A Day and a Life

by Penelope Wilcock

  He looks down on the grubby face, the only clean bits washed by the boy’s own tears, his eyes still swollen from weeping.

  “I’m sorry, Brother Damian,” says the miscreant, to Damian’s surprise. His anxiety plain to see as he plucks up courage, he begs, “Please don’t tell my dad, or I’ll catch it from him.”

  In the worried, upraised face, the monk sees the fears and affliction of childhood.

  “Not if you’d rather I didn’t,” he says. “But look, it’s your secret, not mine. And I’m glad you came back. I wanted to talk to you, because I think I frightened you, and I laid about you cruelly with that rod. I cannot have you go on as you did today, but I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I lost my temper. Shall we start again? Don’t be scared to come back to school tomorrow; you won’t still be in trouble. Try if you can to be a bit calmer than you were today.”

  Something is restored in both of them as they part company. Brother Damian, walking back to the claustral buildings of the monastery, reflects that though he came out of the world to this place to draw closer to God, the main thing he’s found himself encountering is raw, uncompromised humanity – not least his own. He thinks maybe those two things aren’t as distinct as he always assumed.

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  As the community disperses when the Office of None is concluded, Colin leaves the choir through the south transept, once more up the night stairs to the upper ranges of the cloister buildings, this time headed for the library in the west range – a peaceful and pleasant place to spend an afternoon, as the golden light of the September sun rays in through the tall, leaded windows with their uneven, greenish glass.

  Father Theodore told him to report to Father Chad, the librarian, at some point after None. He thinks he might as well go directly there, before anyone catches sight of him and sends him off on some errand bound to take longer than they supposed.

  Colin thinks about Father Chad as he climbs the stairs and walks along past the cells occupying the whole length of the south range. There’s a problem. He cannot get out of his mind a casual remark made by his friend Bernard, who came with him from Escrick to try the life, but quickly concluded it was not for him. Too much routine and not very interesting. In the course of their first few days, Father Theodore put into Colin’s hands a book of sermons they had been studying in the novitiate, saying: “Of your charity, would you take this up to Father Chad?” New and still permanently bewildered, Colin simply said, “Yes, Father. Should I go straight away?” When the answer was “Yes”, he felt stupid about admitting he had no idea who (or where) Father Chad was. Somehow he felt he ought to know. Holding the book, he stood outside the novitiate dithering, wondering where to take it. Then he spotted Bernard appearing at the top of the day stairs, coming back to the novitiate rooms from some errand.

  “Thank God it’s you!” Colin felt safe to confide his dilemma to his friend, who listened with amusement. “So,” he asked Bernard, “where – and who – is Father Chad?”

  Bernard grinned. “Father Chad? Hangs out in the library. We met him, remember? The world’s most boring man.”

  Colin reflects that a lot has changed since he had that conversation. At the time he laughed. He wouldn’t now. He realizes he’s learned, from Father Theodore mainly but not only from him, different ideas about people and conversation. That if it isn’t kind you don’t say it – even if it’s funny. That meanness has a way of worming itself right into your heart, dividing you from your brothers. That you don’t say what you wouldn’t want overheard. That you put yourself in the other man’s shoes, and ask yourself, if it was me, how would that make me feel? All of this, and a lot more of the same kind of thing, he has heard from Father Theodore in good measure. He has come to see that what makes St Alcuin’s such a special place to be is a mixture of respect and kindness; a practical compassion that goes gently in dealing with a man’s ordinary human frailty, clothing him with dignity again and again, whatever his tendencies to fling off his robes of intelligent recollection and wallow in the mud of asininity.

  And Father Theodore has been most particular to stress that it’s not only what you say to your brothers, but what you say about them. It makes a difference to what lies between you, he assures them, even if they don’t know what you’ve said. It muddies the honesty of love.

  Now, walking along to the library, Colin remembers what Bernard said, and how funny he thought it at the time. In fact, from that moment on, every time he’s seen Father Chad in chapel or in Chapter or in the refectory, even the back of him walking along the cloister, that’s what comes to mind: Oh, look. The world’s most boring man. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, if it were not so acutely observed. Because as far as he can see, it’s unfortunately true. He supposes Father Chad has an interior life, a self coloured by fear and hope and sadness and imagination like everyone else: but no sign of it so far.

