The Rest Is Silence

by Kevin Scully

  The demise of the spiritual aspirations of this community was pursued by its physical obliteration. Long dead before the rampages of the rapacious Henry VIII and the later Vandal-in-Chief Oliver Cromwell, locals used the ruins of the community buildings as a pre-cut quarry, so much so that a number of academic explorations have claimed that holy stones can be found in constructions as diverse as the village pub, defunct post office, schoolhouse and in various dry stone walls throughout the county.

  Fr Abbot spoke to The Founder—that is, to me, whom he imagined to be The Founder—and asked if he had foreseen the decay and demise of the project he had worked so hard to foster. Here I faced the perennial dilemma of dealing with the demented. Did I attempt to disabuse Fr Aidan of his assumption as to my persona, telling him that I was no more than Brother Columba, unfit to untie the thong of the sandal of The Founder? Should I ignore it? Or did I play along? This is fraught with danger. Fr Aidan’s bouts of clarity drew on his prodigious brain and experience, and any such role play was bound to end unhappily as I grasped to respond to technical and historical enquiry.

  What I chose was ultimately a path of cowardice and responsibility. I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. He responded in the affirmative. I popped off to the kitchen to which I had been given, by virtue of my relatively clear mind, more or less free access, and brewed us both a cup. On my return I was amazed to see that Fr Abbot had got out of his clothes—they were in a pile on the floor—and had got into bed. This show of initiative was worrying. Fr Aidan had long relied on the agency of carers to dress and undress, as well as getting out of and into bed. Yet here he was tucked up. I later remarked on this to one of the night staff who registered little surprise; good habits, just as much as the bad, she said, came to the unexpected fore.

  It being near the hour of Compline I suggested, with little real expectation of enthusiasm, that we do the office together. Fr Aidan readily assented and I took up his rarely used office book and attempted to give it to him. He waved it away.

  ‘Gracious, no, Brother. If a monk does not know Compline after all the years we’ve been professed, what is to become of us?’

  I asked if he minded that I, then, might resort to the use of his prayer book, saving me the journey to my adjoining room.

  ‘Not at all, Brother.’

  He then, for the first time in our residence at Care Home, took the role of officiant. I responded to his deftly clipped versicles, joined his singing of Before the Ending of the Day, Save us O Lord and the Nunc Dimittis (for which he switched to the BCP 1662 Evensong version), and gave his abbatial blessing at the conclusion. All of which was done in a manner that nobly reflected his authority gained from a lifetime in the cloister.

  No sooner had he pronounced the blessing than his eyes closed and was asleep. I folded his clothes, put them on the now vacated chair, put his office book on the prie-dieu and took the empty cups back to the kitchen where I had the conversation with the carer I mentioned earlier. I returned to my room, took off my habit and got into bed.

  Morning in a care home, like the rest of the day, is a mixture of the predictable and unexpected events. Some residents refuse to rise; some need especial attentions dealing with unwelcome deposits overnight; others seek to regiment a routine for themselves that somehow mirrors the beginning of the day when they lived in places they called their own.

  I had taken to saying a shorter morning office on rising. I did this at my prayer desk after taking advantage of the en-suite bathroom where I showered before donning my habit and scapular. I would then pop in to see Fr Aidan where I offered, if he wanted—he usually did not—to say the longer office. I would read aloud a reflective non-scriptural passage appointed for the day, which he seemed to welcome.

  This morning followed its customary routine: I showered, dressed, took to my knees to pray. Then, recognising the gift of Fr Aidan’s clarity at bedtime, I gave thanks to God for a glimmer of the towering figure Fr Abbot had been—prayerful, incisive, commanding, a natural administrator and leader, but always a wise priest. I usually held off intercessions and other prayers of the office for that, if were to happen, I conducted with my fellow monk in exile. If he did not, I found time during the morning to do this work.

