CHAPTER FIVE

A Promise

Still in September the days continued fair. The blazing heat of summer had faded and the dusk came earlier, the sunrise born in low-lying mist and heavy dews. The apples had almost ripened, the trees bowed under their load of fruit, and the grain was nearly all into the barns, a few strips still waiting the reapers, and some corn still standing in stooks, drying in the fields.

It was the busiest season of all on the farm, and Brother Tom had had little time to spare for the infirmary. He called in every evening, but only for a brief while, to bring news of the harvest, and to let Peregrine know he had not been forgotten. He did not sit down to talk, and sometimes, if he managed only to snatch ten minutes before Compline, Peregrine would already have been put to bed.

‘When the harvest is all in,’ he said to Peregrine, ‘I’ll come and see you properly, I promise. You—you do understand, don’t you? I’m not running away, it’s just….’

‘Y-es,’ Peregrine had said, and smiled for him, to set him at his ease. ‘Y-es.’

And now the grain was in, and the weather could do what it liked, and Tom had a little more time until the ploughing began.

So he came into the infirmary after Vespers on the evening they had seen the last of the grain under cover, and found Brother John preparing to put Peregrine to bed. He had undressed him and washed him, and he sat in his nightshirt and drawers, and his grey wool socks, while Brother John folded his habit neatly for the morning and cleared away the washing things.

‘Hello, stranger,’ said Brother John, as Tom entered the room. ‘It must be near on a week since last we saw your face here for more than five minutes at a time. Still, I told Father, all I’ve seen you do in the Office and Chapter Meetings this week is sleep, so I reckoned you’d been working hard.’

Tom smiled. ‘You were right. The barns are full. We’ve a good harvest. The rain can come now. But I’ve missed you, Father. I’ve been thinking of ways we might work on your speech while I’ve been breaking my back in the fields. Am I intruding? Can I stay for a while? You’re early with bedtime, aren’t you?’

‘Y-es,’ said Peregrine, and Brother John laughed. ‘You’re intruding if you’re here to make him more rebellious than he already is, Brother Thomas. Maybe I’m a quarter of an hour early, but no more than that. I’ve had more grumbling than a quarter of an hour deserves though, you may take my word for it. No, it’s just that I have to trim the toenails of one or two men tonight. It’s easier to do it at bedtime than any other time, so this poor soul has missed his usual privilege of being last to bed; and left me in no doubt of his objections.

‘You should be tired, anyway, Father. You’ve been working all day and every day to get your speech back under control; I’m surprised you’re not glad to go to bed.’

‘Have you?’ said Tom. ‘You’ve been working on it? What have you done?’

‘I think you found Father Theodore’s pictures helpful, didn’t you, Father?’ said Brother John, as he pulled back the blanket on the bed.

‘Father Theodore’s pictures?’ Tom felt a sudden stab of resentment. He really had been too busy to call in during the last few days, but he felt put out that Theodore had taken his place, and irritated with himself for his own unreasonable resentment.

‘Yes. Father Theodore spends a lot of time here with Father.’

‘Theodore does? Why?’

Brother John chuckled at Tom’s defensive tone. ‘Maybe you thought you were the infirmary’s only visitor? Father Theodore came every day when Father was first ill. Just to spend time with him, talk to him, hold his hand. Good thing somebody came, wasn’t it, Tom?’

Brother Tom said nothing.

‘T-om. A-a-re y-ou j-eal-ous?’ The slow, blurred voice was full of affectionate amusement. Tom flushed.

‘That was a very advanced sentence for someone of your disability,’ he said acidly.

Peregrine grinned at him, happily. ‘I’v-ve b-een pr-a-ac-tis-ing w-ith F-a-th-er Th-e-o.’

Tom stared at him. ‘Have you?’

‘M… y-es.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘N-o. I w-w-anted t-o s-urpr-ise y-ou. A-a-re y-ou jea-l-ous?’

‘No! Of course I’m not! Why should I be?’

Tom looked from Peregrine to Brother John. They were both laughing at him.

‘Hmm….’ Brother John considered him critically. ‘Not only jealous, but too proud to admit it, I should say, wouldn’t you, Father?’

‘N… n-o… n-ose d-ef-in-ite-ly ou-t of j-oint.’

‘All right! Have you two had enough? What pictures, anyway?’

Peregrine started to tell him, but his speech scrambled hopelessly. After one or two attempts he waved his hand in a gesture of defeat: ‘I… I… oh… t-ti-r … ed… J-ohn.’

‘I’m not surprised you’re tired. You’ve done very, very well.

‘The pictures, Brother, were some illuminated Gospels and books of Hours that Father Theodore had done. He brought them to show Father, and then thought he might use them to help him communicate the things he wanted to talk about, or that he’d been thinking about, by finding and pointing out the pictures. Then they practised the words and sounds that seemed relevant to the picture, and the related thoughts it inspired.’

Tom digested this information in silence.

‘T-om? T-t-ell m-e.’

Tell me about it. The relief and emotion that flooded Tom’s heart at hearing those words again were inexpressible.

‘Tell you about it? I was just wondering how it was that Theodore had thought of that and I didn’t.’

‘Th-at’s ea-ea-s-sy.’ The dark grey eyes were smiling at him, teasing. ‘H-e’s-s b-b-ri-ight-er th-an y-ou a-re.’

Tom looked at Brother John. ‘We’ll get this rascal into bed, shall we, before he heaps any more insults on my head?’

‘Yes, indeed. I must get Brother Denis’ toenails pared. He’ll be wondering what’s become of me. Yes, if you’ll lend a hand, Brother Thomas, it’ll save Brother Michael a job.’

