You Owe Me Five Farthings

by Jane Anstey

  The twins went to play with Robert at Sundials on Saturday afternoon, which gave her time to plan the pre-school activities for the following term. With government funding had come government control, and the curriculum was strictly laid out and had to be adhered to. It was wonderful to be making a difference to such young lives, and she could pay her assistants a small wage instead of recruiting volunteers from among the mothers of her pupils, but occasionally she missed the free-and-easy days when she could plan her own curriculum and cater for a wider range of age group; now she could only take the children who were three and rising four, who would go into Reception at school next year. They were the ones the government paid for, and so they had priority. No gain without pain, she said to herself as she wrote up the pre-school timetable on the computer. Taken all round, I’m a very lucky woman.

  When she had finished, there were a few minutes to fill before she set about putting something in the oven for herself and Remy to eat later. Saturday dinner represented their attempt to have some “quality time” for themselves as a couple—though all too often, like the other shreds of personal life they tried to keep sacrosanct, it was invaded by pressing practical and parochial concerns. She sat at the kitchen table with her laptop, acquired fairly cheaply from a local computer shop that specialised in reconditioned office machines––an expense which she had justified at least partly because it would allow her to keep the parish website up to date. Not without a few pangs of guilt, she found herself trawling the Internet for education posts. Her degree was in electronics, though she had qualified as a teacher in both maths and general science. She taught sixth formers and adults at her Friday evening class, as well as running the pre-school in the rectory drawing room, but the local further education college where she worked had never advertised any full-time posts that really tempted her, even if she would feel able to apply for one.

  She knew it would be impossible for Remy to manage his life as a parish priest without her contribution as (unpaid) clerical support, but nevertheless it was a pleasure––surely an innocent one?––to see what posts were available elsewhere that she would like to fill, if circumstances permitted it. She might tell herself she was lucky, but deep down she longed to use her academic knowledge and her teaching skills more effectively. Her children were growing up, while her own intellectual and professional life seemed to be stagnating. Supporting Jeremy’s ministry no longer felt as important to her as it once had, though he seemed settled at St Martin-on-the Hill, and she didn’t want to unsettle him. But if she found just the right job, who knew what might happen? She didn’t really expect anything to change, but one never knew. And she could dream, like anyone else.

  There was nothing remotely possible on offer anywhere nearby, but she went so far as to create some alerts for jobs, and update her CV as though she were actively looking for employment, which made her remember Rose suddenly, and with guilt. She thought back to the conversation they had had last October, when Rose was thinking of finding a job. What had happened to that idea, she wondered? It looked as though Clive had given up his plan to send Robert away to school, which was just as well, for Rose had been upset about that, and with good reason. But Rose was a non-driver, which would make it difficult for her to take a job that required her to be home outside primary school hours. It was true that Rose was part of Remy’s ministry, and he felt a pastoral responsibility for her as a parishioner. But she was also Liz’s friend, and in the rush of busy-ness this week, she realised she had completely forgotten her. Rose had decided not to come and talk to them, after all, it seemed—probably just as well, with the week turning out as it had, but disturbing nevertheless, as it was clear that she had been seriously upset about something before Christmas.

  And then what about Simon? Something had been going on between him and Rose––you only had to look at the two of them together to know that. If Rose had called a halt to it, as she and Jeremy had speculated, Liz wasn’t sure what they, or anyone, could do to help. I really should leave Rose and Simon and Clive to work things out for themselves, I suppose, she thought. But Rose’s unhappiness refused to be banished from her mind so easily.

