He fetches the bats and the soap, rolls up his sleeves and fastens them back, tucks the hem of his tunic up out of the way into his belt, ties on a big linen apron, soft with wear and many times patched, and starts to pile half the linens he’s brought along into the trough.
Struggling and sweating, his hands double-wrapped in rags against the heat of the metal, he tips the hot water into the trough. He bungs the hole where cold water flows in. It doesn’t back up and flood – that’s the point of the cisterns; their capacity is enough to regulate the system.
So he begins, his red, wet hands scrubbing and slapping the linens viciously on the grooved stone slabs. He repents of that fairly quickly; he knows perfectly well the way he’s going at it could rub the sheets into holes there and then, and linen is expensive. He pauses, stands quite still, discreetly smites his breast with his soapy fist, muttering “Mea culpa.” He comes back to the scrubbing more gently; but there’s nothing to stop him smacking the hell out of the wet linen with the bats.
In a weary pause, as he stretches his aching back and wipes the sweat off his brow with the corner of his apron, he hears footsteps approaching. Oh! Now they turn to, when the job’s half done!
He bends to the trough again so that they’ll find him hard at work and all alone when they come through the door. And then it’s his abbot’s voice saying, so humbly and full of concern: “I’m so sorry, Father Bernard, please forgive me. I didn’t remember until just now that Brother Thomas was meant to be helping you with this today. I sent him out on an errand first thing, and promised to look out somebody else to help you, and I completely forgot. I am so sorry. Here – let me help. What shall I do? Those bits in soak, in the other trough?”
As Father John rolls up his sleeves, kilts up his habit, dons an apron, and sets about it, Father Bernard steeps in shame. He can well imagine their former abbot, Father Peregrine, involving himself in menial tasks around the place. But if he had, it would have been in conscious self-abasement, humbling himself to the way of service Christ had chosen, and showed those who loved him to follow. It would have been an intentional act of lowliness, to vanquish the stubborn pride of his aristocratic instincts. This man is different. Father John has scrubbed more sheets than he’s eaten hot dinners, in the course of the years of loving service he’s given in St Alcuin’s infirmary. And the linens he washed there would, for the most part, have been fouler by a long way than anything dropped off routinely from the dorter. It occurs to Father Bernard that he has never once heard Father John complain – nor yet Brother Michael, their infirmarian now. They just got on with it, cheerfully and kindly; the service of their love, for the care of the old and sick.
When the job is done, they spread as many sheets as they have room for on the drying green, towels draped over the bushes of rosemary and lavender, whatever cannot be accommodated here hung on lines strung across the cloister garth, the washing prevented from drooping too low by forked props cut from saplings in the spinney above the burial ground.
“Back aching?” asks the abbot with a sympathetic grin, as Father Bernard straightens up. “Let me take the baskets back, then. I got there late, it’s the least I can do. Then I think it’ll be all about time for the midday Office. These’ll dry nicely in this sunshine.”
“Father John,” says the sacristan. This is difficult, but he knows it should be said. “When you arrived, I’d been wrapped up in a very long internal monologue of bitter complaint. Thank you for coming to help me. It makes all the difference.”
He feels the warmth of kindness and understanding, sees it in his abbot’s face, those observant, evaluating eyes.
“Have you maybe been taking care of the laundry long enough, Father Bernard?” John asks him. “Is it time I asked someone else to pick this up? I think maybe you have enough to do with your other duties.”
And Father Bernard starts to dismiss it, to protest that he doesn’t mind. “Oh, don’t you worry about me. I can fit it in. Today was an exception; there are usually two or three here to lend a hand. I’m used to it, Father. I –” Suddenly he stops. Why do this? Why pretend? His abbot is listening thoughtfully to his lies, his prevarications.
“D’you know,” he admits, “I am fed up to the soles of my feet with this job. I’ve been doing it for years. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t – somebody’s got to. But, a break from it… oh, dear heaven, what I wouldn’t give!”
