Angels in the Architecture

by Sue Fitzmaurice

  ‘I really don’t think…’

  ‘You don’t think, do you? You didn’t think at all in fact! In fact, you don’t really give a shit, and frankly you can go take a running bloody jump! C’mon, Tim, let’s get out of here.’

  The clerk was becoming red-faced. Pete launched his most full-on glare at her and sped round out of the clinic doors again, leaving the clerk standing there all huffed up with nowhere to go.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said hurriedly to the fat man just coming back in.

  ‘No problems. Hope the wee fella’s all right?’

  Pete didn’t answer and sped off down the hall to the front entrance. He stopped briefly at the front desk to inform the clerk there of his son’s rescue and then bolted to his car. Tim had stopped his whining, and Pete laid him gently on the back seat to change his nappy and then secured Tim into his car seat, ultimately throwing the soiled disposable into a nearby rubbish bin, not caring in the least that this may have been an inappropriate gesture.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat, gripped the steering wheel, and took a deep breath, letting it out forcefully before starting the ignition.

  Jesus, what next?

  Another deep breath.

  Oh dear. That was probably a bit over the top. ‘Ay, Tim? Your da’ just went a bit bonkers at that woman, I think. Probably won’t have us back. Whaddya reckon? Take you everywhere twice, ay?’ My gorgeous boy.

  ‘Alicia, got a minute?’ Dryden Cooper leant round Alicia’s office door. ‘Just want to introduce Gerry Bernstein.’

  ‘Oh sure.’ Alicia got up from her chair as Dryden stepped back and a man about her age came round behind Dryden and held his hand out to her.

  ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ said Gerry Bernstein, tall, tanned, and fair-haired.

  ‘Nice to meet you too. Welcome to Lincoln,’ replied Alicia.

  ‘Thanks, I’m enjoying being here.’

  ‘Gerry’s taking up the new appointment in the department, Alicia, and unfortunately, as Peter Dickerson can’t make the lecture this evening after all, Gerry’s graciously agreed to fill in. So we can look forward to some exciting new debate on holograms. Ought to rattle a few cages!’

  ‘Yes, indeed! Great!’ Alicia said.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. You know, I can speak to a lecture theatre of 500 students quite happily, but put a dozen of my colleagues and peers in a room with me, and I’m shaking in my shoes,’ replied Bernstein.

  ‘Oh, I know that feeling,’ Alicia said. ‘And they are wolves here, I should warn you!’ She and Dryden smiled.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ Bernstein laughed. ‘I feel a whole lot better.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. Really. It’ll be fine. We need a few fresh ideas round here, don’t we, Dryden?’

  ‘Absolutely. Someone to keep you company, Alicia!’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘Dryden’s told me about your research, Alicia. I’m looking forward to talking with you about it. I guess you’re pretty interested in the Paris experiments. I met with Alain Aspect and some of his team last month actually.’

  ‘Really? Well, yes, I would love to talk about that with you.’

  ‘Well, I guess you two have a date then,’ said Dryden. ‘We’ll being seeing you this evening, Alicia?’

  ‘Oh yes, for sure. I was planning on coming. Nice to meet you, Gerry. Look forward to talking to you more.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The two men left.

  Interesting…

  Pete got to school early and got a good park. He carried Tim in his arms towards Jillie’s classroom and Tim seemed happy to be held and didn’t struggle to get down, to Pete’s relief. He amused Tim in the school corridor, looking at the many brightly coloured paintings adorning the walls and reading the school notices that he usually didn’t get round to giving any attention. Tim was calm. Other parents milled around waiting.

  When the bell rang, a hail of classroom doors flew open on both sides of the corridor and several hundred children filled it in seconds. Tim buried his head in his father’s shoulder, and Pete waited for Jillie to spot him, as she usually did.

  ‘Dad!’ Jillie yelled over the hubbub beside him.

  ‘Hi, darling. Got your bag?’

  ‘Dad. This is Louisa,’ indicating a smiling girl of similar age beside her. ‘She wants me to go to her house to play.’

