The Clear Light of Day

by Penelope Wilcock

  “Tell his mother to buy him a new one,” said Esme. “Your turn.”

  Ember chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

  “Well, all right, I reckon if it’s only ideas as bright as that you’re looking for, I may well be able to help you with Miss Trigg. Cup of tea first?”

  Having made a pot of tea and poured a mug for each of them, Jabez resettled himself in his chair. “Don’t forget to chew it,” muttered Ember as he sipped his tea. Jabez ignored this.

  “Miss Trigg, then,” he said. “As far as I can see you got three problems. One, she’s lived in Wiles Green all her life, knows nothing but the folks and the attitudes she grew up with, so she’s got small-life syndrome. Two, she’s hooked on fundamentalist religion, and her security is its rigid framework that acts as a splint and an exoskeleton and a steel corset of the soul—like those African ladies with all the rings round their necks—they’d have been better off without them but if you took them off now they’d go all floppy. Three, she was brought up by a tyrannical mother and a father who beat her; she worshipped the ground they walked on but she takes it all out on the rest of the human race. She’s weak, she’s a bully, she’s always right, and she’s having fun nipping your ankles—is that it?”

  Esme laughed. “You know her very well. I think you have it exactly. Heaven knows, she’s not all bad, she works like a slave for the chapel, and organizes all sorts of good events, but …”

  “All right. Well, in gratitude for your excellent advice about Danny Prior’s bike, I’m going to give you my equally valuable opinion about Miss Trigg. First thing is, have you heard her preach?”

  “Oh yes,” said Esme.

  Jabez grinned. “Me, too, many times. Would you be prepared to preach the kind of ideas Miss Trigg preaches and upholds?”

  “Well, of course not!” Esme exclaimed. “She preaches a lot of nonsense, she does really! And it’s harmful, dangerous nonsense too. And it’s so off-putting! You know, if I could persuade some of the mums from Mothers and Toddlers to come to worship one Sunday when Miss Trigg was preaching—not that I can persuade them to come at all because they’ve all met Miss Trigg—I’ll bet you any money you like they’d never come again.”

  “Seems reasonable,” said Jabez. “But surely then, asking for the freedom to be yourself implies offering the same freedom to other people—even to Miss Trigg.”

  “Oh, that’s all very well!” Esme was sitting upright, annoyed. “But Miss Trigg isn’t letting the other members of the chapel be themselves or the toddler group mums—or me!”

  Jabez shook his head. “Miss Trigg’s a lot of things,” he said, “but she’s not a witch out of a fairy tale.”

  “You sure?” interrupted Ember.

  He laughed. “No, but I think so. She can’t put a spell on you to make you be a frog or a donkey or a statue; neither can she put a spell on you to make you angry or afraid. That’s your choice. D’you remember last week I told you—oh Esme, I hate this—” he broke off in dismay, suddenly horrified at the thought of himself regularly offering advice. “This is so didactic, I can’t hold forth like this; it’s like a course of instruction!”

  “Correct,” said Esme. “Go on.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. It’s embarrassing, I feel such a fool, I—”

  “Oh, get on with it,” said Ember as she turned her knitting round to begin a new row. “Just say what you think without drawing attention to yourself so much.”

  Jabez looked absolutely furious. He closed his eyes and didn’t speak.

  “You were saying?” said Esme. “Being angry is one’s own choice?”

  Jabez began to laugh. “Thank you! Yes it is—yes, it is. Okay. Last week, one of the things I suggested that you wrote in your diary was about minding your boundaries. A really important part of any spiritual tool kit is the ability to keep soul boundaries—a poise that falls to neither domination by others nor subjugation of them by you. Being with Miss Trigg is probably the best chance you’ll ever get to hold your radiance steady in the turbulence of other people’s energy. Anytime you find yourself in a tug-of-war with her, just let go of your end of the rope. I know you’re the pastor of the chapel—but that gives you a real authority she hasn’t got. You’re in a position to offer them the chance of a Fair Trade stall, but if Miss Trigg terrorizes them into turning it down, don’t panic. If you aren’t choosing to fight, you don’t have to win. Ministry is responsibility, but all the people share the responsibility of ministry, not just you; it’s all of you together; so they got to learn to mind their boundaries too, not let Miss Trigg annex their lives and decisions to her own.