  So, after my mixture of enhanced routine, I knocked on the door of the adjoining room. Gaining no response was no surprise—I was often greeted with silence. I pushed back the door and went in. Fr Aidan was in his bed. He was stone dead.

  1. Br Columba is referring to the film Casablanca.

  2. Author of the novel, The Monk.

  Man is like a thing of nought: his time passeth like a shadow.1

  1. Psalm 144:4. Columba is quoting from the Coverdale Psalter, used in the Book of Common Prayer, 1662. There is nothing to suggest why this quotation was put on the scrap of paper on which it appears.

  Precious Moments

  Being with the dead is a precious gift. I am not suggesting anything morbid or romantic here—I expect those who work in mortuaries and funeral directors have some kind of sustaining drive, be it prayer, cynicism or even gallows humour—but there is a sacred confrontation: one witnesses a departure (there is no doubt a body becomes a mere husk of something once animate) and a responsibility is laid on such witness.

  In the monastery the death of a brother was celebrated: not quite with a party, but due observance. The laying out was usually the task of the Infirmarian, so much did we see the link between the fragility of life and acceptance of death as part of it. We were fortunate to have a former doctor and nurse in that role during different times of my life at Saint Candida’s, and then Father Abbot and the Sacristan would oversee the ritual.

  There was a beautiful pattern to this. Laid out in one of Fr Augustine’s simple coffins, the deceased brother would lie in chapel where a prayer vigil was maintained by members of the community. Work was expected to continue as normal. As Fr Abbot would remind us, our departed brother was still alive, but not present to us here; he was doing the work now required of him, and so we should do ours.

  A Requiem Mass would follow the next day—assuming no other legal or civic investigations were required—and the priests and brothers would follow the coffin to the monastery cemetery where the monk would be laid to rest. It was all simple, solemn yet, in a strange way, joyful. Wine would be served with the lunch that followed the ceremony.

  Fr Aidan’s death in Care Home presented the community—me—with the task of dealing with death without such a monastic framework. Father Abbot was dead—there was no question of it. And there was no point in panicking or raising an alarm.

  I popped next door to my room, collected my office book and returned to Fr Aidan’s room. I recited the office for the dead and then said Morning Prayer. It was then I sought out one of the carers. It was just approaching handover time at the change of shifts. I knew this was potentially tricky: the night staff would be keen to leave and those coming on for morning duties had plenty to do, let alone deal with the death of one of the residents.

  Such misgivings were as unfair to the staff as they were unfounded. After all, death in a care home is a part of life there as much as it was as in a monastery. The woman I had spoken with in the kitchen during the night was in the dining room. I told her what had occurred and she reacted with sympathetic and unhurried concern. A Christian herself, she asked me if we should pray. I told her I had already said the office for the dead. The look on her face—she was a Pentecostalist—informed me these words meant nothing to her. So we went to Fr Aidan’s room and she led me in what she said was going to be a short prayer. I suppose it was to her, but it did seem to go on for a long time.1

  ‘You should call a priest,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that what you do? Do you have a number? We should leave things as they are and let the office know when they arrive in a while.’

  I gave the woman Fr Scully’s number and I went with her to a phone. She dialled the number and, when it was ringing, handed me the handset. Fr Scully answered.
I told him the news.

  ‘I’ll be right over.’

  I waited with Fr Abbot’s body until I heard the telltale buzz that alerted staff someone was at the front door—you learn to distinguish each of the clarion calls in various panels of the home’s corridors. I went downstairs and let the priest in.

  Fr Scully asked when Fr Aidan had died and I recounted the events of the evening and following morning. When we got to the room, Fr Scully slipped over his head a thin purple stole taken from a black leather holder, which also contained a small silver sprinkler, with a screw top in the shape of a cross. He undid the top and sprayed the room as he began to read from a small brown covered prayer book.

  ‘Rest eternal grant unto him, O Lord…’ he began.

  I joined in the response, ‘and let light perpetual shine upon him.’

