The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Not at all. I’m fascinated. I’m a bit of a linguist myself, in actual fact.’

  ‘Oh, really? What d’you do?’

  ‘Nothing very grand. Sort of freelance translator, I suppose you’d call it. I translate anything and everything I’m given, though I must admit I haven’t had a saint’s Life yet, and nothing earlier than the nineteenth century.’

  He laughed. ‘Which languages?’

  ‘French and German mostly—and a smattering of Italian.’

  ‘You know the problems, then. What is it the Italians say—traduttore traditore?’

  She nodded, felt a sudden bond with him—a man who spent his life with words, knew their slipperiness.

  ‘I envy you the French,’ he said. ‘I’m struggling with about three-hundred pages of very flowery French, written by a Breton professor who was working on the Irish saints who travelled to Brittany in the sixth and seventh centuries. He included quite a bit on Abban who spent some time in what’s now St Brieuc. Sadly, he died a year ago, but I was lucky enough to get hold of all his papers. Le Goff, he’s called, Yves Le Goff. You may have even heard of him. One of his works was translated into English a few years back—something on the sixth-century wine trade.’

  ‘Er … no.’

  ‘I only wish this one was translated. My own French is pretty rusty. And what makes it worse is that Le Goff employed his own strange brand of shorthand.’

  ‘I’d be interested to see it. Does he use the …?’

  There was a sudden tramp of feet along the passage. Question time was over, the retreatants streaming out. The priest checked his watch.

  ‘Gosh, I’d better get a move on. I’ve only just arrived and I haven’t booked in yet—or whatever they call it here.’

  Morna liked the ‘gosh’. It made him boyish, vulnerable. She picked up one last forgotten rabbit, matched its grin. ‘Well, see you later, then.’

  ‘Yes … of course.’

  She didn’t see him later. She looked out for him at supper—white fish in a white sauce with a white soup to start with, which also tasted fishy, and then white ice cream to finish, semi-melted. The only new male face in the refectory was Father John’s, attracting all the females with his metaphysical gravity. Father Anthony obviously preferred seclusion. He didn’t appear for the talk on disarmament, nor at what was called the ‘toilet break’ which followed it and preceded evening Mass. Morna felt strangely disappointed. He had lifted her depression, if only for five minutes, made her feel alive, in touch with another mind. She found herself thinking back to what he had said, hearing his words instead of the ban-the-bomber’s, recalling his hunched shoulders, restless hands, the way he spoke slowly and yet intently as if each word had been individually hacked out like iron ore. There was some kind of energy about him, some vehemence and force which he appeared to be struggling to rein in, trying to keep hidden behind that shy exterior. Even his hair, though grey, suggested a sort of rebellious vitality—not meek anaemic wisps like Father Fenton’s, but a wildly curling outcrop which looked as if it might defy all normal combs. She wondered how long he would be staying. Most of the outside speakers came only for the day, or spent just one night at Hilden Cross before or after their talk, which meant he would be gone again by tomorrow afternoon. A pity. She would have welcomed some conversation which moved beyond Sacred Hearts or prayer groups.

  She regretted really that they had come to the retreat at all. Bea would have been better off in bed at home, and she herself had been unprepared for the effect the place had had on her. It was as if she had been plunged back to those bitter teenage years when everyone around her was a living breathing Catholic, she the only non-believer, the only non-Communicant. She decided to skip Mass, couldn’t face remaining in her pew again, an outcast and a sinner, whilst all the rest trooped up to receive the morsel of wheat-and-water they called their God.

  She dodged into the garden, concealed herself amongst the trees. The weather was still perfect, the air heady with the scent of stocks, blue shadows lazing on an emerald lawn. The service had begun. She could hear the singing, wafting shrill-voiced through the open chapel windows. ‘Oh Purest of Creatures.’ So what had changed? Same words, same tune, same ideal of spotless purity you could never emulate. They had reached the second verse now.

  Deep night hath come down on

  this rough-spoken world

  and the banners of darkness

  are boldly unfurled.

