Next Year in Barkingside

It was the Passover season and, according to unwritten custom, Morry and Dolly were running the show yet again.

The gathering was a lot smaller this year, a situation dictated by events as much as refusals. The key event, a sadness that had occupied thoughts and conversations for the last three months, was the sudden death of Sadie, my parent's dear friend.

She had died of a heart attack on the approach to the 9th hole. David had been in the middle of a tired old joke involving a rabbi, a priest and a car accident and Morry was in the long grass to the left, slyly attempting to kick his errant ball into a more manageable position. Only Miriam was alert to the situation, having a very perceptive nature, hidden by choice within the tough exterior. She caught Sadie in mid-swoon, having detected the warning signs on her friend's face. As she lay her on the green turf she knew that there was little hope for Sadie and spent the next few minutes consoling her as David made futile attempts at resuscitation and Morry ran for help at the 19th hole. The funeral was two days later in Cheshunt.

It was a chilly winter day as the relatives and friends crammed into the awkwardly-shaped chapel in the burial grounds. Alfie, her husband, stood next to Simon, Sadie's brother, his polka dot waistcoat torn to signify his mourning. The Rabbi was an emaciated figure with a long grey beard and dirty wellington boots. He did the Kaddush for the dead and the mourners read the obligatory Hebrew from the siddur in a stilted, though acceptable, manner. After a brief sermon in which he managed to both ignore all women present and show scant knowledge of the deceased, the rabbi led the men out into the grounds, to pay their last respects. Sadie deserved better than this, was my private thought, echoed, I believe, in the faces of most of the people present.

She had been a lady full of life and laughter, gullible but loveable. Her funeral, I felt, should have celebrated her life not dwelt on her death. I wanted to remember her for how she was, not how she had been taken away. We went back to the family home in Chigwell for the shiva, where the mood lightened considerably. Perhaps it was the relief of leaving the funeral (and the rabbi) behind, or the good company or, perhaps just the presence of so much food, but everyone's spirits were high, almost party-like. The only dampener for me was the reminder of the new directions explored by this family - the huge marbled Buddha that sat sombrely on the mantlepiece.

The early conversations at the Seder Night were, understandably, of a nostalgic nature.

"She always said that her golf handicap was the way she played" said Morry with a smirk.

The other two golf friends nodded, knowingly.

"Of course, if it'd been one of us who had died, Sadie would have suggested that we start off our Seder with a seance" suggested Miriam, playfully, anticipating David's reaction.

David flushed briefly but controlled himself and even attempted a wry smile, followed by a long sigh.

"Oh that poor girl. May Ha Shem have mercy on her" he muttered.

Then Dolly lit the candles and the ceremony began. There were two other absentees tonight. My Zionist friend Jonathan was, naturally, in Israel. He couldn't afford a second trip home in two years, on his income but was polite enough to write to me last week with his apologies.

Apparently he was going to spend Pesach at the home of a friend in Galilee. What was intriguing about this was that, unless I was mistaken, his friend was known to me. We belonged to the same Internet newsgroup and have swapped many late-night e-mails on subjects as diverse as Arab nationalism and the constituency of kneidlach. But the most interesting thing of all was that the newsgroup was a Messianic newsgroup and Ari Freud was an active member of a small fellowship in Tiberius.

Gerald, my other friend, was another matter entirely. He refused point-blank to come (by simply ignoring the question) and, frankly, it didn't surprise me. Our relationship had deteriorated ever since I had written to him eleven months earlier. I had definitely hit a raw nerve with my crude analysis of what motivated his atheism. It seems that, barring a miracle (and they do happen), I was never going to be allowed beneath the friendly facade that he presented to the world - not a single glimpse. Curiously, we still continued to regularly meet in the West End, but our conversations never transcended the superficial, despite frequent efforts on my part. And when the day came for me to invite him to this year's Seder Night, his reaction was incredible - he totally disregarded my question, as if those particular 20 seconds or so had no place in his universe, and continued from the thread of our previous conversation topic (I believe it concerned the texture of Weetabix).

