His gaze now down-turned, James slowly shook his head, his mind chasing one thought after another. Why was his own thinking so muddled and yet someone who hardly knew him, or Janice, come to that, could see the situation so clearly; could even read his relationship as the sham that it was? He lifted his head and returned the gaze of the Archdeacon.
‘No, you are right, she doesn’t.’
‘Let me ask you something else, if I may?’
James nodded in reply.
‘How would you summarise your aims in life? What are your goals?’
‘That is a much easier question to answer. I would say that I wish to be successful within my medical practice and to start studying in earnest for ordination.’
‘Admirable aims in both respects, James. There is a great deal to gain by a life of service to others. However, are there no personal desires?’
‘If you mean do I intend to buy a large house or an expensive car or have other materialistic aims, then at present the answer is that such matters do not constitute primary goals in my life. I subscribe to the concept that there is no wealth but life.’
‘As originally stated by John Ruskin, I believe.’
‘Yes. I have read much of his work. He had a marvellous mind and was a great writer.’
‘So you will be familiar with Ruskin’s definition of life, which includes the powers of joy and love?’
‘Indeed. He speaks of such in his essay Unto this Last.’
‘You will also recognise, therefore, his concept that before a man can nourish the life of another, he needs to have “perfected the functions of his own life to the utmost”, if I correctly remember the quotation.’
‘You seem to be implying that my life is incomplete?’
‘I am not the ultimate judge of that, James. Only you can be such. However, if permitted, I would ask you one final question.’ He took his guest’s silence as acquiescence. ‘Where in your own life is joy and love to be found?’
Outside, the storm continued, sending great rivulets of water down the windows. James’ eyes found a soft focus somewhere in the middle of the cascade. It is, he thought, as though the whole world is joining in with this overwhelming sense of sadness. The sadness held deep within, which this kindly cleric had so astutely uncovered and revealed for what it was. He sat in silence, not knowing how to respond. As though attempting to fill the void, his mind spontaneously conjured up images, like a rapid slideshow of the past: reflections of events during his childhood, of his time at Grammar School, at university, of his life since his marriage. All were episodes that had left a lasting impression because of their emotional intensity. The difference between them all was that the earlier ones were, almost without exception, happy events, whereas the most recent were anything but.
‘The poet and philosopher Rabindranath Tagore wrote a book titled The Prophet. In it, he speaks of the sentiment of joy, describing it as “then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea”. However, it is my guess that your soul has had its wings firmly clipped and that the gates of your own heart have been firmly shut for a considerable time.’
James blinked as the voice of the Archdeacon brought his thoughts back to the present. It was only then, and with some astonishment, that he realised that his cheeks were wet and that he was crying.
16
Helliton, Lincolnshire
October
Helliton, when first heard by those not familiar with ancient languages, seems an unlikely name for an abbey. Indeed, at the height of its powers it was referred to locally by the disrespectful sobriquet as ‘Hell’s Town’. Nothing, however, could have been farther from the truth. The abbey took its name from the earliest of known settlements in that part of Lincolnshire. Whilst not mentioned within the Domesday Book of 1086 A.D., other records indicated that a small village by the name of ‘Helgeflet’ existed by the beginning of the 12th century. This translates as ‘holy marsh or stream’ when the word is taken back to its Saxon origins. Of course, at that time, the village was no more than a hamlet with local employment based on the surrounding agriculture.
It is unknown as to whether it was the actual name of the hamlet, or an unrecorded religious event that gave rise to its name, that prompted the Church to take interest in that far-flung corner of Lincolnshire. However, by 1139 Helliton Abbey was founded as a house for Augustinian canons. They were priests who lived a communal life under the Rule of St Augustine and who additionally undertook various pastoral duties outside the abbey.
Although remotely situated (being some six miles southeast of the town of Bishopsworth and, back in the 12th century, a day’s horse ride northeast of the principal city of Lincoln), Helliton Abbey had great prestige and the community amassed a substantial wealth. So much so that, by 1260, the abbot was able to commence a complete reconstruction of the abbey’s buildings, which lasted for more than a century. Today, however, the only surviving evidence of that once magnificent edifice is an enormous 14th-century gatehouse, the substantial ruins of a once beautiful octagonal chapter house and the foundation stones of various walls and pillars of the church itself, along with various associated buildings.
The afternoon of Thursday, 17th October 1991, found James as the only visitor to Helliton Abbey. Huddled into the corner of a stone bay, adjacent to the doorway leading from the chapter house into the vestibule from the cloister, he was well protected from the chill wind that raced relentlessly across the surrounding open farmlands. Across from where he sat were a further three double bays, which composed the wall arcade of the second of the two surviving walls of the chapter house. It was a place with which he had grown quite familiar, often seeking a solitary refuge there amidst the peace and tranquillity of what was once a great house of God.
