Angels in the Architecture

by Sue Fitzmaurice

  ‘Thank you my dear,’ Maitland said in time, as pause for thought continued.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ added another.

  ‘There was a lot there to think about, my dear,’ Rose complimented Loraine. ‘You seem to have caught an essence that’s likewise capturing our friends’ hearts and minds.’

  ‘And souls,’ added Sally.

  ‘Well, you’re most welcome. I do get on my high horse occasionally, but there you are,’ replied Loraine.

  After another pause, Maitland declared, ‘All right then, you lot. Where’s that promise of intemperance – the real reason we come here?’

  Some chuckling about the table broke the reverie.

  ‘Coming right up, my dear.’ Rose smiled and got up to bring in bottles and glasses.

  ‘Well, I’m quite at my leisure,’ Maitland leant back, folding his arms..

  ‘Mr Bennet!’ chimed Sally and Rose at the same time.

  Maitland grinned, pleased with himself, and pleased his Jane Eyre mimicry had got the recognition he’d wanted.

  As Rose circled the table, depositing glasses and pouring wines, smaller conversations began around the table, till a pleasant hum replaced the quiet of earlier.

  ‘I’ve really got something from this. Thank you,’ said Pete, turning to Loraine beside him. ‘And I feel – perhaps a little arrogantly – that you have shown me a considerable respect by choosing to look me in the eye and poke me in the consciousness as you have.’ Pete gave her a small nod.

  ‘Well, I enjoy a good fish, Pete,’ said Loraine.

  ‘My God,’ Maitland burst out. ‘I’ve been outdone. Usurped! How did you, Pete, manage to get this woman to come out guns blazing? That has hitherto been my preserve alone. I salute you.’

  There was laughter all around.

  ‘My shout then?’ Maitland proffered.

  There was more laughter.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t, Maitland,’ Rose said, starting to pour. ‘You heard what Pete said before. Heaven knows what state you got him into last time he was here. If it’s some imbibing you’re after, there’s plenty here. Just you stay there, Pete. And you, Maitland.’

  ‘Well said, Rose,’ Pete added. ‘Well said. Be a dear and pass that red down here.’

  Pete helped himself to a couple of glasses and poured for Loraine and himself..

  ‘You’ve given me a great deal,’ he offered to Loraine. ‘Thank you. I need to figure out what that means in practise now. And for Tim.’

  ‘Well, you must start with you, Pete, I think.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t use your head too much. This isn’t about working out what you believe. This is about opening yourself to possibilities. I don’t believe we should sit down and make a list of what we believe any more than I think one should decide to believe just what someone else tells them. The greatest gift we give our children is that there is a big, wide world of people and cultures and beliefs, and they should explore all of that.’

  ‘But you’ve also said we should make a commitment,’ Pete replied.

  ‘Yes, in due course. But first be open, and investigate the truth. You don’t have to accept what I say. I’m simply making an offering from my experience,’ Loraine stated.

  ‘A particularly valid experience,’ Pete added.

  ‘Well I like to think so, yes – probably. I’ve spent a lifetime exploring these things, so I do think I can assist others, but by way of ideas not by reciting doctrine.’

  ‘Well, thank you again.’

  ‘Thank you, Pete.’ Loraine smiled and raised her wine glass in mock salute.

  Friday, 5 June 1981

  Tim being very autistic today. Spent large parts of the day looking out the corner of his eye. Seems unsettled. Not my smiling, laughing boy. Guess he’s got to work on catching up with happiness too sometimes.

  They’re reporting on a new disease affecting gay men; it’s called AIDS – can’t remember what it stands for. Churches already saying it’s the wrath of God – spoil sports.

  Still thinking about last trip to Rose and Loraine’s. Complex and hard to put one’s finger on it. Think I need to let go of all that for a while. Besides which there is enough to be dealing with here. I think I confuse my relationship with everyone around me by considering all of that. Tim’s basic needs are the most important. Love and warmth. Food and survival. Maslow’s hierarchy. Simple stuff. I’m barely up to more than that myself. Bit more warmth’d be a good thing.