Brother John plumped the pillows on the bed, and arranged them to provide the right support. He came and stood behind Peregrine, his hands on his shoulders.

‘Are you ready, then, my lord?’

‘H-ave I a ch-ch-oice?’

‘No.’ He squeezed his shoulders gently. ‘No. I’m sorry. Brother Thomas, if you can take his legs, please.’ Brother John moved his hands down to a firm grip under Peregrine’s arms. ‘Lift, then. On his right side.’

‘N-o. On m-y b-b-ack.’

Tom looked questioningly at Brother John. ‘Yes, Tom, if he wants.’ They laid him on his back on the bed. ‘I can see,’ said Brother John, as he deftly stripped Peregrine of his drawers, pulled up the sheet and blanket and tucked them in with firm precision, ‘that I’m going to have nothing but trouble with you now you can speak to us!

‘There now, are you comfortable? Good. I must get on. I’ll bring your night light. It’s almost too dark to see in here already. Are you staying a while, Tom?’

‘Just a few minutes, yes.’

‘Good. I’ll bid you goodnight then, Father. I’ll call in to you before you go to sleep. Here’s your jar, and your bell.’

‘G-oodn-n-ight.’ Peregrine watched Brother John as he gathered up the washcloth and bowl and dirty linen, casting a quick glance round the room to check that all was in order before he left.

‘H-e… h-e’s a g-ood m-an,’ commented Peregrine as Brother John left them.

‘Yes.’ Tom fetched Peregrine’s chair over to the bedside and sat down beside him. ‘Father… now that I have a bit more time, will you let me take you out of doors, while the fair weather lasts? Please.’

‘Wh-ere?’ Peregrine sounded doubtful.

‘Not in the thick of everything. Up to the farm, maybe. Up to the field below the burial ground; it’s quiet there, and sheltered by the beech trees.’

‘Mmm.’ Peregrine considered this. ‘I’m n-n-ot s-sure. H-ave y-ou as-ked Br-oth-er J-ohn?’

‘Yes, he thinks it’s a good idea. What are you worried about?’

‘N-oth-ing.’

‘Then will you let me take you?’

Peregrine hesitated. ‘Y-es,’ he said finally.

Tom smiled at him. ‘You’ll enjoy it, you wait and see. I’ll come for you in the morning, before you have time to change your mind.’

Peregrine returned his smile, but Tom thought he looked anxious.

‘I’ll leave you to go to sleep,’ he said. ‘Father, I’m amazed at the way your speech has come on. I think it’s wonderful.’

Peregrine’s smile this time was genuine, happy. ‘Thank y-ou, T-om. G-oodn-ight.’

Before he left the infirmary, Tom sought out Brother John again. He found him just setting out with his tray of medicines.

‘Brother, I won’t keep you but a moment. I’ve talked Father into coming out of doors with me for a while in the morning.’

‘Oh, good. After all this time! If you come after Chapter, that would be a good time.’

‘He seems worried about it. I said I’d take him to a quiet place, away from everybody, but he seemed… anxious. Said had I asked you. What is it he’s worried about? Do you know?’

‘Yes: almost certainly, I should say, he’s afraid of wetting himself.’

‘Oh.’ Brother Tom looked taken aback. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

‘No. Well, of course, that’s just what he’s worried about. On the one occasion when his incontinence intruded on your life, you fled the building, if I remember rightly.’

‘I don’t know how to help him. I can push him around in a chair, but… it’s a bit beyond me, this infirmary stuff. What do you do with them?’

‘Tom, it’s common sense, more or less. They simply need whatever help is appropriate to do what anyone else does. If it goes wrong, and there’s a mess, we clear it up. What else would anyone do with them? What else would you do?’

Tom grinned at him. ‘Me? That’s easy. I’d bring them to you.’

‘How kind. No, all you need to do for him is take a water jar with you, and don’t delay if he needs help with it. He can manage it on his own with a bit of fumbling, but obviously it’s no easy task with that crippled hand of his. Once he sees you feel comfortable about it, I think his worries will be laid to rest too.

‘My guess is, that’s all that’s bothering him. I’ll tell him I’ve talked to you about it, if you like.’

Tom nodded. ‘And that’s all I’ll need? A water jar?’

‘Well… not quite. A water jar and a sense of humour. All right? See you in the morning, then.’

Every day after that, Tom took Peregrine out in the sun and breeze, sharing his delight in the freedom and space, the clean, good scent of the air. The warm dry days continued unbroken, and they spent long afternoons out on the farm, or in the field on the hillside below the burial ground enjoying the sunshine, and talking. As Peregrine talked, his speech improved. As he struggled to put into words the store of thoughts that had burdened his heart during the past weeks, he gained more confidence, and won his way back to coherent, articulate communication. Each word was slurred and slow, every sentence had to be fought for, but it was there. He had overcome the barrier, and the words came with more facility every day.

One evening, after they had put him to bed, Brother John commented to Tom how much good it had done Peregrine to go out, to find an interest in life again, to be able to talk.

Tom nodded. ‘It has been good,’ he said. ‘Good for me too. It hasn’t just been a case of me doing him a favour. I thought I’d lost him, thought it was a death within a life; grotesque. But now I’m wondering, you know, wondering if I ever really knew him. Whatever’s happened to him has closed some doors—that’s plain enough to see—but it’s opened some too, somehow; windows into his thinking and into his heart. As if we’d mourned the loss of the sun when the night came down, but without the darkness we’d have never discovered the stars.’

Brother John smiled at him. ‘That was very lyrical for you, Brother Thomas!’ he said. ‘I think some of his poetry’s rubbing off.’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s talked enough this last week to make up for the six weeks that went before it twenty times over. I meant it though. It really is like that.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know. I’ve thought it myself. “Et dabo tibi thesauros absconditos et arcana secretorum; ut scias quia ego Dominus, qui voco nomen tuum.”’

