Every Deadly Sin

by D M Greenwood

‘Well it’s all right for you,’ Mrs Lemming retorted with spirit. ‘You’re being pushed.’

  Canon Beagle was priest enough to refrain from remarking that his arthritis did not flourish in the heat and that every jolt of the uneven path pained him.

  ‘Perhaps if you put a hand on the chair,’ Theodora said, ‘it’ll help to balance you.’

  Mrs Lemming was not so far gone in self-pity that she could not react to kindness. Gratefully she stretched out a hand. They trundled on.

  ‘It’s all part of the training, you know,’ Canon Beagle said. ‘Bellaire felt that to get the most out of a pilgrimage or a retreat you have to make an effort, empty yourself a bit.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ exclaimed Mrs Lemming.

  ‘Well, having to arrive on your own two feet, there being no transport, no telephone, no TV or wireless, no newspapers, no electric light, it’s all part of the emptying process.’

  ‘No lights?’ Mrs Lemming stopped in her tracks. Theodora thought she might be about to bolt back to Tunbridge Wells.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Mrs Clutton Brock had come alongside the wheelchair group. She was tall and given extra height by the parasol. She towered above Mrs Lemming and was almost on an eye-level with Theodora who was six foot one.

  Mrs Clutton Brock’s voice was low and dramatic. ‘You’ll find it’s quite all right. I was here, oh, years ago when Augustine was just getting underway. No one had much experience of retreat houses for laity in those days. He had to experiment, find out what contributed to the spiritual life, what people would stand. He kept inventing things we weren’t allowed to do. But he wasn’t silly. He was feeling his way towards a disciplined life, a rhythm of prayer and work, simplicity, silence, space, a way of life which prepares for death.’

  ‘Death,’ gasped Mrs Lemming. ‘But I’m looking for life. I haven’t begun to live yet. My husband …’ She stopped in confusion.

  ‘The odd thing was,’ Canon Beagle said, ‘though one half of him wanted just what you’ve said, a way of life which was stripped and simple, the other part of him was rather theatrical. All that fancy dress he would keep strutting about in. I’ve never seen chasubles like them. He could have been Lyon King-of-Arms. That cope he wore for St Sylvan’s festal Eucharist. I’ll swear it had his deer-hounds embroidered on it.’

  Theodora was aware of a squat shadow impinging on the group. Mr Clutton Brock held up his hand dramatically. ‘Look,’ he said, Cortez upon Darien. ‘There it is. Here we are.’

  Below them in a slight hollow ringed with wooded hills on three sides was the chapel with the guest-house and the short avenue of chestnut trees linking them. The clock on the chapel tower stood at six o’clock. There was a white flag flying from the roof of the house, too far away to make out its device. The little huddle of buildings looked serene in the late afternoon sun. Far to the left could be glimpsed the pediment of Broadcourt.

  ‘Where’s the well?’ asked Mrs Lemming. ‘The holy well of St Sylvan?’

  ‘Behind the chapel, a little way up into the hills,’ Mrs Clutton Brock answered her as though talking to herself.

  ‘Hidden from profane view,’ added her husband. So there are three of them who have been before, Theodore thought, Canon Beagle and the Clutton Brocks. She glanced across at Mr Clutton Brock’s tweedclad figure. His shoulders, she noticed were tense, his hands clenched the black cello case. His wife swayed her parasol away from him and began to stride forward down the slope towards the guest-house.

  Guy manoeuvred his bicycle between the ruts, negotiated patches of shingle mistakenly scattered to fill potholes and fell into a rhythm. He felt exhilarated to be freed from the company of his fellow travellers. Not that he would allow his behaviour to be constrained by them. Early in life he’d resolved to take all he could and evade those who wished to thwart him. It was not a matter of selfishness but of self-preservation. If he didn’t take precautions for himself, no one else would, he felt. He had not known his parents for very long; they had died in a car crash before he was eleven. He had gone to live with his grandparents, Canon and Mrs Tussock, since no one else could think of a better solution for his care. Whilst he was alive his father, a reluctant accountant, had seemed to want him to be and do all sorts of things he didn’t want to be or do. Guy had evolved a quiver full of techniques for evading becoming what his father wanted him to be. When his father died Guy simply continued in his grandfather’s house in the way he had begun with his father. He’d perfected not being around. He practised and made perfect a way of lying which was difficult to detect or which it was difficult to distinguish from joking or irony. Whether he’d consciously decided to transmute his anxieties into jokiness, he had by now forgotten. It had become his character, his style. He became proficient at getting from people what he needed, which was often no more than an assurance that he was there, that he existed. His demands were not exorbitant: a shared acknowledgement of an opinion or perception, a collusion in a joke often sufficed. Giving him orders, however, telling him what to think, had no effect on him. He took to his bike in an instant and was gone.

