A Christian will help another Christian. When a victim of circumstances rejects this help, it is as if he were placing a lump of manure on a palm held out for a warm handshake.
Fresh manure is warm, too.
A rock of offence will not hurt us, for a Christian must forgive. I forget how many times, I’ve no head for maths. What about a head for drink?
Help given by man cannot compete against God’s will.
Each is healed if it is to be, and whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. If the seeds are couch grass and goosefoot, there’ll be no bread come harvest time.
Say what you like, even a believer wreaks revenge on his neighbour because he cannot get hold of God. He’ll dig boundary stones out of the ground and go to court. Who was it that went to fetch a pitchfork and a rake he claimed he lent to his neighbour seven years before? And when these were not found, he hit the neighbour on the head with the man’s own spade, and said that right or wrong, he could seek God’s forgiveness.
A contrary person in a village is like a fish out of water.
Beer refreshes.
The wrong people’s names get into the paper, like politicians and criminals: same thing, often as not. Not honest people, nor animals like Wilson’s bull, which took first prize at Cheltenham market.
Does the doctor remove the Queen’s corset when he’s examining her?
What if the nation is held together by whalebones alone?
Quiet, idiot!
Mrs Wilson was medicated with arsenic, believe it or not. What sort of treatment is that? I kill rats with arsenic because rats spread the plague. A million people died of the plague in London.
Newspapers today report only trivialities.
I’d rather rob a bank than have my name in the paper just because I dipped my paws in the collection box.
I wonder what my obituary will be like. Imagine if I got to read it from the edge of a cloud, with a telescope.
Never mind about newspaper articles. If your name and dates are carved in stone, they’ll stay put. Rain won’t dissolve them.
If nobody remembers who the name belonged to, does it even matter if water washes the letters away?
Who’ll die first, you – me – him – her? Shall we have a race? A game? Who’ll live the longest? I don’t want to, I might end up celebrating a lonely victory.
Good question. The brain is tough and shrivelled, not good enough even for worms in the grave. And the lungs of a pipe-smoker are a rotten, holey mushroom. And a drunkard’s liver is a fatty lump – you wouldn’t cut off a single bloody slice for the pan.
IV
The cellar smells of earth and mildew and mouse.
I am not afraid of mice.
Rosemary Rowe takes a jar of apple jelly off the shelf. She sits down on a step and squeezes the jar between her palms. She prays:
I only hope Harry goes straight to bed once he gets in.
I only hope Harry never finds out. That night, he drank himself into a stupor in the kitchen, before falling asleep. I knew something bad had happened. I found the man. He is a villain, a swindler, and what he did to Margaret… But I could not leave him on the road, for he was more dead than alive. I ran to Jennifer’s. Luckily, she lives alone. We patched the man up and nursed him back on to his feet. In the morning, he went on his way. Neither Jennifer nor I will ever breathe a word of this to anyone, not even each other. And yet I am frightened. The lump on my forehead is still aching, though several days have passed since.
God, You told me You were a room I could inhabit without fear, neither cellar nor loft nor kitchen. And You did not speak to me as You spoke in the Bible or to Joan of Arc, whom all thought mad; for I am not mad. You are the place where I am at peace, and where I do not need to rush from one thing to another, nor tidy up button boxes, nor take money, nor give back change, nor talk to people. That place is like a book I want to read, somewhere I go even though I am sitting in my chair. Images come into my head. I think about the affairs of complete strangers. The people become familiar as I read on, and if the book is thick and the characters are nice, and the scenery and interiors beautiful, I do not want to stop reading and come away. I do not want the book to end. And God’s house is like that, a never-ending story. Forgive me for not reading the Bible, for I already know the plot. I read novels if I have time and Harry’s not looking; for he considers all books laziness. Many, many years ago, Mrs Faine saw me reading in the garden when Harry was picking up some goods and Margaret was behind the counter. She stopped and asked what I thought of Mr Darwin’s book. I found that funny, for I have not read it. I do not understand how Mr Darwin’s book, or indeed any novel, could agitate God, but that was what they were saying.
