CHAPTER THREE

Humble Pie

It was one of those hot, stifling days in late June, and the classroom was stuffy. One lazy fly buzzed monotonously, occasionally colliding with the windowpane. I looked at the fly, and at the window, and my gaze was drawn outside to the school buildings and the field beyond, where there was a row of poplar trees, graceful and slender, their topmost branches stirring even on that still day.

The teacher was writing on the blackboard, the chalk stabbing and scraping industriously. ‘Tenir,’ she wrote, and ‘Venir.’ She underlined them heavily, and pushed her glasses more firmly onto the bridge of her nose as she fixed us with her severe glance.

‘The compounds of tenir and venir form the past historic similarly. The same applies of course to retenir, revenir, and so on.’ She whipped round again and attacked the blackboard with the chalk once more, writing ‘je tins, tu tins, il tint…’

I could see the sickroom through the window, across the tennis court. I had been in there twice. It was white and bare with a calendar on the wall, and a picture of the Queen Mother. I tried to imagine the infirmary at the monastery of St Alcuin. Perhaps its walls were built of big blocks of honey-coloured stone. The rooms would be smaller than elsewhere in the abbey, to allow for a sick man to lie alone in peace… in peace or in pain and fear. But great-uncle Edward had not left Peregrine alone with his pain and his fear. He had understood, and stayed with him, talking to him gently, helping him through the worst of the horror. And then Brother Tom, greatly daring, giving him a safe place to cry. I found it easy, in my mind, to wander in the infirmary, to see the brothers bending over the sick man, caring for him: but the other… I felt a strange shyness as I imagined that reserved, solitary man, racked with his grief, in the arms of the young brother. It seemed too intimate, too raw a thing even to think about, as though I should glimpse it with reverence, then tiptoe away…

‘Melissa, did you hear me? Are you listening at all?’

I looked, bewildered, at the teacher, my mouth slightly ajar, and struggled to adjust my blank expression to something more intelligent-looking. She took off her glasses, the better to glare at me.

‘Vint à passer,’ snapped Mrs Kerr. ‘Un facteur vint à passer.’ Vint? I looked at the blackboard. From venir. Un facteur? What the dickens was that? Un facteur came to pass. Crumbs.

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Kerr, I can’t remember what un facteur means.’

‘Un facteur,’ said Mrs Kerr, her black eyes glittering at me like little jet beads, ‘is a postman.’

A postman. A postman came to pass. ‘Please, God,’ I begged, silently. I could feel the palms of my hands sweating. ‘I don’t know,’ I said helplessly, at last.

‘Melissa, you have not been paying the slightest attention to this lesson. I have just explained at some length, that when followed by an infinitive, the verb venir à takes the meaning “happen to”. Un facteur vint à passer uses the past historic of venir à, and demonstrates this use of the verb. It means “a postman happened to pass”. Now that I have explained to you what we were all concentrating on perhaps you would like to tell us what you were thinking about?’

‘I… I was imagining the infirmary, in a monastery long ago… what it would be like,’ I mumbled.

Mrs Kerr was waiting. She seemed to expect something more of me. ‘It was a story,’ I explained, ‘about a monk who was terribly hurt and crying and the other monk loved him and comforted him.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She looked at me with her little black eyes. Like currants looking out of a bun, I thought.

‘You must learn to apply your mind to the subject before you, Melissa. You will not learn by dreaming, or by reading sentimental novels. You will learn only if you work.’ She settled her glasses back on her nose and seized the text book.

‘Turn to page 131 please, girls. I want you to look at section B, which deals with the omission of the definite article in the expression plus… plus…; the more, the more – as in, Plus je travaille, plus j’apprends.’

