Lamplight in the Shadows

by Robert Jaggs-Fowler

  He shivered, pulled the collar of his leather jacket up around his neck and watched as his father caught another goose, expertly slipping a piece of sacking over its head before rendering it unconscious with a sharp blow on the head. It was the second one of the morning and the place was taking on the air of a battleground. How his brother could have a fascination for blood and other biological things completely defeated him.

  ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘everyone gets divorced these days. It’s really quite fashionable.’

  ‘Your mother and I haven’t.’

  ‘Evidently… and I am not saying that you would have wanted to. However, things were different in your day. If you had children, then you were far more likely to stick at it.’

  ‘So what makes you think they should divorce? Loop that across, would you?’ Jim Armstrong threw the end of a piece of rope in the direction of his younger son and tied the other end round the legs of the comatosed goose.

  ‘It’s so obvious, isn’t it?’ Jules replied, flicking the rope over a wooden roof beam and allowing the free end to fall back down to his father. ‘They really weren’t suited for each other at the outset. He probably only married her to ensure he had someone to screw in-between ward rounds.’

  ‘Jules!’

  ‘Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it? They have nothing in common. Better to cut his losses now, that’s what I say.’

  Jim Armstrong heaved on the rope and suspended the goose about six feet off the ground. Securing the rope to a cleat on the wall, he picked up a long-bladed knife and inserted it into the mouth of the goose. With a few deft thrusts, he severed the major vessels in the throat of the goose and removed the knife, stepping back to allow gravity to do its work. Jules grimaced and looked away. That was part of the process he could never bring himself to watch.

  The sound of a wooden door pulled open on recalcitrant hinges made them both look up. James entered and surveyed the scene before him.

  ‘It was Colonel Armstrong in the farrowing shed with the lead piping, the rope and the knife,’ said Jules.

  ‘I didn’t think the Queen was responsible for one moment.’

  ‘Certainly not this one, darling; far too gruesome a business.’

  James watched as the dark red blood dripped from the open beak of the goose into a bucket beneath. ‘I thought I would come and help with the plucking, but that one is obviously going to be a while yet.’

  ‘You can do that one over there,’ said his father, pointing to a corner where the first goose of the morning lay lifeless. ‘I did suggest Jules had a go, but—’

  ‘Oh, don’t! I couldn’t possibly,’ said Jules, visibly shrinking at the very thought.

  James picked up the goose and climbed up to sit alongside his brother. Settling the bird between his knees, he started to pluck the coarse outer feathers.

  ‘So, what have you two been talking about?’

  Jim eyed his younger son, his look suggesting that he should keep quiet. Ignoring him, Jules dived in.

  ‘Divorce.’

  ‘Oh. That’s different. Whose?’

  ‘Yours, of course.’

  ‘Mine?’ James looked puzzled and stopped plucking for a moment.

  ‘Well, I’m hardly eligible, am I? Not until this government decides that I can get married in the first place.’

  ‘Jules, I hardly think that this is any of our business. I am sure that James hasn’t got any such notion in mind.’

  ‘It’s alright, Father. Let him finish or I’ll never hear the last of it.’ James raised his eyebrows to his brother as an indication for him to continue and resumed plucking the goose.

  ‘Well, as I see it, the past year has been a bit of a waste.’

  James again raised his eyebrows, but this time as a part of a quizzical look.

  ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’

  ‘Yes, alright, I know that I have done a few questionable things, but we are not talking about me at present. It’s you that I am worried about.’

  ‘Sorry, I did say I would listen.’

  ‘It’s just that I can remember you saying a year ago that your plans were, amongst other things, to find a new house in Bishopsworth. However, here you are, still in your flat, no new house in sight, no sign of a commission within the ranks of the reversed collar brigade, and in a relationship that a weather forecaster would describe as unsettled with a significant risk of frost.’

  ‘How insightful of you, Jules.’

  ‘So, you don’t disagree?’

  ‘No, but only to a point. It is true that I have been tardy with the house hunting and the flat is becoming a little tiresome. However, to be fair, I have found myself busier than I had anticipated. All that will change with the New Year.’

  Jules groaned. ‘It will take more than a New Year’s resolution, James.’

  ‘Au contraire, my dear brother. It is my determined wish to resolve the Armstrong housing crisis by the spring. In addition, I intend, next year, to pursue the theology course with a renewed vigour.’

  ‘And Janice?’

  ‘Janice is non-negotiable, Jules. With time, I am sure that I can reconcile our differences.’

  ‘I wish I could be so sure, James. You seem blind to what is happening to you.’

  ‘No, not blind; just true to my marital pledge. We make our own paths in life. Mine has had a few obstructions, but not ones that are insurmountable. Isn’t that so, Pops?’

  James looked towards his father, who, whilst busying himself with a third goose, had been hanging on every word passed between his two, very different, sons. A commotion amongst the birds in the paddock outside heralded the approach of someone and saved him from further comment.

  ‘Get off me, you darned things!’

