Twelve

This parish church is dedicated to St Lawrence, a particularly happy choice since he was the deacon who, when ordered to hand over his treasures to the Prefect of Rome, offered him his congregation; at which the Prefect, whose imagination was lamentably limited, suspected deception and had him roasted to death on a griddle. I’ve no doubt that had a similar request been made of Mompesson, he’d have felt justified in responding the same way.

Despite the evident antiquity of the churchyard, only two of the tombs date from the period of the plague. The first belongs to an early victim, Abell Rowland; and the second, as you can see, is that of Catherine Mompesson. If you look closely, you can also see how the mason originally misspelt her name and the final ‘o’ of Mompesson had to be replaced.

But whatever the confusion over her name, there could have been none over her character. Even allowing for seventeenth-century panegyric she was clearly a remarkable woman. Soon after the arrival of the disease and long before any question of quarantine, she begged her husband to quit the village, if only for the sake of his family. But he was in no doubt where his prime duty lay. He nevertheless tried to persuade her to leave without him: a proposal she stoutly refused. So she dispatched their children to relatives, never to see either again; while despite a constitution already wracked by consumption, she remained to work tirelessly by his side.

Then one August day, all their worst fears were realised when, having seized a rare moment of tranquillity to walk together in the fields, she turned to him to comment on the sweetness of the air, a sure sign of rising fever, and subsequently died. He himself recorded her name in the parish register. She was the two hundredth victim of the plague, which in September was to carry off another twenty-four. And as an Eyam poet has written when surveying the scene, with a sentiment far removed from sentimentality, his deepest distress was that he’d been unable to give her so much as a parting kiss… The pain and the parallels are almost too hard to bear.

And her memory is honoured to this day; for every Plague Sunday, which by tradition is the last in August, the present rector’s wife lays a rose wreath on her predecessor’s tomb… But now let’s cross to the church wall to view the memorial to Thomas Stanley, Eyam’s other exemplary cleric.

 

I understand the urge to make virtues out of necessities, but it can be taken too far. There’s Uncle Sinclair, confined to bed, breathing through an oxygen mask with measured doses of poison dripping into his veins, and yet he still claims to he grateful. Even in a closed ward he’s living a more open life than ever before. He’s no longer able to hide behind old air-force slang and a bluff, gruff manner. It’s as though at last he’s discovered his true identity after years of staring at an identikit picture: one formed from so many false impressions that criminality seemed etched in every line.

He may be about to die, but he has little fear and no resentment. What would have been terrible, he said, was if he’d died of anything else; for then he’d have died in despair. But AIDS was no way as lethal as the lack of love. And he reminded me of my childhood questions on the nature of the after-life… If Heaven were in the clouds, would there be clouds in Heaven? Was Hell really a burning pit? He couldn’t speak about Heaven; but Hell had undoubtedly been his life before he fell ill.

He recapped… I’ll recap. His life both began and ended in the war. He joined up with such high hopes and soon gained his half-wing. But then his wings were clipped and his fuselage peppered; he was shot down over the Channel where for sixteen hours he was tossed back and forth by the waves. The Westcliff front reappeared as a mocking memory; and there wasn’t a single spot of blue to be seen: just jets of jet black, until he supposed the whole sea to be alive with squids squirting their inky juices at him: in his eyes, in his mouth, in his hair, in his freezing flying-suit. Sometimes when he woke up in a bed soaked with sweat he imagined he was back in those icy waters. And they were the only times he felt afraid.

If it weren’t for my father, he confided, he’d have gone under – and he didn’t just mean the waves. For he continued to drift after the war, using it first as an entrée and then as an excuse, until people lost patience and all he had left was his pension and a head that was still half at sea. But he was offered the job at Edensor, where he could never be sure if my grandmother failed to make the connection or thought it wiser not to ask. He smiled phlegmatically, coughed and put on his mask.

Then when my parents were finally married, no one was happier than he. They were the two people he loved most in the whole world… And a pernicious picture flashed across my mind which I quickly suppressed… What especially surprised me was to learn that my mother had been within a hair’s breadth of calling it off. They’d waited so long that she felt the future lacked reality or at least that the reality would prove unsustainable. And he was the one who dissuaded her: she owed it to herself and to my father; although what he meant was she owed it to him. He needed them both so much; and he needed them together. Having a twin sister may have made identity more difficult, but it made identification a great deal easier… and guilt so much harder to bear.

