by Simon Parke
‘Well, thank you for coming, my brothers and sisters in Christ!’ said Bishop Stephen, in true episcopal style. ‘We have a difficult evening ahead of us but we grow in faith not by walking round the nettles but by grasping them! Jesus always grasped nettles!’
The Bishop was in young middle age and ripe for advancement. With his gaunt features and greased back hair, Edwina Pipe had not taken to him either in appearance or manner. But she for one wasn’t going to judge him on the basis of how he looked.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘it’s not his fault he looks a Nazi war criminal.’
Despite attempts at bonhomie, which could be overwhelming, there was a purifying edge to Bishop Stephen. He spoke much and often about the need for reform. Nothing in the world was as it should be and however much he fingered his African cross and spoke of the dear Kenyan woman who gave it to him, people felt accused and attacked in his presence. And he was on the attack tonight.
‘It is good that your vicar, Anton, is with us,’ he continued, nodding slightly in his direction, without catching his eye. ‘As you know from the agenda, it’s his ministry at St Michael’s that we are gathered to discuss. I think we all acknowledge that it has been a difficult couple of years for St Michael’s.’
‘You mean a difficult couple of years for you,’ thought Jennifer.
‘And we meet here tonight,’ he continued, ‘to consider how things might be taken forward.’
‘In other words, how you might sack me?’ said Anton in a flippant manner. ‘You’ve been aching to get rid of me since my first day here. And now Roger has kindly circulated your covering email, I think we can all see why.’
‘You should remain calm, Anton, just as everyone else should remain - .’
But the Bishop didn’t finish his sentence. Jennifer intervened.
‘I’ve asked Abbot Peter to chair the meeting tonight,’ said Jennifer. ‘We thought he had the necessary qualifications. He is someone who both loves us and yet stands apart from us. He seemed ideal.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ said the Bishop, his knuckles squeezed a creamy white. ‘I’m sure Abbot Peter will do a very good job in his own inimitable way. And who knows: perhaps we’ll discover why he still calls himself an Abbot when he’s six thousand miles from his monastery and in retirement!’
There was some uncomfortable shifting in seats.
‘I joke, of course,’ added the Bishop. ‘A naughty jester am I!’
‘I think we should move on, Bishop,’ said Jennifer. ‘Abbot Peter?’
***
Everyone later remembered his opening line. Indeed, it became something of a catchphrase in the parish, when something significant happened.
‘It’s all about the chemistry!’ they’d say, for that is how the Abbot had begun on that memorable night.
‘It’s all about the chemistry,’ he said. ‘We are a room of such dear people but the chemistry is uncomfortable. Ingredients react against each other, ingredients react with each other and it’s a dangerous mix. This is what I see.’
‘I see only a problem to be solved,’ said the Bishop, in a throwaway manner, ‘but don’t let me interrupt your desert meanderings!’
‘Managers see only performance, Bishop; love feels the energies beneath. And it’s those energies we need be aware of. A community has a choice. If it’s brave, it becomes a magic potion and rather wonderful. If it’s not brave, it becomes - well, it becomes a sea of poison. We must hope we are brave. I think we shall be; I think tonight we shall be heroes.’
But the heroes struggled that night. Of the nine gathered, three would soon die. The six left alive remembered only an evening they would rather forget. Despite the Abbot’s best efforts, the meeting started with an explosion and then fizzled towards an unconvincing end. It didn’t help that Anton effectively accused Ginger of being a paedophile.
‘Twice Mr Hucknell has complained about Ginger giving his son Tommy what is euphemistically called “refuge”.’
‘You know nothing!’ bawled Ginger, rising from his chair.
Abbot Peter met him on his way to Anton and guided him back to his seat.
‘We can’t be too careful in these matters,’ said Jennifer coolly. ‘This is a legitimate concern, Ginger. You may have been here a long time but no one is above investigation.’
‘Including you!’ hissed Ginger.
‘And what do you mean by that?’
But Ginger just stared.
‘We’ll try and keep listening to one another,’ said Abbot Peter. ‘And questions tend to be more helpful than accusations.’
There was a pause as people put their accusations away; or simply re-framed them. Sally Appleby twisted the knife gently with the observation that perhaps too many changes had taken place too fast under Anton’s leadership, leaving people somewhat breathless: ‘I know from what folk have said to me confidentially, that they have found it all a bit bewildering.’
Malcolm Flight agreed. He strongly felt that there should be more discussion before things were done, particularly with regard to paintings. He did, however, think the parish finances were in better order now. Clare Magnussen concurred, but said that as a general principle, people should not be pressured to give more money.
‘People give in many ways; the church should not obsess about money. I really think this. It does no favours to anyone to try and make them feel guilty!’
