by Jane Gardam
“So where’s His Eminence?”
The fire blew a mocking roll of smoke down the chimney and across the sitting room.
“This wind’s nasty,” said Edward. “Evil-tempered. It’s Hallowe’en and it feels like it.”
“That’s voodoo,” said Alan.
Lizzie remembered a Hallowe’en in her childhood when the cat had gone mad and run up the curtains, hissing at something that wasn’t there. “It’s all right,” she said. “The dogs are quiet.”
“So we’ll have to wait for our tea?” asked Edward.
At seven Alan said he was taking his steak and kidney and a cake or two upstairs. Soon, occasionally, above the storm, sounds of his computer game could be heard.
At eight, Lizzie gave Edward his pie and rang the minister, but got only the answerphone. “He’ll be on his way,” she said. “I’ll wait up. He can’t ring me from his car, mobiles not working up here.”
At ten Edward went up to bed and Lizzie rang the minister again with the same result.
She went upstairs and stood looking at the room she had prepared. Without her dead mother’s belongings it seemed large and bare, the sheets very white; the two dahlias in the white jug she had put by the bed shone out.
African people like bright colours, she had thought.
She crossed to the window now and looked at the night. Only five pinheads of light showed down the Dale, two of them intermittent behind labouring branches. No stars.
There’s an angry spirit abroad, she thought.
And then, What rubbish. Hallowe’en. All Souls. How can there ever be all souls wandering about? It’s Papist.
On the stairs she said loudly to the dark, “Anyway, tomorrow is All Saints. By midnight it will be All Saints.”
She sat now in the kitchen where the bishop’s dinner was still keeping hot over a saucepan between two plates. “He’ll not come now,” she said, “but I can’t just go to bed. If they turned up and everything in darkness, it wouldn’t do.” She slept as she sat, and much later woke and found that the wind had dropped and there was silence. A single cinder fell in the grate.
Her mother’s wall clock struck twelve.
She found herself standing up and looking first at the clock and then towards the door. And after a moment, somebody knocked on it.
Never! she thought.
“Never!” she called, crossing the stone flags. “Never! Well, you poor soul! Wherever have you been? Is Mr. Carritt there?”
On the doorstep stood a small, thoughtful black man in cassock, anorak and dog collar. He carried no luggage. He stood outlined against a pure, still night and a sea of stars.
“Bishop—oh, dear—come in. Where is Mr. Carritt? However did you get here?”
“I am alone,” said the bishop. “There has been a hitch, but I found my way. I understand that I am wanted here.”
“You are, you are. But—the dogs didn’t bark.”
“I am very fond of dogs.”
“You must be famished. I’ve kept you something hot. I’ll make up the fire.”
The bishop looked around him. The saucepan. The regiment of cakes.
“You are so very kind. But I’m afraid I’m rather beyond eating.”
“Then I’ll get you some tea.”
He looked at her and smiled, and she thought she had never seen anybody so calm and happy. “I’ll show you your room,” she said. “The bathroom’s along the passage.”
He looked kindly at the room, his dark face smiling at the dazzle of the sheets, the bright dahlias. “No tea,” he said.
“There’s a hot-water bottle in the bed,” she said.
“God bless you,” said he.
Climbing in next to Edward she thumped him. “Edward—he’s here. He’s all alone. He’s gone to bed,” but Edward was deep sunk in sleep as, in a moment, so was she.
And in the morning, not long after six, Edward and Alan already out milking, she was woken by the telephone shouting at her from the kitchen and stumbled down, half awake, without her dressing gown. A cool, bright day.
It was the minister. “Lizzie, Lizzie—I’m so sorry!”
“Why?” Then she remembered. “Oh, don’t be sorry. It didn’t matter. All was well. I don’t know how, but he—”
“Lizzie. Will you just sit down for a moment? I’m afraid—are you awake? Is this too early? I’m afraid I have some horrible news.”
“News?”
