‘Well? What have you been thinking about?’
Allen felt as small and scared as a five-year-old. His well-fed, well-dressed, handsome, popular self seemed as far away and unreal now as something from a dream. Trembling in his coarse black robe in the blaze of this frightening man’s indignation, he felt utterly wretched.
‘I suppose,’ he said, in a very small voice, ‘I’ve been thinking about myself.’
‘Tell me then,’ said Peregrine, the quietness of his voice no more reassuring than the roar of the moment before, ‘about yourself.’
Allen felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. Whatever was he supposed to say? The dark, fierce eyes were holding him, compelling him.
‘I thought if I gave God my sin, he would give me his peace. It says it in the Mass, that the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world gives us peace. But—all my life seemed to be sin. I gave it to him by coming here.’
‘So. That is what you thought and what you did; but you, tell me about you. You, whom Christ died for. You’ve been thinking about yourself, you say. Tell me then.’
Allen looked at him helplessly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ The abbot’s silence gripped him like a huge pair of hands, and shook him.
‘I…’ he began huskily, ‘I used to think of myself as something special. My mother and father dote on me. I had everything: clothes, money, horses, everything I wanted. Women, too. There were several… five—there were five girls. I used them shamelessly for my pleasure. I used my parents too. There was not… never has been… any gratitude in me. Nor reverence. Nor respect. But I didn’t see it. You want to know what I am? I couldn’t have told you until now. I’m a spoiled brat.’
He stopped, caught unawares again by the lump in his throat and the tears in his eyes.
‘Thank you for answering my question,’ said the abbot. ‘As far as I can see you have answered it truthfully. You can go, then.’
Allen looked at him in horror. The tears threatened to overflow. Don’t leave me like this, he wanted to plead. You’ve stripped me of everything. I can’t face the brothers in the shame of this nakedness.
Father Peregrine met his look, looked right into him. Allen had never met a man who could look at him like that, unwavering, unembarrassed, without any inhibition at all.
‘If you’re going to weep, weep,’ said the abbot. ‘All of us do, sooner or later. You can forget any foolish notions you may have about your personal dignity when you stand as you are before Christ. Weep, then. Let him heal you of your ingratitude, and your heartless abuse of love, and your using us to achieve your own selfish spiritual ends.’
Allen wept. The bluntness of the rebuke pushed him off the edge of the composure to which he had been so precariously clinging, and he fell down and down into the loneliness of his shame. First reluctantly, then miserably, then in an abandonment of shame and disgust, he faced himself and his own sin. Not even a villain, much less a hero, just a conceited, self-centred, ungrateful lad; unexceptional, lazy and spoiled. All his vanity and artificial dignity crumbled into ruins about him, leaving him wide open, unsupported, undressed. The world he had always known seemed to draw away from him, until he stood in a great empty tract of desolation. The nothingness, the falsity of all he was, bled out of him until it filled the vast, bleak desert of his loneliness, and he was engulfed in emptiness, hopelessness; lost. There was nothing left but the abandonment of his sobbing, which embarrassed him in its uncontrolled noisiness, until not even that mattered any more.
He had never felt so alone in his life, as he stood in the middle of the stone floor in the great, comfortless room hearing the noise of his weeping, hot tears coursing down his face, consumed in loathing of himself and all he had been. All the while he was aware of the presence of the abbot, neither condemning nor consoling him, watching and understanding the depths of his shame, such utter abasement, such a seeing of his own sin and strutting foolishness. Even to be stripped naked and stood in the marketplace to endure the sniggers of passers-by would not have exposed him as the roots of his soul were now exposed. It felt as if it would never stop. He would have thought it was unbearable, except that he was too filled with shame to think anything about it at all.
