They parted outside the great black bulk of the abbey church, he to take his place among the community, and she to go into the church, where visitors and parishioners sat, divided by the wooden screen and the parish altar from the brethren. She watched him go, lame and jerky on his crutch. He did not look back.
The de Montanys were ready to depart the next morning. They attended Mass in the abbey church, and made ready their horses with saddle and pack while the brothers were in chapter. By the time chapter was over, Hugh and Edwin and Clare’s maid were mounted, and their groom stood holding the bridles of Clare’s and Melissa’s horses as well as his own. Edward came across the court to them, to bid them farewell, and Clare, after a little hesitation, went to find Peregrine in his lodging, hurt that he had not come to say goodbye.
‘The time has come. We must leave,’ she said. He stood and looked at her without speaking.
‘Will you give me the kiss of peace?’
Slowly, he shook his head. ‘I wish you peace, Clare, with all my heart; but embrace you I will not.’
‘Then shake my hand, at least,’ she said, her voice trembling.
‘No, Clare! Do not ask me to touch you. There is too much between us still, you know it as well as I do! Go in peace, but for pity’s sake, go!’
She looked at him once more, and then turned swiftly and left, without another word.
Outside, growing impatient in the steady drizzling rain, Hugh and Edwin sent Melissa after their mother to hurry her along. Melissa came to the door as her mother came out.
‘A moment, and I will be with you, Mother,’ she said. ‘I must just say goodbye.’
Clare nodded, and went to join her family, and Melissa, hesitantly entering the abbot’s house, found him standing still in the middle of the room, his hand pressed to his mouth, and his eyes bright with tears. Struggling for composure, he stretched out his hand to her, and tried to smile.
‘I’m glad, so glad we came,’ she said. ‘I think we have made things difficult for you, but everything is different for me, now. Before, my father was a stranger, but now I belong. And I’m sorry it hurts you so, but I’m glad you still love Mother.’
She had taken his hand in both of hers, and she looked into his face with tenderness and happiness.
‘Go in peace,’ he whispered. ‘God bless you, little one.’
She looked at him steadily one more moment, then, ‘Goodbye,’ she said, and was gone.
The rest of the party was waiting for her impatiently. She hastily embraced Edward, saying gaily, ‘Goodbye, Uncle Edward! I shall be back!’ and added in a whisper, ‘Go and help him when we’re gone. He needs someone.’
Brother Edward watched them ride out, cloaked and hooded against the dismal mist of rain, then turned back to the abbot’s lodging where he found Peregrine preparing parchment and inks for Brother Theodore, who was coming to do some writing at his dictation, later in the morning. Peregrine looked at Edward with a carefully composed expression of polite enquiry.
‘Yes, Brother?’
‘Father, there is no need to pretend,’ said Edward bluntly. ‘It would have devastated me, too.’
‘Pray for me,’ said Peregrine, and that was all he said.
They expected to hear no more of the de Montany family, at least for some while, but barely three weeks later, just before Easter, in the chill, grey evening of a cold March day, Brother Edward overtook Peregrine on his way to Vespers, breathless with hurry and agitation.
‘Father, Melissa de Montany is here! She has ridden far and is in great distress. She is asking for you.’
Peregrine turned back immediately for the gatehouse, where he found Melissa, her hands twisting in her lap, her face white and her eyes shadowed with suffering and lack of sleep. He came and sat beside her, his eyes searching hers with concern.
‘What is this?’ he said. ‘What has happened?’
‘She is dead!’ Melissa blurted out. ‘Mother is dead! We came to a village not three days’ ride from here, and stayed at the inn there. Their food was dreadful, greasy and foul. The meat stank. We were all taken ill; it was poisoning from the meat, I think. Hugh and Edwin were tossing and delirious with fever for days. They are recovered now, but too weak yet to ride. I had eaten scarcely anything and was not too bad; but Mother died! She is dead!’
Peregrine gathered her wordlessly in his arms, and she clung to him. ‘She is dead! She is dead!’ she moaned over and over, and shook violently as he held her. Finally, she ceased to speak, and pressing her face to his breast, she sobbed and sobbed. Cradling her, he laid his cheek on her hair, and closed his eyes silently on his own tears.
