Seeking Sanctuary

by Frances Fyfield

She folded her arms and leant across the table. ‘Now tell me, Father, what do you think of the Golden Boy?’

  He shook himself back into the present, stirred his coffee, the colour of treacle and almost as thick, laced with a small carton of cream, which splashed on his cassock as he struggled to undo it. He crushed the carton in his fist and accepted the change of subject. It was her party.

  ‘Francis? That’s a good description for him. I don’t know. He’s charming in speech and wonderful with the old ladies. Perhaps a bit too good to be true.’

  ‘You don’t like him.’

  ‘On brief acquaintance, no. But I mustn’t say so, because my feelings are probably inspired by an overpowering envy of his good looks, his physique and the fact he could get any woman he wanted. He’s all I could be if I shed twenty kilos, rather more years, and won the lottery. Of course I don’t like him.’

  Her laughter made him feel part of the human race, glad to be in it. She was still laughing when she paid the bill and they were outside the darkness of the place, where the sun hit like a hammer blow. Christopher knew he was being dismissed and did not mind. They had made a racing start. It had been far more productive than he could have dreamed.

  ‘Well, maybe next week, if you’re free, I can do the buying.’Yes, for sure, for the sake of his male pride, even if he had to starve all week and raid the poor box.

  ‘Great, you’re on.’

  ‘And do me a favour, will you? Once you’ve been to this temple, go back to the chapel. There’s nothing wrong with making comparisons.’

  She planted a swift kiss on his cheek and ran off up the road. He stood in the sunshine, touching the spot and feeling blessed.

  Until he remembered the four years and regretted the little lies he had told, such as not knowing the bulk of what she had told him, although his knowledge was secondhand. He had known the history, only wanted to hear it from her. And he was wondering if it could ever be the duty of a priest to tell a woman that her mother, the saint, had been a warped power freak and that Anna bore a greater resemblance to her dead father.

  There was nothing cathartic about confession. In Catholic terms, it was a Sacrament. At least once a year, the sinner, and they were all sinners, must go to the priest and confess his sins, honestly, omitting none of them and begging for forgiveness. In return for this humiliating exercise, he would receive a penance, a blessing and official, divine absolution, which was the same thing, in Anna’s opinion, as a licence to go out and do it all again, confident of another reprieve. To whom did a priest confess? she wondered as she made her way to Compucabs to meet Ravi. She supposed he must confess to another priest, which would be terrible. Another priest would know exactly the shorthand most penitents used to skate over the description of their sins to minimise the shame of them, like a patient going to a doctor and lying about his symptoms in order to receive a more positive diagnosis. She only thought of this as she wondered what Christopher Goodwin did with the burdens of his soul, because she could recognise him as a man who carried a whole sackful of them, and the knowledge of that was oddly comforting. He was nice in his old way, even though, like all the others of that generation, he told such dreadful lies. It seemed, in the space of a week, as if she was being offered friendship wherever she turned and it was a novelty.

  Ravi was standing outside the nondescript building, standing by a black cab, and her heart lifted. She had an absurd desire to thank him for being alive and having this ridiculous effect on her of making her feel giddy, like a vodka on an empty stomach, and all he had ever done was chat and walk her halfway home. Is he courting you? Sister Jude would have asked, and she would have laughed at the expression and denied it. Don’t be silly, she would have said. He’s just someone who has helped me through a very bad week, and yeah, I like him so much, it hurts.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, with a strange little bow to hide a very wide smile. ‘I’ve got us a taxi.’

  She noticed he was wearing a suit of dark blue and a white shirt, which made his brown skin glow like velvet, and she was pleased she had made an effort with her own appearance, so that the pair of them were distinguishable from the two workaday people who sat and manned telephones. And a taxi, my word. It was one thing to order them up for other people to take, another thing to ride in one. He ushered her inside. The suit was just right on him. If he had put a tie on as well, he would have looked a prat. They set off like royalty.

  ‘So, how are you?’ he asked, rather formally. ‘Did you enjoy your lunch?’

