ERNSCAR
Ernscar Castle was small as castles go, but still impressive. Geoffrey Randall always boasted to visitors that it had stood for nine hundred years or more, and would usually add, rather unnecessarily, "on the same spot" as though some previous owner might have taken it into his head to transfer the whole edifice from a different site. Complete buildings have been moved, true, but not to such a position, perched on the tallest outcrop of rock for miles around - the Erne Scar of the name.
In fact not much of the original building remained: over the centuries it had been modified extensively, with re-fashioning under the Tudors after it had been left partly ruined for years from a siege in the Wars of the Roses, serious damage in the Civil War, repair some time after the Restoration by a lord who had been kind to the young Nell Gwyn in the last years of the Commonwealth, disastrous "improvements" in the 18th century and a much more successful modernisation in the style of Lutyens in the early 20th. Nevertheless the Norman keep was still discernible as the basis of the structure.
Geoffrey was inclined to be fanciful about his forebears, but one thing he never attempted to claim was descent from the original builders or any of their successors. He had simply bought the place when it came on the market just after his wife's winning the lottery jackpot roughly coincided with the take-over of the business that he had built up from scratch into a very successful enterprise, and after forty years of hard work he relished the idea of turning himself into a country gentleman of leisure. However, a genealogy commissioned by his wife as a retirement present tentatively suggested a connection with one Thomas Miller who had been jester to Lord Ernscar in the fifteenth century and might or might not have been the original "Tom-Fool," but whose notorious tight-fistedness belied the proverb that "a fool and his money are easily parted." Geoffrey himself was by no means stingy, although careful in considering any substantial expenditure. He heeded his wife's warning that money could never buy respect, and anyway there was much less than she had expected left over after the necessary refurbishment of the building, so he gave time instead to various local organisations. He didn't talk unnecessarily about his involvement, but it became known, and the general view among the villagers was that he was "not a bad sort, for an off-comer."
The Randalls had one son, John, unmarried. He had lived away ever since taking his first job but visited whenever his other commitments permitted. Helen often contrived at such times to invite eligible young women for meals or social events, but despite some tentative nibbles, the fish never seriously took the bait. He said he was too busy for that sort of thing. Helen suspected that life in the city was not strictly monastic, but kept her thoughts to herself, and John himself never mentioned a girl friend until quite out of the blue he asked if he could bring one to stay for the weekend. This threw Helen into a tizzy of preparations, and having a traditional view of morality, she carefully prepared a spare room, aired the bed, put out perfumed soap and new towels, and despite an anxious thought about the possibility of hay fever, added a couple of vases of flowers. The room was fairly near John's, but some distance from her own; if there was to be any traffic between the two she didn't want to know about it.
She was of course consumed with curiosity about what the girl would be like. For no particular reason she imagined a willowy blonde out of a fashion plate, with half a dozen degrees in modern languages and business studies, and a habit of reading Wittgenstein in bed - at any rate when not … She quickly banished that thought.
In the event, when the two arrived, Anne proved quite different from expectations: a shade on the plump side, by no means beautiful though pleasant-looking enough, neatly but not elaborately groomed and dressed, interested in the garden, cheerful and friendly without gushing. On Geoffrey, who prided himself as a judge of character, the first impression was favourable and confirmed by better acquaintance. Helen was in any case predisposed to like the girl and found no reason for any other opinion, apart perhaps from a tendency to tease John rather sharply about various little oddities that he had picked up over the years. He didn't seem to mind.
The weekend passed happily and was the first of many, to the extent that Helen began to think seriously about the prospects of an undeniable excuse for buying a really expensive new hat, but there was no sign of any developments in that direction. Having unintentionally choked one promising relationship by asking too early to have it defined, she bit back the questions she was dying to ask, but privately wondered whether anything was ever going to come of it. "Patience," urged Geoffrey. "He'll tell us in his own good time."
In truth there was little to tell. Anne enjoyed John's company, and would have liked to make it permanent, but sensed that he was less keen on the idea and was reluctant to risk a make-or-break confrontation. John in fact was in much the same quandary. Both had been single long enough to appreciate the advantages as well as the drawbacks of that state, and so the misunderstanding continued, only gradually putting a cloud on the relationship.
The first sign of Anne's being rather less stolid than everyone assumed came one morning during a visit when, asked if she had slept well, she avoided a direct answer, but later wondered apparently in all seriousness whether there were any stories of haunting at the castle. "Not that I know of. Are you interested in that sort of thing?"
"Not specially; I just wondered."
"Have you heard any rumours, Geoffrey?"
"Not a thing. But then I don't suppose I should. What brings it to mind?"
