by Jane Anstey
His arm tightened. “I didn’t know you liked hills.”
“They give me a sense of smallness––perspective, perhaps. I remember I’m not so very important when I look at them. They’re grand and noble and enduring, and my life and its concerns, which seem so big to me, are insignificant in comparison.”
“You said something like that about the stars,” he reminded her. “The night we walked home from the ball.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I remember.”
There was a silence. “I’m leaving Hampshire, Rose,” he confessed at last.
She looked up at him in the fading light and her voice faltered. “L-leaving?”
“I’ve found a teaching job at a school in Oxford. I’ve handed in my notice at Northchurch College, and I’m leaving at the end of this term.”
“But Simon, you love your job! And what about your cottage?”
“I’m selling it,” he told her bleakly. “It’s no good, Rose. I’ve tried, and I know I can’t go on––seeing you most weeks at ringing practice and on Sunday mornings, bumping into you in the supermarket on a Saturday morning or out walking‒‒knowing all the time that you’re there.” His voice broke. “So near…and yet you’re not for me.”
“Oh, Simon!”
“I almost didn’t come today,” he went on. “But then I thought you’d be here, and I’d be able to talk to you. I couldn’t just pack up and leave without talking to you one more time, without saying goodbye properly. I didn’t want you to find out from somebody else that I’d gone for good.”
She was silent, her eyes full of tears, her throat constricted. She wanted to cry out to him, to tell him that she loved him, that she didn’t love Clive, and never could––that she didn’t think that her marriage was going to work out, even now. But she couldn’t speak. In the end, it was still all about Robert, and what Robert needed, not about what she felt, or what Simon felt, or even what Clive did or felt. And anyway, it had all been said already, in the churchyard at St Martin’s, all those weeks ago. She thought suddenly, with a kind of desperate irony, that it was somehow fitting that they only ever seemed to talk together in graveyards. All their laughter and pleasure in each other was dead and buried, and even the memories would soon be buried, too. Simon would leave, and she would never see him again.
“Thank you,” she said, in a strangled voice, trying not to cry. “Thank you for telling me. That was so thoughtful, Simon.” So like you.
He turned her towards him, and touched her mouth roughly but very lightly with his lips. It could hardly be called a kiss, and she made no response, though she did not pull away. Then he lifted his head and gave a deep wrenching sigh.
“We’d better go,” he said, steering her down the steep path through the churchyard. “Not that I feel much like a cream tea,” he added. His mouth curved in a wry smile, but it wasn’t one that seemed to bring him any joy.
“No,” she agreed, trying to match his change of mood. “Far too jolly and summery somehow. I can’t think why the local tower put it on for us.”
“The pub probably doesn’t open until six. They felt they had to give us some kind of refreshment before we go home, so I suppose this was the next best thing. It’s a kind thought, actually.”
She nodded, and they walked on in silence past the old stone cottages that lined the lane, quiet in the dusk. Both of them reflected that cream teas were an odd subject for what might be their final conversation, but neither of them wanted to share the thought. Discussing something so mundane and trivial seemed better than airing again the emotions that both linked and divided them. Love had not died for either of them, and deep down they both knew it; but neither wanted to disturb the other by saying so, or by admitting that the decisions that had been made had not brought them any peace or hope for the future. In bleak, unspoken understanding, they caught up with the stragglers of the main group of ringers and went into the village hall for tea.
~ * ~
By mid-February, Clive’s visits to Whitehill Abbey had become so much the centre of his life that his thoughts had turned to taking up residence there permanently. Might it be that he had a vocation to the religious life? He asked himself that question with increasing frequency, though when he broached the subject with Jan, his confessor was far from encouraging.
“It is too soon for you to begin to think of entering the religious life,” Jan told him firmly. “Even if that way were open to you. You have barely even begun Catholic instruction. You are not yet a member of the Catholic Church. Be patient, Clive, and see how God leads you.”