I looked at the teacher, then down at my book. The page in front of me was full of words, but empty of meaning. Sentimental? Is that what sentimental is? When for once, instead of looking the other way, someone dares to stretch out a timid hand to comfort and to heal? I thought about Mother. She didn’t seem a sentimental person. Tough as old boots, Daddy said, but she had told me the story. With that same feeling of shyness, I approached the picture in my mind again… the heat and indignity of giving yourself up to sobbing in someone’s arms, someone you didn’t know very well, with your nose running and your face bathed in sweat and tears, trusting because you had to, because you couldn’t carry it alone any more…. Is it sentimental to speak about that sort of thing? Was Mrs Kerr right? I looked up at her pale, tight-lipped face and considered her rigid, ramrod-straight, thin body, buttoned up to the neck in a suit of hard, grey fabric. Perhaps it was Mrs Kerr who… maybe no one ever… did she sometimes—like me—bury her face in the pillow at night and cry for sheer sadness at the loneliness of it all?

‘Melissa!’ thundered Mrs Kerr.

By the grace and mercy of God, the bell rang.

As soon as the school day ended, I ran like the wind up the hill to the gates of the county primary school where Mary and Beth went to school. Although their day finished ten minutes before ours, the two schools were so close that if I ran I would be in time to find Mother and Cecily, waiting at the top of the hill with the other mothers.

Halfway up the hill, I paused and shaded my eyes with my hand against the bright afternoon sun. Yes, she was still there, with Cecily and Mary and Beth milling around her. She was listening to their urgent chatter. I ran up to the top, dodging through the last straggle of mothers and children coming away from the gates.

‘Hello, Cecily!’ I shouted. She ran to me, and I scooped her up in my arms. Her belligerent little face dimpled with delight, and she patted my face with her grubby fingers.

‘Had a good day?’ asked Mother, as we set off slowly homewards.

‘No. Awful,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I’ve been in trouble all day. What’s for tea?’

‘Baked potatoes and cheese,’ said Mother. ‘Why couldn’t you concentrate?’

‘I was trying to imagine Father Peregrine, and the infirmary, and Brother Tom. I was trying to picture them in my mind.’

‘Mummy, we’ve learned a new song!’ said Beth. ‘It’s about water, and I can do all the first bit. Listen!’

She launched into her song, and then Cecily wanted us to listen to her sing a song, too, and then Therese overtook us as we turned in at the gate.

Therese was sixteen, pink, and plump and gentle, with her fall of brown hair like Mother’s, but light blue eyes full of laughter like Daddy’s. She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Home, I was home. The smell of it, the peace of it! Although it was so small, and we were so many, somehow our house was like a bowl of quietness and light. As I crossed its threshold, I relaxed with a huge sigh, and the world of school dropped from me like a cloak.

The kitchen was filled with a wonderful aroma of baked potato. Therese pushed a mug of tea into my hand as I came in. Home. It closed about me like wings folding around me. Therese gave me a thick slice of bread and jam. I sat down at the kitchen table, utterly content.

‘In trouble all day, you said?’ Mother’s voice broke in on my contentment, as she came into the kitchen. ‘Thank you, Therese,’ she said as she took her cup of tea. ‘And nightmares last night. I think we’ll have to have a different story tonight.’

‘Mother, no!’ I protested. ‘You don’t mean it? I will concentrate at school, I promise. I’ve been waiting all day for the story!’

‘I think, maybe,’ said Mother slowly, ‘once you know more about Father Peregrine, you might actually work better at school. You certainly won’t have any more nightmares. But listen, my dear, if I find your work suffers as a result of these stories, then no more. You must learn to keep your imagination separate, a walled garden with a little green door to go in by. Go in through the door in your lunch hour and in the evening, but when it’s lesson time, you come out of the garden and you shut the door and turn your back on it. Understood?’

‘Mother, I promise,’ I said.

After tea, Daddy came home, and played the piano and sang to us until bath-time. Then he retreated behind a book with a mug of beer and a cheese sandwich while Therese and I got out our homework. In my mind I closed the little green door firmly, and worked single-mindedly on my math homework for half an hour. As the little procession of clean, pink children came out of the bathroom, I slammed the book shut. ‘Finished! And nothing else to do!’

The little ones went in to kiss Daddy goodnight, and then I followed them upstairs to the bedroom. They had to have their prayers first, and their game. Mary and Beth sat down on their beds while Mother drew the curtains and lit the candle. They prayed the Lord’s Prayer, and Mother blessed them, and then it was time for the game.

