Awakening

by Stevie Davies

  Once upon a time I met Will at the end of the garden, she thinks. The barn owl was out hunting. Will’s fingers brushed me – just here. I’ve not been touched since then; Christian has never touched me. It seems a world away and only yesterday. He asked me – again – and he kissed me – and I could have accepted him – and whyever did I refuse?

  Will threatened: in that case I shall go to her.

  And now we’re both paying for our mistake. How can I ever have said no to darling Will when I wanted him so much? And still I melt every time I hear his voice. Now Anna is saying, too late: ‘Here you are, have him back. The two of you are welcome to one another.’

  Will has moved away from the house. She calls his name.

  There’s a churring as of a nightjar. They fly on silent wings around Chauntsey Woods and never sing by day or venture far beyond the woods. Beatrice moves into the voluptuous darkness and is enveloped.

  Chapter 21

  The long prophesied Awakening is at hand. Florian Street has been praying and singing, soliciting a special outpouring of the Spirit. The faithful keep it up all night, attending in shifts. Dissenting and evangelical Anglican churches join forces: the bickering sects lay down their ancient quarrels and unite as one. The Call is out. Conversions are expected on a mass scale and the churches must be ready, for it’s not just a matter of harvesting souls – in a sense the easy part – but of settling converts in stable congregations.

  The Spirit is due to arrive on the London train in the persons of four ministers: Christian Ritter, home from his Irish mission; Idris Jones; John Clifford and – a singular coup – the famous Charles Haddon Spurgeon. Later a deputation from Wales is expected: five young evangelists, millenarian disciples of poor Humphrey Jones, who, having brought the flame of Revival from America to Aberystwyth, has wandered along strange paths leading to Carmarthen Mental Hospital.

  Waiting with the Eliases on the platform at Salisbury Station, Beatrice is in a painful state of tremulous anticipation – less perhaps at the prospect of the Awakening than at the expectation of having her husband home. Her dear husband, for he is dear. The head of her family, for he is master of her house. Surely she has never wished it otherwise, even in her most vagrant state? Whatever happens now, at least it will bring an end to the struggle in Sarum House. Christian must speak to Anna about her behaviour.

  And surely Beatrice has nothing with which to reproach herself, beyond the general worthlessness of a common sinner. Whatever occurred in darkness between herself and Gwilym Anwyl may surely remain in darkness? She has tried and failed to feel guilty about it.

  For after all, what did happen? Are words actions? Indeed, are silences actions? Are they events?

  Yes, in all honesty, one must admit that they are. It cannot be said that the two of them uttered more than a handful of words. All was communicated in darkness, haunted by the vanilla perfume of unseen flowers. Love held them as close together as people can be who are scarcely touching. Every pore of Beatrice was open to Will in the darkness. But only their fingertips met, in parting.

  Could it be said that they met and spoke as brother and sister – or soul with soul? Beatrice hopes that the love they expressed and lived might be as blameless as that. If that was not so, she asks God’s forgiveness. Nothing was said that should injure Anna or Christian.

  And Luke seemed there in the quiet, beside them, hushed in his cradle. For the first time she felt his presence in God. Not as a troubled spirit struggling to approach her from the Other World but in a vast repose. Safe, my boy, safe beyond suffering. In a region where there are no more tears, for God has wiped them from mortal eyes.

  This knowledge Beatrice must close in her hand, a pearl never to be shown, even to dear Christian. For he is dear. Let in the common light and the pearl will lose lustre. It has to last the rest of her life.

  The following morning Anna appeared at the breakfast table with apprehensive eyes. But nothing was said. They ate together quietly. There were no questions or recriminations. Anna fell to wolfing eggs and toast.

  And, oh yes, Beatrice thought once more, with scarcely a pang: you’re with child. Anyone with eyes can see that.

  It threw everything into a new light. These aberrations, apparently under the influence of the notorious Mrs Sala, may be nothing more than the freaks and foibles of pregnancy. Be patient, wait, and they’ll be brushed aside by the imperatives of the coming baby. Beatrice, to her surprise, is conscious of no particular envy.

  ‘Step back!’