He felt that guilt when he saw her withdraw, first from her husband and then from the world. He felt it again as he looked into my eyes, at once so troubled and so trusting. He was very scared for me and convinced that one day I’d crack under the strain… What he’d never suspected was that that strain would be him. And he fled in horror with nothing but a lifelong overnight-case. He came to London as though he were a fifteen-year-old runaway – I thought of Rees – not a fifty-three-year-old deserter. But if he supposed he was travelling light, he was much mistaken; for he was weighed down with all the guilt of Adam after the first sin, or rather Cain after the second. Did I know what the mark of Cain was? Loneliness. I made no reply.

He found a job in a hotel kitchen. And that soon became the essence of his existence – washing up, pottering, scrubbing floors, pottering; two hot meals a day and no questions asked. They respected one another’s privacy; but then that was about the only respect they did have. And for a while he enjoyed his new-found anonymity. He despised who he was and welcomed the chance to reinvent himself. He didn’t know if he were believed, but in any event no one challenged him, no one expected anything of him and no one pursued him when he left. Such were the facts of hotel life: the staff was almost as casual as the clientele.

But there was a darker side to that anonymity and he plunged into promiscuity… He rasped and retched; he seemed to be fighting for breath, not to say words… He paid little attention to AIDS, which he considered a disease of the young, although his confidence was to prove cruelly misplaced. And it wouldn’t be for the last time; since a waitress he’d thought he could trust revealed his test result straight to the manager, who sacked him on the spot. And he had no redress: no union, no tribunal and no compensation. Those were the facts of hotel life too.

He lost his job and his room and his dignity. He slept rough for over a year and that’s no empty form of words: on the Embankment and at Lincoln’s Inn Fields and, for a while, in the celebrated Cardboard City, which he claims has become so institutionalised that there’s both a word-of-mouth waiting list and a code of conduct as complex as that in any gentlemen’s club. And the roughness wasn’t so much from the other homeless people as from the young toughs and even children who considered them fair game. He has a scar four or five inches long on his inner arm from a well-spoken boy who skidded up on his skateboard, slashed him, laughed and slid away. I was appalled; but he was resigned. It was an environmental hazard along with the cold and the rats and the rattle of the railway, and the policemen who moved them on at dawn.

I squeezed his hand; he responded with a fruity, throaty fit of coughing. He swilled and swallowed some saliva, then tushed into a tissue; I quickly let go. A neighbour summoned a nurse, who checked his oxygen and drip. And I gazed at the body that shivered and shook and slobbered and slithered. It was no longer one I recognised. Or was it just that our positions were reversed? I remembered his teaching me to skate at Edensor, and lifting me out of the marsh when I fell through the ice. But no one could lift him out of his quagmire; the liquid he was drowning in was in his own lungs. And with a strange synchronicity he asked if I remembered how he’d taught me to skate as a boy… and my revulsion when my boots squelched in the mud.

He was tranquil again, although I was afraid I’d overtaxed him and suggested I left. But he wanted to talk. He couldn’t understand why he was constantly told to save his strength. There’d be time enough for silence. So I edged closer and listened… Despite having twice admitted him to hospital, it was purely by chance that his health adviser had discovered how he was living and put him in touch with Plus IV. He’d only agreed to see them for her sake, since it was her unique talent to suggest that whatever anyone’s problems hers were ten times worse. And yet he was beginning to suspect it was a deliberate tactic. If so, it’d worked.

He’d always been a Christian, however much he used to offend me by referring to the vicar as a sky pilot – which may of course have been a relic of the RAF… And at their first meeting Jonathan had offered him communion. To many people he played down his priesthood; but he’d judged, and rightly, it was what he needed most. And though his sense of desecration was still greater when faced with Christ’s blood, Jonathan banished his fears. He drank before and after him, infusing him with confidence and hope.

He began to take part in a few of the group’s activities, and he found that he was no longer alone, either in his symptoms or his sexuality. And it’d taken the one to draw out the other. For the first time in years he discovered he could talk about himself; and what was more, he could laugh. Someone told a joke, at which he chuckled and then felt pierced with guilt. There he was: a person with AIDS, laughing. He should have been tearing out his hair – what little he had left – not enjoying himself as though he didn’t have a care in the world. And then he realised: he didn’t, not one. And he laughed even louder at the wonder of it all.