  She had told him about that. She had told him a lot of things in the last few days, although one of the things that distinguished their early relationship as far as she was concerned was that they so often talked about things outside themselves. Walking around and in the park was all they had ever done, but he was the only person she had ever known who could comment on the beauty of the trees or the sky or the shape of a house without any hint of self-consciousness. And of course, they talked about God – she jeeringly, he patiently – and they talked about food. What an odd way to carry on, but infinitely preferable to any other company. She was not much good with her contemporaries, never knew what to say.

  ‘Did you have a good shift?’

  He was conscientious, she knew that, so a difficult shift would affect his mood. Ravi wanted to do whatever he did perfectly. It was only a temporary job before he went back to college, but it still mattered.

  ‘Ah, yes. Before I forget, a man phoned for you.’

  ‘A man?’

  ‘Yes, an old man. Wasn’t sure whether he wanted a taxi or not. He said he wanted to speak to the girl with the nice voice who knew what he wanted, so I knew that must be you.’

  ‘Ah, that one. I wonder if he ever goes anywhere. One of these days, I’m going to get his number and find out where he lives. Probably Outer Mongolia.’

  ‘I hope you won’t find this strange,’ Ravi said, changing tack. ‘Going to a temple. Perhaps there is something else you would rather do.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘absolutely nothing.’

  This was not strictly true; his suggestion that this would be the way to spend what was their first formal outing together had come as a bit of a surprise, but why not? She was odd, she knew that, so she may as well be odder with another eccentric who looked like he did and was the same height as herself. And then there was this taxi. If the expense of the taxi and the quality of the suit were all for the sake of arriving at his bally temple in style, rather than for her benefit, that didn’t matter much either. She loved taxis. Old boxy London cabs, new rounded ones with wheelchair ramps, yellow ones plastered with advertisements; they would always be associated in her mind with childhood treats. They were the first things she had noticed when she swam back into the world, taxis, a slightly different shape from the ones she remembered. Speeding along in spacious comfort, without ever having to think of directions, with all the time to watch, that was luxury. If only everyone of her small acquaintance knew how easy she was to please.

  The temple rose from the depth of indifferent streets, which were dwarfed not so much by the height of it, but by the style. It reminded her of a huge white wedding cake, topped with flags and viewed today with the perfect backdrop of a vivid blue sky. On the first glance, it looked as if designed for celebrations, wild parties, raves and spectacular firework displays. A millionaire’s folly, devoted to decadence. Ravi was telling her all about the vast quantities of marble involved, the tons of Burmese teak, the years of workmanship, but she was not listening. The taxi dropped them near a vast, low entrance, which seemed humble by comparison. He led her in, holding her arm solicitously, as if she were his grandmother, his anxiety surprising her into the realisation that above everything else, he desperately wanted her to like this place. He was ushering her forward as if showing her his own home. It was warm inside, with the kind of warmth that would tolerate the wearing of either a coat, or the silk garments of the women in the foyer, like so many butterflies. He showed her whe
re to leave shoes and they proceeded through the hall. The floor, even where wood gave way to carpet and then to stone, was pleasantly warm on her bare feet.

  There was no problem about liking or respecting. The problem was not to be overwhelmed by the colours of the carpet design and the massive doors into the vaulted hall of the shrines, where the marble ceiling was sectioned into individual areas, each different from the others. She listened, without comprehension, to Ravi’s low-voiced explanations. The room of the shrines has three doors, he was explaining; you have seen only the one. They stood in front of the statue of Ganesh, the Elephant God, sitting behind glass, brilliantly illuminated to show his crown, his small, wise eyes, his decorated trunk curled down over his rounded stomach, one of his two sets of hands raised, the other resting on his robed thighs. The one visible foot was plump, with painted nails and bracelets. He looked like a God who lived well and bore the complexities of his appearance with cheerful dignity.

