by Alex Preston
David read a passage from St Luke – ‘He was praying in a certain place, and when he ceased, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us to pray”.’ The cold dark room echoed with the sound of his long vowels, the stentorian manner in which he declaimed the Lord’s Prayer. Marcus laid his guitar across his knee and sat on his hands to keep them warm. While the priest talked, Marcus thought back to his first Retreat. He had travelled down with Abby to a tatty hotel near Exeter where chickens pecked in the yard outside their window. Those days in the balmy air of an Indian summer had changed Marcus. They had brought him closer to Abby, but also made him face up to the creeping realisation that someone – God, perhaps – was trying to win him over.
The coincidences had been occurring with disturbing regularity in the days leading up to that first Retreat. Phrases from the book he was reading on David’s orders – C. S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters – had been appearing on billboards, in graffiti on the sides of buildings, were spoken in meetings when he was half-listening, leaping from the surrounding drone. The number sixty-two cropped up everywhere: receipts, payslips and telephone numbers, page numbers in books that seemed full of hidden meaning, whispered significance. He would find a song repeating in his head on the way into the office; on the way home he’d sit next to a tramp singing the very same song in a voice far too beautiful for his grizzled face. But the biggest coincidence, the moment that had shocked him into belief, had occurred on the Saturday morning of that first Retreat.
Marcus and Abby had been arguing in her room. Because they were not yet married they had separate bedrooms and Abby didn’t think they should sleep together during their time at the Retreat, should obey the laws of the Course at least here. Marcus had shouted at her and stomped from the room. Outside it was warm enough for him to take off his jacket and sling it over his arm. An estuary swept across the horizon and he strode purposefully down towards the sea. He was twenty-three and he walked with the bouncing steps of an athlete. The sea was further than he thought but he pressed on, past low cottages and cows watching him with stupid curiosity. Down a narrow lane with flint walls overgrown with ivy he came upon a small church. Norman, with a leper gate and crumbling roof. The door bore a heavy padlock; looking in, with his hand cupped to the grubby window, Marcus saw that the inside was empty, the church disused. The graveyard had been overtaken by nature. Nettles grew in thick clumps above red-veined dock leaves, brambles were knotted around teetering gravestones and rabbits scuttled under apple trees as he made his way further into the cemetery.
Marcus liked to look at dates. When he went to art galleries he spent as much time calculating the ages of the artists when they died as he did looking at their paintings. Picasso filled him with hope, Toulouse-Lautrec terrified him; Dalí was a beacon, Jackson Pollock a tocsin. It was the same in cemeteries. Whenever he walked around Kensal Green with Mouse he looked hungrily for signs of extreme longevity, but was often brought up short by the graves of teenagers, people dead in their twenties and thirties. He watched particularly for family tombs where parents had outlived their children. So in the little churchyard in Devon, Marcus tore back brambles and scraped away lichen, bringing his face down close to the dappled gravestones. Most were very ancient, almost unreadable, telling of plague-deaths and children snatched by smallpox and dropsy. Then, as he was about to leave, he saw a newer stone in the corner of the graveyard, the sandy earth seemingly fresh-dug. A bunch of tulips lay upon the earth below the stone. The engraving upon it made Marcus’s throat close up in fear.
‘Marcus Glass. Taken from us aged 23. Grant him rest, O Lord.’
He staggered backwards, the few wispy clouds in the blue sky above him circling wildly for a moment. He had a sudden and vivid picture of his mother and sister at his father’s funeral, their faces pinched with sadness. He found his finger returning to trace the path of his own name, his own age. He knew that it was a sign. After the series of coincidences that had marked the last few days, this was the heavy-handed proof. When he returned to the hotel he went to find David and told him everything, told him that he was ready to really believe. David embraced him and he felt a shadow lift from his mind.