  It lies between them, he thinks, as he opens the library door and enters its benevolent afternoon warmth and hazy golden light, looking about for the librarian. It’s not something spoken or even (he hopes) guessed; but even so, it lies between them. Just like Father Theodore said such things do.

  “Ah! Colin!” Genial and anxious to make him welcome, the world’s most boring man appears through the big doorway connecting this shelved room full of books with the adjacent one. “Father Theodore told me you would be coming. He asked me to show you round. Obviously you’ve been in before – I mean, I’ve seen you here myself – but he wants me to make sure you know what we have and where to find it, and show you the best way to handle the books and how to put them away correctly so nothing gets damaged.”

  He shows the postulant the different sections: the collections of patristic commentaries, the lives of the saints, Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica, the herbals and books of medicine – Avicenna, Hildegarde of Bingen. There are several books by Augustine and Jerome, a number of books with homilies from long deceased abbots and the spiritual giants of Yorkshire in ancient times. There are some old records in a section for their domestic archives, in among them various oddments – prayers for the dying, a collection of recipes useful in Lent, a copy of the famous plan of St Gall. There are the books of legend with their spectacular maps and fantastical beasts, and a copy of the Aberdeen Bestiary.

  “We have this psalter here – do you see? – kept with the books of legend. Sometimes it’s hard to decide how to categorize things. The margin illustrations and illuminations of this one make up such an important bestiary of themselves, that we decided to keep it here rather than among the books of holy Scripture.”

  Father Chad turns the pages reverently, carefully, showing Colin the lions and bears and monkeys, the great leviathan, the camel and giraffe – and this enormous beast, called an elephant, with its flapping ears and almost unbelievable nose. “They do assure me,” he says, marvelling, “that there really are such creatures in far-flung parts of the world. And unicorns like this. Amazing.”

  He explains the system in place for selecting books to take down to the carrels in the cloister for men’s solitary reading in the afternoons, and which ones are usually chosen for reading in the refectory and at Collatio in the evening before Compline.

  He stresses the importance of chaining the books, every single time, to the lectern desks: “They are so valuable, you see, Brother. Every one of these takes months of work, and some of them are worth a great deal of money. This library is a treasure house in so many ways – knowledge, inspiration, establishment in holy succession, and mundane material wealth. It is a great trust, and we must handle the books with proper respect. If a book gets torn or spoiled, assuredly we can copy it, but it won’t be exactly the same – how could it be? Each one is crafted by the skill of the monk who made it. And that skill does vary, we have to admit. This one – see here…” He lifts down a book of hours and lays it on the table. “Compare with this one…” He fetches a bigger book, another horarium. He watches to see Colin’s reaction,
as the postulant turns the pages of first one then the other, with due care.

  “Do you see the difference?”

  Colin nods. “I do indeed. This one is a bit clumsy in places. The writing’s uneven and hard to read. The colours are garish and the figures look absurd. But this – the little one – it’s just exquisite! Everything marries together in such harmony, I haven’t got the words to say it. So beautiful.”

  Father Chad listens, nodding in approval. “Do you know who made this lovely book, Colin? Of course you don’t; how could you? It was started by our previous abbot, Peregrine du Fayel – Father Columba. Then those savage men attacked him and he lost the use of his hands. So he asked Father Theodore to finish it for him. You can hardly tell between the work of one man and the other. Consummate skill. And, you see what I mean? Irreplaceable. Father Columba is dead, and Father Theodore occupied with the care of the novitiate. Oh, yes, we could copy it, but do you see how we could never make one the same? I take this book down sometimes just to look through it and let it fill my soul – not only with beauty, but with the remembrance that everything passes, nothing is forever. Each ordinary day – it will never come again. And who ever knows what tomorrow will bring? When Abbot Columba laid aside the pages, half-finished, because of the call on his time made by Holy Week, little did he think that on Easter Monday his hands would be smashed beyond mending. So much sorrow in the masterful beauty of this little book, Colin, but also so much hope. Father Theodore finished it triumphantly, helped Father accomplish what he’d lost the ability to manage for himself. I always think there’s a lesson in that. As there is in so many of the books here; they’re like people, really – living beings. Only not quite so troublesome or contentious!”