  Janice’s raised voice penetrated the thick walls of the farrowing shed, causing the three men inside to share collaborative smiles. The door was heaved open allowing a blast of cold air to enter. As it did, a cloud of downy feathers rose from the floor in response. Janice, her flustered face appearing around the edge of the door, sneezed as a feather tickled her nose.

  ‘Those blasted chickens are pecking at my shoes!’ Her indignant voice stalled as she focused on the scene within the shed. ‘Oh, how disgusting.’

  ‘Well, my dear,’ responded Jules, looking about him with an exaggerated look of distaste, ‘I do confess to a certain element of mutual understanding on that particular issue. However, the meat on your plate doesn’t grow pre-packed on a polystyrene tray wrapped in cling-film, you know.’

  ‘Maybe not. But this is enough to put you off meat for life.’

  ‘Perhaps it is best not thought about, my dear. It is certainly insufficient to put me off a decent bottle of claret, which always tastes better in the company of a game bird, don’t you think?’ Jules laughed at his own attempt at a camp joke.

  ‘I actually came across to see if anyone wanted to go for a walk. However, that looks somewhat unlikely.’ Janice ventured no further into the shed, holding the door as though it were a defensive shield between her and the carnage beyond.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Jules, jumping down from his perch and sending another cloud of feathers into the air. ‘Your entrance is timely, my dear, for you have rescued me from being gang-pressed into butchery by my own kinsfolk. Allow me to act as your guide back across the savannah outside. I am well versed at fending off the occasional unwanted cockerel, if you take my point.’ He smiled roguishly and ushered Janice back outside. ‘Come, Janice, my dear, let us be gone from Hades and take a stroll to its antithesis.’

  James watched them go, waiting for their voices to fade as they crossed the paddock. Finally, he turned towards his father who, in silence, was still attending to the third goose.

  ‘You think he is right, don’t you?’

  ‘It is not for me to tell you how to run your life, James.’

  ‘But you must have a view on the subject.’

  ‘What I do know is that a man needs to be sure
that his wife is going to support him in his actions throughout life. I am not sure that Janice is prepared to do that for you.’

  ‘But divorcing Janice whilst pursuing ordination would amount to nothing less than a gross act of hypocrisy.’

  ‘So what do you call the act of remaining within a loveless marriage, James? Is that not also an act of hypocrisy?’

  ‘I am not sure that the Church would see it that way.’

  ‘The Church doesn’t have all the answers. You may think that I have a somewhat sceptical view of religion, at times perhaps bordering on the downright contemptuous. However, when I was your age I spent a long time searching for a religion with which I could be comfortable. I toyed with several, but none gave me what I was really searching for in life.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Understanding.’

  James stopped plucking and met his father’s gaze.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Myself. What I was searching for was an understanding as to what I was all about, what my purpose in life was, what the purpose of life itself is.’

  ‘And did you find your answer?’

  ‘Not completely. From my perspective, all religions go part way in providing some of the answers, but they are often just interpretations of someone else’s philosophy. It is as though one is always reading the secondary sources, never the primary ones.’

  ‘So, you believe that the secondary sources are erroneous in their beliefs?’

  ‘No; at least, not absolutely. I do believe that all religions have a basic set of core values. For the most part, those values are worthy ones and of importance within an organised society. Indeed, they often provide the framework around which the society works. That is true even of tribal communities.’

  ‘Then why is that insufficient for you?’

  ‘Because the originators of each set of moralistic values were all searching for the same thing and I don’t think any of them really found the answers they were looking for.’

  ‘Which were?’

  ‘Understanding: the ability to perceive the significance of life itself; the explanation for our very being. That is what they were all searching for. What each one of them achieved was incomplete. Ok, they were very important achievements – indeed, in respect to two or three of the major religions still followed today, they were of immense importance – but nonetheless still incomplete.’

  Inside the farrowing shed, neither James nor his father had been aware of the ever-darkening sky, giving the paddock and surrounding countryside the appearance of night. The Exmoor hills to the north had been lost under a fog of cloud. A distant roll of thunder, quickly followed by the sound of heavy rain, was the first they knew of the approaching storm. James listened as water pounded on the corrugated roof of the shed. In his mind, he was turning over what his father had been saying.

  ‘So, you believe that the pursuit of one individual religion means missing the very answers one is searching for.’

  Jim Armstrong finished plucking the last few feathers from his goose and placed it in a sack along with the first, before answering his son.

  ‘What I am saying is that we shouldn’t think that Christianity, or any other religion for that matter, has the ultimate answers. The original philosophers and prophets – the primary sources – who were responsible for formulating the texts, upon which various religions subsequently sprung forth, were no different to you and me. They were all searching for that same basic concept – the knowledge of complete understanding.’

  ‘So, you believe that I am wasting my time seeking ordination?’

  ‘No, not quite. I believe that such action is helpful in guiding others towards a path of truth. However, do not fool yourself that, by adhering to the strict principles underpinning such status, you have achieved that which you now so resolutely seek. Do not allow your life to be bound by chains that are in themselves incomplete. For complete peace of mind, you need to go beyond those boundaries and pick up where the original scholars left off. Which means, of course, that in the meanwhile, you are free to conduct your life howsoever you think fit.’