  Now he was freewheeling down the hill towards what his father had hated and his grandfather had loved. He knew his father’s life had been based on his hatred of his father’s life. Guy had researched the matter. He had needed to orientate himself. He had listened to the conversation of grown-ups and made his inferences. Ben Tussock had expected his son to be a jolly evangelical boy scout. But his only child, born to him late, had taken after his mother. He would laugh at things Ben did not understand. Guy the grandson, in his turn, had got on well with his grandmother in an oblique sort of way before she had retired into her dementia. She understated things which her husband, with his vocabulary of professional enthusiasm, had not noticed or would have taken differently. Our family is based on disappointing our fathers. I am in a noble tradition, he said, to comfort himself. As he pushed his wheels round, he thought, well now in my new circumstances perhaps I can make a new start, here, now, this time. He reached the top of the rise and let his feet drag in the bumpy grass. He braked and gazed down with curiosity at what he had seen only once before. There was a flag flying from the guest-house. He could make out the device. A Roman soldier in black on a white ground, standing between the antlered head of a golden deer. ‘My birthright,’ he murmured and grinned hugely in the direction of the guest-house.

  In the kitchen of the guest-house Ruth Swallow finished shelling the last of the broad beans, leaned back in her chair and yawned. She wore her thick dark hair loosely coiled in heavy plaits which she fixed to her head with pins so that the two ends met on top of her head and stood up like the ears of a startled horse. They gave her the air of one who might have an additional sense. Her face had a heavyness which made her look older than her thirty years. Some men had wanted to draw her, others considered her plain. Some found her formidable, others scarcely noticed her. Behind her on the mantelshelf the large clock clicked towards half-past six.

  She took stock of her domain. New bread was proving under a damp cloth on the low stone windowsill; the gas purred under a kettle of water on the stove; three sorts of beans and a vast bowl of lentils occupied the far end of the table. A mound of raspberries gave off a sweet perfume in the warm air. Fruits of the earth and work of human hands, my hands, she thought. She was content. Why couldn’t it go on? It met a need, heaven knew. Sometimes, in the evening, we would sit at the table and meditate on the long history of the place. Legend affirmed that this farm had been built on the site of St Sylvan’s own house. The bricks in the wall were Roman and the flags beneath her feet those which perhaps he had trod. As he had worked to create a small centre of Christian civilisation at a time when much threatened it, so they, Tom and Angus and the little group of pious men and women who helped here and came regularly to support the pilgrims and retreatants, laboured to create a different world to the one which existed ten miles down the road.

  She looked towards the
tray laid for six, checked the number of scones and then moved towards the stove. She poured water from the simmering kettle on to an earthenware teapot, assembled milk and mugs and then moved towards the mantelshelf. She took down the rosewood sewing-box and laid it on the table. From it she extracted a role of silken stuff and spread it out. The stone flags of the kitchen floor were cool to her bare feet. Her movements were slow, not clumsy but deliberate like those of someone performing a ritual properly, attentively. Ruth aimed at the complete, the integrated life not consciously but out of instinct. She did not see herself as a virtuous peasant, though others, less discerning, were tempted to. She had reigned in her kitchen kingdom for seven years and now she was to be deposed.

  The open back door let in a scent of hay and stocks from the garden. Near at hand large earthenware tubs held herbs: basil, rosemary, parsley, lemon mint and dill. They’ll not want those, she thought. They won’t want that sort of cooking. After a moment or two, when she judged the tea would have brewed, she went to the door, put her hand against the jamb to support the weight growing within and called, ‘Tom.’