  He fastens the books back into their places in the racks with careful reverence, then shows Colin the section with poetry, and philosophy from ancient Greece and Rome. Colin remembers to mention the books Father Gilbert recommended, and Father Chad shows him where to find them. He asks what Colin’s interests are, and enquires how things are going for him. Does he warm to what he finds so far? Is he enjoying it?

  The postulant finds himself chatting away with enthusiasm, describing the diversity of occupations he’s had the opportunity to try during the summer. Brother Walafrid took him along the farm track right up onto the moor, gathering herbs – showing him what to look out for, where the less common plants could be found. Then he learned how to dry them so no mould would form and their precious virtues be preserved.

  Brother Stephen taught him how to mend a drystone wall, and he’d never done laundry in his life before he was sent to help Father Bernard. Brother Mark introduced him to the bees, and Brother Clement taught him how to grind the pigments to mix ink, how to combine them with powdered oak galls and ale and soot.

  Then there were the familiar, homely tasks – dead-heading the roses with old Brother Fidelis, hauling muck from the stables for Brother Peter, helping Brother Conradus take down the finished pea haulm in the kitchen garden.

  All the practical things, Father Chad observes. Is that where his heart lies, rather than in the mystical forays or the knotty intellectual problems? Colin thinks yes, that’s probably so.

  Father Chad, like the other men in full profession, is a good listener. Colin becomes aware of the attention and respect with which his ordinary tale of daily life is heard, as if it were of great interest, entirely captivating. It makes him feel happy.

  “It’s the little things, isn’t it?” says the librarian thoughtfully. “Just the fragments and oddments. A moment’s conversation in the warming room, incense smoke drifting up through an early morning sunbeam in chapel, the rise and fall of psalm chants at Vespers, the look on a man’s face when his eyes are closed in prayer. A scrap of kindness, a snippet of friendliness, a gleam of insight here and there, a fleeting experience of grace. It all patches together somehow into a mosaic pattern of something dearly held, something that grows deep roots into a man’s soul, so that his heart belongs here and nowhere else. It’s in the stones, in the wood, in the air. But, dear me, it’s not all charm and delight, is it? What are the things you’ve struggled with? There must be some – I know I’ve had my battles!”

  Colin tells him how switching between work and prayer doesn’t come easily to him – he likes to get stuck in to a job and see it through. The constant interruptions set him on edge, make him irritable. And he’s got very tired at times, immersed in a completely new place, surrounded by men he doesn’t know. It’s worthwhile, yes; but sometimes he’s felt very homesick. Father Chad listens to him, nodding in affirmation, kindness in his eyes. “Yes indeed – those things are hard. Adjustment. You find yourself longing for something familiar, something that comes easy to the hand. But you will – you know that, don’t you? This place’ll fit you like a worn-in pair of boots before you know it.”

  “What… what were the parts you found difficult, Father Chad, when you were new?”

  “Me? Goodness, that’s a long time ago. It feels now as if I’ve been here all my life. But my struggles have mostly been of my own making. I… well… I’m not a very substantial man, if you know what I mean. No scintillating wit whatsoever, and nothing much in the way of depth to my thoughts, either. I annoy people. I can be slow to catch on. And sometimes, I can give in to resentment, or take a dislike to someone. I’m a creature of habit; don’t always find it easy to shake such things off; and I’ve been very, very mistaken in my judgment at times. I used to be the prior, as you know, but the bald truth is I was not really up to the responsibility. That’s why Father John let me do this instead. You know, when I think about it, I’m not sure anything in my life has been worth calling a struggle or a battle, after all. It’s only what it feels like inside.”

  Colin listens, intrigued, to this humble, quiet disclosing of personal truth. It has a feeling of authenticity about it. A man without affectation or pretension, not afraid even of his own inadequacy. The strength of spirit that requires, he thinks, must take a long time to develop. It couldn’t come all at once. He wonders if this is what integrity looks like.