  The locomotive approaches, precisely to time, in a hissing welter of steam and smoke. Doors are thrown open and here they are, the four ministers. What a treat for their fellow-passengers to have overheard their conversation, perhaps the most inspired voices in England – and Beatrice’s husband not the least of them for eloquence. Christian hurries ahead and takes his wife’s gloved hand in his gloved hand. Their eyes meet with comical bashfulness. And here is young Mr Clifford, with his social passion. It occurs to Beatrice that it will be good for Anna to talk with him: he might do better than Christian. In the doubt-laden atmosphere of the times Mr Clifford is a shining beacon and may bring Anna round. Beatrice remembers how caught up with him her sister was when he preached at Chauntsey. The look on Anna’s face was quietly focused. ‘One loves the man, one venerates him,’ she said then from her wheeled chair.

  The pastors shake hands cordially with the welcoming party. Idris Jones of Bedwellty scarcely seems his usual ebullient self, loquacity quenched maybe in the company of the matchless Mr Spurgeon.

  No sooner has he alighted on the platform of Salisbury Station than Mr Spurgeon is recognized, perhaps by folk who’ve attended his services at the newly built and stupendous Metropolitan Tabernacle. The word goes round. Over there. Spurgeon! What, that little roly poly youth? The same. Railwaymen, doffing their caps, mill around him and Beatrice is aware of a lady passenger sidling up to touch his coat.

  Mr Spurgeon, aware of the approach, wheels round. She takes a step back, flustered and apologetic.

  ‘My dear lady,’ he says. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh – beg your pardon, sir, but my boy – he’s sick. Over there with his Papa. We’re going to the spa hoping for a cure, though the doctor says it’s too late and we should give up our hope and save our money to bury him.’

  ‘The golden-haired little chap?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s red-haired, sir.’

  ‘No, no, golden. Eighteen carrot! – ah ha! At least that’s brought a smile to your lips, and what are pastors for? No earthly use in them if they can’t do that. Bring the lad here and I will speak to him. But, you know, I’m no miracle-worker. Don’t mistake me for my Master. Hope is a precious thing; there’s no putting a price on hope; we have to hope – but let us place our hope in our Jesus. He will not let us down. Is your boy in pain?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s a blessing. And you must take it as such.’

  The pale, freckled boy is carried across in his father’s arms. Beatrice, close to the puny five-year-old, suffers a reeling blow. He’s a collection of bones. The boy has never walked. And now cannot eat, scarcely drinks. Beatrice looks up at her husband. His hand cups her elbow and squeezes.

  ‘My dear little fellow – what is your name, darling?’

  The boy stares from his pale green eyes. The mother asks for a blessing on Bertie and Mr Spurgeon places his hand on the child’s forehead. He nods to the father to pass him the lad. He will hold the bag of bones and bless it. The child is transferred to his arms. No weight at all.

  A hush spreads through the station. The mother and father fall to their knees on the platform amongst heaps of luggage and mail bags. It’s a biblical scene. Mr Clifford and Mr Jones are down on their knees. Beatrice finds herself sinking down beside her husband, her mourning gown billowing into the dirt. The station master is down; porters and railwaymen follow. The impulse spreads amongst the passengers; first-class passenger
s kneel, removing their top hats. Ladies in crinolines stand, hands clasped, eyes closed.

  Mr Spurgeon’s voice is a rich instrument. Its trumpet-call penetrates every corner. The father and mother weep. The weeping spreads through the station. The child hangs limp and open-mouthed in Mr Spurgeon’s arms. As he prays, Beatrice feels that Jesus stands beside him. It must have been like this in the Holy Land, she thinks, at Bethesda or Galilee in the time of miracles.

  The minister finishes. Opening her eyes, Beatrice sees the unremarkable, thickset man with his large head, protruding teeth slightly crossed, his eyes which don’t quite match, shorter in stature than Anna: transfigured.

  The boy is restored to his father’s arms. With stammering thanks that are waved away, the parents vanish into the crowd, more reconciled perhaps, quieter in themselves for the journey ahead.

