Primogeniture (The Firstborn)

6: A lonely death

In the early hours of a freezing Friday morning in mid January, a young woman of perhaps no more than 30, pushed open the creaking iron gate leading into the churchyard of St Michaels’s, situated in the centre of the Sussex village of Ditchling. She walked slowly and indolently over the compacted snow and frozen mud that in better weather served as a lawn, to the large wooden bench conveniently situated, giving views over both gardens and church.

The canopy of a large Beech tree provided shade during the summer months and it was a pleasant enough place to sit even in this winter season, apart from the proximity to the main road, masked by a few shrubs and a substantial, if only waist high, stone wall. However, at this time of the night, the church garden was quite empty and the road quiet, apart from the occasional passing car or van.

Why she chose this particular bench, in this particular church, to sit in the darkness – just before the rising sun began to push the night aside, heralding another dawn and another day – it would be difficult to say.

Perhaps this spot meant something to her in her hour of distress. Perhaps it was memories of happier childhood days spent in the church surrounded by people who knew and loved her. Or perhaps it was just the primeval urge to sanctuary and a place of safety, peace and calm, but whatever the reason for her gravitating towards St Michael’s, for this young woman there was to be no new dawn.

To those familiar with Christian teaching, the Gospel story of The Good Samaritan is a parable well known and part of many peoples early learning. This emotive and surprisingly modern parable tells the tale of a man beaten and robbed and left to die on the street and ignored by those professing uprightness and religious conviction and is especially relevant in today’s urban world.

Finally saved by an act of overwhelming charity, the unfortunate is pitied and helped by a Samaritan, an order of society considered the lowest of the low. The appeal of the story is clearly seductive to the modern reader and children who hear it for the very first time, relate to it so completely, so strongly, that they can never imagine a time when they might too cross to the other side of the road, leaving the poor unfortunate victim to suffer, alone and in pain.

It is only as we grow older that we realise that certain difficulties stand in the way of goodness, of kindness and the childhood idea of the moral obligation that we had always supposed would govern our actions throughout life. As the awareness of personal danger weighs on our minds and the fear of drugs, knives, infectious diseases and psychos of all descriptions start to stultify action, persuading and salving our conscience, we gradually convince ourselves that some people prefer to be left alone.

 Being a fairly central church and being the last weekday before a busy church weekend, people wandered in and people wandered out. All, it would be true to say, noticed the lonely figure of the woman sitting cross legged on the bench with hands outstretched and facing up in the position used by Buddhist’s for chanting a Mantra.

None felt sufficiently confident to approach the woman, and all told themselves that she would perhaps prefer to be left in peace, despite the same people having passed the figure several times during the day and seeing her unmoved, finding it odd or unusual, but still not wishing to get involved.

There was the organist, going about rehearsals and choir practice who was in and out of the church several times during the day and remarked after the event that he thought that something was wrong. There was the gardener, a retired vet, removing and burning the detritus of the winter season, branches, dead shrubs and the occasional fast food wrapping or newspaper, who felt rather guilty that he hadn’t raised the alarm sooner. There were the members of Alcoholics Anonymous whose meeting day it was, the members having to walk right past the bench to reach the crypt who either didn’t notice the body, or who were too wrapped up in their own problems to care.

It was not until the following evening when some revellers, coming back after midnight, noticed the woman sitting all alone and to all intents and purposes in a contemplative, meditative state, sitting cross-legged with arms outstretched and palms facing up.  Whether it was the alcohol or something stronger that made them take a closer look could not be surmised. But look they did.

Jumping over the wall, two of the party ran up to the woman shouting and carousing wildly, one even running up in front of her dropping his trousers and displaying his nether regions, all to the great hilarity of his companions.

The mirth was somewhat dulled by the woman’s complete lack of reaction, perhaps indicative of stoic endurance or even perhaps, deep trance. However, the woman continued to sit bolt upright, staring into the far distance. Confused, the lads approached tentatively, one poking her quite hard on the arm.

No reaction!

A second and more energetic attempt and the entire body keeled over sideways, plopped off the bench and hit the frozen mud with a dull thud, causing a panicked retreat over the wall to the apparent safety of the illuminated street.

It was clear to the police, as it later became clear to the Coroner, that the cause of death was an overdose of sleeping pills washed down with a bottle of premium Brandy. Not the usual tipple for the homeless or down-and-out. Indeed, it soon became apparent from the well heeled and expensive attire, in good condition and fairly new, that rough living could not have extended beyond a few weeks, perhaps only a matter of days and certainly no longer than a month.

The body remained unidentified while enquiries were carried out. No clue to her identity was found on the body and she was not known locally. In fact nothing was found on the body at all, apart from a substantial amount in cash, fifty and twenty pound notes, totalling £600 and oddly enough in the circumstances, no coins. A strange wound was also noted; a deep ragged tear on her forearm, as if something had been gouged out with a blunt knife. The wound had been bound with a piece of dirty cloth and had become recently infected. It was clear that it had been inflicted some weeks before the demise of the victim and was not the cause of death.

This baffled the police as well as the Coroner, nonetheless a verdict of suicide was pronounced. The woman’s identity was never discovered and although the case remained open, events of a more pressing and urgent consideration soon obscured any interest in this strange and lonely death.