Unfortunately, Jan’s wise words made no difference. The idea of vocation, of giving himself totally to the religious life as a monk, had taken possession of him, and it was not in his nature to be patient and wait on events. Obsessed by this new sense of destiny, he had begun to perceive Rose’s continued attraction to Simon as offering a way of escape for both of them, though he didn’t quite dare to pray for its fruition, against the whisperings of his own conscience, the moral teachings of the Church, and in the face of Jan’s certain disapprobation. Abandoning his family unilaterally would be roundly condemned, not only by Jan himself but by the Church he represented, and he knew that Rose and Robert––particularly Robert––had not deserved it. Yet he was increasingly aware of a deep, insistent longing to leave his existing life and strike out into something new––something richer in spiritual terms and less trammelled with material things and concerns. This desire had struck him with such force and had been so unsought and so unexpected, that he had come to believe it must proceed from a true vocation to the religious life. He thought that he could even endure celibacy if he could embrace it alongside Jan. Yet he could not see any way to achieve this new way of life unless Rose herself took the initiative to end their marriage. So he had encouraged her to go on the ringing outing, where Simon was certain to be present.
He tried to speak about this project with his confessor, too, conscious of the need to be honest in his spiritual life. But it was not easy to bring such a dubious proposal before the eagle eye of Jan, even couched in the most spiritual and euphemistic terms, and when he did so the abbot’s response was sharp.
“As I have told you, first of all you must be received properly into the Church, and then you should find solutions to your personal problems. In any case,” Jan went on, in as severe a voice as Clive had ever heard him use, “the Church will not be willing to receive a married man into the cloister without his wife’s consent and without his discharging his obligations to her and his family. You cannot do that while there is young Robert to think of.”
This was unanswerable, if very unwelcome.
“The best way to live out your sense of commitment and gratitude to God,” Jan went on more gently, “is to make a real effort to rescue your marriage, whatever sacrifice that may entail.”
Clive hung his head, ashamed and despondent, though still not altogether despairing of gaining his object somehow.
“Serving God may not turn out the way you expect,” the abbot reminded him. “Not all are called to the cloistered life. It is too soon to test this so-called vocation of yours properly. First, you must pray for renewed love for Rose and new opportunities to make a Christian family with her and Robert.”
“Father, I will try,” Clive promised miserably, feeling not only disinclined to try but also entirely without inspiration as to the means by which such a change might be effected.
“Why not take the family away for a holiday?” suggested Jan. “The schools have half-term soon, don’t they?”
“Rose never likes going on holiday. We used to go abroad quite a lot when Sarah was young, but Robert doesn’t like that kind of holiday either, so we haven’t done anything much lately.”
He had the feeling that Jan was becoming irritated with what he knew must seem like a constant negativity to all his suggestions.
“In that case, try something different,” advised the abbot. “What about a country
cottage in this country?”
Clive stared at him. “In February?”
Jan shrugged. This conversation was going nowhere. “Perhaps there is a better idea that we have not thought of,” he allowed, and Clive saw him withdraw behind his smiling defences before irritation got the better of him. “Pray about it, Clive. You will find it, I’m sure. And now, when we have prayed together, you must go.”
Clive nodded submissively, cowed for a moment by the unexpected flash of annoyance and frustration in the eyes of his idol. Jan blessed him as usual, and he went away home.
Seventeen
Jan sighed as he closed the door behind his directee. In truth, he was becoming slightly exasperated with Clive’s determination to see in his new and untried attraction to the religious life a real vocation. In Jan’s experience, vocations took a long time to become clear, and not only the individual but also his spiritual director and the community had to agree. It was all happening too quickly and, worse still, Clive seemed quite unwilling to consider the needs of his family––a failure which made Jan judge his faith to be even more embryonic in nature than he had thought at first. As for Clive’s suggestion that his sexuality might be other than straight and for the hint that Jan himself had become the object of his affections, the abbot had no patience at all with this line of reasoning. Clive was going through a major change in his life, that was clear. He had found a path towards true religion and was keen to follow it. He was dealing with traumas and influences from his past. This was all splendid. But to Jan, the rest smacked of over-enthusiasm, over-reaction, and a number of other nouns beginning with the same prefix.