‘What does the elephant say?’ asked Mother.

‘Triumph! Triumph!’ they shouted, brandishing their arms as trunks and stamping around the bedroom.

‘And what is the only thing an elephant is afraid of?’ she said.

‘A mousie!’ they cried, all together.

‘And what does the mousie say?’

‘Weakness! Weakness! Weakness!’ they squeaked, scrabbling about with tiny steps and twitching noses, their hands gathered up like little claws. It was Cecily’s game really, but Mary and Beth loved to join in.

‘So who is the stronger, the elephant or the mousie?’ Mother asked.

‘The mousie!’ they shouted again.

‘And the elephant trumpets triumph, but the mousie says—’

‘Weakness! Weakness! Weakness!’ until they fell about laughing. Nearly every night they played this game. Mother said they needed to learn while they were still young that the two words belonged together.

‘Go on with the story. Mother!’ I begged; but she would not, not until the last elephant had trumpeted its triumph and the last mouse had pleaded its weakness and lay quiet in its bed.

Then Mother sat for a moment in her chair, little Cecily curled up on her lap with her head cradled in the crook of Mother’s arm.

Beth yawned a huge yawn.

‘Very well,’ said Mother, ‘your story. Something happened that became a legend in the abbey of St Alcuin; and Uncle Edward’s great-niece, to whom these stories were first told, never tired of hearing this story, which came to be known as “Humble Pie”.’

Father Matthew, the novice master, was notorious for his strictness. All the little faults and misdemeanours that most men would have turned a blind eye to, he pounced on like a cat on a mouse, and kept strict discipline and expected high standards among the novices in his charge. Brother Michael had just recently made his solemn vows, leaving in the novitiate Brother Francis, Brother Thomas, Brother Theodore, Brother Cormac and Brother Thaddeus. Of them all it was Brother Theodore who was most often in disgrace, but it should really have been Brother Thomas and Brother Francis, because they were always getting into scrapes and were inclined towards practical jokes and light, foolish conversation. Father Matthew had twice that week found them helpless with laughter over some silly tale, and had set them to tasks which kept them occupied at opposite ends of the abbey, in the hope of calming them down a bit.

Now this Brother Thomas, the same who had held the abbot in his arms and comforted his grief, was a big lad and everlastingly hungry. Sleepless with hunger one night, he had crept out of the dormitory, stolen down to the kitchen, and spirited away from the larder an apple pie, which he devoured with great speed, sitting on the stairs. He licked every crumb from his fingers, sighed happily, and crept back to his bed undetected. Tom did not believe he would ever get used to the meagre provision of a monastery table. The stories handed down to us paint a picture of monks eating and drinking like gluttons, but it was not true in that abbey, at any rate. Even the cook was thin and sour—but more of him later.

Brother Tom told Brother Francis about it as they ate their hunk of bread after morning Office, which turned out to be a foolish indiscretion, because Brother Francis told Brother Thaddeus during the time set aside for private reading and meditation after breakfast. He was unfortunately overheard by Father Matthew, who rebuked him for indulging in idle gossip and assured him this would not be the end of it.

Brother Thaddeus, on the way out of Terce, the mid-morning Office, warned Brother Tom that Father Matthew had been apprised of his misdoings, and like most men with a guilty conscience, Tom looked round for someone else to blame.

The monastic life is hard enough, you would think, but in those days it was dreadful! Discipline was strict, especially under the likes of Father Matthew! Every little fault or sin or accident was taken seriously, and must be confessed to teach the monk humility. It was not enough, either, just to say ‘Sorry!’ as you or I might. Not likely! The Rule of St Benedict, which was the rule by which the Benedictine monks lived, stipulated that any brother who had to be corrected for a fault, or who was in trouble with his superior had to prostrate himself on the ground at his superior’s feet, and stay there until he blessed him and gave him permission to get up.