And his abbot is laughing at him, affectionately, understanding the way it feels. “I’ll sort it out,” he says. “Maybe Brother Richard, maybe Brother Giles. Let me give it some thought. I promise you faithfully, I won’t forget!”
In the cloister garth, as Father Bernard watches his abbot pick up the laundry baskets to return, the warmth of the September sun brings out the fragrance of the herbs, of the roses Brother Fidelis trains up every inch of stone he can reach, knocking nails into the mortar for the twine that holds them up.
And it takes him by surprise, coming back to him as sharp and vivid as when he first came here, not much more than a lad: that this is a beautiful place.
Chapter
Eight
As the sun climbs the heaven to its zenith, so the sound of the angelus bell ringing out from the abbey reminds the villagers to attend to their prayers; and then the brothers set their work aside for the noonday Office of Sext – the sixth hour of the day.
Living and dying, light and dark – they belong to one another, they cannot be picked apart. So it is that Christ who was called the Daystar, the Morning Star, was lifted up on the cross at the sixth hour of the day. As the burning sun tops the heaven, so he was monstrously and agonizingly exalted. And the tale is told that when at noontide they hammered in the nails and raised him high, there was darkness on the face of the earth.
“I am thirsty,” Jesus groaned on his cross. And there was another noontide when the stories of Jesus tell that he was thirsty – the time he sat, tired, by the well at the edge of a Samaritan village, and begged a drink from a woman who came to draw water. He takes it gratefully, but he mystifies her when he says there is a way out of this cycle of weariness, toil, and aridity. There is a living fountain that springs up to eternal life. Nobody who drinks from this will ever be thirsty again. What? Where? The woman is bemused. But that’s because she’s used to looking outside herself for solutions. This one is hidden deep inside her heart.
So at the Office of Sext the community turns aside in the heat of the day to refresh themselves at the wellspring, to find the fountainhead that gives their life together whatever meaning it may have. They go back to the source. After they’ve done praying, a jug of ale won’t go amiss, and the repast Brother Conradus has brought forth from his morning’s labours. As Brother Walafrid remarked to Brother Giles only this morning, “It’s not all holiness!” But Brother Giles capped that one. He lifted his head, with a puzzled frown, from his fragrant task of macerating herbs: “Yes, it is,” he said. And he’s right, of course; there’s no getting round it.
Because man shall not live by bread alone, they have chapel first and eat afterwards. So Sext is not a sleepy Office, but sometimes the chant is augmented by the grumbling of stomachs.
Today, the first man into the chapel is Brother Paulinus. He’s old, he’s slow, so he set off early to make sure he wouldn’t be late. He had to call by the lavatorium and give his hands a good scrub before he came into chapel. He managed to get most of the earth out from under his fingernails, but he’s been podding the last of the beans today, before the haulm comes down. This afternoon he’ll set them out to dry, so they have something to sow come next spring. All through the summer he’s been picking beans and podding beans, and his fingers are all stained from the bean juice. His hands are clean, he’s quite sure of it; they just don’t look it.
He encountered Father Clement in the lavatorium, also making war on stains – but his are spectacular. He had an awful accident with a pot of red ink in the scriptorium this morning. By some miracle of divine intervent
ion he can hardly believe even now, none of the manuscripts they were working on were damaged when he sent it flying. Because St Benedict’s wisdom was the practical sort, they’re all wearing black, so though three of them were well spattered, how can you tell? But between trying unsuccessfully to catch the pot when he knocked it, and muddling around attempting to mop up, he’s got enough red ink on his hands to look as though he committed a massacre. He’s upset. With every passing day some new thing happens to prevent him evading the insidious creep of his failing eyesight. He stands at the sink in the lavatorium rubbing uselessly at the gory crimson blotches. But it’s no good. He’ll just have to let it fade with time. He gives up and follows Paulinus into chapel, sits in his stall feeling miserable and old.