He held her and comforted her through many such storms in the week that followed, as she grieved and wept for her mother. She leaned on his understanding love as on a rock, and when Hugh and Edwin came to fetch her, and began the sad journey homewards to bear the news to their father, the pilgrimage forgotten, she was sufficiently in command of herself to travel with them. Through the nights, Peregrine had kept vigil in the chapel and prayed for her, and during the days he had stayed with her, quietly watching over her, asking nothing, but allowing her to grieve.
She embraced him gratefully as they parted.
‘Thank you, Father,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much. May we meet in happier times!’
He nodded. ‘Greet Hugh for me. Tell him… tell him I’m sorry.’
Edward and Peregrine stood together to watch the forlorn little party ride away at first light on a grey, chill day, then walked slowly to the chapel for Mass.
Edward looked at Peregrine’s face, haggard with exhaustion and grief. ‘You have strengthened and comforted her,’ said Edward. When Peregrine did not reply, Edward looked at the sad, tired face, and added gently, ‘And you? Whom will you allow to comfort you in your own grief?’
Peregrine stopped and looked at him wearily. ‘Surely Christ has borne our griefs, and carried all our sorrows,’ he said quietly, and then groaned, ‘but oh, my God, my God, it takes some believing.’
Mother was quiet.
‘Is that all?’ I exploded. ‘Didn’t Melissa ever come back? What happened next? Oh Mother, there must be more!’
‘She came back. She married Ranulf Langton, and had children of her own, and some years later, just before the birth of her youngest child, she came to make her home in Yorkshire, and she visited them often. I told you, you remember, that Brother Edward told these stories first to his great-niece, who was your long ago great-grandmother Melissa.’
‘Oh, but Mother, it’s so sad! Tell me some more, don’t leave it there!’
‘Sad? Yes I suppose so. All the stories are sad, in a way. I don’t believe there’s a one of them without tears and struggle; but that was the life, you see. It wasn’t easy. Saying sorry, and giving up your own way, and daily turning your back on your own wants took some doing. But now, help your Daddy with the drying up and I’ll tell you a quick story to cheer you up again.’
As I got to my feet to take Mother’s coffee cup out to the kitchen, there was a thunder of footsteps on the path outside, the front door burst open, and Mary and Beth piled in through the doorway, breathless with running, their cheeks pink and their eyes shining.
‘We’re home!’ shouted Beth.
‘Therese buyed us an ice cream!’ cried Mary excitedly, ‘and it had a stalk!’
Therese was some minutes behind them. ‘They can run like the wind, those two!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is the kettle on, Melissa? I’m dying for a cup of tea.’
‘Any minute now,’ I replied, and went on my way into the kitchen.
‘Oh, Daddy, you’ve done it all! I was supposed to be helping you.’
He was sitting in the armchair in the corner, reading his paper, with the dog lying on his feet, and the cat curled up on his lap. He looked at me over the top of his glasses.
‘I am among you as one who serves,’ he said, in an exaggerated tone of suffering self-righteousness. ‘You can make me a cup of tea, thou
gh. Once your Mother gets going, time’s forgotten. I never knew such a woman, she could talk the hind leg off a donkey.’
‘A donkey?’ said Mary, a little uncertainly. She had come into the kitchen and was leaning affectionately on Daddy’s arm. ‘Why?’
‘Just a figure of speech, my poppet,’ said Daddy smiling at her. ‘Get cracking with that tea, Melissa, you look as though you’re in a trance!’
As the kettle boiled, there came an angry bellow from upstairs, ‘I… WANT… MUMMY!’ Cecily was awake. She came stumping down the stairs, only just awake, her limbs still uncoordinated, and her face still flushed from sleep.
‘I… WANT… MUMMY!’ she roared again, but when Mother came out of the living-room, laughing at her, she was so incensed at not being taken seriously that she flung herself on the floor in the passage way, her legs rigid and her little hands clenched into fists, making a noise like rending metal.
Mother sighed. ‘Heigh-ho. Back to reality,’ she said resignedly. ‘Oh, come on, Cecily! Do get up.’
