As the lecture ended, I hurriedly wiped my eyes, hoping no one had noticed my tears. It was extraordinary. It was as though Sister Eleanor had fashioned her lecture precisely to meet my need and had been speaking to me personally.
The lecture ended to warm applause. The audience members were quickly on their feet and gathered around the Sister, congratulating her. Tea was served and we mingled with the crowd. I noticed a tall, distinguished-looking elderly man talking to Sister Eleanor.
“There’s Robert Llewelyn,” Gregorio said. I knew his name, of course, as the editor of Enfolded in Love and the former chaplain of Julian’s cell.
“Would you like to meet Robert?” asked Gregorio. It transpired that Gregorio had been several times to visit Robert Llewelyn at his home nearby. I said I would love to. Mr Llewelyn, who was helping himself to a cup of tea, greeted us warmly. He had the kindest eyes I had ever seen. I told him I had derived great comfort from Enfolded in Love. He thanked me and then questioned Gregorio solicitously about his sister.
“She is well, thank you, Robert. The Sisters are very brave,” said Gregorio.
Mr Llewelyn asked me about myself, and before I knew it I found myself telling him, hesitantly, without meaning to, about Paul’s death. As I did so, Gregorio quietly left us together. If kind looks can heal a heart, mine was a little healed in that moment. Mr Llewelyn seemed really to care about my unhappiness. He asked if he could do anything to help. Perhaps I would like to visit him. He gave me his telephone number.
“Would you like to meet Sister Eleanor? I think you would enjoy talking to her,” he said.
“I have briefly met the Sister and I would love to meet her again,” I said.
Mr Llewelyn excused himself and a few moments later returned with the Sister.
“I hope we will meet again. Do come and visit me,” he said, then shook my hand warmly and left me with Sister Eleanor.
The Sister’s smile was gentle and tender. Her presence seemed to envelop me, like a circle of love and healing light. I felt better, simply being with her. I said that I had enjoyed her talk. She thanked me and said, “I’m glad you came here today, to Julian’s little church. It’s such a little wayside place, isn’t it? You’d never notice it unless you were looking for it.”
“I was looking for it – very much so,” I replied, beginning to feel terribly sad.
Sister Eleanor touched my arm gently. “I’m glad you found it, found us, today.” She paused, and then said, “Robert told me about your great loss. I’m very sorry.” She looked as though she really meant it, really cared. Tears started to prick at the back of my eyes. Sister Eleanor continued to speak softly to me, words of comfort and reassurance, all the while looking into my eyes with kindness and understanding.
She placed her right hand on my arm. It felt almost as though she was about to embrace me. In that moment I thought what a relief it would be to be swept up in that loving embrace depicted on the cover of Enfolded in Love.
“I would like to offer you my help. Will you let me?” asked Sister Eleanor, looking at me with great kindness. “When we’re bereaved, there’s a particular kind of help we need, and I would feel honoured if you would allow me to offer it to you. At our convent we have a guest house. Will you come and see us when you feel ready? At the very least, it will be a quiet, peaceful place where you can rest.”
Just being in the presence of someone so gentle, kind and loving made me feel a little better. I said I was grateful for her offer and would come if I could. She pressed her hand gently against my arm and said, “I hope you will.”
A few weeks later, in mid-June, I telephoned Sister Eleanor’s convent, which was at Brancaster, on the north coast of Norfolk. I arranged to spend a few days there at the end of the month.
I travelled by train to London and then on to Norfolk. I took pleasure in leaving London behind me, anticipating the peace and quiet that awaited me at St Etheldreda’s. The journey passed peacefully. I read the paper, drank tea and began to look forward to time away from the telephone and the demands of work.
At King’s Lynn station I hired a taxi to drive me to Brancaster.
“How long will it take us to get there?” I asked.
“Half an hour’ll do it,” the taxi driver replied.
After some twenty-five minutes we arrived at the coast, and turned left, onto a narrow road that edged the line of the land. I looked out across the cold, grey sea. A few minutes later we arrived at a village.
“This is it,” said the driver. “Brancaster.” He continued through the village and for a further half-mile. A little way ahead I saw an old farmhouse, protected by a low hedge.
“Here it is,” he said, stopping in front of a farm gate, on which was written “Convent of St Etheldreda”. He unwound his window and leaned out to press a buzzer next to the gate, which swung open. We turned into the drive and he pulled up in front of the door.
I stepped out onto the driveway. Beyond the house, I could see farm buildings. I had expected high walls and Gothic turrets. This was a surprise.
I rang the doorbell and waited. The door was opened by a woman of about fifty. She wore a traditional floor-length black habit, with a black veil and a white wimple. On her feet were sandals and woollen socks. “Sister Eleanor is expecting me,” I said.
“Do come in,” she replied with a warm smile. “Come along into the parlour and I’ll tell Sister you’re here.”
I followed her to a little room just inside the door, and she left me there. A few minutes later, the door opened and Sister Eleanor entered.
“Hello, Joanna. Welcome. I’m so glad you could come,” she said, giving me a hug. “Did you have a good journey? You must be hungry. I’ll show you to your room. Then we’ll have some food.”