  ‘Oh, ah…’

  ‘Hello. I’m Sally,’ said a smartly dressed brunette coming up behind the two girls. ‘Louisa’s been asking if she can play with Jillie.’

  ‘Oh, well, Louisa’s welcome to come to our house if she likes. We live out at Nocton Fen.’

  ‘Oh no, really. I’m sure it would be easier for you if Jillie came to us,’ said Sally, apparently referring to Tim.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Jillie. ‘Come to our house, Louisa. I’ve got a playhouse in my garden that Dad made for me. You’ll really like it.’

  ‘Can I, Mummy?’

  ‘Well, really I think it would be better if Jillie came to our house.’

  ‘But I want to go to Jillie’s house. Pleeeease.’

  ‘Um, actually, no, darling. If you want to play with Jillie, she’ll have to come to our house,’ said Sally, and then looking at Pete, ‘I can easily drop Jillie home to you later on.’

  And in an instant Pete could see all that was going on in the poor, misguided woman’s head, and he didn’t know whether to despair or be furious. Only he was exhausted from fury already, and so he stood there dumbly, staring at her, as she clearly pretended to project her enthusiastic hospitality for having his daughter visit them rather than her own daughter risk some unknown debacle that would surely ensue from contact with Jillie’s brother. Pete would have liked to explain to his daughter that she was better off avoiding this kind of crap, but Louisa seemed a nice little girl and Jillie ought to have as many and whichever friends she wanted, or so Pete told himself.

  ‘Well, whatever works I guess,’ said Pete.

  And amid the to-ing and fro-ing of the corridor, the two adults and two children considered this.

  ‘I think I’ll go with my dad,’ said Jillie to Louisa. ‘I’ll come and play another time. Okay?’

  ‘Oh well, we’ll work that out for another day I’m sure,’ said Sally, and she smiled at Pete and took her daughter by the hand and led her away, the two girls looking despondently and resignedly at each other.

  ‘C’mon, Dad. Let’s go.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s go.’ And Pete turned and pushed his way through the crowded corridor holding on to his son who still had his head locked into his father’s shoulder, and pleased to be with his daughter, who he decided in that moment was one ballsy wee chick and he was her biggest fan.

  Pete lay on his back on the couch while Tim lay asleep face down on his chest and belly.

  I love you, Tim. Everything’s gonna be fine.

  You just chill out, buddy. I’ve got the world all sorted for you. You don’t have to worry about a thing.

  I know you’re in there, Timmy. And I’ll find you. I’m looking. We’ll do all this stuff we have to do to get Tim out of there. And to hell with… Well, we don’t have to think about all that other shit. We’ll make it happen for you. I’ll help you, my wee boy. I’m here, and I’ll always be here.

  You just relax.

  Me and whatever God in His Heaven have it sorted.

  Okay? Everything’s cool.

  Everything’s cool.

  Wednesday, 9 September 1981

  Tim did another amazing painting today – lots of reds and yellows and orange, with two thick black strokes down the middle and then some small black dots to the side. I watched him do it – huge concentration – like he was pouring everything he had into it. Looked like a couple of very tall buildings on fire. Don’t know what the black dots were. He was exhausted the rest of the day after that.

  12

  ‘Pass us tha’ chipper, Dem. Aye, tha’ one.’

  ‘Wha’s i’ gonna be
, Gree. ‘Nuvver one ‘a them leafy things?’ said Denholm, passing a small adze to his older brother.

  ‘Aye, bu’ this one’s special, Dem. S’gonna go in a special wall wiv’ blocks from all carvers ‘n’ masons. Carvers’ library they’re callin’ it – more loik jus’ a practice wall t’ me. So in ’undreds ‘a years, people’ll walk through ’ere an’ see as ’ow there were so many of us built Cathedral back up again.’

  ‘’Oo’s gonna want see tha’?’

  ‘Ah, dunno, Dem, bu’ tha’s wha’ they’s sayin’, an’ I’ve gotta make this me best tile ever, seein’ as i’s s’posed to last forever. ’Ere, take this lotta chips away o’er there, willya? An’ go find Thurstan. ’E’s probly larrikin’ abou’ somewhere.’

