The Clear Light of Day

by Penelope Wilcock

  She climbed out of the car and looked up the little lane. Walking up it she passed on her left the Old Police House and on her right the brick wall that formed the side of a house that fronted the road. A few tender shoots of early weeds and the hopeful beginnings of buddleia sprouted from the base of the wall. Ahead of her, self-seeded hawthorns and elder overhung the path. She could smell wood smoke. Beyond the limits of the back-garden walls that flanked the way, the path finished at a low picket fence lichened and leaning with age, pushed out of place somewhat by an unruly planting of lavender, rosemary, and sage; and a confused burden of honeysuckle vines that sprouted the beginnings of their leaves among the dry, climbing, thorny stems of wild rose. Behind this fence, two gnarled apple trees bowed over the tangle of grass and herbs. A few brown hens wandering there muttered to each other and remarked on the finds, their fierce eyes detected in the undergrowth. In the fence a gate stood ajar, opening onto a damp brick path, home to a multitude of small, early weeds, leading directly to the front door of a cottage. The cottage windows were small and low, the walls red brick, and the door painted green. On the lintel of this door, a hand-painted sign said JABEZ FERRAL—BICYCLE REPAIRS. And a grey-weathered table to the left of the door held a collection of jars with a card propped against them that read LOCAL HONEY, alongside a tray of eggs, a cardboard basket of last year’s apples, and a jam jar for callers to leave their money.

  Esme pushed the gate fully open, half-surprised to find it swung silently, hung precisely on perfectly oiled hinges. She took a few steps along the brick path and stopped, entranced. Whoever lived here? Something in the sight of it tugged at the heart of her. It looked peaceful and simple. Quiet and left to be. And a green fragrance of herbs and earth hung about it all. Entirely still on the path she stood, and took it all in, and loved it.

  “Can I help you?”

  The quiet voice with its country burr startled her, coming from behind, and she turned quickly, flustered momentarily by a sense that she had intruded—an unfamiliar sensation to her these days, accustomed by years of pastoral visiting to a warm and grateful reception by people in any state.

  I am so glad I came here, Esme thought, as she looked at the owner of the voice. I am so glad I didn’t miss this in my life.

  “Mr. Ferrall?” she said.

  Jabez Ferrall looked at her shyly; a little sideways, from under his eyebrows, which were wiry and silver grey. He would have made five feet, seven inches, in his work boots if he had not stood, with the habit of years, slightly hunched. Clothed in faded and shabby green corduroy trousers below a battered brown waxed cotton jacket that was far too big for him, his hair in a waterfall of silver and white almost to his waist, and his beard straggling to a stop somewhere in the middle of his chest, Esme could almost have believed one of the characters from her childhood fairy stories had come to life before her. She gazed at him in delight.

  He stood his ground, but something in his habitual stance gave the odd impression that he was backing away from her.

  Very bright and clear was his glance when his eyes briefly met hers. A half-formed impression of something very transparent and truthful, and yet wary—no, guarded—no, only shy, Esme thought.

  “Yes,” he said, and again, “can I help you?”

  “My name’s Esme Browne. I’m the Methodist minister for the chapel here—” Esme registered in herself a sense of surprise as Jabez Ferrall inclined his head slightly—the smallest movement, but clearly indicating that this was not news “—and I’d like to buy a bicycle. I was recommended to come here.”

  A flicker of amusement came into his eyes.

  “From me?” he said. “Who told you to come to me to buy a bike?”

  Esme felt mildly irritated. He didn’t seem to be taking her seriously.

  “Well, it’s what you do, isn’t it?” she rejoined crisply, “—bicycle repairs?”

  “Yes, but—” he looked at the ground a moment, and when he raised his face to glance at her again, the flicker of amusement had become a lopsided grin, “—come and have a look.”

  The path was narrow for two people to pass, and Jabez Ferrall hesitated; once again the bright look he darted at her gave her the odd feeling of coming from behind something, from a place of hiding. As though he saw her more accurately than she might have wished but kept himself hidden.