Father Gregory, the previous abbot, while agreeing with the principles that lay behind this practice, never theless saw that it could create problems, he himself having once tripped over the feet of a prostrate brother in passing. He therefore modified the rule slightly, and in his abbey, the practice was that any of the brothers who committed a fault, or otherwise gave offence, should kneel before the one he had offended, saying, ‘I humbly confess my fault of speaking during the Great Silence’ (or whatever it was he’d done wrong), ‘and I ask forgiveness of you, my brother, and of God.’ Father Gregory was quite firm that the offended party should not hang about, keeping the miscreant on his knees, but should respond at once, ‘God forgives you, Brother, and so do I,’ which blessing would be the end of the matter, and life could go on as normal. This seemed a humiliating, almost unbearable procedure to the young men who were new to monastic life, and it wasn’t supposed to be easy, but it was a quick way to learn to be humble!

But worst of all, anyone who had done something wrong was supposed to kneel before the whole community and confess it, either before lunch when the brothers had said grace, or at the beginning of community chapter, before the reading of the Rule and the abbot’s talk. Poor Brother Tom knew well enough that Father Matthew would have him on his knees before the whole community, confessing to sneaking a pie at midnight, and he was after Brother Francis’ blood for giving him away.

At this hour of the day, which was about ten o’clock in the morning, the brothers were supposed to be about their daily tasks, but instead of heading for the vegetable garden, which was his present place of work, Brother Tom set off hastily to intercept Brother Francis on his way to the scriptorium, where the books for the library were copied and the illuminated manuscripts were painted. The work Brother Francis turned out was nothing special, but it was reasonably accurate, and it kept him away from Brother Tom, or at least it was supposed to.

Tom saw him on his way there, and the sight of Francis, walking slowly and peacefully along the deserted cloister with the air of a man who hadn’t a care in the world, enraged him still further. Tom overtook him, grabbed him by the shoulder, and swung him round to face him with his back against the wall, in one violent movement.

‘What have you done, you stupid blabbermouth?’ he hissed. He would rather have roared like a mad bull, but his sense of self-preservation restrained him; he was in enough trouble already. He contented himself with glaring at Francis and demanding, ‘Now what am I supposed to do?’

Francis’ coolness was as much a habit with him as his black tunic, and he regarded Tom calmly, apparently unmoved by his red face and the quivers of rage that shook him. His eyes flickered momentarily, but he spoke with what struck Tom as heartless indifference: ‘Do?’ he said, ‘Well, I suppose you’ll have to confess it at chapter tomorrow morning.’

Tom could have hit him. He glared at him, speechless for a moment, and then spluttered, ‘Fine friend you are, you big-mouthed toad! You don’t care a bit, do you?’

Francis did actually care, but chose to pretend he didn’t. That was the way with him. The more he cared, the more indifferent he pretended to be. The guilt and embarrassment that filled him because he had unwittingly betrayed his friend to Father Matthew he now concealed beneath a tone of defensive irritation. ‘Well, it’s your own fault, Brother! You shouldn’t have done it. You didn’t ask me to keep it a secret, did you?’

Tom launched into an indignant reply, ignoring Francis’ sudden gesture intended to silence him, and warning, ‘Ssh!’

‘Don’t “shush” me, man! I haven’t…’

‘Shut up, Tom,’ muttered Brother Francis. ‘Father Abbot…’

In spite of his distinctive gait, they had neither of them heard Father Peregrine before he saw them, and they stood helplessly as he approached. He looked at them, eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘What is your dispute, brothers?’

Tom stared at him, dumbly. Francis, after a quick glance at his friend, spoke first. ‘He… I… Father Matthew…’ he began, and then tailed off into silence, not wishing to be guilty of betraying his friend to the abbot, as well as the novice master.

This simple speech put Father Peregrine in the picture fairly well, but he thought he might as well have the details. ‘Yes?’ he said, looking from one to the other of them.

So poor Brother Tom had to tell what had happened, and wretchedly mumbled the whole story with downcast eyes, ending by explaining how Father Matthew had overheard it all as Brother Francis related the tale to Brother Thaddeus.

‘Well, it was your own fault!’ Francis burst out. ‘If you lived for more than your belly you wouldn’t be in this predicament.’

