The Clear Light of Day

by Penelope Wilcock

  On an afternoon of pastoral visits, a minister can be awash with tea. No village chapel meeting, not even the church council, can proceed without a cup of tea. Esme had lost count of the cups of tea she had been offered in Wiles Green, Brockhyrst Priory, and Southarbour since she came to live there. But here she had the feeling of being offered something most precious and rare. Jabez, she thought, would not give his hospitality lightly.

  “I would love to,” she said, “and I brought you some buns. To say sorry.”

  He was rummaging among the jumble of things pushed against the wall at the back of his workbench—sandpaper and bits of chalk, oily rags, spanners, and old margarine tubs, holding assortments of different-sized nuts and valves.

  “To make peace with me?” he said.

  She did not answer, but watching him she began to wonder if truly he had lost something or just found the rummaging a refuge from too direct a meeting. And he stopped suddenly, placing his hands on the edge of the workbench, rough, red, cold, chapped hands, resting there in absolute simplicity, stood with his head bent, adding quietly, “Because there’s no need to. Ever.”

  And again that quick glance that shot like dark fire from his soul to hers. You and I, she thought, have known each other for a thousand years. You’re right. Nothing could break the peace between us. And then she thought, My goodness! Where did that come from? But she said only, “Thank you.”

  And he withdrew his hands and left his ruse of searching, came out to her and into the yard, switching off the light, and pulling the shed door closed behind him.

  Around the middle of her solar plexus, Esme felt a childish effervescence of excitement. For she so wanted to see inside this cottage.

  As she followed him across the yard, clutching her bag of buns, Esme had the curious sensation of being once more about four years old: eager, inquisitive, excited, happy, and alive.

  He pushed the kitchen door, which stood ajar, fully open, and stood back for her to go in first. She stepped inside, taking in at a glance its smallness and friendly clutter—a paper feed sack printed with the words Layers Mash lay down as a doormat; the saucer for the cat with its rim of congealed yellow milk; the shabby wooden table, two stools and a chair roughly drawn up to it; the wall above it fitted with shelves to house miscellaneous crockery and grubby jars of oats and rice and pulses, and dried fruit and herbs and brown sugar. She looked at the Rayburn that stood against the inner wall, giving off a steady comfort of warmth and a faint smell of wood smoke and ashes, and dishtowels set on the rail to dry at the front of it. She saw the clothes rack drawn up to the ceiling, a few garments still hanging there, and the various boots left higgledy-piggledy by the door; the deep white ceramic sink with its sturdy old-fashioned taps and wooden draining board, where various pieces of crockery stood propped to drain, and a cracked and grimy bar of workmanlike soap waited in a saucer near the taps. Everything was functional, comfortable, and plain; and, for no reason she could identify, it made Esme feel very peaceful, very welcome, and very much at home.

  “I’ll just wash my hands,” Jabez said, “and then I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  He kicked off his boots and went to the sink. Esme sat down on one of the stools at the table, and she watched him; the stoop of his shoulders and the long tail of silver hair that hung down his back; the quiet focus of his absorption in washing his hands—soap, nailbrush, thorough rinsing; and yet she could feel him aware of her, even though his back was turned.

  He was done and came across to the stove to rub his hands dry on a dishtowel. He did not look at her, and she sensed him suddenly shy. He took the kettle of water from the back of the stove, lifted the hinged cover back from the hot plate, and set the water to boil.

  “It’ll be awhile,” he started to say, “but—” The door that led from the kitchen into the rest of the house opened, and Esme turned her head to find herself looking into the eyes of the old lady who had accosted her outside St. Raphaels Church on the first day she had visited Wiles Green.

  “Good afternoon,” said the old lady, who looked as disreputable and as extraordinary as she had at their first meeting. “Where have you parked your car?”

  Her face as she asked this regarded Esme impassively, but in the almost black, sharp eyes Esme saw a mocking twinkle that stopped her in time from taking the question too seriously.

  “Down on the road,” she replied. “Well, half across the pavement actually. I do what I can to make life difficult.”

  The old lady nodded. “I thought as much,” she answered. “Are you making tea, Jabez? I’ll have a cup if so.”

