Love, Death, Chariot of Fire Page 23

  ‘Thank you for your kind words, sir. We in turn were grateful for Mrs Mitchell’s presence – she kept everyone’s spirits up with her tact and common sense.’

  ‘I felt I was the one being kept cheerful, sister,’ Flo says. ‘Thank you for making me feel so welcome.’

  Sister Driscoll smiles at Flo in acknowledgement before looking back to Mitchell. ‘I just wish we could have done more for you, sir. But I won’t say more about that because I know Mr Gabriel will come through the door any minute now to discuss things with you.’

  She rises to take her leave. Mitchell scrambles ineffectually to follow suit, reaching for his cane. ‘Please don’t get up, sir!’ Sister Driscoll admonishes him. She extends her hand to him where he’s seated; he takes it as he settles back in his chair. She then offers her hand to Flo.

  ‘Goodbye, and the best of luck to you both,’ she says as she leaves the room.

  Flo reaches for his hand and holds it firmly. They sit and wait in silence. He glances across at her out of the corner of his eye. She isn’t weeping the way she tended to do at these moments when he first fell ill. She seems to have become more stoical, as if she’s taken Gabriel’s earlier words about Seneca to heart. She hasn’t despaired or gone numb, he’s quite sure of that. So he welcomes the change. Throughout their years together nothing could pitch him into hell faster than Flo’s tears. She’s sparing him that now, and that’s an act of love.

  The door opens and Gabriel walks in. He’s no longer wearing a white coat over his suit. He greets them both and sits down in the chair opposite them.

  ‘You don’t look like the bearer of glad tidings, Bill,’ Mitchell sighs.

  Gabriel gazes at him with sympathy. ‘I’m afraid not, Reg. All we’ve managed to do is get a better bead on your disease. We were hoping against hope for some signs of remission, but sadly we found no such thing. All we could really do is measure the growth of the metastases in your abdominal cavity that we picked up on the previous X-rays, and locate five new ones. Which equips us to give you an updated prognosis, but that’s about all.’

  ‘So you’re still recommending against surgery, then, Bill?’ Flo asks.

  ‘Even more emphatically. Reg wouldn’t survive any realistic attempt to surgically remove his tumours, and it would be a terrible way to die.’

  ‘I see,’ she murmurs.

  ‘So what is the new prognosis, Bill?’

  ‘Six months at the very outside. Maybe as little as four. I’ve let Picken know all there is to know. As you realise, Reg, he sees himself as a close family friend of yours, not just your GP. He lives and works near you in Portswood and assures me he’ll pop in to see you just about every day. He’ll do whatever he can to relieve your symptoms. Has he spoken to you about home nursing?’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ Flo says. ‘We know we have that option open to us.’

  Silence falls.

  ‘You can contact me any time. I’m only too happy to help if I can – you know that. Do either of you have any more questions right now, though?’

  Mitchell and Flo look at each other, and shake their heads.

  ‘Well, once again, I’ll tell my secretary to put either of you through to me if you ring, and to give you priority if you feel you’d like another appointment.’

  He looks at Mitchell and Flo in turn, as if to see if they want to add anything. When they don’t he stands up slowly, shakes their hands, and takes his leave.

  ‘Hazeldene’, Portswood. Sunday 14 March 1937, noon. Mitchell is sitting in the living room, in an armchair in front of the fire, dozing and reading the latest number of Flight magazine in turns. He hears the car drive into the garage and Flo enter the house. She appears in the living room dressed in her Sunday best, and casts a quick solicitous look at her husband.

  ‘Everything all right, Reg?’

  ‘Yes, fine. How was the service? Is that new vicar of yours still doing the right thing by his flock?’

  ‘He’s becoming quite popular. Deservedly so. The pews are full once again. He consults with us in the choir about the musical programme. He’s young, can’t be much more than thirty, and energetic. Hardly the stickler that his predecessor was. You’d like him – he’s a rower too. Part of the Cambridge team that won the boat race a few years ago.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Stretton Reeve.’ Flo says, and sits down in the other armchair facing the fire. ‘In a fortnight it’ll be Easter. If you’re feeling up to it on the day I’d really like you to come to the Easter Sunday service with Gordon and me. He’ll be home for Easter.’