Tom’s head shot up, and he opened his mouth to reply, but Father Peregrine silenced him. ‘Enough of that,’ he said. ‘Brother Francis,’ he continued calmly, ‘it is my opinion that you owe Brother Thomas an apology for your rudeness and self-righteousness, as well as for gossiping about him. One man’s sin is not an appropriate topic for another man’s conversation.’

Francis looked at him for a moment and met that direct, fierce, hawk’s eye, and without a word got down on to his knees before Brother Tom.

‘I confess…’ he said, ‘I humbly confess my rudeness and self-righteousness, and my careless gossip, and I ask forgiveness, Brother, of you and of God.’

Tom couldn’t bear this. He felt as though he was being choked. ‘Oh, no, get up. Please!’ he said, but Father Peregrine said, ‘He has asked your forgiveness, Brother. Will you dismiss him so ungraciously?’

Tom had always found the experience of kneeling to ask forgiveness appalling. It had never occurred to him until this moment that it could be just as hard to forgive. The Rule made it clear that humble, heart-felt forgiveness was what was required, not just the form of words. For a moment, the thought of Father Matthew flashed through Brother Tom’s mind again, as well as the prospect of kneeling before the community to confess his fault at community chapter, and he wasn’t at all sure he forgave Brother Francis.

Francis, who could read his friend like a book, knew the struggle going on inside him. He felt desperately ashamed of himself. ‘I really am sorry, Tom,’ he said in a small voice, and looked up into his face with the disguise of indifference torn away.

Tom’s heart went out to his friend. ‘God forgives you, and so do I!’ he said heartily, and Francis got thankfully to his feet. They looked at Father Peregrine, unsure whether they were free to go or not, and he smiled at them imperturbably.

‘Now you, Brother Thomas, should go and find the cook, and confess your fault to him and ask his pardon.’

Brother Tom’s jaw dropped. If there could be anything worse than confessing his sin before the community in the chapter meeting, this had to be it. The kitchen was possibly the busiest place in the abbey. Lay servants worked there, as well as two of the brothers, all presided over by Brother Andrew, a sour and irritable Scot, notorious for his impatient and sarcastic tongue. A monk would have the graciousness to pretend not to notice one of his brothers kneeling to a superior to confess a fault, but not the lay servants from the village. They regarded it as good entertainment.

‘But…’ began the luckless Tom, then caught the abbot’s eye and thought better of it.

His last hopes were dashed as Father Peregrine smiled at him and said, ‘You can come and tell me what Brother Andrew says.’

There was no deferring until it was conveniently forgotten, then, or at least until after chapter in the morning, when Brother Andrew would already have heard his confession before the community. He swallowed hard.

‘Yes, Father,’ he said, and exchanged one desperate glance with Brother Francis before plodding away reluctantly to the kitchens.

‘Thank you, Brother Francis. Don’t let me detain you any further,’ said Father Peregrine, and Francis took himself off to the scriptorium.

Peregrine then set off in search of Father Matthew and found him crossing the courtyard on his way to the gatehouse, with a bundle of letters for the porter.

‘A word with you, Father Matthew,’ he said pleasantly, and hesitated. Father Matthew was one of those men who had to be handled with care, for good results. ‘I have just seen Brother Thomas and Brother Francis,’ he continued carefully. ‘They have confessed their faults to me of idle gossip and the theft of a pie, and I have given them their penance.’ He wondered briefly if Father Matthew would have considered merely apologising to Brother Tom and apologising to the cook to be worthy of the name ‘penance’, but then, Father Matthew seemed extraordinarily unaware of what it cost them to do it. ‘I do not wish to presume on your authority with the novices, Father Matthew, but I think it should not now be necessary for them to confess their faults at community chapter. I hope you approve of the line of action I have taken,’ he said politely, well aware that Father Matthew had no choice but to approve.

‘Yes, of course, Father. We will consider the matter closed, then?’

‘I think so, Father,’ said Peregrine. ‘Thank you, that’s all.’

Brother Tom found Brother Andrew in the frantically busy hour before lunch. Brother Andrew was vaguely aware of him as an obstacle in the congested pathways of his kitchen but took no notice of him for a moment, then nearly walked into him on his way back to the pantry with a huge cheese in his hands.