  She could feel the darkness somewhere deep inside her. There had been total blackout when she left the church and it was threatening to engulf her once again. Easy to make jokes about the nuns, send them up for Neil’s sake, but the pain had been real, the darkness terrifying. Neil had switched the lights back on, but she knew now those were only artificial lights—stylish spotlamps from Habitat and Heal’s, cleverly angled to show off his possessions—and they, too, were extinguished when he left. If one had been exhorted all one’s girlhood to live for God alone, then how could one have purpose if He vanished?

  Even her current work seemed trivial—dribs and drabs thrown to her with no continuity, one-off jobs which meant little to her personally. She envied Father Anthony working on a saint he called his own, totally involved for years at a stretch. And with a God as well—the same God as St Abban’s, still shining bright despite the thirteen centuries which divided them. Morna snapped off a branch, used it to scythe the tall tangled grasses which edged the copse, trailed back towards the house, the lawns now swallowed up in deeper shadow, the birds less garrulous. A soft bluish light muffled house and garden, smudging greens and greys together, softening stone.

  She shut the twilight out, switched on the hall lights, her footsteps echoing in the deserted corridor. There was no television lounge, no games room, and she was reluctant to return to her cell upstairs when it was not yet ten o’clock. She walked on to her mother’s room, opened the door a crack. The light from the passage fell on Bea’s sleeping face, her scraggy neck, usually well-camouflaged beneath a smart silk scarf, now exposed and vulnerable, her unlipsticked mouth half-open. She remembered the shock she had felt as a child the first time she had caught her mother asleep. It was as if both of them were dead, Bea’s closed lids a barrier shutting her out, denying her existence. She had grabbed her mother’s arm, shaken, almost pummelled her awake. ‘I’m here,’ she shouted, ‘I’m here!’ She was there once her mother woke, gave her back identity. She hadn’t even minded that Bea was cross. Anger proved that both of them existed. She longed to wake her mother now, be child again, return to the smug safety of her religion. Bea had barely stirred. She looked peaky, needed rest. Softly, Morna closed the door, trailed upstairs to her own bed.

  Four hours later, she was still awake. The water-pipes ran through her room, disturbed her with their grumblings, broken up with sudden belches, long gargling moans. The bed was pushed right against the wall, and so narrow that she had grazed her hand on the roughcast plaster as she tossed and turned. She had tried reading, counting sheep, still felt on edge and far from sleep. She heaved out of bed again, pulled on her skirt and blouse. She needed a breath of air. It was a close sultry night but at least it would be less claustrophobic in the grounds. She picked out an apple from what she called her tuckbox, a secret store of goodies smuggled out of the refectory or bought in the local village shop. She still felt guilty about eating in her room. The walls were so thin, she was sure Joan could hear her chewing two doors down. Less inhibiting to munch out of doors in the privacy of the garden. She crept downstairs, paused by the chapel. The door was half ajar and she could see the red glow of the sanctuary lamp flickering by the altar. Strange how churches continued to attract her, even with their Owner out of residence. She walked slowly up the aisle, knelt in the front pew. The stained glass windows were dark like her own extinguished faith, the dull lead outlines shaping only blank and bloodless forms. She stared at the flowers, the candlesticks, blurred shapes in the gloom—all trappings of a mystery she coul
d no longer celebrate. Her apple looked somehow profane, sitting beside a hymnbook on the bench—too red and round and shiny for a church. She caged it in her pocket, clasped her hands. She longed to pray—for her mother’s health, her daughter’s happiness—sat with her eyes closed, mumbling words which had long since lost their meaning.

  There was a sudden noise behind her. She swung round, saw a shadowy figure rising from its knees at the very back of the church, padding softly to the door, head bowed.

  ‘Wh … Who’s that?’ She could hear the tremor in her voice. Stupid to be frightened. It was probably only one of the nuns completing her night vigil.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I …’

  A male voice—and one she recognised. ‘Father Anthony!’

  ‘David Anthony.’