  ‘Well, Flo, as you know, that’s really more up your alley…’

  She interrupts him. ‘It would mean a lot to me, Reg. I know your objections to the belief side of things, that it’s all fairy tales. But there’s a lot more to church life than being fed fairy tales.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Being part of a positive community. Finding support for one’s values. The music and poetry of the liturgy. Receiving comfort and the words to express ourselves in the face of the big events in our lives. You yourself commented on it after your father’s funeral four years ago.’

  ‘Hmm, well…’

  ‘Come to think of it, you’ve already come with Gordon and me to the Highfield Church here a few times at Easter. And we’ve gone to all those Christmas services with your family up in Stoke.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And Reg, like it or not, you were baptised in the church. And even confirmed, I seem to remember. You’re a member anyway – you can come along and see for yourself what’s on offer.’

  ‘All right, Flo, I’ll go with you and Gordon at Easter. Fairy tales or no fairy tales.’

  She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, darling. But you don’t have to be so narrow-minded about the “fairy tales”. They can be full of meaning. In the kindergarten I ran before we were married I read them to the children non-stop for that reason. It can be the same for adults. It makes no difference that they may never have happened or have supernatural elements.’

  ‘Give me an example of a story like that from the Bible.’

  ‘That’s easy. The vicar read one to us today. From the Old Testament. It was really about you.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I’m sure he meant it to be about you, too. As he read it he kept glancing up over the lectern at me, as if to say, “Tell this story to your husband!”.’

  ‘So what’s the story about?’

  ‘A prophet called Elijah. One of God’s favourites, apparently.’

  ‘So he could see into the future. That’s not like me – I can’t do that.’

  ‘No Reg, the biblical prophets weren’t fortune-tellers! They were wise men who could deliver a blunt message to the king and others in power.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like me either.’

  ‘Stop being obstreperous, darling! In this story the king in question is Ahab, who’s married to Jezebel. As usual in these stories, the kingdom faces a threat from outside, and Ahab and Jezebel are weakening its defences by propagating the religion of its enemies. The worship of the false god Baal. And they’ve got lots of priests to help them do this. Is this beginning to ring a bell for you?’

  Mitchell puckers his brow. ‘Thanks for the hint, dear. I guess the worshippers of Baal are like today’s continental fascists, and Ahab, Jezebel and the priests make up a fifth column.’

  ‘Correct! So to cut a long story short, Elijah outmanoeuvres and undermines Ahab and Jezebel, so he saves Israel and the true religion. But that’s not the end of the story. When God thinks Elijah has done enough, and his understudy Elisha has been anointed to succeed him, He sends a chariot of fire, drawn by horses of fire, to scoop him up and fly him straight to heaven.’

  ‘What a wonderful spectacle! But I’m still wondering where I fit into the tale.’

  ‘Don’t be dense, Reg darling! I’m sure the vicar was linking the biblical ch
ariot of fire to your Spitfire. And I’m sure everyone in the congregation got it too. You’re a local notable, and since the RAF showed off the Spitfire at the Hendon Air Display last summer, a lot of people know about it and your connection to it. As you know, even the local rag is onto it. Then there’s the plane’s name, obviously.’

  ‘Hmm, “chariot of fire”. That phrase turns up in that Jerusalem song we sing in the car when we’re on a long trip, isn’t it? Does it come out of the Bible story too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This Reeve fellow seems to be a clever vicar, then! I’m always going on about the plane’s horsepower, and the exhaust stubs along the Spitfire’s nose look like nostrils. When the engine first starts, flames often come out of them as unburnt fuel ignites. And after all, the horsepower itself comes from a combustion engine. So there we have the horses of fire! Finally, the plane will “fire” its guns. But the “chariot” bit doesn’t fit. Chariots roll along the ground.’

  ‘Not necessarily. In our inherited myths plenty of them fly. We could start with the goddess Freya who flies across the sky in a chariot drawn by cats.’

