Faith Fox

by Jane Gardam

  I will of course always love you,

  Andrew

  ‘I will of course always love you.’ They always end like that, thought Jocasta. The letter had left her light and strange and she’d chucked it on the stove and gone over at once to the work sheds. There, with Ernie’s help, she had spread the great canvas across the floor under the uncertain eye of the A-level girl. It had taken hours to straighten and line it with paper, and roll it right. Then they had polished the wooden crib that was to stand on the floor in front of the white space at its centre. It was lovely. Scarlet lacquered, shaped like the bowl of a lute on cross-over black legs, graced with scarlet seals.

  The Smikes had come in, Nick carrying a bundle of hay. Ernie had said, ‘Is Jack really wantin’ live animals round the thing? They’ll muct place up, sheep. And who’s to go for them, as if I didn’t know?’

  Ernie, Nick and Jocasta had gone over to the chapel early on the morning of Christmas Eve to make space for the backcloth, fix the lights for it, and strew with hay the stone floor before it.

  When all was done Jocasta said, ‘Switch on.’

  ‘Go live,’ said Ernie.

  The chapel fell into shadow. Through its windows the ancient buildings disappeared. The dazzle of the canvas was the only light. It seemed to drink down into itself all the colours of the world.

  The life-sized painted figures of the holy family were vague. The model for the Madonna, the A-level girl, was gawky, smashed, without nationality, her arms spread towards the empty centre on the screen. Joseph, with Jack’s brooding bent head, stood near her, looking down at the lighted space. On the other side were village people. One was the postman, Jimmie. Somebody, a woman in a turquoise padded jacket, was holding out a cake and thermos flask. Entangled in the painted arch of the ruined apse was a languid angel with a gold earring and black leather armour. It had the face of Ernie, watching. In opposite profile near him sat Jocasta leaning against the parapet of a bridge with a frowning face, drawing. She was drawing the light in the centre of the backcloth, drawing space, drawing her life, drawing the timeless moment. Her dark face, not dismissive, not derisive, not discontented, was concentrated on one thing only, the holiness of vision.

  ‘ ’Sgreat, Jocasta,’ said Nick. ‘Why int Philip in it? Where’s The Missus? An’ me?’

  ‘The Missus cleared off. I left her out. Philip will be in it for real when he carries Faith up in her cradle. He stands it here, see? Centre of the blank. Two bits of flesh and blood, Faith and Phil, OK?’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘I couldn’t see where you fit in, Nick. I couldn’t decide whether you’d want to be in it or not. You never tell us where you stand.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ernie. ‘And Nick, OK, right? It’s great, though. Hey, it’s . . . well, OK, Jocasta.’

  ‘Right. Take it back across there, then, till the evening.’

  Nick and Ernie carried it on their shoulders, one behind the other.

  So when everyone came walking down the lane from the Land-Rover and followed the rolled-up backcloth back into the chapel, Jocasta was sitting thinking only of the tableau.

  ‘Turn all the lights out,’ Jocasta called to Ernie. ‘I want this to be a sudden blaze.’

  ‘I can’t leave hold of it.’

  ‘OK. Lay it carefully down.’

  ‘It gonna get damaged.’

  ‘No.’ She went over to Ernie and suddenly put her arms round him and kissed him.

  Then everyone came in and then out again towards the tea, and Jack arrived with his hands full of mangolds, asking if Jocasta wanted any for decorating the tableau of the stable, and he’d forgotten to get in some sheep. ‘We’ll manage,’ said Jocasta. They went together to the solar.

  ‘Here is Pammie, Jack,’ Jocasta said.

  They greeted each other with surprise and disappointment, for Jack had noticed her across at the stove already, a dumpy oldish woman bustling about in a kilt, and not recognised her. She saw a faded, tall, shabby-looking parson, far from charismatic, rather sour-looking and distant, nothing much at all. She couldn’t help seeing the colour of the hands holding the mangelwurzels. He couldn’t help noticing her hard grey permanent wave.

  He said, ‘Jocasta, could I . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘I’m just going to put my notes together. I’ll preach first, then some prayers. Then we’ll have Philip coming up with the child for the tableau, and then the christening. Is that all right? No Andrew, I’m afraid, yet.’

  ‘Quite all right.’

  ‘It’s—who now—godparents? Mrs. Jefford and Philip and, well, it was to have been Alice Banks but she’s not to be seen. Two will have to do.’

  ‘Of course. What about the Tibs?’