‘Help me.’ The words came out brokenly, indistinctly, through his tears. He was unsure if he was addressing the abbot or God. Neither of them answered him, and in the end came the weary misery of the moment when his weeping had finished and there was nothing to do but find his handkerchief and blow his nose, dry his eyes and raise his head at last to meet the eyes of the man who sat in silence watching him. He was no longer sure what he was, who he was. Gutted of all that he had affected, all that he had taken for granted, he had nothing left but his wretchedness, his tired, hungry body, the coarse simplicity of the tunic that clothed him and the distressed unevenness of his breath. So he allowed his eyes to meet the abbot’s grey eyes, and saw there profound sadness, and deep kindness, and a compassion that clothed him again, gave the nakedness of his soul some protection against the harshness of pain and humiliation. Allen drew in his breath and let it go in an exhausted sigh. He drank in the comfort of the abbot’s compassion, of his evident understanding, but he could think of no words to say now. He could not begin to know how to move forward from the holocaust he had fallen into and start to live again; speak, act, move.
‘Sit down,’ said Father Peregrine. He picked up the wooden crutch and got to his feet. ‘Sit down and gather yourself together again. Wait for me here. I’ll not be long.’
Allen watched him as he limped across the bare austere room, his jerky gait, the awkwardness of his twisted hands as he leaned on the crutch and with both hands grappled with the great iron handle of the door. It occurred to Allen that this man had good reason to understand humiliation, and was well acquainted with suffering. Formidable he might be, but the most imposing man in the world would be overwhelmed at times by that level of disability. While he was wondering whether to help him. Peregrine conquered the door handle, and glanced across the room at Allen before he went out. Allen’s soul, stripped and washed clean, was still plain in his eyes, as clear and clean as a new sheet of parchment ready for use. The first thing written there was concern for Peregrine as he struggled with the door. Nothing patronising; insight. There was a flash of understanding between them as their eyes met again. Each had glimpsed the other’s humiliation, met it with compassion, felt it as his own.
‘Wait for me,’ said Peregrine again, and left Allen sitting alone, trying to make sense of all that he had just been through. It was as though he had just crossed the rapids of a turbulent, flooding, wild river, and was cut off for ever from the further bank on which he had lived his whole life until now. He felt as tender and naked as a newborn; as exposed as a creature that had lived all its days underground and then found itself astonishingly, painfully, in the air and dizzy light of the mountains. No doubt about it, it was a costly, hurting thing. His soul, used to covert ways and sly disguises, was sore in the breeze and brightness of its new climate, but… there was something about the very pain of it that was more exhilarating than anything he had found in the comfort and ease that had padded his life so far. Allen gave up trying to understand it, and waited, wrapped in a sort of light-headed tranquillity of exhaustion.
It was not long before the door opened again, and Father Peregrine entered, with Brother Cormac in his wake carrying a large slab of pigeon pie and a mug of ale. Cormac glanced round the room and, locating Allen in his chair in the corner, brought the food over to him. He looked down at Allen’s blotched and swollen face with a cheerful grin. ‘Hungry?’ he said. Hungry? Allen was becoming so accustomed to feeling hungry that he had almost ceased to notice it, but as he caught the smell of the food, he felt ravenously hungry, and his mouth watered for it.
He devoured the pie and downed the ale, which was not diluted this once, with single-minded absorption, while Brother Cormac chatted comfortably to Father Peregrine about the progress of pl
anting in the vegetable gardens behind the kitchen.
‘Thank you,’ said Allen gratefully, as he gave the plate and mug back to Cormac, having chased up every crumb of pastry and drained every drop of ale. Brother Cormac took them with a smile, and there was something in his look which made Allen feel that here was someone else who understood very well indeed what he had been through, and knew just what it felt like. Allen returned his smile, wondering fleetingly if it was in this that brotherhood and peace had their roots, the losing of everything.
Father Peregrine had returned to his chair behind the table with its untidy heaps of books and parchments. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said to Cormac as he disappeared with the crockery, then he turned his attention back to Allen. Allen felt as warmed and fed by the kindness of that look as he was by the pie and ale that comfortably filled his belly.
‘Now go to bed,’ said the abbot, ‘and go to sleep. Sleep all you need. Get up when you’re rested.’
