‘D …’
He looked up, met her eye. In all the time they had been together, he had always looked past her, or away. For one brief moment they were joined, she reflected in the dark lens of his pupils. He turned his head, embarrassed, broke the contact. There was a sudden awkward silence.
‘H … Have you always been a medievalist?’ she asked. ‘Is that the right term, by the way, or is the seventh century too early for ‘‘medieval’’? I always get a bit confused. It’s ‘‘Dark Ages’’, isn’t it, the bit before the Conquest?’ She was spinning words, trying to plug the silence.
‘I hate the term ‘‘Dark Ages’’.’ David rocked back on his chair. ‘Okay, I admit they were dark in the sense that we don’t know much about them, and also dark in that Roman civilisation was obviously in decline then, but there was a genuine sort of flowering in the Celtic West—a new start, if you like. And by Abban’s time, you can even talk about a golden age, when the Church was still relatively pure and simple, not corrupted yet by power or property or greed. Everything seemed to blossom then—not just the whole monastic thing itself, but art and learning, too. I mean, look at the Book of Kells and the Lindisfarne Gospels and even some codices before them, and the amazing metalwork—bells and brooches and chalices—and that incredible lyric poetry written by hermits living in the middle of nowhere with only a handful of berries between them and starvation.’
David’s hands were locked together on the table. The full light of the lamp seemed to be concentrated in his eyes. His tea had gone cold, but he appeared unaware of it, unaware of the dish in front of him. Morna put her own spoon down. Wasn’t it still his mind which turned her on—the passion and intensity he brought to everything, the way he made things live for her, could bring a seventh-century hermit or a seventeenth-century treasure ship right into the kitchen? His silver coin was just upstairs. She carried it with her everywhere she went, had done so since September. He was discussing treasure now—not silver coins but Celtic jewellery. She watched him as he talked, his whole body thrusting forward, hands still clasped, but gesturing towards her.
‘It’s always amazed me, really, how they did it—I mean, men with nothing to their name, following a rule which was more or less a penal code, yet still managing to produce all that art and scholarship, and travelling miles and miles taking a creed of light and love to barbarous pagan tribes who could have hacked them into pieces. They were so … so brave, Morna, so completely dedicated. That’s what the Church needs now—men like that with true ideals who didn’t give a fig for power or status or all the outward trappings.’
Morna tilted her dish, scooped up the last of her pineapple juice. ‘But Abban did have power—and relished it. You told me yourself he could be something of a tyrant. Remember that story about the Irish Chief who …’
‘Of course he had power in the sense of leadership. I’m not disputing that, or trying to romanticise. I mean, there were even feuds and rivalries between the different monasteries—bloody ones, in fact, but it was still called the Age of the Saints. Okay, I grant you that ‘‘saint’’ was a more general term then, meaning anyone who followed a strict religious life, but the very fact so many did follow it, were willing to give up everything for the sake of an ideal, makes it a special period.’
‘But I thought you said a lot of them were very shadowy figures, or even sort of invented or embellished by a later age to provide an inspiration?’ Morna wiped her mouth. At least she could hold her own, remember what he’d told her, what she’d read.
‘Yes, that’s true, but there are still enough substantial ones to prove the saintliness—well, charisma, anyway. Men like Columba, Aidan, Cuthbert—and Abban himself, of course—come over as real personalities with a sort of star quality which attracted fans and followers. Okay, they were tough, as well, and probably damned pig-headed, but they had to be in the conditions of their age, if they were going to achieve anything at all. And you can always see their softer side—those little quirks or foibles which prove they were human and couldn’t have been invented.’ David added powdered milk to tepid tea, stirred it with a fork. ‘I wrote a little thing once on all the animal stories in the different Lives—comparing and contrasting them. All right, some of them may be standard, trotted out to edify the reader, or to symbolise some victory over paganism, like Abban clouting that boar to kingdom come …’
David broke off mid-sentence, tried his tea, added another scoop of milk. ‘Wild boars are always cropping up, you know. They were one of the cult or totem animals of the pagan Picts. You can see them in their art—marvellous carvings of really ferocious specimens—so when Abban and Co bumped a couple off, it was one up for the Christians.’