  ‘They are a law unto themselves, Jocasta.’ They smiled at each other. ‘I don’t expect them.’

  ‘They’ll watch from a distance through their third eye,’ she said, and for the first time since The Missus left she touched his arm.

  ‘Oh Jocasta,’ he said, ‘what horrible times we’ve had. What things I’ve said to you.’

  ‘The horrible times are over,’ she said.

  Soon she began to move everybody into the chapel. Nick was sent to the sheds to say that Faith should be brought across now and to ask the others to come too.

  The congregation, in boots and coats and mufflers, assembled itself on the hard pews in the dark, among the plopping noises of the paraffin stoves, and as Jack appeared from behind the altar in his vestments the door opened and not only the three Tibetan women filed in but, in a flurry, Mr. and Mrs. Middleditch and Alice Banks.

  Jack, unperturbed, made the sign of the cross and waited while the newcomers settled themselves, the Middleditch party well to the front, the Tibetans on the back row. Then Pema got up again and went out. Nick seemed to be arguing about something with the A-level girl and then suddenly went out too. His feet could be heard clattering over the stones of the courtyard.

  Jack stood in silence for so long that Mrs. Middleditch began to purse her lips and look questioningly about her. Even Jocasta looked up questioningly at him in the end. The Missus glared ahead.

  At last Jack said, ‘In the name of the Father and the Son and of the Holy Ghost, and in the name of God in all religions and languages, we ask Thy mercy on all of us here gathered together to grant Thy blessing on the life of this child, and remember the life of the eternal Holy Child born this night. Let us pray.

  ‘This year has had its sorrows for most of us here tonight. Its terrors, its difficulties, doubts and temptations. We ask it to be true, oh God, that we are at least nearer to Thee than we were when the year began, that we have learned a little of Thy mercy as well as of Thy might.

  ‘Since the death of our dear Holly Fox, it has seemed that most of us here have been bewitched in some way by our own individual daemon. We have found ourselves awash in times we don’t understand any better than the eastern visitors in our midst. Yet we live in the ruins of a place which should give us strength, that has inspired the worship of God for a thousand years. The sun and the moon above us, the snow, the wind and the rain are the same as those known to the people who built this holy place long ago. Why have we felt alone? Do we only now at Christmas realise that the reason is that we have forgotten the message of Christmas? It is the child. Faith came to us and we congratulated ourselves on having taken her in, but only Pema, and I think Philip, ever really considered the baby herself. Did any of us really care about Faith? Let us thank God that we have time to put this right. We will stand in silence now for a few moments to say our own personal prayers. Let us pray.’

  As they stood, a beaky man came in and clattered forward to stand by Thomasina. Emma looked round, nudged her husband, leaned sideways and said, ‘Thought you didn’t keep Christmas, Pa!’ The man stared ahead. Thomasina gripped the pew in front.

 
‘Who is it? D’you know him?’ asked Pammie in a loud voice. ‘Is it Faylesafe?’

  ‘Ssh.’

  ‘Let us pray,’ said Jack again.

  The Thoughts of All

  Thomasina thought, Pray? Our Father which art— Dear god, have mercy on us all and hear us. I don’t know where I am or what my future will be. Watch over me. Holly gone, Herbert gone, Giles gone. Garden left, must think of it. Pammie left and Les Girls and the golf club. Wish Dolly and Toots here. Tony Faylesafe. Unbelievable. Father of Hol’s friend Emma. A man of long before. If he’s here, why not Holly? Where is she? O Lord, I pray for beloved Holly and may she be in everlasting light, may light perpetual shine upon her. Tell me what I’m doing in this place and tell me, I beseech thee, O God, how I’m to fill up the rest of my life.

  Pammie prayed, I thank Thee, O God, for sending me out into this place to see if it is Thy will for me to work to Thy glory here and serve Thee and Jack and Jocasta all my days. All the kitchen needs is a good lime-wash and the beams treated—say, five hundred pounds. New stove—say, two thousand. Take up flagstones, turn and scour, not polish. Very nice refectory table, needs treating oil and varnish. No sign of dishwasher, absolutely necessary, serious catering. Flowers in outer hall, visitors’ book, spring clean office: make big difference. Modern bunk beds for groups. My bedroom, gatehouse, very romantic, probably. Ideal conference in big retreat centre. Billy Graham? Jack spiritual leader. I could pull strings for a Royal visit. The south only a concept, as is the North. Use me, O Lord, make me a channel for Thy peace. Thomasina often here and golf at Scarborough. Who is this man? Why isn’t Andrew here? No sign of Alice the dragoness. Oh, good Lord, who’s this—it’s her? It can’t be! Who’s the couple she’s with? Very pompous. Dreadful Dannimacs. And may it please thee, O Lord, to look graciously upon all of us here gathered to celebrate the birth of Thy dear Son that we may be purged of all our sins and selfishness. Bless my Hugo in heaven. Lighten our darkness we beseech Thee, O Lord—and whoever is this? A troupe of gypsies? And the queer and the hippie—well, tax-gatherers and sinners. What a long way from Coombe Hill. Forgive my unbelief. Yours sinc—I mean, in the name of the Father, etc. ‘Amen.’