  Having thought of Simon, she began mentally reviewing the family and parish diaries, trying to decide when to fit in inviting Simon over for dinner as Jeremy had asked. It was probably best to invite him on his own this time, rather than trying to arrange others to keep him company. She thought Remy would want it to be a friendly meal, not a formal parish one, especially as Simon would probably not be particularly comfortable with churchwardens or PCC members. Simon might still be away on holiday for the moment, so that any date she came up with must be provisional, but she could make a start by talking to Mike and Lorna about whether they wanted to be allowed to join the adults at dinner. As Jeremy and Liz objected to teenagers being foisted on their dinner guests willy-nilly, Mike and Lorna still viewed staying up for an adult dinner party as a high treat. Mike admired Simon, she knew––he was his favourite teacher at school, and they had recently spent time together poring over that medieval book that had turned up at the College Fayre. He would certainly be keen to join them at dinner if Simon was there. But if Mike were invited, there would be trouble with Lorna if she were asked to eat with the little ones. If I invite Robert over for tea, to keep the twins company, she thought with sudden inspiration, Lorna can join us, and that will keep everyone happy.

  Passing Lorna in the hallway, she stopped her to ask whether she would be willing to look after the three younger ones and then put the twins to bed afterwards, as a quid pro quo for being allowed to join her parents and Simon at dinner. “No date, yet. It depends on when Simon’s back. But probably next week or the week after.”

  “Wicked!” was Lorna’s enthusiastic response. “No probs, Mum. I’d be glad to.”

  Liz tried to believe that Lorna’s eagerness could be explained simply by the privilege of eating with her parents’ guests, rather than with this guest in particular, and hoped that Simon’s undoubted attractiveness was not going to prove a problem in their household as well as at Sundials. The thought tempted her to put off asking him for another week, on the basis that Jeremy was too busy at present to add another evening’s engagement to his schedule. She suggested as much over dinner. The twins were eating supper at Robert’s house, and the two teenagers had decided to jazz up a pizza for themselves in the kitchen, allowing their parents to eat something more sophisticated in the more formal dining room without family interruptions for once.

  Jeremy vetoed her concern at once. “Let’s not put Simon off,” he said firmly. “I meant us to ask him over before Christmas.”

  “He’s been away,” Liz reminded him. “In fact, I think he still is.”

  “Yes, I know. But I wanted to make friends with him as a person, not a clergyman, remember? If that gets derailed by parish business, what kind of a message am I sending out? And I said a Monday, too, because it’s my day off.”

  “Now, Remy,” said Liz. “You’re trying to convince that poor innocent bellringer that the clergy are just people like everyone else. And you know perfectly well they aren’t! Probably he does, too, come to that.”

  Jeremy grinned. Liz had a wonderful ability to keep his feet on the ground.

  “What’s more, I know he’s on your list for Mission,” she teased, shaking her head at him.

  “Absolutely!” he joked back. Then, more seriously, he added, “I think his antipathy to the Church and the clergy has its roots quite deep in his past somewhere, you know. It might be helpful to find out what happened to him to make him feel so strongly.”

  “Don’t turn that into a new mystery to solve,” Liz warned him. “You’ve got enough on your plate already.”

  “There’s this business of the medieval book and Whitehill Abbey, as well,” Jeremy went on. “I haven’t had time to tell you about that.”

  Liz looked at him. “I thought Mike seemed surprisingly hung up on that book. What’s all this about?” />
  Jeremy had opened his mouth to explain when the doorbell rang. He sighed. It would have been good to get Liz’s opinion on the subject. But he supposed it could wait.

  Liz got to her feet. “You sit still,” she told him. “Whoever it is can let you finish your meal.”

  She opened the door and found it was only Rose bringing the twins home from playing with Robert. Smiling, Liz hugged Chris and Bethan and sent them off to the bathroom to get ready for bed. She asked the others in, hospitably, but Rose said Robert was tired and she would take him straight home. Without thinking, Liz offered her a lift, but Rose knew about rectory Saturday evenings, and their importance for Jeremy and his wife, and said hastily that it wasn’t raining––or only a very little––and she and Robert would enjoy walking home.