Allen looked at him in amazement. His whole body longed for sleep, ached for sleep, but he couldn’t quite believe his ears.
‘But—Father Matthew…’ he said doubtfully at last.
‘Father Matthew is not the ogre he seems. Nor, incidentally, am I. Leave me to speak to Father Matthew. You go to bed.’
Allen went to his cell and collapsed in sweet relief onto his hard bed. He felt drained and utterly spent, and he fell asleep instantly.
He was woken by the Office bell. He went down the night stairs to the choir, to discover to his amazement that it was time, not for the midday Office, but for Vespers. It was nearly supper-time. He had slept all day.
Brother Francis was the reader for the day. It seemed a long, long time since that Sunday morning when Allen had met him at the church door before Mass. He was reading from the book of Isaiah.
‘Ipse autem vulneratus est propter iniquitates nostras, attritus est propter scelera nostra; disciplina pacis nostra super eum, et livore ejus sanati sumus. He was pierced through for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities. Upon him was the punishment that brought us peace, and by his wounds we are healed.’
Allen felt as though the words were turning him inside out. Now he was rested and fed, he was able to look beyond the confusion of misery and shame that weariness and hunger had compounded into abject desolation.
‘Upon him was the punishment that brings us peace, and by his wounds we are healed.’ Timidly, hungrily, humbly, Allen’s spirit reached up, yearned towards God. Wave upon wave upon wave of peace swept through him, cleansed him, comforted him, healed him. As he walked out of Vespers to the refectory for supper, he was bathed in peace, alight with peace, overflowing with peace.
Father Peregrine smiled as he watched him go.
After supper, Allen went up to the community room where he found Brother Josephus and Brother Damian. Brother Damian broke off his impersonation of Father Matthew discoursing on the beatitudes to look at Allen in amazement.
‘God’s wounds!’ he said. ‘Whatever happened to you?’
‘Oh, don’t say that,’ said Allen. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound like an abbot’s chapter, but don’t swear by God’s wounds, Brother Damian. He… they… the wounds of Christ are the most precious thing the world ever saw. Don’t make a blasphemy out of them.’ He blushed, embarrassed and shy; it was so thoroughly unlike himself that the two young brothers stared at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Brother Damian, ‘I didn’t know it mattered that much to you.’
We had reached our house before Mother came to the end of her story, and sat down on the steps to finish it uninterrupted. We stayed a moment longer, without speaking, watching the splendour of the sun going down, and then both looked round as we heard the sound of the front door opening. It was Daddy, holding his car keys.
‘Oh, there you are, you two. I thought you’d got lost; I was coming to look for you. What on earth are you doing there?’
Mother got up and smiled at him.
‘Enjoying the peace,’ she said. ‘But I’m ready for a cup of tea.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Holy Poverty
Mother stood in the kitchen, reading through the letter Beth had brought in from school. She looked anxious and harassed as she glanced up and caught my eye. She waved the piece of paper at me.
‘They never let up, do they? Beth’s class is going on an outing to the estuary to see the geese and the other waterfowl, and just look how much money they want for the cost of the trip! Pocket-money recommended, for heaven’s sake! Dear, oh dear, I don’t know. She’d not get more than that for her birthday! What else? Some sensible outdoor shoes and a waterproof coat; a packed lunch and a warm sweater. Well, I can manage the lunch and the sweater, but she hasn’t got a waterproof coat, and she’s only got sandals. She hasn’t grown out of those yet. I was hoping to wait until the weather gets a bit colder before I buy her winter shoes. If I get them now she’ll outgrow them before the spring. Do your Wellingtons still fit you, Beth?’
Beth shook her head glumly.
‘No? Your feet must have grown, then. It doesn’t show so much with sandals. Oh, goodness me, Melissa, she’ll have to borrow your kagoul and roll the sleeves up. That’s waterproof. All that money, though! Why, it’s as much as it costs me to feed her for a week. How many children are there in your class? Thirty-two? They’re going to spend all that money taking you to see some ducks on a puddle of water; and we live by the sea! What’s wrong with seagulls, for heaven’s sake? A whole month’s housekeeping that would be for me.’
