The rabbit, sensing dawn, started scrabbling about in the box, and Joseph opened his eyes and listened joyfully, comforted by the familiar sound. He never failed to feel the pleasurable anticipation of seeing his rabbit for the first time each day. He rolled out of bed immediately, his own scrabbling movements imitating the rabbit’s as he pushed away the bedclothes with his legs. He greeted the rabbit with a ‘Chuck! Chuck!’ and ruffled his ears before padding down to the lavatory, dressed only in his vest and pants. Everywhere was silence; he was always the first up.
As it was Sunday and he was to serve at Mass, he ran the electric razor, a Christmas present from all the brothers, over his coarse stubble but without the least interest. He didn’t trouble to look in the mirror that hung above the washbasin in his room, and when he had finished his face was dotted with clumps of whiskers that stuck out from his chin and cheeks, but he didn’t notice as he hurriedly rinsed his hands under the cold water. Drying them on his pants, he dragged his habit over his head.
He moved quickly, excited like a child before Christmas. ‘Come on, Francis,’ he whispered, and fitted the red lead onto the rabbit’s collar before lifting him out of the box. He tried shutting his bedroom door behind him with his elbow, but it was too difficult and so he left it open, with the damp, hot smell of rotting manure escaping behind him.
Once in the kitchen, he put the rabbit down on the floor while he opened the back door and then, holding onto the lead, he pulled the rabbit, dog-like, out into the garden. It was just light, so Joseph could see enough to find the long rope encircling the trunk of the cedar that stood in the middle of the lawn, and tied this and the lead together with a rough knot. Then he trotted back to the dustbins standing outside the door and found yesterday’s vegetable peelings, which he had previously wrapped in newspaper, and these he dropped in front of the rabbit, who was already nibbling at yesterday’s remains, still scattered untidily around the tree. The dirty paper Joseph stuffed in his pocket as he turned and shuffled his way back through the kitchen door.
It was dark in the chapel, but he found his way easily to the altar and felt for the box of matches, which he always hid from the others, behind one of the candlesticks. He shouldn’t do this, he knew, but he enjoyed lighting the candles so much, and he wanted to make quite sure that if by any chance a brother should get to the chapel before him, then the brother, not being able to find the matches in the vestry, would not be able to light the candles before he arrived to do it. So he nodded with satisfaction as he took the box in his hand.
The tall, white candles were too high for him to reach and so, as usual, he had to stand on Father Godfrey’s prayer stool. He pulled it over to the altar and with one hand on it for support, he stepped up awkwardly, his foot catching the hem of his habit. Once he had balanced himself, he struck a match, but with nodding head and shaking hand, he had difficulty in touching the wicks with the small flame. He was obliged to light several matches, which he dropped carelessly on the carpet, before finally succeeding in setting the candles alight.
The altar came alive in the flickering, yellow light and deep shadows wavered on the walls and floor. Joseph stepped down, tucked the matches back behind the candlestick again, pulled back the stool and then made his way to the vestry. From the cupboard he took out the silver plate and chalice, placing them first on a small wooden table beside the cupboard, before carefully and slowly counting out twelve round white wafers, which he placed delicately onto the dish. He managed to arrange the white discs in a circular pattern, every circle touching the next exactly. Then he poured the wine into the chalice, spilling two red drops onto the white cloth. He didn’t appear to notice, but took first the chalice and then the plate, and put them carefully in the centre of the altar. He took a step backwards and stood admiring his work, then turning abruptly, hurried to the front pew. The paper in which he had wrapped the vegetable scraps crackled noisily in his pocket as he lowered himself onto his knees.
The low sunlight was filtering through the high windows now, lending the chapel the yellow glow of early morning, but Joseph, in his black habit and kneeling in the shadowy pew, could barely be seen. He pushed clenched fists into his eyes and prepared himself for Mass and thought about his sins; he knew he must have committed some since last Mass – he had been disobedient over Francis. It was wrong, he knew, to take him into the kitchen and to have him in his room, but somehow he couldn’t feel the wrath of God. Bertram seemed to mind more than God. Still, he must try harder. And perhaps he had not read the Bible as much as he should, but he knew it off by heart anyway. And as for his prayers, well, the point was that he talked to God all the time anyway. He either talked to Francis or to God.
How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of Hosts!
My soul longeth and fainteth for the courts of the Lord:
My heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God.
Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of Hosts, my King and my God.
Blessed are they that dwell in thy house: they will be still praising thee.
Joseph looked up at the figure that hung on the wall above the altar. He thought of Jesus at the Last Supper and knew that the Lord would be there, as He had promised when he, Joseph, took the round white disc in his mouth and drank the wine from the silver chalice. It was, for him, the dearest thing in his life; that and Billie. ‘Teach me to be your faithful soldier and servant,’ he whispered and then remembered the visitor. Surely, she would want to come to Mass this morning. He must go and fetch her.