Knowing Anna

by Sarah Meyrick

  As far as the belief or otherwise of the other pilgrims, he couldn’t, and probably shouldn’t, make any assumptions. They were here, after all; they had made the choice to take part in the journey. Interesting how there’d been an exponential surge of interest in recent years – to the point where some would argue that the Camino, the famous route to Santiago de Compostela, part of which Anna had walked, was now hideously overrun. He’d read somewhere that annual figures had reached the hundred thousand mark, which seemed extraordinarily at odds with an age of increasing secularism. Other new routes were springing up or being resurrected all over the place, around some frankly questionable saints.

  The point was that a remarkably small percentage of pilgrims set out for straightforward reasons of faith. Many claimed to be motivated by the desire to mark a special birthday, the physical challenge, or because they were at a personal crossroads and wanted some space to consider their next steps in life. Not religious reasons, exactly, but quite possibly spiritual ones. Then, maybe pilgrimage had always been like that. Take Chaucer’s pilgrims – hardly model Christians! And did it really matter, what motivated people, as long as they approached the journey with an open mind?

  Stephen let out a long sigh. Time to get up, to shower, and to offer up the day in prayer. He would pray for each pilgrim by name, entrusting them into God’s good hands. There was absolutely nothing wrong with using poetry to comfort or inspire, he reminded himself sternly. For some, it might open the door to deeper spiritual exploration. He had spent considerable time on preparation, both logistical and liturgical. While he must, of course, be open to the prompting of the Holy Spirit, he should also trust his training, his experience, and above all his instincts, which he knew to be sound.

  Breakfast was in full swing by the time Stephen had said Morning Prayer and packed his bag. Most of the party were in the dining room, lingering over coffee. The tables were littered with the detritus of the breakfast buffet, croissant crumbs and butter wrappers, half-empty sachets of jam and marmalade, spatters of concentrated orange juice staining the white cloths. The odour of fried eggs lingered in the room. Such a messy meal, Stephen reflected, experi­encing a brief pang of longing for his customary platter of fresh fruit in his own immaculate kitchen. It was his luxury of the day: prepared the night before, refrigerated overnight and then left on the kitchen side to await his return from the gym. He’d treated himself to a juicer in the January sales, and was currently experimenting with a whole series of energy-boosting concoctions: kiwi and lime, carrot and ginger.

  ‘G’day, Father Steve! Come and have a look at this! We’ve raised almost a thousand bucks online and I’ve got whole bunch of new followers on Twitter,’ called Tamsin as he approached. He bit back his annoyance: he hated anyone abbreviating his name, and there was something about the upward lift of Tamsin’s antipodean twang that always made him suspect she was poking fun at him. Now she waved her laptop in his direction, smiling broadly, leaving him no alternative but to take the empty seat next to her.

  He hadn’t seen the website before: it had a gaudy purple #walkforanna logo along the top, with a picture of Anna and the family below. It must have been taken two or three years ago, he thought; Samuel had gaps where his adult teeth had now grown, and Bethany’s face was more babyish, rounder certainly. The children and their parents were sitting on a bench somewhere by the sea, without a care in the world, it seemed with the benefit of hindsight. Theo – tall, dark and ruggedly handsome – was smiling broadly. Anna was laughing, her head thrown back in amusement, and pointing at something just out of the shot.

  She looked so alive! Even as the sentence formed in his head, he realized what a cliché it was. So-and-so was so full of life was a phrase he’d heard any number of times at pre-funeral visits, especially when the end was untimely, as Anna’s had been. Death these days was bewildering, incomprehensible in a society that preferred to hide it away in hospital. So that when it arrived it was an unfamiliar stranger, embarrassing as it was unwelcome.

  Next to the photo there was a red fundraising thermometer and the words, You have exceeded your target of £500. The current total stood at £983. ‘Impressive!’ he said. ‘Where’s it all come from?’

