A Day and a Life

by Penelope Wilcock

  When they go to the market – she is used to this now, but couldn’t understand what was happening at first – if, as so often happens, he sees a child sobbing, broken-hearted, pleading in futile desperation with an indifferent parent; bawled at, flung aside, lambasted with words, with sticks, with whatever comes to hand, for some misdemeanour; he has to walk away. Right then, even if he’s in the middle of haggling for a price, regardless of who is saying what to him. He can’t blot it out. He says it interferes with his eyesight – for a moment he can’t see, so wild is the sorrow and despair it sets off inside him.

  And he tells her that for the greater part of his life he tried to fight back, to become somehow invincible – more ruthless, colder, crueller than anything that threatened him. But then came his curious encounter with Christ, with love, with kindness; and the deeper reality broke through – the truth is that he just hates it, this violence which never stops, this endless bullying, the calling card of the human race. So far as it lies with him, he will no longer inhabit the same space. What he has no power to put a stop to, he will leave.

  But he has to live with the unpalatable reality that the seeds of it are buried in the recesses of his soul; they sprout, they send out shoots. Despite his best efforts he can’t weed it out, shake it off. All he can do is decide how to deal with it. And that takes a few moments of silence. When he stops like that, becomes quite still, he is not praying, he tells her; in those moments he is beyond praying, though he is striving for faithfulness. He says he has to trust Christ to hold on to him then, while he lets go of everything and allows the rage to subside.

  And so here he stands, in the dusk, in this now comfortably familiar room. It’s time to light the candles. Outside, already, a hunting owl is calling. The moon is rising. He achieves containment, and manages to say it – “I am so sorry, Madeleine. I was disrespectful and churlish in what I said. I humbly ask your forgiveness.”

  And though it inspires in her this upsurge of love, at the same time there’s something about the terrible control of it that makes her feel hemmed in, as if she can hardly breathe. And then it’s as though the words speak themselves without her bidding: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, William! Don’t take yourself so seriously – it’s not as bad as that!”

  Even as she says it, she is already thinking, Why do I always say something like this? It only winds him up even more. She looks for, and sees, the tic in his face, the clench in his jaw. This is usually the point when the trap springs, a net of tense silence closing around them for the rest of the evening. In silence they finish the day, go to bed without speaking, and in the end she reaches for his hand in the dark as they lie in bed without moving, without speaking. Apart from anything else, it’s intensely irritating and makes the day end very late.

  Something in her suddenly decides the pattern cannot be inevitable. She moves to stand in front of him. She gives him a little space, stands more than a yard from him, waiting respectfully until his gaze meets hers. Still that tic, that flexing jaw muscle. His eyes hold her gaze but she sees his reluctance, how intolerable it is to have to face her standing there.

  “William,” she says, quietly, but not trying to appease him. Nothing wheedling or beseeching, just speaking his name. “Please. It’s me. You married me. You love me. I didn’t mean to belittle you or hurt you. I did not intend contempt or disparagement. It’s just how I am; I spoke too hasty like I always do. Please, dearest friend, can you manage to put it down, let it go? I know how much people have abused and humiliated you. I know how the rage inside you goes wild. But we don’t have to do this. I think you have the courage and humility to see past my rough clumsiness and know that I don’t mean to slight you. And I didn’t realize I was being intrusive; I was only interested. I thought it would be all right for a man to share such things with his wife. I mean, I’d tell you anything. I… oh, William, what I’m saying is, can’t you… no… please will you forgive me for getting it wrong?”

  And she realizes, that last thing she says – the simple request for forgiveness, without excuses or defensiveness – is what he needs. He knows how to respond to it. It belongs to his lifelong practice of the monastic way. He doesn’t know how to find his way through the tangle of the most ordinary human interaction, but he knows the pattern of seeking and granting forgiveness as a method of beginning again.