He was no longer friendless nor homeless, for Jonathan also offered him a room in the clergy house. And I felt a pang, although whether of remorse or envy I wouldn’t like to say. Since then he’s moved out into his own flat, where he has help… oh yes… although he continues to assist in the group whenever he can: in meetings, in the office or counselling the newly diagnosed. He’s been amazed at how many people find it easier to talk to someone older. And when I revealed that one of them was Mark, he purred with pleasure and contentedly closed his eyes.

I stretched and gathered my belongings. I was preparing to disappear when I caught sight of Jason… Jason – Jason: does that ring any bells? How about if I mention an Indian restaurant, a stolen briefcase? Yes, just as I thought: a whole carillon… I blinked; I hadn’t seen him for over two years, but his face had scarcely altered. At first I wondered if it were my memory playing tricks; but no, it was my life. For he made straight towards us, kissed Uncle Sinclair and stared at me.

Fortunately, he failed to recognise me which, quite apart from relieving my mind, removed any vestige of self-importance. My uncle introduced us and explained that Jason was his helper, rather like a buddy only untrained and informal – highly informal. I hadn’t known that he had one… But then he hadn’t known that he had a nephew either. So he grinned and said that that made us square. Oh, if only we were.

Of all the changes in Uncle Sinclair’s life the most important has been Jason. And as I saw his eyes light up, I realised how solemn I must have seemed, treating my chair as though it were a confessional. Whereas Jason flitted from one tall tale to another, to the constant refrain that he must have many better things to do; to which his automatic reply was that of course he had, but he thought he’d better pop in just in case he went and popped off. And their raillery deeply moved me; so that when at last it was time to leave and Jason asked if I’d like a cup of coffee, I readily agreed.

It soon became apparent that he was acutely anxious for my approval; although more, I felt, for Uncle Sinclair’s sake than his own. Nevertheless I was taken aback by the speed with which he launched into his story, without ever registering that I’d played a minor part in it myself. Are you gloating? No, I’m sorry. On your psychological ready-reckoner, don’t forget to add in paranoia.

He admitted straight out that he’d just been released from prison. He’d been caught trying to push some pills in a night-club: largactil – largactil: don’t you see? He asked if I were cold, but that wasn’t the reason I was trembling; I felt as though someone were walking on my grave… He was sentenced to eighteen months, which for a first offence was plain vindictive. And he repeated that there was no justice, in a tone so familiar it made me start. He was sent to an open prison in Essex on a detoxification programme, where he worked as an orderly on the hospital wing… and met with the biggest surprise of his life.

He had a boyfriend: Rees… I gulped and tried to pretend it was the coffee. After all, it was a common name – although nothing like common enough. One day he was casually mopping down the ward when he saw him. At first he was convinced he was hallucinating. He was terrified that the treatment he’d been given had begun to affect his brain. But the closer he moved, the clearer his impression became. It was Rees to the life, except for his eyeballs which darted to and fro like an animal torn in a trap. He staggered. He needed to hold on to something, he needed to hold on to him. He wanted to leap straight in beside him, but logic counselled caution. And in any case Rees’ face visibly calcified as he pointed to the three black letters on the board at the foot of the bed: VIR… And if you think HIV is hard in the world outside, he said, you’ve no idea what VIR can mean in the nick.

I didn’t know what they meant at all, but his explanation was succinct: Viral Infectivity Regulations. And as for Rees’ particular virus… I don’t suppose I need to spell it out. Jason couldn’t understand; all he could think of was when and from whom. It couldn’t have been him; they’d made him take a test straight after his trial. It was standard practice for anyone they considered at risk. While a refusal was rated as a positive result. So how? And later when he’d calmed down, Rees told him everything. And he began to tell me. It’s so pigging unfair, he said. I know, I replied, before I could stop myself; he looked surprised… That is, I care.

For I’m the missing link in the chain of liability: the weak link between Jason and Rees. Whereas Jack was no pimp but a true friend who organised his defence from the best of motives, it was my pills which undid them both; since the day after Jason’s arrest the police raided their room, sealing it off and leaving Rees out in the cold. He had no money, no clean clothes and nowhere to sleep. But neither the desk sergeant nor the DHSS clerk had a scrap of sympathy. And he was forced to trade in the one currency he had left: his youth.

So I share my guilt with the callous authorities who between them forced him on to the streets… Our ancient judicial code should be amended to ‘innocent until found needy’. And there’s worse. It’s virtually certain that he was infected on remand. The monotony and insecurity of a year in limbo led him to abandon his one remaining restraint; as the drugs his fellow prisoners spewed up from their wives’ deep kisses were injected into him, at a price. And all the precautions he’d previously taken went for nothing… He was sentenced even before he was tried.