  ‘A whole mix of people,’ said Tamsin, beaming. ‘Friends, family, strangers . . . plenty of anonymous donors, too. I’m doing a daily audio diary for the radio and tweeting as we go, and it’s picking up. We could do with a bit more drama, but it’s a beaut start.’

  Stephen was reluctantly impressed. ‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘What’s the charity?’

  ‘We thought fifty–fifty between Cancer Research and Hope House.’

  ‘Excellent idea. Was that Ruth’s suggestion?’ Anna’s mother was a founder – and remained a trustee – of the hospice that had helped with her daughter’s care.

  ‘Just seemed to make sense,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘I checked with Theo, and he was happy,’ added Mary Anne, bringing over a jug of coffee and a fresh tray of cups and saucers. ‘Now, what have you got in store for us today?’

  ‘A less arduous day,’ he said. ‘It’s only eight miles to Oxted. There’s a leisure centre there, so I thought if any of the young had spare energy to burn at the end of the day they might enjoy a swim. Or there’s a vineyard we could stop at and visit en route, if that would appeal.’

  He accepted the proffered cup. ‘But the main thing about today is that we’re forsaking the Pilgrims’ Way – or rather, it’s forsaking us. Sadly for the modern-day pilgrim, this section’s been entirely swallowed up by the M25, so we have to divert onto the North Downs Way. There’s quite a lot of overlap between the two routes anyway.’ He paused to take a sip of coffee. Remarkably good. ‘We have to cross two dual carriageways and a motorway today, so we’re rather surrounded by traffic.’

  ‘I guess it just goes to show that the pilgrims had the right idea,’ said Catherine.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, they chose the best route – and the road builders followed in their wake.’

  ‘That’s certainly one way of looking at it,’ said Stephen.

  ‘What’s the weather forecast?’ asked Mary Anne.

  Stephen pulled a face. ‘Sunny this morning, but there’s rain on the way later. Tomorrow looks a bit hit and miss, too, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Typical bloody British public holiday,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘In that case, let’s make the most of the sunshine while we’ve got it,’ said Mary Anne.

  Stephen was the first to arrive at the church, which was perched on a hill on the edge of an A-road. Meticulous in his habits, he liked to walk through even the shortest act of worship ahead of time. It was all the more essential in a space he didn’t know. What he knew his unkinder colleagues described as control freakery he preferred to think of as thorough preparation.

  To his irritation, he found the door locked, and there was no sign of the man who had promised to open up. He took off his backpack and rummaged for his phone and his folder of notes for the week. He was further annoyed to find that he couldn’t make out the phone number without his reading glasses, which meant another scrabble in a side pocket. Just as he’d finally punched the numbers into the phone, the key-holder arrived, out of breath but entirely unapologetic.

  Worse still, he wanted to chat. Wheezing chestily, and lurching from side to side on a hip that was obviously overdue for replacement, he wittered on about the history of St Katharine’s (long) and his own family’s service (considerable) to the church.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I really must get on,’ said Stephen shortly.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ said the key-holder, whose name was Fred. ‘I’ll just sit here, quiet as a mouse. You won’t know I’m here!’

  ‘Really – don’t feel you have to stay!’

  ‘Oh, but I couldn’t desert you. It’s my responsibility,’ said Fred.

  ‘But you’ll give me a moment, I’m sure,’ said Stephen, sinking to his knees theatri
cally in the priest’s stall.

  ‘You go ahead, Father,’ said Fred. ‘I’ll be right here at your side if you need anything. You only have to ask.’

  Lord, bless your faithful servant Fred, prayed Stephen silently through gritted teeth. And forgive me for failing to love him as you do. Surely his body language was sufficiently unambiguous to avoid further interruption? He needed to prepare for the act of worship, and indeed for the day ahead. He steadied himself with a few deep breaths and, with great difficulty, hauled his fragmented attention back towards the demanding business of prayer.