“The Bishop of Gurundi had a car crash last night on the A1. Near Scotch Corner. Just after six o’clock. I went straight to him at Northallerton Hospital and I was with him until midnight.”
“Midnight?”
“Yes. And then ... and then he died.”
Putting the phone down without a word, Lizzie went straight upstairs and knocked.
Then she went in and stood in her nightdress at the end of the bishop’s bed. The white sheets were there, unslept in, and the light of a heavenly morning streamed in through the window.
There was not a soul there.
LEARNING TO FLY
The vineyards filled the valley between the fluted mountains that already in the early morning seemed to float in heat. Here and there they parted to let a road through, encircle a village. At one point they gave way to an electric fence that surrounded a small country-house hotel. Inside the fence, Allie Vigne sat on a veranda watching the bad-tempered South African ibises strutting and shrieking as they plunged their curved beaks into the lawns. A hot wind had begun to blow and she sat dabbing the palms of her hands with a napkin as she waited for breakfast. She examined them. The black girl, Lily, with her baby under her arm, watched her from round the veranda door.
“You have your breakfast now, Mrs. Vigne, or wait for Mr. Vigne?”
“I’ll have some coffee now.”
“You reading your palms now, Mrs. Vigne?” Lily set the coffee on the table, the baby secure on her hip. He was young. Not able to sit up alone yet. He was beautiful.
Allie put her big white English hands on the table.
“You know how to read palms then, Mrs. Vigne?”
“No. Oh, no. I’ve just read things about it in magazines.”
Lily and the baby went away, and Allie brought her hands up before her face again, looking at the familiar long straggling lifeline.
“Will you read my palm next, Mrs. Vigne?” Lily asked, coming back suddenly with toast. “Will you read the other girls’ palms? Linda’s going to have an operation. Will you read Friedrich’s palm?”
“No, no.” But Lily stretched out a hand that held Friedrich’s little pink and blue pad inside it. The baby’s lifeline, headline, heartline were all safely in place. “Oh, how lovely,” said Allie and stroked the baby’s palm with a finger. The baby laughed.
“Is he going to live a long time? Am I going to live a long time?” and Lily held out her own sweet plump hand, the smallest adult hand Allie had ever seen.
With the shortest lifeline. It stopped abruptly, not an inch long.
It’s all nonsense, thought Allie.
“Yes,” she said, “it looks as if you’ll both live for ever.”
“How many babies will I have?”
Allie looked and said, “Three.”
“Three? Then Friedrich is my last child.”
“You look much too young to have three children.”
“Yes, I am very young. And I am very strong. Your hands are very strong, Mrs. Vigne, but my hands are stronger. Look.” She flattened out her hand, swung the baby from under her other arm, stood his tiny parcels of feet on it, let go of him and raised him, his legs straight, high in the air. He shouted with joy and Allie screamed.
“He’ll fall! Stop! Oh, he’ll fall on the tiles.”
The baby laughed. He stood almost on tiptoe. A diver about to plunge, arms out gracefully sideways. A bird about to fly. “Oh, Lily! Stop!”
“It’s O.K. Babies can. In my family. Easy, easy. They like it—look! My mother did it with me and her mother with her.
We are learning to fly.” She bounced the baby up off her hand and caught him as he came down. They spun round together, laughing.
“Never do that again while I’m around,” said Allie.
It was the Vignes’ last day of holiday and they drove up into the mountains to a small town where the streets were lined with lavender. Over lunch they noticed the scent of it was mixed with an angry burning smell that came up from the plain.
“It really is too hot,” said Allie. “It’s time we went home.”
They drove on and what seemed to be the whole Cape stretched below them, the miles of immaculate vineyards. Here and there smoke rolled across them, and on the way home they came on closed roads, police, fire engines, helicopters. They pressed the button on their hotel room keyring to get through the electric fence, showered and changed, and went out again to a restaurant in the city for dinner. The smoke on the plain behind them now seemed to be halfway up the mountains and on the way back Allie cried out, “Look!”