Tom looked at Brother John in surprise. A smile curved his lips as he softly translated the words, as if he had glimpsed something very precious. ‘“I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches hidden in mystery, so that you may know that I am the Lord, who calls you by name.” Oh John… that… where’s that from?’

‘Isaiah.’

‘Isaiah? Well, if this has made a poet of me and a theologian of you, there must be some strange, divine workings in it somewhere!’

Brother John hesitated. ‘Yes… Tom—be ready. You’re right in what you say, more right than you know. Be ready. The work of God… all his paths lead through the cross.’

Tom nodded. ‘True; but this is resurrection. Father’s had his crucifixion.’

John was silent a moment. ‘Maybe. But I didn’t mean him. I meant you.’

The hills cradled the abbey buildings so that the porter at the abbey gate, or the faithful leaving the west door of the church, looked out across the valley, the road winding down from the abbey to the village nestled below at the foot of the hills; but the back of the abbey was sheltered by the protective curve of the hills. Behind the abbey buildings to the east a track curved up to the farm, and to the north another path led up beyond the church to the burial ground within its low stone wall.

A drift of woodland, a patch of ground which had been allowed to remain a wilderness, protected the burial ground from rough weather. Beyond the wood, the abbey farm spread out over the curve of the hills, petering out eventually as the upper ground gave way to the moors. Below the burial ground a row of beech trees lined its approach, and a sweep of greensward sloped down to the abbey school and church.

It was here on this field below the burial ground that Tom and Peregrine had been sitting talking together one afternoon in the second half of September. The wood behind the graveyard was a haven for birds and wild creatures, and the two men had listened to the birds singing when there was a lull in the cawing of the rooks that nestled in the taller trees, and amused themselves watching the antics of squirrels and rabbits that strayed out of the cover of the trees.

Tom had lifted Peregrine out of the wheeled chair and helped him down onto the grass. That was not too hard. It was getting him back in again that presented the difficulties. But for the moment they were peaceful in each other’s company, each quiet in his own thoughts, Peregrine lying on his back gazing at the slow drift of clouds across the evening sky, and Tom sitting beside him, looking down on the abbey spread out below them, basking in the rays of the sun.

‘It’s a ted-iou-s busin-ess… d-ying.’

Tom looked down at him startled, his own ruminations forgotten.

‘Dying? What d’you want to talk about dying for? You’re not going to die.’

‘Oh, T-om. L-ove gives l-ife, b-but not f-or ever. Brother J-ohn said….’

Tom felt a sudden chill of foreboding. ‘Yes? What did Brother John say?’

‘He said tha-at sei-s-sei-zures like th-is come ag-ain, soon-er or l-ater. Th-is ti-me is a br-ief gr-ace. Sw-eet, though.’

Tom sat very still, gazing into the distance across the sprawl of buildings. Above him were the yellowing leaves of the beech trees and the clouds fanning out across a sky tinged now with the gold and pink of evening. The beauty of the day shone all around him, but its glory was blighted by those words.

‘Is that true? You could be ill again the same, and all this… all this be undone?’

‘Y-es.’

‘Oh… God.’

‘Yes.’

‘And… I suppose you might even die, then—if you were ill like that again.’

‘I h-ope so.’

‘I don’t. When you were ill, at first… I wished you’d died. I… I wanted you to die. It was too horrible. But now, no. The… I… oh, what shall I say? It’s meant so much, taught me so much, these weeks. If you did have another seizure and went right back again, even to incontinence and not being able to speak and blank gazing, I’d want to start again.’

‘O-h, th-ank you v-ery m-uch! T-om, I c-ouldn’t d-o it. Being p-aral-ysed l-ike th-is is… h-ell. I h-ate it. This is wh-at I said, a grace, but… en-ough is en-ough, non? I mean, is-n’t it?’

Tom said nothing. Overhead the beech tree stirred and rustled in the warm breeze. A few leaves loosened by the movement floated down. Higher up the hill, a sheep called mournfully. The sun, low in the sky now, slanted across through the branches of the trees above them. Tom moved his hand restlessly, tugging at the grass, absently uprooting and throwing aside some of the wiry little stalks. Then his hand ceased to move.

‘I don’t think I could bear to lose you, that’s all,’ he said quietly. It was an admission of the very core of his heart, belonging to the same place of silence in which he had first learned to communicate in total honesty. It came clothed in the overwhelming silence of that honesty, and Peregrine accepted it in the same way, in the truth from the place beyond words. The sky, the fields, the light, the very air became a bowl of silence, cupped hands receiving the breaking pain of love.

‘I don’t know how you can talk about it like that, anyway,’ said Tom eventually.

‘L-ike wh-at?’

‘Matter of fact. “Dying is a tedious business.” You sound as though you’re talking about the weather.’

‘Wh-at sh-ould I s-ay? Th-at I c-contempl-ate th-e f-uture and th-e earth op-ens out in a ch-asm of terr-or in fr-ont of m-e? Th-at I cl-utch fr-antically f-or cour-age l-ike a lunatic tr-ying to gr-asp a wr-aith of m-ist? Th-at panic rises up unt-il it is ch-oking m-y th-thr-oat? Wh-at?’

