Fifteen

In a letter he wrote at the conclusion of the crisis, Mompesson described Eyam as a Golgotha; and indeed if you think back to the rock formation of the Cucklet Church, it did rather resemble a skull. And yet our walk doesn’t end on a hillside, but back in the centre of the village: a village that must have seemed much like a ghost town with its harvest ungathered, its roads untended, its mines unworked and three-quarters of its population perished. For although there’s some dispute over the exact total, it’s generally reckoned that 259 of the 267 deaths during these months were caused by the plague. In November 1666 there were only 83 survivors out of a previous figure of 350. But the time had come to rebuild.

Which is why I wanted to finish as we began, outside this row of cottages. But we’re not backtracking; for now I’d like to focus on the least renovated of the three: the one on the right. As you can see, the plaque simply records that it was the home of the third man to die of the plague, Peter Halksworth. What it doesn’t say is that his widow, Alice, later married a neighbour, Matthew Morten, whose wife and baby had also been struck down. And it’s here that they started to reestablish their lives. And it’s on that note that consciously – you may consider self-consciously – I intend to end.

But for that, and that alone, I remain unrepentant. Although I came on this village quite unexpectedly – I refuse to say by chance – I returned with full deliberation. I’ve long needed to discover a congenial community, as I believe everyone does; but particularly someone who finds himself excluded, if only by the prevailing rhetoric, from the wider community in which he’s never previously questioned his place. And here in Eyam, by the beautifully kept gardens of the proudly named Plague Cottages in the heart of the Hope Valley – I’m even embarrassing myself –I think that I finally have.

I’ve also longed to discover a story, one I could both relate to and relate, which would be, if you’ll pardon my etymology, at once his story and her story and your story and mine; and in Eyam I feel I’ve found that too: a story that takes all the gutter-press banner-headlines and turns them on their head. Let bigots twist their prose trying to transform a virulence into a pestilence; this shows them what can be positive even in a plague. And the parallels point far beyond the immediate devastation and suffering. For in the villagers’ self-denying ordinance I see the image of many of the people I’ve come to love and admire best; whilst in their successors’ reverence for their memories and respect for their past, I discern the key to all our survivals, moral and metaphorical, as well as in the flesh.

Which is where we must close, as I hear the noonday chimes. I hope you won’t suspect me of bribing the rector; but they couldn’t have been better timed. For although our current epidemic appears to provide the perfect pretext for the idealisation of the nuclear family in a world where every other nuclear ideal has been blown sky-high, the annals of Eyam offer an opportune reminder that family means far more than the people who share your blood. The village proved itself a truly extended family and a wider word for that is community and a wider one still is society, or at least it was before being authoritatively – no, authoritarianly – declared dead.

And the peal calls to mind the words of yet another priest, the wise and witty dean of St Paul’s who phrased his peroration with such poise: ‘Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.’

And with that it appears to have stopped.

 

I’m in your hands again; the moment of truth has arrived. But then every moment is a moment of truth, or at least it should be. And last week I faced up to what it was. I’m sorry I couldn’t make our appointment, but I spent most of Monday and Tuesday at Heathrow and then on Wednesday I went up to Derbyshire. I could scarcely tell if I were coming or going. That might almost be the punchline of a joke.

My family flew back to Nice on Monday. I took my brothers on a private tour of the airport; and despite the increased security I was able to take them through several restricted zones. I pretended I had friends in high places, but under concerted pressure I admitted that I’d done my placement there; which clearly sent the priesthood way up in their estimation – although nothing like as far as it’s recently soared in mine. And I left them in the departure lounge with kisses and smiles and presents and promises to return very soon.

On Tuesday I was there again with Mark and Krishnan and Jonathan. There was a computer failure at the check-in and we had to stand in line for half an hour. Mark was tired, but he refused to sit down; I think he wanted me to see him fly out fighting fit. But he needn’t have worried; I knew he still had everything to fight for. Besides, since he’d come off all his drugs even his cell count had improved. The doctors claimed he was in remission; he replied he was in control.