So here we were, myself, Morry, David, Miriam and a smattering of spouses and kids. As I sat there at Morry's right hand, I wondered about the state of their souls. Over the last year I have had numerous conversations with all three and each of them have had the opportunity to read through the manuscript of my proposed book. So they all knew where I was at! But where were they at?

I was soon to get some clues. The conversation got interesting at the haroseth stage. David set the ball rolling.

"So this .... your friend ..... Jesus ... he sat down like us for Seder Night, which was what the Last Supper ...."

He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied, which, I suppose, was a consequence of his uttering of the 'dreaded J-word'. His question was directed at me and I answered him before his words were to completely knot up his tongue.

"That's right, David", I said. "He was probably sitting where you are now, surrounded by his disciples".

Miriam found this funny.

"So I'm a disciple now, am I? What should I do? Kiss David's feet?"

"Aha, Miriam. Did you not read Moishe's manuscript? For your information this Jesus person washed his disciple's feet, not the other way round".

David finished with a smug expression. I was impressed. David had read my manuscript. And, most importantly, he'd read the important bit. I was impressed. I looked at David and nodded, though he looked away. No point getting too familiar at this stage.

"So you read Moishe's manuscript?" said Morry proudly.

I knew full well that he had spent just two hours on the manuscript. The first hour was spent reading and re-reading my letter to him, with the rest of the manuscript just taking up a single hour of his attention. Then a third hour was spent writing a letter to me, as a rebuttal of all the things I wrote about him! Perhaps I was just too close to him to expect to break through the familiar to get to the real person within.

"Yes of course I did" replied David. "If only to prove that I am secure enough in my own faith to exercise my own free will in what I read or who I talk to".

"And?" said Miriam, looking at him intently.

"And what?" he answered, tetchily. The old David was back.

"Have you converted?" was her direct question, still staring at him.

"Why, have you?" answered David as quick as a flash. She was not fazed one bit.

"What would you say if I said 'yes'?" she said, intriguingly, scooping up a second helping of haroseth in her Matzoh and nibbling on it. There was silence for a few moments. I was fascinated.

Morry was confused and, if his face showed his true feelings, totally amazed at these unexpected reactions.

"Well it didn't have any affect on me" he said, attempting to settle the atmosphere with humour. "I'm not giving up my chicken soup and cholent for anyone. I don't even like bacon."

The other two looked at him with blank expressions. They weren't impressed by his weak attempt at humour.

"What are you on about, Morry?" asked Miriam. "We're trying to have a serious discussion here. It's obvious that you haven't read Moishe's book, have you?"

"Well, um ..."

I decided to intervene to save his embarrassment.

"So, Uncle David. Did you agree with what I wrote?"

"In places .... I couldn't fault your logic. In other places .... well ..."

"I think I can answer for the Rabbi" said Miriam suddenly. She carried on.

"What he's trying to say is that, on one level, your manuscript makes perfect sense and, if it wasn't for ... other factors ... there would be no problem."

"Other factors?"

"Yes. Remember. He's a Rabbi. He has obligations, a career, a calling".

It was so unusual to see Miriam defend David in this way until I came to the realisation that she was also speaking for herself. She, too, had obligations, except that, in her case, her obligations were to herself and not other people. She had obligations to her rationality, her materialism, her self-esteem. There was too much to lose ... for both of them.

I decided to be bold.

"After all", I said. "Jesus did say that it was never meant to be easy to follow him. Most didn't, even among those who were with him. We've got too much baggage, too much to hold us back. None of us are really free, are we?"

There was silence, an embarrassed silence.

"Care for some more haroseth?" said Morry to Miriam, passing her a fresh piece of Matzah.

"I think I'll have some too" said David. "Your recipe this year is brilliant, Dolly. The perfect blend of apple and nuts."

The subject was closed. But seeds had been sown, there was no doubt of it. Only time would tell. Perhaps next year .... in Barkingside?