  “Words are power, Esme. Breath energy is spirit; it’s not to be squandered or used in violence. It’s important not to speak unless you really have something to say and others are ready to listen. You can speak softly, and the universe will still hear you, your words will make a difference. And there’s no need for hurry or impatience, you can take your time—the earth waits. Time is flexible, elastic. The ark of God doesn’t sail without the unicorn.”

  Ember sat with her knitting in her lap, staring impatiently at Jabez. “Whatever are you talking about?” she said.

  Jabez said nothing in reply.

  “I think he’s saying that even if it doesn’t seem likely, gentleness is enough, and there isn’t another way. I just have to keep my nerve.” Esme ventured. Jabez nodded.

  “That’s right. D’you want another cup of tea?”

  “One more; that would be lovely, then I ought to be on my way. Thank you, Jabez. And d’you think you can fix Danny’s bike, too?”

  He smiled at her. “I’m sure I can. If I take my time, and think about it; look at it carefully and only try to do one thing at a time.”

  As Esme drove home that evening, she wondered if she should have told them about the proposed changes in the circuit structure, and her volunteering to move. She told herself that the business of the circuit leadership team had to remain confidential, but she had a feeling that was not the reason she hadn’t told them.

  It was a long, long time since she had known anyone who would talk with her so freely about walking the paths of the spirit. She felt that she had found something—a kinship, an understanding—too precious to discard and leave behind. Still, she had volunteered to go, and it had been the right thing to do, and she could think of nothing that could be done to change it. She had her living to earn and no home but a parsonage to go to. There were no other choices that she could see. She resolved to be practical and make the best of it; there seemed no other way to stop the spreading stain of sadness, the quiet, persistent grief that wept in her when she contemplated losing this friendship.

  She avoided introspection by immersing herself in her work. To her pleasure and surprise, all three church councils embraced her proposal of a Fair Trade stall with enthusiasm, almost unanimously. Even Miss Trigg was remarkably restrained and contented herself with abstaining from the vote.

  SIX

  Esme, watching October come and go, with its church council meetings and Harvest Festival services and suppers, felt uncomfortably detached from her congregations.

  I shall be leaving, she thought, I shall be leaving, and you don’t know. Not until the following spring did the leadership team plan to inform the circuit meeting and the chapels of their decision to reorganize the circuit. In the smaller chapels, keeping going felt no worse than the struggle it had been for so long. In Esme’s congregations, even Wiles Green having enough members to remain viable until death took its toll of the elderly congregation, it had crossed nobody’s mind that in the event of a cut in staff their minister would be the one to go.

  She had spent time reading up in her bulky (hitherto pristine and unopened) current edition of the Constitutional Practice and Discipline of the Methodist Church, so as to appear appropriately informed when she asked her chairman of district about stationing her for her new appointment. He had reassured her that nothing would happen until next May
at the very earliest; nothing would be known until the following September—a year before she would make her move. “So don’t panic yet!” he boomed, in his jovial way.

  Esme could see nothing to panic about. She could see that her churches would be well served by her colleagues when the time came for her section to be parceled out into their neighboring sections. She could see that time was being given for careful decisions to be properly made. She could even see that, in the long run, she might come to look back with gratitude; as the other members of the leadership team reassured her when they met a second time to discuss the redistribution of the circuit, the forthcoming move could broaden her experience and enrich her life. It was just that, listening to the others discuss possibilities, and to her church councils talk about futures that only she knew she would not be sharing, something of the old ache of weariness began to return. In the last year, confidence and enthusiasm had grown along with a sense of belonging, in part because the people in membership of her chapels were now familiar to her and she to them. She knew their histories, and their family connections now, the places where they worked, and what their homes were like. Preaching on a Sunday had a deeper pastoral significance. She knew her sheep, and they had come to know her voice, and trust was growing. And then, Jabez … Ember, too, but, especially, Jabez … As she contemplated moving, she began to be more and more unsettled, until the parsonage that had never felt really like home began to seem positively distasteful. Esme stood in its sitting room, looking at the wallpaper and curtains chosen by other people with the criteria of sticking to a tight budget and giving offense to nobody. She looked out through the replacement windows with their hideous aluminum frames onto the square lawn and modest herbaceous beds designed for easy maintenance at the back of the parsonage. There was nothing to complain of and nothing to delight in. I don’t belong here, she whispered, and that was true now whichever way you looked at it.