On Monday I wanted to delay my family’s departure; on Tuesday I wanted to accelerate theirs. Perhaps it was because I’d never been to India; I could picture only the distance, not the destination. No, it was far more than that… And we walked together to the gate where I hugged Krishnan, who retreated diplomatically with Jonathan to buy a paper, which left me with Mark. I gazed at him, the usual mass of contradictions with his copy of The Vegetarian protruding from his black leather jacket, and I said: Come back soon, come back well, come back just as you are. And he said: Thank you. And he tried to extend it: Thank you for everything. And I tried to dismiss it: It was nothing… No, not for the fare, but for everything. And I said: Thank you for everything too. And he said: That’s what friends are for. And I kissed him smack on the lips in the middle of an English airport. And if anyone else pursed his in disapproval, I didn’t notice. I felt nothing but the warmth of his mouth: the sweet, light moistness of the memory. And I hurried away.

Jonathan then drove me back to London in his ancient Austin, which had passed through so many hands that he justified it to himself as practically public transport. I did however draw the line at going by road to Derbyshire: not at his driving, let alone his car – whatever you may suppose, I do have some tact – but I persuaded him that not only would the journey be less exhausting by train, but he could also put in several hours of work. He was due to lead another retreat – did I forget to mention that? – and we went up two days early to prepare. Although I spent most of my time exploring Eyam.

This second retreat moved me even more than the first: what with the talks and the tranquillity, the friendship and the fellowship, the prayers and the meals and the dances… yes, I danced. Does that surprise you: you to whom I’m simply a non-stop stream of consciousness? I’ve discovered my body’s flow: not just its language, but its music. And after all the years of self-willed self-division, my mind and my body work as one.

Once again we shared our experiences of Christ and HIV. I remembered how on the previous occasion I’d concentrated solely on the theology: chiefly Jesus’ remark that it wasn’t the healthy who needed a physician, but the sick. And my reasoned analysis had appeared even more inadequate when set against the general spontaneity. This time I’d determined not to plan but rather to do just as the spirit moved me – a conventional phrase though still a considerable challenge. And if I felt nothing, I’d sit tight. I’d lay myself as open as that.

But when my turn came, I stood. Impulsively I explained that what I wanted to communicate was the sense of grace which had grown in me since that last retreat. I too had felt the agony of despair in the garden… but then the indescribable relief of looking up and seeing that it was Christ on the cross and not me; that at the final moment he’d slipped in to take my place. And the only way I could convey my deliverance was to dance: first the isolation, suffering and despair, and then the resurrection, redemption and joy. And I danced without preparation, without music and without fear. Nor was I afraid to make a fool of myself, since my folly was a part of my dance.

I danced for the group and I danced for Jonathan and, above all, I danced for Christ: Christ who was my Lord, Christ who was my dance. And the Lord of the Dance danced in me; and I knew him in his unique unity. I knew his body and I knew his spirit; and I felt him in my body and my spirit. I was his son and his brother and his lover and his priest. And then the spirit moved me to stillness. And I sat down.

There was no sound in the room apart from the indistinct burr of cars and mowers: the bustle of the outside world serving to emphasise the stillness we shared. And after a moment Jonathan came up and wrapped his arms tightly round me, which provided the cue for a universal embrace: an unscheduled and unthreatening kiss of peace.

On Sunday I took the lead once again. The morning was free; and the evening before I’d suggested to Jonathan that I might guide a walk around Eyam. Since my last visit I’d read everything I could find about its history. And the previous two days, strictly for my own amusement, I’d mapped out a route. To my surprise he’d greeted the idea with considerable enthusiasm; although on reflection his reaction was true to form. But what still astonishes me is that when he mentioned it that night at dinner, apart from two men who were clearly unfit, the whole group chose to come.

The response to the walk was even warmer than to the initial offer. But then it isn’t easy for me to differentiate when each experience of the weekend topped the one before. It was a long haul and we must have covered several miles; and yet conditions were ideal: with the streets empty but not deserted and the fields fertile yet firm. And it seemed a perfect way to pass a Sunday morning; since although we’d missed church, we’d discovered our ‘sermons in stones’.