  His considerable figure came round the corner, wiping his hands free of diesel.

  ‘Did you leave them at the causeway?’

  He nodded. ‘It’ll take them half an hour. They’re not wick, except for the girl. One of em’s in a wheelchair.

  ‘It’s hot for walking.’

  ‘It’s hot for driving.’ He took the teapot from her hand and poured steadily into the two mugs.

  ‘Angus here yet?’

  She nodded ‘He’s saying evensong in the chapel. He’ll be back in time to meet them. He’s very reliable.’

  ‘There’s been no bother from the Sunday party, special requirements like?’ He raised his head from his tea. Sweat gathered on his brow from the hot liquid.

  ‘Not a word, love. Don’t get so het up.’

  ‘I can’t think why they have to come here at all. They could make their choice anywhere. I wonder they have the nerve to look us in the face.’

  ‘Oh, Tom, it’s not their fault. They think it’s the money.’

  ‘They’re bad managers. They know nothing about money.’

  ‘You’ve only heard that, Tom. We probably couldn’t do any better. Anyway perhaps there’s going to be money,’ said Ruth, more to placate Tom than to tell a truth she actually believed. ‘We don’t know for certain there isn’t.’ Her wish to calm him, to mother him, betrayed itself in her tone. She hated emotions to be random or greater than the situation warranted. They should have their proper object. A wild lashing of anger or fear always called up her pity. She put her arms lightly over Tom’s shoulders. He was, she saw, soothed. He did not shake her off. She was stronger than he. He might resort to violence to cope. She would help to keep him from that.

  ‘Nor for certain that there is.’

  ‘Tussock never loved this place like Father Augustine did.’

  ‘No but he knew its uses,’ said Tom. ‘It had its uses didn’t it, love?’

  ‘Who’s this Tussock that’s coming with this party?’ Ruth asked to steer him away from his dangerous ground. ‘Is he related?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s about the right age. Looks about twelve and a half but he may be a bit older. Nice bike.’

  Ruth half-turned in her chair. Guy’s long shadow belied his short figure. Carefully he edged round the door and shyly intruded the handlebars of his machine. Tom didn’t acknowledge his presence.

  ‘Can I bring my bike in?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Why?’ Bough asked.

  ‘I like to keep it close. It’s all I’ve got.’ Guy glanced experimentally at Tom and then at Ruth.

  ‘Are you of the party?’ Ruth enquired.

  ‘I’m bound for Heaven. Yes.’ Guy wasn’t an Open University student for nothing. ‘I’m Guy Tussock,’ he said.

  ‘We were just wondering’, Ruth said, ‘whether you were any relation. Canon Tussock …’

  ‘Was my grandad.’ Guy sounded as though this was a line he’d had to speak before.

  Ruth smiled and put out her hand. ‘You’re very welcome, Guy. Of course you can bring your bicycle in. It’ll go between the fridge and the dresser quite nicely.’

  For a moment Guy feared she was going to embrace him and backed away. But the danger, if it were one, passed.

  ‘You haven’t been to us before then?’ Tom seemed disposed to be friendly.

  ‘Not lately actually, not visited as such,’ Guy answered.

  ‘Your grandad, of course, used to bring his groups regularly.’

  Guy nodded.

  ‘Would you like to see your room? When the others come there’ll be a cup in the library and Mr Bootle’ll give his introduction to the place.’

  Guy had many ways of dealing with people who tried to organise him. Sometimes he feigned deafness or imbecility. Sometimes he agreed with what they said whilst continuing to pursue his own path. It was a measure of his liking for Ruth that he bothered to share his plans.

  ‘I thought I’d camp,’ he said. ‘Up by the well. Yes?’

  Ruth looked at Bough. ‘One less with the sheets,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose I ought to ask Mr Bootle. You’ll want your food here though, won’t you?’ Ruth didn’t care to be rejected at so fundamental a level.

  ‘Rather,’ Guy used his smile. ‘Bread smells good.’

  ‘It can’t matter now the place is falling apart,’ Bough said.

  ‘Trade slack?’ Guy enquired.

