Being town dwellers, the small house didn’t have the same smells of animals and the dirt of a peasant’s hovel, but it was as small and dark and almost as bare. There was the same constant open fire which added more smoke to the place than was good for anyone, and the constant smell of a stew always simmering. Berta had made the place her own and now Euan often felt the guest. The rules for what was minded had become her rules and he kept to them rather than have the scratch of her tongue which once it set to was not short in stopping.
‘There’s a shakin’,’ Berta began, ‘a dead great bird, and now an innocent attacked in a way as was very wrong. There’s a reasonin’ God has ’ere, but I can’t say as I’ve reckoned what ’tis yet.’
‘If you ask me i’s the devil’s work, seems lark i’.’
‘Rubbish, boy. No such thing as devil. Just them churchmen made tha’ up so as to keep you ‘n’ me in ther pockets. Naw, naw, i’s a plan on high. ‘N’ there’ll be more o’ business as folks won’ lark yet to be sure. Deaths there’ll be. Folks get’n’ killed. In some ter’ble ways. Ther’s a plan in i’ tho’. Ther’s a reason’n’ fer i’.’ Berta rocked in her chair, obviously pondering the meaning of events. That there was an explanation that bound everything together she knew as well as she knew the cracks and calluses in her own hands.
She put her head back, closing her eyes, seeing much of what was yet to pass. And even seeing what was still to pass that had already happened. Now how would one such as she explain that strangeness to anyone who would not think her mad or bedevilled. Berta knew well that one could see the future in the present and the past, and the past in the future, and all manner of orderings of time. She even knew that even as she’d seen the future come to be, that it was just as possible to change something already happened, if anyone understood too that each person had a power to do so.
Euan understood not a whit of her ramblings and paid no more heed except to acknowledge her with the occasional murmur. He cared nothing for her predictions and chose never to engage in any chat any villager would have with him about his grandmother. And to that end he preferred she limit her banter to the ears of those who also cared little, since he sought to protect his own and his children’s future and her place in it. After all, he really did need the old woman, and she did seem to mind a good house.
At the home of Jared the Smith, young Peter, who had run from the scene of Thomas’s accident earlier to fetch the physician, was acquainting his family with events. His mother, Thilda, looked to her husband as the boy spoke, and they both knew a disquiet that, although it had them not in any grip of fear as yet, had them considering the extent of the rules they imposed that usually bound their young children close to their house. The boy thought everything of late exciting and mystical. His parents knew better than to get carried away with notions of portents or omens, but times were unsettled. Folk heard things – more than just these few things of the last week. There was always religious talk or rumours of foreign kings and wars that stirred folk and easily led to a violence or greed or threat of some sort or another.
Thilda also thought she would see if she could find a way to send some small token to Alice Warriner, who she’d known since their childhood, and whose burden seemed at least as great as any woman’s. Thilda herself had just the one son left living and it would be a sore day for even a nasty old priest to take an only one, even it was for the cathedral and the glory of God.
Jared Smith had sympathy likewise for Gamel Warriner as he knew the hardships of a family and poor trade. He thought he would have to soon press one or two of the villagers to settle their accounts with him as things were more than a little drowsy at his workshop the last week. It was a difficult business to take money on account from folk who had none. And harder still to take some small remaining animal or part of a crop, knowing some other child not his own would go hungry because of it..
When his parents weren’t watching and seemed engaged in some other thing, Peter Smith slipped out through the smithies yard at the front of their small house. He was keen to meet his friends in the village and see what menacing pranks they may dream up. And he hoped one of them knew the identity of the afternoon’s assailant, or at least they might guess at it and decide for themselves whether to make of the person a hero or a new victim for their boyish pleasure.
At the Thane’s manor, Lord Abelard received Father Taylor.
Abelard was a tall powerfully built man who in different surroundings and clothes could have looked like one of his own peasants. He hunted, fought and went to war, and took part in any other kind of physical pursuit that guaranteed his strength and power over his peasants and any other Lord that posed a threat, which indeed most did if only for the King’s favour. He did not tolerate fools and the local priest irritated him to distraction. Unlike the priest though, Abelard had always been successful in currying favour with those who could provide him some benefit, and the priest certainly did that, maintaining as he did the souls and religious zeal of the masses. He wasn’t quite sure yet though whether recent events were something he should be particularly concerned about, and he eyed the priest for signs of weakness. He saw many and doubted the man’s ability to manage the populace. He would have to keep an eye on things himself. Fortunately he had sufficient men to bully and cajole on his behalf if need be.
The Lord and the priest agreed on a hushed investigation into the origin of the afternoon’s attack. Abelard, less moved by events in the village or with its occupants, was more roused to discuss the appropriate punishment for a poacher caught that afternoon on his estate and held now in his stables. He was, as was known, inclined to public flogging, although he liked to encourage the villagers’ own self-righteousness by a turn in the stocks. He was disinclined to prison terms since it cost him in guard and keep, such as it was, and gave too much favour to idleness.