  There followed the De Profundis, Psalm 130, ‘Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord…’ A mixture of prayers followed: some scripted; some ex tempore. At one point I heard myself asked if I wanted to say something. I shook my head, then told Fr Scully I had already prayed the Community Office for the departed. He nodded, then began the Lord’s Prayer, followed by a prayer of commendation. The service ended as it opened, praying for eternal rest for my now departed brother.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ It was Fr Scully. I did.

  We went to the kitchen, made a cup each, then adjourned to the sitting room where the weekly Eucharist was celebrated. I recall little of the conversation. It is possible we sat in silence. There did not seem anything to say. The priest had conducted his duties decently and in order.

  For a brief moment I experienced an emotion similar to that I had after the death of my parents in the car crash. I was an orphan again. I was the last of my clan. All that could be said about the Community of Saint Candida, as with my family, was in the past. The rest was silence.

  1. The staff member asked me to anonymise her if Brother Columba’s writings were ever made public. She said she was worried she could face disciplinary action for having prayed over a resident.

  Obituary

  Fr Aidan of the Community of Saint Candida, who died last week in a care home in East London, was for many the archetypal Anglo-Catholic intellectual.

  Born Cyril Rochdale, he was the only child to Bert and Doris, who ran a stall in Cheshire Street, off the famous Brick Lane market. Evacuated during the war to Suffolk, it was there he learned of the death of his parents, who were killed in a bombing raid, from Captain and Mrs Everton, in whose care he had been lodged. The young Cyril remained in the care of the Evertons, who formally adopted him, though he retained his parents’ surname.

  An excellent scholar at grammar school, he won a place at New College, Oxford, which he took up after his National Service. His academic prowess, for which he gained a double first from Oxford, led to an early career as tutor, lecturer and author, specialising in Recusant Roman Catholicism.

  He was tipped for professorial status but upended expectations by joining the relatively obscure and remote order of the Community of St Candida in rural Dorset. After his novitiate he was encouraged by the Abbot to maintain his academic links while, at the same time, living within the daily routine of the monastery. It was the same Abbot who discerned a priestly vocation in him. He was ordained by the Visitor to the Order as both deacon and priest.

  Numerous students consulted Fr Aidan, as he now was, in person or by letter, to which he responded in his signature copperplate handwriting. He never took to technology—not even a typewriter—which probably accounted for his shrinking presence in academe. His reviews in this journal and other publications were examples of the best in the genre—insightful, critical and always concise. He had the gift of understanding the complex and reflecting on it simply. For all that his views, both private and public, seemed free of any ‘party politics’ or controversies that have arisen within the Church of England.

  Fr Aidan served in many posts of the monastic ‘hierarchy’—Prior, Novice Master, Librarian and, for a short time (much to the relief of his brethren) in charge of the kitchen. He was elected Abbot in his fifties, serving as the spiritual head of the monastery for 13 years.

  He was a much sought after retreat conductor, quiet day leader, spiritual director and confessor by priests and laymen alike. His kind, sympathetic nature was combined with a keen eye for people’s talents. No less than three bishops found their initial vocation through his nurture.

  As the numbers of monks dwindled, Fr Aidan reluctantly found himself Abbot once again. A peculiarity of CSC is that only a priest could serve in the abbatial role. In this post he oversaw the personally painful but necessary sale of the monastic buildings and the transfer of its assets to a Trust that serves to look after the remaining member of the community and other objectives that seek to further prayerful reflection in the Church of England.

  As his physical and mental faculties began to diminish, the Trustees acceded to his wish to return to East London where he began life, a development no-one had foreseen. He made the move with Brother Columba, who is now the last remaining member of CSC.1

  1. The obituary appeared in Church Times. It was credited to the Chair of Trustees.

  The Court of Earls

  I keep avoiding—at least in writing—the collision of values that led to my coming to Saint Candida’s. London life took on an increasingly dissolute quality—crammed flats, cases of beer drunk, parties interrupted by the necessity to find time and ways to pay for them. Who knew there were so many Australians who had British ancestry, who were travelling in Europe in the company of others from a similar background?