She sighed wearily. ‘You’ll have to wear your sandals and they can just lump it. You can take some spare socks in case you get yours wet. I suppose your class has an outing too, Mary, and Cecily’s playschool. All right, never mind. You’ll probably come home with a photocopied outline of a duck to colour and a vivid memory of someone being sick on the bus, but I daresay your teacher has spotted some educational value in it that I can’t see. Out you go into the garden to play for a little while. I’m not quite ready with tea yet.’
There was never any money to spare in our house. We had two meals a day, apart from our breakfast porridge, and bread featured very prominently in one, and potatoes in the other. Mary and Beth came home from school for dinner in the middle of the day, because Mother said she could feed them at home cheaper than either school meals or sandwiches. Daddy said Mother was the only cook he knew who had hit upon the novel idea of using meat as a garnish. Our clothes were almost always second-hand, and so were our books. The little ones had some money for sweets on Saturday, I did a paper-round for pocket-money and Therese worked on Friday evenings at a local supermarket, filling shelves. We didn’t mind not having much money, but I hated Mother having to be anxious about school trips and new shoes, and getting through the last week of the month before Daddy was paid.
‘It’s all right,’ she would say, ‘but choosing between baked beans and toilet rolls defeats me. They go together, don’t they?’
Worst of all were the weeks before Christmas, when she would be nearly in despair trying to get together enough Christmas presents for all our relatives and friends.
‘What a silly way to celebrate Jesus, homeless in a manger,’ she said crossly. ‘Although, I don’t know. We’ll be more or less down to milk and hay ourselves by the time we’ve paid for all this lot.’
Yet somehow, we always managed. ‘There is nothing in my life,’ Mother said, ‘that has taught me so much about the kindness of God and the reality of his love watching over us as not having enough money. He has never let us down. Never. Well, sometimes we have to ring up and say we’ll pay next week, but nothing worse than that. I don’t know what we’d do without him.’
‘Without God?’ Mary asked, puzzled. ‘We couldn’t do anything without God because we wouldn’t be here at all.’
My mother was a resourceful woman, not easily defeated, but worrying about money was one of the few things that would reduce her to tears. More often though, w
hen she was anxious, she would be bad tempered, irritable and sharp with us all. It was at the end of a week like that, that Beth’s letter about the school outing came.
I got out the loaf of bread and the pot of blackberry jam for tea while Mother read through Beth’s letter again.
‘It’s not bad really,’ she said, ‘and it’s a month off yet. Perhaps she’ll be able to have some shoes.’
‘I wish we were a bit richer,’ I said, getting the margarine and cheese out of the fridge, and bringing knives and plates to the table.
‘I don’t,’ said Mother. ‘I know it sounds odd, but I don’t. I couldn’t bear the thought of people who have no homes and are cold and hungry, if I always had enough. I know I get cross and upset about it, but I would be no better off for covering up my weakness with money. It’s good for me to know the places where my soul falls down, and it’s good to have to lean on God and ask for his help. I know it’s not very nice for you when I’m ratty, but maybe it will help you to understand people better than you would have if you’d been too protected from the realities of life. There’s another thing of peanut butter if you look at the back of the cupboard.’ Mother poured tea into mugs for everyone except Mary and Cecily, who had glasses of milk. ‘I know a story about poverty. I’ll tell you it after tea, if you like. Call the girls in now. Where’s Therese? In the living room? Oh, I didn’t hear her come in.’
After tea, the three little girls had their bath, and then I read Cecily the story of the Great Big Enormous Turnip. Beth and Mary had heard that story too many times, so they went upstairs for a chapter of a book with Mother. Cecily made me laugh, her blue eyes getting rounder and rounder as I said, ‘… and they pulled and they pulled and they pulled and they pulled and they PULLED!’ Without her realising it, her mouth was silently mimicking mine as I spoke the words of the story.
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