by Jane Anstey
When he finally awoke, he set himself, out of curiosity, to follow the monks’ Sunday activities as closely as he could. Although he had not arisen in time for their early services, he managed to finish breakfast in time for morning Mass. He found the mealtime silence less strange than he had the previous day and his thoughts seemed to steady and become less chaotic as he ate––quite different from breakfast at home, when even at the weekend his mind tended to charge up madly, ready for the morning’s schedule.
The Parish Mass celebrated at 10 a.m. on Sundays was attended by quite a large complement of the local Catholics, for whom the chapel clearly acted as parish church. The abbot exuded deep spiritual power in the ritual setting as he conducted the consecration of the elements and the memorial of that central plank of faith, the crucifixion. Clive found the words of the service surprisingly modern, with much of the English liturgy being identical to, or at least very reminiscent of, the Anglican communion service he was familiar with. He found himself joining in the responses, and when the wafer was shared around, he felt a sense of deprivation that he was not qualified to receive with the others—which was extremely odd because at St Martin’s he never cared much whether he received communion or not.
He shrugged this off and listened to the rest of the service as placidly as he could, trying to switch off the uncomfortable sense of connection he was experiencing with things that most of the time he rejected as irrelevant. In some ways, the Parish Mass was a more relaxed gathering than yesterday’s services had been, with coffee and conversation afterwards open to the whole congregation; but the monks themselves, he noticed, quickly melted away for further study and private prayer. Clive knew no one from the parish congregation and did not want to interact with them in case any of them recognised him and published the fact that he was there––irrationally, he felt as secretive about this unlooked-for weekend at Whitehill as he would have about some stolen assignation with Olivia.
So far, he had not made very good use of his time at the abbey, he felt. He would have loved to find an excuse to visit the library again, and get a better look at that wall safe the librarian was using. But he couldn’t think of any pretext for going back. He certainly couldn’t pretend he wanted to study, since these days he did any information-gathering almost exclusively on the Internet. There didn’t seem to be any WiFi in his room, and he wondered whether the abbey was in fact connected with the Web. He couldn’t imagine Father Petrowski surfing websites or indulging in the social media whirl, though he did not seem to lack interest in the outside world in general.
In the end, he went out for a walk across the Whitehill estate. It was a fairly mild day and the air was damp, but it wasn’t actually raining and he enjoyed his tramp through the fields. He arrived back at the monastery in time for the short devotions in the chapel which preceded lunch and sat down to the meal in company with twenty-five brothers who had joined the three or four guests––everyone, including the abbot, seated along the two long sides of a big oak table. Silence had begun to feel quite natural to him, even though there was no reading to accompany the meal. He took more note than before of the other guests at the table, who were presumably also on retreat, if probably more seriously than he. He wondered whether any of them were staying beyond the weekend, or considering a life at the monastery.
After lunch, he walked casually across the quadrangle to the library door, hoping to find the room empty and the librarian safely occupied elsewhere. But although, looking cautiously through one of the tall windows to the side of the chapel, he found the first of these hopes fulfilled, the door was locked.
He decided it was time to go home. Rose and Robert would be glad to see him earlier than he expected––at least, he hoped they would. He packed his belongings and went, out of politeness, to bid the abbot goodbye. He found Jan in his study, reading a biography of Julian of Norwich.
“A remarkable woman,” he said, gesturing to Clive to sit in the armchair opposite. “I don’t know whether you had come across any of her work before you heard the readings at supper yesterday? She lived at the time of the Black Death, amid unimaginable horrors, and yet writes of nothing but God’s love.”
Clive murmured something inarticulate. In the abbot’s presence he found it difficult to untangle the meshed threads of his thoughts enough to express anything, least of all on the phenomenon of a fourteenth-century mystic. Jan was a mystic, someone more spiritual than any Clive had ever met, and yet at the same time he was practical, direct, and both physically and sexually attractive. Clive couldn’t recall ever responding to male physicality before, and it alarmed him slightly.
