Lamplight in the Shadows

by Robert Jaggs-Fowler

  ‘No… and yet… yes.’

  ‘I thought as much. Nobody comes alone to our beautiful island and remains sad for long. You must carry a very heavy burden in your heart.’

  It was more of an assured statement of fact than a question and the two sat silently for a while, the priest with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his cassock.

  ‘My name is James, Father. Back in England, I am a doctor who is also walking the pathway to ordination. At least, that is what I thought I was doing until…’

  ‘…until you met someone who is not your wife, whom you love more than your wife loves you, and now your heart is heavy with indecision.’

  James turned. His eyes roved over the face of the man next to him. However, before he could speak the priest smiled, met James’ quizzical eyes and continued.

  ‘You are wondering how I know all this about you.’

  Again a statement, not a question. James said nothing and the priest continued.

  ‘You are a young man who has come to Malta on holiday, yet you are sad. You are also a young man who wears a wedding ring, yet there is no sign of your wife to comfort you in your sadness.’

  He paused, accepted James’ silence for acquiescence and continued.

  ‘You were earlier reciting one of Christ’s beatitudes aloud; the one that speaks of having a pure heart. Why would a man do that and be so sad unless his heart was not pure? Which leads me to believe that it was the thought of a woman other than the one who placed a ring onto your finger that has made you so sad.’

  ‘You are very astute, Father.’

  ‘It is God who is astute, my son. Twice I have been prompted to walk down this street recently with no intention of a destination. Each time I have seen you sitting here alone. On the first occasion, I wasn’t sure but suspected that you were the reason I had cause to come here. Now, I do not have that uncertainty.’

  ‘I am grateful to you for spending time with me, Father. However, as you so rightly say, I have a torment that is tearing at my heart and I cannot see the way forward.’

  ‘Have you asked God for His direction?’

  ‘How can I? I am a married man. How can I be married, follow God’s calling to become a priest, and also be in love with a woman who is not my wife? Jesus has already given us the answer to that: “what God has joined together, let no man put asunder”. Are they not the words recorded in St Matthew’s Gospel?’

  ‘How sure are you that your marriage had God’s blessing?’

  ‘We were married in church, Father. Doesn’t that amount to the same thing?’

  ‘Did it feel right to you? Can you say that you were led to that moment with a blissfully happy heart, without reservations, and that the day itself was, beyond all doubt, the happiest day you can recall to that point of your life?’

  Their eyes again searched those of each other: the priest for verification of the answer he already knew; James for a sign, any sign, that the priest was not leading him into some falsehood of interpretation.

  ‘As I thought. Your silence is both accusatory and affirmative; so let me ask you several more questions. What were the circumstances of you meeting the person you hold so close in your heart? Did your pathway in life take you on an unexpected route? Is this truly the first crossroads you have found yourself at or were there others that deflected your direction of travel up to the point that you met the person of whom we now speak?’

  ‘You are a wise man, Father.’

  ‘It is God who is wise and I am just one who speaks in His name. It is St James, after whom you have been christened, who reminds us that when we lack the wisdom to know what we should do, we should ask God, for St James assures us that God will answer generously and without finding fault. However, he also says that he who asks “must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed like the wind”.’

  ‘So you think that I—’

  ‘What I think is unimportant. It is what God thinks that matters. Perhaps God did not intend you to marry when you did. We all sometimes do things that are contrary to His intentions. Perhaps that was one such occasion. Now, it would seem that He is showing you, in powerful and unavoidable terms, what His real intentions are for you. If that is the case, you must follow your heart, not your mind; for a man’s mind can never fathom the reasoning behind God’s will, any more than we can the depths of His purpose.’

  ‘And what of my calling to the priesthood?’

  ‘You already have your ministry, James. Was not St Luke a physician? Go and do God’s work through your ministry of healing; just as Jesus himself did. You do not need to be ordained to perform such tasks.’

  The priest withdrew his hands from his sleeves and pushed himself to his feet, dusting down his cassock.

  ‘My name is Dominic Caruana. I have a small church in the square at the end of this street. You will be welcomed there, if you have the time.’ He trailed a finger in the dust on the wall before drawing the sign of a cross on James’ forehead. ‘And even if you do not come, I will pray for you, my son.’

  With that, he turned and walked slowly up the cobbled street. James watched him until he turned into the square at the top and was lost from his sight.

  * * *

  The cool interior of the Church of the Assumption of Our Lady, more commonly known as the Rotunda of Mosta, provided a welcomed relief from the scorching heat of the afternoon Mediterranean sun. Indeed, with walls thirty-feet thick, the temperature of the 19th-century church saw little variation all year round.

  As they entered, a small, wizened, Maltese woman wearing the traditional black dress of a widow greeted them.

  ‘Wara nofs in-nar it-tajjeb. Ingliż?’

  ‘Wara nofs in-nar it-tajjeb. Iva, Ingliż.’

  James attempted to return her greeting in Malti and accepted the English version of the visitors’ guide.

  ‘Grazzi ħafna.’

  ‘Ta’ xejn.’

  The widow turned to offer Janice a second copy, but she had already gone ahead and was now idly wandering around with a speed that easily registered her disinterest.