  When Esme had first offered for the ministry, she had been a married woman, and it had been late but not too late to think of having children someday. At that time, her sense of belonging had derived from her marriage. That had gone. The demands of her work ensured minimal contact with her parents, her sisters, and brother, all tied themselves by work and family obligations. She had grown away from them anyway now, in her own soul journey; lonely, her heart longed for someone to be her kindred. Who will I be? she asked herself now. Whose sister am I, and whose child? Who will love me, and where will I belong? What will my home be—just myself, maybe?

  She wondered about looking for some sort of pet. She thought that a dog would require more attention and companionship than her work would permit her to give: But she toyed with the idea of buying a cat—Siamese cats, she had heard, were like dogs in some respects, affectionate, but with the advantage of in-built feline independence. She wondered if having a cat might help to create a sense of home.

  Then numbly, standing still, gazing without seeing through the window, Esme thought, I should pray about this. That’s the thing I really ought to do. When you pray for things, they come out right. Well, maybe better than they might have done otherwise. At least, if it’s awful, I’d have the comfort of knowing it was God’s will. She frowned, puzzled. Then … does that mean then … if prayer—well, is God looking after me or am I looking after God? Is there a pattern? At all? And if so, does it really rest on my initiative so much, if there is a God? Does prayer really make a difference if all of it is God’s will anyway? And if it’s not, does that mean God isn’t infinite—or all-powerful—after all? With a sudden, peevish, restless sense of irritation, and an inexplicable but deep-rooted mutiny against the duty of prayer, instead Esme went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. She looked in the tin. No flapjacks left. She thought back to last week when she had stowed a bar of fruit and nut chocolate in the top drawer of her desk, and thought she’d settle for that.

  As she poured boiling water onto the instant coffee granules, she reflected wryly that however big her next congregation might be, any move away from Jabez would involve a reduction in her intake of tea. And she surprised herself by starting to cry.

  Hastily wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, refusing to look too closely at what leaving him meant to her, Esme took her coffee into the study, and more from force of habit than for any specific intent, sat at her desk and turned her computer on. The past weeks had been so busy, an evening opening up suddenly free left her at a loose end. She had no need to prepare a sermon for Sunday; they were back in Ordinary Time, she was preaching in a different chapel from the previous Sunday—last week’s sermon would do. The church councils were done, as were the circuit meetings and the Synod, and the Harvest Festival produce was all satisfactorily distributed to various worthy causes.

  She supposed that now would be the time to pray or to read or to sit quietly and invite God’s holy presence into the restlessness inside her. But somehow she found it impossible to settle to anything requiring focus and a clear spirit.

  Esme played seven games of solitaire and finished her coffee.

  Without really thinking about it, she found herself telephoning Marcus. By virtue of being himself more than through office held in the circuit, Marcus served on the circuit leadership team. Esme thought maybe he would be a helpful person with whom to discuss her proposed move. Perhaps he would have some suggestions, help her to frame a more positive outlook on the prospect.

  Her call was answered by a lady from a house-sitting firm, hired for a month to look after their home and their dog. As soon as the lady began to explain her residence in the Griffiths’ house, Esme remembered that the date of the most recent leadership team meeting had been conditioned by Marcus and Hilda’s forthcoming late holiday in Italy. They were traveling, she recalled, through Switzerland, and staying for a few days in a hotel by the Italian lakes, before stopping off for a week in Venice, continuing to Tuscany and on to a favorite spot in Florence, flying home from there. They would be away a month.

  Esme thanked the house sitter and ended the conversation.

  She wondered about going out to see Jabez, but decided it would be too late for that household by the time she arrived. The following day she had promised the afternoon for pastoral visiting, but the morning was still free. She thought if the weather remained fine she would cycle over to Wiles Green in the morning, just to say hello.

  Esme played five more games of solitaire, looked at various Internet sites she had listed for a free moment, and then decided on an early night.

  After breakfast in the morning, she cycled over to Wiles Green and found Ember returning down from the orchard with the hen-food bucket as she came round the corner of the house into the yard.

