Last week I was told that one of my closest school friends, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to in over a decade, had taken his own life. He was 51. I didn’t need to know the gaps in the details about how and why; I had a pretty good idea of the whys. And this day was also the anniversary of the loss of another friend, Scott. His suicide three years ago hit me really hard, even though we’d never met nor spoken. His music had spoken to me and (often) lifted me, when I was falling like a silent tree in the forest.
I’d had Scott’s music on in my headphones since I left the train, and his songs accompanied me as I walked along the north bank of the Thames, observing in the eddies and tides of swollen water, tugging at buoys and straining anchor chains taut.
My new friend and I had taken to exploring the small back streets, letting London’s tapestry of hidden places unfold with nothing to guide us but a belief in serendipity. Last time we’d been drawn into quiet Churches of niche denominations, and we’d talked about faith over religion, belief over doctrine, the felt over the taught. At Blackfriars bridge I thought of our last walk, and stepped off the big street into a small one. I could sense St Paul’s presence not far ahead, but the narrow alleys hid the cathedral, and forced me to pay attention to the small.
Off the shoulder of an old livery company building, a gap appeared in the buildings, and I nearly missed it. A plain but proud building, tucked in a tiny courtyard. Probably Victorian, but there was stained glass in one of the windows, and a tiny flag caught my eye. The Saltire was a badge on a noticeboard that told me that this was a Kirk. A Scottish Church. St Andrew by the Wardrobe. A perfect little portal to a Narnia?
Scott was a Scotsman, and a vocal atheist, but at that moment he was singing in my headphones to me “Maybe there is something that you know that I don't…”
A damp handwritten note on the board said that the Church was closed for Covid safety but that the chapel was open for those who want to pray. I walked round the side to see if there was another aspect to the church, and there was. A passageway six feet wide, with broken paving stones, weeds, a sodden takeaway box and a filthy sleeping bag with a pair of battered trainers sticking out of the bottom. I turned around wishing I could do more than leave him in peace.
I headed down the steps back onto the street, but something made me look back.
I hesitated, but Scott started singing Floating on The Forth now. A beautiful and brutal meditation on his own imagined suicide. Ten years after he’d written it, three years ago today, he’d finally enacted the lyrics, almost to the letter. So I had to go in. I looked through the glass in the doors at the main church, and it looked exactly as I thought it would. Calvinist-approved plain.
The chapel was to its right. A small room, low ceilinged, but bursting with light. Honey-yellow wood, soaked in the warmth of a south facing window.