It turned out that as it was a fine, warm night, Anne had left the window open. She awakened in the early hours as the light of the setting moon fell on an old picture in the room, and experienced an overwhelming sensation of sadness that seemed more strongly reflected than she remembered in the features of the young woman portrayed there. Fortunately there were no more tangible manifestations, though she had dozed fitfully for the rest of the night.
There was some mystery about that painting. A note in the Tudor records showed that the picture had been found during renovations, and a letter from the then Lord Ernscar to his cousin mentioned that it was being re-framed as a birthday gift to his lady who thought it interesting despite its technical deficiencies. A scribble on the back, even then barely decipherable and subsequently covered by a backing that was hardly worth removing, seemed to indicate that it represented the daughter of the mediaeval Thomas Miller, although why so lowly a character should have been painted no one knew, nor why that portrait alone from the period should have been preserved. A search of the parish register had shown the baptism of an Alison Miller in 1418, but nothing about her marriage or death, and there was no chance of checking the register in modern times as it was lost in the 17th century.
During one of Anne's later visits, the Randalls were entertaining an old student friend of Geoffrey's who had astounded the acquaintance of his youth by going on to become a professor of theology. He had an amateur interest in art history, and Anne took the opportunity to ask if he could deduce anything about the painting. "I'm afraid it isn't of the best quality, but of course you already know that. I think we can safely say that it isn't by one of the known masters, unless a very early student effort, possibly preserved for some sentimental reason. At a guess it's probably of the Flemish school, 15th century or thereabouts, but if you want anything more definite you'd better get a real expert on the job."
He had been John's godfather and still took an interest in his activities, so during dinner was eager for the latest news. Geoffrey was more interested in the professor's. "Quite an interesting conference in Louvain last April. Otherwise the usual grind. Lectures, tutorials, seminars, trying to keep up the flow of learned papers. These days it's 'Publish or be damned,' you know."
Geoffrey, who on religious matters remained agnostic, couldn't resist taking up one of the usual arguments. "Talking of damnation, Brian, what I've never really had out with you is the insistence on a supposedly loving God who can condemn someone to eternal punishment for mistakes made i
n life. It seems totally inconsistent."
"You've got the wrong idea - not surprising; it's very common. Suffering, yes, but not punishment. More a natural consequence, in the same way as a hang-over after a binge. And the condemnation is by the person himself."
"What do you mean? It sounds nonsensical."
Brian accepted a refill of his glass and settled himself for a dissertation. "Hell, I think, is simply the state of rejecting a God who won't force his company on those who ultimately decide they don't want it."
This time Helen interrupted, "But surely no one would want to reject it."
"Don't you believe it. Love - real love - is sometimes the most difficult thing in the world to accept. Believe me, I know. Eventually it means a total surrender, abandoning all the defences. And not everyone is willing to make it. With the best will in the world, it can take a lifetime's effort. I couldn't do it, not yet, not without a lot of help."
"Not even for the sake of eternal happiness?"
"It wouldn't be happiness. For a soul clinging to its independence, the love of God would seem like a surgeon's knife, more painful than the alternative."
"And what is that alternative, now we come back to it?"
"The pain of frustration. Like sexual frustration (which is bad enough, heaven knows) but infinitely worse because it's of the whole being, not just one specific function. A being intended for the company of God, and yet refusing it."
Anne broke the ensuing silence. "What about praying for the dead, then? I know some people think it's worth while and others don't. What good could that do?"
"I suppose it could give a helpful nudge to someone who's teetering on the edge, undecided in the last moments of consciousness whether to let go or not. Or it might ease the pain of doing so. After all, the pain comes from resisting the call of love."
Geoffrey snorted. "Anne's talking about someone already dead."
"Don't forget, these are matters of eternity. God isn't limited by time. It's all present to Him. There's a story that Padre Pio was once found praying for a happy death for his father, who'd been gone for ten years."
"At that rate you might as well pray for the redemption of Adam - or Judas Iscariot."
"You can't alter what's already happened in the temporal order, of course, but prayer at any time will have been a factor in determining it. Not changing God's mind - no one can do that, for all the anthropomorphism in a lot of the tales - but helping the poor weak humans who are involved. As for Adam, I don't see why not. It hadn't occurred to me, but it might not be a bad idea at that."
Helen thought of the names on the village war memorial, quite a few related to friends she had made in the area. "What about the services of remembrance? Do they do any real good?"
"Remembrance pure and simple is no good to anyone; it just depresses the living. But there must be many a mental prayer during the two minutes' silence. And C. S. Lewis said something about the courtesy of heaven being to take the best men know as better than they know. When someone is remembered with affection and gratitude, even by an unbeliever, I'm sure it will be taken as a kind of prayer. But good heavens, do we have to stay on such a gloomy subject? John, tell us about that exhibition you and Anne went to see today."
Pebbles from a Northern Shore Page 5