  ‘We begin with Ganaparti when we come to pray,’ Ravi said. ‘He is the God who preserves health and prosperity. And next to him is Hanuman, the Monkey God, the warrior, who will protect the individual and his possessions from all evil. Here we pray about our daily concerns, pay our respects and make our requests. It frees us up to consider our souls when we pray to the other Gods.’

  The Monkey God was as endearing as Ganesh, equally ornamental, but more aggressive and the brilliance of his apparel almost blinding. They moved into the main area of shrines, which smelled uncloyingly sweet, the floor still mysteriously and pleasantly warm. A variety of people in uniformly clean clothes moved around and either bowed to the deities, prostrated themselves, knelt or stood with a complete lack of self-consciousness in a private, public worship which seemed as natural as breathing. There was nothing furtive about this piety. He was explaining the Gods, Krishna and Radha, but they resembled, to her, nothing more than highly dressed dolls. They were brought food, washed and dressed daily, he told her, which, hiding her own reaction to the worshipping of graven images, she found endearing. Even more endearing was Ravi, standing before an image of Swaminarayan and telling her it was his favourite.

  ‘Are you allowed favourites?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. You respect all the Gods and there may come new Gods, but you will always prefer the one who suits you best.’

  ‘Ah.’ That was a revelation. ‘I think my favourite is Ganesh.’

  He smiled at her, bursting with pride. ‘The choice of many,’ he said. ‘Come, I shall show you what might be more familiar.’

  He was sensitive to her bewilderment and she was grateful for it. The more familiar aspect of the place came back into view as they went down the stairs away from the shrines. By the entrance was an open shop, selling pictures, books, music tapes and trinkets, which looked for all the world like rosary beads. Throughout the whole building, not at all discordant with anything else, there were collection boxes inviting donations. She turned to him, grinning mischievously, only now aware that this was a place of sublime happiness and she was allowed to tease him. She pointed at the largest collection box of all.

  ‘This is familiar,’ she said. ‘This makes me feel at home. This tells me I’m in church.’

  ‘The Gods and money,’ Ravi said, gravely, ‘have always gone hand in hand. Poverty is bad for everything.’

  Poverty, chastity and obedience. With every will in the world and with all due deference to the will higher and greater than her own, Therese could not love Sundays. It was not that the world outside beckoned, but that the world inside was so still. For all the fuss of the preparation for Mass, the additional morning prayer, it was still a designated day of rest, where the afternoon and evening were an anticlimax. A day for meditation, but she found that meditation was better when interspersed with work. No one knew better how the devil breeds mischief for idle hands. She had not joined the Order lightly, or because it was already familiar; she had joined it to work, for the greater glory of God. The vows she would make at the end of her probation did not frighten her. Poverty did not mean starvation: it meant owning nothing of her own, and she rejoiced in the freedom of that. As for chastity, she could see nothing negative about it. A free body, divorced from its own urges and restraints, had more to offer the pure service of God and humanity, and if she was honest, it was humanity she wished to serve. She wanted people to be happy, fulfilled, cured, imbued with love and well-fed, and she did not see how she could ever do that under the yoke of some man like her father, and how could she ever fall for a man, when God had called first? Others could serve both God and man; she could not see it as an option, and besides, she had no real curiosity about the longings of the flesh. It was enough to be strong and healthy, to feel energy and sound bones. Obedience made sense. She knew so little, she must wait to be guided, how could she do otherwise? She would have to be guided until she could form her own judgements and she did not believe that this prevented her from asking questions, but she was coming to understand, all the same, it was obedience that was the problem.