‘Whatever is it you want, Brother?’ he snapped.

Tom looked at him, but felt as if his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and just stood there clenching and unclenching his fists, as red as a beetroot.

‘What in heaven’s name ails you, man? Do you want anything or no? Can you not see how busy I am?’ roared the old Scot.

‘Father Abbot sent me,’ whispered Tom huskily.

‘Well?’ said Brother Andrew, perplexed as well as irritated. ‘Here, take this to the pantry; mind you wrap it well,’ he said to a passing servant, handing over the cheese.

Tom fell to his knees before him, his hands clenched into fists, unable to look up. The old man’s face softened, and a glimmer of amusement came into his eyes. He had noticed the absence of the pie as he went into the pantry this morning, and he guessed what this was all about. The bustle of the kitchen ceased as several pairs of curious eyes and ears gave their full attention to the scene.

‘Brother, I humbly confess my fault. I… I came down here last night and stole a pie from the pantry and I… ask forgiveness of you and of God.’

Tom thought it was probably the worst moment of his life. The kitchen was utterly quiet. He felt a bony hand on his shoulder, and looked up into old Brother Andrew’s eyes which were dancing with merriment.

‘Brother, I esteem your courage,’ he said. ‘God forgives you, and so do I. Father Abbot is a very hard man.’

Tom got to his feet without a word, and stumbled out of the kitchen. Once through the door, he stood still, and took a deep breath. For the first time since eating the wretched pie, his heart felt as light as a bird. It was over.

He set off cheerfully for the vegetable garden, and turning the corner almost collided with Father Peregrine.

‘I did it,’ he said, exultantly.

‘Did you? Well done. Let that be finished with, then, you need not confess your fault to the community,’ said Peregrine, then stood there, eyeing Tom thoughtfully for a moment, as if there was something more he wanted to say. ‘I was looking for you,’ he said. ‘What did Brother Andrew say?’

‘He said he esteemed my courage,’ said Tom shyly, ‘and he forgave me.’ He grinned at Father Peregrine. ‘And he said Father Abbot is a very hard man!’

Peregrine continued to look at him thoughtfully, and Tom was just beginning to wonder if he’d said the wrong thing, when slowly, awkwardly, Peregrine knelt before him.

Tom was horrified. He knew it hurt badly for the abbot to bend that crippled leg and kneel—he didn’t even kneel during the Office—and besides that, he was covered with embarrassment, anxious lest anyone should come round the corner and see his lord abbot kneeling before him.

‘I humbly confess my fault, Brother,’ said Father Peregrine. ‘When I was a novice, twenty-five years ago, I, too, was hungry in the night, and, like you, I crept down to the kitchen, and I stole three pies, and I ate the lot. I was never found out, and to this day I’ve never owned up to anyone. I ask your forgiveness and God’s for placing on your shoulders a burden I myself was unwilling to bear.’

Tom was utterly astonished. He could not even imagine this man as a novice, hungry, struggling with temptation and failing. All he wanted to say was, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, get up,’ but he knew that was not what was required of him.

‘God forgives you, and I forgive you, Father,’ he said. ‘Oh, please get up!’ and he helped Father Peregrine to his feet again.

That was not the end of the story, though. That evening, in the hour before Compline when the novices had gathered in their community room in the novitiate to relax and converse, there was a knock on the door.

Opening it, Brother Cormac was confronted with Brother Michael, Brother Andrew’s assistant in the kitchen, smiling at him and carrying a tray laden with pies, one for each of them, steaming and fragrant and delicious.

‘Father Abbot sends these with his compliments,’ he said. ‘He asks me to say that he thought the novices might be hungry. Also he bids me tell you, the recipe is his own, and it is called Humble Pie. He says he has tasted some himself, today, and he finds it very nourishing.’

The candle guttered, and went out. It had burnt to the end. ‘Goodnight,’ whispered Mother. ‘Come down for a hot drink, Melissa, if you want one,’ and after laying the sleeping Cecily in her bed, and tucking the covers round her, she tiptoed out of the room.