t say exactly how many more rows there were, but he decided to search the seats situated three rows nearer to the alter. Shuffling his way to the middle of the row he once again reached underneath the chairs. His hand stroked a piece of hardened chewing gum and couple of rough edges and he cursed under his breath at his fruitless search. Tom stood up and stepped over the next two rows and again reached underneath the wooden seats. After a couple of seconds his hand felt a piece of paper stuck to the underside. He felt a sudden flutter of exhilaration. Taking it from its hiding place Tom stood up and made his way back to the aisle. The moonlight faded once more as Tom almost jogged his way back to the main doors.
The strong breeze blew into the entrance hall as he opened the oak doors. He stepped on to the path and pulled the door shut remembering to lock it before walking towards the graves. Tom wrestled the piece of paper open amidst the wind. It folded over several times before Tom reached into his pocket to take out a small torch. Flicking the on-switch, the torch gave a feeble yellow glow indicating it was low on battery power. Tom cursed under his breath again and shook the torch hoping to get a little more out of the cells. The wind died away momentarily and he finally wrestled open the piece of paper. He held the torch close to the pencil drawn diagram. It illustrated a layout of the graveyard with each headstone depicted as a small rectangle. One of the rectangles on the other side of the church, had an arrow pointing towards it and Tom knew it could hold the answer to what he was looking for. He held the drawing at eye level and attempted to get his bearings in relation to the map and the actual graveyard. The large statue of St Christopher that lay at the heart of the graves seemed to watch over them, it also allowed Tom to pinpoint where the marked gravestone was.
The breeze caused the map to fold over once more, but Tom ignored it and slowly walked around the outside of St Katherine’s. The wind in the trees hissed amongst the full summertime foliage almost covering the noise of his footsteps on the gravel path that led around the old stone building. A slight feeling of apprehension ran through his mind as he caught sight of a cluster of headstones that became awash in the brief appearance of moonlight. He checked the drawing again but the breeze caused it to close up once more. In frustration, Tom, screwed up the drawing and thrust it into his trouser pocket. He knew the approximate area of the grave he was interested in. It was in the far corner. It was the place where the graves were smaller, cheaper and less significant. The resting places of the destitute, the ones without families and those lives that fate had cursed with bad luck. His heart started to quicken as he approached the graves. There were over thirty to check and Tom knelt in front of the first stone slab. Shining his feeble torch at the stonework, he looked at carved lettering and sighed.
"No, no," he pleaded and banged the torch into the palm of his left hand. Like a man admitting defeat he kneeled down and fell back onto his backside and crossed his legs. He put the torch back into his pocket and looked at the grave ahead of him. From what he could make out the headstone was quite ordinary and stood only two-feet tall with little in the way of decoration. Tom ran his hand over its rough edges. The darkness still prevented him from reading the worn lettering so he ran his fingers over the engraving. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing. Should he be here? Should he be looking into the past and uncovering secrets that were best left hidden? Did he really want to know the name carved into the stone?
He waited. He stared at the headstone hoping the moonlight would illuminate the words on the weather-beaten stone. Then, before his eyes, the carvings shaped themselves into recognisable letters as the moon shone through the clouds once more. Tom quickly realised it was the name he feared, a confirmation that everything he had learned was true. He managed to decipher the rest of the details on the headstone. The dates matched, it was the grave he was looking for, yet its plain, generic appearance filled him with emotion. A tear rolled slowly down his cheek and he used his left hand to wipe it away. Everything he'd been told up to this point, everything that he was had been ripped and shattered. He covered his mouth and breathed heavily though his nose. He'd been clinging to the hope that it wasn't true, that such deceit was unthinkable. But in front of him was the cold, harsh reality and the proof that all his life he'd been lied to. He closed his eyes and pressed two fingers to his lips before gently touching the headstone.
“Sleep Well,” he whispered before the moon vanished behind the clouds enveloping him in darkness. Suddenly Tom lifted his head and swallowed hard, he heard the creak of the iron gate opening.
Part one of 'Chapelford Parish Hall' continues here