“Did your time here help you?” asked the abbot, his dark eyes fixed on Clive’s face.
“It’s hard to say,” replied Clive honestly, rejecting the platitudes that came to mind and concentrating on the reality of his feelings. “I’m glad I came, that’s all I can tell you.”
The abbot smiled. “And did you visit the library?”
“Yes, I did.” Clive hesitated, wondering whether to mention the furtive behaviour of the librarian. “The brother there was quite busy, though, so I only had a quick look. And I’m not that into books anyway, if I’m honest,” he added.
Jan nodded. “So, can we do anything more to help you?”
Clive shrugged. “I’m not really sure what help I need.”
Jan regarded him judiciously. He had the feeling that this was not altogether true. Clive was clearly resisting any spiritual insights he had been given during the silences of this weekend, and might need help recognising them properly.
“You don’t live far away, do you?” he said at last. “Come back again, as often as you like. We are always here. Perhaps a guided retreat next time, or some prayer with a confessor––a spiritual director?”
“Would you be my confessor?” blurted out Clive, surprising himself. “You seem to…to see me as I really am.”
Jan’s eyebrows rose. This was not quite what he had expected, though perhaps he should have. “That sets me in the place of God,” he said, with a glimmer of humour. “One in which I would fare badly, if I were so foolish to try to take it. But I am said to be a good listener.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Clive confessed awkwardly, with the same bafflement he had shown earlier.
“That does not matter in the least,” Jan responded. “We can start anywhere, and still reach our destination.” If in the event he did not feel that he was the best spiritual director for Clive, they could explore a different direction. The most important thing was not to lose this potential convert at the outset.
He looked into Clive’s eyes, searching there for a desire to know more of God, and at the same time impelling him to look more deeply into himself.
“Let me know when you would like to come again,” he said at last, “and I will set time aside for us to talk. The phone number is on the card I gave you yesterday.”
Clive returned the gaze and saw in Jan’s eyes immense compassion and also, to his surprise, the shadow of some past experience that had not been either innocent or unworldly, and which had scarred him deeply. This was a man who knew what it was to struggle with life, and perhaps also what it was to fail.
The abbot stood, holding out his hand in farewell. The interview was over. Yet there was a promise in that dismissal, Clive thought, that the abbot would be there for him another time, when he was ready. He shook the proffered hand and left the room.
He walked through the hall and down the steps to where his car was still parked. It felt like setting out on a long but unpremeditated journey rather than going home after a brief weekend away. He was aware of the abbot watching him from the window of his study, and he became conscious suddenly, now that he was committed to going home, impelled by some desire he could not understand or control, to stay longer, to lay his life and his problems at Jan Petrowski’s feet now, immediately, and never leave again. He had never felt remotely like this about anyone before, and it se
emed to him suddenly, with shock, dismay, and yet a curious exultation, that he had fallen in love for the first time in his life.
Twelve
Simon, spending the Hogmanay weekend with his cousin in Edinburgh before flying home for the new term, began to feel that his decision to take a Christmas holiday had been vindicated. The mountains were beautiful to behold in their winter-white clothing, the hill walking had been enjoyable when intermittent snow storms allowed, and Meg, his cousin, was clearly happy to see him after a number of years when they had corresponded via Christmas cards and the occasional email, if at all. He was looking forward to returning home to Hampshire in a slightly more cheerful frame of mind than he had left, though whether that would last when he took up the threads of his normal existence was anybody’s guess.
Meg and her husband had invited guests for Hogmanay night itself––not quite a party, for they were quiet people who disliked the raucous excesses that often marred celebrations at the New Year in Scotland, but plenty of alcohol and good food were in evidence throughout the evening, which seemed to go off well. Simon helped Meg’s husband dispense drinks and made conversation where necessary, until the last guests arrived at eleven o’clock. One of these, a leading Scottish Nationalist minister in the Edinburgh parliament, had brought with him a striking girl he described as “an old friend.” At first, in spite of this introduction, Simon took them for a couple, but when the girl abandoned her escort and began flirting with him, he realised the minister had spoken only the truth.
