The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot, Marianne Cronin [top fiction books of all time txt] 📗

finish line, he swallowed, and then said in a hoarse voice, ‘Yes. I can see that. I’m old, you know. You shouldn’t surprise old people like that.’

‘Did you miss me?’

He wiped the back of his hand on his forehead. ‘It has been a little quiet in here lately.’

‘Do you need medical attention?’ I asked him. ‘I’ve been here a while, I’ve picked up a thing or two.’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘I’m fairly certain I can hook you up to a drip.’

He chose not to comment, and instead asked, ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘may I sit?’

‘Of course.’ He offered me a pew and then nervously hovered until I invited him to sit beside me.

‘Are you well?’ he asked.

‘Of course not.’ I smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about forgiveness.’

‘Really?’

‘There are lots of stories in the Bible about forgiveness, right? Wasn’t there one about a milking cow and a vine? Or was it a mouse who couldn’t sew? Anyway, I’m not very good at forgiving people because I find it hard to forget. Also, if you forgive, you can’t have the fun of getting revenge, and revenge, I have found, is so much more satisfying than forgiveness.’

‘I see.’ Father Arthur folded his arms across his round tummy. I wondered if God deliberately has all of his priests slowly start to resemble Father Christmas to endear them to the local community.

‘So, what do you think?’ I asked.

‘About what?’

‘About all of it; forgiveness, punishment, redemption.’

‘I think you raise an interesting point: forgiveness is a huge part of the example Christ set for us. Although I am not sure I agree with the part about revenge being more fun.’

‘But God spends half the Bible getting revenge on people – what about the plagues and the ghosts and that thing with the parrot?’

‘The parrot? Lenni, I don’t think you’ve …’ He thought, coughed, and then he asked, ‘Where exactly did you read the Bible, Lenni?’

‘At school.’

‘At school,’ he repeated. ‘Okay.’

‘Well, they read it to us. You know, Sunday school. They would take us out of church and sit us all on the carpet and read to us.’

‘And were these books always the Bible or were they sometimes something else?’

‘Something else like what?’

‘I don’t know.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Something perhaps like a fairy tale or a children’s book?’

‘Nope, they were always from the Bible. It had gold edges.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Father Arthur looked sceptical.

‘Forgiveness, then?’ I asked, to give him a bit of a hint and get him back on track.

He went on, ‘I’m not sure I agree that forgiveness is less satisfying than revenge, as you put it. And I might add now, I sincerely hope this conversation doesn’t involve any revenge you hope to enact on me. Anyway, perhaps in the heat of the moment it might seem that revenge is the only thing you can do to satisfy your anger, but you might find that after time has passed, forgiveness is what has done you the most good, is what you are most proud of.’

‘But,’ I said slowly, ‘I might not have those months or years to look back on my actions. I might never see the day when I am proud of my forgiveness. I’m only living in the short term, so shouldn’t I just get my fun wherever I can?’

‘When you say fun, do you mean revenge?’

‘Yeah, in a way.’

‘Can I ask, Lenni,’ he said, ‘who are you thinking about forgiving? I know it isn’t me.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you know I’ve forgiven you?’

‘You came back,’ he said with a smile, gesturing to the empty chapel.

Nothing dramatic had changed: there was the same stained carpet, the electric piano in the corner draped with its beige cover, the altar with its flickering candles and the noticeboard with more pins than notices. Maybe I’m like the noticeboard. More pins than messages. More contact slots in my phone than friends. More growth in my bones than I’ll get to see. More revenge than forgiveness.

‘So, who are you wanting to forgive?’

‘I’d rather not talk about her,’ I told him. ‘I haven’t seen her in years.’

‘Of course,’ he said, but I could tell he was curious. ‘So apart from ruminations on forgiveness, what else is fun?’ he asked.

‘I’ve made a new friend.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ And he said it without envy. And I saw that he was worthy of my forgiveness. He was deserving of New Testament Lenni.

‘You’ll like her. She’s …’ I paused to examine his face properly. ‘About your age.’

He laughed. ‘I’ll withhold a reaction to that until I meet …’

‘Margot.’

‘Margot.’

So I told him about The Temp, about the art class and the Rose Room, about Margot and our plan to leave something behind before we die.

‘The problem is,’ I said, ‘what if we die before we finish?’

Father Arthur tapped his nose. ‘What if you don’t?’

I saw his point: maybe we will hit the one hundred. Of course, if we both pop our clogs before it’s done then there’s not a lot we can do about that.

‘If it helps,’ he said, ‘I will have a word,’ and he pointed up to the ceiling.

‘Human Resources?’

‘I meant God.’

I inhaled the smell of the chapel – the sweet sadness of the wilting floral arrangement on the altar, the musty smell of the carpet, the dust on the pews.

‘Father Arthur?’

‘Yes, Lenni?’

‘Did you miss me?’

‘Yes, Lenni. Lots.’

Margot and the Night

Cromdale Street, Glasgow, 1946

Margot Macrae is Fifteen Years Old

IT WAS THE middle of the night when the bomb came through our window. It shattered the glass and landed at the foot of my parents’ bed. My father woke in an instant, the muscle memory of the trenches kicking in, and he leapt up. Scrabbling around in the bed clothes, he was grabbing, searching for the bomb, but it was too dark to see.

‘Helen,’ he was screaming, ‘the bomb! There’s a bomb!’ but my mother didn’t stir.

He knew the pin had been pulled from it; he could hear the ticking and he