  We shared ourselves around. There seemed an acceptance that all involved were prepared to share homes, meals, beds and bodies with each other. Somehow relationships, however transitory, were formed. We revelled in the public aspect of private matters. Having sex in a room with others doing similarly became normal. Apologies were not offered for interrupting. Indeed, the thought of interruption did not seem to occur to the participants.

  I bought a redundant Kombi off a man whose time was up—he was going back to Adelaide to ‘get on with life’, as though the years he had passed here were no more than a notch on his belt—and had to get rid of the hardware. Like him, and countless others before him, I proceeded to fill the vehicle with fellow travellers of indeterminate desire for each other and length of journey. It seemed that any outgoing tide of people or interest would be met by one that came the other way.

  The transaction took place outside Australia House in the Strand. The vendors were all at the end of their current venture and wanted a bit of cash so they could move on to the next chapter of their book of life. This might be on land, sea or in the air. Paperwork for cars seemed historical, like oral history, an unbroken but hazy relationship that stretched back to original sources. The advice was simple: if you were stopped, say you had borrowed the van; it was easier that way.

  There were always complications. Those of us in the vehicle would rotate liaisons, affections and jealousies. This led to sometimes sudden departures at motorway services, towns and villages along the way.

  We ended up at the Isle of Wight Festival. Apparently I saw Jimi Hendrix. I would like to claim this with certitude, but that part of the story is too befuddled in my mind. I say apparently because my memories of that part of my journey are covered in haze, but not purple or any other colour for that matter. The music, the people, the booze, the dope just seemed to flow in a strange river. The escape was obviously individual. Or dual, to be more precise.

  The Kombi by this time had only two occupants—Donna, who had come into our circle, and me. The two of us decided to head west. The journey was haphazard. We would stop off on the side of the road, occasionally a caravan park, in fields, usually at sites recommended by other travellers in similar vehicles and circumstances. The serviced sites allowed us to wash ourselves and our clothes. They also provided venues that did not provoke the ire of locals or farme
rs—another perk of the facility.

  One day we piled up the van with food, drink and petrol and set off. We eventually pulled into a sheltered lay-by, where Donna and I made a full fledged assault on some cider. This turned out to be a potentially lethal local brew, which led to a loosening of tongues, inhibition and, eventually, clothing. I assume what occurred was mutual, but my reliability as a witness by this time was questionable. I don’t even know if I had heard Jimi Hendrix.

  What I can recall was the outstanding quality of the sex. It is hard to say where and when mutuality and selfishness blurred. I can remember overhearing Donna once telling another woman at a farm where we stopped to get some scrumpy that while she felt some kind of affection for me, she feared I had a streak of brutality and that, despite her using the contraceptive pill, led to her harbouring an ongoing fear of pregnancy.

  As I say, my recall of carnal events is exemplary. Why is it that such details should stand out when so much else around them is lost? It was viscous: our bodies slid on and over and in and out of each other. Abandon was total. Perhaps it was the recovery of privacy—no audience, no competition, no distraction. The only experience comparable—and I fear this is blasphemous—is the abandon one can encounter in contemplative prayer.

  Why I could not accept the gift I had been given is a question that confronts me even to today. In our exhaustion on the rug by the van, I saw Donna’s buttocks, catching the moonlight. I felt myself harden and rolled on top of her. Her acquiescent murmur—she probably expected me to mount her from behind—turned into a squeal of pain as I pushed into her arse. The tightening muscles, the gasp, the mixture of pleading and reasonability in the statement, ‘That really hurts’, only served to augment my excitement. For a moment I thought to overcome all resistance. Then I realised that I was on the edge of being—I was—that brute Donna had mentioned. With some regret I withdrew and spilled my seed onto the ground. It was one of the most exciting orgasms I have ever experienced.