‘David, that’s the third lot of milk you’ve put in your tea. It was weak enough to start with.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Where was I, anyway? I’ve lost the thread.’
‘Wild boars.’
‘No, that was a digression. Ah, yes, I remember now. All I was trying to say was that as well as the standard stories you still get variations on the beasties—little individual touches where you can almost see the saint preaching to a stubborn pig or praising the fly who marked the place on his psalter by settling down on the line he’d just read. Which reminds me …’ He paused to drain his tea, pushed the tin of milk away—‘I haven’t answered your question yet. Yes, I do prefer the early stuff. It’s a fascinating period, from the breakup of the Roman Empire to—well, say the death of Bede in 735. Most of my work has centred on the sixth and seventh centuries, and mainly on the Church. I’ve got the background for it, I suppose. You see, I started off doing a degree in theology. You know how it is in Catholic schools—all the girls panting to be nuns and the boys rushing off to seminaries.’
‘You mean, you went to a …?’
‘No, I just escaped. My headmaster talked me out of it—or at least told me to wait a year or two. He suggested I read theology at Oxford. I was one of the few non-priests on the course. Dazzled by the dog-collars.’
Morna laughed. ‘I must have felt the vibes. Don’t you remember, I thought you were a priest when we first met, even called you Father. Why didn’t you tell me then?’
David didn’t answer, seemed suddenly reserved again, frowning into his cup as if he already regretted his one disclosure.
It was she who broke the silence. ‘I’m sorry, I’m confused. I thought you said you took your degree in history and then went on to …’
‘Yes, I did. But I switched halfway, you see, ditched the God stuff. In fact, I always tend to hush it up. It’s amazing what a conversation-stopper the word ‘‘theology’’ is. No wonder so many priests wear mufti nowadays. It’s a form of disguise, I suppose, to prevent people clamming up or getting abusive before they’ve even introduced themselves.’
She heard the note of bitterness in his voice. He had used the word ‘escape’ about the seminary, but that could be simply bluff. Did he regret the fact that he had never achieved the priesthood? If things had worked out differently she could be Sister Anne and he Reverend Father Anthony, the two of them in full religious habits, nodding primly at each other at some solemn church convention, instead of sprawling in jeans and sweaters in a cottage in the wilds. She suppressed a laugh. Her own jeans were gaping at the waist, the zipper creeping down. Too much strain on them. Should she make a joke of it, or simply fumble surreptitiously, try to do them up again? She fumbled.
‘Wh … Why did you change subjects?’ she asked, still fighting a desire to laugh, still trying not to scratch. She would never have made a nun.
‘History appeared to have more respect for the facts—though, actually, I doubt that now.’ David was looking tactfully at his dish, seemed surprised to see the pineapple, although he had served it out himself. ‘That’s what interested me when you talked about your own work—you know, the element of distortion in it. In history, too, there’s no exact translation of the past.’
‘How do you mean?’<
br />
‘Well, we either have too little information—say with Abban—where even what we do have is often plagiarism. Those chroniclers weren’t ashamed to crib great chunks, you know. It was a form of literary showing-off—proved they knew their letters or that their subject was worthy enough to be modelled on a classic. But when you come to read it, you’re never quite sure whether you’re dealing with a real event or a reworked version of some earlier Life or …’ David split a pineapple chunk in two, swallowed half, continued. ‘Then, with modern history, there’s the opposite problem—you’re absolutely swamped with facts. New evidence pouring in and contradicting last year’s theories, or new discoveries in some other field like science or archeology suddenly upsetting all the apple-carts. There’s no such thing as history, really, not in the sense of a cool objective record detached from the historians who write it. They’re all entangled in their own prejudices and preconceptions, and they see another century through distorting glasses, or only select the bits they want and ignore the rest, or tidy the whole thing up so it’s all defined and neat instead of a morass of contradictions and complexities. Actually, the word for history in French and German is the same word as for fiction. That’s quite significant.’