Brother Mark also comes to chapel via the lavatorium. His hands were sticky, because it’s time to harvest the honey this month. The hive population is dropping, the drones disappearing – but he checked, and his queens are still there, though they are laying less and less. Time to replace them, though, now the autumn is coming.
Father Gilbert is already in chapel when these old men come in. He glances up from the music he’s sorting in readiness for his practice this afternoon, and finishes the task as briskly as he can once he sees the community is beginning to gather for the Office.
Next in is Brother Peter, the ostler. He also goes to wash his hands first – and checks his shoes. He should really have changed into different ones for chapel, but he was in a bit of a hurry, so he didn’t. After him comes Brother Fidelis, bent and rheumatic, walking slowly, smelling of the herb beds he’s been weeding this morning. These days, if he tries to go quickly, he begins to wheeze badly and can’t get his breath. It’s a matter of taking things gently, he finds; accepting that the vigour of youth is gone. Provided he doesn’t ask what his old body can no longer give, he can still accomplish most things in peace.
Their abbot enters the choir from the archway leading in from the ambulatory, and crosses to his stall. He marks the places in the breviary and psalter, then withdraws into himself like a closing sea anemone, hands tucked into the sleeves of his habit, cowl up over his head, eyes closed. The stillness in him makes you feel still, watching him.
The horarium brings a man into church seven times a day every day, and there is so much of the Bible that it must be pushed into every nook and crevice of time – at Collatio,11 at mealtime readings, in private devotion, in Chapter, at Mass, not just in Divine Office. Understandable if at times he lets it all flow over his head, ceases to engage with the perpetual influx of Holy Writ and commentary thereon. The day breathes in the holy Word and breathes out prayer and praise, all the time, never stopping. The challenge is to keep it fresh, hold fast to the authentic and direct encounter with the living Christ, not some desiccated construct mistaken for deity, the accretions of dogma and doctrine, of dissertation and opinion, that sometimes posture as – but are not – the Holy Spirit himself.
The abbot sits in quietness, nothing in him moving but the patient tides of breath and blood, and the inscrutable arcane rhythms of the lumen of the gut. His heart settles over his community, as a mother hen fluffs out her feathers, lowering herself gently upon her brood, letting them creep in under her, finding her warmth. Deeper and deeper his spirit settles down, drawing this kindred of common life into his love, at the same time letting the light of his faith, his heart’s yearning, expand into the infinite tenderness that bends over him, encloses him, adopts him.
Once he finds the still, small centre, the quiet home of prayer, he draws in after him the ways and wellbeing of Brother Cedd, pulls the heartache of his absence into the healing citadel of the innermost chamber of his heart. He does not move. His breathing is slow and quiet. He does not open his eyes. He holds Cedd there, where the lad belongs; with all the rest of them.
Brother Walafrid and Brother Giles arrive together. Today they are on the second stage of preparing tinctures for use in the infirmary – plantain and peppermint. They gathered them during the summer, a month or more back, and set them to steep. Now the mixture is seasoned, it’s time to strain it through a fine-woven, double-folded cloth, ensuring the final brew is free of sediment and debris. Then it’s sealed in the jars and taken to the infirmary. Today they’ve also found time to pound some herbs for a poultice to save Brother Michael the trouble – he has enough to do.
Father James, looking pleased with life, evidently in buoyant spirits, comes in behind them, and settles himself in his stall, opens the breviary, brings across the stitched-in ribbons to keep the page. He glances across at his abbot; then closes his eyes, peace on his face, recalled to stillness. His work has gone well today, flowed easily. The postulant seemed delighted with his robes, and with good reason – they were beautifully made and sat on him perfectly. It’s been a good morning.