  Assembled in the carriage, the mood changes. Good cheer prevails as Mr Spurgeon tells stories against himself and teases Mr Clifford about his appetite for education. ‘So John is looking to study for his doctorate! Doctorate! I wouldn’t give you tuppence for a bushel of ’em! I’ve all the doctorates I need here.’ He slaps the wide pocket where he keeps his New Testament. ‘I hear you’ve just graduated with a B.Sc. in Geology and Palaeontology. Did Jesus sit at the feet of the Pharisees and study for his Bachelor of Mouldy Rocks and Fossils? Fiddle-faddle! Jesus taught them, or would have, if they’d just pinned back their lugs.’

  Mr Clifford, smiling, refuses to take the bait. We must all be educated, he insists: the poor as well the rich. As for his mouldy fossils, his optimism sees no antagonism between the competition of species for survival and the possible progress of the human race.

  ‘Would you perhaps speak to my sister if you have a chance, Mr Clifford?’ Beatrice asks as they enter the garden of Sarum House. ‘Speak to her about your studies. I feel she would enjoy – benefit from – a conversation with you.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure. I remember Miss Anna very well. A remarkable young woman.’

  ‘She is in some turmoil of mind, I fear.’ Beatrice says no more, leaving Mr Clifford to make his own assessment.

  Amongst these distinguished gentlemen, Beatrice feels as she did in Papa’s day, as if she’s eating with angels, the greediest creatures in the universe. They can empty whole pantries at a sitting. It’s not until after tea is served and before supper preparations begin that she can snatch half an hour with her husband while the house is temporarily quiet except for Amy’s tramping up and downstairs with hot water for the beardless ones to shave.

  Glancing out of the window, Beatrice is comforted to see her sister walking in the garden with Mr Clifford, deep in talk.

  ‘What kind of married life is this for you?’ asks Christian. She is tying his necktie for him, hands all of a tremble. ‘I’m ashamed to leave you alone for such long periods. Do you ever regret marrying an evangelist?’ He places his hands on her shoulders and bends to study her face. ‘I have so much to occupy me of my Master’s work while you –’

  ‘I’m well occupied, dear. I knew from the beginning how it would be. But yes, I’ve missed your steadying hand.’ Should she confide in him now? Or keep the question of his sister-in-law’s waywardness until they have time and privacy? What a relief it will be to turn over the whole burden to Christian. He’ll doubtless be shocked and perhaps critical of the way his wife has handled the situation.

  ‘I believe our work is bearing fruit,’ he says and begins to tell of a family in Bristol with whom he periodically lodges, the Leytons: Mrs Leyton is a widow who has felt a call of her own to the ministry but – mirabile dictu! – so has her twelve-year-old daughter, whom he personally baptised. Ruth is a promising child with whom Christian has sat many an evening in deep and earnest conversation. Unless her fire burns itself out, the name of Ruth Leyton will be heard in the future.

  ‘But surely – a woman – a young girl – you cannot approve of female ministers?’

  ‘There are precedents, Beatrice. The Quakers, the early Methodists. In America I met remarkable women preachers. There are Gospel precedents: in the Gospel of John, of course, we read of the preaching Woman of Samaria.’

  Beatrice bursts in with, ‘We are not Methodists and this is not America, Christian. Their ways are not ours.’

  ‘Good things come from America, Beatrice, do they not? Not least amongst them is Revival – and the war against slavery. And who knows what women may be called to do in the next generation? The women who are children now will see a new world. Ruth Leyton, I find, understands these matters with a more than childlike grasp. And yet she is modest and biddable. You’d be impressed, dear. And, Beatrice, I hope we may welcome the Leytons to Sarum House so that you can get to know them.’

  ‘Of course, Christian. If that is your wish.’

  ‘I know you will find them delightful.’

  ‘Very delightful, I’m sure.’ The pastoral relationship is fraught with intimate temptations. Beatrice would never have thought Christian, towering above them all in his purity, would have been susceptible.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says.

  You always do – or you think you do, she doesn’t say.

  ‘I am impervious to all charms but those of my dearest wife.’