  Christian names already. A true progressive. ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ she asked, without the David.

  ‘I … er … haven’t tried yet. Look, we’d better talk outside.’

  She wondered whom they were disturbing, followed him along the passage, trying not to stumble in the gloom. David stopped, waited for her to catch up.

  ‘I was … going to make a cup of coffee, actually. Would you like one?’

  ‘Coffee? Now?’ It was hard enough to get it after lunch, let alone in the wee small hours. She assumed he had access to priests’ privileges.

  ‘There’s a little room off this passage somewhere with an ancient kettle in it and a jar of Nescafé. I spotted it earlier on. At least I think it was this passage. The house is so rambling I keep on getting lost.’

  They tried the first four doors. No coffee. Morna fought an urge to laugh again. There was something distinctly comic about the two of them tiptoeing in and out of ghostly rooms, conversing in whispers, bumping into things.

  ‘Ow!’ she said. ‘That hurt.’

  He pushed the offending wooden chest back against the wall. ‘Stupid of them to leave it sticking out like that. Are you all right? Sit down and rest a minute.’

  They had reached the room where the nuns arranged the altar flowers—a tiny room empty save for an old-fashioned china sink and shelves and shelves of vases. Morna blinked in the glare as David switched the light on, pulled up the one small stool. She perched on the edge of it, examined her bruised shin. She was suddenly aware of her bare legs, skimpy skirt. She tugged the skirt down, tried to distract attention from the leg.

  ‘Oh look! Are those orchids? Aren’t they strange.’ She poked her finger in a soft green mouth, stroked the spotted tongue. Most of the other flowers were dying—crimson roses bleeding petals, white phlox browning as if someone had singed them with an iron.

  ‘They’re paphiopedilums. They grow in Asia—right across from India to New Guinea—about fifty different species in all, I think there are. You can raise them here in England, actually, if you’ve got a greenhouse and some patience. Perhaps one of the nuns is an orchid-nutter.’

  Morna smiled. So he knew about plants, as well as seventh-century Celtic saints—even about grazed shins. He had wrung out a dishcloth in cold water, made a compress of it.

  ‘Here, hold that against the bruise.’ He sounded embarrassed now, kept his eyes cast down, beyond the leg.

  ‘Th … Thank you.’

  She felt as awkward as he looked, all too conscious of the strange bulge in her pocket. She had nicked that apple from yesterday’s lunch. Pudding or fruit was the rule—not both. Another three Our Fathers if he found her out. Best to return him to the subject of his work.

  ‘Is your book nearly finished, Father, or just …?’

  ‘David.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s automatic—years of childhood conditioning. I suppose modern kids are brought up to use priests’ Christian names instead of saying ‘‘Father’’, but in my day it would have been unthinkable. And my mother still abhors it.’

  ‘I’m … er … not a priest, though.’

  ‘But you said you were.’

  ‘I … I didn’t, actually.’

  Morna stared at him, perplexed. Surely he had said …? Anyway, only a priest would be lingering in the chapel in the early hours—a priest or a fanatic. She removed the compress, stared down at her brief and crumpled skirt. Her attire seemed somehow even more unsuitable now she knew he was a secular. She wished she had taken the trouble to put on something flattering, or at least combed her hair. Not that he was looking at her. He was slumped against the sink, fiddling with a piece of chicken-wire. Just their luck to end up somewhere weird again—first a God-shop with no chairs, now a room no bigger than a cupboard which smelt of rotting foliage.

  ‘We … er … had a room like this at my convent school. Out of bounds, of course, unless you were what was called a Flower Prefect.’ She laughed. ‘Doesn’t that sound absurd?’

  ‘Not really. I went to a Catholic school myself. We had things called Candle Boys.’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘The male version of your Flower Fairies, I imagine, but candles instead of flowers. We had to see to the candles on the altar.’

  ‘Was yours a boarding school?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘A strict one?’

  ‘Pretty strict.’

  ‘Daily Mass and all that?’