  As they put away the books, and Colin thanks him and takes his leave, he reflects that he actually hasn’t found Father Chad’s company boring at all. Once you get to know him, he’s just nice. Perhaps, as it turns out, Bernard was the boring one? But he shrugs that thought away as he walks back down the stairs leading to the cloister. He decides that categorizing people for their entertainment value is not an especially profitable exercise.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  Brother Stephen knows this farm track like the back of his hand – possibly better. He could walk down it (or up it) in the darkness – and he often does, especially at lambing time.

  The stretch his feet travel most is the path leading out from the east range of the cloister, past the infirmary, and up the hill to the main cluster of farm buildings. But the track wends beyond that, rising towards the moor and the extensive grazing grounds of the abbey sheep. Just now the cows are high in the top pasture. Wet summers have cursed the grain harvest most of this century, and plagues thrive in lingering damp, but at least the grass and meadow flowers grow lush in the watered hills. Now the grain is safely in, Stephen has stopped anxiously scanning the sky for clouds sailing across the valley with their cargo of rain, sensing the air for the telltale clamminess of arriving downpours. It’s better, of course, if they can get it all threshed, winnowed, sieved, and bagged away while these dry winds hold good, but it’s not the end of the world if the weather breaks now. In fact, some showers will bless the apple orchards, plump out the forming fruit of the late-ripening varieties.

  The cows stand in a cluster, waiting for him. They don’t have many, you could hardly call it a herd, just the eight milkers for their own use and whatever calves are running alongside their mothers. They concentrate on sheep; it’s what the land’s suited to, and the monastic life. The trading with the world is seasonal with sheep, daily with dairy farmi
ng. There’s plenty of coming and going through the abbey gates as it is, but they have to make the choices that support a cloistered life, foster the separation from the hurly-burly into holy silence. For that, sheep represent a better choice than cows. But thirty-one monks, a gaggle of novices, and a drift of cottagers and villagers, between them get through plenty of cheese and butter. In fact, Stephen is mighty glad they had two heifer calves born this spring to grow on for enlarging their supply. These last weeks there have been mornings, and evenings too, when Brother Conradus has stood waiting at the door when he brings down the churns from the milking. Which is unusual. What’s the matter? Why are they running short? The yields have been good.

  “Come on then, ladies! On you go!” Brother Stephen opens the field gate. Ponderous, they come through on their cloven, planting feet, filing in their undeviating order along the track. He props the gate open, ready for their return after milking tomorrow morning, and turns to follow them. Cows slow you down, the peace of their passage through the world. He likes walking behind them to the milking shed, their tails occasionally swishing annoying flies away; likes their strong bodies and unhurried tread. The only skittish beast they’d had was the one Brother Tom picked out to give William – because she’d just come into milk for the first time, had many good years in her, was strong and healthy, and would milk through many a month before he had to think about the services of a bull. But she had a mind of her own, that cow. Well matched with William.

  Now and then swinging a head, blowing, otherwise plodding calmly, the cows pick their way down the track. Brother Stephen sometimes thinks that if you cut him open and took out his guts, his heart, eviscerated the core of him, all you’d find inside him would be England – the green lanes, the lark and the curlew, the voices of sheep, the wild roses and sprays of blackberry, the sloes and the mountain ash. And low-growing plants, grass and chamomile, speedwell and shepherd’s purse, yellow archangel and lady’s smock. Over it all, the wide blue spaces of the sky. Celibate life in community suits Brother Stephen perfectly well. He likes silence and routine, and he can’t cook. His faith in God is not something he can look at as a thing in itself – as his pulse and eyesight and digestion are part of him, so is his faith. As a beast breathes because it is born to, because it belongs to this living earth all wrapped and wreathed in air currents, so his soul turns to faith because it finds itself in God, his native air, his heart’s true home. And his lady, his love, is this England, in her green dress, her careless trailing tresses, her subtle fragrance and sparkling necklaces of diamond dew.