Jason went on to describe the addicts’ blood-brotherhood ritual, which might as well have been a suicide pact. He repeated Rees’ account of how he’d complained of feeling feverish and they’d given him a test without the least preparation. He was informed he was positive and then allowed five minutes with the prison psychiatrist before being locked up in isolation for the next sixteen hours. Imagine it: sixteen hours with his head on the block waiting for the axe to fall.

Never mind, the psychiatrist told him as he offered him at most five years to live at the start of his seven-year stretch. With good behaviour, he’d be sure to earn remission from his sentence. Which bleeding one? he screamed; I don’t think he used the word ‘bleeding’… Which bleeding one?

I needed something stronger than coffee and Jason was hungry, so I took him for dinner in a nearby trattoria. He confessed he’d been plunged into despair by Rees’ diagnosis. It was as if he were no longer a person, but a symptom that had stolen his skin. And his own skin came out in sympathy: a stigmata of solidarity which he scratched raw. But gradually he recovered hope as he registered that Rees wasn’t ill. He’d simply been sent there whilst the doctors experimented with a number of new drugs. And though the whole set-up seemed decidedly shady, I recalled Mark’s current watchword of ‘early intervention’ and prayed that for once they’d fit the punishment to the cure.

We toyed with our desserts. The sweetness of the zabaglione proved no match for the tartness of the tale. And yet how extraordinary that they should have come together in prison; when the odds against it were at least fifty thousand to one. But I’d have taken them nonetheless. For when some months later he was released with neither job nor training nor accommodation, nothing in fact but a non-transferrable travel warrant, what he did have was a letter of recommendation from the assistant chaplain, who’d been the only officer to show them any kindness… which he found strange considering he came from the army. And yes, it was the Church Army. And though he didn’t tell me his name I felt sure that it must have been Lancelot. But I was afraid it would only arouse his suspicions if I asked.

The letter was to Jonathan, which is why I’d have taken the odds even if they’d been one in fifty million. Such a web of coincidence could never have been the product of mere chance. For Jason to have met his friend in prison and my friend in prison and another friend and my uncle on his release, shows that there’s a pattern and a protection and there must someday be a resolution too.

Jonathan galvanised him as profoundly as he did both Mark and Uncle Sinclair. He offered him a room in the clergy house, which immediately put him on his guard – no one did anything for nothing, especially when it came to bed and board. But the only condition he imposed was some occasional help with Plus IV fundraising. And although at first he resented cyclostyling leaflets, licking envelopes and shaking collecting tins, he was no fool, nor, he grinned, was Jonathan; he soon came to see that every penny collected, every signature subscribed and every phone call answered was a way of keeping faith with Rees.

What he didn’t bargain on was meeting my uncle. He initially trusted him even less; he’d made it a rule to suspect anyone over forty. And yet Sinclair was different. He didn’t make him feel small or interrupt him in mid-sentence as though everything he said were predictable. He didn’t act as though old age were in itself some big deal. And he made him laugh more than anyone he’d ever met. So he jumped at the invitation to move in with him… And he suddenly blushed and insisted that he’d told me all that because he didn’t want me to think he was taking advantage. He promised to pull his weight… And I could hardly see to pay the bill.

Uncle Sinclair and Jason: who would ever have thought it? I’m reminded of that parlour game where you have to put together some of history’s most unlikely pairs. And I’ve begun to relish the way that, almost in spite of myself, so many aspects of my life are intertwining and a definite symmetry is starting to emerge.

When I first met Jack – or rather Krishnan – again, I felt overwhelmed in the face of a world full of stories. But after Jason I can see that we’re all part of the same story and even those strands that don’t connect, reflect. And you’re in the ideal position to draw them together: a prospect which fills me with hope. So my self-reproach and charges of egotism were redundant. For whether you hear about me from Mark or Mark from Jack or Jack from Rees or Rees from Jason is ultimately immaterial. The perspective may be different, but the pattern is the same.

And even the news about Rees hasn’t thrown me. For there was one other thing Jason said, which I hardly like to mention in case you should think I’m blowing my own trumpet or, worse, writing my own score. And yet, as he was describing how much he’d learned from Uncle Sinclair, he added that he only hoped that one day Rees would be able to meet him or, at any rate, somebody like him. But then he corrected himself and said that of course he already had. And it soon became clear that without a hint of calculation he was referring to me.