  “Shall I come by you?” he asked, and stepped on to the grass to pass in a careful circle around her. “This way.” He looked over his shoulder at her, and she followed him along the path, which progressed from brick to gravel and mud between a vigorous growth of assorted weeds, around the back of the cottage to a yard paved with stone flags. They crossed the yard, passing the back door of the cottage, where a cast-iron frame supporting an old-fashioned grindstone stood against the wall, to the entrance of a long, low shed built out from the side of the cottage and in the same red brick. As they went across the yard, Esme looked at the small and antiquated green open truck that stood parked rather haphazardly against the hedge that bordered the yard. Does he paint everything green? she wondered. Perhaps he’d had a job lot to use up. A memory stirred somewhere. Hadn’t she seen that truck before? Following Jabez into the shed, which was his workshop, Esme stopped for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. A window, not very big, was set into the same wall as the door, but Esme thought he could have done with at least one large roof light.

  Inside the workshop, the walls were lined entirely with a combination of shelves storing an assortment of containers—rusty biscuit tins, mostly, and margarine tubs relabeled with paper and adhesive tape—and things hanging from nails hammered into the brickwork—bicycle parts, machine parts, garden implements, and tools. In the center of the workspace stood a zinc bath of water, the surface of the water made a rainbow with a film of oil. Esme looked at it all; at the cluttered workbench under the window which (she thought) would have admitted more light with fewer cobwebs; the bike stands supporting various frames, a sturdy table spread with newspaper on which stood cleaning cloths, a can of three-in-one oil, and some dismantled machinery that meant nothing to her. There was so much to take in, she did not at first register, against the furthest right-hand wall of the shed, a spreading bed of ashes, in the midst of which lay a small heap of smoldering logs, their lazy smoke drifting up into a brick canopy leading into the flue above. No grate. Not even a fireplace in any very structured sense. A large cat lay dozing on the edge of the mound of ashes.

  Jabez meanwhile was picking his way through the clutter of machinery that occupied the periphery of the shop.

  “I do have a ladies’ bike, as it happens,” he said, “but it may not be what you had in mind. It’s here.”

  He moved aside a bike stand supporting a frame with no rear wheel, pushed a coiled length of hosepipe out of the way with his foot, and brought into the space in the middle of the workshop a very elderly bicycle, in admirable condition, but definitely a creation of yesterday.

  “It’s a nice bike.” Jabez looked at it thoughtfully. “Got some components added in the ’40s and ’50s, but a lot of it still original—celluloid-covered bars and mudguards. BSA three-speed hub gear with a panhandle changer. Monitor rear brake. Challis bell—I put that on. I’ve still got the original saddle, but I thought this one would be more comfortable. New tires, of course. I mean, I’ve overhauled it properly, stripped it down, and cleaned it, done all that was needed and waxed the frame and everything. Just depends, as I say, if that’s what you had in mind.”

  Again the bright, swift, amused glance that took in more than it gave away.

  Esme decided the best course would be to abandon her defensiveness and let him help her.

  “I don’t know anything at all about bikes,” she said. “I mean, I can ride one, but I haven’t done for years. I just felt I had to get some exercise and lose some weight. Why shouldn’t I have a bike like this in mind?”

  And the honesty seemed to pay off. He looked at her more openly; and this time s
he saw a kindness that she felt obscurely grateful for. Almost unnoticed, a thought passed the edge of her mind, This man will never cheat me.

  “Modern bikes, like you might get in Barton’s Bikes in Southarbour—which I think is also nearer your home for repairs and such—have more sophisticated gears, much lighter aluminum frames; they make for easier cycling, especially on the hills. Cost you more, of course.”

  “What are the prices?” Esme asked him.

  “Well—maybe you’ll pick up a good modern second-hand bike for two hundred pounds, if you’re lucky and you don’t mind waiting. I’d ask you fifty for this. Because of the tires, and the work I’ve done on it. I didn’t pay for it; Miss McPherson had no more use for it, and she sent it along to me in case I could make anything of it. Nice bike, as I say, but you’d use less puff and muscle on a modern job, there’s no doubt about it.”

  “If I buy this bike from you—” Esme hesitated; she had a feeling this was a man who could see through pretense to ulterior motive; “—would you maintain it for me? Help me look after it, I mean. Because they need oiling and stuff, don’t they? You have to know things.” And, which she didn’t say, I just love this place and you so intrigue me, I must find a reason to come back.