Anton said this was all very well and that he was sorry if Clare felt guilty but if there was no money, there was no church. Clare said that she didn’t feel guilty, that she was merely saying, at which point Jennifer intervened and talked generally about the need for good communication in any organisation. Ginger was more direct, saying that Anton did not understand the needs of the young people and that he should involve himself more. Anton said that he had suggested closer involvement but that Ginger had always blocked it:
‘You like to rule your own kingdom, Ginger. Foreign potentates are not welcome!’
Ginger said that simply wasn’t so with the venom of one who knew it simply was. He knew also that Anton had just crossed the line.
Betty remarked that work with children was very important and that there seemed to be more cleaning materials now, which was good but that she didn’t always know what was happening in the church what with all the changes, which made cleaning difficult sometimes - and were there any tables left at the forthcoming Christmas Fayre because a friend of hers, whose husband had died, had a lot of junk to get rid of?
‘And perhaps we have too,’ said the Bishop.
As the meeting regressed, Abbot Peter thought briefly of his father. He always thought of him when he encountered the number nine, though this evening was not the time to explain why. And when he thought of his father, it was not of the weak man with his rulebound wife who’d adopted him as a baby. His true father had been both bully and adventurer, who discovered a great secret in Afghanistan, became a spiritual teacher and fathered various children with his disciples. ‘The guru never sleeps alone,’ as they say. Young Peter was one of those who were given away. He was found another home which had never quite been one.
He’d first encountered his biological father at the age of 22 and met him only twice thereafter, shortly before he died in Paris. They’d met in New York, drunk ouzo together and talked. His father was there organizing groups, giving seminars, looking for publishers and being rude to people, which was one way to attract the wealthy to your cause. Peter had felt fascination rather than warmth towards this man, who treated him more as pupil than son. He found in him a mix of the fanciful and profound. He lied a great deal but lied with insight, which gave it a certain truth. Peter particularly remembered one remark his father had made:
‘Be outwardly courteous to all without distinction. But inwardly, stay free! Never put too much trust in anything.
’
His father had never been courteous but he had stayed free.
But it was the ‘miracle of nine’ that evening that particularly brought his father to mind. For tonight, Peter was aware of a remarkable occurrence in the parish room of St Michael’s. The law of averages demanded that occasionally it was so yet he could not remember experiencing it before. This was remarkable! But whom could he tell? No one here would understand the nature of this miracle. Suddenly he wished to speak again with his father, he would understand.
It was, after all, his father who had taught him the strange and remarkable wisdom of the Enneagram and its nine pointed symbol.
Fifteen
The strongest safe is resistant to extreme violence; yet can be opened by a child with the key.
And so it was with the Sarmoun Community. They said nothing, wrote nothing, gave no address, invited no attention and placed dark chasms between themselves and the world. For hundreds of years they had gathered quietly in upper rooms and deep retreat, a brotherhood protecting the nine-pointed secret. Yet if a stranger, against all human odds, turned up at their gate then they were as welcome as the Messiah himself.
George Ivanovitch Gurdjieff arrived barely conscious on the back of a carpet seller’s cart. He’d been found wandering on the slopes, nineteen days after leaving Bokhara. Gurdjieff had lied to the carpet seller, an instinctive skill, claiming he was a member of the Brotherhood who had been attacked. He asked to be returned there for medical attention and the carpet seller believed him.
The rope bridge had proved surprisingly secure. Like a dead snake, it was more fearsome in appearance than reality. Gurdjieff had even paused midway, to contemplate the darkness beneath him. He’d smiled at its terror, in open taunt, daring it to take him now. He took on death as he took on people.
‘Hell’s mouth had no teeth,’ he later said. ‘It was not my time. It was not my time to join the skulls.’
But delight turned to frustration when no path appeared. After two days of wandering, all hope had ebbed, like the tide of the Black Sea where he played as a boy. He’d got water from a passing shepherd but no sense. The herdsman had known nothing of the Sarmouni and what use is the water of the ignorant? It saves the body, but kills the soul. Had Death merely bided his time? He cursed the shepherd but drank his water.
He even wondered if he should have listened to Soloviev, not something he had ever wondered before. His friend was safe in Bokhara, while he was dying like a fool beneath the frowning crags of the Hindu Kush. Was this madness or sanity, wisdom or nonsense? By the time the carpet seller found him, he was hallucinating a city of huge wealth where women were attending to his needs with extravagant care and precision. This was very good, this was better. Perhaps this was heaven, as the sun beat down?
He was brought back to earth lying on a merchant’s cart, cushioned by fine fabric destined for Samarkand. But he himself was destined for the Sarmouni.
Sixteen
Tuesday, 16 December
The weather that night had matched the meeting’s mood, stormy and hell-bent, ‘a right bag of spanners’ as Edwina Pipe would say. The furies had been building as Abbot Peter had approached the church, the water tossed and surly. One day the sea would overwhelm the steeped shingle and assault the land beyond. One day Stormhaven would experience the watery terror, this everyone knew. A fractured deck chair had flown across his path, a thing possessed, and the parish meeting was likewise. What hope for the landscape of the soul amid the surge of such turbulence?