The whole sky northwards was a wild red, and flames were running up and down the hills that seemed to have stepped much closer. As they drove up the dirt track to the electric gates animals sprinted out of the grasses. A huge owl with ears swung down. It sat watching, from a post. The automatic gates closed silently behind them.
“We couldn’t get out,” she said, “if—. And we’re alone tonight. The girls all sleep out on the farms.”
Her husband said he wasn’t worried. “Not unless the wind changes,” he said.
All night from their window Allie watched the flames rippling up and down the hills, blossoming crimson, sometimes miles apart. She believed that she could hear the roar.
She thought, Lily and the baby are somewhere out there.
And saw again the short lifeline on Lily’s palm.
She fell asleep at the window and awoke stiff and late, her husband already packed for the plane, examining the airline tickets. “You worry too much,” he said.
Downstairs in the kitchen they could hear the girls clinking dishes, laughing and talking with the babies.
“Oh, I was scared in the night,” said Allie to Lily on the veranda.
“Us, too,” said Lily, “but it happens all the time. Just heat.”
“It’s a dangerous country.”
“Oh yes, but please come back to it,” said Lily, “and now please let us have a hug,” and holding Friedrich she hugged first Allie and then Allie’s husband tight, laughing and crying.
“We may not meet again,” said Allie. “Nobody knows the future. Nobody knows, Lily.”
“Yes, but look at Friedrich,” said Lily. “Up, up he goes. Now don’t be afraid, Mrs. Vigne.”
And Friedrich spread his small arms sideways, stood up, straight in the air on his mother’s little hand.
“Look at him, Mrs. Vigne, look at him flying.”
THE VIRGINS OF BRUGES
On the morning of Christmas Eve my sister’s husband died. I live in Paris. She lives in Herne Bay. She telephoned me at once and at once I said that I would come.
“Of course you can’t come.”
“I shall start now.”
“It’s Christmas. You’ll never get a seat on a plane from Paris.”
“Of course I will.”
“You won’t. I’ve asked.”
She had already asked. She did want me.
But even if she had not wanted me I would have gone to her. Frédérique is unlike me. She is a mother, wife of a farmer, beautiful, resourceful, practical, intellectual. I am a small, short nun.
“I’ll ring the airport,” I said. “If there’s really no hope, I’ll try the Tunnel.”
“The Tunnel won’t help, it would be worse than the airport. You’d have to go all the way up to London and then back down here to the coast again.”
“I’ll try the ferry from Zeebrugge.”
“No, try Ostend. Ostend to Ramsgate. I’ll meet you at Ramsgate. Ring me.”
“Oh, Frédérique. Oh, I don’t believe it, now that it’s happened.” It had been expected.
“Neither do I,” she said. “Gentil. Kind Ursule.”
We were at one again after years of distance. We are all that is left of our French family.
I took the first train possible to Ostend and late in the afternoon arrived there to stinging sleet and darkness, and to find that there would be no more cross-Channel ferries until Boxing Day.
“Zeebrugge? Calais?”
None. Not until Boxing Day.
It may be imagined what sort of people would be staying over Christmas alone in the cheapest hotel in Ostend. The one I was standing in echoed with concrete, and smelled of disinfectant and old booze. A desolate Belgian yawned at the desk. He was cleaning his nails with a biro. I looked at a room. Thin bedding, stained carpet, no bathroom, brown high shadowy walls. The smell of canals.
I took a bus into Bruges, the city of holy treasures, the city of Benedictine sisters behind their high walls, and of pretty bridges over swan-scattered water. The city of The Drop of the Holy Blood, of the Michelangelo Virgin sitting in her chapel so straight and young and wise.
My community had allowed me very little money for the journey, but surely I could find somewhere there to sleep. Then I would go to a midnight service.
Bruges is a short distance from Ostend. I stepped out of the bus with my suitcase and went searching. I had expected some sort of bustle of Christmas in Bruges and a barrage of bells. I did not know Belgium. Nothing perhaps had started yet? It was quiet. The snow fell, settling as slush, but it was growing colder. It was dark. I walked about the Steenstraat and along the Wollestraat, and at last I was directed to the south of the city and the holy sisters. I am not a Catholic nun and I don’t wear a habit, but I wondered if nevertheless they might take me in. However, all was closed.