Sister Eleanor took me through a series of corridors with pale, whitewashed walls and wide windows, saying, “It’s quite a labyrinth here!” We came to a courtyard, crossed flagstones and entered a low building that might have been a converted barn. “This is our guest house,” she said. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.” She led me into a small, cosy room with simple furnishings and a crucifix on the wall. She left me there for several minutes, to settle in, and then returned, saying, “Come, let’s go and get some food.”
The Sister took me to the refectory, which was furnished with trestle tables and benches. After a few minutes, a nun entered, bearing on a tray two bowls of soup and a plate of bread. She smiled and put the food on the table before us.
The hot vegetable soup was filling and delicious. The bread was home-baked and still warm. I complimented Sister Eleanor on the meal. She replied, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. We grow all our own vegetables here. I don’t think anything tastes as good as something one has just taken out of the ground.”
When we had finished our meal the Sister asked, “Would you like to see my work?” I said I would. She led me out of the front door and around the corner of the house. Just ahead was an exterior staircase. “Come up,” she said. I followed her up the stairs and into a long room with a high ceiling and large windows, including an enormous one in the roof. As we walked into the room, I saw that the rear windows had a view into the far distance, over the marshes.
“This is where I work. I share it with two other Sisters. Each of us has her own space. This used to be the hayloft. Our chapel is below, in what was the stable.”
Below the window in the roof was an easel. On it was a half-finished painting. More paintings were hung on the walls, several were resting against a wall and a little pile of smaller canvases was on a low shelf. They were paintings of angels, quite exquisite, done in pale pastel watercolours. Those that hung on the wall appeared, almost, to be in mid-flight, swooping down from the heavens into the room.
On a table were little pots of paints, brushes and paint-smeared rags. There were two wooden stools, one low and one high, another table and two old wicker armchairs by the window. In a corner was a sink. The room was cluttered, but tidy.
/>
“I painted these,” said Sister Eleanor. “The Sisters I share the space with are also painters. We banged a hole in the roof to make a skylight for the northern light. Those are their canvases.” She indicated the far end of the room, where paintings of birds and seascapes hung on the wall and were propped up against it.
I looked at Sister Eleanor’s paintings. They were like nothing I had seen before: delicate, imaginative and quite tender. The faces were extraordinary, suffused with radiant love.
Sister Eleanor said, “Many of the women who are drawn here have some kind of artistic talent, which we are encouraged to develop. One of the sisters I share with is a trained artist. The other found she had a strong urge to paint that she had never felt before.
“Gifts tend to emerge that people didn’t know about. Some sisters draw. We have two wood-carvers. One of the Sisters is a potter. She made me this. Lovely, isn’t it?” She handed me a beautiful pot, decorated with delicate swirls in varying shades of blue and green. “We sell our work, just as we sell eggs and produce from the garden, to earn our living as a community. And, of course, we like to do what we can for those in greater need.”
She asked, “Shall we have some tea?” Someone had left a tray, with a pot of freshly brewed tea and cups and saucers on the table by the window. Sister Eleanor indicated that I should take a seat in one of the wicker armchairs. She took the other chair and poured the tea.
I looked out of the window, across the garden and at the marshes beyond. Sister Eleanor said, “I often sit here, looking out. It gives me a deep sense of peace and freedom. Here there is always time enough. Out in the world people have so little time to make sense of it all, to think about what they want from life… I think your world of journalism is a particularly hard world, isn’t it?” I agreed. “But the work you do is very important. You can change lives.”
We talked about the work Paul and I had done together and my efforts to continue it, in his memory. Sister Eleanor listened quietly and attentively. Something about the directness of her gaze, the gentleness of her countenance and the softness of her voice touched me, breaking through my protective shell. I felt the pricking of tears and a lump forming in my throat. I tried to speak, but no words came. Sister Eleanor put her hand gently upon my arm.
Suddenly, I found that I was pouring it all out, all the pain and anger I felt about Paul’s death. The Sister said very little, and yet she asked just the right questions to make me feel safe to continue. I felt she understood. I confessed that I did not feel up to the job of following in Paul’s footsteps. I could not hope to report human rights stories in the way he would have done.
Sister Eleanor said gently, “But why do you feel you have to be other than what you are? Paul loved you for yourself. His work was his and your work is yours. So long as you do the work that is yours to do, using the talents God gave you, you do not fall short. On the contrary, you fulfil his plan for you. God gives us all we need. I know that yours is a harsh world. If people criticize you, let them. Try not to focus on the anger you feel towards those who do bad things. If you keep patiently on your path, you will find peace.”
I joined the Sisters for supper and walked in the garden for a while before returning to my room. I was soon asleep.
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked anything.
“A guest,” I answered, “worthy to be here.”
Love said, “You shall be he.”
“I, the unkind, the ungrateful? Ah, my dear
I cannot look on Thee.”
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
“Who made the eyes but I?”
“Truth, Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.”
“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?”
“My dear, then I will serve.”