Father Taylor knew his presence irritated Abelard and never wont to stay in the Lord’s company for more than was necessary, withdrew from the manor at the earliest moment. It did not seem to him that His Lordship would even notice, let alone care, should he find the agreed investigation waning. The stone-throwing was most likely a reaction of superstitious fools, hell-bent on finding another poor innocent to vent their fear upon. The idiot child seemed such a likely choice that it dawned on the priest how unusual it was that such a thing had not occurred before now. But then he supposed that it – the child – was surrounded always by its parents and brothers, well protected. And the father and mother were respected among the peasants.
No, he thought, perhaps he’d do better to put his energies into arranging the poacher’s punishment for the Lord’s amusement. He knew he really ought to pray for the poor sod, but that was largely a pastime he kept to himself and for his own benefit.
Later that day, when Hugh arrived at the small friary at the edge of the town, there were many tales to tell and concerns to digest. While much of what was told would lead simply to superstitious nonsense, there were new hardships to be borne and all combined among an ignorant mass to create trouble, or a good deal of concern for such. The attack on a child was evidence enough of such foolishness. Hugh’s apprehension grew as he saw the local priest finding a situation beyond his capacity to shoulder, and he focused his attention that evening on settling the man’s nerves and assuring him of his support, God’s guidance, and the transience of life’s trials. An unruly snake pit was brewing that the priest neither saw nor was capable of understanding, let alone managing. It was clear to Hugh that the man took a harsh view of most things and struggled with little heart to be truly pastoral in his outlook.
The Bishop listened through the evening to the troubled man, soothing and advising. As always, he knew that his presence did indeed provide encouragement and peace, and he was grateful for the Lord’s gifts to him. He retired late and with a little too much wine under his belt for such an old man as himself. The next day would be trying enough. But even then he did not find sleep easily. Troubl
es gnawed at him. In these times, he knew more that were innocent, and even untarnished, would be victims. Even the priest had commented on the annoying Jews as though this was a flock of gulls come in from the sea instead of a law-abiding citizenry, and Hugh knew this opinion to be widely held. He urged the priest to consider all in his parish to be children of God, especially these, and that it would not be useful to peace to remark any further on any other such person or group in a similar manner.
‘We are all equal in the Lord’s eyes,’ he’d encouraged the priest, although he wasn’t convinced the man understood him. Indeed, the priest seemed surprised that the Bishop would defend the Jews.
‘But it was they who killed Our Lord, Excellency,’ Father Taylor had replied.
‘Our Lord was a Jew, my son, and further it was the Romans of old who hunted and killed not only our Lord but his many followers for many years to come. The People of the Book are a good people, pious and obedient to the laws of our land. It does us well to protect and even honour them.’
Hugh knew he would need to return to this topic with the priest again, as well as with others in his flock, and further he knew he must need be unequivocal in protecting and defending those who would otherwise be considered unblemished and inculpable.
At the home of Jacob Yazd, a Jew, Jacob’s wife Martha told what she’d overheard at the market after the events had occurred. At their mealtime, the family delivered up a prayer for the strange young boy. Jacob advised his wife and children not to gossip about this or any other event or villager and that God had his own reasons for the way things were. It was not for any of them to question. He charged each of them with kindness, neighbourliness, and respect towards their fellow man.
The slightly built man pushed a gnawing fear from his mind and put his trust in God. For generations, and probably centuries he didn’t know of, his family had prevailed against many insults and repressions; he recognised them more and feared them less. He knew it to be the way of things for his people, but he had no wish to arouse concerns among his family, and he would have them become as invisible as possible in the busy little village.
8
Peace is not just the absence of war. Like a cathedral, peace must be constructed patiently and with unshakable faith.
Pope John Paul II (1920–2005)
Monday, 27 April 1981
World’s an interesting place right now it seems: some amazing things happening. One day we seem to be hanging in the balance, the next poised for major change. The news is always very full these days.
Following a crash by an Air New Zealand plane into Mount Erebus in Antarctica a couple of years ago, killing everyone on board, there was an inquiry lead by Justice Peter Mahon. His report was released today. The airline had concluded pilot error, but the flight paths were changed without the pilots knowing and then there’d been an extraordinary cover-up. Fabulous quote from Justice Mahon: ‘… an orchestrated litany of lies.’ Imagine we’ll be hearing that one again. Love it.
Tuesday, 5 May 1981
Bobby Sands died today following his hunger strike in Her Majesty’s prison The Maze. He had a father and a son. Margaret Thatcher said he was a convicted criminal who chose to take his own life. I wonder how many others will die. I wonder how she sleeps at night. Must require copious medication or else she really is made of iron.
I’ve been trying to take more time to sit and really study Tim. Really, really look and see all the tiny nuances of his behaviour. Of course he has so many different behaviours, many of which are really indistinguishable from any other kid his age. It’s his sitting and staring and laughing at nothing that draws my attention most. Jillie can make him laugh too and he gets right into that and can’t stop giggling. But that’s ‘normal’, and different from when he’s just laughing when there’s no stimulus to the laughter.