*
Lee nudged Marcus. He jumped. Lost in memories of his early days in the Course, he had missed the end of the reading. He began to strum a succession of quiet deep notes as Lee played slow descending chords. Abby sang a solo first, then the congregation joined with her. The plainness of the song suited the dark little chapel. Marcus could see the faces of the twins as they sang, twin mouths beaming, twin cheeks shining. It was a simple refrain, a prayer repeated over the same chord sequence.
‘I must become God,
And God must become me,
So that we can share
The same “I” eternally.’
Abby swayed from side to side as she sang, her eyes closed. There was something hypnotic in the music. Just as it felt that the hymn was fading into monotony, David began to improvise in the spaces between words, singing a descant in a high, fragile voice.
‘Yalullialla. Yaweahalalla. Hanna, hanna . . .’
It was the sound of the desert, the sound of ancient civilisations, and Marcus took a deep breath, trying to inhale its extraordinary purity. David was standing with his arms held out, his face turned up to the roof, a wide smile showing his bright teeth. Almost before it had begun, it was over. David muttered a final blessing and then led them up the aisle and back up to the main house. Marcus could see the dazed expressions of the new members. There were glasses of white wine on the round table in the centre of the entrance hall. Maki came over to Marcus and handed him a drink.
‘That was amazing. Was that . . . ? I mean, is that what speaking in tongues sounds like?’
‘That was it. Or at least how David speaks. I guess everyone has their own way of doing it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Maki just looked at him with wide dark eyes.
After the wine, they made their way down to the dining hall, where Mrs Millman was standing in the corner stirring pots of stew and vats of rice. The Course members sat down at the long tables in the candlelight. They seemed lost in the vast dining hall. The hall had mullioned windows and dark tapestries of hunting scenes. A mahogany armoire stood along one side of the room, its front inlaid with elaborate carvings of Greek myths. Wooden doors at the far end gave onto the garden. Marcus sat next to Abby and Maki and they talked and drank and he felt a sense of optimism sweep over him. Abby looked happier than she had for weeks and even Lee was smiling, laughing along with the twins and Mouse, while Sally Nightingale spoke to Neil and Philip at the other end of the table. The Earl sat down opposite Marcus and ate in silent concentration, spearing pieces of beef aggressively. When he had finished, he leaned forward towards Marcus and Abby.
‘How do you like the old place?’
‘It’s extraordinary,’ said Abby. ‘I’ve never been anywhere quite like it.’
‘It’s perfect for the Retreat. Don’t know why we haven’t had it here before. David was always a little nervous about it. This was where he underwent his own epiphany, you see. He wrote The Way of the Pilgrim here, so Lancing Manor has always held a special place in his heart. I think it’s a huge compliment to you lot that he agreed this year.’
‘I think it’s a good bunch. The new members, I mean. And I suppose he has seen us grow up with the Course. I like to think that this group of Course leaders is quite special to him.’
Marcus put his hand on his wife’s arm.
‘I have been working a great deal on the US expansion,’ the Earl said, his heavy eyebrows lowering as he spoke. ‘Over there, of course, it’s even more important that people shouldn’t worry about their wealth. It’s a society that is shaped by money and we have to recognise that. Particularly in the areas we’re targeting: the North-East and California. Greed has temporarily replaced faith for these people, but they remain believers. You can see it in their eyes. We need to let them know they can ha
ve both.’
Neil had come to sit beside Marcus. He leaned forward to listen to the Earl, his mouth hanging slightly open.
‘People don’t grasp the meaning of the story about the camel and the eye of the needle,’ the Earl continued. ‘They think it means that it is impossible for a rich man to enter heaven; it doesn’t. What Jesus is saying is that we will be held to higher standards. If we have gained wealth and power during our days on Earth, then we need to make sure that we behave impeccably. To those who have, more will be given. But only if we use our gifts correctly. Fitting a camel through the eye of a needle is child’s play for God. Indeed it may be that the verse is just a mistranslation, that the “needle” referred to a gate in the walls of Jerusalem through which it was perfectly possible to drive a camel. Whichever, there’s nothing to stop you being a good Christian and rich.’