  He looked at her, his head cocked to one side, not smiling, but a certain wry amusement in his face.

  “Not ‘please Jabez’; not ‘thank you’; not any such thing. Esme, this is Seer Ember. She lives here. But I get the impression you’ve met.”

  Esme smiled, and Jabez looked at her, sharply, then at the old lady. “Ember, you weren’t rude to her, were you?”

  Esme was puzzled. “Forgive me,” she said, “but what is your name?”

  The old lady’s face wrinkled in a grin—“Foreign, you think?” She laughed. “Seer. ’Tis a word, you know, you a holy woman. One who sees, a seer is. Inside sight. And I expect you come across an ember before today. The embers is all that’s left when a fire dies, but the real heat of the fire is there, under the ashes. Embers look like nothing, finished—but woe betide you if you don’t treat ’em with respect. ‘Seer Ember.’ See?”

  “Yes,” said Esme. “Yes, I certainly do see. I’m sorry to be so obtuse—do you mind if I just get this straight? Which bit of it’s your surname and which is your Christian name?”

  Ember’s eyes had depths like jewels, and her bright regard held Esme in mocking consideration.

  “I had a father once and I was born under his name. I was given to a man in marriage, and I came under his name. He left, and good riddance: He found another and I hope she brought him the luck he well deserved. I was baptized in a church and given a Christian name; but my ways parted from the ways the pious tread in long ago. I bow my head to Jesus Christ, for he walked, and he stopped, and he was nailed; he understood the speed of love. Love burns slow. Enduring. But I want my own name. I’m nobody’s property. I am what I am, and my name’s my own self. Seer Ember. I sit in the ashes now, but I still got a spark, and I know reality when I see it. Will that do you?”

  Jabez, listening to this conversation with his arms folded, leaning against the rail along the front of the stove as he waited for the kettle to boil, offered the comment, “I tried to tell her that Tsunami was a pretty name that would have suited her just as well, but she wouldn’t have it.”

  Ember took no notice of this remark at all, her eyes challenging Esme with an insolent sparkle that Esme found endearing but imagined might be hard to live with.

  “So—” Esme persevered, “I’m sorry not to be quicker on the uptake—‘Seer’ is a form of address, like ‘Mrs.’? And I call you ‘Ember’?”

  “You got it. Jabez, you been to the shop? I don’t know what there is to eat in the house to go with a cup of tea if we got a visitor.”

  “Oh!” Esme held out the bag of buns. “I bought these from the baker at Brockhyrst Priory. It seemed like an afternoon for holing up with a hot cup of tea. They might be nice with some butter if you have any.”

  Ember peered into the bag with interest. “Smells good. Yes, I don’t doubt we got butter. I’ve laid a fire in the house for the evening. Shall we light it now and toast them?”

  Jabez, moving about the kitchen washing up mugs and finding milk and emptying the cold dregs from the teapot into the compost bucket, nodded in assent. “Yes, I’m ready to sit down. Take Esme through and light the fire, Ember; I’ll be there with the tea in just a tick.”

  Ember turned on her heel and retreated the way she had entered, Esme following her into the living room, which looked friendly and shabby, the furnishings reasonably clean, but old and worn. On one side
of the fireplace a long sofa with squashy, untidy cushions stood under the low, square window where potted plants grew on the deep sill. An armchair stood to the other side of the fireplace, and another smaller chair atop a confusion of knitting, newspapers, and spilling piles of books also faced the fire. The tabby cat Esme had seen before in the workshop lay curled in this chair.

  “Sit you down while I light the fire—try the sofa,” said Ember.

  Esme sank into the feather cushions and watched Ember as she kindled the crunched paper and split sticks to begin, her small, plump figure dressed in its approximation to robes bent over as she waited the moment to add larger pieces of wood. She wore her hat still, even indoors. You look extraordinary, Esme thought, and Ember turned her head to look at her.

  “’Tisn’t usual for Jabez to ask somebody in. He doesn’t trust easy. Must have taken to you.”

  Having got the fire going to her satisfaction, Ember turned to the smaller armchair, unceremoniously routed the cat, and sat there herself. Jabez came into the room carrying a tray with mugs of tea and the currant buns cut in two and piled beside a dish of butter.