Just then, there was a knock at the front door. Cecily leapt to her feet, crying, ‘IwanttoopenitIwanttoopenitIwanttoopenit!’ but the front door was opened before she got there, by our Grandma, who was on the other side of it.
Cecily burst into wails of disappointment and frustration, tears pouring down her crimson face, the veins standing out on her neck like cords. Grandma, confronted with this sight, looked down in astonishment for a moment, then knelt down on the floor and held out her arms. ‘Cecily, my darling!’ she said. ‘What’s the matter, poppet? Have you hurt yourself?’
Cecily was too much beside herself to speak.
‘I think she wanted to open the front door, Grandma,’ Therese explained.
‘Oh, I see. Right-o, then.’ Grandma hastily went out again, closed the door firmly behind her, and knocked on it loudly, calling through the letter-box, ‘Is anyone at home?’
There was a moment’s pause while Cecily wondered whether to relent. Grandma knocked again. With a hoarse cry of joy, Cecily ran and opened the front door, the noise and tears magically evaporated, her little face dimpling in an enchanting smile, her great blue eyes shining.
‘Oh, hello, Cecily!’ cried Grandma. ‘Can I come in for a cup of tea, darling, please?’
‘Grandma,’ cooed Cecily. Mother shook her head and sighed.
‘Make the big pot of tea, Melissa,’ she said, ‘and there’s a new packet of chocolate digestives in the cupboard. It’s hidden at the back, behind the macaroni.’
The rest of the afternoon was whiled away comfortably, chatting to Grandma and playing snakes and ladders with Mary and Beth. Grandma tried to teach Cecily how to play snap, but Cecily didn’t want to put any of her cards down. She wouldn’t say ‘Snap’ when the cards were the same, but she got cross if Grandma said ‘Snap’ and tried to pick them up. It was Grandma who backed down; in our family we live by the maxim that playing by the rules is less important than Surviving Cecily.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Moulting Falcon
Therese’s friend Lilian Shepherd came during the afternoon, to ask if Therese wouldn’t mind helping her with her English homework. Lilian was a very popular girl at school, and always had a group of friends around her, so Therese was rather flattered that Lilian especially sought her friendship, even though there was something indefinable she didn’t quite like about Lilian. Mary and Beth thought she was wonderful, because she was tall and slim and stunningly attractive, with great big eyes like a startled faun’s, and a rippling mane of silky blonde hair. Mother and Daddy both disliked Lilian intensely, and Mother said all she was looking for from Therese was a brain transplant. I myself couldn’t help admiring her, although she wasn’t very nice to the little girls; but that might have been because Cecily had bitten her once, for no reason that anyone could tell.
Therese took her into the kitchen and made her some coffee, and as Lilian sipped it, she explained that she hadn’t quite been able to come up with any ideas for her essay on Hopkins’ poetry and wondered if Therese had any thoughts…. She had read a little, she said, and really hadn’t got anywhere with it. Perhaps she would be able to borrow Therese’s essay, just to have a look at it? She thought it might help to inspire her.
Therese, who loved Hopkins, was delighted to lend Lilian her essay, and asked if Lilian would let her know what her own thoughts about the poems were, when she’d got a bit further. Lilian smiled and said she was sure her thoughts would not be half as original as Therese’s, and then she excused herself and slipped off home with Therese’s essay. I was bursting with indignation.
‘Therese, you are a goose! She’s going to copy it!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why did you let her have it?’
Therese looked at me uncertainly. ‘You don’t think she will, do you? She only said she wanted to read it. She couldn’t copy it, Mrs Freeman would know.’
Mother came in with all the dirty tea things, and asked what Lilian had come for.
‘What was it this time? Your Hopkins essay?’
‘Mother! How did you know?’
‘Because I’m not as daft as you. She’s in your English class, isn’t she? Be a bit more sensible, Therese. She’ll get you into trouble one of these days. Don’t have too much to do with her.’
‘Whenever Lilian’s been here,’ I said, ‘she always leaves an uncomfortable feeling behind. It’s funny, because she doesn’t argue or anything.’
‘But she’s my friend!’ said Therese, a bit upset.