“I’m Olivia,” she said, smiling brightly at him from dark blue eyes set off by carefully pencilled eyebrows and an aquiline nose. “I’m just visiting Edinburgh, like you.” From head to toe she was beautifully turned out, her shoulder-length hair curving against her neck seductively, her cocktail dress hugging her lovely figure as though cut to fit every curve.
He found himself wondering why she had chosen him to flirt with. Maybe she had done her research in the short time at her disposal: the room was full of couples, and presumably she had identified him as the only single man available. Her friend the minister, he remembered Meg telling him, was in the throes of an expensive, scandalous and very public divorce, although as far as he was aware, Olivia had played no part in his marital difficulties.
“Simon,” he responded briefly. She did not offer to shake hands with him, and he wondered what type of greeting she was expecting.
“You’re a teacher from down south, I hear. How do you like Scotland at New Year? I haven’t stayed up here for Hogmanay before, but I’m between jobs and Geordie invited me.”
Perhaps he felt in need of some friendly support, thought Simon wryly, and wondered how useful a friend she would be in such circumstances, since she had not stayed with her escort beyond the first introductions. On closer inspection, she was older than he had first thought, and painstakingly made up to hide it.
“What line of work are you in?” he asked, making an effort. She was his cousin’s guest, after all.
“I’m a PA––a kind of glorified secretary.” The voice was cool, the manner poised, but he was conscious of insecurities beneath the rather patronising tone.
“Yes, I do recognise the abbreviation,” he responded, trying not to sound as though he were putting her down.
She pouted slightly, the full lips making the moue attractive rather than sulky. But her blue eyes danced as they met his. “I worked in the City until a couple of weeks ago,” she said. “I daresay I shall go back and find another poor sap to look after when I’ve had a bit of a break. I can’t see myself staying long in Edinburgh, somehow. Too much of a backwater after London.”
Simon was glad that his cousin and her husband were not in earshot of this sacrilege.
“What do you teach? What kind of school is it?”
“I teach English at an independent secondary school, in Hampshire.”
“Hampshire?” This information had sparked some real interest, rather than the polite kind. “My old boss lived there.”
Simon’s interest sharpened too. Clearly the ex-boss was still of interest to her, however blasé she appeared. He searched his memory. What was the name of the PA Clive had had an affair with? It might have been Olivia. He was sure Rose had told him that evening when she’d opened her heart to him, but he couldn’t remember it.
Not for a moment would he have betrayed his own interest by asking her the question, but she chose to enlighten him. “Clive Althorpe is his name. He and his wife live in a village near Winchester. It’s supposed to be a lovely part of the country, though I’ve never been there.”
Was there a note of regret in her voice? Simon’s interest deepened. For one thing, he hadn’t expected such an exotic butterfly as this in the role as described by Rose, though he could see how Clive might have been seduced by her. And Rose had implied the relationship was confined to working hours––except perhaps on business trips. Had Olivia hoped to move in with Clive and oust Rose altogether?
His jaw tightened. “I do know Clive,” he admitted rather stiffly. “Not well, but he lives a few miles away. We come across each other occasionally at local events. It’s a small world in these villages.”
She must have heard the edge in his voice, the hostility he couldn’t quite hide. “Clive’s a scumbag,” she said, unconsciously echoing Liz’s opinion. “I pity his wife, to be honest.”
I wonder whether you really do. Simon thought angrily of the anguish Rose had suffered as a result of this harpy’s liaison with her husband, and the contempt she had shown for Rose as a person.
“Anyway,” Olivia added, in an airy tone. “He’s no longer my boss, and I’m looking for pastures new.” Her eyes met his again, and there was an invitation in them. She was bored with being a friend to the Scottish minister, he saw, and was looking for a fling. He smiled rather grimly. Not with me, my girl.
“I wish you luck,” he said as lightly as he could. “Can I help you to a drink while I’m still here? Not long till midnight now, and I’m first-footing.” He measured her out a gin and tonic from the bottles on the tray beside him and turned to serve another guest.