  Saturday, 13 June 1981

  Timmy had a better week. Did another amazing painting the other day. Spent ages on it again. Lots of red. Not sure if that means anything. How would you know? He had other colours to use but did it mostly in red – few wee bits of black and yellow. It was very striking. The whole page was covered. Which in itself is interesting – most kids his age do a blob in the middle, but not him. And very concentrated about it too, he was.

  Bloody Queen’s been shot at ‘n’ all, at Trooping the Colour – blanks though – bet it freaked a few horses out – HM seemed rather cool about it. Good on her.

  Marcus Serjeant was the idiot. Interestingly, he said he’d been inspired by the assassination of John Lennon last year, and the attempts made on the lives of Ronald Reagan and the Pope this year. He was apparently rather excited about the fame Mark David Chapman secured after killing John Lennon, and after John Hinckley’s attempt on Reagan he said he fancied being the first one to take a pot shot at the Queen. He was just a teenager.

  Sunday, 14 June 1981

  Seven members of the Baha’i spiritual assembly in Hamadan in Iran were executed by firing squad today, following two years of persecution by the new Islamic regime there. When their bodies were later prepared for their funeral, it was apparent that six of them had been tortured as well. What’s wrong with this World? How can a peaceful Faith such as this pose such a threat to Islam? I think so far the Baha’is represent the only major religion not to have killed others in God’s name.

  Thursday, 18 June 1981

  Went to Rose and Loraine’s again this evening. Someone back from some meditation retreat talking about meditation generally and what it feels like. Discussion about light and about connecting with God. Someone brought up this thing about Tim ‘talking to the Angels’. Someone else launched into a monologue about the hierarchy of Angels. Didn’t really get it. Loraine lent me a book on the way out.

  Seems all the world’s Holy Writings have a lot to say about Angels. In Islam, malaikah means ‘belief in Angels’ and the word is mentioned a hundred times in the Qur’an. There’s a hierarchy of Angels, and the Islamic version of this is very similar to the Judaeo-Christian tradition. Angels as such are actually the lowest order in nine tiers, the next is Archangels, all the way up to Cherubim and Seraphim. They all have their different roles and responsibilities, having to do with maintaining order in Heaven, on Earth, and in the Universe generally. God’s Energy is strongest in the higher levels of Angels – so strong that we mere mortals can’t discern them. So it’s up to the lower levels – the Archangels and Angels – to act as intermediaries between Heaven and Earth. These are the Angels that interact most frequently with humans and carry prayers towards God. Mystics in all the traditions believe it is our communion with these figures that brings us into the presence of God. Some of us would prefer to view this talk of Angels as imagery, symbol, and metaphor.

  Anyway, my favourite bit in the book was this quote from Chesterton that I’d not read before: ‘Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly’. How lovely is that?

  Which reminded me of my favourite bit of Chesterton: ‘The world is divided into Conservatives and Progressives. Progressives go on making mistakes and Conservatives prevent the mistakes from ever being corrected.’ Well, I guess mistakes in the name of progress is at least something. Aren’t we supposed to learn from them?

  Wednesday, 29 July 1981

  Royal bloody wedding – otherwise-thought-of-as-sane people going very gaga. Can�
�t stand it. What is that obsession? It seems on the increase. Is it the fairytale? I guess so. Shame there’s no such thing. As no doubt the poor royal sods will find out for themselves. Dear, oh dear. Who would choose such a thing?

  As a juxtaposition, the Springboks are touring New Zealand and causing all sorts of mayhem. A match was cancelled in Hamilton the other day, in front of a full crowd, after several hundred protestors invaded the field. Apparently, there were rumours of a light plane being stolen and heading for the stadium. The Springboks beat Taranaki today, but the real tour action was outside Parliament. Kiwi police used batons on protestors. The news quoted Norman Kirk’s (former prime minister) prediction ten years ago that a South African tour of New Zealand would cause ‘the greatest eruption of violence this country has ever known’. Now there’s a little prescience for you.