Do the sages understand half of what they say? I imagine a vast library full of beautiful, thick, leather-bound books. When you go in, black-coated, angelic men climb up and down library ladders to fetch your books, volumes with information about plants or animals or geography, say. Me, I would ask for a novel I know nothing about, for real excitement. Between the covers would be a story of a foundling or an orphan, great hardships and love. Of course a novel has to have love in it, not just quarrels over money, and killing. The heroine would be a beautiful woman, not of noble birth and not that young, because she has an unhappy marriage behind her and is a widow now. Her husband stumbled on the cellar steps and split his head open. Then along comes a man, a real gent, to the village, or rather the town, where she lives. Maybe London… And then… I do not know… It is a matter for the Author. Maybe there are stumbling blocks, because the book is not flim-flam, after all. Maybe they live in a beautiful house, a little like the Hall, surrounded by a garden. There would be a fountain in the garden and wide stone steps to the house. Hollyhocks and polyantha roses and floribunda would grow in flower beds. Downstairs there would be a library and you could choose any book on the shelves. Forgive me, God, for I do not know what I am talking about. I am scared.
Dear God, take away my fear, because fear is sinful and shows mistrust in the strength of Your protection. At times I fear You as I fear Harry. It is not just his fist I fear. What I cannot bear is being constantly put down. One day, I came here to the cellar to fetch raspberry jam for Harry’s toast, and because it was dark and the stairs were steep, I stumbled on my way back up, and the jar fell and smashed to pieces. Harry was standing at the head of the stairs. He said nastily: Can’t the princess even carry a jam jar? He needles me because I am of better stock, though that means nothing, of course. But I am also clumsy and too much in my head. I give the wrong change and muddle my words. I went back down the steps and fetched another jar. Harry’s shadow vanished from the top of the stairs. Dear God, protect me and let me believe in Your mercy.
Once in her nightdress, Hannah Hamilton prays. She cannot get on her knees. She talks in a whisper.
For Sarah’s opinions extend to methods of praying.
God, You are my safety. Without You, I do not exist. Who are You? I know You exist. Otherwise, I would not have been able to carry on. I have no one apart from You. Except Sarah. Sarah’s knowledge almost rivals Yours. But there is no Mercy. I expect You forget me at times. There are many important matters. I understand. You have to protect the Queen and the Prime Minister. Amen. Enough of them; now You are with me. When You are busy, send Your angel or a saint. Not that I am a papist. I prefer to talk to You directly. I often ask for Your help. When the curtain rail came off the wall and nearly fell on my head, I cried for help. When the sheet got stuck between the rollers of the mangle, I asked for release. Forgive me if I am disturbing You. I am tired today. As a child, I saw You in a dream. You had a broad, bearded face and were wearing pyjamas with blue and white stripes. Thank you, God, for being in heaven. Thank you for listening to me. Amen.
Alice prays at the dressing table.
Her reflection ripples in the mirror.
Dear God, I am acting out my life, to myself and to Mother and Father.
I step into a roo
m. The hem of my dress swings against my legs. Curls tickle my cheeks. I sit down, position my toes prettily, but my soul is not with me. I do not know where it is. As a little girl, I made cardboard dolls dance in a puppet theatre. I was the director and the audience, the only spectator. As I grew, Eileen and Henry watched me amiably out of the corners of their eyes. They were almost surprised I was there. A pale, curly-haired girl in ballet shoes with hard toes pirouetted on the parquet to Mademoiselle Dufy’s instructions. She was a fairy and a princess. I was applauded politely, hollowly. Pretty, yes, but not particularly skilled or original.
Eileen showed me a copy of a drawing in pastels: dancers tying up the laces of their ballet shoes. Then it was time for something else: an unfinished letter, an étude by Chopin, the arrival of visitors. Eileen turned away. Although she wants to bring me up to be an educated, intelligent, independent woman, she forgot, went away again.