  Emma prayed, Dear Lord, we thank Thee for Thy great mercy and for drawing us all together here today from different parts of the world to celebrate Christmas. Have mercy on this little motherless child that she may find some motherly arms. ‘Shut up, Vanessa, you can’t hold Phil’s hand. Now, leave him alone. No, Patsie, you cannot go up with him and carry the baby. The baby’s not even here yet. Shush!’ Oh well, yes, it looks as if she is. The crib’s come in anyway. It’s standing at the back. And that Smike’s gone out again—I hope it’s not too heavy for Phil. ‘The boy has rings in his nose because he likes to be like that, Lucy. No, you can’t put a string through it like a bull. Darling, do sit still.’ I thank Thee, Lord, for our creation, preservation and for all the blessings of this life but chiefly for Thine inestimable love, for the gift of grace and the hope of glory—and for its continual surprises and variety. Father in church! Forgot he knew Holly’s mum. Old friend. Always met on Sports Day. Holly always won the races . . . oh poor Holly, where are you? Wish you were here, you great philistine. Please bless my family and Philip. Let us be family to Philip too. Let us have the say in his education, let no harm befall him. Never let him believe again that he must be forever washing his hands. ‘Amen.’

  Ernie thought, I’m not getting on my knees this bloody floor, anyway I gotter ’old this end of t’ backcloth straight some’ow, bloody ’ell. Wherst Nick for t’other end? Bringin’ int baby, likely. Is ’e really off wi’ yon lass? More fool ’im, ’e’ll be back be Friday. They’se New Age travellers gone soft, bloody gypsies, not my type. Jack’s conned. ’E’ll be conned all ’is life. Jocasta’s better. Much better. No chicken. Not a slag. Shouldn’t ’ave said it. Bloody good poster she’s made. Great. Pity no Toots an’ Dolly. It a bin a great day out. Bike up the top, why not chance a visit? Down the arcades, miss this do ’ere afterwards wi’ all the toffs. God, I wish Nick wunt go off. London trash place, everything loose shag, no fam’ly life. ’Ostels. Pavements. Cardboard boxes. Christ save ’im. This bloody post’s ’eavy. When we gant unrollt bloody thing? I’s not strong enough. Need a man ’ere, where’s bloody Nick t’ ’elp me? ‘Amen,’ he added as the rest said it.

  The waitress from Ellerby Moor Hotel prayed. Our Father which art in ’eaven ’allowed be Thy name Thy kingdom come thy will be done on earth as it is in ’eaven funny how most people still know it—mind, they say not everywhere now, the streets of London they won’t. These foreigners all coming in just look at them not clean all them wrappers. Is one of them got that baby under there? It’s not right it’s a English baby why can’t it be with its granny very nice old woman and that daft old man I took to them I really did I’d’ve brought them up ’ere today if it’d been fit. Terrible sad when she cried, nobody ’ere, but ’im marvellous: ‘Don’t upset yerself now Dorothy we’ve had a great ride out’ wish I’d sent them a card for Christmas. No picnic getting ’ere this afternoon, nice that Jocasta woman asked me. They said I was in it somewhere—some play they’re putting on don’t know what they mean. Said I ’ad to come, that Jocasta apologising for this place all empty that morning. Comes to see me. Not ’er fault they say she’s much better. Fits in more. Used to just sit and I never like that, folks sitting when there’s work to do. That look. She’s got a nice face when you catch sight of it looking over at old Jack, like. Said they never got on and she was off in the heather I’d not think so. There’s that woman what was with that old army cove well I never. I didn’t fancy her, stuck up. Sitting next ’is lordship old-fashioned type like ’im, nice suit she’s got on. Fancy all them people knowing each other. Everyone knows Jack do anything for ’im. There’s that Alice Banks agen they say she was off after twenty years I’ll bet they wish she was miserable old lemon can’t stand ’er. Hope she didn’t do the tea we’re to ’ave and the peace of god which passeth all understanding keep our hearts and minds in the knowledge of the power and the glory, ‘Amen.’