  In the gathering dusk, he nods. “Of course,” he says: and suddenly sees the funny side of it himself. The tension goes out of him with a sigh and he runs his hand over his head. “What am I like?”

  She steps forward then, and takes him into her arms.

  “Does nothing change?” he whispers into her hair. “Does nothing ever change? Am I never going to conquer this? I am touchy; you’re quite right.”

  “Sweetheart,” she says, “you don’t have to be so hard on yourself. I love you more than I know how to tell you, and you’re doing fine.”

  He holds her, so close, so tender, so dearly enfolded. As if he would never, never let her go.

  But for all it is so intimate, so beautiful, she knows he’ll still never tell her. Whatever Brother Cedd confided in him will be safe for eternity.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  The day the abbot informed Colin that the community had accepted him as a postulant, he thought his heart would hardly contain the excitement and pride. Up until that point, his accommodation was in the guesthouse, his meetings with Father Theodore were in the small parlour in the west range, and the only other part of the cloister he’d been into was the abbot’s house. He’d been in the church, of course, but only the nave. He hadn’t gone beyond the parish side of the altar.

  Tonight, as darkness falls, he thinks back on that day, reliving it vividly. Abbot John had explained everything to him, how the next morning he would come before the community at Chapter to beg admittance. There he must prostrate himself, asking to be received. The abbot had assured him it was not that there was any doubt about him – they’d already been asked and said yes – but this was the procedure to follow. He floated through that day, and yet it seemed like a lifetime. Through the night he hardly slept a wink. In the morning, so excited he felt sick, he had waited nervously in the guesthouse until the bell rang for the morrow Mass. There in the church, Father Theodore had come to find him after the blessing at the end, and led him through to the chapter house, and there the adventure had begun.

  Once admitted, the novices took charge of him, taking him with them at the point they left the Chapter meeting, showing him the novitiate room where they had their teaching circle. Looking back tonight, he lingers on that memory. He remembers it so clearly, walking in through the door for the first time; the comfortable, pervasive smell of woodsmoke, the study desks and shelves stacked with books, the circle of low benches and stools, the statue of St Benedict over in the corner, the crucifix up on the wall, the morning sun shining in to fill the room with light.

  Not that they’d let him stand gazing long. They wanted to show him his cell. It was next to Brother Cedd’s. It didn’t need much of a tour. Rectangular, small, plain, it had a lancet window set too high in the wall to see out. There was a low, narrow bed of basic plank frame, with linen sheets and a wool blanket – and, he would later discover, a straw mattress like those favoured by the poor. On the whitewashed wall, above the prie-dieu against the wall opposite the bed, a crucifix hung on a nail. A basic nightstand stood beside the bed, and Brother Cassian lifted aside its small linen curtain to show him the pot inside for night-time use. Cassian also pulled the scourge out from beneath the bed for him to see, then pushed it back with his foot saying, with a grin, “But not yet. Make up your mind about the life before you start belabouring yourself. Don’t go wild.”

  Other than that, a wooden chest of modest size was provided for storing his clothes, a hook on the door for his cloak and, against the wall below the window, a stool and table of practical size so he could study. The floor was of bare, scrubbed boards.

 
To some men, so small, austere a room seemed dauntingly penitential. To Colin, who had never had his own room and had to share a bed with his brother, it felt like giddy luxury. He wondered if he might be lonely there all night by himself; and thought, on balance, no.

  And that is how it began. He has been very tired, sometimes, in these first few weeks – so much to learn and remember, so much to get wrong. But the friendly hands of the novices steer him to where he should be. Brother Cedd, especially, he has appreciated. A quiet, unassuming lad, sleeping in the next cell, they have emerged together often. In silence of course, but it has surprised Colin to discover the extent to which warmth and kindness can be expressed without words, and how close it is possible to feel to someone without needing lengthy conversation.