  The fact that they were there at all was a miracle of sorts. It had taken James the entire previous day to persuade her that a car trip to the central part of the island was worthwhile, not only to take in the church of Mosta but also the ancient walled town of Mdina. They had visited the latter that morning, when Janice had surpassed herself by starting an intense argument just outside the main square in full view of a bemused group of Maltese taxi drivers, before storming off and leaving James alone for almost two hours. She had reappeared just as he had started the car engine to leave, allowing for the distinct suspicion that she had secretly kept him under observation for the duration of his abandonment. However, here they were in Mosta and James entered the church with a determination not to let her insouciance spoil his anticipation of what was to come.

  With several side chapels spaced around a central open area, the main attraction of the church was the dome. Boasting, according to the guidebook, an unsupported internal diameter of 122 feet, it carried the quiet assertion of being the third largest in Europe and the ninth largest in the world. However, as if that architectural feat was not sufficient, the dome was also famous for what was known by the Maltese as Il-Miraklu tal-Bomba, or the Bomb Miracle. James stopped to read a plaque affixed to a pillar, at the base of which was a replica of a bomb. The inscription told the story of how, on 9th April 1942, 300 people were inside the church waiting for the evening Mass. At the same time, a Luftwaffe raid took place and the roof was hit three times. Two 200kg bombs bounced off, whilst a third penetrated the dome and fell amidst the congregation. The fact that it did not explode had remained a source of contemplation and wonderment for visitors ever since.

  He turned his attention to the body of the church. The floor was adorned with a tiled mosaic, the midpoint being directly beneath the apex of the dome. He stood and watched as two women approached the black ci
rcle at the middle of the mosaic and gazed upwards, before gesticulating at the floor beneath them, as they imagined the fall of that legendary bomb. Their curiosity and incredulity assuaged in less than a minute, they moved on, leaving the area vacant. He checked around the church, decided that no one else was about to approach and proceeded to walk to the same black circle. For a moment, he paused at the edge, and then stepped inside. It was strangely exhilarating for him to know that his feet were now standing on the very tiles where Anna had once stood and he felt an involuntary tremor in his legs. Gazing upwards, his eyes met an intricate latticework of white plaster, culminating in a small window from which brilliant sunlight streamed inwards.

  ‘Send forth your light and your truth, let them guide me.’

  The words of Psalm 43 came easily to his lips as the light bathed him in its ethereal force, a sensation enriched by the intense knowledge that he was seeing not through his own eyes, but those of the woman whose face had occupied his every waking thought since arriving in Malta and spoke to him in his dreams. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the image of her face, wondering if, by some metaphysical force, Anna could sense that he was there, their souls bonded by an invisible thread connecting them through space and time.

  At that moment in Valletta, in a small, quiet church in the corner of the square beyond the Street of the Knights, a shaft of sunlight settled on the altar cross in a side chapel dedicated to Saint Publius, Malta’s first bishop and saint. Irresistibly drawn towards it, Fr Dominic Caruana knelt, made the sign of the cross on his chest and automatically started to offer intercessory prayers for various members of his congregation. As he did so, an image stirred in his memory, making him pause. When he started to pray again, the words were this time for God to offer His guiding hand to the troubled young man Fr Dominic had met just a few days previously.

  In the Rotunda of Mosta, James felt the beat of his heart slow and, sensing an overwhelming feeling of calmness, he fell to his knees in prayer, his face still upturned to the dome. It was a moment of revelation and he knew that he was glimpsing the sense of assuredness that had guided the actions of so many in the past. If God is light, he thought, then the Devil could be playing no part in this powerful charge of love.

  Part Four

  1993

  All things come to those who wait.

  (16th-Century Proverb)

  33

  Lincoln

  March

  If the green MGB GT could claim any anthropomorphic traits, it clearly relished the undulating freedom of the A15 to Lincoln. The road, known better to the Romans as the Ermine Street, connected their city of Londinium in the south to that of York in the north, via the city of Lindum in the East, and built with their singular resolve to construct connecting routes in as straight a line as possible.

  A sunny, spring day had made the temptation to fold down the soft-top irresistible, which in its turn rendered any attempt at conversation futile when the wind noise combined with that of the engine. As though to compensate for the lack of conversation, James selected a cassette of Tina Turner’s Album of Greatest Hits and turned up the volume of the car’s speaker system. As the flat Lincolnshire countryside sped by, two more voices joined that of Tina. They grew even louder when she started on the opening bars of her hit song ‘Simply the Best’.

  That song had been a feature of the 1992 surgery Christmas party, just as it had the previous year. It was as though it had become a signature tune for Anna and James’ relationship, summoning them both to the dance floor from wherever they happened to be. Their eyes searching through the crowds, they would then proceed to manoeuvre between the gyrating bodies until they were at least in each other’s vicinity, if not exactly dancing directly with each other. It was musical magnetism, with a powerfully positive force field.