  Mrs. Middleditch said to God, As you know Arnold and I are by birth Methodists, as so I always thought was Bingham, though Church we’ve come to. I’m thankful to you, God, for my Arnold seeing me through so many dangers and difficulties with Bingham—nobody knows the half but us. And Thee. And for help with Toots and Dolly. Nobody knows the trouble they are getting and who can tell the end? But Thee. I’ve never liked Toots. There, I’ll say it, God forgive me. You can’t not like Dolly, mind, but she’s a very silly woman and she gives way to him every time. They think they’re a cut above because of Toots being educated in London somewhere and she having something about her in her manner, though I don’t see why they’re any better than us, I’m sure. You should see their bathroom and the upstairs toilet—all brown stains. Well, it’s her eyes. An overhead chain, fancy, these days! No upstairs carpets, only lino down since the war, and that linen basket in the corner with its lid off. It had its lid off when I started looking after them five years since and it only needs a twist of raffia. Bingham could’ve done it, only I didn’t like to say I’d noticed, not having been asked upstairs. Officially. I don’t know how they manage. He must drink all his pension. Not Dolly, mind. Very respectable woman. More than you can say for Bingham’s painted thing nearly Dolly’s age. God, please send Bingham home again without her. I hope they never saw us go past, Dolly and Toots. Well, they wouldn’t in this snow. The cheek of this Banks. I ask you! Landing up in Station Taxis complaining and not tipping—Christmas Eve (not maybe that I blame her)!—and saying, ‘Here’s me auntie’s gold watch and I want you to get me for Christmas to The Priors.’ Well, Arnold’s a good man. We didn’t ask questions, didn’t even speak. I can’t bring myself to look in her direction here beside me. Sitting in the car back muttering, singing bits of songs. St Luke’s for her, she’ll not even need assessing, I’ll have to complain to Dolly
about it. She’s their connection, not mine, and would she go to see them? Refused. Will we get back home tonight if it freezes up again? Have to sleep up here. If Bingham and that thing comes round they’ll find an empty house. It’s hoping they’ll come round decided me on bringing this Alice. ‘Arnold,’ I said, ‘let him come. We’re never out. It’ll bring him up short,’ Never being out is our strength to people, but tonight we’ll lock up and go. We’ll miss the Midnight at St James’s. They’ll be lost without Arnold. Who’ll carry the plate? Who’s to count the money? Funny this is all the services we’ll have and in a priory too, I always understood Henry VIII. In the name of thy Son our Saviour Jesus Christ, ‘Amen. Arnold, you’re wanted to hold the other end of the magic lantern screen.’

  Jimmie the postman prayed, Our Father which art in heaven hallowed be Thy name etc., learned it at school they don’t now it’s all sex education and yoga I like Prayers meself puts a shape on things. Our Father—well, fancy me being here Christmas Eve they’ll be wondering. Poor old Jack, though, you don’t like to disappoint him. Dear God I pray for Jack Braithwaite remembering him sitting there in the heather back to the Cross and his bottom sopping from the wet grass. ‘Good morning, Post.’ Looking like a child. Tears running. Heard about his brother’s wife. By, she were a smasher saw her once made that Jocasta look a shadder. Jack. Well. There’s a gang here tonight all right. I’d not be here if I hadn’t been stopping off all day here and there taking folkses bits of shopping and papers from t’shop let’s hope they don’t find out you’re not supposed to take anything but post now int van and three-quarters of it junk. Time was old Heart-throb at Ellerby Hotel said you could ask Post to carry chickens live with their feet tied together, and a bag of manure. It’s all changed now with the deep-freezes. But I like me job, finished eleven o’clock good days. You get your interests—lonely women on t’farms asking you in for all sorts. Great. They say yon Jocasta . . . but it’s all talk. Can’t have been easy with that Missus. Well, nobody knows what’s going to happen do they God? They say I’m in this play somewhere, there’s that Ernie not able to hold up the slide-screen affair, mebbe I better give ’im an ’and, no, there’s that feller with the stomach going up. Where’s that Nick? Now, why’s all this black lot walking out? Funny places you can fetch up Christmas Eve. Well, deliver us from evil, ‘Amen.’