  Tonight, he leaves the church, briefly visits the reredorter, then ascends the stairs to the cells. From his own cell he fetches his candle and lights it from one of those burning in the hallway just nearby. Brother Robert made this sturdy holder for it, here in the abbey’s pottery – he knows; Robert pointed it out and told him so, with some pride. It’s a bit wonky, but not a bad effort for a novice potter.

  Once he’s been clothed, he will sleep in his habit, setting aside his scapular, belt, and cowl. He gets into the feel of it now, in these weeks of preparation, wearing his undershirt and tunic, taking off his hose and shoes and belt. He kneels down to pray at the prie-dieu, then climbs into bed. He can extinguish the candle, because he won’t have to get up for Nocturns until he’s clothed as a novice. After that, he’ll have to leave it burning so he can see what he’s doing when the sacristan wakes them for Matins. That’s why the candleholders are so solid and stout; to guard against any possibility of falling over. And he’s been told he must always and only put it on the wall shelf made for it set into the corner angle, not too low. It’s to minimize the likelihood of anything falling onto the flame – a letter, a shirt sleeve – anything that could burn. Too many monasteries have gone up in flames.

  Here in the south range, the light of the rising moon shines in on this clear night. The windows have glass – which feels very modern and aristocratic; those of the home he left behind had horn panes upstairs and just shutters below. The glass is uneven; it’s not possible to really see the stars. But the lower half of the window will open – and then you can. So he latches it open, because he loves the starlight.

  After that, he climbs into bed and lies there thinking. His mind explores the idea of the scourge beneath his bed. Really? Will he ever do that? Should he? Might he even want to so subdue his flesh? Under what circumstances? If he’d been in Brother Damian’s cell tonight he’d have got the picture.

  Faintly, from somewhere nearby, he hears someone beginning to snore. Then he hears quiet feet pass his door, and the latch of the adjacent cell. Brother Cedd. What happened? Why did he go? Colin wonders if he’ll ever find out. Brother Cedd is self-contained, reserved, certainly not chatty. He has never shown any inclination to bare his heart to Colin. Would it be permissible to ask him? Probably not.

  It feels right, though, to have him back. Home, perhaps, is the place your feet take you – where you can’t help but return; the place you are most yourself, in the loneliness of living. The place you belong.

  An audacious idea comes to him. Greatly daring – he is not allowed to do this – he slips out of bed, creeps to the door, opens it as silently as he can, looks along the corridor both ways to be sure it is deserted, then taps lightly, just with his fingernails, not his knuckles, on the door of Brother Cedd’s cell. Again. The small sound of movement inside ceases. His heart hammering in his throat – he knows this is entirely forbidden – his resolve evaporating, he taps once more. This time, the latch is quietly lifted within, and the door opens a fraction to reveal the warm glow of candlelight and Brother Cedd’s surprised face checking if that really is someone knocking at his cell. Seeing Colin standing there, he opens the door a little more, his expression enquiring – Yes? – though he does not speak.

  “Are you all right?” whispers Colin, and Brother Cedd’s face relaxes into a smile. He nods, gives Colin a thumbs-up sign. “Thank you,” he mouths silently.

  As Colin returns to his own cell, outside the night wind is rising, blowing from the moor, and there’s a distant rumble of thunder. Climbing back into bed, he curls onto his side, tugging the blanket up to keep the draft off his neck. He pictures Cedd’s face, happy, no tell-tale signs of tears, his smile communicating appreciation of Colin’s friendly gesture. That’s all right, then. Gradually, peacefully, he drifts off to sleep.

  Shutting the door on the day as he comes in from the cloister to his house, the abbot takes the lantern, its light still burning, down from its safe hook jutting from the wall. Holding it so he can see, he considers the things half done awaiting his attention on the big table. Letters. Lists. Books for preparing the school catechetics class. But hey, who cares? It’ll wait – all of it. The hours of the Silence, in truth, are meant for prayer and dreaming, not for work. This is God’s time. And besides, he feels too happy. He wants to lie on his bed in the quiet dark and savour the joy of Cedd returning.