I complain that the story of Eyam has been unduly neglected; but then we’ve long been prone to celebrate victories over others to the exclusion of those over ourselves. So I’m determined that mine will prove the exception. For I’ve found a walk I can take without resorting to other people’s words or to their values. And I mean to take many more groups on it in due course… But I’d exceeded my allotted hour; and we returned hot-foot to the hostel. Then after lunch Jonathan led another discussion, before we came together for a final time in the most universal story of all.

We drew up our chairs in the customary circle; and Jonathan raised up the Host as we raised our spirits to God. And we shared in Christ’s Passion: the greatest of all the double meanings of the language and the divine ambiguities of the Faith. For of the numerous absurdities to which I’ve subjected you over the past three years, the most grotesque must surely be that Christ never knew the intensity of my love. Since if love means anything, it’s identification. And never has one being so totally identified with another as God when he became man.

How could I have ever supposed his universal sympathies were an easy option? Perhaps it was because I was an only child that I found it hard to imagine a love that was all-embracing – or perhaps it was simply that I was a selfish man? But his love knew no bounds. And although it may have involved no direct sexual expression, it was fervently sexual. It was the most complete and creative consummation, through which he fulfilled the desire of every lover and truly became one with his love.

After which he died for us, achieving love’s apotheosis and accepting the challenge that’s haunted me ever since I first met Jack. And how did we repay him? One of his closest friends betrayed him and another denied him. While two thousand years later we still turn away. Is it any wonder he gave in to despair? As, whatever I may have claimed in the past, he undoubtedly did.

So he had every reason to pray ‘Lead us not into temptation’ when he knew its torment so well. And his greatest temptation wasn’t to throw himself off the pinnacle of the Temple, but to succumb to despair, and throw himself off the Cross. And that would have been more than a sin against the Holy Ghost; it would have been a crime against humanity – against eternity. Since it would have given us all cause to despair until the end of time.

For I see now that true despair isn’t to lose faith in oneself, dreadful though that is, or even in the people one loves, which is even worse, but in God and the very prospect of Redemption. As Christ himself did. And his cry on the Cross chills my heart to this day, as he who was God experienced the death of God and became the symbol of suffering humankind.

On the first retreat I grew impatient with questions as to whether, if he were alive today, Christ would have had HIV. And yet the answer is self-evident. His was no dignified death in a palace courtyard; but naked, unkempt, incontinent, torn limb from limb he hung from a tree. His body was lacerated with lesions; the wounds on his side bled like the tumours on Adrian’s back… Crucifixion was the most shameful end which the Romans could inflict, just as today AIDS is the most shameful illness which so many people can envisage. And it soon becomes clear why there was no cross anywhere to be seen in the Church of Triumph, since first and foremost the Cross isn’t an image of triumph, but of disgrace.

And yet through his disgrace Christ gave us the grace to triumph over ours. As he does to this day. For the real horror of his martyrdom isn’t even its manner – after all, St Peter underwent it upside-down – but its duration. His agony wasn’t limited to a few hours on the Cross, but extends through two thousand years of our time and the eternity of his. That’s what it means to be both God and man: not academic arguments about whether he was conceived through the ear or the vagina, but suffering once in history and forever outside time.

So if, as I believe, Christ is living now, then he’s also dying, and of course he has HIV; since AIDS isn’t only the scourge of the present day, but the cross. And when in years to come scientists discover a cure and for the rest of us the virus becomes a distant memory, he’ll continue to have it; and not merely as a medical metaphor but as a living, bleeding fact. In which case any priest who tries to exclude people with AIDS from communion is also excluding him. For it really doesn’t matter who’s infected with the virus, whether it’s you or I or the person kneeling next to us; in Christ we all are. We are all one body; we all share the same blood. And if the Eucharist is to retain any substance, it has to embody the moment when we assert that unity and share that blood.

So we passed round the chalice in sacramental safety. And as the woman to my right proudly proclaimed it the blood of Christ, I lifted it to my lips and I knew that it was. And I had an intense sense of revelation; it was the most awesome communion since my first. For in that unbroken circle I recaptured all the glow of my original vocation.