  ‘Which neatly takes us back to Janice?’

  ‘That is only for you to decide, son. Jules can be very outspoken and there may be truth within what he says. However, only you can decide. Speaking of whom,’ he paused to move a bucket under a particularly leaky part of the roof, ‘I wonder whether they were caught out in this deluge?’

  * * *

  Set into the southwest corner of the paddock was a small, single-storey building, surrounded by a banked hedgerow to the rear and a low, dry-stone wall at the front. Opened in 1858, Hope Chapel was still on the local Methodist Circuit, although services were now infrequent; a sign of the dwindling local population as much as the 20th-century drift away from religion in general. The small area of land to the front, no larger than an average-sized cottage front garden, was consecrated ground. There, a dozen or so memorial stones stood in silent reflection of past members of the congregation, their neat grass-covered graves now only tended by Jim Armstrong for a small annual retainer. Not that he had any specific leanings towards the Methodist church, or to any church for that matter. It simply suited his sense of humour for a church to be giving him money each month rather than the more conventional arrangement.

  Arriving at the chapel just as the storm broke, Jules and Janice dashed into the narrow porch, which, despite the frugality of its design, shielded them from the worst of the rain as it swept in on a westerly wind.

  ‘Hardly what I had in mind when you suggested going to the antithesis of Hades,’ remarked Janice, eyeing the solid wooden door with some dismay.

  Unlike most church doors she knew, this one had no external lock or latch, just a small hole where she supposed some such catch was once fitted.

  ‘I suppose we could just stand here until it stops raining.’

  ‘Nil desperandum,’ replied Jules and then, in response to Janice’s puzzled look, ‘Do not despair. It is the only Latin I know. Excuse me please.’

  He moved her to one side and knelt so that his eye became level with the hole in the door. For a few moments, he saw nothing. Then, as his pupil accommodated for the low level of light within the chapel, he gave a quiet but satisfied exclamation. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he withdrew a long tapering cigarette holder and gently inserted it, mouthpiece first, into the hole in the door. After a few moments of tentative probing, he levered the holder downwards. The heavy rain meant that he felt rather than heard the metal latch on the inside move upwards. Looking up at Janice, he smiled as he pushed open the door.

  ‘Entrez, mademoiselle.’ He stood and gave a theatrical court bow.

  A particularly close clap of thunder meant that Janice needed no further persuasion and she hurriedly stepped through into the chapel.

  ‘I suppose that is your only French?’

  ‘Not quite. I can also ask whether someone would like to go to bed with me, although such a skill is hardly appropriate in the present circumstances.’

  He teased the cigarette holder back out of the door and joined Janice inside.

  ‘Antique mahogany inlaid with ivory,’ he remarked, placing the holder back in his jacket pocket. ‘I always knew that flamboyance had its uses.’

  ‘It’s still hardly the antithesis of Hades I thought you were promising me,’ said Janice, looking around the gloomy interior.

  On either side of a short central aisle stood six rows of wooden pews, each capable of seating no more than three or four adults. On the left, in front of the pews, stood a lectern; on the right was a small organ. A thin layer of dust covered every horizontal surface, whilst the air in the chapel had a distinctly musty odour.

  ‘Ah, I apologise. For the real Kingdom of Heaven, we would have had to drive to Bideford or Ilfracombe and from there catch a boat across to the Island of Lundy. I thought that might be a little too far for today. However, you must admit that it is preferable to the abattoir we have just le
ft.’

  ‘I can certainly agree to that. But what has Lundy got to do with it?’

  ‘It used to be owned, amongst others, by a family called Heaven. One of the sons was a priest and he decided to build a church on the island. Henceforth, it was known as the Kingdom of Heaven – as much for the beauty and peace apparently found on the island as for the existence of the church. I have never ventured there and, as I said, it is far too far for today. However, that is the story.’

  ‘Is this place really still used?’ Janice ran a finger over the nearest pew and studied the resulting black mark on her finger.

  ‘Now and again; though there is some talk of the church selling it for conversion into a one-bedroomed cottage.’

  ‘Complete with organ.’ She glanced around at the ceiling and noted the absence of electric light. ‘How can they have an organ without electricity?’

  ‘Leg power. It has two foot-operated bellows, which the organist has to pump whilst playing the keyboard.’ Jules walked over to the instrument and rolled back its lid. ‘Correctly speaking, it is a harmonium or, as it was once known, a parlour organ.’ He swung his legs over the wooden stool and shuffled to the centre.

  ‘People would once have had them at home instead of pianos. They are really reed instruments, rather than hammer and strings.’

  ‘How come you know all this? I didn’t know you were particularly musical.’

  He grinned and started to pump the two foot-pedals. They were stiff through lack of use and required an action not unlike the effect of a cyclist riding up a steep hill. A puffing noise escaped with every downward movement of a pedal.