  As he drove, James pondered the series of vaguely connected events that had occurred over the preceding five months since his return from that ill-fated trip to Malta. The Christmas party had been an enjoyable reminiscence in its own way. Songs such as ‘Simply the Best’ recaptured some of the past magic. However, since Malta, the relationship with Anna had cooled and become more detached, more akin to the just-good-friends type of relationship.

  Which was ironic, as his relationship with Janice had also commenced a new phase. Whilst they continued to live under the same roof, they conducted their daily lives apart. The Bishopsworth flat, sparse though it was, had become more of a home for James during the week, where he spent long evenings alone with his books and music. Meanwhile, Janice spent most weekends with her family in Shropshire, rendering their house in Barminster more akin to a storage facility for personal belongings than a marital home. On the odd occasions they were both at home together, their relationship was amicable but distant, the infrequent physical contact merely perfunctory in its nature.

  In Malta, it had all seemed so clear to James. He was being driven in a different direction to the one he had previously believed to be the correct one; his relationship with Janice was clearly nearing an end; he no longer felt compelled towards ordination, understanding that God had a different form of ministry for him; and sensed that his relationship with Anna might now proceed unhindered. However, once back in England, such clarity of thought had evaporated within weeks, as the various complexities of reality squeezed into the utopian equation.

  He changed down through the gears to negotiate the roundabout at Caenby Corner and then relished the throaty roar as the re-opened throttle urged the sports car onwards towards Lincoln. Thinking that it really was a beautiful day, he glanced towards his passenger and smiled; the smile returned and he felt a gentle squeeze of his left thigh. Ahead, the sky remained blue apart from some dark cloud gathering to the west of the city. Confident that they should be in Lincoln before whatever the cloud held presented a problem, he nonetheless pressed the accelerator hard to the floor and marvelled at how, even at the speed he was doing, the MG found that little bit of reserve. Passing the RAF base, he exchanged Tina Turner for Whitney Houston’s soundtrack from The Bodyguard.

  The latter was another theme tune he shared with Anna, although a less self-assured one. Indeed, ‘I Will Always Love You’ had a wistful poignancy about it; a sense of two lovers being pulled apart and of love lost. It was as though their own lives were reflected by a musical prophecy. For, despite the earlier intensity of their relationship, Anna had clearly started to tire of James’ inability to resolve the conflicting pulls of conscience and duty within his life. In the meantime, she had commenced the process of tidying her own life, announcing on his return from Malta that she had left Simon the previous weekend and was now living in a spare room at a friend’s house. The news had taken James completely by surprise, even though, as Anna had made it abundantly clear to him at the time, it was nothing to do with him. Her marital relationship was over and she needed to make a fresh start with her life, regardless as to whether James was involved or not. However, despite such proclamations, it had been the Royal Family who had given her some unexpected ammunition back in early December.

  James slowed as he approached a tractor, judged the approach of an on-coming lorry, and overtook the tractor before resuming his previous cruising speed. Mentally, he flicked back to recollect an unaccustomed look of serious determination on Anna’s face as he entered the surgery reception area on the day in question.

  ‘There… if the heir to the throne can do it, so can you!’

  Her voice had been at the level of a forced whisper as she smacked that morning’s newspaper on the desk in front of James. The sound triggered a few enquiring glances from Sandy and Christine, and James played for time by starting to sign a pile of repeat prescriptions. However, as soon as the other receptionists were distracted by arriving patients, Anna renewed her attack.

  ‘Go on, read it.’ She pushed the newspaper towards him, her voice still quiet but forceful. ‘If the future head of the Church of England can do it, so can you!’

  James
had not seen or heard any news in his flat the evening before, devoid as it was of a television. Checking that Sandy and Christine were still otherwise employed, he unfolded the paper, read the headline and then the short opening paragraph beneath:

  Charles and Diana to Separate

  The Prime Minister, John Major, yesterday announced ‘Buckingham Palace has made it known that the Prince and Princess of Wales will separate. Their Royal Highnesses are not seeking a divorce. Their position in the constitution remains the same. This decision has been agreed by both parties, the care of the children will continue to be shared by both.’

  ‘Now try and find an excuse not to move on.’ Anna had been unrelenting and James was only saved by the timely entrance of Sandra, asking him to see a patient with chest pain in the treatment room.

  The MG’s 1.8-litre engine positively ate the thirty or so miles from Bishopsworth and it did not seem long after departing before the tower of Lincoln Cathedral came into view. James reduced speed to enter the Lincoln one-way system through an ancient stone arch into Newport Court, made short work of the Bailgate and finally swung into the private car park opposite the White Hart, just before the road became a cobbled, pedestrianised way. The barrier rose before them, allowing their entrance without question. He parked and switched off the engine. Like a horse still frisky after a decent gallop, it gave a short symphonic plinking as it cooled.

  ‘Aren’t we supposed to be patrons of the White Hart to use their car park?’ He turned and grinned.

  ‘I am not sure which is the greater sin: having formerly accepted the barrier tokens when they are offered and one didn’t need them or using them on an occasion when one is not patronising the hostelry. Either way, I only feel that it is appropriate to return this token to its rightful owner, that being the hotel, which I shall do by way of the exit barrier when we go home later.’ He plucked a brass coin-like object from the otherwise redundant ashtray and smiled.