He wondered whether he should find Clive another spiritual director. He did not feel that, in spite of his initial success in gaining the man’s interest in becoming a Catholic, he was achieving all that he might. And there were things going on at the abbey that required his attention. He needed to spend time with Brother Andrew urgently, for example. Something in his old friend’s attitude towards the religious life was changing, and not for the better, and although he had discussed this with Brother Luke, neither of them was quite sure what was going on. The effort of nurturing Clive––particularly in directions that Clive did not want to be nurtured––nearly every weekend was taking up too much of his time and energy, and the results were beginning to be disappointing.
He decided to grasp the nettle immediately and speak to Brother Andrew while it was uppermost in his mind. He sat for a minute considering whether to send for the librarian or go over to the library himself. In the end, he pressed the button on his desk that let the brother on duty know that he needed an errand run. Better to speak to Brother Andrew here in his office rather than on his own ground in the library. It was sad and disturbing to think that he needed to consider these power politics, but nonetheless necessary. They were no longer close friends and companions whose relations led only to intimacy and trust. There was an element of hostility, of resentment, towards him on Brother Andrew’s part that made them seem more like adversaries.
When Brother Anselm, the tiny brother who acted as doorkeeper, came in, Jan gave him a written message for Brother Andrew, to avoid any misunderstandings. It would be easy for Brother Anselm, whose status as unofficial community historian Jan suspected had been slightly undermined by the librarian’s academic credentials, to give the wrong impression in a verbal message, whether deliberately or merely unconsciously, and make Brother Andrew feel that he had been peremptorily summoned to the abbot’s office. The message was diplomatically worded in Polish, to create an initial atmosphere of friendship, a reminder of their common past, and to protect its confidentiality. It was good to think in his native tongue again, he thought, for he seldom used it now.
It was several minutes before the knock came on his door. No doubt the librarian had been busy when the summons came. Or perhaps, Jan thought with a wry smile, he had kept the abbot waiting deliberately, playing some power politics in his turn.
“Come!” he called in English, in case the visitor was not the one he expected.
Brother Andrew came in quietly and closed the door.
“Dzień dobry.” He gave the slightly formal greeting, appropriate in the context of abbot and brother rather than that of old friends.
“Dzień dobry,” Jan echoed, but got up from his desk to give him the traditional kiss of greeting.
They smiled at each other, and Jan realised that it was a long time since he had seen that austere face relax. He invited the librarian to sit in one of the armchairs.
“I feel that you are troubled, my brother,” he said in Polish. “As your abbot, but also as your friend, I want to know what I can do to help you.”
The smile on Brother Andrew’s face faded at this direct approach. “What makes you think this?” he demanded, speaking in English. “Who has been talking?”
Jan felt rather taken aback by the man’s instant hostility and suspicion. He shook his head. “No one,” he answered. “Do you think I have no eyes in my head?”
He met the librarian’s eyes directly, holding his gaze for a moment. “You cannot hide from me, Gabryjel,” he said gently, in Polish, using the monk’s Polish given name and abandoning his role as father superior. “We two have been through too much together. What is wrong, my brother?”
Brother Andrew looked away. “Jestem stari,” he said at last. “I am old.”
“Are you unwell?” responded Jan with concern. “I will book you an appointment with the doctor.”
The other man shook his head. “No, it is not that kind of illness. I am tired, Jan. Tired of being an exile. Poland seems a long way away, and a long time ago. Maybe I am tired of life.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Jan sighed. “I understand,” he said. “There is a tiredness that is not of the body, nor even of the mind.”
Brother Andrew nodded. “I would like to go back to Poland before I die,” he said.
“To visit?”
The librarian shrugged. “Perhaps. But I think to stay, before it is too late. It is easier now to travel in Europe, is it not, than when we were younger? Many Poles come here to work. Perhaps, when Britain is no longer part of the European Union, it will become more difficult. Who knows?”