  Beatrice cannot help laughing aloud at the pompous formula. Christian suppresses a look of irritation or apprehension, she can’t tell which. He begins to speak of a lady in Indianapolis who threw her lovely arms round Mr Beecher’s neck and cried, ‘Oh, Mr Beecher, save me!’ Beecher’s grave and correct reply was, ‘You must look to a higher power.’ The pastor removed her hands from his neck and fell on his knees: ‘Let us pray.’

  ‘Love, of course,’ Christian says, ‘is always good. I love many souls. I seek to love all souls. You would not limit that? But I stand as straight as a poplar for any sin of the flesh. At the same time, you cannot doubt me, Beatrice?’

  ‘Of course not. But is it wise …?’

  ‘Come, darling, we have a few minutes,’ he says, taking her hand. ‘Let’s talk, really talk. Sit on my knee by the fire as we always used to do, since you were … so high.’

  Beattie hates, Beattie loathes.

  She sees in her mind’s eye a twelve-year-old with hectic eyes and flaming face in the lap of a grown man, being rocked, being sung and preached to. The name of the girl was Beatrice Pentecost and is now Ruth Leyton.

  When her husband sits down and pats his lap, Beatrice makes no move to join him but stands beside her husband in the firelight, one hand on his shoulder. There’s a moment’s tense silence. Then Christian says, surprisingly, ‘I dreamed of him, Beatrice. Our boy.’ He turns aside and his voice chokes; he seems unable to trust himself to speak his son’s name.

  ‘What did you dream?’

  ‘We were all three in the garden. Luke was in your arms. But he began to, I don’t know, dissolve – slowly – until I could see right through him. But you still held him – cradled – he just melted – he melted back into you. Finally he couldn’t be seen at all. I said to you, “Oh Beatrice, he has gone. Can’t you see he’s gone?” But I looked into your face, darling, and I saw.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘He was in you. I see him now. He’ll always be in you. But there was something about the dream – that left God out – that placed the human mother above the divine Father – or so I thought on waking – and I trembled. But then I thought, Might the Father be in the human mother?’

  Never mind the Leytons. Never mind any of it. We have had a child together; we’ve lost a child together. Tears run down their faces and mingle. For he is our peace who hath made both one and hath broken down the middle wall of partition. Beatrice glimpses what she rarely has before: the father’s likeness to the son.

  Already Christian’s drying his face and settling its expression. He reaches for his slouch hat.

  *

  Mr Clifford does not mock Anna as she leads him through the wilderness to the mound. He list
ens with that unique sympathy of his. ‘It was your sanctuary, Anna. Your refuge.’

  ‘Warmth seemed to come up from it – a motherly kind of warmth. All sorts of little games I played here and I wrote books about them. Tiny books a few inches across. I could show you. Recently I opened the box I kept them in. Not just stories but descriptions of the creatures on the mound and the plants and what was happening to them – what I saw and observed – a sense of those lives entangled there, all struggling and entwined. And I’d dig. I’d excavate. Does that sound heathen?’

  ‘It sounds human, Anna. It sounds – if I have caught your drift – filial.’

  That sticks in Anna’s mind when he’s gone indoors. He saw that the beloved was down there in the earth, the beautiful and terrible earth. Anna finds a trowel and lays back the turf. Her fingers scrabble in the soil till she uncovers and lifts the lid of the earthenware pot she buried there so many years ago. Anna reaches in to pluck out her treasures one by one. A leaf-shaped arrowhead. A tiny silver bell. An amber bead. A bone comb. Green tesserae. Anna sits cross-legged with the hoard spread in her lap, weighing each object in her palm, turning it to the light.

  The treasures return to their urn; the urn to the earth.

  *

  Isaiah Minety prepares to preach the sermon of his young life, making his mark on the great visitors from the capital. It was at a similar age that Mr Spurgeon’s star began to rise from low origins: the oracular, button-nosed boy-preacher of the Fens attracted the scoffs of worldlings. He’d been ministering since he was a toddling child, perched on a hayrick to address an infant congregation.

  Why not therefore the baker’s boy of West Grimstead? Perhaps it’s for Mr Spurgeon to single out Isaiah for a special prophecy?