Accounts

The priest was looking at the notice-boards in the foyer. In his hand he held a zipped leather document pouch. He seemed a bit lost.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I was just having a look at what you’ve done here. Very impressive.”

“You’re welcome to look around the rest of the building.”

“Thank you. It’s a good use of the space. We should do something like this with my church.”

“Where is your church?”

“In London. Hounslow. I have a dentist’s appointment and was looking for somewhere to wait. I have some papers I need to go through.”

“You’ve come all the way from London to the dentist here?”

“It’s a very good dentist.”

“Well, the Loft room is empty at the moment. You’re welcome to use it. Top floor. Just up the stairs. You won’t be disturbed.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

A couple of hours pass, and I realise I haven’t seen the priest come back down. I must have missed him. I go upstairs to check that the Loft is all ready for the Pilates class due in later and find the priest still here. He has set up a table in the middle of the room and is sat behind it, facing the door, glasses on, inspecting an array of papers laid out before him. He looks like a schoolboy in the middle of an important exam.

“How are you getting on?” I ask him. He takes off his glasses.

“Thank you for letting me use the room,” he says. “One of my parishioners died. Our church treasurer. I was just looking over some of her accounts. I’m trying to make sense of things. It’s difficult.”

“I see.”

“She’d battled cancer for years but in the end, she just gave up. I have her death certificate right here.”

“That’s very sad.”

“Yes,” he says, “it was. I’ve never seen anybody just give up before…” His voice trailed away.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I tell him and leave him in the rafters of the church, thinking about what it all means as he contemplates his departed treasurer’s accounts.