  ‘Orroight.’

  The two brothers were in the far eastern end of the Cathedral, in the southern choir aisle, surrounded in part by debris still to be cleared away and in part by the detritus of rebuilding – the two aspects somewhat indistinguishable unless one was closely engaged in the restructuring of the great building.. The roof was open here, and this brought either blessed relief when the occasional wind blew through, or else the torture of the hot sun for those workers engaged in some activity in its direct path, and worse still if they were at the top of the wooden scaffolding slowly rising further and further up the inside of the building.

  Thurstan Warriner, the youngest of the three brothers sent to the Cathedral site, had proved on occasion in particular need of his eldest brother’s authority as he had found in the grand departure from his small home an explorer’s spirit and a jester’s view of life, not the more restrained humour of the workers that was inherent in his new surroundings. On the one hand this was taken as a youthful exuberance within the large community of workers, but on the other hand Geoffrey Warriner knew his brother walked a fine line in a strict and punitive society. He protected and scolded his brother as he could and thought often of the reassurance and shelter of his mother’s safe keeping. He had worried as much for her as for his own self and his two brothers in his charge, but mostly he remembered the sanctuary of his family. His own sense of the adventure to come had been curtailed quickly by the responsibility he bore for his brothers, along with his need now to be taken as an adult, a man among men, making his way in the world.

  Gree had found a new opportunity to be accepted as such when the evidence of his carving meant he became one of many new apprentices to the guilded stonemasons at work now on the cathedral. It would be many years to become guilded himself and earn his own tools, but it was a better start than to be merely a labourer with a less certain future. His brothers had been taken on by the same mason, but theirs was just to fetch and carry, although Gree intended himself to give them some skill in hopes they may also find a greater destiny. His youngest brother seemed at times though little capable of any such promise.

  ‘Where’d you see ’im last then, Gree?’

  ‘’E were ’ere a while ago. ’E could be anywhere now. Ask about. An’ get ’im puttin’ ’imself t’use somewhere. ’E ain’t no good if ‘e’s foolin’.

  ‘Aye.’

  Denholm scooped up the chips from his brother’s carving and deposited them in a barrow that was collecting rubble and wreckage to be taken away, or else sorted for foundations or other parts that needed filling. Dusting off his hands, he headed for the west end, mainly intact still and already covered to dizzying heights with rickety scaffolds, creeping away up its front and back.

  Dem had no idea where his brother was but had discovered that due to his brother’s clowning, just about everyone else now knew his brother, so he judged it would not be difficult to find him..

  Fulk had nestled into a low branch again near the edge of the pond, and had watched the swan watching him for some time. He did not recognise the creature as beautiful since this was a virtue – a morality – that was beyond his view of the world. He had though considered the bird might have magical powers, and so he thought to be very careful about it. He had grown to feel the bird was now his, and he gave shrewd attention to the manner in which he might capture it. He wondered if the other poachers had sought the bird also and decided they must have since he could see its breast was broad and held the promise of a considerable feast.

  Fulk eyed the bird’s long neck and knew his strength was sufficient to snap it, but the real mastery would come in a necessary speed and deception. He would wait. This was what he was used to anyway. Except lately, and just the once so far, when he had used the traps of the other men. Generally he used only his hands, assured of his own swiftness and efficiency. He would wait for the urgency to come upon him as it always did. When he waited and watched long enough it always came. Everything was shut out from his view, from all his senses, except himself and his prey, and he would find himself suddenly moving from what had been a long stillness, as though he were propelled by unseen forces, an instinct that operated as a bond between hunter and hunted. He would feel this bond such that he felt even the prey itself knew he was coming for it, that it surrendered to its role as the hunted, just as he was driven by the greater impulse to hunt. It was the way things were.

  So he waited now. Sometimes he would wait days, watching the way an animal moved, its habits, what frightened it, until he knew everything about it, until he understood it and almost became the animal himself. Because he studied his prey so closely, he could mimic the movements and sounds of most animals he had caught. And although he killed many animals, he considered most of them his kin, his clan. This was not a view he had of people.