~ * ~
Amongst the mail waiting for him in the mailbox outside his front door when he arrived home from the airport on Wednesday was a postal packet from his publishers, containing an early copy of his first slim volume of poetry. Simon opened it slowly, savouring the excitement and anticipation. To have managed to publish even a few poems in today’s economic climate seemed an enormous achievement, and he felt unexpectedly humbled by it. Then he recalled correcting the proofs on that momentous night when Rose had come to his cottage for the Tower Meeting that had to be cancelled and had nearly ended up in his bed. His momentary feeling of fulfilment as a poet faltered and died in memory of his failure as a lover. He told himself that the book of poems represented a way forward for his life that Rose, in the end, had not. She was only a woman, he told himself stoutly; a special woman, undoubtedly––he had to admit that––and one whose personality had fitted his own and made it whole, but no woman should be able to dominate a man’s life to the extent of destroying the pattern of living he had chosen to suit his own philosophy and needs. No person should do that to someone else––spouses, lovers, friends, family; they were all included in his instinctive prohibition.
And yet…No man is an island, entire of himself.
Rose had enchanted him by relating Donne’s poem, in her practical way, to the ringing of the passing bell for deceased villagers. To Simon, the links between human beings resembled the shackles of prisoners in a chain-gang, propelled together along the same road by the impersonal slave-drivers of fate and self-seeking, with no concern for individual need and happiness. But that wasn’t what Rose had felt. To her, the linkages were positive, not imprisoning chains but hands reaching out to hold each other and help each other along. That’s why I could have loved her. Why I still love her, in spite of everything.
His answer phone, when he got to it, contai
ned a miscellany of messages demanding a response, including an invitation to dinner at the rectory the following evening.
“It’s only ourselves and the older children,” Liz’s voice informed him. “More of a family supper than a formal dinner. Or next Monday would be fine, if you prefer. Remy has his day off then, as you know, but term will have started, which might not suit you so well. Just let me know when you get back and we’ll take it from there. Bye!”
He went through the rest of the messages while he considered the invitation. He remembered Remy’s vague suggestion that he might join them for a meal, made during their joint investigations into Robert’s disappearance and Brian Warrendon’s death. But nothing more had been said about it since, and the invitation seemed to have passed its sell-by date. Did he still want to accept, or was his embryonic friendship with Remy one more thing that needed to be abandoned now that his relationship with Rose had ended?
His first instinct was to decline the invitation, and find healing for his pain in solitude, as he usually did. But the instinct was not quite strong enough to drown a half-felt need for friendly companionship, even though at the same time he rejected the demands it might make on him. He looked at his book of poems again and thought desolately that he had no one to share his delight in their publication. His cousin would not be interested, and his colleagues at school would be merely incredulous or even derisive. Jeremy’s son Mike would provide him with uncritical admiration, as he always did, but Mike was only a pupil, not an equal.
He found himself imagining Rose’s look of joy if he showed the poems to her, but the vision was too poignant and painful to maintain for long. He pressed the Erase button on the answer phone display, clearing the tape for future calls. Then, impulsively, he picked up the receiver and dialled the rectory.
~ * ~
Rose and Robert spent a happy weekend together in Clive’s absence. Rose had been almost able to forget her own unhappiness and bury, at least for a time, her guilt at the depths of dishonesty, deception and disillusionment to which she seemed to have sunk with regard to Clive, while Robert had shown an uncomplicated contentment in her company. The highlight for them both had been entertaining the rectory twins for a substantial Saturday evening meal of fish fingers, chips, and frozen peas, followed by fruit yoghurts in tiny individual pots decorated with humorous facts and dreadful puns which were much enjoyed by everyone. Then mother and son had walked the twins home along the narrow lanes in the dark, the children waving torches at every tree and bush with wild enthusiasm, before returning to Sundials, hand in hand, in a quiet companionship reminiscent of their walks home from school in previous months, before the dramas of the autumn. For the first time in weeks, Rose didn’t even think of Simon.