And so I walked over slabs and cobbles and paving stones and crossed several bridges over black water, and somewhere near the Street of the Blind Donkey I found a small hotel. It was too expensive, but I was tired and cold, and it seemed warm and comfortable. I stood for a long time at the desk ringing for attention until at last someone came out of an office where a television screamed. He did not seem overjoyed to see me and told me that they did not serve any food.
Might I telephone from my room to England?
He said there were no telephones in the rooms and I would do better to phone from a restaurant when I went out to dinner.
So after another walk in the snow I found a restaurant that was not too expensive. It was packed full of people smoking and shouting, but the food was hot and good, and they sat me in a quiet corner. I telephoned Frédérique from a phone on the wall and all she could say now was “Gentil, gentil,” again and again and again. “Gentil, Ursule, gentil.”
Frank had been young. Not forty. A fruit farmer. He had orchards, which he had linked under the ground with pipes of running water. The trees were a glory in spring and in autumn, when I had occasionally been there to help pick; spare apples stood in golden pyramids on the grass rides, swept together after harvest. Such riches. There had been fields of strawberries too, grown in trays like shop counters so that the pickers didn’t have to bend down, and we had all stood at the counters, about forty of us, laughing and talking across the field and our fingers smelling of strawberry juice all the summer. Poor Frank marching by on his long legs. The children around.
I said to Frédérique, “It’s got to be Boxing Day. I’m so sorry,” and she said, “But are you safe? Are you all right there?”
“I’m fine. Good hotel. Don’t worry. I’m furious, but don’t worry.”
“But weren’t you needed in Paris? Look—you must go back.”
“Of course not.”
“But what’ll you do? Tonight and tomorrow?”
“I’ll go to bed early, or I may find a midnight service. It should be good in Bruges on Christmas Day. Don’t meet me on Boxing Day. Have you a friend there?”
“Dozens if I want them, but I do
n’t. I’ll meet you at Ramsgate. Love you.”
She said “Love you.” Frédérique!
So then I had coffee at the corner table and went back into the streets to look for a church. I did not want Notre Dame or famous St. Saviour’s. I wanted a quiet church in a side street. I didn’t want roaring carols tonight.
Soon I found one. It was in a wide, silent street and loomed down at me from the top of a broad flight of stone stairs. Down the stairs flowed a red carpet, presumably for Christmas. It was wet and dirty with snow. Here and there on the steps people were sitting in twos and threes, and one alone. They were mostly girls. I stepped round them up the steps, wondering why they were sitting out in the snow. When I reached the top step I turned and looked down at them. The girl sitting alone had fallen sideways. In the shop doorways across the street I could see other people standing in shadows, quite silent. Quite still.
Then one of the girls on the steps cried out and another one turned and looked up at me and began to laugh.
I was rather frightened and went quickly towards the church, where the high doors stood open and a man came forward out of the dark towards me and bowed. He was in evening dress and his hair was short and black and seemed painted on his head, like a harlequin. His face was blank. He stood inside the doors near a font at the top of the main aisle, and on either side of the font were two giant metal candelabras lit with hundreds of white candles blowing in the icy air. It looked as if a pilgrimage had just passed that way, but when I looked down the centre of the church, the pews were empty. Above them hung the shredded flags of old battles in two limp lines, as they must have hung for centuries.
But up in the chancel, which was as high and wide as a cathedral chancel, everything blazed crimson and gold and was crowded with people, and behind them, in all the niches for saints and bishops, there was nothing but the gleam of coloured glass. In front of these niches, stood a very long altar lit by more candles, though some had fallen over. Around it, on every side, people perched on high stools whispering and sniggering and embracing, and lolling like the people outside on the steps. And I thought, This must be some sort of Belgian Christmas pageant.
