Hugo and Philippa never blamed each other, at least, and they would come to realise that no blame could be attached to them as a unit.
The funeral, through the anguish and upset, was quite beautiful. The vicar, Reverend Michael Gutteridge, had pronounced such lovely, meaningful words, attempting to give hope and some understanding of God’s will. The strains of “Morning Has Broken,” had floated softly over the congregation, causing men and women alike, to sob. Kylie’s uncle, Hugo’s brother, had read out with breaking voice, the emotional words of “Steps.” The sobbing then became more prolonged and audible.
When Philippa threw a single red rose onto her daughter’s coffin, she had felt like leaping on top of it and letting the gravediggers cover her too. She had wanted to bury Kylie in the dress she wore on that fateful day but the police would not release it. It had become a piece of evidence. Instead, she had been buried in her school uniform with the addition of an enamel butterfly brooch attached to a lapel. It was a small blue butterfly, a Polyommatus Icarus — Common Blue. And Kylie would now never know the Latin name.
After the service, the vicar had suggested they have a visit from a person who had just arrived in the village. The man was a Jesuit priest, Brother Saviour, and he came highly recommended by the nearby Catholic clergy. Although the Johnsons were of the Church of England faith, in these days of closer liaison, the vicar had no hesitation in extending the hand of friendship and he thought it might be a good idea that the couple accepts the visit.
Brother Saviour was due at any time now. Philippa had had her misgivings and wasn’t really in the right frame of mind for religious instruction, especially from a man who represented teachings that were alien to her. More than once, she had picked up the phone to ask Reverend Gutteridge to cancel the appointment, but each time she had wavered and put the phone down again.
A knock at the door jolted her from the miserable thoughts once more beginning to take over and she rose from her chair to answer it. Her husband, Hugo, moved ahead, forcing his way through the invisible fog and grasped the door handle.
The cottage, in which the couple lived, was in a small rural area and was one of several similar buildings all placed in haphazard fashion, roughly fifty yards apart from each other. The picture they depicted was of a typical English village, with their thickly thatched rooves, white or pale-blue painted fronts, covered in various varieties of Ivy, Clematis and such, and surrounded by spacious gardens clad in dozens of colourful flowers. Each was enclosed in either a timber paling fence or a small brick wall, again painted in the colour of the house frontage.
The only concession to modernisation had been the introduction of double-glazing in larger than the original windows. The frames, though, were constructed from solid timber to give a traditional appearance.
Hugo opened the door and, for an instant, became rooted to the spot. The man who stood inside the thatched porch transmitted a feeling of awe; not dread, but humility, as if it were God Himself standing there.
It took several seconds for Hugo to find his voice. “You will be Brother Saviour,” he said reverently, his knees automatically starting to bend. He recovered quickly, hoping the slight movement had not been noticed. It had.“Come in.”
“Thank you, my son,” said the figure in an evenly modulated voice, as he stepped past Hugo and into the small passage. He walked confidently into the front room as though he was familiar with the house, yet this being his first visit. Hugo followed at a respectful distance.
As he breezed in, Philippa took a step forward to greet the stranger. She stopped in her tracks, seeing the fog of depression literally evaporate as though it were a tangible thing. Her mouth drooped and her eyes widened. God had just entered! Instinctively, she dropped to her knees before him, her head bowed and her hands clasped as in prayer.
Brother Saviour put a hand on her head and spoke softly. “Please, Philippa, stand up.” He placed his hands beneath her elbows to assist. “No need for formality. I come to you as a friend; to help; to bring God with me. Please. Stand.”
Philippa got to her feet, instantly feeling rather foolish. Hugo came alongside and placed an arm around her shoulders. They both stepped back from the priest, still somewhat in awe of him. The man was not at all as they had expected. They were envisioning a monk-like figure, late in life, clothed in a brown, woollen habit, full of seriousness and religion.
This man, however, was around 36 years of age, just over six feet in height, average build, suntanned of appearance, clean shaven with startling blue eyes; eyes that showed humour, excitement and kindness. The mouth, in contrast, was a little thin and made one think that a cruel streak could be hidden somewhere in there.
Surprisingly, he was dressed in modern gear: an expensive-looking cotton tee-shirt, light grey in colour with a small ‘Sacred Heart’ motif high on the left breast, a fawn shade of cotton trousers, and wearing Reebok trainers. Even so, through all the modern appearance, the aura of God exuded from him. It was uncanny.
After accepting the offer of a cup of tea, all three sat down together, Saviour in a comfortable armchair and the grieving parents next to each other on the couch, slightly to one side of the priest.
The air of nervousness soon melted as the Jesuit regaled the couple with tales of his past experiences. He immediately told them that he was no angel having served time in his youth for persistent housebreaking and it was when in prison that a Missionary of the Catholic Church, his own forgotten religion, had visited him. After chatting to the Missionary for half an hour, he had requested, and been granted, further visits by the man. At the end of four visits, Saviour had returned to God.
On leaving prison, he had, with much help from the Missionary, taken extensive religious instruction and had later been ordained as a priest. Not content to simply serve Mass and advise local residents, he had been allowed to join a Missionary with whom he experienced many and varied travels across the world. The sights seen, the people met and the dangers encountered made for a tremendous tale of adventure, gripping the Johnson’s as never before.
Brother Saviour had suffered illnesses such as malaria, dysentery and other fevers but, clearly, had survived them all with no visible effects. At one stage, he had been captured by a remote tribe somewhere in the Amazon and tortured and starved. His friend, the Missionary, had actually been tortured to death, an experience that had left a huge scar on Saviour’s mind. When asked how he had managed to get away, he simplified the explanation by saying: “I got up and walked off while they were sleeping.”
He had also witnessed magic and, surprisingly for a man of God, had not discounted it as rubbish or superstition. Having seen it in real action, he accepted it quite simply as fact.
At the end of the narrative, the Johnson’s spirits had unaccountably lifted; Kylie was by no means forgotten, but the overwhelming grief had subsided considerably.
Brother Saviour then addressed the matter immediately in hand.
“My friends,” he began. “I know you have suffered great sorrow. Probably the greatest sorrow imaginable and I have no doubt you have discarded God at times.” He took in the silence and guilty hanging of heads. “This is quite understandable and God realises it. God loves everyone; each person as the individual they are. He listens, He helps, and He forgives.”
The Johnsons listened in silence. “Try to think of Kylie in a positive light. She was a beautiful child, both in appearance and in soul. This beauty will continue in the Heaven at which she will surely have arrived. She has been delivered to the Lord in her most pure state and she will be happy. Be certain of that; there will be no sadness in her new existence. She will watch over you, her beloved parents, and look forward to the day when you join her.