  ‘Friends, I’ve been doing a little homework about this church, and I came across an interesting fact,’ Stephen told his congregation. ‘Like many of our churches, this is an ancient building, much of it built during the thirteenth century, and the foundations are older still. If you look very carefully, you can find odd fragments of Romanesque stone carving built into the flint walls. Now, in medieval times, this part of the world was famous for its sandstone quarries. The stone was of such high quality that King Henry III sent for supplies to build his Palace at Westminster. A hundred years later it was used in the building of Windsor Castle, and then in due course for St Paul’s Cathedral and London Bridge. And what do we know about London Bridge?’

  ‘It’s falling down!’ said Milo.

  ‘Precisely! What we call London Bridge today has had several incarnations. When the bridge that was built from the local sandstone was dismantled, the stone – or some of it, at any rate – came back here again, and was built into the church walls. And we think we invented recycling!

  ‘That reminded me of another of the Psalms. Psalm 118 says, “The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.” Jesus quotes that verse in the New Testament. He often spoke in practical building terms. His listeners would have appreciated the importance of getting that vital cornerstone in place if your house isn’t going to fall down.

  ‘This image throws up a couple of thoughts for me. First, how sound are our foundations? What are the cornerstones in our life? For me, Jesus Christ is the true cornerstone of the household of God. Second, sometimes in spite of all our plans, our hopes, a terrible blow can bring our world crashing down about our ears. We find ourselves sitting in a pile of rubble and dust. We’re bloodied and bruised, and feeling pretty hopeless. At that point we need to pick up the pieces of our life and rebuild. That’s never easy, though it is a little easier if we have firm foundations in the first place. Foundations built on love, or faith, or friendship. Sound values, at the very least.

  ‘What we have in the way of material to rebuild with may look pretty unpromising to start with. But if we go back to this verse, we find that even something that the builders rejected can end up being the key stone. In Jesus’ day, many people failed to recognize that he was the Messiah, the very person that they had been waiting for. For the builders of the new London Bridge, they rejected this very fine stone that had served them so well in the past. Sometimes we can overlook the very thing – or person – that is right under our nose, which could turn a situation round for us if we’d only allow it. That might be something for us to think about today.’

  ‘You know I’m not a believer, but thank you for your words,’ said Ruth as she opened her car boot for Stephen. He looked up, surprised.

  ‘Thank you for acknowledging our pain. For recognizing that our world has collapsed. For trying to help.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ said Stephen. ‘If ever you want to talk . . .’

  ‘I’m not at all sure that I do,’ she said. ‘Death is hardly a stranger, you know. It’s been my life’s work, probably just as much as yours.’

  ‘I know that. But it’s not the same, is it?’

  ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘Just that it’s entirely different when it’s personal. You could have cared for a thousand patients and written the definitive book on bereavement and still be knocked sideways by your own loss.’

  ‘That old chestnut about who cares for the carers?’ she said with ironic emphasis.

  ‘If you like. I was thinking about my father, actually. My family couldn’t understand why I was unwilling to take his funeral.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I caved in, in the end. Couldn’t bear their disappointment. It was as if at long last they’d stumbled across a practical use for my vocation. They thought I was being bloody-minded, refusing to do my duty. This was eighteen years ago, and I’m still not sure my brother’s totally forgiven me. But all I wanted to do was grieve as a son. To have a little cry in the service, if I needed one. Not to have to be the one who held it all together for everyone else.’

  He could feel Ruth’s eyes on him. ‘Point taken,’ she said. ‘See you at lunchtime?’

  The map suggested it might not be the most scenic day on the route. Stephen suspected it would be dominated by the noise from the motorway half a mile away, and for beauty, the landscape certainly didn’t compare to Box Hill or Newlands Corner. Once out of the village, the walkers faced a steady climb up the ridge, and then it flattened out to pretty easy, level terrain. Yesterday the boys had enjoyed a run around Reigate Fort. He thought there were a couple more Victorian hill forts on today’s route, but it wasn’t entirely clear from the map whether these were accessible.