  ‘Twice daily if you were in the choir—and I was.’

  ‘And Benediction every evening—five o’ clock?’

  ‘Six o’clock.’

  ‘And confession once a fortnight?’

  ‘Once a week. And exposition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, Holy Hour—adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten that.’ Morna giggled suddenly. Neil had gagged on all those technical terms—exposition, transubstantiation, temporal punishment. David would have imbibed them with his mother’s milk. Odd to think they had so much in common. Whilst Neil was catching jackpike or riding his bike no-hands, she and David would have been on their knees picking over their sins or reciting the Sorrowful Mysteries of the rosary. If you had been to a Catholic boarding school, you saw the world in a completely different light, shared a bond with all other detainees, could swap ordeals and scars.

  ‘Remember Guardian Angels?’ she asked. ‘I presume boys had those as well?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Mine was what my daughter would call a wimp—you know, big blue eyes and golden curls. I got so used to sort of feeling him hovering just over my right shoulder, I still turn round sometimes and wonder where he’s gone. Mind you, I don’t think he was a he. Men were strictly forbidden in the convent.’

  David laughed, yet she saw him tense almost imperceptibly. She had broached a dangerous subject. Mother Mary Michael had banished her to her dormitory for a whole weekend, because she had asked what sort of bodies angels had when they came down to earth on errands. She hadn’t dared go into details, use words like breasts or … or … worse, but she had seen pictures of those statues in museums, men with dangly bits between their legs, in marble. Did angels come complete with those and, if not, had God cut them off with his Golden Scissors or simply made their bodies differently from those of normal beings? Had David also puzzled about such things? She doubted it. Head Prefect, probably, as well as Candle Boy.

  ‘When’s your talk?’ she asked him, moving on from the tricky topic of gender.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In fact, I ought to go and do a bit of preparation for it.’

  She cursed herself for mentioning it, was reluctant to end the conversation, spend the rest of the night in her lonely room. She had to admit she was keener on his company now she knew he wasn’t a priest; had even felt a crazy jolt of pleasure when he had renounced Father for plain David. Priests blocked you off, kept you distant and subordinate, but David might even be a friend. She must do her best to keep him there at least a little longer. ‘What’s your angle going to be?’ she asked. ‘Belief in miracles, or …?’

  ‘W
ell, a lot of it springs directly from my work. Those early Lives of the saints are two-thirds miracles. The biographer’s first duty was to prove his subject’s sanctity.’

  ‘You mean they invented the miracles, simply to …?’

  ‘No, not quite invented. There was a tradition going right back to the Gospels. Any saint worth his salt was expected to do as Christ had done—cure lepers, restore sight to the blind, calm the odd storm or two.’

  ‘So they just lumped them in, you’re saying, regardless of whether that particular saint had actually …?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. You’ve got to understand the whole context. Miracles were the currency of the age. And don’t forget they were trying to convert the pagans and win over local chieftains, so they had to prove themselves every bit as powerful as the old gods—show that a handful of earth which had soaked up St Oswald’s blood or a chip of wood from a post which St Aidan had leant against could work the same wonders as the pagans’ holy rivers or magic charms. And then there was the whole business of prestige. Each individual monastery wanted its own saints’ miracles shouted loud and clear, to win it fame and new recruits, or grants of land.’

  ‘It sounds so … so calculating.’

  ‘Not at all. It was just a completely different point of view. Those biographers weren’t like our modern ones, dipping into their Freud and showing up every wart and weakness. If their subjects were holy men, then the key word was holy and they were out to prove it.’

  ‘But surely you can’t defend that, David? It’s hypocritical, like those Victorian biographies where any whiff of sex or scandal was totally suppressed so you get only a public face.’

  David shook his head. ‘It really wasn’t the same—except in the sense that both were trying to set an example, I suppose—make the man a sort of moral exemplar. Anyway, we suppress things, too. We pride ourselves on dragging out every last sexual secret and being frank and open and adult, or whatever we call it, but we ignore other areas of life every bit as vital.’