Free The Resurrection of the Body by Maggie Hamand Page A

kitchen where I was loading the used mugs into the dishwasher. She mentioned my letter in the parish magazine and said that she didn’t understand it. She wanted to know whether I had ever had any kind of religious experience.
    This was not an easy question to answer when preoccupied with dirty mugs and a dishwasher. Straightening up, I said that I found it hard to define a religious experience . Every time I hear a beautiful piece of music, or see something lovely, or feel close and loving towards someone , or visit a mother with a healthy newborn baby, I am filled with a sense of joy and meaning. I see God, or the miraculous, in all these things. I could not say that I had any separate sense of an experience that I would say was religious apart from these things.
    Then Mercy said abruptly, ‘I went with Mary up to Clissold Park. Have you been to Clissold Park to see for yourself?’
    I must admit that I felt irritated; I felt that everyone was getting at me. I was afraid to admit to her what I had seen and all the implications of it; besides, I was tired. I turned and ushered her out into the hallway. As she put on her coat and hat I told her, ‘Perhaps I shall go on Monday.’
    ‘Oh, please do,’ she answered, ‘And tell me what you find.’

T he Scent Goes Cold
    I didn’t go to Clissold Park. I went as far as the gates, and then turned back. Instead I drove down to the council office responsible for parks and recreation. It is the same office that is responsible for the cemeteries, so I’d had reason to go there before.
    I had to think of some story to tell them. I would have to make up some fiction, some excuse as to why I wanted to know who this gardener was. I do try never to lie, but to always tell the truth in everything, except little things when it doesn’t matter, ‘white’ lies, as we call them. So it went against the grain to tell a council official a story which I had completely concocted from start to finish.
    I said that I had spoken to the gardener on duty in Clissold Park the Saturday before last, and that he had dropped a pouch, and that I wanted to return it to him.
    The woman from the council said that if I wanted to do that I could leave the pouch with her, and she would get it to him.
    I said that I didn’t have the pouch and that she could ring me if she found out who it was, and I would bring it in to them.
    She said I should either hand it in or give it to the police.
    I said that I wanted to be sure myself that it was returned to the right man. At this the official became a little irritated. I am sure that if I hadn’t been wearing a dog collar she would have thought I was up to no good.
    She repeated, very patiently, as if I were quite stupid, that this was the only way she could go about it. I left my number and said I would try to drop the pouch in, but that I was very busy. She said she would pass on the message.
    I left the building, stood on the busy street, disoriented. Cars buzzed backwards and forwards in front of my eyes. Lying is clearly a skill that does not come naturally to me; to lie successfully, you clearly need great skills of anticipation and foresight. Still, I was a novice at it. With time no doubt it became easier and easier; I might even become as accomplished as some of the boys in the church school, who lied instinctively, unable to recognise the truth any more.
    Three days passed and there was no phone call. Twice I went to Clissold Park, sneaking up there in oddmoments between visits to parishioners without telling Harriet, but there was no gardener. I went into the café and asked if the gardener ever came in to buy tea or have a chat but they knew nothing.
    On the fourth day I scribbled a note to Detective Chief Inspector Stone, telling him that I had seen a man two Saturdays before at the rose garden in Clissold Park who appeared to be a council-employed gardener, and who seemed to bear a remarkable resemblance to the dead man. I wrote that another