Tom shifted irritably. ‘Was that a poem or a speech? There’s no need to make a three act tragedy of it. All I meant was—’

‘Th-th-thr-ee a-a-act… T-om! I am n-ot dr-ama-tis-ing it. I am s-erious. M-ust I coll-apse in t-ears bef-ore y-ou ev-ery day bef-ore y-y-ou w-ill… w-ill… oh, n-ever m-ind it. Dr-ead also h-as a c-ertain tedium if it g-goes on l-ong en-ough. The m-ost appall-ing r-ealities ev-entually l-ose th-eir n-ovelty. Th-ere is a time of dr-ab gr-ey horr-or when y-ou acc-ept that th-is r-eally is h-appen-ing to y-ou. It is pr-ecisel-y wh-at you s-aid: a m-atter of f-act.

‘Th-at m-oment of acc-eptance turns y-ou to ice, T-om. It’s l-ike dead m-en’s f-ingers str-oking y-our s-oul. Th-e w-ay out of th-e pl-ace I am in is a sev-ere, n-arrow passage.’

‘Stop it! You’re making my flesh creep. “Dead men’s fingers”! You… stop it!’

‘Y-ou w-on’t all-ow m-e ev-en th-e indulg-ence of a l-ittle m-orbid s-elf-pity th-en?’ He grinned at Tom, but Tom, looking into his eyes, saw no laughter there. Death was teasing him like a cat with a mouse, playing with his life, a mirthless, taunting game. He was weary of it.

The day had begun to turn chill. The warmth of the afternoons no longer burned with the heat of summer. The lazy golden length of sunbeams belonged to colder evenings, longer nights. The shadows of the trees lay across the meadow, and the pink sky began to deepen into a wash of rose. A little cloud of gnats danced their incessant aimless ritual on the evening air. In the tall trees behind the burial ground the rooks were cawing and flapping, their racket suddenly loud in the stillness that steals upon the day and draws it down into dusk, silence, night.

The two men lingered in the waning day, the afternoon warmth prolonged here in the shelter of the low wall that separated them from the burial ground.

‘T-om.’

‘Mm?’

‘I w-ant y-ou to p-p-romise me s-om… um… so-… oh!’

‘Something. What?’

Tom turned his head to look at Peregrine. He had mastered speech well enough not to get stuck on a word these days, unless he was very tired, or under some sort of emotional pressure.

‘Y-ou s-s-aid once th-at… if I w-w-ant-ed… y-ou wou-would he-lp m-e out.’

‘Yes. I said that. But….’

‘If… whe-en i-t h-ha-hap-pens ag-ain… d-on’t l-eave m-e in it. I c-ould-n’t, T-om, c-ouldn’t go th-thr-ough it a-gain.’

Tom said nothing. He had deliberately not thought about the future. The present had seemed daunting enough. He chewed his lip anxiously, the months to come opening out ominously ahead of him now.

‘Th-ere are h-h-ard time-s ahea-d. N-o sh-ort-cut-s on th-is r-r-oad. I am n-not af-raid to d-ie, and… en-ough is en-ough. P-rom-ise me, T-om.’

‘Help you out? How?’

‘H-em-lock… a p-ill-ow o-n m-y f-ace… I d-on’t m-ind. B-ut if y-ou lo-ve m-e, d-on’t m-ake m-e end-ure it ag-ain.

‘T-om?’

‘I’m listening. Believe me, I’m listening. Do you know what you’re asking? This is mortal sin you’re talking about—um—hell. For both of us.’

‘There is n-o such th-thing as h-ell for-r two people.’

‘What?’

‘Hell is f-ull of p-eople who a-re p-p-pur-suing th-eir p-personal gain. Ev-en person-al s-alvation. L-ove antidotes hell. If y-our f-ear of h-ell ou-ts-trips y-our com-pa-assion, th-en y-ou have r-un to m-eet h-ell. M-ake hell w-ait; forg-et you-rself.’

‘I hope the bishop hasn’t checked up on your theology lately.’

‘T-om. Pr-omise me.’

Tom shifted uneasily. Until now, the shadows of this level of reality had never lengthened over his life. Their chill carried a sense of gathering dark. When he finally replied, his voice shook in spite of himself. ‘If you’re sure it’s what you want.’

‘P-romise me.’

‘I will.’

‘S-ay it.’

‘I promise that if you have another seizure, and you are as helpless as you were before, I will… finish it.’

‘Th-ank you, T-om.’

‘I hope you don’t regret this when it’s too late, that’s all.’

‘If I d-id, the c-consequ-ences wo-uld be no bl-eaker.’

Tom blew out his breath in a long sigh. ‘Well, no. I suppose not. Look, I’m not easy about this, Father. It seems… it seems such a pity to risk forfeiting heaven when you’re… well… knocking on the door, more or less. God is patient and merciful, but he has his rules, doesn’t he?’

‘God. Wh-ere is this G-od of y-ours, T-om?’

‘Where is he? What do you mean, where is he? He… well, he’s enthroned in heaven, isn’t he? With Jesus at his right hand.’

‘V-er-y p-retty an-d c-lean. Wh-at does he do?’

‘What are you getting at? What do you mean, what does he do? God keeps everything going, neither slumbers nor sleeps.’

‘In a w-orking d-ay, th-ough; h-ow does your God s-pend his t-ime? S-ending men to h-ell, b-urning the ones who w-ere too af-raid to s-ee their nightm-ares th-rough?’

‘Well, no, not all the time, but… I suppose that’s part of what God does.’

‘And th-is is the God in wh-ose image y-ou h-ope to be perf-ected, y-es? Th-e butchers in I-taly wh-o are b-urning the F-ranciscans… are they antic-ipating heaven then, or h-ell? If the G-od of h-eav-en b-urns people… a-nd people burn in h-ell… h-ow will you kn-ow the dif-ference?’

‘Father! That’s heresy!’

‘M-y-es, I kn-ow. I h-ave stud-ied th-e Ch-urch F-ath-ers t-oo.’

