Friday, 10 April 1981
The big news of the day – all over the tele and radio: Bobby Sands won the Fermanagh and South Tyrone by-election today.
Events at The Maze are difficult to interpret. Are the hunger strikers really noble but oppressed men, left with no choice after hundreds of years trapped in the worst of Britain’s shame? With decisions imposed on them by free men of a certain consciousness, who have not the willingness or ability to understand an Irishman’s view of the world.
And then in my little world…
I’m not sure how to support Tim when he’s having these unsettled periods. If it was Jillie, I’d just be creating some sense for her that I’m here when she needs me, but I don’t know how to communicate that to Tim, except that I think it. And of course I say the same kinds of things to him that I would to Jillie, but it’s hard to know what goes in. Maybe it all does the job well enough. It’s not like there’s any kind of acknowledgement though. Sometimes a look.
I took him to Brayford Pool again today while Jillie was at school. But the weather was crap and I decided against a stroll along the lake. I was sure he was thinking about the swans – I hope he wasn’t disappointed. We went to the Cathedral instead. He made a beeline for Little Hugh’s Shrine. He sat there looking along the horizontal line of the outer edge of the tomb. With one ear to the small black ‘box’, he looked rather comical. He seemed poised to knock on the ‘lid’. He didn’t of course.
We didn’t see Rose.
The other big news, of course, is still the deconstruction of the attempt on Reagan’s life the other day. Apparently the bullet that hit him wasn’t a direct hit but had ricocheted off someone else – shades of JFK. The would-be assassin apparently had no beef against Reagan at all but was simply trying to impress Jodie Foster, having been virtually stalking the poor woman for months – only in America.
Saturday, 11 April 1981
Riots in Brixton. Watching it happening on the nine o’clock news right now. Scenes of petrol bombs being thrown. Is this Northern Ireland or London? Bloody hell. Would love to be reporting on the ground though. Kate Adie doing her usual great job – god love her!
Tuesday, 14 April 1981
Tim seems to have chilled out again after a few stroppy days. Jillie didn’t seem to even notice his behaviour.
When he gets over these periods, he’s quite glowing and bright.
Two slightly worn-looking gentlemen, one older, left the Magna Carta and strolled, carefully, down Steep Street.
Down’s certainly easier than up.
What happened to your powers now?
Very funny.
The little boy’s getting it, isn’t he?
Yes. How exciting.
Do they know they’re racing each other? Mind out for that loose stone there.
Thank you. Hmm, racing? I don’t think that’s quite what they’re doing, but I suppose it’s not entirely an unreasonable way to put it either. The older one needs more help, it’s true. There is an onus here on the Bishop, to help him and to keep his own promises. We’ll see.
Monday, 20 April 1981
Lissy’s unhappy. Well, that’s probably an understatement. She’s looking for something she can’t quite find. She’s always good if she’s got at least a couple of smart, imaginative postgrads, but she said they’ve been a boring lot this year, which I take to mean that they’re ‘tow-the-line’ conservative types – born-again atheists all and not a one with an ounce of curiosity about the world. She’ll have to try and convince a few naive undergrads to take on a Masters next year.
She lost it a bit with Jillie on Saturday, although Jillie coped well I thought. And then today I found a folded up piece of notepaper that came out of the dryer – must have gone through the washing machine and everything in one of Jillie’s pockets. It was still readable. She must have gone off to her room and written it:
Do what Mummy says straight away.
Don’t blame her.
Don’t want anything.
Don’t get into an argument.
Ask her if she wants anything every now and then.
Think everything is a great idea.
I laughed my head off!
Tim painted an amazing picture today. It was the first time the therapist had set him up with paints and brushes and an easel. She said most three-and four-year-olds would probably use just one colour, do a quick squiggle in the middle of the page and that would be it. Tim took nearly half an hour, used several colours and covered the whole page. Each brush stroke was accompanied by great concentration. You could really see the cogs turning in his head. I think I’ll get it framed – it’s really very attractive actually. We will have to do a lot more of this. I get the sense he has some great opportunity for expression through this, and maybe even communication. I’ve never seen him do that with anything before. Well, except for when he’s focusing on those lines along the doors and the furniture, but even then that isn’t for so long.
He’s very proud of his picture. It’s taped on the refrigerator for now, and he keeps coming by and staring at it, and putting his hand up to it. He watched Lissy very closely when she got home and was looking at it, as though he was interested in her reaction. Or maybe he was worried what she’d do with it. Anyway, there’s some window opening here and it’s fascinating..
7
The failure of human beings to independently investigate truth
is foremost among those ills that ravage society. Without impartial investigation, civilisation cannot progress beyond the prejudices that contribute to the disintegration of the social order.
Paul Lample
A large white Swan had taken to accompanying the Bishop on his walks about Stowe. The sight baffled most, but Hugh found a solace with the large silent bird. The stately-looking French Bishop of Lincoln trod softly on the grass at his country home, his big hands folded together behind his back. He wore a heavy black cassock with a purple skullcap atop his head, a large pectoral cross about his neck and hooked into a button at the front of his cassock. A simple stole of exquisite green and purple embroidery was about his shoulders, a gold cross sewn in one end and a gold rose at the other, the latter a symbol of his English bishopric.