Mother began to run washing-up water into the bowl. ‘Be friendly, Therese; there’s nothing wrong with that, but be a bit wary, that’s all. Now then, Daddy is going to run Grandma home in a minute, and take me to Evensong. Cecily can come with Daddy for the ride, but will you see to Mary’s and Beth’s baths for me? Daddy will do their bedtime when he gets in.’
Therese said she would, and I asked if I could come to Evensong with Mother.
‘Of course you can come! Get your shoes on, though, and brush your hair, because we must go in five minutes.’
I loved Evensong. I loved the stillness of the church that enfolded the small evening congregation. The mel low evening sunshine that slanted in low through the windows in summer, the gathering sombre shadows of spring and autumn evenings, and the profounder darkness of the winter months, all wrapped the evening worship in a mystery and a beauty that I never found in the brightness and bustle of family service in the morning.
Our church was just on the edge of the town, set in a pretty little remnant of woodland, a tiny drift of countryside still left in peace by the urban sprawl. Daddy dropped us off at the end of the church path, and we stood to wave goodbye to Cecily as he drove away. It was very important to Cecily to say ‘goodbye’. If she thought she had not made her farewells properly, she would scream deafeningly until Daddy turned the car back. So we waved until they turned the corner, and then strolled up the path to the church and into the stone porch.
The great wooden inner door opened with a click as Mother pushed it. Charlie Page, the blacksmith, was always the sidesman in the evening, and his face, freckled with age, wrinkled in a smile as he gave us our hymnbooks and prayer-books. Mother settled into our pew with a happy sigh. The evening service was a cherished time for her, when she could give herself to the worship without the stress of the little ones’ company, or the anxiety of being late. Whenever we went anywhere as a family, however much time we gave ourselves to get ready, we were always late, and Mother hated it.
In the pew behind ours sat Mrs Crabtree; a tall, well-built, energetic, silver-haired lady in her mid-seventies. She had borne six children in her time, and was still motherly through and through, wise and kind, with a rich, ready laugh. Unfortunately her singing was more out of tune than any I have ever heard before or since, and I set my teeth to endure as the organist struck up for the first hymn:
Glory to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light.
Keep me, O keep me
, King of kings,
Beneath thine own almighty wings.
I knew about his almighty wings. They were folding around us here, in the quiet of the evening, kind and everlasting and utterly secure. They were was the same wings that wrapped around me in our home, in the bedtime candlelight. Sanctuary from the busy and complicated daytime, God gathered us under his evening wing, haven for all our weariness.
The evening service felt as familiar as an old friend, comfortable to be with. I knew the prayers and the responses without looking at the book. Actually, I could say them all while thinking about something completely different, which to my shame I frequently did.
‘My soul doth magnify the Lord: and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour,’ we sang.
I thought of Peregrine, singing the same words, but in Latin, all those years ago; wrapped like me in the con tentment of evening calm, blissfully unaware of the turbulence of surprise and grief that lay around the corner… ‘No!’ I told myself sharply, ‘this is not the time! Come out of the walled garden, and shut the door firmly behind you, and turn your back on it. Concentrate.’
‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son…’ Mrs Crabtree sang vigorously behind me.
Father Carnforth took the evening service. His gentle, wheezy old voice led us through the prayers; the Lord’s prayer, the responses, the collect of the day. I felt reassured by the humble confidence with which he prayed.
‘Give unto thy servants that peace which the world cannot give…’
What a gift! What a thing to ask for! And yet, incredibly, it is given. I knew that peace; I had been brought up with the flavour and the texture of it in our home. Peace, at the very core of things, constant, unobtrusive, like the humming of the fridge and the ticking of the clock. Peace, freely given. Beyond our making, or even our understanding. Thank you, God.
Father Carnforth was climbing slowly into the pulpit for his sermon. He read his sermons out of a book, very fast. He was in unspoken agreement with his congregation that the preaching of sermons was an unavoidable bore; to be endured uncomplainingly, but not prolonged. Tonight’s offering was about the textual background of the Synoptic Gospels, and I strongly suspected from the way he read it that it was as incomprehensible to him as it was to us. He shut the book with a snap and laid it aside with obvious relief, as he announced the final hymn: ‘The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended, The darkness falls at Thy behest. Hymn number 277.’
The Hawk and the Dove Page 8
