Lamplight in the Shadows

by Robert Jaggs-Fowler

  Dinner at Norton Abbey was usually a straightforward, homely affair. Tonight, it consisted of pea and ham soup, a main course of meat pie, potato and cabbage, and a treacle pudding and custard to finish. The only alcoholic drink was the abbey’s homemade cider, made available in stone jugs deposited on each table alongside the glass water jugs. It was only once the pudding dishes were removed that the Warden poured himself a second glass of cider and broke his silence, resuming the conversation he had commenced in the library.

  ‘So, back to your conundrum, James. Where is your mind at present? Are you going to return to the outside world next week a new man with a refreshed outlook?’

  James removed his napkin from his lap and dabbed at his lips before depositing the crumpled cloth on the table. Taking a sip of cider, he toyed with the glass for a few moments before fixing his gaze on the face of the Warden.

  ‘One thing that has happened over the past week is that I have clarified what my faith now means to me.’

  ‘A promising start. Go on.’

  ‘You will be familiar with James Fowler’s Stages of Faith?’

  The Warden nodded. ‘Essential reading for all theology students. A rather neat way of describing the complex process of spiritual development many of us wrestle with during our lifetimes. Actually…’ he glanced away from James, ‘it is one you ought to read, Andrew. Sorry, back to you, James.’

  ‘Well, I first read it in 1982; I think about a year after it was first published. I had been struggling with making sense of my faith throughout my teenage years and the book helped to put a lot of that into perspective.’

  ‘Where did you then feel you were?’

  ‘Meaning which stage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  James hesitated before replying, his eyes roving aimlessly about the walls and windows behind the Warden’s head.

  ‘Stage Four.’

  ‘That is what Fowler calls Individual-Reflective Faith. A time of critical reflection and examination of all that you have thus far held as literal and unquestionably sacrosanct.’

  James nodded. ‘Do you think I was being presumptive?’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘A good time to get there. Many people never get past Stage Three, with their religious authority firmly linked to the traditional Church structure and its membership groups. You were at a far more rational stage. So what happened to you after that?’

  ‘I think it was quite a revelation for me – and quite scary at first.’

  ‘Of those who do reach that stage, many become atheists or agnostics. Indeed, many a theological student seeking ordination has first lost his… or her… faith whilst making the necessary philosophical transition.’

  ‘That didn’t quite happen to me, although I did find myself somewhat at sea. It was as though I had cast anchor but was without a destination.’

  ‘A nice metaphor. What of now?’ As he spoke, Luke Palfreyman refilled James’ glass of cider.

  ‘For some years, I thought no more about it, the stages I mean. I think I was too absorbed with my medical studies. However, since arriving here, I have re-examined what my faith means and where it sits within my life. I thought it was a good starting point in order to try and make sense of all the current confusion in my mind.’ He took a sip from the recharged glass.

  ‘Have you mastered the wheel or is your compass still spinning?’

  Replacing the glass on the table, James leant back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair in the process. A deep sigh escaped him as he gazed for a moment at the ceiling, before falling forward to lean his elbows on the table. Taking a deep breath, he proceeded to stare straight at the Warden as he next spoke.

  ‘In terms of my theological position, I think I have moved on; in spiritual terms, almost to a mystical level. However—’

  ‘Fowler’s Stage Five. An unusual place to reach before mid-life, but a mature place to be.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘Sorry, I interrupted you. Why do you express uncertainty?’

  ‘Because the inner voices are still occasionally anarchic and because…’

  For a moment, his head dropped forward and he stared blankly at the placemat before taking a deep breath and fixing back on the Warden’s eyes.

  ‘…and because I am no longer certain that I can dedicate myself to a ministry where the majority of people are stuck in some childish understanding of what Christianity is all about.’

  The Warden held his gaze and said nothing.

  ‘I just don’t think I can do it.’

  ‘And where are you in non-theological terms?’

  ‘I think I should give my marriage another go. I know the path I have been treading is not morally right.’

  Andrew, who had been listening intently up to this point, gently cleared his throat to speak. ‘So, you are willing to sacrifice your ministry, which up to now has meant so much to you. Yet, at the same time, you choose to continue a relationship that is causing you so much pain.’ His look was of overt confusion.

  James frowned and inclined his head.

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand you. Surely, I should be true to both myself and the Church?’ He looked from Luke to Andrew, and back to Luke. ‘It would be so wrong for me to follow a false vocation.’

  Andrew shrugged. ‘Don’t look to me for an answer to that one; I am hardly in a position to give you advice.’

  ‘It’s not the vocation that bothers me, James.’ Luke drank a little before continuing. ‘Stuck in a juvenile understanding of theology the majority of parishioners may be. However, the task of a good shepherd is to show them the path and lead them on that path. Indeed, many men have entered the ministry with far less an understanding of the richness of theology. Indeed, they are not so far advanced in that respect than their parishioners. No, it is not your ministry; it is the relationship that troubles me most.’

