A short story about Tom
From our village magazine in Dorset(shire). HARDY'S GHOST When Thomas Hardy died in 1928, his spirit was both surprised and discouraged when he left Max Gate on the outskirts of Dorchester and arrived at Heaven's Gate on the fringe of Infinity. He was surprised because, as a professed atheist, he had not expected Heaven to exist. He was discouraged by the sign which read: "Polite Notice - we regret that admittance will not be granted to atheists". The sign was prominently displayed between another reading "No Pets" and a brass plaque which proclaimed "This plaque commemorates the official opening of Heaven by the Almighty in the Year Dot". It should come as little surprise that Tom's spirit was discouraged, considering the literal meaning of the word "discouraged" - "to lose heart" but we'll return to that oddity later. Despite his discouragement, Tom approached the gate and waited patiently until he was able to enquire of a dazzlingly white-robed figure, whom he took to be St Peter, whether or not he might pass through into the Divine Presence. As was his habit, St Peter stroked his beard thoughtfully while he consulted a copy of the All Souls Almanac which rested upon a golden lectern. "Hardy, Hardy ... hmm ... Thomas.. at .," St Peter looked furiously down at the diminutive figure of the literary giant. "It says here you were an atheist!" he scowled. Hardy gulped. "Well, yes, I did say I didn't think there was a God, but, er, I was never really sure, and .. ," "Wait here!" St Peter commanded. So Hardy's spirit, somewhat dispirited, sat and waited outside Heaven's Gate, for almost two years. He made use of the time sketching some of the many mansions he could see beyond the Gate, adding architectural improvements here and there, when St Peter returned and tapped him on the shoulder. "If it was up to me you'd be a fritter by now but there's been a bit of a debate about you," said the saint. Hardy's spirit undulated briskly to its feet, which is quite a difficult thing to do, and waited for St Peter's next words. "It seems," said the saint as slowly as he could. "That you're quite popular with many of our residents. Something about a sympathetic portrayal of women, a rare insight into the human condition and so on and so forth. Let me see." St Peter extracted a notebook from his dazzling white robe and consulted some barely legible handwriting rendered in burning gold. "You weren't very friendly towards the clergy when you depicted them as literary characters. There's Angel's father, for example, in Tess of the D'urbervilles, and Angel himself was a bit of a weak reed, wasn't he?" "Yes, but think of the bishop in Two on a Tower," said Hardy desperately. "He wasn't a bad sort. He gave good, solid moral advice to Swithin in the churchyard. I actually based that churchyard on the one in Milborne St. Andrew, and ... " "Yes, yes," interrupted the saint testily. "We've all read all your books. Some of us have even read your poetry," he added under his breath and glanced once more at his incandescent notebook. "Apparently people thought enough of you to have you buried in Westminster Abbey, that counts for something, I suppose. But then, apparently there's a bit of your mortal remains in the Stinsford churchyard, what was all that about'?" "I can explain that," said Hardy. "I'm very annoyed about it actually, I wanted to be buried in Stinsford but some jumped-up PR chap came up with the macabre compromise of having my heart removed and then arranging for the rest of me to be put on the train to Westminster. Only my heart is buried at Stinsford, with my two darling wives, Emma and Florence." St Peter's eyebrows flew up into his halo. "You had two wives!'?" Hardy's spirit looked sheepish. "Not at the same time," he said. "Well, not really." St Peter sighed loudly and screwed his eyes up to read more of the flaming handwriting. "I notice you lived in London for quite a while, but always returned to Dorsetshire," he said. "Er, actually, they call in Dorset now," Hardy ventured. St Peter fumed. "You always returned to Dorsetshire!" Hardy's spirit crumbled. "Yes, that's where my heart is, so to speak" "And I suppose you'd like to go in there," said St Peter, nodding towards ' Heaven's Gate. "And catch up with all your pals, like the Reverend Williams Barnes, for instance?" "Oh, that would be marvellous!" Hardy enthused. "He was Dorset's, er Dorsetshire's, greatest poet!" "Yes, he was, wasn't he," replied St Peter sourly. "I see they put his statue outside a church. Yours more or less overlooks the top·of-the-town roundabout." "Well, he was a great poet," said Hardy, humbly. "That magnanimous response goes in your favour, I suppose" said St Peter, unmagnanimously. "Well, you can come into Heaven." "Oh, thank you!" Hardy's spirit visibly brightened and began undulating towards the Gate. "Not so fast!" said St Peter. "You've heard of Purgatory, I expect?" Hardy's spirit tensed, and nodded, and gulped. "Well, it doesn't exist," said St Peter. Hardy's spirit relaxed.' "- not as an actual place, anyway." Hardy's spirit tensed again. St Peter folded his arms. What we have decided," said the saint. "Is that, as you couldn't seem to make up your mind where you belonged and because there's a bit of you in Dorsetshire and a bit of you in the Big Smoke, you should first spend a thousand years travelling back and forth between the two - you can take the train if you like." With a smug smile, St Peter strode back to his station at Heaven's Gate. So, reader, when next you board the Weymouth-to Waterloo, take care as you take your seat. You may be ruffling the spirit of Thomas Hardy, Dorset's most famous son, literary giant and SouthWest Trains' most frequent (albeit nonpaying) commuter. Purgatory indeed. By Geoff Hodgson
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