Karl bit the vicar, the other day. It was most unlike him – he’s never done anything like it before, though thinking back he did seem rather agitated during the Reverend’s visits. Since George died he’d been here six - or it may even be seven times. It was to be expected immediately after the funeral, but later it became a bit of a bore.

I told him when he first came that I felt rather a fraud as I wasn’t really a believer. I had only been coming to Church over the last year to keep George company, and George was only going because he was ill and wanted to ‘keep all his bases covered’, as he put it. The vicar suggested that George may have been blasé to me about his spiritual needs and did I think that he’d had a ‘crisis of faith’? No, I told him firmly. George simply thought that if there was a God he was likely to meet him sooner than he’d hoped, so might as well try and get to know something about the man. George was very practical like that – liked to keep everyone ‘on side’: neighbours, family, business people. He said it was best to have everyone in your camp where you could keep an eye on the buggers in case they tried to trip you up. He seemed to view everyone as a potential adversary – even me sometimes, I think….

The last time Reverend Simons came – the time Karl bit him (yes, I know, it’s a stupid name for a parrot) – the vicar asked me if I knew that George had also been to visit the local catholic priest, Father Geary. Well, I was surprised to say the least. I’d have been less shocked if he’d bumped into him at a brothel. Whores yes, - but priests! I fell silent for a few moments and Karl – who up till this moment had been watching the Reverend from the furthest end of his perch - began to inch his way along, nearer to him, raising and lowering his claws, fixing him sideways with that beady black eye of his as the vicar elaborated. Apparently George had been to confession a few weeks before his death and had also asked the priest to recite the rosary with him – even brought his beads along. Well, I knew he still had the beads because I’d seen them in his ‘private’ box - alongside some rather filthy pictures I might add. As far as I knew they’d not been used since he was a boy, after his Mother died. A lapsed Catholic he described himself – though most Catholics I’ve met seem to have lapsed.

I felt hurt that George had kept this secret from me, but once I’d pulled myself together – and settled Karl who was flapping up and down on his perch - I asked how he knew this? Had Father Geary been blabbing about his parishioners? I never realised that the two churches were so close these days. Was it normal to discuss each others flock? The Reverend smiled and said that Father Geary hadn’t been ‘blabbing’, as I so delicately put it. It turns out George had confided in the Reverend that he wasn’t baptised C of E, but was brought up a Catholic and wanted to know if it would be a sin to go to both C of E services and Catholic confession. The Reverend, with his ‘modern ecumenical outlook’, said that he thought it would be OK; he didn’t think God would block differing paths of salvation to a dying man.

So. George was really keeping all his bases covered then: C of E and The Church of Rome. I asked the Reverend if I should expect a visit from a Greek Orthodox priest or even an Imam from the local mosque. He seemed to find this funny and started laughing, but soon shut up when Karl squawked loudly and threatened to fly off his perch at him. I said that I didn’t find it at all amusing – in fact I felt betrayed. I could have understood it George if had had an affair - – after all, men need sex - something I’ve never been very enthusiastic about. Yes – I could see that he would need a woman, but I never knew he needed a God! Why keep it secret from me?

The Reverend at this point leaned forward towards me, though still with one wary eye on Karl. Taking my hands in his and clasping them he said: ‘Sometimes a man’s faith is so deep he finds it hard to express it’. Then finally and softly, he almost whispered: ‘George loved the Lord’. Simple as that: ‘George loved the Lord.’

I felt shut out.

We lapsed into a stony silence after this – a deliberate tactic of mine on occasions such as this - and the Reverend, looking rather uncomfortable, made his excuses to leave. After he’d put on his jacket - and in an obviously desperate attempt to recover the situation - he commented on what a beautiful bird Karl was. Is he safe to coax? he asked. I looked across at Karl, who cocked his head coyly on one side and winked. Oh yes, completely, I replied, smiling. The vicar stretched out his hand nervously to stroke Karl’s breast at which point Karl lunged forward and bit his finger. Well! You should have heard the language that came out of that man’s mouth! -most ungodly. Is that Latin? I asked him, trying not to laugh, as he wrapped his finger in his hanky. The Reverend blushed profusely and muttered something about seeing me again soon at Church. I replied that I doubted that very much indeed.

Later, after the Reverend left, I sat down with a cup of tea and imagined George fingering the beads of his rosary, reciting Hail Mary’s and Glory Be’s.  Poor George: always so strong, opinionated and independent, running to a priest in his last days, confessing and no doubt asking forgiveness. And forgiveness for what? But then I thought of Karl biting the vicar and George rummaging through his box, desperate for his rosary and finding it tangled around those smutty photos - and suddenly it all seemed so ridiculous. I began to chuckle, spluttering into my tea and Karl joined in, mimicking my laugh as he always does, cawing and squawking, fluttering his wings.

How we laughed that afternoon!

I laughed until Karl fell silent and I found myself sitting in the half-light, chewing on a napkin, sobbing and cursing the man.

Damn you George. I thought I knew you.