  So he leaves the work lie until the morning, and carries the light through into his chamber. He sets it on the chest while he takes off his sandals, and his belt with his pocket, his rosary, his knife. He takes off his scapular and his cowl. Simple human in an ordinary black wool tunic, he kneels down to pray. And tonight his prayers are mainly, “Thank you… thank you… thank you…” Because a time comes to set formulae aside and reach out your hands to the God who is really there.

  Then he reaches for the candle, blows it out, pinches the wick. He knows he shouldn’t do this, knows he should use a snuffer. But there’s a way – if you don’t purse your lips and stream the air, if you just open your mouth and extinguish it with a small puff like the one God breathed into the clay he shaped to make Adam a living being – it’s perfectly possible to do it without spraying the wax. He’s always careful.

  It’s not easy, being abbot; sometimes it asks all he’s got and a bit more that he has to have on account from Father God. But as he lays himself down on the straw mattress, moulded by this time surprisingly comfortably to his body’s shape, contentment possesses him body and soul. He’s tired, but it’s been a good day.

  As Brother Tom closes the door to his cell, its familiar paradox makes itself felt. Its small dimensions make it feel safe and intimate; here he lets down his guard entirely, touches the presence of his Master. Yet the austerity of its simplicity lends a quality oddly spacious. As he knows from long experience, infinity can fit into this humble, whitewashed room.

  He prefers to kneel on the floor by his bed, not at the prie-dieu. He stretches his arms across the blanket, his palms upraised. He does not speak aloud, but his soul calls out to God. Look upon me… forgive me my sins… keep me close to thee… keep me in thy way… humble me… purify me… may I be always and always thy man, thy son, thy servant… watch over me this night… into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit… thou hast redeemed me, Lord, I belong to thee…

  He’s meant to keep the light burning, but he doesn’t; he likes the restful dark. The bed creaks as he gets into it. He’s putting on weight. Brother Conradus’s doing, is that. Nobody got fat when Cormac was cook.

  He lies in the coolness of night, his window ajar. Across the valley he hears the high, unmistakable yapping of a vixen, and he smiles, thinking of William setting down a bowl of bread and milk and abstracted scraps for his hungry fox. By heaven, how that man has changed. Thank God his brushes with death came to nothing. It just shows, you never know what’s round the corner – there’s always hope. Nobody is beyond redemption.

  He wonders how things went between Abbot John and Brother Cedd. That’s the great thing about John – you can trust him with people. He gets the best out of men. You couldn’t call him a soft touch, but he hasn’t a mean bone in his body. Kind, is John. He makes a good shepherd. Ooh – better tell him N
ightmare’s in the stable, and William will be up to fetch her back in the morning.

  Tom draws in his breath in a yawn, and enjoys the feeling of stretching out, relaxing comfortably after a long day, a long ride. Cedd. He thinks about Brother Cedd. Help him find his niche… peace be to his soul… may he – But he’s asleep before his mind completes its sentence.

  Ten miles away, at Caldbeck, their guests gone, the board cleared, the chores done, ashes swept over the embers and the beasts all abed, William and Madeleine stand there, just the two of them in the almost darkness, his arms around her.

  She whispers, “Will you make love to me?”

  “Oh…” He rubs the side of his face tenderly, slowly, against the top of her head. “With all my heart,” he says.

  Now the abbey is wrapped in peace, withdrawn into Great Silence.

  Good night. Go well. God be with you. Joy is there in the journeying. Keep the faith.

  Glossary of Terms

  Braies – Medieval term for underpants – made of linen, loose-fitting, with a drawstring or belt.

  Calefactory – Also called the “warming room”. The abbey’s common room, with a big fireplace, for the community’s relaxation in the hour before Compline.

  Clepsydra – Water clock.

  Custumals – Documents of medieval England, relating to such settlements as towns, manors, and monasteries, setting out their social, economic, and political customs and traditions, creating precedents which others could study and learn from.