‘I don’t know… I don’t know about God.’

‘Sh-ould do. You’re a m-onk.’

‘Tell me what you think then, about God. Where do you think he is?’

Peregrine did not speak for a minute. He drew breath, then paused. ‘I….’

‘Well?’

‘Th-is m-ight h-urt you.’

‘Go on.’

‘When I w-as first sick, a-nd you d-idn’t come to s-ee me, I w-as s-o w-wound-ed. As e-ach day ende-d… V-esp-ers, C-ompline, night, I t-urned my f-ace to the w-all and w-ept. I was l-onely and afr-aid. I n-eeded y-ou. After a wh-ile, I re-alised y-ou really w-ere not c-oming. When I f-aced th-at, someth-ing d-ied in m-e. It w-as tr-uly m-ore than I c-ould bear.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Tom’s voice was husky with sadness and shame. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘N-o; w-ait. I w-ept before G-od, and I s-aid to him, “Where are you? Wh-y have y-ou aba-ndoned m-e?” I s-aid to h-im, “Y-ou have p-ermitted th-is. Y-ou s-uffer-ed me to be cr-ippled. Y-ou suffered me t-o b-e s-tripped of all dignit-y. Y-ou suffer-ed me to b-e p-aralysed and dumb a-a-and t-ortured. Could y-ou n-ot… God, in whose h-hand is th-e g-ift of all our d-ays… could y-ou not h-ave left me my friend? Wh-ere is your mercy? If it is true y-our v-ery be-ing is love, where a-a-are you?” T-om, I h-ad p-lenty of t-ime to th-think.’

‘And?’

‘I r-emembered the creat-ion s-tory. G-od m-ade Adam f-rom the d-ust of th-e earth. God the artist, s-tooping, kneeling in the dust, tend-erly, absorb-ed, h-is h-ands forming A-dam. W-e make th-em t-oo. Statues, im-ages fashioned with a-artistry and love, but G-od wanted more th-an that.

‘H-e st-ooped and p-ut his mouth on Adam’s mouth, a-nd closed his eyes, a-nd b-r-eathed in-to Ada-m l-ife. S-o Adam became a living being; not w-ith the dumb l-ife of the flesh, d-ust th-at g-oes down to d-ust, but with the breath of God.’

Peregrine struggled up onto his elbow to look at Tom, the spark of eagerness rekindled in his eyes.

‘The thing—Holy Sp-irit—that m-akes God divine, is the same as th-e th-ing th-at makes m-an h-uman. H-umanity and deity share one br-eath. Just as man and w-oman are th-e s-ame b-ut d-ifferent, a-nd it is th-e d-ifference in th-eir unity wh-ich is th-e secret delight o-f th-eir love; “At last! Fl-esh of my fl-esh, b-one of m-y bone”—rememb-er? So it is th-at G-od’s r-eality is found in our human-ity. D-o y-ou f-ollow m-e?’

‘Um… no.’

Peregrine sighed in exasperation. ‘It’s my f-ault, I don’t th-ink so cl-early n-ow. L-ook; God did not w-atch m-e w-eep, watch p-art of me die in m-isery. We sh-are one breath, he and I. G-od also w-ept, g-roaned, d-ied. He carries my w-ounds in h-is body. M-y gut clenched in s-obbing, a-nd it w-as the h-eartache o-f G-od. All my fear and d-efeat are s-cars that he w-ears on h-is breast.’

‘But… God lives in eternal bliss. God can’t die. Surely that was the point about Jesus; he came so we could have life—to put an end to death. God’s supposed to lift us up! It’s a poor do if our miseries drag God down in the dirt too, isn’t it?’

Peregrine smiled. ‘Oh, T-om; don’t tr-ample on all m-y theories w-ith your common s-ense. Wh-y do you h-ave to be r-ight all the t-ime? Y-ou’ll n-ever m-ake a poet.’

‘You don’t think I am right though, do you? Don’t smile at me like that. I want you to explain it. I don’t understand the way you see it. Talk to me about it. After all, you might drop dead next week, and then I would never have understood. The dying bit. Tell me what you mean.’

‘W-ell… th-e soul of us; our hum-anity, is th-e breath of God. If y-ou expose a h-uman being to too m-uch h-orror, too much agon-y, h-is spirit is w-ounded; s-omething in him dies. If a child is bullied a-nd beaten, h-as nowh-ere to turn, n-o refuge, his h-umanity is murdered. He becomes h-imself cruel, inh-uman. The im-age of God in him is s-oured: th-e v-ery breath of G-od in part dies in h-im. In m-e, p-art of m-y humanity is def-aced… destroyed. Speech, th-ought, movement: I am not c-omplete an-y m-ore.’

Tom shook his head, protesting his denial.

‘N-o, w-ait, T-om. ’Tis tr-ue. I h-ope th-e part of m-e that l-oves, tr-usts, forgiv-es, is still f-unctioning, but not even a f-ool would pretend th-at all of m-e is. And I confess it to y-ou; h-ope has died in m-e a little; terror h-as advanced, and h-ope retreated. I th-ink th-at might be a s-in, but I can’t h-elp it. I am v-ery afr-aid, n-ot of death, but of l-ife. But, our f-aith is n-ot in immortality; n-ot th-e immortality of h-uman endeavour, or of th-e hum-an s-pirit. We die: s-ome in sw-ift r-acking agony, l-ike Jes-us, some piecemeal, like me: but all of us en-tirely die. Wh-at I believe in is th-e resurrection of th-e dead. Th-e m-an whose childh-ood innocence h-as b-een wrung, str-angled, he w-ill see it r-isen. Those like m-e, for whom h-ope is n-o longer realistic, we will f-ind a r-isen hope, bec-ause God is bound up w-ith us. H-e h-as thrown his l-ot in w-ith us; desc-ended into h-ell for us; h-arrowed hell even m-ore thoroughly th-an hell has harr-owed us.’