I found You, God, so that You would look at me and listen to me. For You are the Eyes and You are the Ears, and at the same time, You are myself.
You see me, and I am in You, and I try to cope with my life.
Things could be better. You decide, if not Mother.
V
The village lights twinkle in the dark, small, dim dots, as Thomas Davies draws the curtains. The children are asleep. Cathy sleeps wrapped in a quilt, exuding warm breath. John lies on his back, head sunk into the pillow. I bend to look at his eyes.
The physician should also observe the appearance of the eyes from below the eyelids in sleep, Hippocrates wrote, for when a portion of the white appears owing to the eyelids not being closed together… it is reckoned an unfavourable and very deadly symptom.
Ancient teachings.
The house expands when people, going to sleep, absent the space, leaving it for the one who is awake to occupy.
Can you do anything but love?
I write in order to remember, quite as if memory did not function by itself.
A warm coat for Cathy and those new shoes for John.
When I stood alone on the hill, and the rain beat my face, I cursed the heaven that cares nothing for me or my children.
A wolf prays by howling.
The minister said to Mother, on bad days think of the good ones. Father had died in a mining accident. His feet and the middle of his body were crushed. When will there be a good day? Father’s head rested on a pillow, and the beard on his chin went on growing, even after death. At the funeral, I thought of worms, wriggling their way into his nose and ears. Mother was cheered by new black shoes and my little sisters by an iced chocolate cake. I got to go to school at the mining company’s expense.
The window reflects the lamplight. Anxiety squeezes my lungs. I intended… I did not want what I intended. Other people’s talk made my intention true, a deed. My reputation runs ahead of me like a riotous shadow.
After Gwyn’s death, the vicar said that the congregation helps its members to bear grief. What does that mean?
Rain nails holes on the water’s surface, the circles extend and vanish, and I am not able to show my grief to anybody.
The vicar said that being clever about matters of faith amounts to sickness of the soul, and there is no place for irony where God is concerned. I replied that nature – animals, plants, stones – does not know irony either. Only man is capable of it, because he is able to think of two opposed things at the same time. Human nature is hard to define, though. One can predict the eruption of a volcano, but it is not possible to predict that a man will dig out an axe from his rucksack and strike the skull of a totally unknown man in a railway carriage. Cause and consequence change seats at random.
If there is no soul, then there is only a body, one you have to carry yourself. When you are dead, your body weighs more. Six bearers are needed.
The minister tried to console me. Thank you, thank you.
Grief, after all, is a cloudy pond. You see no reflection. You do not see your children, nor your neighbours. Instead, everything sinks into the mud, and sorrow spawns new sorrows.
I pray in anger and in disbelief.
I pray to a God who does not exist.
I pray against my better judgement, I pray to God under duress.
Without trust.
My prayer is a drop of cold water on the tip of a bare branch.
I ask for the strength to carry on for my children, for myself.
Holy Lord, Harry Rowe prays on his way home.
Alcohol is my scourge. Lord, forgive me. I suffer from pain and worry. Dear merciful God. Damn, I bought nails and they’re bad. Their heads get all squashed. You can’t get them out of the plank with pliers. I have already paid the wholesaler. If you are poor you cannot afford blunders. This pain of mine hurts like hell. No, Lord, that kind of swindling is not fair. Punish the sinners. When I am weighed down by worry, I cannot get to sleep. I twist and turn in my sheets like Lazarus. The cover slips and my toes get chilly. It is cold but not so cold that the piss freezes in the pot. Dear God, I wish I were a better person. Give the wholesaler what for. Amen.
The Second
Advent
I
Caw-caw-snow, the crow caws.
And the jackdaws take wing from the steeple to bear witness:
It has snowed during the night.
The roofs of the houses are white and the chimney-cowls wear white hats.
White gauze sticks to the meadows and hedges. In the ploughed field, snow has painted every other furrow white.
A pallid sun glows through cloud.