And I felt at once holy and whole. And not only has my spirit been refreshed, my brain has been recharged. And although you may well agree with Jonathan that I strive too hard to define the indefinable, with that compulsive need to explain everything which he terms ‘ergotism’ – no, you didn’t mishear – since this will most probably be my last visit I’d like to test my conclusions on you…

I’ve long felt disenchanted with the myth of the Fall, which isn’t only a slander on man but on God, since it invests him with that same spirit of wilfulness which theologians have for centuries imposed on us… how else could the whole of human misery have been pinned on an arbitrary ‘Do not touch’ notice on a tree? But rather than merely discard it, we need to put something positive in its place: the model of the Flaw.

For just as poetry can produce myths, so science can provide models. And the discoveries of nineteenth-century biologists, which people once found such a threat to their faith, now appear a confirmation. God didn’t create the world in six days, maliciously filling it full of fossils and flaws, in order to confront us the following week with both its and our imperfections. But over hundreds of millions of years there occurred an inevitable dissipation of his original creative process… Darwin may have discredited Genesis, but he’s absolved God.

So the human race is compromised not by some intrinsic wickedness but by the flaws and faults of our own nature, akin to those in the earth’s crust; and for which we’re ultimately no more responsible than for the eruption of a volcano. That in no way exempts us from the need to exert individual responsibility; since we all have free will… even those whose freedom of action is most constrained still have freedom of choice. Nevertheless in the last resort that responsibility is limited, just as, at the Last Judgement, it will be God’s.

And he acknowledged as much by sending his son, whose mission wasn’t simply to reconcile his father to us but to reconcile us to his father. Whilst his death afforded a further recognition that the price we pay for being born isn’t original sin but existential pain. He can’t put an end to that pain – at least not until he puts an end to the world; but by sharing it with us, by suffering both with us and for us, he makes its burden infinitely easier to bear… And yet to say he gave suffering a meaning is far from saying that he made it the meaning of life. So our aim shouldn’t be to mortify the flesh, still less to deny it, but to infuse it with the spirit. After all, what else does the Incarnation mean?

Moreover, he offers the reassurance that we need never suffer in vain, since it’s the way by which we can come closest to him… Although that’s only half true. For, as I drank from the cup and then passed it round in my turn with the same bold affirmation, I realised that of course we had another way – and one that was strictly symbolic. And at that moment I knew that I had to return to St Dunstan’s, and make that celebration which had long been the heart of my worship once again the heart of my life.

And yet I’ve no desire to resume at the point where I broke off – or more accurately, down. For if I’ve learned anything these past three years, it’s that the sacraments in themselves aren’t enough. To stand in the person of Christ isn’t simply to stand at his altar. A priest has to stand firm and to stand and fight… while he has no need to stand alone. Christ’s celibacy is no more incumbent on him than Mary’s virginity on a mother… And later that night – and the ambiguity works both ways – Jonathan and I came together in a private passion of our own.

You must have known. Did you say a quiet prayer for me, or did you conclude that if prayers were all I needed, I already had more than enough? Nothing was planned. By six o’clock there were only the two of us left. All the other retreatants had dispersed and the centre staff were still away. We were due to catch the 8.50 train from Sheffield; but after some desultory clearing, Jonathan pronounced himself shattered and proposed staying another night and setting off early the next day… which I agreed was fine by me.

As before, we slept in bunks, only this time he was on top… I’m sorry; I don’t mean to giggle… He switched off the light, but the difference was minimal. He’s a fresh-air fiend, and the flimsy curtains fluttered against the window whilst the full moon threw shadows on the wall. God bless that moon… God bless that moon! He lay so still that I felt sure he was asleep and I blew him the most brazen kisses, putting my hand to my mouth and then touching the overhead boards. But my gestures must have grown more and more passionate and the shadows more abandoned; for suddenly his voice cut through the silence: if you want to kiss me that much, you can.

I couldn’t speak; I thought I must have swallowed my Adam’s apple. He lifted his mattress and stared down through the struts. I felt as though we were looking at one another through the bars of a prison cell. And yet I was free… I could just about make out his eyes and the tip of his nose through the gap, and then his prominent eyebrows, which don’t simply meet in the middle but seem to quarrel. If you want to kiss me that much, he repeated, you can. Thank you, I said; and I was anxious to lighten the atmosphere. Your bunk or mine? I asked. Oh, yours, he replied. We don’t want you falling out.