  Esme had rightly detected Jabez Ferrall’s capacity for insight, but he had a certain humility that prevented him ever imagining Esme to be interested in him. And he was very familiar with other people’s inability to care for their own bicycles.

  “It’s how I earn my living,” he said. “I expect you’ll find it easier to do all the routine stuff at home—tire pressures and lubrication, brake blocks, and whatnot—but you can always bring it to me for servicing or if you have any problems or the wheels go out of true.”

  Esme looked at him aghast. “I don’t think I can do any of that,” she said. “I’m only just about going to be able to ride it without killing myself.”

  His eyes met hers then with a definite twinkle: “You wouldn’t be the only one. I spent most of last Wednesday getting mud and nettle stalks and grass and heaven knows what else out of Mrs. Norman’s axles. Mud’s a bit out of her sphere of experience it would seem. Whatever. I can help.”

  “Then I’d like it,” Esme replied, “but I’m not quite sure how I’ll get it home. Is there a bus that comes out here from Southarbour?”

  “Was. But not since 1973.”

  “Oh.” Esme felt a bit out of her depth. “Well … I expect I could ask someone from chapel to give me a lift over here, only …”

  He waited, and raised his eyebrows at her enquiringly. To her considerable embarrassment she could feel herself blushing. “I’d just rather they didn’t know I was getting a bike. In case it turns out that I never really ride it. I’d feel so silly.”

  Jabez chuckled. Smoker’s teeth, Esme registered.

  “Are you sure you want to buy a bike?” he said. “Why don’t you go home and think about it. I’m not likely to sell this in a hurry.”

  Then came a moment of inspiration.

  “Could I come here a few times and watch what you do to maintain a bike? So I’d feel more confident?”

  Jabez didn’t reply at once.

  “Yes … yes, I suppose so,” he said reluctantly, after a moment’s hesitation. He seemed a little taken aback.

  “Not if you’d rather I didn’t.”

  “No. No, it’s all right. It’s just people don’t come here much; it’s a bit of a refuge.”

  Esme took a deep breath. She was unsure how much this man would understand.

  “I promise not to be ‘people,’” she said softly, “and I would be very grateful to have temporary admission to a refuge.”

  Jabez shifted his grip on the bicycle frame and looked down at it. “Let me just put this away,” he said, and turned from her to reposition the bike against the wall. Having done so, he stayed a moment longer with his back to her, buried his hands in his pockets as he turned again to face her.

  “You would be welcome,” he said, “anytime.” But it was quietly spoken and, Esme sensed, somewhat costly. A man who deeply valued his privacy.

  “I won’t get in the way.” Her tone beseeched him, and he sighed, moved his head a little impatiently. He returned the hosepipe back to its original position with his foot. He wouldn’t look at her. She saw she had imposed too much on his seclusion.

  “Is any time better than another?” she persisted, ashamed at intruding, but determined not to lose this enchanted place.

  He shook his head, his gaze averted still. “Anytime.”

  The tabby cat rose to its feet among the ashes, elongated its body in a long, shaky stretch and ambled across the shed to wind itself around his ankles, scattering a light fall of the ash that clung to its fur. It had a purr like a diesel engine. Jabez bent to scratch its head, and the cat raised its chin appreciatively, closing its eyes in slow ecstasy.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ferrall, for your understanding and your help,” said Esme.

  Straightening, he looked from under his eyebrows at her; appraised her carefully for a matter of seconds.

  “I expect it had better be ‘Jabez,’” he said.

  Esme stowed this treasure in her heart with joy.

  When she said good-bye and left him in his workshop, Esme became aware of a happiness that had been absent so long its quality had become unfamiliar. She had become used to the satisfaction of a job well done, and the pleasant company of decent people who were disposed to be nice to her; used to the appreciation and delight called forth in her by a sunny day or dewdrops on a cobweb or the first sight of new lambs in the spring, and used to the comfortable feeling of five minutes longer in a warm bed on a chilly morning, or the relaxation of a cup of coffee enjoyed curled in an armchair at the parsonage after the end of a long business meeting. Life held many comforts and consolations. But not for a long time had she felt this song of delight that came from meeting someone whose soul she recognized as—what? A kindred spirit, maybe? Someone whose being spoke to her destiny? At any rate, someone to whom her own soul gave its unhesitating “yes.”