Cathy Davies draws small squares for houses. She adds a bigger square for Mr Darwin’s house, and a rectangle for the church, topped by a cross; then roads and paths leading from house to house; and, on the roads, small people running hither and thither on stick legs.
John presses a sooty forefinger to the paper and asks: Where am I?
Cathy draws two small figures and a line below them: a sledge. She wants to pull John to school on the sledge.
Thomas sweeps the steps. Dry, light snow rises up in a cloud. Crystals glitter. Blades of grass are dimly visible through the snow on the lawn. He puts the temperature at two or three degrees below freezing. A cold, metallic smell fills the air. Breath billows. Smoke from the village chimneys rises in dense columns towards the sky.
Let the children pull the sledge over the stiff, frosty grass. Even though it will get stuck on the road, Cathy, tenacious as a plough-horse, will drag the sledge to the school.
The road is a white corridor between the hedges. The wind and footsteps cause a flurry of flakes. Nobody else has walked here. No traces in the garden either; no footprints left by Mr Darwin, no traces of his stick. He is old now and ailing, but he rarely misses his morning walk.
Mr Darwin is the only person in the village not to have read about Daniel Lewis’s article, Thomas thinks. That is because a spacious mind engages with big questions, whereas small souls are satisfied with crumbs to chew on. Thomas opens and closes the greenhouse door. As warm air hits the glass, a crust of ice condenses on the outsides of the panes. On the inside, drops of moisture form on the windows. The air is thick with the smell of water, earth and plants. He takes down a notebook from a hook on the wall. The book holds the names of plants, along with the associated instructions and timetables. Mr Darwin himself wrote them.
The genera of the families Agavaceae, Cactaceae, Crassulaceae and Aizoaceae, and the genus Angraecum, are strange and off-putting, like foreigners whose language Thomas cannot understand. One can only serve them, whereas more mundane plants can be commanded, directed, divided, cut, pruned, grafted, trained.
He has to arrange, bag and catalogue the seeds collected in autumn; also clean the pots that Mrs Darwin wants on the windowsills in spring. Then begonias, geraniums and fuchsias will be carried out of the cellar where they spent the winter.
Thomas lifts a box off the shelf. It contains the bags that are ready, arranged in alphabetical order. Aquilegia bertolonii, written in my handwri
ting. The black aquilegia seeds are smaller than a full stop on a piece of paper. In nature, they spread well by themselves. All these seeds have been collected for storing. There may be a gardener in some corner of the earth who needs this particular common variety.
I could measure the test area in the snowy field today.
Waiting, waiting. In the waiting room are waiting: the chimney sweep’s little finger, Edwin’s knee, Sarah Hamilton’s God-knows-what. Someone is always waiting. Robert Kenny is hard pressed to hold his own head upright between his shoulders.
Mary clears her throat behind the door. It is her fault I have the odd nip, and another one. I down spirits for professional purposes. It does not smell. I medicate myself since I was unable to cure Eleanor. I will not recover, I get drunk. Intoxicated, a man does not remember if he is well or ill. So what should be bad is actually good. I recommend a nip to all my patients.
I also recommend prayer.
Hear us, almighty and most merciful God and Saviour; extend thy accustomed goodness to this thy servant, who is grieved with sickness.
If that does not work, at least the doctor is not to blame.
Come in. Yes, you, chimney sweep. What narrow flue was it that caused you to break your finger? All right, all right, Miss Hamilton. Patience, your flue will be scrubbed forthwith!
II
Oh, oh, Advent.
Waiting makes for a rush. There is hardly a moment to draw breath and one has to sweep snow off the steps, heat the house, do the laundry, starch, iron, darn, sweep, wax, polish, dust, air, boil, crush, whisk, knead, roll, roast, ice, sew, go out for sugar, salt, flour, currants, cinnamon, almonds, soda, buttons, ribbons, candles; run to the shop and back, to the neighbour’s, the church, the chicken coop, the shed, and back into the kitchen before a burning smell comes from the oven.
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