  My life is disturbingly unromantic and uneventful. Disturbing? Perhaps too strong a word. Partly I like it that way. Partly I’ve chosen it, I suppose.

  Sent off a cynical piece on the state of the English psyche but can’t imagine any responsible editor wanting to print it – not what sells.

  Life continues here along the usual furrows and fissures – Tim being Tim, Jillie growing up, Alicia obviously stuck (i.e. not growing up), me being a pain in the arse for her – apparently. One does try. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m as stuck in being as unresponsive as she is. I don’t know any more what she wants from me, and I’m terrified to ask. It all seems a little pointless. What though is my responsibility in all this? What is my obligation to her? And to myself?

  I wonder if she’s thought about leaving. I suspect she has. Having Tim makes it harder of course. What man or woman would with conscience leave their spouse with an autistic child, or take one in tow on one’s own?

  I’m being very negative.

  I wonder about the impact of the space she’s in, on Tim and Jillie. She has no relationship to speak of with either of them at the moment. Do they feel that as a loss, some gap? Does her anger bear down on them in any way? Stop them from growing, from feeling free?

  This is dumb.

  Friday, 21 August 1981

  Libyan fighter jets ‘engaged’ a couple of US ones in the Gulf of Sidra on Wednesday, and the US shot down one Libyan plane. All very tense. Sadat’s mediation between East and West of crucial value. Not making him so many friends in his own region though. A shame. How is it that this thing that is Islam, at once so beautiful and accomplished, should be so riven?

  ‘Do you think Timmy’s got spiritual qualities?’ Tim rang his wife at her office.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just been thinking about it. I wanted to know what you thought.’

  ‘I’m at work!’

  ‘I know, but I thought you might like a call.’

  There was silence at the end of the phone.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Sorry. Bad timing.’

  ‘No. No, it’s fine. Really. I’m bored anyway. Nothing unusual about that though, I s’pose.’

  ‘I um … just think sometimes there’re things going on his head that we don’t know about.’

  ‘I think you’ve been going to too many of those meetings.’

  ‘It’s not about that.’

  ‘Well, what’s it about then?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you after some answers too? About your science. This is all part and parcel.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s nothing like it. I don’t confuse science with religion, Pete.’

  ‘It’s not about religion. It’s about what we don’t know and find hard to understand. It’s about making sense of things. Isn’t that what you want?’

  ‘Sorry hun, but I don’t think I’m with you on this one. Different planet for me.’

  ‘Okay, well, I just wondered if you were curious about that. I guess not. See you later then, eh?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Friday, 21 August 1981 continued

  Timmy having another ‘disturbed’ period. Unsettled. I don’t know if I can ever make any really positive difference in his life. If he is ‘spiritual’ – if what he’s all about is having some connection with the Universe that I don’t and can’t ever get, then I have no idea how I can ever support that in any way. Is it just enough that I love him and care for him and try each day to connect with him, and try to connect him to this world the rest of us live in? I feel some pressure to be something else for him. Is it possible that some instruction is being yelled in my ear but I can’t hear it? Nonsense.

  Have tried to broach this all with Lissy but there doesn’t seem to be a way of discussing it that would be comprehensible to her.

  Paradoxically she has written a paper in response to the Paris experiments which she asked me to read – it’s way over my head. Nice that she asked though. She’s spent hours, days and months pondering the implications of this. Is it that that draws her away from us, or does she pursue her work in order to escape us? Possibly she wouldn’t know the answer to that question herself.

  Monday, 24 August 1981

  Lennon’s killer sentenced to life in lieu of the non-effectiveness of his insanity plea. Odd it took so long for this trial and sentencing. Nearly a year.

  The year seems full of murder.

  Tim lay down on the sofa. His mind was buzzing with information and shooting lights. He’d worked hard to decipher all of it and translate it all on to his painting paper at the easel. In the end, he was frustrated because he knew the message wasn’t coming out right. He’d tried to tell this to those who came with the message, but they seemed intent on delivering their message and not hearing his. He was confused about some of the lines of things, which way the light travelled and when it was coming and when it was going. There was so much of it sometimes that it began to all spin round in his head and then it would lack clarity, and he didn’t like it when everything was fuzzy. He wanted it all to be clear. When it got too fuzzy he would have to find a line to concentrate on, to try and make everything clear again.. Or else he’d have to lie down and close his eyes.