“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat,”
So I did sit and eat.
(George Herbert)
I returned home from St Etheldreda’s feeling more relaxed and at peace. As the summer months passed by, from time to time Sister Eleanor would send me a beautiful little hand-painted card, inscribed with a text from Julian’s book. I pinned them up above my desk. They comforted me.
As September approached, I dreaded the anniversary of Paul’s death. When it came, the day was so painful, I felt I needed some succour and sustenance that would heal my heart. My thoughts turned again towards Sister Eleanor and St Etheldreda’s. I knew that I needed to be away the week before Christmas, the anniversary of our wedding. I arranged to spend a few days at the convent.
This time I drove to Brancaster. It was a long, tiring drive and I was glad when I recognized the flat landscape that would soon give way to the north Norfolk coast. In the distance the sky was thick with what looked like a rapidly moving black cloud. Flocks of birds were sweeping along the horizon, coming in to seek sanctuary for the winter.
I arrived at St Etheldreda’s feeling tired and hungry. I gratefully received a warm welcome from Sister Eleanor, who quickly settled me by an open fire with a bowl of hot soup. Soon after, she took me to the refectory and saw to it that I was fed with a nourishing meal of fish, vegetables and rice, followed by hot apple pie and custard. In my little room, my head had barely touched the pillow before I was asleep.
I spent the following day resting, and the next day I drove to Norwich. My first stop was the cathedral. I entered its precinct, leaving behind the noisy rumble of traffic. Ahead, the cathedral appeared like some fairy palace of mellow golden stone, intricately carved, its portico flanked by crumbling figures of saints or martyrs, their features obliterated by the weathering of centuries.
A bell pealed and struck the chimes of the hour. As I entered, I read a notice by the door, which told me that the cathedral had been founded in 1096, by Bishop Herbert de Losinga, as the mother church of the diocese.
Just inside the door, a woman was watering a large display of yellow and white chrysanthemums, below which had been placed a profusion of forest greenery. There came to my mind the stained-glass image of the crucifixion in Chartres Cathedral, in which the cross is painted green. It is green to symbolize the fact that this is a story about life, not death.
The cathedral was being prepared for Christmas. In every nook and cranny there seemed to be someone buffing or polishing, or attempting to vaccuum quietly. The woman with the watering can continued her duties among the many displays of flowers.
I was struck by the ordinariness of things, the need for practical tasks to be carried out, seemingly endlessly, in order for us to snatch the time we need for the things that matter to us. How is it possible, when this is the reality of our lives, to find the time and space for each of us to consider his or her particular journey?
Among all that I had read since encountering Julian, I frequently had come across the concept of taking time out to go within. Somewhere there had been a promise that, through those stolen snatches of time, if only one were persistent enough, something real that gave succour could be established and increased. Was it a place or a state of mind, or a state of being? It seemed as though there was a way to return time and again, to revisit and reinforce that beingness, to build up that body of soul-truth-light – a citadel in a city that I could one day make my home.
It was a place that now was hard to reach, but might one day be easy to find. Seeing through a glass darkly, but then face to face, to know even as I am known… How readily the Christian teaching of my childhood came back to me. It seemed that, despite my rejection of it, something had taken root.
To my left was a curved staircase leading to a vault, built, said the notice, in the early fourteenth century. Would I find there the atmosphere of Julian’s world? I climbed th
e narrow staircase and found myself in a kind of little chapel, full of glass cases containing medieval ecclesiastical artefacts. In one case, I saw a silver plate, decorated with a hand raised in a gesture of benediction. Beyond it, reflected in the glass, I saw myself. I looked into my own eyes and caught sight of the depth of my own yearning for a glimpse of the truth, for meaning.
I was taken most of all with the wall and ceiling decorations, the processions of angels and saints. I had thought that church decorations from that period were inspired by dread of hellfire and damnation, but these were not. They were full of celebration and beauty. In one corner was a sweet-faced angel, with calm, reflective eyes and the gentlest demeanour and a blue halo edged with golden light. I thought: Perhaps when someone was painting those graceful, green-leaved garlands on the ceiling, Julian was growing up.
I had been told there were two windows in the cathedral with depictions of Julian. One was in the chapel dedicated to the Norfolk Regiment. I found her there, with a ginger moggy at her feet. This Julian was beautiful, but serious and rather saintly, I thought, not really my idea of Julian. She wore a rich red cloak, edged with gold and silver. I did like the cat, though. He seemed to be peering inquisitively at the observer, as though thinking: Well, I see you having a jolly good look at me, but who are you?
I moved on to the little Bouchon chapel. This was a much simpler portrayal. Julian kneels, her hands raised in prayer, looking towards heaven. I preferred it, for its simplicity, though she is in the rather grand company of Henry I, St Bede and St Augustine. As I stood before the window, I suddenly felt a sense of great joy – a brief perception, it seemed, of the glory of heaven. I felt I was standing in a pool of radiant light. I knew it was the product of my imagination, but it was a beautiful sensation. My eyes filled with tears. I asked Julian to help me make what I should of the day.
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