  ‘And don’t forget Santa Claus, his reindeers and sleigh – they’re airborne too!’

  ‘Now you’re being facetious, Reg! Come to the Easter Sunday service with your wife and son like a good solid citizen, meet the vicar, and you might be pleasantly surprised.’

  ‘All right! I’ll do my best to be well enough.’

  Highfield Church, Portswood. Easter Sunday, 28 March 1937, 10 am. Supported by his cane and his son, Mitchell stands to one side of the church entrance. Gordon is wearing his best school uniform. Father and son have learned to enjoy each other’s company in silence when nothing calls for comment. Flo has already entered the church to join the rest of the choir in the vestry, to robe for the service.

  Mitchell looks around him. It’s a crisp morning; the sun is shining an intense light over the church and churchyard as if to revel in the recent equinox. The church is only ninety years old. The two slow-growing yew trees in its grounds, doubtless planted on the church’s completion, seem to be only half-grown even now. The church itself is quite simple with just a hint of neo-gothic style in the window arches. It’s wrought in Purbeck stone from nearby Dorset. The oak shingles that cover the spire probably come from nearby too. The lawn has recovered its vivid green after enduring its snow covering for an unusually long period. Around seventy gravestones punctuate it. They remind him of something his father taught him: any human community rests on the relationship between the living, the dead, and the as-yet unborn.

  When the church bell tolls he shuffles off on Gordon’s arm to join the living – so far he’s still one of them – on their way inside. Neighbours and acquaintances turn to greet them or exchange smiles. When they enter the crowded church people interrupt their own search for places to sit so they can help the Mitchells find spots on an aisle near the front.

  The discomfort of alighting on the hard pew makes him grimace, but he’s able to find a sustainable posture before the service begins. When all are seated the vicar leads the choir processing up the aisle from the rear of the church as it sings the first hymn. Mitchell struggles to his feet again with the others and watches the procession. In her chorister’s robe Flo looks beautiful in an unearthly way, with her head held erect as she sings. By the time the hymn ends the choir has made its way to the pews facing each other in the chancel at the front. It and the congregation sit down in unison.

  As the service begins Mitchell reverts to his habitual mode of sitting through one. In his younger days he’d work himself up over all the implausible assertions in the liturgy, but he’s long since learned to let them float past while he just tunes into the sounds and rhythms. ‘Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places…’ The cadences familiar since childhood. He finds comfort in that. Now that he’s stopped busying himself with the implausibilities, he finds himself edging into a sense of the sublime that the service imparts. He turns the pages of the well-thumbed Book of Common Prayer he’s found on the ledge in front of him, when those around him do so. He joins in the Lord’s Prayer with them – he discovers he still knows it by rote.

  The new vicar helps him to drift along in this way. Even though he’s dressed in his flowing ceremonial robes, they can’t disguise the rower’s physique beneath them. The Reverend Stretton Reeve is indeed a stocky fellow with a large head and a broad face with pleasantly coarse features. He intones and sings in a rich baritone that expresses both conviction and ease in his role. His bluff personality suffuses the proceedings and draws everyone into one warm embrace.

  Nevertheless Mitchell chafes in anticipation at the theme of the Easter service – resurrection, victory over death. As someone facing imminent death he experiences it as just a sop. Certainly, when he dies he’ll remain a memory trace in the minds of those close to him. When the German bombers come, a small, well-informed minority will associate him with the swarms of Spitfires that take off to cut them down. But he himself will know none of this. And when the bombers are gone, along with his family, friends and colleagues, it will be as if Reginald Mitchell never lived at all. That’s the natural order of things. He wants to die true to himself and his fate. He wants to die acknowledging the finality of death – dust to dust and all that – not clinging to demeaning untruths about a life everlasting.

  He looks up to the chancel and imagines it in a few months’ time. A coffin raised on a bier will rest there, bedecked with flowers, and his own dead body will be lying inside it. Flo, Gordon, his brothers Eric and Billy, and perhaps one or two other family members from Stoke will be sitting in the front pews, along with his closest colleagues from Supermarine. Other than that the scene will be unchanged. The same man of the cloth will preside, incanting from the same book Mitchell is holding in his hands at this moment.