‘You’re not entirely a heretic, then; you do believe there is a hell.’

‘M-e? T-om, how c-an y-ou s-ay… I kn-ow it. I have tas-ted in m-y own b-ody th-e ag-ony of th-e d-eath o-f God. Sw-eating in f-ear I h-ave cried out to h-im, oh l-ose me n-ot utterly; do n-ot l-et go of m-y hand. He is with m-e. Odd, isn’t it? God wh-o is l-ife, he is f-ound in death. It is th-e cr-oss, not th-e empty tomb wh-ich is th-e symbol of our f-aith. Th-e empty t-omb is tomorrow’s story. Th-e cross is the ch-apter of our day.’

‘So where is all this leading?’

‘The l-ove of G-od is not s-omething that stands over agains-t us. Th-ere is a j-udgement, b-ut it does not look on our despair d-is-passion-ately, w-eighing righteousness in the b-alance, and r-ecking no-thing of our anguish. Th-e justice of G-od holds us in h-is arms in intimate em-brace.

‘What i-s G-od? Well, wh-at is it th-at makes h-umanity precious? What is th-e love by wh-ich I w-ept for you, and y-ou h-eld me c-lose wh-en I w-as in ang-uish, if it is n-ot the b-reath of God?’

‘Human life is sacred.’

‘Y-es.’

‘Even so, you aren’t God! It’s not for you to take life until it’s yours to give it.’

‘N-o. I u-nderstand. B-ut, if wh-at m-akes m-e a l-iving be-ing is the b-reath of God, then what will he s-end to h-ell? T-om… I asked it of you n-ot as the p-roduct of th-eologic-al logic ch-chopping, but because m-my c-ourage f-ails at the pr-ospect of end-uring it ag-ain. By what c-razy, cr-uel ethic is it r-ight to s-end a lad of ei-ghteen to d-eath in b-attle, but needful to d-eny a t-errif-ied, c-rippled old m-an rel-ease?’

‘Don’t ask me. You’re the theologian. You’re making my head ache. It’s getting cold, and Brother John will cut my liver out if I let one of his little chicks catch a chill. Let’s get you home to bed. Don’t worry about it any more. I’ve promised you. I don’t like it, but I’ve promised. You can rest easy.

‘Do you need to use this jar before we go? Yes? Go on then, while I get the chair turned round and sort out your pillows.

‘Faith, there’s quite a breeze when you stand up where it blows above the wall.

‘I’ll empty that, shall I?

‘Here we go then, I’ve got your chair ready.’

It was a difficult manoeuvre, and it required all Tom’s strength to heave him without help into the chair. The procedure was not always completed without mishap, but today it went smoothly enough.

‘I don’t know about you dying, but you’ll be the death of me. I’m sure you’re putting on weight.

‘Nay, not really,’ he added quickly, seeing the discomfiture in Peregrine’s face. ‘Come, let’s see what they’ve got for your supper.’

That day proved to be the last of the summer warmth. In the night that followed it, the wind got up, bringing rain in the morning, and there were no more days mild enough to sit outside. The rain came in squalls and the wind tossed the trees, tearing down the dying leaves and laying about the last of the summer flowers, except for Brother Fidelis’ roses in the security of the cloister garth.

Occasionally, when the rain held off, one or other of the hardier inhabitants of the infirmary would be loaded into a wheeled chair and trundled around the paths for a short walk, but they felt the cold more quickly than active men, and such excursions had to be short and rare now.

‘We’ll be lighting fires in the rooms not much after Michaelmas if this gloom doesn’t lift,’ said Brother John. ‘The place is as damp and dreary as a vault. It’s taken me three days to dry Monday’s washing.’

Michaelmas Day dawned in grey clouds and puddles, depressingly chill, the wind blowing from the east, discovering every chink in doors and windows and aggravating every ache of rheumatic old age, in spite of the shelter of the hills ranged about the abbey to the north and east. The rain fell in showers, depressing deluges that eased off after a few minutes to a blowing mist of drizzle. The summer was gone.

On that day every year, the daily rhythm of the abbey altered. The central section of the day, incorporating the Office of Terce, Chapter Mass, Chapter, work, the Office of Sext and the midday meal remained the same, and the brothers still rose for Matins and Lauds at midnight: but None, Vespers, and Compline were said earlier, they ate supper earlier, and they rose later for Prime and first Mass, which gave them an extra hour’s sleep before midnight, and an extra two hours after midnight.

The morning after Michaelmas Day was a blissful lie-in, as the brothers, used to the brutal clamour of the bell shattering sleep in time for Prime at five o’clock, slept on for two hours, and rose with a comfortable sense of having rested well.

Brother Tom felt well-disposed towards everyone on the day after Michaelmas Day. He was never sure whether Brother Cormac’s cooking tasted better on that day because of his own good humour, or whether in fact Cormac cooked better for being well-rested and relatively cheerful. This year, as always, Tom felt contented on Michaelmas Day, in spite of the rain and wind.

His spirits were slightly dampened by the day’s reading from the Rule at the Chapter meeting. It was not the most encouraging Chapter in the Rule in any case, being a stern warning against the harbouring of forbidden lust and desire, with a reminder that death lurks near to the gate of delight, and that the deeds of the brethren were at regular intervals reported in humourless detail by watching angels to a God who was already keeping a strict eye on them.