Neil was nodding. David came to stand behind the Earl.
‘The Course has been so successful in the City because it doesn’t seek to judge people on how they behave in the office. It would be ridiculous to expect people to live like saints in a world that is as dog-eat-dog as ours. Christians would quickly be wiped off the map. So we ask people to come to the Course and ask God’s forgiveness when they have done wrong, and to use their money where they can to help further the Course’s good work.’
David looked hard at Neil.
‘You know,’ David said, raising his voice so the other members would hear, ‘the Bible is clever enough to know that the pursuit of wealth presents major problems for Christians. You should use it to guide you. There are twice as many verses in the Bible about money as there are about how to pray. Did you know that? Almost half of Jesus’s parables deal with cash. It isn’t easy to be rich and godly, but look to the Bible and you won’t go far wrong. And then, when you’re spectacularly rich, remember to give a good lot of it back to the church. Christians can’t afford to be squeamish about wealth – it is, as the Earl says, a horribly competitive world.’
After dinner, the Earl and the Nightingales left the Course members to drink and talk in the dinner hall. Some of the girls from Marcus and Abby’s group made their excuses and went up to bed at the same time. Marcus waved at them as they said goodnight and opened more bottles of wine, passing along the tables and filling empty glasses, smiling and chatting to the Course members. Someone found an ancient stereo with a pile of old CDs and the twins pulled Neil and Philip up to dance, singing misremembered lyrics in raucous voices. It grew darker in the hall as the boys blew out candles while moving tables to the side of the room to clear space for the dancers. Only the fire illuminated the dancing figures. Abby and Lee swung each other around energetically; Abby’s hands seemed huge on Lee’s frail body. Mouse and Marcus walked out into the garden for a cigarette, closing the heavy wooden doors behind them.
The night was clear and cold, the noise of the motorway loud in the still air. Marcus followed Mouse up a winding spiral stair whose steps were carved into the stone of the wall. At the top they made their way through an archway and onto the grassy roof of the dining hall. Mouse’s face was surprised by the flame of the lighter; seemingly about to speak, he drew back from Marcus, his eyebrows raised, the cigarette slack in the corner of his mouth. He then moved towards the flame. Marcus lit his own cigarette, and two red coals glowed in the darkness. They leaned on the metal rail that ran around the edge of the lawn and looked over towards the shimmer of the motorway that sat above the pines.
‘He was good tonight,’ said Mouse.
‘Pretty good. It’s a wonderful song. It’s the best song for the tongues.’ Marcus exhaled a long stream of smoke. He had been smoking too much recently. His lungs felt like old plastic bags. Abby was always complaining about his smoking, asking how one who was so scared of death could smoke. He had tried to explain to her once. How smoking was something he did because he was young. As soon as he gave up smoking, it would be a recognition of the fact that he was ageing, that he had left behind the eternity of adolescence. She had rolled her eyes the way she always did when he tried to explain the way he rationalised things she didn’t agree with.
‘I need to quit these things.’ He also liked to talk about quitting and had done for as long as he could remember. He coughed and spat into the bushes below. A sad moon rose over the trees, slowly ripping itself free from the motorway lights.
‘Imagine how he must have felt when they built the road. Imagine how peaceful it would have been before. I suppose motorways have to go somewhere, but it seems strange that they’d put it here, among all this.’ Marcus swung his cigarette hand out over the invisible view. The flashing ember left traces across his retinas.
‘The Earl hasn’t been here that long,’ said Mouse. ‘I did some research on Lancing Manor in the library. He bought it in, I don’t know, 1992 or something. He made an awful lot of money in one of the privatisations. Electricity, perhaps. It was when he bought his title. I looked it all up.’
‘Really? But what about the pictures, the photographs? It felt like his family had been living here for generations. It seems a bit fraudulent.’