  The vicar steps up into the pulpit to deliver the homily. Here we go! Mitchell silently grumps. The sermon homes in on the Easter mystery, the resurrection, all right. But it doesn’t follow the script he’s expecting.

  ‘If our Christian faith is to have any traction in the modern world, for us as individuals and for society at large, we must think of it in terms that matter now,’ Reeve says. ‘People today understand life and death in quite different ways to those in biblical times. We’re no longer interested in stories about the dead walking again, leaving vacant tombs, and so on. Especially now, at Easter time, we want to reflect instead on what the resurrection means.

  ‘Well, my friends, it means communal and individual transformation – the gradual emergence of the kingdom of God through the triumph of love, compassion and justice in everyday life. Our Easter challenge is to resurrect the human possibilities that Jesus announced. Resurrection refers to our recommitting to his vision of individual and social nobility – our vow to rise up out of the hatred, violence and baseness of our original benighted condition.

  ‘Today this resurrection – realising the kingdom of God in our country – faces an appalling menace from forces that precisely embody the hatred, violence and baseness of the benighted past: the fascist regimes on the Continent. This threat will test us sorely. And so, here and now, at this solemn season of Easter, we must as Christians resolve to brace and renew our moral and social commitments, and to do so with all our intelligence, might and main. There are those sitting among us who are already doing just that. When you join this fight, you will never find yourself alone.’

  When the service ends Mitchell waits until most of the congregation has filed out. He doesn’t want people to see him doddering along in his undignified way. Gordon seems to understand the delay. When they do make their way back out into the sunshine they find Flo and Reeve waiting for them.

  ‘Stretton, I’d like you to meet my husband, Reg, and our son Gordon,’ Flo says. ‘This is Stretton Reeve, our new vicar.’

  Mitchell is taken by surprise at the immediate recourse to first names, but loves Flo’
s poise in taking the initiative.

  Reeve smiles as he extends his big hand. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at long last, Reg. Flo has told me so much about you. As have others, I might add. And I’m just as pleased to meet you too, young Gordon.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Gordon murmurs.

  ‘The pleasure’s mutual, Stretton,’ Mitchell says. ‘Any serious rower is a potential friend of mine.’

  The vicar throws back his head and laughs. ‘The days of my sporting glory are over, I’m afraid. But not the potential for friendship.’

  ‘Flo has no doubt told you about my failing health. There won’t be much time for that potential to be realised, alas.’

  ‘All the more reason to make hay while the sun is shining, Reg,’ Reeve says, raising his face and hand to the celestial body in question. ‘Would you have any objection to a home visit from me?’

  ‘No, I’d enjoy that. But I do have to warn you: as far as the Thirty-nine Articles of the Anglican faith are concerned I’ll prove a miserable disappointment. Not really deathbed-conversion material, you see.’

  The vicar laughs again. ‘If I insisted on my parishioners affirming the Thirty-nine Articles, I’d empty my church quick smart! I was just thinking of a social visit, so I can get to know you and see if I can help in any way. I promise not to preach.’

  ‘Well in that case, yes, of course. But please ring beforehand – my colleagues and my secretary, Vera, are still beating a path to our door with all their technical questions. I also get almost daily visits from my doctor.’

  ‘I’m sure Reg can fit you in, Stretton,’ Flo cuts in. ‘Vera and I are the gatekeepers – we’ll see to it that he can. What about this coming Friday at eleven for morning tea? How would that suit, gentlemen?’

  The two men exchange glances, shrug, and smile in assent to her suggestion.

  ‘Hazeldene’, Portswood. Friday 2 April 1937, 11.15 am. Mitchell and Reeve are sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table. Mitchell is still digesting the sight of a man in a dog collar and cassock sitting at it. Flo finishes putting the teapot, cups, sauces and small plates in front of them, as well as a sponge cake and butter.