‘Ah, good morning, my friend. And how are you? Hmm? Now you will give me no trouble, will you? Or will you threaten me with that great beak as His Majesty likes to threaten me with his sword? Hmm? Ah, no, not you – my gentle friend. And what of our cathedral, ahh – it is unbelievable. Some sign I must give pause to – what do you think? Is God so vexed?’
The Bishop’s companion cocked its head slightly, appearing to listen, and perhaps, the Bishop thought, noting new lines and worries upon its master’s face.
It was the priest’s habit to walk and think, pacing by the stream running through his residence at Stowe, a small hamlet past Torksey from Lincoln. Here he could be more at peace from the great hammering and clamouring of voices and business in the city. He loved the bustle of the ancient Cathedral town, but it was a doing place, and a man of his status likewise needed a thoughtful place, and this was his.
Hugh of Avalon, who had become Bishop Hugh of Lincoln, was at once a fearsome and extremely kindly man. He had been at Lincoln for four years, arriving to take charge at the behest of Henry II. He had previously administered the monastery at Witham in Somerset, established by Henry as one of several acts of penance following the assassination of Thomas Becket on the steps of Canterbury Cathedral. Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest – and four of his knights took him at his word.
Hugh had stood up to the overbearing King before – refusing to pay taxes to finance Henry’s war in France – and he would do so again. The King’s threats were of little concern to him. It was the King’s soul that was of greater importance, and even more the example he could set to his own people. Not to mention, also, the other great kings of Europe, who would nonetheless continue to war with each other for many more centuries, shamefully often at the b
ehest of clergy with a different view of their role in men’s lives.
The Bishop was to meet with Henry in a few weeks and wanted to insist on holding Henry to an undertaking to lead a much-promised crusade to secure the Kingdom of Jerusalem, another penance prescribed by the now-dead Holy Father Alexander against the wayward King.
Hugh turned and continued his walking, head down and hands behind his back. The Swan waddled several steps behind him. Hugh had come to recognise his own Swan among the others that inhabited the gardens and waterways about Stowe, not only because it would emerge to follow him, but had a slightly twisted, possibly once broken foot, which endeared the bird to him even more. He would worry that the bird had enough food, or that perhaps its disability hindered it in some way, and he brought it morsels from his own plate.
Now, along with a self-indulgent King, Hugh felt the consequences of the recent disaster in Lincoln. A more self-serving man might have seen opportunity to build a monument to his own future glory. Hugh’s concerns were for the symbol of the Church’s strength, and for the many men, young and old, whose lives would now be sacrificed to this greater glory, knowing as he did that such an endeavour was years, generations even, in the reconstruction..
‘You see, my winged companion, how things must be? And does the King give a whit? Nay, he resides in his beloved France still, with little care for England. And here I am, a Frenchman, caring for his flock.’ Hugh felt his ire multiply. ‘Aargh… there is no patience in me for the injustices of this world. You are lucky my friend that it passes you by, excepting that you must listen to my ranting about it, hmm? And what do you hear of that anyway? Oh I think you are just about keeping me company, are you not; no matter my mood or the circumstances?’
Hugh continued a quicker pace, attempting as he was to rid himself of his own sense of impatience and frustration with the demands of his office.
The swishing of a cassock alerted the Bishop and the swan that they were not just the two of them anymore. The swan backed away a little as a young priest scurried towards Hugh, the Bishop sighing as his reverie about to be disturbed by the world’s intrusion.
‘My Lord.’ The priest bowed, mid-stride.
‘Yes, Peter. What is it?’
‘The architects and masons, Your Grace. There is a delegation come. They have some problems with the reconstruction.’
‘I’ll be there in a moment then, Peter, thank you.’
‘Yes, My Lord.’ The young priest bowed again, backing away a few steps and then turned and hurried back to the monastery buildings.
‘You see my friend there is no rest. Now they shall tell me something in the new design is not possible or else they will want more men, or more money. And how shall I take more men and boys from their homes, or ask Henry for more money, or heaven forbid that I should have to ask Lucius, who can’t even be found in Rome these days – he has so many arguments with the city fathers. Well, we shall see.’
Hugh had not yet been to the ruined Cathedral himself, but ordered the clearing of debris immediately though, and sending also for the Kingdom’s finest in architects and masons. Until all the debris was cleared, the extent of damage would not be fully revealed, but in the meantime, there were new possibilities for design, and many new techniques in masonry and construction, and Hugh wanted to learn as much as he could to ensure the best of all possible outcomes – in design, function, expense, and in skills and labour needed, some of which might be in short supply..
As Hugh turned and followed the path young Peter had taken to the abbey, the swan resumed its own path behind him. The bird would wait patiently for Hugh in the monastery’s courtyard and would be lucky perhaps for a few snippets from the monks’ table, particularly from those that desired the Bishop’s favour. And there were always those.
