‘Here, now you can grab hold of my hand. I’m secure.’
Edward let go of his hold on a tuft of grass which was already giving away, gravel spilling from under it and shooting out over the quarry beneath. He grabbed, holding firmly to Aelred’s hand. ‘Pull,’ he gasped as he himself pulled and pressed with his legs from his last foothold.
Aelred pulled. ‘I’ve got you.’
Edward was heaving and sliding himself over the edge on his stomach. Aelred was lying stretched between the root and Edward, his face close to the ground. Then Edward’s legs and feet showed over the edge. He was up.
‘We’ve done it.’ They both panted and shouted together. Then they lay back. First the bird song and then the wind and the echo of the stillness below reached them.
‘We’re late for Prime.’ Aelred said. ‘Hurry. Put on your smock.’
‘What’ll happen?’
‘We’ll have to explain to Father Justin. We’ll change quickly without washing, and then when we get into choir you have to kneel by the Abbot’s stall till he knocks his hammer indicating that you can rise. He can keep you kneeling longer than you think.’ The two novices hurried back to the abbey along the path, and then, as a short cut, they cut across a field, running, so avoiding having to go through the orchard. Edward had forgotten the bunch of lilacs. Aelred carried them.
‘I can’t admit that I was rock climbing. Can you keep a secret?’ Edward asked, as they reached the door of the choir.
‘I’ll leave it to you to explain yourself. I’ll say I misjudged the time back from the quarry.’
‘It needn’t come up that we were together?’
‘We must go in. I’ll go first. You can see what I do,’ Aelred whispered.
‘Thanks.’ Edward straightened his cassock.
Aelred was distracted during the chanting of Prime. He kept seeing Edward climbing the rock face above him. He saw his strong body in his tight black shorts climbing and stretching up the rock face surrounded by the blue air. He could so easily have fallen. He closed his eyes, repeating the verses of the psalms by heart He looked across the choir at Benedict. Their eyes met. Benedict had a question for him. Why had he and Edward been late? He thought that that was what he was asking him. It had all happened so quickly. It was odd, what Edward had done. It was not appropriate to strip off out at the quarry alone and climb. He would not say anything about this. Father Justin would find it highly irregular. It was. Would he do it again? It went with the way he spoke. It was a kind of arrogance. He had been exhilarated by helping him. He had been frightened and he had been aware of the Prime bell tolling. What would Edward say to Father Justin and Benedict as his guardian angel?
‘Your lateness at Prime, brother?’ Father Justin was standing in the doorway of his cell as Aelred passed along the corridor to the novitiate, eager to get washed after his tugging and pulling and the sweaty run back from the quarry.
‘I misjudged the time back from the quarry, where I went for a quick walk after housework,’ Aelred said matter-of-factly.
‘And Brother Edward? You came into choir together?’ Father Justin looked under the rim of his glasses, frowning. It reminded Aelred of his headmaster at school, censorious. He did not like it.
‘I’ll leave it to him to explain. I think he was probably absorbed in cutting lilac bushes for the Lady in the novitiate.’ Aelred pointed to the bunch of lilacs lying on the common-room table. He could see through the doorway from where he was standing.
‘I expect Benedict will sort him out.’ Father Justin smiled. ‘Very well, brother. You better get along to Lectio Divina.’
‘Benedicite.’ Aelred pulled on his hood and walked away with his arms under his scapular.
As he passed through the common room, he noticed Benedict with Edward. He wondered what Edward had said. How would Benedict take the news of the rock climbing. He had never presented him with such a difficulty. Then he felt a tinge of jealousy that he couldn’t be talking to Benedict.
Edward joined Aelred in the washroom. Aelred looked up for a moment from his washing, but then kept his silence. He was bending over the sink, his smock off, standing in his overalls, washing behind his neck with a flannel, up and down his arms, under his arms and his chest. Though he was not directly looking at him, he could see Edward: glimpses reflected in the mirror, out of the side of his eyes. They were alone in the washroom. The other novices were at their Lectio Divina, as they should have been, but because of their running back from the quarry they were in the washroom outside the usual routine.