The recent conversation with the Venerable Paul Swinburn had left him feeling more than a little unsettled. It was not often that someone pierced the armour plating of his outer shell. By doing so, the Archdeacon had managed to unearth a few home truths, which James was reluctant to face. He thought again about the Archdeacon’s reference to Ruskin’s statement about putting one’s own life into order before being able to be of use to others. The exposure of the weaknesses within his own life had deeply troubled him; so much so that he felt that he needed the serenity of the abbey’s ruins to help him put his thoughts back into perspective.
High above, the remaining walls of the chapter house were adorned with elaborate stone tracery, no doubt reproducing the actual windows that once existed in the, now ruined, free sides of the octagonal building. His gaze absorbed the trefoil-headed panels and their adjoining cinquefoils and quatrefoils, before allowing his eye to descend along the line of the vault-ribs and back to ground level to the seats in the stone bays. He had long held an interest in church architecture. As a result, he took great delight in mentally rebuilding such ruins; taking, from the remnants surrounding him, the clues as to how the buildings once appeared.
With his imagination having reconstructed the chapter house, he went on to paint in the images of the canons as they sat within the bays around him, listening to the instructions of the abbot or prior. He visualised them in their long, black, wool-lined cassocks and white surplices, pulling black hooded cloaks around them and inserting their hands into the ends of the wide sleeves in an effort to keep warm. According to records found at other Augustinian houses such as Bolton Priory in Wharfedale, North Yorkshire, they also wore breeches, woollen socks and leather boots, all serving to provide much needed comfort in the unheated monasteries.
It was the perceived image of those men that interested James even more so than the present ruins of Helliton Abbey. Who were they and where had they come from? What were they like as men? he wondered. What had drawn them to a life of servitude, governed by the rules of the writings of St Augustine, the latter being less strict than the earlier Rule of St Benedict, but nonetheless still very prescriptive in respect to the way they should lead their daily lives.
The community’s prime purpose was to offer unceasing worship and prayer to Almighty God. The abbey’s day therefore started around midnight with the most important service, Matins (Morning Prayer) with Lauds. From then until daybreak the canons would return to their dorter (or dormitory, situated on the first floor above a vaulted undercroft just to the south of the chapter house) to sleep, rising with the sun to say the service of Prime, followed by Morning Mass, private Masses and Confessions. These were in turn followed by a Chapter meeting in the building in which he now sat. At about 8 a.m. came the office of Terce, followed by High Mass. Sext was the service conducted around 11.30 a.m. followed by dinner at noon and then back to the dorter for a period of rest. At 2.30 p.m. the canons again rose, this time for the office of None, in turn followed by a period of work. At sunset would come Vespers (Evensong), after which was supper and then the last service of the day around 8 p.m. in the form of Compline. They would then retire to the dorter for another period of rest before starting the whole cycle again at midnight.
All this he knew from his extensive reading around the subject of monasticism. It was a style of life with which he empathised. He had long held the view that he could quite well have become a monk if he had been born some four hundred years earlier. Perhaps he once had been, if the concept of reincarnation held any substance; although thoughts such as that often troubled him, as he was not too sure how such a belief really sat alongside the Christian faith in its purest form.
He smiled as he recalled how he had first taught himself to remember the eight religious offices of the day in their correct order. It was a technique he had acquired whilst studying anatomy at medical school. The anatomy demonstrators had been sticklers for the minutest of detail. In order to satisfy their high demands, the students had often taken recourse to witty (and often ribald) acronyms or phrases (the first letter of each word being that of an anatomical structure) as a reminder of the material they were supposed to be remembering. One such phrase had been ‘Luscious French Tarts Sit Naked In Anticipation’. The phrase itself withheld the test of time, although James had to admit that what it stood for had long since been forgotten. Probably because it was of no relevance in his day-to-day practice of general medicine. In respect to the religious offices of monastic life, he had composed the phrase: ‘My! Luscious Pink Toes! Sex – Not Very Christian!’ The abbot may not have approved, but at least James was now able to get Matins, Laud, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline in the correct order.
He leant forward and glanced around the shafted jamb of the doorway to the vestibule. Beyond the ruins of the abbey was a grass field, which in turn led to the great fortified gatehouse, now the home to a vast colony of pipistrelle bats. The path from the gatehouse to the abbey had once been tree-lined, but now merely contained a flock of grazing sheep. Only one other house was in view: a farm to the south of the ruins, built, or so it was believed, from stone taken from the abbey after the dissolution of the monasteries. The whole scene was one of undisturbed tranquillity, as though the chanted prayers of the canons over several centuries had left an indelible metaphysical footprint, with a sense of spirituality oozing from every remaining stone.
He leant back into the bay and closed his eyes. In his mind, he could smell the burning incense and heard the lyrical plainsong of the canons issuing from the chancel of the abbey church. For a brief period, he was psychologically transported back by some five hundred years or more and was there, seated upon a misericord within the choir, his black robes reflected by the attire of all around him: a spiritual man amidst kindred brethren. It was at times like this that he held no doubts as to where his true calling was. The practice of medicine was an important part of his life. However, notwithstanding the flaws in his private life, it was an existence incomplete without ordination as a priest.