  Fulk knew that some animals were greater than others, that they were more nimble, more resourceful, more discerning than other creatures. He could even see that some were more gentle, more imposing and impressive, more elevated than others. But this did not suggest to him that such animals were to be excluded as quarry. It meant instead that the hunt of them demanded a greater prowess on his part, and this was only fair and right, for no such animal should be duped by a mediocre huntsman.

  It was a hot day and everyone knew that to be very careful on a hot day was always wise, or the heat took over men’s rational minds and a lot of bad things could happen very fast that no one wanted to have happen, and afterwards they’d always be surprised that all hell was let loose when they’d never planned any such thing.

  Father Taylor was not particularly of a mind to walk through the small, dusty lanes of Torksey, but he determined he would see for himself the state of commerce and community.

  The priest fancied his presence may have some calming effect, though in fact the villagers viewed such a rare visit to their domain with some strangeness and not a little suspicion. Combined with the small priest’s sharp demeanour, his brief sojourn beyond his own residence, calling as he did on individual families, served only to heighten the town’s disquiet, not that the priest in his arrogance understood such.

  The Father did not, in his visits, attend on Jacob Yazd, a Jew and a tailor. The priest held no ill t’ward the man but saw him simply as not part of his congregation and none of his responsibility, and it was not unfortunately, within his disposition or character to act with friendliness to all God’s creatures.

  Indeed, his singular lack of amiability was an extraordinary deficiency that may otherwise have changed the fate of so many. Berta Draper saw this lack in the man and the consequences of it when she spotted the Father emerging from the Smith’s. She saw it as a picture of a disturbing unravelling future as he walked past the Jew’s small home with what she perceived as a skewed sideways glance to the place. Perhaps there was a slight hesitation in his step also, that she would convey later, as she watched him proceed to visit the homes and workings that followed on along from the Jew’s, and on down the lane.

  Oddly, Berta was a villager neither afraid nor critical of the priest. She could see his fear as well as his stupidity and saw him as she saw any other man trying to make a certain way for himself, and like many without much of the necessary ta
lent or opportunity to achieve his heart’s desire. Such was the lot of most and Berta gave little mind to it. Nor was she concerned that the priest carried a suspicion as others did for the Jew. It was just that at the very moment she saw him walk past that place she saw also the connectedness between Jew and Church – Church as institution, Church as army, Church as politics, and Church as structure. And for sure the Jew did not come off well in any of what she saw in the future, near or long distant.

  Father Taylor himself, despite his wanderings and his intention, was preoccupied. He had felt the strain of his discussions with Bishop Hugh. How could the Church lead the people away from their ignorance and fear? What did God have in store for them? Was God indeed to be feared? How was it that this agitation found targets in undue places – a bird, a small boy, the Jews? What could the Church bring to the life and soul of such as the Warriners? What would Hugh bring to a small village flock if it was he in the priest’s shoes? Surely there was no future for them other than that prescribed by their current condition, or perhaps worse. But certainly not better.

  The idiot boy himself the priest had found innocuous. The mother though bewildered him. He had seen her in his church for many years and he knew her to be a pious woman, one who had suffered much but acted always with charity and a quiet solicitude. He had felt in her presence an agitation – an agitation that was his – that he could fathom only as a sure reflection of those very qualities he himself lacked, including a serenity that belied her lot. Among the general flotsam of his parish of rustics and boors, Alice Warriner posed a unique promise of the evolution of humankind, as well as a threat to this man, almost equally small-minded as those whose souls he deigned to guide.

  ‘You must be the refuge in their storm, my son … ,’ the Bishop had said to him, and he could see that the Bishop himself had all of the qualities and more that might carry the day, but for himself he felt more and more ill-suited to his purpose..

  ‘…. and a balm to their suffering. This young boy needs your special care and attention, as do his family. That the rebuilding of the Cathedral has taken three of their sons is an enormous sacrifice, and indeed should not have occurred. The mother must suffer terribly. You must visit this family and provide the strength of the Church for their peace.’