  ‘Are you saying that I should break my marital vows?’

  ‘I think that is no longer the question. I perceive that they have already been broken, thereby making the question less than academic. What now troubles me is your apparent willingness to pursue a path that perhaps promises nothing but a painful future for both you and Janice. Ask yourself as an educated man, are you doing the right thing by her? What right do you have to keep her trapped in a relationship where there is nothing but angst? Do you have the ethical right to make her your prisoner just for the sake of appeasing your moral conscience?’

  ‘So, you think we should separate?’

  ‘It is one of the options in front of you. Indeed, it might perhaps be the best option for you both in the longer term.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to hear that from a priest.’

  ‘We live in an imperfect world. Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. In this case, your sacrifice is for Janice’s greater good. Surely, she cannot be any happier than you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she is, but my Christian conscience says—’

  ‘Then you must set aside the Church and what you believe your conscience to be, and concentrate on that relationship in its purest sense. Listen to what your heart tells you. By doing so, you will know the right path to take. Remember, there is evidence to suggest that Jesus’ relationship with Mary Magdalene was not entirely in keeping with what Jewish law and his elders would have seen as the correct moral path.’

  James sighed again and looked ruefully towards Andrew, who just shrugged. ‘I guess the compass is still spinning.’

  The Warden slowly nodded. As he did so, one eyebrow lifted and a wry grin appeared.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, James.’

  31

  Valetta, Malta

  October

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has switched on the seatbelt signs as we are now approaching the Malta International Airport. The captain is making the final preparations for our landing and I therefore ask all passengers to return to your seats, store away your
trays and ensure that your seats are in the upright position. Please ensure that all luggage is securely stored in the overhead lockers or under the seat in front of you, and that your seatbelt is securely fastened. Thank you for your attention.’

  The Air Malta cabin steward’s familiar announcement broke into James’ day-dream and he complied with the instructions in semi-automatic mode. Beside him, Janice continued to flick through a copy of Hello, one of several glossy magazines she had purchased from the WH Smith bookstall at Heathrow Airport. OK was a second; James had not recognised the third and fourth, although he was sure that they were all likely to contain content of a similar nature to each other. That said, they had somehow managed to hold her attention for the duration of the three-hour flight, which had at least allowed him the space to get into the disturbingly labyrinthine world of Umberto Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum.

  The book now sat closed on his lap, as he gazed out of the small cabin window and watched the city of Valetta slowly develop below him as the plane descended through a thin layer of wispy cloud. Not for the first time on that flight, his mind wandered to the events of the past few weeks and most particularly his last meeting with Anna. Indeed, it had been several days before they had the chance to speak alone following his return from Norton Abbey.

  Their conversations had been stilted; polite, but conducted with a strange emotional distance, as though both sensed a turning point in their relationship. She had asked very little about the abbey apart from a cursory enquiry as to whether it had gone well and whether it had been useful. For his part, James, still mentally digesting the ramifications of the decisions he had made, offered nothing in respect to the outcome of his retreat. Neither of them had suggested meeting at the flat, the implied significance of which had not escaped him. On the day before he left for Malta, her parting words to him were delivered with nothing more than a peck on his cheek. They were instructions to stand on a mosaic on the floor of the aisle immediately beneath the dome of the Rotunda in Mosta and then to look up at the dome. As he did so, he was to remember that she had also stood on that very spot, some years previously. It would be a moment shared across time.

  ‘Madam, would you mind fastening your seatbelt, please?’

  The flight attendant’s polite request returned James’ mind to the present. He glanced at Janice who, from the look on her face, very much minded but nonetheless complied, stuffing the copy of Hello forcefully into the seat pocket in front of her and loudly huffing in the process. The flight attendant caught James’ eye and he gave an apologetic smile, by way of compensating for the inappropriate indignation of his wife.

  Janice had maintained an air of sullenness from the moment of his return from Norton Abbey. She had asked even less about the two weeks than Anna, and James had offered nothing in return. It was as though the time had not existed and he had never been away. Their relationship was as fractious as ever, leading him to the conclusion that it would need a miraculously divine intervention if the holiday in Malta were to serve as a period of healing and renewal. Nonetheless, he had given Luke Palfreyman his word that he would give it a go before making any further decisions about his future. ‘All will be revealed to you in good time,’ Luke had said, beseeching James to be receptive to the guiding hand of the Lord. ‘He will show you what is needed of you,’ he had said.

  Well, thought James, watching the familiar ground rush as the plane levelled towards the runway, here I am, ready and waiting for that guiding hand. Beneath him, he felt the slightest of jolts as the wheels touched down, accompanied by an increase in engine noise as the plane slowed and taxied towards its stand. A light applause echoed from a family seated towards the rear of the cabin.