Mouse paused. ‘I don’t think it’s fraudulent. Or no more fraudulent than the building itself, you know? The Earl just wanted to get the whole thing right. Because his family couldn’t have lived here for that many generations. Lancing Manor was only built in 1890. None of it is older than that. It’s why it manages to feel so authentic. It’s new enough to be convincing.’
‘I always find him a bit sinister. I know he does amazing things for the Course, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s only in it for the money, that all the talk of building the Course into a global franchise is just so that he can somehow make more cash out of it. I’m sure he gets backhanders from the hedge funds we use for the Course’s investments. I can never understand why we stick with some of the funds that are clearly going down. Except that the managers are Course members.’
‘But that’s it, isn’t it? The Earl is sending out a message that he’ll stick with people as long as they keep attending the Course. I think he wants to make it so that you can’t get anywhere in the City unless you’re a Course member. You’ve seen how the bankers all get together after services. They look after each other. Anyway, the Earl doesn’t need money.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I heard him talking to Neil earlier. He’s just made twenty million pounds on his Chinese stamp collection.’
‘What?’
‘When everyone else was buying up the Chinese stock market, the Earl sat down and tried to work out what else would rise in value when the economy took off there. He settled on stamps. Stamp collecting is a very middle-class hobby there, as it was here, I suppose. The Earl realised that as the middle class grew, stamps would rise in value. He bought up some major private stamp collections in the late nineties. Sold them at Sotheby’s in Hong Kong last week.’
‘That’s amazing.’
They smoked in silence for a while. Mouse put his arm around Marcus’s shoulder and spoke softly in his ear.
‘Will you speak to Lee? I’m so worried about her at the moment. She’s worse than ever. I can barely look at her.’
‘I’ve tried. It’s hard to get through to her. She seems so distant.’
‘It’s not just her promiscuity. Although have you noticed how that side of things always flares up when she’s in one of her slumps? Sometimes when I see her face the sadness just swamps me. The poor thing needs help.’
‘Should we tell David?’
‘I think he’s already spoken to her. He knows everything.’
‘Of course he does, he’s David.’
‘Will you try again? We all look up to you. You know that, don’t you, sport?’
‘That’s . . . that’s really sweet. Thanks.’
Mouse squeezed Marcus’s shoulder and then let his hand fall to his side. Someone coughed in the darkness.
‘Marcus? Mouse? Are you up there?’
It was Mak
i. She walked across the grass and leaned between Marcus and Mouse on the metal rail. Drawing out a packet of thin menthol cigarettes, she lit one as Mouse sent his own spinning down into the shrubbery.
‘My friends told me that the Course would be a good way to meet real English people.’
Marcus liked the softness of her voice, the kindness in her dark eyes.
‘But I hadn’t realised quite what a small world it would be. I feel very foreign among so many girls who look alike.’
‘It’s not surprising though, is it? Given where the church is, where it draws its followers from?’ Marcus tried to read her face in the dim light as he spoke. ‘The church is supposed to represent its local community, and even though people come from all over London to join the Course, to worship at St Botolph’s, the place necessarily attracts a type of person who feels comfortable in that square among those high, disapproving houses.’
‘Or wants to feel comfortable there,’ Mouse said, fiddling with his signet ring. ‘When I first joined the Course, I found it very intimidating. It was like being at university again, all of these rituals that everyone else seemed to know inside out. But I wanted to be part of that world. It was glamorous and the people were so grand-looking.’
‘Don’t you find it a bit claustrophobic, though?’ said Maki. ‘I do wonder how effective the Course can be when it draws from such a narrow group of people.’
‘St Botolph’s is just the beginning,’ said Mouse, lighting another cigarette. ‘It’s the base for our global expansion. And at the moment we do need people who are able to finance this evangelism, who can work for free or very little while we get the thing established. Remember that St Botolph was the patron saint of travellers and missionaries. We won’t be stuck in Chelsea for ever – we’re getting out into the world and spreading the word.’