In Torksey, Father Taylor was seething.
Ungrateful! Ungrateful, that’s what they are! They don’t understand the pressures from Lincoln. That I must provide for those above as well as below.
The priest paced rapidly, stomping up and down his hallway. He’d had two groups of villagers come this morning already.
There’s no reason they can’t cope. These men do nothing anyway – sit around is what they do – make their wives and children work for them. One or two from each family had to go, that’s all there was for it. The Church can’t be without its centrepiece – that’s the way it is. I am not to blame! And now these damned Jews around about, causing trouble, with their secret ways. I won’t have it!
‘Aargh!’ He stormed to the door, heaving it open, and charged down a path to the church.
No man was probably less suited to the priesthood than this one. Ambitious but without much of any requisite talent, or at least not any great amount, nor the presence of mind to feign such, nor indeed the wiliness to secure some other route to advance his career, paying favour to the right men, manipulating others. The priest was too proud to humble himself to his betters and not crafty enough to wield the Church’s power to create influence. Instead he was a dull weathervane, allowing himself to be blown east, west, north or south by whatever forces. He bowed to Lincoln, and he bowed to the Manor, although begrudgingly to both. He vociferated at his parishioners in turn and thus became an unwitting fuel to resentment and rivalry.
He did not care for Jews – they were usually cleverer than he – and as he saw it, their conniving dealings always upset someone who thought he’d been got the better of. And they kept themselves apart. It was hard to know what they were up to.
Their biggest crime, as far the priest was concerned, was just being Jewish. Their race had killed the Lord and was forever tarnished because of it. Although even Taylor knew no individual Jew could really be blamed for the greatest evil of all, but it did seem part of God’s plan that this race should bear the stigma of that, and no matter what their lives now, wherever they lived, the Jews would always be trodden on and reviled. Father Taylor saw no test in that other than for the Jews themselves; it was clearly the nature of things and surely it was God’s intention or otherwise why was it so. As a Christian he had no obligation to them and did not see that any man had particularly. That his ‘parish’ included all of its residents – at least in some wider moral sense – was beyond the man.
Right now, though, the priest had more than just the Jews on his mind. The sun was beating down hard on these parts and more than just the priest’s own temper was flaring. The Thane had screeched at Father Taylor over what was assumed to be a failed poach and the death of the swan. Keep your flock in order and I shall have mine secure! The whisperings over the swan, the quake, the cathedral, and the Jews – anxieties were all around and the angry priest felt no control over events or people.
Father Taylor paused at the door to the small stone church, closed his eyes momentarily, and drew a deep breath. He knew enough to know that if ever he was to manage the peace, he must first manage his own.
He pulled open the door and went through, bowing deeply and with some considerable pause. Walking to the altar, he knelt and rested his head at the edge of it, one hand holding its rim to steady himself.
The priest had been angry as long as he’d known life, given easily to moods and self-doubt. He’d hoped he would rise further in the Church and while such proximity to the Cathedral provided one sense of proximity to greatness, it was not the one he wished for. He was not liked by his parishioners and he knew it. He knew that to love them would have brought some reward but he was unable to find this in himself, overwhelmed as he was by ambition. He prayed for an increase in virtue but even that, he knew, was insincere and would continue to elude him. So he prayed then for sincerity and on occasion he felt an inkling of God’s grace. He searched for this now. Whatever else was waiting for him on this day would just have to wait. He would eventually emerge when some rare solace finally took root once again in his soul, however small, however fragile it may be.
Already though, more burdens were developing expressly for the tired prie
st’s shoulders.
‘I will have to go and see this great ruin myself then. I’ve put it off long enough. I cannot bear to see what is left, but I feel now I must.’ Hugh sank into his large chair, in front of drawings and diagrams spread out on a long wooden table before him. ‘Decisions have to be made and they must be the right ones or it will not do.’ The Bishop’s voice was authoritative, not the sort that many men would attempt to interrupt or dismiss, but it held a kindness as well. And with little sleep the past few days a tiredness was also present that was clear to all.
A dozen men were about the table. Some wore fine clothes denoting both their station and their success, for the one was rarely without the other in these days. Other men wore the finest they had, which was to say a much cruder dress and cloth than the notables among them. These though were master craftsmen who had earned their reputations through many years of toil, and in some cases even innovation, and had risen to a reputation – both esteemed and sustainable.
‘Thank you, gentlemen, for travelling all this way. I know there is much to do and I am very grateful. I see you have an understanding of the problems we face. Please return to the city with these plans and carry on with the first stages of the work. I will arrive on your heels and we will see what more is to be done. It seems certain the debris will reveal unexpected concerns and many decisions are yet to be thrashed out among us. I’m grateful for your advice – very grateful indeed.’
Hugh dismissed the group of architects and masons from his room with all their Thank you M’Lords.
‘Prepare things to leave, Peter,’ he said to the young priest, and Peter took his leave also to ready for the Bishop’s departure to Lincoln.
Angels in the Architecture Page 11