David was still jabbing at his second half of pineapple, shredding it with his spoon. ‘I envy you your languages, you know. They’re sort of antennae into the thought and culture of other countries, and you need that for history. I’ve found it myself with both Scots Gaelic and Irish—the very words they have or don’t have, or the way they form their words, that’s all crucial, helps you understand what … Am I boring you?’
‘No. I’m just surprised. I always thought of history as the most—you know—honest sort of subject, settled and neatly tethered down, so it couldn’t blow up in your face, like physics or biology have, or even theology.’
‘Oh, no. There are eruptions all the time—and not just over trivia. Look at Joan of Arc. Several historians are saying now she was never burnt at the stake at all.’
‘Didn’t one scholar prove she was a man?’
David laughed. ‘Like Shakespeare was a woman. That’s the latest feminist theory.’
‘Is it? What about his anti-feminist plays, though? Like Taming of the Shrew?’
‘Auberon Waugh wrote those, or Kingsley Amis.’
They both laughed. Morna relaxed back in her chair, cupping both hands around her second mug of tea. To hell with the jeans. If they revealed a strip of naked flesh, well—the sweaters covered that. And what were a few odd flea-bites? St Abban must have been bitten alive, especially in the summer. It was minds which counted, surely—David’s mind and hers, communicating, coupled. They had broached more subjects in an hour than she and Neil had tackled in fourteen years. And there were a thousand other issues to explore. She could feel them churning in her brain, flickering into life like the endless restless shadows from the lamp. She could hardly sit still, longed to run, jump, turn cartwheels. But where and how? They were cloistered in one low-beamed room, chained to lamp and fire. The cottage had only four small rooms in all—two up, two down, and three of them unheated. She glanced across at David, still ploughing through his fruit. How could they not be close, sitting opposite each other, hemmed in by four stone walls, corralled by the sea? She could lean across and touch him if she wanted, stroke his beard, run a hand across his cheek …
‘Biscuits and cheese?’ he was asking. ‘Sorry—no cheese left. Biscuits and strawberry jam?’
‘I thought you’d finished all the biscuits.’
‘The sweet ones, yes, but I’ve got a few cream crackers left—or crumbs of cream crackers, perhaps I ought to say. They came over on a very rough crossing and by the time Cormack had flung them ashore and hauled them up the cliff, they were done for.’
‘I bought you cheeses, actually, then ditched them. We could always go on a treasure hunt—try and find half a mangled Brie and …’
‘In the dark?’
‘We’ve got the moon.’ Morna slipped back to the window—the larger one which faced south—pushed aside the frill of tattered cretonne. The view of the sea was restricted by the porch, but she could see the lights of some small craft cutting across the moonlight. A fishing boat? A coaster carrying coal, or supplies to a lonely oil rig? Only the dull and torpid were asleep. Brave souls fished and navigated, prospected for oil or new ideas, made seaweed fritters, kept the night alive; Walt Disney scribbling sketches in the early hours; Abban on his knees till dawn. The power of the individual. The Celtic Church had allowed that power to flourish—scores of dedicated men beavering away in bleak and lonely places, fostering their talents. They hadn’t needed large-scale formal buildings like later medieval monks, or official written rules. Any tiny one-off settlement could achieve fame and sanctity through its individual founder, its individual work. The greatest of them had transformed their barren sites into centres of scholarship respected throughout the world—Columba on Iona, Aidan at Lindisfarne, their own St Abban here. If David’s book succeeded, it could make Abban’s name and island live again. And she was part of it, could be involved still further if she stayed a while, helped and supported David in his work. Couldn’t they inaugurate their own mini golden age—even if it lasted a scant month or less—two scholars working for one end, following one ideal? She could rise above her usual petty concerns, do without her creature comforts, forget bodies, gender, clothes, strive for something higher, more worthwhile.