  Liz let them go, not without a rather guilty sense of relief, and went back to her interrupted supper. Jeremy had disappeared, so she would have to broach the mystery of Whitehill Abbey and the medieval book, whatever it was, another time. Perhaps when Simon came to dinner––he would probably be interested too, unless the mystery was something confidential that Jeremy couldn’t mention in public. She would have to check that beforehand. The following Thursday might be a good day, she mused, entering it in her mental diary as she sat down again to finish her meal, by then rather chilly and unappetising. Monday was New Year’s Day and Simon might not have returned, anyway. Perhaps the following Monday would be better? Jeremy had specified a Monday to make it a Day Off activity and thus not parish—although she couldn’t help feeling this was unnecessarily complicated and a Thursday would do just as well. Still, she would do her best to do what he had asked, as she usually did. He generally knew what he was doing. She would ring Simon this evening, as soon as she’d checked that Mike and Lorna had cleared away in the kitchen properly after dinner, and see what could be arranged.

  Eleven

  Clive had spent the first hour of his retreat at Whitehill Abbey wishing fervently that he had refused the abbot’s invitation. The upstairs room into which he was ushered by one of the monks was sparsely furnished. A single bed with a white cotton coverlet stood against one wall, with a small chest of drawers beside it on which reposed a Bible. On the other wall was a plain wooden table and chair, and above his head hung a ceiling light with a clear cover. He had not expected luxury, but the austerity of his surroundings was more than he had bargained for. It took him five minutes to unpack, and another five to survey his room and gaze out of the window across the fields. In the top drawer of the chest of drawers he found a map of the Abbey grounds, which showed large sections given over to productive cultivation and husbandry. From his window, he could see the walls of an old kitchen garden and fields beyond containing sheep. Further down the valley there were bare ploughed fields waiting for the spring’s planting. The country views themselves were soothing, but they did not much mitigate his sense of being a fish out of water. He sat for a while at the table and read a golfing magazine he’d brought with him, wondering whether Father Petrowski was or ever had been keen on the sport.

  The abbot, he had to admit, represented the most interesting aspect of staying at Whitehill Abbey, and was the sole reason he had allowed himself to be inveigled into the retreat. His first impression had been of a virile man full of natural authority softened by a genuine kindliness and compassion. Over coffee, he had been more conscious of a shrewdness and insight that saw through his outer defences and penetrated to the turmoil and anguish within. If ever he chose to confide in the abbot, he would not, he felt, have to tell him much. On the contrary, Father Petrowski would probably have a lot to tell him. The question was whether Clive would want to hear it.

  He laid out the plan of the monastery buildings and studied it, then made his way down to the cloisters and across the square of grass in the quadrangle, his feet moving quietly in their loafers. He pushed open the door of the library just as someone in a monk’s habit was withdrawing something from what was apparently a wall safe. The monk was clearly both surprised and displeased to see Clive appear unexpectedly in the doorway, and hurriedly pushed back into the safe the wrapped package he’d been removing. He closed the safe door quickly and turned to face Clive, his body protecting the aperture from view. Clive wondered for a moment if he had surprised a thief in the act. The monk certainly looked very furtive. On the other hand, he was presumably domiciled at the abbey and entitled to use its goods. Clive imagined he might even be the librarian. But if so, why was he looking so uncomfortable?

  “You are a guest here at the abbey?” the monk asked.

  Clive noticed, as Jeremy had, the faint foreign intonation in the librarian’s speech. The man was quite an extraordinary figure altogether, he thought, straight-backed even in old age, with the high forehead of an academic and a hooked nose and thin, strongly compressed mouth beneath it.

  “Just here for the weekend,” Clive replied, manoeuvring slightly to get a better look at the wall aperture.

  The monk moved in his turn so Clive’s view of the wall remained blocked. “I am Brother Librarian,” he informed him, confirming Clive’s guess. “How may I help you? You have come to study, perhaps? Father Abbot often gives retreat guests a reading list. If you give it to me, I will find the books if they are available.” He held out his hand.