  ‘It always amuses me that some people do that,’ he said, by way of re-opening lines of communication with Janice. A mild shrug was all he received for his effort. Before he could try again, the steward’s voice transmitted over the cabin speakers.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Malta International Airport, where the local time is now 3.30 p.m., being one hour ahead of UK time. Thank you for flying with Air Malta and we wish you a safe onward journey.’

  James watched through the window as the ground crew manoeuvred a set of steps up to the plane’s doors and then turned, saying, ‘Well, I wonder what Malta has in store for us.’ He addressed his words to a vacant seat. Looking up, he saw Janice several rows forward, as she made her way alone down the aisle towards the exit. He stood and reached to retrieve the luggage from the overhead locker, a deep sigh escaping as he did so.

  ‘Welcome indeed to Malta,’ he muttered to himself.

  32

  ‘Ah, there you are.’

  James strolled onto the terrace outside the communal breakfast room, a glass of fresh orange juice in his hand. Janice was sitting at a small, white plastic table beneath a blue parasol; a partially drunk cup of black coffee sat abandoned on the table, whilst the ashtray suggested that the cigarette she was smoking was just one of several since rising. She nodded as a response and exhaled a stream of smoke, which hovered under the parasol before availing itself of a gentle breeze to escape into the blue Mediterranean sky. He gave her forehead a polite kiss and sat down on a chair upwind of her.

  ‘Did you sleep well? Have you eaten?’ His gesture towards the breakfast bar was superfluous, well knowing the reply to the second question before it came.

  ‘I’m not hungry. You go and get something for yourself.’ The first question was unanswered.

  He tried again.

  ‘I thought we might explore Valetta this morning, if you are interested? It has quite a history dating from the Holy Crusades. Some of the best preserved streets are those built and once lived in by the Knights of St John – you know, the organisation that today runs the St John Ambulance in England.’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘Then this afternoon, we could take a stroll around the harbour and perhaps find a café there, where we can sit and read or watch the boats, or something?’

  ‘Whatever.’ She stubbed out the remains of the cigarette, picked up her lighter and stood up. ‘I’m going for a shower. I’ll see you after you’ve had breakfast.’

  James silently watched her stride back into the hotel, vaguely aware of the hubbub of conversations from nearby tables as couples and families breakfasted together. Laughter drew his attention to another young couple, who were more intent on holding each other’s hands across the table than tackling the plates of fruit, meats and bread they had chosen together moments previously. They leaned towards each other and tenderly kissed. James turned away. As he did so, his ears noticed the sound of a distant, solitary bell calling the locals to Morning Mass. For the second time since arriving in Malta, he sighed deeply, thinking that never before had he felt as alone in the world as he did at that moment.

  * * *

  Not for the first time that week, James found himself sitting on a low wall outside one of the five remaining auberges of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem. Originally, there had been eight. However, time, the need for a new town hall, and heavy bombing during the Second World War had reduced the number of these architecturally splendid hostelries once belonging to the eight langues, or nationalities, of that historic Order of Knights. Situated on a strategic crossroads of sea-routes within the Mediterranean, Malta had seen many skirmishes in its time; not least of all the Great Siege, when 9,000 Knights of St John had seen off some 40,000 Moslem Turks in the name of Christianity, a faith originally brought to the island when, in 60 A.D., St Paul found himself shipwrecked there. This week away with Janice was beginning to feel a little like a siege of its own to James.

  On the first day here, his tour of Valletta had turned into a solitary excursion as, after ten minutes of walking, Janice had declared the prospect of viewing the auberges, cathedral and great defensive walls of the harbour ‘boring’ and abandoned him to his own devices. It was probably for the better, as he had been able to immerse himself in the 268 years of
occupancy by the Knights of St John, an Order that fascinated him for their dual roles as monks as well as knights.

  Now, as he gazed at the white, eight-pointed cross of the Knights emblazoned into the stonework above the lintel of the front door to the auberge opposite, he could not help but ponder the eight beatitudes represented by the eight points of the cross of Amalfi as given in Christ’s Sermon on the Mount. He mentally paused at the sixth one before repeating it aloud: ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’

  ‘Indeed, they will, my son; but it often takes all the strength of the four cardinal virtues depicted by the arms of the cross you see before you in order to attain that purity.’

  James turned to find a priest standing behind him, his long black cassock surmounted by a large, wooden pectoral cross. The fact that he did not wear a beard suggested to James that he was Roman Catholic rather than Greek Orthodox.

  ‘I have been watching you for a while. You seem sad,’ the priest continued.

  ‘I am, Father,’ replied James, staring up into the gnarled, brown face of his beneficent inquisitor. ‘Like Malta, I feel that I am at a crossroads. A crossroads in my life from where it is unclear which path I must take.’

  ‘You are alone here?’ The priest raised the hem of his cassock, revealing a dusty pair of feet strapped into a battered pair of brown sandals, and sat down beside James.