I had this idea that he was looking at some thing; now I realise that’s not what he’s doing. The thing he’s ‘looking’ at is inside his head, and he focuses on it intently. Sometimes he angles his head up as though he’s trying to get a better view of this thing inside him, a bit like if someone asks a question and you cock your head maybe, and look up, trying to find the ideal answer.
But still I feel like he’s engaging with something other than just the ideas or thoughts or images in his own head, something that is ‘beyond’ him. Perhaps there is some connection to the ‘real world’, like a pathway he’s trying to negotiate. I wonder how he sees us, how he processes what he sees and how he makes sense of things around him – does he make sense of them? In years to come, I’m sure – I hope – scientists will fathom the depths of these children’s minds. Perhaps find ways to ‘let them out’.
I don’t think I can go any further with thinking about this. What can I know that I don’t know already?
Wednesday, 13 May 1981
Alicia was in a shitty liver this evening. I don’t get where she’s at, and there doesn’t seem to be any way into her head or her thoughts to find out.
She charged out of the house after dinner and came back an hour or so later saying she’d been for a walk, except she took the car, so whatever.
The Pope was shot in St Peter’s Square today, by a Turk, Mehmet Ali Ağca, a member of the group Grey Wolves. His Holiness is in a serious condition after his intestine was perforated multiple times. He underwent five hours of surgery, apparently losing nearly three quarters of his blood.
Rumours are of Soviet conspiracy because of the Pontiff’s support for the Polish labour movement Solidarity.
Friday, 22 May 1981
I spent much of the day in the workshop with the mustang. Tim seemed to enjoy pottering around in there too. He got into all sorts of things and got very dirty. Lined lots of things up he’d not lined up before – seemed to enjoy it: nuts and bolts and tools and bits of engine and pieces of wood. He had grease smeared everywhere. It was a pleasure to see. At one point, he handed me a pair of clippers which I took off him and rested on top of the battery. About ten seconds later, I found I needed them. Coincidence of course, but it was the only tool he handed me all day, and the synchronicity was delightful, if only momentary.
Heard on the radio that Peter Sutcliffe’s been put away for the rest of his days. A lot of people creeped out by it even this far from Yorkshire. Don’t like those ‘outside the courtroom’ reportings on radio and television – too sensational for my liking – but justice served and relief all round.
‘What’s this group of yours all about then?’ Alicia asked. ‘You didn’t really say anything after you’d been, although I did of course note the hour at which you returned, not to mention the malodorous vapour you breathed on me the next morning.’
‘Ah well, you see, there was this one somewhat lonely old codger who kind of twisted my arm a bit,’ said Pete, thinking it best not to mention Sally’s presence at the pub.
‘Right.’
‘It’s true, he did.’
‘Aha!’
‘Well, anyway…’
‘Well, anyway.’
‘They’re an interesting and I suppose quite sincere group of people – fairly diverse characters – and the format seems fairly loose. They talked about the effects of prayer. This fellow I went to the pub with – Maitland – he’d done a bit of research and said there wasn’t really any evidence of any kind to prove the efficacy of prayer. It was quite interesting.’
Pete and Alicia had located a small tract of calm in their particular combat zone. Pete was enjoying the comradeship with his wife, and for her part Alicia noticed a respite from her usual fury. She’d got up early, evading Pete. Now a few hours later and a little guiltily she’d brought fresh coffee and eggs to the verandah where he was devouring the morning paper. She hoped her kindness, perhaps somewhat feigned, might allow her to further escape to her office in the afternoon.
‘So what do you want from it?’ Alicia asked.
‘The group thing? No idea. Just curious. They seem mostly very smart. There’
s nothing happy-clappy about it at all. Didn’t feel like I was being asked to swallow some line of doctrine or anything.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s how they get you though, isn’t it … creep up on you.’
‘Don’t be such a cynic.’
‘Well, if I’m a cynic, you’re gullible.’
‘Not my style.’ Pete was relaxed and didn’t mind his wife’s playful baiting.
‘Aha!’
‘Well, you’re the family scientist. What do you think? Can prayer make a difference?’
‘To what?’
‘To someone’s health, say.’
‘Absolutely…,’ Alicia replied.
‘Really?’
‘… and definitely not,’ she finished off.
‘Oh, well, that’s precision for you. Which is it then?’ Pete asked.
‘Both.’
‘You can’t have your eggs and eat them too,’ replied Pete, mopping up yolk with a slice of toast. ‘Nice brekky by the way. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Did I do something to deserve it?’
‘No, not a thing.’
‘Very funny. So?’
‘Okay look, the thing is I’m not a medical doctor and don’t have any experience in that area, but I’m sure that prayer, or for that matter any kind of positive mental practice, can improve patient outcomes. There are always stories about people who’ve beaten the odds with, as they’ve said, their ability to laugh, or because they refuse to believe anything other than the best possible of all futures. But really that’s not anything to do with prayer per se. Not in my view. I don’t think prayer itself is necessarily going to make a blind bit of difference to anyone. I think there are too many other variables to consider.’
‘So you don’t believe in prayer?’
‘Well, like I say, I do and I don’t.’
‘Helpful.’
‘I’m not trying to be helpful … ’
‘Obviously.’
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