  Clive shook his head. “No, I’m on what Father Petrowski called an unguided retreat,” he said. “No reading specified. But he suggested I visit the library, out of general interest.”

  “Ah. Well, you can see the volumes on the open shelves,” said the librarian, gesturing with some grandeur towards the book-lined walls. “Many of our more valuable volumes are locked away for safe keeping, although of course I can arrange for a viewing of anything you would like to see. Unfortunately, Father Abbot did not inform me that you might be coming this morning.”

  That much is obvious, thought Clive, intrigued by the other man’s continued wariness. What on earth is he hiding, I wonder? The monk refused to move from his post, however, so in the end Clive glanced at the shelves, which contained a lot of rather heavy-looking tomes (both intellectually and physically)––many of them belonging to an earlier age of the library, judging by the state of the bindings––and beat a retreat.

  Back in his room, he reclined in the armchair, at a loss how to occupy himself before the next meal, but certainly intending to use some of his time speculating on the librarian and his (obviously guilty) secret. To his surprise, he fell asleep, something he would not normally have done during the daytime, and the next thing he heard was the bell ringing for lunch.

  This turned out to be a cooked meal served from hot dishes on tables in the refectory, which the monks and retreat guests ate in silence––something he found slightly weird, though not unrestful. He had half-expected the monks to be secluded, or at least separated from guests in some way. But instead brothers and guests intermingled casually and ate the same food, from a self-service carvery. Big carafes of water were provided, with tea and coffee available when the meal was finished. Most of the brothers seemed to have work to go to afterwards, and Clive was left alone at the table with his coffee.

  He drank it quickly, left the cup on the trolley with the other dirty dishes, and went back to his room, where he found in his bag the book he had brought with him to while away the evening after an energetic day of golf. It was similar to others he had enjoyed on other holiday occasions, offering a tortuous plot, stereotypical characters, and some mildly pornographic descriptions of a variety of sexual encounters. Normally he would have read it comfortably, chuckled at some of the antics of the main characters and forgotten it immediately he had finished. Today it repelled him after a few pages as a tawdry bit of writing without either literary merit or any decent ideas, and he put it back in his suitcase, vaguely ashamed he had brought it with him.

  With nothing else to read, and no meeting of any kind to go to, he took the Bible from the bedside table and dipped into it, finding its contents, as usual,
impenetrable and distant from his life and its priorities. When it was read aloud in church, even from a modern translation, he often felt it spoke to a generation of Christians long gone. Yet for some––presumably for Jeremy, for these brothers at Whitehill Abbey, not least for Jan himself—it did actually speak to their need and their life experience. He wondered how that could be, and thought he must ask the abbot, if they had an opportunity for another conversation before he went home.

  He left his room almost eagerly when the Vespers bell rang, and found a place in the chapel where he could observe the service. But mere observation did not last long. These monks were famous for their performance of plainsong and early medieval chant, and he was soon absorbed in their singing. The simple chants and open harmonies, based on an ancient musical structure, moved him deeply in a way that classical church music did not: they seemed to speak directly to the emotions without engaging the mind on the way. The music lasted for fifteen minutes or so and was followed by readings from the Bible interspersed with prayer. Clive forgot to assess it all objectively as he had intended, and simply let it wash over him. A final chant ended the service, and then it was time for supper.

  The simple meal was served by the brothers themselves, and while they ate in silence, the abbot read to them from the writings of Julian of Norwich. Clive had never heard of St Julian, nor encountered any of her ‘hearings’ and to his surprise he was fascinated. When Jan had finished reading, there was a short prayer before the meal was cleared away, different brothers taking their turn to do the menial work. Clive drank a cup of coffee and was then borne away with the others for the final service of the day, Compline. Afterwards, he went to his room and slept peacefully until the morning bells rang for Prime at half-past five. His room was on the far side of the building from the chapel, however, and he turned over and went back to sleep.