Edward had dropped his smock on the ground and was standing in his overalls, their straps hanging at his sides. He stood bare-chested and bare-backed. He was wiping the nape of his neck with the wet flannel under his long hair. He was soaping and then wiping his arms, his chest and under his arms. Through the slits on the side of his overalls he was wiping the uncovered part of his body, his groin and buttocks.
Aelred felt irritated. There was something indulgent in the way he washed, the way he splashed water and had thrown his smock on the ground. He did not smell new now as he did in his cassock. There was a smell of sweat and soap. Aelred got his soap, toothbrush and towel together and made to leave the washroom.
‘Thanks for arranging the flowers.’ Edward turned and faced him, wiping his chest and towelling under his arms. His hair was falling over his face. ‘You’d better keep that duty. I’m obviously no good at it. Were the lilacs OK?’
‘I think you should see Benedict. Should I pick this up for you?’ Aelred picked up Edward’s smock and hung it against the wall, where there were pegs for that purpose.
‘You didn’t say anything about the rock climbing to Father Justin?’
‘I accounted for myself.’ Aelred had picked up a rag from the corner of the washroom where the cleaning things were kept and started wiping down the sinks. ‘I think we’d better clean up in here and get back to Lectio Divina.’
‘You disapprove of me?’
‘You must take advice from Benedict. He’s your guardian angel.’
‘I do. I do, brother. My guardian angel! You like all these little ceremonies and titles, don’t you? Arranging flowers, guardian angels. Don’t you? And you are dark, aren’t you. All over, it seems.’ Edward looked Aelred over as he stood there clutching his smock to his chest. Edward tossed back his long wet blond hair. ‘Yes, I think you disapprove of me.’
‘I think we should keep the silence now, brother. Benedicite.’
‘Benedicite.’ Edward pulled strands of wet blond hair off his face.
Aelred was relieved when he settled down at his desk for his Lectio Divina. He sat with his hood up. He was alone but he was not at peace. Novices used the washroom together. But they did not strip off quite in the way Edward had done. They did not enter bare-backed. Aelred forced his concentration on his Lectio Divina.
It was in Lectio Divina that they cultivated their imaginations. It was at this prescribed time, a time set aside from the very beginning of monasticism and developed through the ages, that the monks read the scriptures and the fathers of the church. The reading now included those books recommended by the novice master for the training and uplifting of his charges.
Lectio Divina - holy reading, divine reading - was to be a meditation, a listening of the heart and the mind to voices from the pages. Ancient monks were encouraged to read aloud, to move their lips in reading. The public reading in the refectory, the chapter house and in choir were integral to this Lectio Divina. This was to be listened to in silence. The monks were instructed by their rule to see to each others’ needs and to communicate quietly by signs at these times.
But the heart and core of this reading was here when the monk was alone in his cell, moving his lips silently. He was encouraged to read and to hear: legere et audire. His entire attitude was a turning of himself towards God, a conversion. He was to hasten in this turning and take flight from here. It was with this desire that the reverberations of what he had rea
d had its lasting effect on the quality of his mind. For Aelred, it was this that worked on the quality of his imagination.
The purity of his mind and actions, the flight of his desire, was to create something as close as possible to the angelic life, the life of angels, the vita angelica. He sought wings to fly. He was like a bride in anticipation of the heavenly bridegroom. This was his bridal chamber. The monastery was a cloistered paradise.
Here, in Lectio Divina, was a place to rest: busy rest, a waking sleep, upon a bed of flowers. Like bees which sucked the nectar, the most nutritious food. The idealism of all this fired the young Aelred along the path of his beloved Benedict. When would he be able to talk to him?
The habit of reading was formed in the custom of the ancient monks, and the habit of writing too: both together were the tools in the science of salvation. Aelred felt that he was stepping out from the tradition of the ancient scriptorium, where monks deciphered and copied, corrected and illuminated, painted and bound their manuscripts with extraordinary beauty, enhanced by the extravagant flights of their calligraphy and illuminating pens. The monks who did not take up the plough took up the pen. It was the work of the fingers and the mind, an ascetic art. In the almost silence of scratching pens and quietly moving lips, Aelred ruminated, meditated and remembered. He kept his journal. He wrote a letter to Benedict. He had one back in return. He sipped on this nectar, the words he sent to his friend. Aelred wrote in his journal then copied it out for Benedict.