  Even when it was fuzzy though it gave him lots of energy, so much sometimes he’d just jump up and down and up and down for such a long time. That helped make things clear too sometimes.

  No one would have known that Timmy knew about other places and other times. No one really understood or believed either that if Tim jumped up and down enough then it would change the world, that his present affected the future. Some knew the idea in theory, but no one really believed that if a butterfly flapped its wings it could cause a thunder storm on the other side of the world. Nor indeed that in another dimension the future had already happened and that a particular flock of Angels were depending on the favours of small children to see and understand and create a different possibility.

  Timmy stood at the crux of an idea between two worlds and many dimensions, and he had begun to gather the portent of his role in the universe. A great deal depended on his success.

  9

  Fulk was more animal than man – feral in nature, like the creatures he preyed upon. He’d known no person to make a difference to his life. His earliest memory was of straggling over a forest path alone, and later secreting through villages and peasantries in search of vague scratchings and rodents on which to survive. If he had another name other than Fulk, then it was lost to him, along with anyone who may have once known him, as well as from whence he came. It seemed an odd name to most ears, but Fulk knew he was Fulk and it seemed the right sort of name to him, although it wasn’t much heard and he didn’t much speak it himself, or anything particularly. He did not know his age since he didn’t count much past his two hands; a few who noticed a little of such things might have said they’d seen Fulk around about since Berta Draper’s husband passed on, or since Matthew Callim lost his leg to a foul creeping disease, or maybe even since Father Taylor arrived, a novice, to Lincoln, which meant around twenty-five years, and then there was the few years before that that Fulk had actually been on th
e earth at all. So he was not a young man. He had long hair like a mane, a beard which was really just a continuation of the mane, nothing for his feet to stand up in except the dirt that cased them, few teeth and quick-darting black eyes that held little thought behind them except an initiative to feed and avoid danger. His clothes were ragged and protected him from nothing. He smelt very bad, especially as it was hot these days, which at least meant he could be alive from the cold. Fulk didn’t notice his own smell so much and not many others had ever come close enough for it to be a bother.

  Fulk sat at a particular spot at the edge of the Thane’s lands where he knew he was hidden from sight of the Thane’s men who trailed the forest as a threat to poachers. Fulk was only a small bit worried that a man he knew and had seen taking a beast from the forest’s keep had been caught and taken away screaming his innocence. Fulk didn’t know what would happen to the man, nor did he care, although it was clear it was far from the man’s liking, and Fulk thought to pay extra attention to his own movements. He knew better than others how to hide himself and was sure none of the groundsmen had ever laid their eyes on him.

  Fulk had never acquired the traps other men used to catch animals. He was quiet and quick and he would catch small animals with his hands and rip their heads from their bodies or wring their necks. He could use his own teeth, such as he had, to bite into their fur and would skin the animals with his fingers. Commonly he caught birds, ducks, ferrets or rabbits, and he was not concerned to give a long wait to his trapping, and in this way he would surprise the most alert and quick of small creatures. He saw though that other men with their traps caught much larger animals and he found himself harbouring some small curiosity now about the taste of such beasts, in addition to some sense of the productivity gains of a trap in these stinking hot days. He knew where the man who had been taken had his traps hidden, and he knew also that the Thane’s men had not found all of these. Already he had removed a hare from one such trap, dead from its bleeding. He didn’t much like the hare – rabbit was more to his liking, but he didn’t mind it so much as to discard eating it. He’d thought he would set the trap again somewhere new, somewhere only he would know to find it, and see what different beasts would come along. And so he sat here now with a full belly, hidden, watching the small clearing where he had reset the other poacher’s trap and wondering what might come along to it. He hoped it would be some larger animal, and he laid down, still with an eye to the trap’s spot and an ear to the movements and the sounds of the woods.