On that particular day Father Chad, who had chanced to overhear Brother Thaddeus remark to Father Theodore that Father Chad’s sermons sent him to sleep, took it upon himself to rub the brothers’ noses thoroughly in the shameful depths of their own inescapable original sin. He chastised them in what for him were extraordinarily savage terms for the slothful, perilous indulgence with which they, like all men, were inclined to regard the stirrings and yearnings of the flesh.

He urged them passionately to root out every thought which offended against holy chastity, and every immodest word or look, adding that they must no more wink at such evil in others than did Christ in his purity who held the keys of death and hell. The brothers were slightly startled at this uncharacteristic outburst, but in the main received his exhortation with due humility and resolved to try harder in case the severity of their superior might be Christ in his purity giving the keys of death and hell a little rattle for their benefit, rather than a mere recurrence of Father Chad’s chronic indigestion.

After Chapter, Brother John overtook Brother Tom as he was trudging through the rain along the track that led past the infirmary, on his way up to the farm.

‘Have you time this afternoon to spend an hour with Father Peregrine?’ he asked, squinting at Tom from under his cowl in the blowing rain, his shoulders hunched against the weather.

‘Yes, it would be no trouble at all. I’m not especially busy today. Why? Is something amiss?’

‘No. But the nights are long and often wakeful for him with his disabled body and active mind. Michaelmas Day is not as welcome to him as it is to the rest of us; even longer nights to lie alone with his thoughts. He’d be pleased to see you… delighted even.

‘Also, he bade me tell you his friend Père Guillaume in France has sent him a cask of good wine, and he wants you to share a cup of wine with him before he does as he should and surrenders it to the abbot’s table. It is good wine too—he gave me some this morning. Father Chad’ll be wringing out the dregs, I fear, by the time we’ve all begged a sample.

‘I’ll tell him you’ll come, then? After the midday meal?’

‘That would suit me well, yes; I’ll come then.’

‘Thank you kindly, he’ll be grateful. That Chapter took the skin off our souls, did it not? Whatever do you suppose brought that on? We haven’t had a going over like that since you ran off with a woman in the novitiate.

‘I wonder if he’s planning to terrify the novices with it in their Chapter this afternoon? Theodore will need to pick up the pieces of a few stricken consciences if he does.’

Tom smiled. ‘He’s right, though. We are inclined to get slack. I’ll see you after dinner, then,’ and he raised his hand in farewell as their ways parted.

Tom spent the morning threshing oats with Brother Stephen, showing Brother Germanus how to use a flail. It was hard work, and cold, the barn doors propped back to allow the chaff to fly in the wind.

He was ready for his dinner by midday, and applied himself with pleasure to a large helping of roast capon and green salad, followed by plum tart and cream.

He felt on good terms with life as he strolled over to the infirmary, looking forward to a beaker of first-class French wine.

Peregrine greeted him with a smile. ‘It’s g-ood of y-ou t-o c-ome, T-om. W-ill y-ou sh-are s-ome w-ine w-ith m-e?’

Tom could not help but notice the slightly glazed look of his eyes, and judged that Peregrine had probably had enough already, especially in view of the fact that his dinner lay untouched beside him on the table.

Tom felt some sympathy for him in the rejection of his dinner. It seemed likely that it had been concocted from the same ingredients as his own meal, but that it had been macerated with milk into a broth-like substance, and the bread that had accompanied it torn up and put to soak in the liquid. The kitchen staff had, it seemed, grasped only too well that most of the residents of the infirmary had dim sight, aging tastebuds and no teeth. Beside the unappetising savoury dish stood another bowl bearing well-stewed greengages that had been vigorously mixed with custard to a pale green curdled pulp. This offering Peregrine had also ignored.

‘I’d love to share some wine with you,’ said Brother Tom, and he poured himself a beaker.

‘D-on’t g-ive m-e an-y m-ore,’ said Peregrine, to Tom’s relief. ‘I’ve h-ad m-ore th-an w-ill b-en-efit j-udgem-ent or discr-etion.’

The atmosphere in the room was not entirely happy. The day scarcely lifted the light in the room above a damp grey dusk. Peregrine’s face sagged in lines of despondency, his eyes fogged with wine.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

Peregrine glanced in contempt at the meal on the table beside him. ‘I w-as unt-il I s-aw th-at.’

Tom could think of no answer to this. He sipped his wine. ‘This is good, at any rate. I’ll wager you’ve enjoyed it.’

‘Y-es. T-oo m-uch.’

They both looked up at the click of the latch, and Martin put his head round the door.

‘Have you finished with those crocks? Oh, for shame, Father, you bad lad! You haven’t touched your meal at all! Why ever not, now? They went to no end of trouble to mix it up for you. It should have been just what an invalid needs—hot and soft and wet.’

Peregrine looked down at the mess of shredded bread soaked in broth. It had long gone cold, and globules of yellow grease floated on the liquid and washed up on the surfaces of bread.

He looked up at Martin and contemplated his wagging finger of disapproval for a moment. Then, leaning forward in his chair with an expression of bland, almost empty-headed, innocence, he said to him, ‘Th-e o-only th-th-ing th-at i-s h-h-ot a-nd s-soft a-a-nd w-w-et I ev-e-er h-ad a l-l-iking for, I l-e-eft beh-h-ind wh-en I e-nt-ered th-e cl-oist-er.’

Brother Tom choked on his wine and put it down, coughing and spluttering. Martin smiled tolerantly at Peregrine.

‘Eh, what was that, Father? Perhaps we could get you some if there’s something you fancy? Tut-tut, that has gone down the wrong way, Brother Thomas. Let me clap you on the back—that’s better. Now then, what was it you fancied, Father?’

