It's the anniversary of Dad's death, three years to the day. I say 'to the day' but there's some uncertainty about which day is the actual anniversary. The death certificate says 24 December 2007 as that was the day that the police went into Dad's house and found him but it was the evening of the previous day that Dad wasn't answering the phone when my brother called him. In my mind it's always the 23rd. At lunchtime on the 23rd I located via Google a catholic church near my work and printed a map. Seeing that it was on the way to Shepherd's Bush market, the home of Mr Falafel, I arrange lunch with my friend Karen who first took me to Mr Falafel. On the instant message I explain that we need to stop off at a Catholic church on the way. "You are kidding, right?"
10 minutes later we're outside the Our Lady of Fatima. It looks closed. Karen tries one of the three shut doors. The handle turns but the door doesn't open. I say "Let me try".
We both try all the doors and while I'm deciding what to do next a small shrunken lady with a moustache who I thought was just walking past asks me if I'd like to see the priest. I realise she's something to do with the church and I say no, I'd like to light some candles. She shakes her head and makes her way to the house behind the church. If I'm in need of spiritual guidance I can see a priest but I can't light candles.
The falafel is delicious. I had the falafel wrap with makdoos - a pickled aubergine - with extra hot chilli. It's sour and spicy but I'm talking too much about Dad and it gets cold and I can't finish it.It's just before Christmas and the place is filled with one group of smiling office workers. They all go to pay at the till at the same time while Karen is trying to get our Mr Falafel loyalty cards stamped.
After work that evening I'm due to meet my wife in Highbury for dinner so I find a Catholic church up that way. I look at the map and realise I would have walked past it without noticing on the way to the 277 bus stop from the old Arsenal ground with my friend Cathy, a gooner ticket season holder. This time I call the church and after a short while an Irish sounding man answers. This is more like it I think. I resist the urge to call him Father - he hasn't said he's a priest. He might be an actor or a comedian who's visiting.
I explain why I need to visit the church and he agrees to open the church at 5.45. It can't be any later as he has people coming over that evening. I imagine him and his friends drinking sherry as they prepare for Our Saviour's birthday.
An hour later I'm outside the church. I'm early. The lights outside the church are on but before I go in I take a picture of the church. As Dad isn't here it feels like I'm doing it so I can show it to him later. Stupid and absurd. Death does strange things to you. I also take a picture of the priest's parking space for no reason except that I find it funny.
I've been watching old episodes of Father Ted on TV in the days leading up to the anniversary. I now realise that it's by way of preparing myself for this moment. I've also thought about what I'd say if the priest asks why I wanted to light candles two days before Christmas. Again the answer's absurd: if Dad we're alive he'd have appreciated it. I don't believe in life after death: people live on only in our memories.
Inside, the church is mostly dark and empty but there's a group of people in one of the side chapels on the other side of a glass door. There's a black man in a long white robe. I don't think he's the man I spoke to but I might be wrong. I find the candles in another chapel and although there's none lit on the stand there's a lit votive candle at the feet of Jesus. I guess that's there to light the others from.
I look in my purse. There's some change including a pound coin and a five pound note. I think I'd imagined putting a few quid in. Then I think don't be so mean and I fold the note to slip it into the slot of the metal tin.
I worry it won't fall down and the priest won't find it when he empties it and he'll think I didn't leave anything. I wrap the five pound note around one of the coins to weigh it down and push it into the slot. If I believed in god then it wouldn't have mattered about the money - he would have known how much I'd left.
I choose five candles: three with red surrounds and two blue. One for each of his children and one for his wife. Do you only light candles for people or can you light them from people? Maybe I'm lighting them for those left behind. For them from him - because he can't anymore. The lit votive candle has burnt down making it hard to reach the burning wick. I grip the plastic case of my first candle tightly and push the unlit wick towards the flame thinking it'll just reach. Then the candle I'm holding falls out from its plastic sleeve onto the light one immediatly extinguishing the flame. It feels like the chapel has gone dark. I have the splashes of wax on my fingers. I look around the alter and the shelves where the candles sit. There aren't any matches anywhere.The man in the white robe is walking by the alcove and I say hello. I ask him if he has a light. He doesn't say anything and in the gloom I'm not sure if he's looking at me. He's facing me but I don't know if he's looking at me as his eyes point is different directions - the opposite of cross-eyed but I don't know what it's called.
He says to wait a minute and walks way in the darkness. I wait and think about dad. He doesn't return so I walk up the aisle of the church towards the alter. The man in the robe is there looking behind the candles and shaking his head. He smiles resignedly and I say don't worry I'll ask at the house where I imagine the man who answered the phone, who may be the man who's car is parked in the space marked "PRIEST" is waiting for me as it's now 5.45pm.
There's a sign of the door telling people where to leave parcels if there's no answer. There's a sign that says Father Gerard something or other. I'd forgotten priests have surnames - I never knew the surname of the priest who instructed me for my First Holy Communion. I ring the bell and a man in black answers and we look at each other in recognition. I like him as he doesn't look at me in the way I would have if I was opening my church for someone to light candles two days before Christmas. Pityingly or sensitively. He's not interested in hearing about my troubles. I tell him I extinguished the light and he laughs and says there should be matches there. I tell him I couldn't find them, he says that they're by the light switch. It seems obvious now. We go in the chapel. He turns on the light and hands me the matches and asks me to turn the light off when I'm done. He turns to go and almost as an afterthought points at the metal container with a slot and says "Put your pennies in there." I look at where he's pointing and I want to tell him I put five pounds in there but all I say is that I already have.
I line up the candles, alternating the blue and red casings and light them all with the same match. I imagine them as the five of us and I take some more pictures. I find myself not wanting to leave. I don't believe in god but this is a nice place to think aboutdDad. And if he were alive I think he would have appreciated it even though he would never have admitted it.