Father Francis, the prior, is next; his step as light and merry as the day he first came. Not much dims his naturally sanguine spirit – and people like him. Then Father Chad comes down from his library, his gentle, placid features thoughtfully composed. The almoner, Father Gerard, is there in good time. Like the infirmarian, the cook, the teachers, the cellarer, the porter, and the guest-master, he is often late or absent, for it’s not always as easy as he’d like to detach himself from the lengthy histories and requirements of the needy. There are no guests at the present time – which is unusual – so Father Dominic is free to come to chapel, which is not always the case when they have a houseful. Brother Martin stays at the porter’s lodge though, and says the midday Office quietly on his own.
Father Theodore and his novices – except Brother Cedd – all arrive in a group from their morning’s lessons.
Brother Thaddeus takes a while washing clay off his hands, and comes into chapel when most of the community is already in place. Brother Richard is there, and Brother Cormac has locked up the checker and is sitting in his stall turning the pages of the big breviary, finding the place. Brother Stephen, along with Brother Josephus and Brother Placidus who have been helping him on the farm, slip in at the last minute, as Brother Basil finishes ringing the bell and loops back the rope. Father Bernard has been faffing about in the vestry, clearing up some incense he spilled when he was preparing the thurible for High Mass, but the silence alerts him to the imminent start of the Office and he hastens in.
Brother Damian isn’t there – someone has to oversee the boys in the school through the day. They came into High Mass with him, of course, and he sat with them in the nave; but they don’t attend the little hours of the Office. Brother Thomas is away until nightfall. Almost everyone who can be there is sitting with recollected composure in his stall.
As the abbot gives the knock and the community rises, Brother Michael slides into his place; nobody minds if Michael’s late, you can’t help it in the infirmary, they’re just pleased to see him at all. But the last man in is Brother Conradus, cheerful and contented, arriving wreathed in the vague, encouragingly savoury aroma of some kind of stew.
The Office flows peacefully, as familiar to these men as the pulsing of their heart’s blood through their arteries and veins. The opening prayer and humble presentation of their worship, the Pater Noster and the Ave Maria, the invocation, the versicle and response, the hymn, then the psalms of the day. After that the Little Chapter and short responsory, the prayer and the versicles and responses, finishing up with: Fidélium ánimæ per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace.12 Then one more Pater Noster, and Sext is accomplished.
Chapter
Nine
Brother Richard has never mastered the art of eating with his mouth shut. Perhaps it belongs more to the cultured refinement of the ruling classes. It’s not so much that his mother never saw the need for so polished an accomplishment, more that her life had not encompassed the suggestion that anyone should try. Everybody eats with their mouth open, don’t they? How else would they demonstrate adequate appreciation for the hearty fare slapped in front of them by their mothers?
Meals are taken in silence in a Benedictine monastery. This reaches beyond prohibition of speaking to the best diminishment they can achieve of clatter and scrape. None of this beating the dish like a gong as your spoon scoops up the last of the pottage. The only sound should be the voice of the reader – Brother Germanus this week – fulfilling the quota of scriptural material that will take them through the whole Bible in a year, and adding to it whatever edifying texts the precentor has identified as appropriate.
Every man among them has been schooled with utmost diligence by his novice master to be watchful for what is required – to pass the butter, the salt, the ale jug, when his brother has need of it. If a brother is lost in some reverie of his own, a discreet “ahem” may alert him that someone is waiting; or maybe he will suddenly feel his neighbour’s foot covertly kicking his ankle. But his neighbour will not speak to him. They are in silence. If all else fails and the men adjacent prove relentlessly oblivious, there is the sign language of the silence, allowing an unobtrusive request to be made without disturbance.
As in the choir so in the frater – there is an order of seating. Father Francis sometimes thinks God must have it in for him, to have let it arise that he be allocated the place right next to Brother Richard. Self-contained, well-mannered, urbane, Francis considers his neighbour in everything, including the way he eats. In his own childhood, had he lapsed at table into habits like Brother Richard’s – or not even habits, make that a momentary lapse – his stepmother would have removed his food without comment, and fed it to the dog. By the time he reached adulthood, an ingrained abhorrence of lip-smacking and slurping took root. Unshakeable. Inescapable. He just hates it.
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