  He set the tray down on the floor, gave Esme her tea, for which she thanked him, and Ember hers, which she received without comment.

  Sitting down opposite Esme in the armchair next to the fire, Jabez took up the toasting fork that lay on the hearth, and spiking a half currant bun on it, held it to the flames for a while, turning it when the first side was done.

  “Help yourself to butter,” he said, giving her the first one completed and beginning to toast the next.

  Esme found herself feeling wonderfully content. The homeliness and simplicity of this place permeated her being. The world of committees and computers, of safeguarding practice and health and safety regulations, of tactful ingratiation and carefully worded preaching seemed to have receded to a very distant place, and she felt more relieved than she would ever have guessed.

  “This is lovely,” she said. “It feels like being on holiday.”

  Jabez smiled, handing Ember a toasted bun. Fitting the third one onto the toasting fork, he glanced at Esme, drew breath as if to speak, and then changed his mind.

  “Well?” said Ember, not looking up from spreading butter on her currant bun.

  “I think—” Jabez kept his eyes on what he was doing, “—I think I owe you an apology, Esme.”

  “You do?” She was startled.

  “I must have sounded bitter and contemptuous yesterday—”

  “That’s nothing unusual for you,” Ember interjected, which he ignored.

  “—and I’m sorry if what I said was hurtful. I didn’t mean it so. There have been some bad times. Thank you for giving me another chance.”

  “That’s smoking,” said Ember nodding toward the teacake he held to the fire, adding with some curiosity, “what did you say to her, then?”

  Jabez laid aside the fork and reached across to butter his toasted bun. He sat back in his chair, a mug of tea in one hand and a currant bun in the other, looking into the flames of the fire.

  “I was rude about the church,” he said quietly, “and just generally prickly and unfriendly.”

  “The religious establishment is fair game, generally speaking,” said Esme, with a grin. “I mean, even Jesus called religious leaders ‘whitewashed tombs and a viper’s brood.’ Why would anything change in two thousand years?”

  “Well, you may have something there.” Jabez shot her an amused glance. “But then again perhaps it’s not for me to say so.”

  “Okay,” said Esme, “so you’ve told me what you don’t believe and what you don’t like about the church, and I have to admit I sympathize. Tell me about what you do believe as well.”

  His brief, expressive grimace communicated the daunting nature of this prospect, and he took a bite out of his bun, chewing it thoughtfully.

  “I tell you one thing Jabez believes,” remarked Ember, before he was ready to speak. “He read a book on macrobiotics while he was nursing Maeve, which gave him all kind of ideas about the yin and the yang of his table, and put into his head the idea that every mouthful should be chewed thirty times before ’tis swallowed—and you may take it from me, there’s no sillier sight than a macrobiotic convert doing his best to chew porridge. So between trying to chew that bun and trying to chew his cup of tea and trying to describe the Cosmos According to Jabez Ferrall, you’d better take over toasting them buns or it’ll be a mighty long time before you get your other half.”

  Jabez’s eyes closed briefly in silent dismissal of this speech, but with a smile Esme took up the toasting fork. She could see Ember had a point.

  “I believe,” he said eventually, “in the mysteries of Christianity, don’t mistake me. Where I stand in life I can well see the cross, and I comprehend its power to transform. I see the resurrection, too, how it lies at the heart of things. If a thing is true, then its truth runs through all of the universe; you take soundings anywhere and you’ll find the same truth. Every winter and spring, every sunset and sunrise is the melody of resurrection, and the Christ sits at the heart of it like the pip at the heart of the cherry. There’s a deep reverence in me for who Christ is; I know him. I know. But when I told you I got no time for the church, I’m speaking about the house of cards that’s built on the top of the mysteries. I’m not interested in all of that. It interferes with the nature of things like Victorian corsets interfere with a woman’s body. What I live by is the interweaving and interdependence of all life. The vitality of Spirit is in all creation like sap or blood or breath—even in the stones and the dust and the light, everything. So I believe in treading gently; in healing it where it’s hurt and holding it where it’s in danger; not using up too much, not taking what isn’t given. I think I’m not separate from anything that shares life with me; if I hurt you or disrespect you, I diminish myself, whoever you are—a mouse, a sapling, a river; or another human being. We are all one thing, the being of God expressed in creation, most lovable, most profoundly to be adored. To me ‘integrity’ means the out-living of that oneness in accountability; looking after things, being trustworthy, keeping faith.”