Jan thought about that. Both of them had taken British citizenship when they were younger, and he did not know whether Brother Andrew’s Polish citizenship would still be valid. The man had, after all, left under a cloud during the Communist regime, and his erstwhile employers had probably revoked his passport and his Polish identity. Without the EU’s free movement of citizens, it might indeed be more difficult for Brother Andrew to go home. They might not have long to make a decision.
“Do you wish me to arrange this?” he asked. “I don’t want to press you to stay here if your heart is in our native land. Perhaps if I speak to the bishop…”
Brother Andrew shook his head, and his gaze hardened. “No, I thank you, Father Abbot.” The formality, and the hostility, were back, and with them a fierce independence. “I will do my own arranging.”
Jan opened his mouth to remind him that he was not a free agent any longer, but a monk under his abbot’s authority. But then he closed it again. For the sake of their old friendship, for past adventures and intimacies that they had shared, he would do nothing to oppose the old man’s plans, though he could not help wondering what he had in mind. Perhaps a word with Brother Andrew’s confessor, one of the other priests in the community, would be useful. But he doubted whether that spiritual director, however skilled, would be able to penetrate the old monk’s defences. Whatever he wanted to keep secret, he would.
“As you wish,” he said at last, but his heart was heavy. Brother Andrew’s use of the title “Father” had set him at a distance again. They were no longer “Gabryjel” and “Jan,” and perhaps would never be again. The confidences were over. He did not even feel that it was appropriate to bless his friend as a superior would normally do.
“Do widzenia,
” he said at last, as a friend would. “Go with God.”
~ * ~
Although Clive had at first resisted the idea, in the end he could think of nothing more original than to take up Jan’s suggestion and arrange for the family to spend February half-term in a self-catering cottage. With some memory of the time he’d spent on his own in Sennen, in the far west of Cornwall, the previous November, he booked a little cottage near Falmouth for a week. It was certainly a new departure for a family that had normally frequented hotels in more or less exotic locations, a practice which, as Clive had tried to explain to Jan, had suited him perfectly well but had been barely tolerated by Rose and Robert, who much preferred to be at home.
They all enjoyed the peace and privacy of the little cottage, however, with its atmosphere of a home-from-home, and Robert especially relished Clive’s new willingness to spend time with him, visiting attractions that appealed to him. It was too cold and wet for the beach, and the mild temperatures normally enjoyed in that part of Cornwall had been replaced by icy easterly winds and penetrating cold, so they were forced to spend most of the week indoors. But Clive had the happy thought of taking Robert to the Maritime Museum while Rose did some shopping in the town. Robert liked boats (though he had never been out in one) and thoroughly enjoyed the many children’s activities on which the museum prided itself.
“They have boats hung on ropes from the roof, Mummy,” he enthused to her when they met in the café afterwards. “And we built boats out of cork and string and sailed them on the inside lake. And then Dad and I tried out the radio-controlled yachts, but I wasn’t much good at that. And there’s a brilliant shop, with lots of books about the sea and model boats and coats and pictures and all kinds of things. It was cool!” He took a large bite out of his pasty and munched energetically.
Rose smiled at his enthusiasm and exclaimed with delight over his little purchases. She even spared a half-smile for Clive, whose willingness to take Robert to the museum was clearly part of the reason for his son’s enjoyment of it. But for her, the week away was proving utterly bewildering. Clive was showing them the sort of kindness and gentleness of which she had once thought him incapable and which in previous years she would have responded to gratefully. But it was an impersonal sort of kindness, of the type a well-disposed uncle might show. He indulged Robert’s whims, was patient with his childishness, and forbore to criticise his youthful follies as once he would not have hesitated to do. But Rose could see no fatherly commitment, no warm connection. Robert, unused to––and thrilled by—even the kind of avuncular companionship his father was doling out, noticed nothing. But for Rose, it was clear that Clive’s newfound kindness towards her held no passion. There were only two bedrooms in the cottage, and the main bedroom was a double one where they perforce slept together, but he made no attempt to make love to her, sticking scrupulously to his side of the bed, with the result that sharing a room with him felt almost as chaste as sleeping in the spare room at home had done.