Dear Benedict,
Because we can’t talk I want to drop you a line. I think of you.
And when I do it feels good. I think of your love for me and mine for you as the love which Christ had for his disciples and the love we must have for him. He is in our love. When I feel frustrated that I can’t talk to you I offer it up and know that that makes our love deeper. It will help me love all my brothers. We can talk with our eyes. I write about you in my journal.
Yours in Christ,
Aelred
Dear Little brother,
Yes, we can talk with our eyes. Yes, our love is that great love we all strive to exist within. I know it’s difficult for you as it is for me.
But this is the boundary we have to set ourselves, a boundary made by the holy rule and the customs of our community. This is our dangerous chastity. There will be moments that we can have.
And they will be more precious because of the waiting. Keep reading Aelred of Rievaulx.
Always in Christ, my bonny lad,
Benedict
Aelred pasted the letter into the pages of his journal.
The Flat, Bristol:
30 September 1984
It was Joe who came to pick me up. I was glad. There were things that I felt I wanted to share with him right away. I know I used to feel more comfortable with Miriam, or when Miriam was there. Not that we didn’t spend time together alone, Joe and me. But I was really glad to see Joe. I’m still amazed at his kindness. He’s part of what I am excavating. He was very excited to visit Ashton Park. I was surprised that he’d not visited before with J. M., or even on his own. It’s not that far away. Quite apart from how it is linked with our lives, it’s such a beautiful spot.
Joe said that he would be arriving at two thirty, but it wasn’t till after three that he arrived. There’d been traffic and he had taken the winding country roads.
I was waiting in the guests’ parlour so that there would be no difficulty in finding me when Joe arrived. The porter came and collected me. Joe was out in the car park.
Where is he? Joe whispered. Immediately, he wanted to see Benedict. I’ve not come all this way just to pick you up, you know. He laughed. I’ve heard about this guy. You know? You’ve read the journals. I’ve heard J. M. talk so much about him. So this is the place where it all happened. God! I can’t imagine it, despite all the evidence. It must’ve been quite a few days for you. Can’t wait to hear about it. Joe was beside himself. Miriam had wanted to come too, he said, but she’d got an important dig this week down in Devon.
I had said to Benedict that I would come and say goodbye. He said that he thought he would be digging spuds in the walled garden, not in the field where most of the others were at this time of the year. We found him with Brother Stephen.
Oh, there you are. Benedict hailed us, lifting himself up from his work with the potatoes. I thought you’d gone.
This is Joe, I said. He’s a friend of J. M.’s. Benedict rubbed his hands on the side of his work smock to clean off the mud from his hands. He shook hands with Joe.
From Bristol, are you? he asked. Joe nodded, suddenly shy. We talked about the garden. So much going on inside all of us. We had so much in common and we didn’t speak of it. But J. M. was there, standing between us. He was the reason we were all there together. I could see Benedict looking at Joe, sizing him up.
Well, we must go, I said. Leave you to your work and some peace without me bothering you.
You know you’ve never bothered me, he said, smiling. He drew me into his embrace, giving me the monastic kiss on both cheeks. He shook Joe’s hand. You must come some time and stay. We’ve got good Benedictine hospitality. He smiled. And you’ll come back soon. Benedict took my hand again.
I was really sad to leave. But relieved, too. I need some time away. I keep thinking of our parents. So many regrets.
Joe and I didn’t stop talking all the way back to Bristol, even though Joe took a scenic route to show me some of the countryside. Wonderful autumn colours!
I can see something of the young Benedict J. M. talked about. But he’s a broken man, Joe said. Can’t you see that?
I said, Yes, I could see that in a way, although talking to him had given me another view. But he had been ill once when I was staying.
He’s a broken man. He’s denied himself something fundamental about himself. It’s eaten him away from within.
I was irritated with Joe’s going on.
He’s betrayed himself all his life.
In the end I didn’t argue. But isn’t that the life he’s chosen, a celibate life, chastity? For whatever reason.