  Not obedience to discipline, adherence to the strict routine of the days, but to the dictates of others, whatever the impulse in the other direction. Following rules that did not seem necessary. She must look for guidance, and the guidance for this lonely afternoon was to read the words of St Therese of Lisieux and her contemplations of the God of love, which ranged from the obtuse to simple tips for coping with the vicissitudes of religious life. Therese turned the page. St Therese had been a contemplative of remarkable youth and holiness, who advocated the turning of daily irritations into acts of patience and forbearance which, if offered to God, would aid the world and bring Him closer. She described in the Little Way, from which her namesake read, how, when she was engaged in the laundry of her convent, she was always stood alongside another, clumsy nun, who constantly splashed her with dirty water. Rather than draw back and express annoyance, this Therese learned to welcome the irritation, suffered it and offered it in expiation for the sins of the world. Which might be easier if the water was warm, and the irritation unintentional. There was an apposite proverb lingering somewhere. The patient man is better than the valiant, and he who rules his own spirit is better than he who takes cities. None of it was making sense. Therese decided it would be better to go to the chapel. God and his guidance were everywhere: she had plenty of experience of being confined to a room, but to go to read in a room entirely dedicated to worship must be an improvement. She had so much to learn. She had no belief in an entitlement to happiness every moment of the day; she had known this would be hard, but no one could quite know when and where it would be most difficult.

  Therese wished she had been as dedicated a reader as her sister. It was Anna who should be in here in these idle hours, with her thumb stuck in her mouth, content to read and digest like a cat who slept on its food. In this institution, where the elderly were prevalent, the rule of Sunday afternoon was slumber. There was no Kim, no noise. There was simply Barbara’s instruction to watch over them all and report anything untoward. This was the test of obedience.

  She reached the chapel and found it chilly and empty. The glory of the place at this time of year was early evening when the sun hit, while her kitchen, at the other end, was favoured in the morning. There was nobody there, apart from Joseph, slumped in a chair. Therese was on the one hand pleased to see her, and on the other dismayed. It was not company she wanted, but another form of solitude. If she were to follow the lessons of St Therese of Lisieux, she would sit beside Joseph, listen to her breathing and let it interfere with her already muddled thinking, which was telling her that she really did not like her chosen saint at all and found the self-sacrifice that had once inspired her puzzling and repugnant. She sat apart, and after one, pregnant minute, realised that Joseph was snoring rather than slumbering, maintaining her balance on the rush-seated chair as a result of a miraculous accident. She had heard this stertorous breathing when her father had drunk too much and lain down in uncomfort
able places, such as kitchen, landing, study, although her memories of that were confused. It had been a phase of his, not permanent, but etched on memory. She had never known, for as long as it had lasted, when he was sick or merely pretending, only that when he was like that, he was unreliable, not available for questions or games, and Anna was the only one who could chivy him out of it and make him move. Joseph turned in her sleep and collapsed to the floor, noisily. She lay awkwardly, with her left arm doubled beneath her, her bare head with her scratchy hair hitting the floor with a mild thud.

  Therese knelt beside her and tapped her shoulder. Then she shook it, so that the head remained still and the torso moved, slightly, as if she were pushing a dummy. Then the eyes opened and the mouth moved. She thought she heard the words ‘You silly little cow,’ before the eyes closed again and she made an automatic movement to cross her arms across her chest for warmth. The skin of her wrist, mottled with liver spots, felt cold to the touch. Therese shook her again.

  This time she came wide awake and ready to fight. She levered herself off the floor and spat words and fury – ‘Leave me alone, bugger, bugger, bugger . . .’ – levered herself half upright and began to cry. Sitting there, sluggishly gathering her old limbs until she sat cross-legged with one hand supporting her and the other over her face with the tears coursing between her fingers. She stank. Of disinfectant and white spirit, like new paint, overlaid with bile and despair. The prevalent smell was soap. The smell of Therese’s father had been whisky, with the same overtones of desperation. At a point in her life, it had filled her dreams, and become part of his monstrous identity. How often had it happened? Once? Twice?

  ‘Who got you the drink, Sister?’

  Therese found herself sounding like Barbara.

  ‘The devil.’

  ‘And what form did he take, Sister?’

  She was becoming an inquisitor, sharper with every note, more furious as the weeping went on. Poverty meant no money for indulgences, chastity meant freedom from cravings, obedience meant adherence to a rule of conduct. Joseph was an appalling example, a disgrace; she was too disgusting to touch. And yet, she was also a crying, mortified woman, stinking with shame on a Sunday afternoon, pitiful and frightened in the place she had come either to be forgiven, or to hide.