She strode back to the table, cleared away the dishes, replaced David’s books and papers centre-stage.
‘What you doing? We haven’t finished yet. I’ve just broken a nail opening that wretched jam.’
‘We can’t have jam. Abban would be horrified. It’s not even a feast day.’
David laughed. ‘See how he’s affected you already? He does that all the time. No, leave the dishes, Morna. If you’re tired, you go back to bed.’
‘I’m not in the least bit tired. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to make a start on the rest of that translation—the bit I never finished.’
‘What, now?’
‘Why not?’ She picked out a Biro and some paper, drew up her chair. ‘It’s getting on for five. Abban would have been working for an hour or two already if he’d gone to bed at all. If we’re going to be saints, David, we’ve got to rival that.’
Chapter Twenty
Chris put her cases down, stood blinking against the glare and noise and bustle of the airport. Crowds of people pressed against the barrier—chauffeurs with placards, excited children hopping up and down, a tiny stoop-backed nun dwarfed by her cello case, a turbanned Indian brandishing a bouquet of yellow roses. So where was Martin? Surely he could spot her. She was standing slap-bang in the centre of the concourse, wearing a crazy hat which said ‘I love Los Angeles’, a two-foot-long koala bear (a present from Dean) stuck under one arm. Most of the other passengers were being swallowed up in hugs and kisses as their friends and relatives rushed forward to take their luggage, fall upon their necks. She watched in envy as a dishy guy dressed all in white swung his red-haired girlfriend off her feet. Hadn’t Martin made it? Been delayed in traffic? Was still in bed asleep? Okay, if that’s how much she meant to him, she would make her own way back. There were buses, weren ‘t there, tubes? It would be better anyway. If she were going to cut their ties, then best to do it right from the beginning, not let him think …
‘Chris!’
She swung round, saw someone pounding towards her from the opposite direction—a boy—no, a man; someone taller than she’d remembered, older, better looking. He seized her in his arms, crushed her against his rough and matted sweater which smelt of printer’s ink. She tried to pull free, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, but he only held on tighter, pressing her whole length against his body so that she could feel his ribs, the bulge between his legs which had suddenly got bigger. At last, his arms relaxed a little and she ducked out under them, took a step back, stared at him, confu
sed. She had planned to play it cool, just a brief kiss and a ‘Nice to see you, Martin’, but how could she say that when he was obviously so choked, sort of blinking and screwing up his face and …?
‘You … you’re crying, Martin.’
‘Course I’m bloody not. Is this all your luggage?’ He snatched up her two cases, started striding on ahead towards the exit.
‘Wait,’ she shouted. ‘Wait! L … Let’s have a coffee first.’
‘What for?’ He paused a moment to allow her to catch up, flung an arm across her shoulders. ‘We can make some tea at my place if you’re thirsty.’
‘N … No, please. There’s no rush, is there?’ She needed to sit down quietly and work things out. She was thrown, totally thrown by the Martin who was standing there—the strong dark wilful hair which refused to lie flat or wave, the intense and wary eyes, narrowed now as if daring her to mock them, the tall slouched figure which showed his bones through his body his body through his clothes. The Martin she had shrugged off in America had been different altogether—sort of flabbier and slighter, with mousy hair and little piggy eyes. Had she downgraded him on purpose so she could be free to go with other men, free to find a partner her father would approve of?
He was suddenly kissing her again, had stopped right outside the bookshop, put the cases down and scooped her up instead, so that people were muttering and complaining, having to walk round them, tripping on their luggage. He had never kissed like that before—not even in his bedroom, let alone in public—so fiercely and sort of famishedly, as if he were a wild starving animal who had only just been let out of its cage. At last, he let her mouth go, but still held her by the wrists, staring into her face.
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