  “Mornin’.” Ember watched her dismount and prop the bike against the wall. “You welcome as always to a cup of tea if you fancy my company, but Jabez gone to Shropshire to see his son. Went Monday. He’ll be back for the weekend.”

  Esme looked at her in surprise. “I had no idea Jabez had any children!”

  “Two sons he got. Hardly ever sees ’em. He got no money to travel. They got no money to travel. He writes sometimes.”

  “Oh. Are they married? Has he got grandchildren?”

  “One was married but his wife left him, took the kids with her—you know how ’tis nowadays. The other one sits the other side of the church; he won’t be marrying.” She swung the bucket, making the handle rattle. “You having a cup of tea? I got the kettle just on the boil.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll just stow this pail back in the shed. Don’t you let on to Jabez you caught me feeding his hens this late—he’ll be ticking me off. Don’t see why. Hens likes a lie-in same as I do.”

  Esme doubted this, but didn’t say so. She followed Ember across the yard into the kitchen and sat at the table, watching her make the tea.

  “Jabez’s sons,” volunteered Ember conversationally, as she peered into the brown depths of the pot and stirred the tea, “is, as you mi
ght expect, not unlike Jabez. Achievements and qualifications all about as spectacular as his. Samuel, the oldest one, he got a BA—failed—from York University. Enjoyed prowling around the North York Moors, investigating ancient archaeological sites, and studying up on The Dream of the Rood and Old English as I gather, but not so enthusiastic when it came to George Eliot or Milton. Young Samuel says Milton is good for sterilizing nappies and that’s about all. According to Jabez, unless you got a good nodding acquaintance with the Gospels, the Psalms, and the Catholic Mass, you got no understanding of any English literature up until the 1970s anyway. That’s what he says. If ’tis so then it’s hardly surprising Samuel missed his mark—never been near a church in his life, not even baptized. Adam now, his younger son, he never failed anything on account of he never went to any college in the first place. Adam says he’s like his father—got a hereditary DNA in Getting By. Seems to be the case, he can turn his hand to most things. If life has a manual or a rule book, nobody ever told those three.

  “’Tis Samuel was married. Well, if this ain’t brewed now, it never will be.”

  Jabez usually poured the tea through a strainer into the mugs. Ember didn’t bother. She said an occasional tea leaf to chew made it more interesting.

  “I suppose I should find a few days to visit my family sometime soon too,” said Esme, with less enthusiasm than she had intended. Ember watched her, attentive and shrewd.

  “I’m sorry—that sounded as though I didn’t look forward to seeing them. I do—I mean, they’re my family. It’s just, I don’t know what exactly, somehow they make me feel a bit of a failure. They’re not Methodist. I was brought up Church of England. They think chapel is quaint and unsophisticated and a bit vulgar. My parents came to hear me preach once. I remember it. I gave my best shot at quite a complicated expository sermon on the teaching structure of Saint Mark’s gospel. Afterward, my mother said—I can only imagine the remark was one she’d dreamed up earlier to have ready, and she’d slept through the actual service—‘Ah, you Methodists; a simple belief: Just have faith. How comforting. I wish I could be like that, but the Anglican Church is a thinking church, intellectual.’ They never came to hear me again. One of my sisters is the headmistress of a girls’ private school. She went on a conference last March, where they were told how important it is to give themselves little treats to reward all the hard work they do—she says she works a hundred-hour week. So she did treat herself. She bought herself a state-of-the-art wall-mounted CD player. Goodness only knows how much it cost. My other sister is a doctor. My brother is a research chemist. I’m not quite sure what he’s doing at the moment. It’s all covered by the Official Secrets Act. They’re very sweet to me, fond of me. But with the same affection they might show to a much-loved poodle, one that’s been in the family a long time. I’ve dreamed sometimes of becoming a superintendent and then a district chair and then the president of the conference—just to show them. Even if I managed it, I’m not sure they know what the president of the conference is, or does. Actually, I’m not sure I do myself. I think they vary wildly between the ones that deliver impassioned speeches expounding radical political views and the ones with nice smiles that have trouble finding a place to put their handbag down while they bless the winner of the sandcastle competition.”