  ‘William, you’ll know,’ he said, catching up with him. ‘Pilgrim Fort. It’s clearly marked on the map. I’m intrigued by the name. Can we visit, do you know?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ said William. ‘It’s hidden in the depths of the wood. Private property, these days anyway. Used to be owned by the local authority. Field study centre, I think. Sort of place city kids were sent to, to discover the great outdoors.’

  ‘That sounds rather glorious,’ said Stephen. ‘I trust that wasn’t the end of that. I do hope they opened up somewhere else instead.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ said Theo, joining them. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the whole Dangerous Book for Boys was exactly your cup of tea, Father Stephen.’

  ‘Really? Why on earth not?’

  ‘Well, I’d have thought you might be rather too fond of your creature comforts.’

  Stephen laughed. Theo and William clearly had no idea. His reinvention of himself appeared to have exceeded even his own high standards. If only they knew!

  ‘Have I never told you about Lough Derg and St Patrick’s Purgatory?’ Both men looked blank. ‘No? It’s what you might describe as the Ironman of pilgrimages.’

  ‘Go on,’ said William.

  ‘Well, Lough Derg is in County Donegal in Ireland. It’s home to the sacred Sanctuary of St Patrick. There’s a cave which is supposedly the entrance to Purgatory. Anyhow, it’s a really significant part of Irish Christian heritage, somewhere pilgrims have been going for over a thousand years. It’s a remarkable place – hard to describe if you haven’t been there. The very air feels steeped in prayer. The cave’s on an island in the middle of lake. So not the slightest hope of mobile signal or Wi-Fi, and they don’t let you bring phones or laptops. I don’t know what it is exactly, but there’s a tangible sense of peace.

  ‘It’s closed all winter, but in the summer – the season runs from May to September – you can go there either for a one-day retreat, or if you’re really hard-core, on a three-day pilgrimage. If you do that, you have to fast for three days and undertake a twenty-four-hour vigil. You take off your shoes when you arrive, and walk round the island barefoot, praying in a number of sacred places, inside the monastery church and outside on the rocks.’

  ‘And you’ve done that?’ said Theo.

  ‘Yup. Four times.’

  ‘What’s the hardest thing about it?’ asked William.

  ‘For me, staying awake. Sleep seems so seductive, especially when it’s cold and wet, which it can be. And if it’s not raining, the midges can be pretty horrible, too.’

  ‘So why? Why on earth put yourself through that?’ asked Theo.

  Stephen thought for a
moment. ‘I suppose it’s a chance to step back from everyday life. For me, it’s a time to come closer to God through prayer and reflection. But that would be the same for any pilgrimage. I guess what’s different there is the element of testing yourself. Seeing if you really do trust God when you're pushed to the limit.’

  ‘Bit of a niche sport, surely?’ said Theo.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Stephen. ‘All sorts of people turn up. Mary McAleese, the former Irish president, was there one year, and the poet Seamus Heaney another time. The island gets about fifteen thousand visitors a year, just in those few summer months. Not all of them do the full caboodle, of course, but numbers are pretty steady. And a lot of the pilgrims are repeat visitors, so that tells you there’s something about it that seems to touch a deep spot in the soul. There’s a bit in Mark’s Gospel where Jesus tells his disciples, “Come away to a quiet place and rest awhile.” That’s what it’s all about for me.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like my idea of a rest,’ said Theo. ‘But fair play to you.’ Stephen thought he could detect the faintest glimmer of respect in his voice.

  ‘Does it get any easier?’ added William.

  ‘Not really. Each time it’s been different. I go thinking I know what’s going to happen, but somehow God always takes me by surprise.’

  ‘So you’re saying that Santiago de Compostela is for softies?’ said Theo.

  ‘Hardly! For most people on the Camino, they’re in it for the long haul. St Patrick’s is intense, certainly. I guess you could think of it as a sprint, of sorts, as opposed to a marathon.’