  I think, she reflected as she paused by the front door of his cottage to buy a pot of honey and half a dozen eggs, Jabez Ferrall is going to become a friend.

  As she motored peacefully back along the narrow lanes in their dappling of sun and shade, through the wooded hillsides and pastureland around Wiles Green toward Southarbour with its banked terraces of Victorian red-brick dwellings clinging to the steep coastal hills, Esme decided to disregard her standard plan of preaching from the lectionary so as to offer an ordered but varied theological diet of careful scriptural exegesis. Once Easter had gone, and they were back to ordinary time, as a change, she thought she might preach on contentment. Something about the wisdom of staying where you are, being at peace with what life has offered you, living quietly and simply, recognizing when you have enough, and finding satisfaction in daily work, in what is ordinary—even, maybe, a little old-fashioned. Philippians 4 would do nicely as a scriptural basis. The whole of it—possibly trimming Evodia and Syzygus off the beginning and the same with Epaphroditus at the end. And for a text, majoring on the assertion, “I have learned how to be content with whatever I have.” She might even have a point to make about the countryside with its little cottages, and the virtues of the bicycle as compared with the motorcar—always recognizing of course that some people needed cars and even small trucks to fulfill the requirements of their occupations. Worth pointing out though that bicycles have an important part to play in a green future. Especially the older, recycled, less garishly painted kinds of bikes.

  Changing down to negotiate a sharp bend, Esme slightly adjusted her thinking to lower the profile of the bikes in her sermon plan. The spiritual potential of cycling she felt sure might be considerable, but its theological application was perhaps limited. Though there again … Her thoughts were interrupted as she pulled out of the bend and spotted ahead of her a line of cars behind an elderly tractor making valiant progress
but nonetheless creating an obstruction. On an ordinary day this might have irritated her. Today she chose to regard the tractor as a form of angel, a protective escort gentling the excesses of accelerated modern living, promoting longevity in the rabbit population and inner peace and patience in the lengthening queue of motorists in her rearview mirror. Esme hummed a little tune and felt disinclined to overtake even when the opportunity came.

  As the traffic became more congested in the approach to the town, so also the road signs proliferated and the view changed to one of faded advertisement hoardings, bus stops, edge-of-town supermarkets with huge parking lots and adjacent garages, all huddled in against the railway station with its taxi rank and little fruit stall and the inexplicable piles of rusted metal girders and broken-up concrete. Esme felt its familiarity challenged by a new sense that the small country chapels and the village communities in which they were set had a special value, deserving at least as much pastoral attention as a larger town church. Possibly more. The town church could probably look after itself. Up to a point.

  When Esme got in, she found thirteen new messages on her answer-phone (all countering her notion that a larger town church could in any sense manage its pastoral or administrative tasks without the assiduous attentions of its minister) and a late mail delivery comprising of a complicated letter about changes to the ministerial pension scheme, the local preachers’ quarterly magazine, and the draft minutes and agenda for next month’s meeting from the church council secretary.

  Esme applied her usual solution of a large mug of coffee and a chocolate flapjack. And then another chocolate flapjack. She felt even guiltier and disliked the round contours of her face and the disappearance of her ribs, but it staved off the moment she had to go into her study, begin returning telephone calls, prepare her Sunday sermon, and give a little advance attention to the agendas of her three forthcoming church general meetings.

  Easter. Light. Morning light dawning into the darkness of the tomb. New life coming with the light. Living. Living lightly, she thought. The way of the poor carpenter of Nazareth: simplicity, anonymity. Detachment from all the baggage that weighs down human beings: complications of material possessions and relational possessions too—just of being possessive. Jesus let things go maybe; perhaps that’s why they let him go too—the way parting to let him walk through death into life alight and unlimited. His presence reversed cling and effected freedom. Death could not hold him. He lived lightly. He arose. Jabez Ferrall, she thought, you are a most extraordinary man. Easter. Light. The power to be free. Simplicity. Soaring. Flight. Even the sparrows are numbered. Do not be afraid to live simply. Do not be afraid to soar and to fly. Easter. Living lightly. Simplicity. Do not be afraid. Jabez—in the Bible, isn’t it? Where is that?