‘No!’ said Tom hastily, when he could speak. ‘No, Martin, he’ll be all right. You be getting on. I’ll find him some supper.’

‘Oh, very well then. Thank you very much, Brother; if you’re sure. I’ll take this bowl with me. That’s a naughty lad though, wasting good food when it’s given to you!’

Peregrine blinked slowly, like a disdainful, rather befuddled bird of prey; he did not reply.

When they were alone again, Tom sat looking at Peregrine, waiting for him to meet his eyes, which eventually rather shamefacedly he did.

‘Father!’ said Tom. ‘I’m surprised at you.’

‘H-e pr-ov-okes m-e bey-ond end-ur-ance,’ Peregrine muttered guiltily.

‘Even so, that was a most distasteful remark.’

Peregrine flushed, and looked away from Tom’s disapproval.

‘’Tis tr-ue th-ough,’ he mumbled, mutinous, and he added, ‘I hate th-is inf-f-irm-ary sl-op. I h-ate be-ing p-atr-onised. I hate th-e w-eath-er. I th-ink I ev-en h-ate b-eing a m-m-onk. I w-ant a d-ec-ent d-inner a-nd s-ome g-ood c-omp-any.’

‘Thank you, Father. You’re so appreciative.’

Peregrine glowered at him. ‘Wh-y do y-ou have to b-e s-o self-r-r-ighteous?’

‘I’m not! I—’

‘Y-es, y-ou are! Y-ou r-em-ind m-e of F-Fath-er M-atthew.’

Tom stared at him in astonished indignation, but Peregrine was not looking at him. ‘“Oh, f-or sh-a-ame, F-ather, you b-ad l-ad,”’ he mimicked Martin to ludicrous effect in his slow, difficult speech. ‘D-on’t laugh at m-e, h-e makes m-e s-ick. Wh-o does h-e th-ink I am?’

‘I wonder,’ Tom replied. ‘Why? Who do you think you are? Or is that the trouble? Aren’t you sure anymore?’

Peregrine glanced up at him with a quick frown of pain. The question had touched surely on a wound.

‘M-e? I know wh-at I am n-ow. Wh-at h-e s-aid; invalid. I’m a cr-ipple, an obj-ect of pity. I sp-ent years fighting n-ot to b-e, b-ut n-ow….’ He shrugged impatiently and turned his face away. ‘It s-ticks in m-y thr-oat, th-at’s all,’ he muttered.

‘And taunting Martin with lewd remarks? That restores your self-esteem?’

Peregrine’s mouth twitched in irritation. He lifted his head and glared hopelessly at Tom. ‘A-all r-ight, I’m s-s-orry!’ he shouted at him. ‘B-ut d-o y-ou h-h-ave t-o be s-o s-s-sanct… um… s-sa-a… oh merde!’

‘Sanctimonious?’

‘Y-es.’

‘You think I should just indulge your lapses of propriety, do you? On account of you being an object of pity, maybe?’

Peregrine did not reply. Tom leaned forward and encased Peregrine’s hand in his own grip. ‘It is not my pity you have earned, but my respect, my fealty, my love. I will tell you who you are, in case you have forgotten. You are my lord Abbot, and I depend on you still, for your counsel, your wisdom, your example.

‘So please don’t say anything like that again, because it made me laugh—and I ought not to have—the angels are watching.

‘Now, my Father, put it behind you, and tell me what you’d like for your dinner. Let me see… if I can lay my hands on some cold roast capon and a little salad… maybe a large slice of plum tart and some cream… something of that order? Yes? A man after my own heart! Wait for me—I’ll see what I can do!’

Tom begged a laden tray of food from the kitchen.

‘Cormac, why do you send him that repulsive mush?’ he asked.

‘It’s what Martin asks for. Isn’t it right?’

‘Oh, come on—you know what kind of food Father likes. He’s still the same person. The only good thing about that slush is that it makes life easier for Martin. He doesn’t have to cut it up, and Father’s less likely to drop bits.’

Brother Cormac looked thoughtfully at Tom.

‘Yes, I can do that. I can send him over anything he likes. You’re upset about this, aren’t you?’

Tom held the tray as Cormac filled it with plates of food. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It seems such a little thing to do, and it means so much. All the while he hasn’t complained, no one’s thought of it. It… it’s not fair. It’s like forgetting he’s a person.’

Cormac nodded. ‘All right. I won’t forget. I’ll see he gets what he likes.’

Tom carried the tray back to the infirmary room where Peregrine’s eyes brightened at the sight of it. Tom cut it into manageable pieces and set it on his table within reach.

‘Now I’m going to tread on the toes of Holy Poverty by finding some candles to wage war on this gloom,’ he said.

‘It n-ever f-ails t-o am-aze m-e,’ Peregrine said to Tom, as they sat together contentedly by candlelight in the satisfied companionship that follows good food and good wine, ‘th-at a m-an, m-ade b-y G-od t-o b-e l-ittle l-ower th-an the ang-els and cr-owned w-ith gl-ory and hon-our, c-an b-e brought d-own to th-e l-ev-el of a b-east, s-unk in d-espair and s-elf-pity, by d-isappointm-ent, or h-unger, or loneliness.

‘I hardly kn-ow whether t-o be ash-amed or m-oved to w-onder, but y-ou h-ave f-ed m-y s-oul w-ith th-is g-ood f-ood… and w-ith y-our company.’

‘If you ask me,’ said Brother Tom, ‘it’s not such a bad thing to be a little lower than the angels. I wouldn’t swap with the angels for love nor money if they have the job Father Chad said they did today. Roast capon… Père Guillaume’s wine… Oh, heavens, the angels don’t know what they’re missing!’