Free The Translation of the Bones by Francesca Kay Page A

Sunday. That poor fool of a woman, Mary-Margaret O’Reilly—remember the cut on the head and so forth—well, it seems that she’s been going round and saying that she saw the cross in the Chapel of the Holy Souls—you know the one, the crucifix—she saw it shedding blood. Or something. Something about it opening its eyes. Anyway, she told them in the hospital and word spread on the grapevine and next thing weknow there’s a mob of hysterical women trying to see the crucifix for themselves. But, of course, it’s covered. So cue a great outcry about unholy goings-on and hostile clergy hushing the whole thing up. Poor Father D. It’s all a bit over his head, I think. But things are quieter today. He’s had to close the church between services but there’s a big notice saying so, and people seem to have accepted that. Or maybe it’s just been a nine-day wonder. Or a three-day one, more like.
    Do you think Mary-Margaret really did see something? Stella asked.
    Of course not, Mrs. Armitage laughed. God doesn’t need a calling card, for goodness sake. Didn’t Jesus say the blessed are those who do not see and yet believe? I can’t be doing with bones and blood and magic shenanigans; a load of mumbo jumbo this stuff is, in my opinion. Miracles are one thing—who’s to say—I mean we all know the Lord moves in mysterious ways—but bleeding statues? Never!
    I’m sure you’re right, said Stella. Anyway. Tell me—how’s Fraser? He should be back quite soon?
    Three weeks. We’re counting the days, as you’d expect. He’s not bad at writing, I’ll give him that, but he doesn’t always get the time and he has to save his phone calls up for Steph. Well. No news is good news, I always say.
    Yes, of course. I do feel for you.
    Thank you, dear, said Mrs. Armitage, rather annoyed that her eyes had filled, unaccountably, with tears. You’ll keep him in your prayers, won’t you.
    Stella hugged the older woman briefly and they went their separate ways. It was a cold day, blustery, and Stella pulled her coat more tightly round her as she walked. Thepark was almost deserted at that hour of the day; a solitary runner, old men and women walking dogs. Cherry blossom blown off branches by the wind, skittering in the air like flakes of snow; crocuses, and daffodils. Daffydowndilly, Lenten lily, she said the names out loud. There was a time when the flowers of the field took their place in the church’s seasons too. Snowdrops, Mary’s tapers for the Feast of Candlemas, pasqueflowers for Passiontide. The holly and the ivy; berries, glistening drops of red. Stella remembered Mary-Margaret O’Reilly’s blood and shivered. It was a pity that these connections were now all but lost. The poetry there must have been, that rhymed customs and calendars, feast days and old beliefs, flowers, magic, miracles and spells. Oak and ash and thorn. Gone now except for feeble echoes: Christmas wreaths and mistletoe, harvest festival displays festooned with cans and packets. In Italy chrysanthemums are the flowers of the dead. Grave goods in gold and bronze, and asphodel their food. How can Mrs. Armitage bear it? Stella asked herself. To be always in the brace position, to stop her eyes and ears to the daily news?
    In England there are flowers for the dead by waysides, tied to railings, wilting in cellophane. Sad bunches of carnations such as are on sale in the forecourts of petrol stations, where the bereaved must go to find them. Isn’t it a bit of a pain doing the flowers in church? Rufus had asked her. It’s the sort of thing that women do when they haven’t anything more important to occupy their time. Not women like you, that is.
    It doesn’t take that long, Stella had answered vaguely. How could she explain? She, who seldom attended any service, who abided by the faith of her upbringing moreby default than through conscious option, who might say in prayer: help Thou my unbelief. Well, the flowers were a small service that gave