‘I suggest we pause for tonight,’ said Peter. With ammunition exhausted and all spite spent, things had come to a natural end and no meeting should go much over the hour. ‘Perhaps enough has been said for now. It’s hard to be truthful, but we’ve done our best. Beyond the first truth, however, is the second truth. And to reach the second truth can take time.’
The Abbot had spoken of the first and second truth before but it was a new idea for the Bishop.
‘The Abbot will no doubt tell us what on earth he means!’ he said. ‘We should perhaps leave the riddles to Jesus.’
‘The first truth is the obvious pain,’ said Abbot Peter gently. ‘This has been spoken clearly enough. The second truth is pain’s flowering, the emerging resolution and this we have yet to reach. So if it’s acceptable with the Bishop, I suggest we go away and consider our part in this fracturing parish landscape. Perhaps we could then meet a week from now and consider how we might become a landscape reborn. I think our seaside town deserves it.’
‘A nice thought indeed, Abbot, but I’m afraid we are rather beyond such vagaries,’ said the Bishop.
‘Bishop -’ said Jennifer but her intervention was waved aside.
‘I’ve heard and seen enough,’ he continued. ‘It’s time we came to a decision. It is now well known - due to the publication of my private thoughts - that Anton was not my choice but Jennifer was persuasive and so he came. We have lived with that choice for two years now. But is it your wish that he remains? That is the question and it’s simple enough: stay or go? We will vote by hand raised, for as children of the light, we have nothing to hide.’
And so it was the brutal vote took place, each avoiding the glance of the other.
‘If you would like Anton to stay, please raise your hand.’
Eyes remained fixed on the floor as consequences were weighed.
‘Well?’ said the Bishop, tapping his prayer book with impatience.
Jennifer raised her hand and then, with a smile, Anton raised his as well.
‘I do have a vote, I trust?’
‘Thank you,’ said the Bishop, ignoring him entirely. ‘And now raise your hand if you would like the vicar to leave.’
Ginger’s hand was the first to be raised, followed by Clare’s and Malcolm’s. Sally was the next to raise hers with an apologetic glance towards Anton. Betty looked straight ahead as she raised hers.
‘Abstentions - or “Don’t knows” as they should be called?’ Abbot Peter raised his hand.
‘I thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen, and I’m glad that we’ve been able to reach such a clear decision. My maths says that when five plays against one - the vicar cannot vote - five takes the day.’
‘With one abstention, Bishop,’ said Peter.
‘Don’t knows don’t change the world, Abbot. But thankfully others have had the courage to do that for you. I’ll be speaking with all those involved to effect a speedy end to this unfortunate affair. I declare the meeting concluded. Shall we close with the grace?’
Together they spoke the familiar words: ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with us all, evermore, Amen.’
‘Safe travel home,’ said the Bishop.
‘A journey denied the second truth,’ said the Abbot in the Bishop’s ear. ‘This is sad.’
‘It’s life,’ said the Bishop as he returned his papers to his briefcase.
‘It’s your life,’ replied the Abbot.
‘I sometimes wonder if you really belong here, Peter?’ said the Bishop, placing an episcopal hand on his shoulder. ‘Have you ever thought of going somewhere you matter? Think about it.’
***
People gathered their things and prepared to leave. Peter noticed Jennifer’s look towards the Bishop, one of horror and incomprehension and then a brief exchange:
‘It was a joint decision to give Anton the job, Bishop. You included.’
‘We both know it was your call, Jennifer and it’s been a disaster.’
‘Anton has not been a disaster.’
‘If you think that, then you’re a pretty poor judge of disasters.’
And then Anton spoke up.
‘And what if I do not wish to leave, Bishop? What if my leaving would raise more questions about you than
me, Bishop? Questions about your strange favourites, for instance?’
But the meeting had become a parting and there was no one left to hear. In time, Anton would make his way to the vestry. It would be the last walk of his life.
Seventeen
Wednesday, 17 December
The Detective Inspector would be arriving soon. Abbot Peter glanced down the road for signs of his approach. He looked for a car of quiet distinction, but saw only a lone paraglider, freshly launched from the cliffs, heading out towards the horizon. It was a clear, cold day and good for flying free.
He stepped away from the window and turned up his electric fire. He had a slight chill from events of the previous night. Someone usually gave him a lift after parish meetings, but last night, the practice of decency had died. Everyone had departed with their own thoughts and concerns, leaving the Abbot to walk home through dark rain and furious wind. His drenched habit now hung drying over the bath. It would need a visit to the dry cleaners soon, crusty with the salt. In the meantime, he had his second best habit to wear.
He’d remained in church after the meeting, staying with Anton. God knows, he was hardly a fan of the man but there was a way to proceed. Righteousness cannot advance through unrighteousness.
‘What’s done is not good, Anton,’ he’d said.