  “He hardly knows what hot food is,” observed Ember, which prompted Jabez to take a mouthful of tea and another bite of his bun. “Have you done with the butter?” she added as Esme passed her a newly toasted half of teacake, and “Toss a stick or two on that fire, Jabez.”

  Jabez obediently added some split wood to the fire, and Esme leaned down and pushed the butter dish along the rug in Ember’s direction.

  Esme felt a sudden, unfamiliar quickening of joy in listening to Jabez. The biggest and most unexpected disappointment for her, in pursuing the path of ordained ministry, had been the reluctance to engage in conversation of spiritual things among the people with whom she lived and worked. She found the aspirations and yearnings and adventures of the human spirit caused universal embarrassment, except among those whose lives would very soon be at an end. To find here, in this simple cottage, an apparently uneducated man discoursing with ease on all the matters she had longed to explore further, the things that were closest to her heart, delighted her.

  She leaned forward eagerly. “I suppose what you mean,” she said, “is the relationship between holiness and wholeness. In the Lord’s Prayer, ‘hallowed be thy name,’ the word hallow means holy but comes from the same root as in the Old English greeting wes hal! which means ‘be thou whole!’ and is the basis for our modern hallow. Healing, completeness, come from Spirit.”

  Jabez nodded, wiping a trace of butter from his fingers onto his trousers as he completed the chewing of his teacake. He swallowed, his eyes kindling with pleasure at her ready interest, and said, “The Native Americans’ tepees are circular dwellings arranged into circular villages because they believe the movement of power is circular, like the roundness of the sun and moon and sacred earth, the cycle of the seasons and the curving arc of life that comes back on itself from the helplessness of infancy to the
helplessness of great age. Life has a circular dynamic. What goes around comes around. There is no escape from what we put into life; one day it will return to us again.”

  “Do you think, then,” asked Esme, “that there is a separate God—a God over and above us, like the Father of the Christian faith, essentially other, standing apart from creation and watching over it? Or do you believe that there is divine Spirit diffused through everything like perfume or smoke?”

  Ember had spread butter on the second half of his currant bun toasted for him by Esme, and put it in his hand. Having just taken a bite of it, Jabez shook his head.

  “No,” he said, when he had finished it, “neither. I believe we are held in God. It is all sacred because it is held in the mind of God and maintains its being because it is held in the heart of God. We are in God as the wave is in the ocean; and God is in us as the ocean is in the wave.”

  Ember grinned. “You want to watch out for my wave, it’s got a stingray in it,” she interrupted. Jabez looked at her, but wouldn’t be drawn.

  “When I was a child,” he continued, “Mother had a text framed on the chimney breast there, IF GOD FEELS FAR AWAY FROM YOU—WHO MOVED? After Dad and Mother died, I took it down because I never liked it. Because I think if you feel far away from God that’s just part of the loneliness of being we all suffer. Maybe it means you need a hug or a cup of tea with a friend or an early night, but it can’t possibly mean you moved away from God; I mean, where would you go? ‘Whither can I go from thy Spirit?’ God wouldn’t be God if God had finite being—love you could stray outside of. Ember, is there any more tea in that pot—would you like another cup, Esme?

  “I read a story once,” he continued, as Ember gathered their mugs and bent over the tray to pour more tea, “about a Zen monk on pilgrimage, who sat down at the site of a holy shrine and put his feet up on a statue of the Buddha. I expect I’m telling you what you already know if I say that in the East it’s a grave discourtesy even to sit with your feet pointing toward something sacred—you got to keep them tucked back underneath you. So this monk was in trouble, and a fellow pilgrim passing by reproved him for his shocking disrespect, which was fair enough except, as the monk said, ‘But where shall I put my feet that is not holy?’ Is that tea too strong—I like it that way, but you might find it a bit overpowering?”