His reverie was brought to a close by a wet nose nuzzling his right hand. He opened his eyes and looked down to where a bedraggled collie stood. He raised his hand and gave her ears a playful rub, to which she responded by placing two muddy forepaws squarely into his lap, quickly followed by a large wet lick to his face.
‘Hello, Bess,’ he said, laughing whilst attempting to stand, the better to fend her off.
Bess belonged to the neighbouring farm, the owner of which, one Norman Thornhill, rented the surrounding pastureland from English Heritage. In the absence of a warden, he was entrusted with the locking of the gates to Helliton Abbey ruins each night at dusk. James knew him as a patient and had furthered the acquaintance by coming across him at the abbey from time to time. A few playful barks from Bess brought the farmer round to the chapter house.
‘Come on, Bess. There is nothing in there for you. Oh, hello Doctor,’ he said, pausing as he caught sight of James. ‘I didn’t realise there was anyone here. Escaped to find some peace and quiet, have you?’
‘You are absolutely correct, Norman,’ James replied with a smile.
‘Well, you couldn’t have picked a better spot. Grand place, isn’t it?’ He glanced up at the ruined walls as he spoke.
‘It is indeed. I feel quite envious of you living where you do.’
‘Aye, it is a bonus. Although, it can be a bit spooky at night.’
‘Don’t tell me you believe in the stories of ghostly monks, Norman?’
‘I keep an open mind, Doctor. I have never seen one yet, but I do not intend to be out here after daylight hours. So, with that in mind…’ He glanced towards the darkening sky and James got the hint.
‘Sorry… I have rather lost track of the time. I will be getting along and leave you to lock up.’
‘Thanks, Doc. I’ll walk back to the gate with you.’
Together, they passed through into the vestibule, made their way over the stone foundations of the cloister and the west end of the nave, and finally entered the grass field between the abbey church and the gatehouse. Bess ran ahead, stopping every now and again to examine an interesting scent amongst the grass tussocks.
As they entered the arched passage under the gatehouse, the first of the bats left their roost amidst the recesses above, flitting silently through the evening sky. The men paused to watch them for a moment.
‘Largest colony in England, I’ve heard it said.’
‘Worth protecting then.’
‘Aye. I like to think of them as the spirits of the monks who once lived here.’
James looked towards the farmer, who smiled sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘This place gets to you, Doc. If you aren’t religious-like when you first come here, it doesn’t take long before you are converted.’
James smiled back.
‘I know exactly what you mean, Norman.’ In fact, more so than you will ever know, he thought.
They continued in silence through the old barbican, passing over the dried-up moat in front of the gatehouse, to where James had left his car. There, the farmer stopped in order to fasten the padlocks of the outer gate.
‘Good night, Doc. Safe journey home.’
‘Good night, Norman. Mind the ghosts now.’
‘Never been caught by one yet, Doc.’ He grinned and waved as James got into his car. As he drove away down the lane leading back to Bishopsworth he could hear the farmer whistling Bess back from the undergrowth at the sid
e of the road. Their image fading from his rear-view mirror, James reflected on the idea of the bats representing the spirits of the former occupants of Helliton Abbey. The concept of the souls of the canons continuing in residence as guardians of that holy site was one that appealed to him.
‘A nice idea, Norman,’ he said aloud to himself, smiling at the thought. ‘A very nice idea.’
* * *
‘Next we have a 1987 Crianza. A presumptive little wine from Rioja, the wine-producing region of north-central Spain. Straddling the River Ebro, Rioja takes its name from a tributary of the Ebro, known as Rio Oja. The main grape variety utilised in the making of Rioja is the Tempranillo, although small amounts of Garnacha Tinto are sometimes added.’
‘What is the difference between a Crianza and a Reserva?’ The question came from someone sitting behind James. He turned to identify the unrecognised male voice and, in so doing, spotted a table of receptionists and nurses from the practice.
‘A good question,’ the wine merchant continued, taking the interruption in his stride. ‘A Crianza wine must have had at least two years of ageing, in this case within an oak barrel. By contrast, Reserva wines have three or more years of ageing.’
Sandy and Anna were sitting with their backs towards James. However, Christine and Sandra noticed his glance towards them and responded by leaning forward in a conspiratorial huddle. He looked away, not wishing to appear rude. Meanwhile, the merchant was continuing with his presentation.
‘With an alcohol concentration of 13.5%, this particular wine has a modern, fruity style…’
Accepting the sample offered to him by the merchant’s assistant, James swirled the ruby-coloured liquid around the glass before gently inhaling the bouquet. It had been many years since he had last attended a wine-tasting event. The last occasion had been in London in a warehouse under one of the old railway arches at London Bridge. On that occasion, the wines had been numerous, with the tastings of a generous nature. As an impecunious medical student, he had not intended to make a purchase. For him it had simply been a free night out – one that he had evidently enjoyed, as he had no recollection of the return journey home.
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