  ‘There’d be nothing wrong with trade if they’d only make up their minds to support the place instead of shilly-shallying,’ Ruth answered him.

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘The diocese,’ said Bough. ‘The powers that be. They don’t want places like this. We don’t fit in. We are very different from the norm.’ He sounded as though he might be quoting someone.

  ‘Oh it’s not that, Tom,’ Ruth calmed him. ‘It’s money. And, of course, we don’t make money and Bishop Peake’s never liked us. He couldn’t stand Father Augustine.’

  ‘So what with the accountants and the squabbling between churchmanships and the Church not knowing what it should be doing for the world, it looks as though we’re sunk.’ Bough would not be diverted from his line.

  ‘What do they want to do with you?’

  ‘A heritage centre,’ said Bough with relish. ‘Tudor feasts. Blokes in tights and women spinning. And other people watching them.’ His tone suggested delight at the sheer idiocy of the thing.

  ‘About as daft as you could get,’ Ruth agreed.

  ‘What’ll happen to you?’

  ‘They haven’t thought of that yet,’ Ruth answered.

  ‘Or ever,’ Tom said.

  ‘Won’t they need you?’

  ‘I’m not dressing up in funny clothes.’ He rubbed the back of his stubble neck. Guy attempted to visualise him as a tudor peasant.

  ‘We’ve got a job,’ Ruth said. ‘A proper job. People need places like this to be real in, not bits of silly make-believe to escape from being real in.’

  ‘Grandad used to say refreshment was important not diversion,’ Guy said.

  ‘He got that from Father Augustine,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Like much of his thinking,’ said Guy with sudden acuteness.

  ‘Did you know your grandad well?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘My mum and dad died when I was eleven so I went to live with Grandfather Ben and Grandma. I’ve only just left home,’ Guy said with pride. ‘Did you know him?’ he asked Ruth.

  Ruth nodded. ‘A bit. I came here seven years ago. It was about this time of year. Canon Tussock brought one last party here before he retired. I think it was a sort of reunion of his people who’d come in earlier times.’ She turned to Tom. ‘Tom’s always been here, on and off, so you knew him quite well, didn’t you, Tom?’

  ‘I’ve always been here and my dad too. My dad knew your grandad.’ He eyed Guy. �
��He’s still alive. You’ll have to …’ He broke off. There was the sound of voices loud and demanding in the hall. The pilgrims had arrived.

  ‘I think I’ll just slip out and pitch my tent,’ said Guy, and did.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ’Gainst All Disaster

  ‘Pilgrimage’, said the Reverend Angus Bootle in his precise Edinburgh accent, ‘is always to one end. And that end is death.’

  Theodora recognised familiar ground and allowed her attention to wander round the library in which the pilgrims were gathered. Bodily needs had been assuaged, the rigours of the journey to some extent repaired. The remains of Ruth’s scones adhered to Canon Beagle’s waistcoat as he sat in his wheelchair to Theodora’s left. Mrs Lemming clasped a half-drunk cup of Indian tea; the Clutton Brocks sipped camomile. Guy, who had arrived late, perched, poised for flight, on the end of the sofa occupied by Theodora and toyed with a glass of springwater. The library in the modern part of the guest-house, large, airy with few books, gave on to the garden. Through the open french windows came the sound of a tractor in the distance.

  Mrs Lemming leaned forward with clamorous attention, her eyes riveted on Angus as though he might hold the secret of life.

  ‘And there are two sorts of death, death of the body and death of the ego,’ Angus was continuing.

  Theodora brought her attention back to him. His brown hair was sleek but his beard was curly. She wondered why she felt this combination to be particularly Victorian. And if he had a curly beard, surely he ought to have curly hair to match. Did it represent a divided nature? In other respects he could not have been more modern. He wore fawn trousers and a green shirt surmounted by a clerical collar. His feet were clad in sandles and socks. He could have been an old thirty-five or a young fifty. His demeanour was of one who exercised great control over himself as though he feared any display of energy or indeed originality of thought might frighten his pilgrims and deter them from their search. He stood at a table referring occasionally to small sheets of writing paper. Mostly, however, he fixed his attention on each pilgrim in turn.