He scrambled down. His penis peeped through his pyjama bottoms. I laughed, although not from desperation, still less derision, but joy. I made a space for him: first in the bunk and then in myself. I devoured him with my eyes; he devoured me with his lips; we devoured one another body and soul. And I heard again the words: This is the body of Christ; and I knew that there was no blasphemy. On the contrary it was an essential expression of my gift of love. His was the love I’d always longed for: the love I’d always needed. He was the man I’d always wanted: the man I wanted to be.

And yet he was also a priest who’d made a promise of celibacy. And a dense shadow fell across the room and lingered on me. I shivered. He tried to warm me. I questioned him about the promise even though I was afraid he might lose patience. He asked if it’d make any difference if he said it had run out the night before. Yes, I replied, I’d never trust him again. He told me not to worry. Nevertheless it had expired. He was obliged to renew it every six months; and in the last few weeks he simply hadn’t had a chance. And in case I considered that too easy, he added that the promise itself had been a pure practicality, to assist him to live the life of a mission priest. At the time he knew of none better; now he was convinced that he did.

Tears trickled down my cheeks but he wiped them – no, he kissed them away. We sought out each other’s mouths; we sucked at each other’s tongues. Then he quietly asked me if I’d like him to put on a condom; and I said yes. I steeled myself and then yielded myself as he eased into me so gently that the agony was all in the anticipation. His stomach slapped against me; I pulsated with his passion. I felt his arms around me like armour; and I was unafraid. We were lovers; we were brothers; we were twinned in body and spirit. We were Siamese twins joined at the hip. Then he gasped and grunted and I felt him issue into me. I was no longer without issue; I was alive with him.

A sense of peace wafted over me in waves of pleasure. I felt no shame, not in the aftermath nor the recollection; and I knew I would never need to feel the slightest shame again. He cradled me in the crook of his arm, and as his skin felt damp I rubbed it dry with my hair. We lay back, and I wouldn’t have thought it possible to create such intimacy. Then he rolled his head and lolled his tongue and kissed me once on each eyelid; and I drifted off into the most rapturous dreams… And I shan’t elaborate: except to say that they were rich and rare and red.

In the morning we travelled back to London. Jonathan went straight to the clergy house; and I went home. And for the moment that’s how it’ll remain. But there are so many places to meet in the middle as well as either end. And we both have much to resolve. I still have to decide what to do about Edensor. I long to reopen it, though no longer as a family house – rather as a retreat house on the lines of the one in Derbyshire, for those extended, ‘pretended’ families who’ve redefined my life. And then… Is my watch fast or is it 6.15 already? I’ve often lost track of the time; but I was sure you had a built-in alarm.

And yet perhaps you’ve switched it off as a parting gesture… Isn’t it odd? After most of our sessions I couldn’t escape fast enough; but now that I’m truly taking my leave I don’t want to go – or rather let go. Even though I know little more about you now than I did at the beginning, I feel as though we’ve been on a long, labyrinthine journey, through all of which you’ve kept me company and much of which you’ve kept me sane. So thank you. And if I’ve ever said anything I shouldn’t… well, you understand.

I’ll slip on my coat before I embarrass you any further. Then I’ll take one last look around. I’m trying to fix the scene on my memory. Even the cacti look less prickly… Go ahead, laugh; why not? I intend to at every opportunity. I feel so full of hope. What nonsense to suggest that we weren’t put on this earth to be happy! Blessed are the lovers: for they shall be one with God.

I expect that for you it’s a case of one file closing as another opens. But before you dispatch me to gather dust on your bottom shelf, there’s a favour I wish to ask. As you may be aware I’ve an appointment to see Father Leicester on Monday. If he hasn’t yet done so, he’ll be writing for your report. The last thing I want is to pre-empt your findings; but if you’ll just give me a hint of what you mean to recommend… He’s not alone in valuing your opinion; after all this time you must know me better than anyone. So will you be advising him to take me back?