Yes, for whatever reason, Joe said.
We don’t understand, I said. But there’s a lot to him. I’ve grown fond of him.
We’ve come a long way, Joe said. He was thinking of the gay movement. I thought about what he said, and wasn’t sure if I agreed. It wouldn’t bring my brother back. I didn’t say that.
I know that Joe still has a story to tell me.
Things are as I left them, what’s left in his room. The red notebooks with the black spines are still there. I hadn’t taken all of them to Ashton Park. It’s good to be here with him, my brother. Joe has gone out to a club. He wanted me to come along. I said I was tired.
Maybe some other time. Not sure I’m up to that. I think he was disappointed. He said that Miriam might phone from Ilfracombe in Devon.
I get post.
St Aelred’s Abbey
Ashton Park
Ashton
Avon
7 October 1984
Dear Robert,
Your visit has brought about a most extraordinary recall of events which I had hitherto put to rest, if that was possible. You may have found me evasive. Yes, I was grateful for your discretion. It has not been easy to hold in balance the conflicting claims on my emotions and on my beliefs, brought about by the relationship I had with your brother. Just before Aelred, J. M., eventually lost touch, his letters came less often, I remember him writing to tell me that he had returned to Les Deux Isles to research some history, the history of the island and the house. I was glad to hear that he had become a history lecturer, or did some lecturing. That seemed purposeful.
Altogether, I don’t know what you will find in those journals. There are the writings of a very young man. Funnily enough, your stay has revived my interest in the earlier events of J. M.’s life. I suspect those must matter to you as well. He was J. M. then, not Aelred. I never got the Ted story in full, as it
were. He never told it in one sitting. I always had it in fragments, sometimes the same fragments retold - an indication of his distress. I am now convinced, with your corroborations, that those events are what put a particular pattern upon J. M.’s questing. His directors had been remiss. The church has to take responsibility for an enormous amount of bad judgement and wrong advice, being far too concerned with possible scandal and not enough with the particular help needed for the individual soul. Nevertheless, we have to judge the events in their time. I wonder if J. M. came to that conclusion. I doubt it somehow. I think his sense of history was more to unearth buried histories, legitimise illegitimate behaviour. Far too ideological, I think.
Your brother was very needy for human affection. The loss of Ted and the particular circumstances of that loss marked him for life. He was bent upon avenging that secret.
As you see, I have not changed, no matter what the journals say. Yes, I was charmed by your brother. I loved him and I tried to keep that within ideals set by St Aelred of Rievaulx. It was something I had to control because of my vows. That in itself was a radical thing to attempt. I invited him to do the same.
My dear Robert, you yourself are charming and remind me greatly of your brother, though you have a lighter personality. He was driven. I respect your endeavour in putting together his story. I hope I can be of more assistance. I hope you will not be disappointed. I hope you’ll look after your faith.
I hope to see you again, God willing. Look forward to your arrival on the Friday. You will stay away from the retreatants, being at the lodge, not the guest house this time.
Yours affectionately,
Benedict
Yes, I thought he had been evasive. I do not reprimand him for that. I’m grateful that he has agreed to talk to me at all. Now that I’ve had a chance to go to Ashton Park, to think and read, I think I know what my brother was doing in his journals. I think he was trying to redeem acts that were in Aelred of Rievaulx’s writings, described quite luridly as evil. He wanted to redeem them with the quality of his love, the genuineness of his passion. That could be called ideological. I think I can weigh up what was youthful about my brother’s journals, that’s not to say untrue, and what can stand the test of time. I can genuinely feel that I think this way now which I didn’t six months ago. No, I don’t expect Benedict to talk to me in detail. My God, how many years has it been? It says something that he wants to continue talking. He must feel very compromised that I have the journals. He’s not helping with accounts of Ted. That’s something I have got to face up to on my own. Benedict’s been perceptive recognising those events as important to me. I think I know more than he does. I will have to trust my boyhood perceptions and the journals. I agree: the church and his directors at the time were at fault. I’m not sure whether time excuses, but then what difference does it make to say it doesn’t excuse? It should not happen again.
Aelred's Sin Page 14