Ruth’s eye stung gently, vision even blurrier than usual, the plastic shield taped to her face a very necessary precaution as she instinctively reached up to rub it. A few days and it’d be fine, until then… it wasn’t that bad, really, nothing like she’d feared in the worst moments leading up to it. Though she’d had quite enough of being prodded around with rubber-gloved fingers.
“Archbishop, it's good to see you back safely.” A welcoming party, there to meet her as Sister Helena guided her up the steps from the car.
“Sister Antonia?”
“That’s me. Would you like an arm?” It was proffered already, and Ruth took it gratefully.
“Thank you, it’s most appreciated. All of your care is, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’re most welcome, I’m delighted you felt comfortable to come here – and I hope you’re willing to let us care for you.”
The corners of Ruth’s mouth twitched. “I’ll do my best. And I’m sure I won’t be like this too long.”
“Where would you like to go? Back to your room, or into the common room perhaps? Work has finished for the day, we’re enjoying recreation before evening prayer, do come and join us.”
“That would be lovely. Though Sister Helena has my prescription… should take it to my room first, really.”
“Or you can take it up later, don’t trouble yourself.”
“Lead on, then.”
There was something humbling about entering the common room on the Prioress’s arm, being settled into a seat and having everything arranged around her, having the position of each Sister told to her as though it were perfectly normal. And to sit there, surrounded by these grey shadows, knowing that they could see her far better than she could see them. It was good for her.
“Well. I’m glad you all got to see me yesterday, so you know I’m not a complete invalid. But it’s most wonderful to be back – and I’d like to reassure you that in spite of appearances, all went very well.”
“Tea, Mother?”
“Thank you… Sister Joan? That would be lovely. No, no sugar.”
“Now, as we were saying, the retreat guests will be arriving on Sunday night, apart from three who will be arriving at around ten on Monday. Sister Angelina will lead the first talk on Sunday night, I will lead the second on Monday morning once the rest have arrived, and then they will go into silence – though of course they will have been invited to approach any of us as needed. Your Grace, don’t at any point feel obliged to talk to them, this is your retreat as much as theirs. And then from Thursday, Archbishop Ruth will lead the Liturgy of the Last Supper and preach the Triduum for all of us. Sister Margaret is in charge of preparing the Garden of Repose and will enlist help as required, and on Saturday afternoon we will all play our parts in the mammoth cleaning operation, while taking care to observe the solemnity of the day, Sister Angelina is in charge. Have I missed anything?”
“Just to add,” Ruth spoke up, “that while I may not feel obliged to talk to the retreat guests, I am here for you. I’m not sure how to organise it, but I’ll speak to Sister Antonia later and come up with a system.”
“This is your retreat, don’t feel you should do anything.”
“I won’t be able to read, at least for the next couple of days, so I need something to do. Besides which I’ve found, since my first visit here when you welcomed me as Bishop Visitor to the Community, that I learn as much or more from you than you do from me. It’s my privilege if you’ll take the time to meet with me.”
“Of course. We can discuss later and find a system.”
St Hilda’s Priory. Quiet constancy – at least now that building work was done and the convent garden established. This was the best kind of work, as Bishop Visitor to the Sisters, and she could happily offer a few hours to meet with each Sister individually, could lead a few services and preach some sermons. In between that, once her eye had healed, time to read that stack of books, to take long walks along blustery clifftops and attempt to sketch a diving seagull as it dropped towards the waves. Praying the hours, sometimes, at others doing her own thing. Tea in the morning, instead of coffee. Silence.
Samantha was still here, quiet and solemn, watching Ruth across the dining table but avoiding her outside. Ruth caught her briefly, that second day, with vision still blurry but recovered enough to allow independence.
“Samantha?”
The slow response, awakening from some dreamlike state. “What? Sorry, yeah?”
“I just wanted to ask how you’re getting on.”
“Um…” She blinked a couple of times. “Thanks for… organising this.”
“How are plans going, long term?”
“I’ve… applied. For a couple of things. Library jobs, like I used to do before… training. And some basic stuff, supermarkets, y’know. Only rejections so far.”
Ruth smiled encouragingly. “Well done. Don’t give up, tell me if there’s anything I can do. Rejections are difficult, but you only need one to say yes and you’re sorted. It’ll work out in the end.”
“Thanks.”
“Is there anything you want to talk through, while we’re both here?”
She dithered. “No.”
“Sure?”
A shake of her head. “I talked to Tim, before I left Lucy's, like you said. It... did help, a lot. Things are much better.”
That wasn’t what I asked. “I’m here for another week. Until Wednesday night. I’ve seen all of the Sisters, and will see some of them again, I’m more than happy to see you too.”
“Yeah.” Sam looked at the ground. “Thanks.”
“You’re still on the waiting list for counselling? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Sam? Phone call for you. Oh, sorry, your Grace…”
“Don’t worry.” Ruth nodded to Samantha. “I’ll catch you later.” She watched her disappear around the corner of the cloister. So closed off, so unreadable, this was why she’d messed up before – not realising that Samantha’s emotions were present but hidden.
She had a book to finish, a couple more chapters and a preliminary edit before it went to her editors at Church House. Eucharistic Presidency, taking on that role - In Persona Christi. She’d been asked a couple of times if she could produce something meditative, something for the laity in Lent reading groups or something, but there were plenty of other people writing such publications, no need to produce another unless she had something of value to add – which she didn’t. No, better to stick to her own field. Font size sixteen she was on now, it felt ridiculous but at least she could tell what she’d written.
Days had begun to lengthen, occasional evenings clear enough for dramatic sunsets. Snow at Easter dropping on and off the forecast, memories making her shudder. Last year, the problem had been obvious. Now? They might not be living in camps, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still out there, the hidden homeless. Homelessness, the death sentence of an uncaring world. Snowfall, the means of execution. But first, winds beginning to pick up, air tingling with the promise of a storm. Storm Kathleen, they were calling this one.
She blinked her eyes away from the window, back to the words on the screen. It was funny, the way she could never stick to a plan, but her conversation with Samantha back in February had given her new inspiration: the balance of duty between honouring the Sacrament and remembering its function. She typed a couple more sentences and then rewrote them. She was supposed to be on retreat, not working, but this wasn’t really work, was it? Not in the normal sense. It was a change, a kind of study and reflection; a good thing to be doing on retreat.
The chapel bell broke through her concentration. Stay and carry on, or go down for the afternoon office? The joints in her fingers clicked as she flexed her hands, but she was in the zone now. Get it done. She’d take a walk after dinner, in the long twilight, be back in time for compline…
She took her usual path out of the back gate, up the cliff. Cloudy, today, rain threatening, the sun bleeding dimly through a little above the horizon. Grey sky, grey sea, the whisper of wind which promised a storm. Down below, lights beginning to spark. She carried on round, following the coastal path, skirting around the chasm where a cliff fall had stolen the track ahead. The clouds bled red, Christ’s blood painted across the sky, nature’s own memorial. The glow of the lighthouse struggling to push through grey mist, the fog horn making doleful cry across the bay. The wind was picking up, and Ruth turned around. Not a place to be caught alone in a storm, on the edge of a cliff with eyesight still faded and blurry.
Back to the stillness of the priory, to sit and just listen to the plainsong. Samantha was on the other side, head buried in her arms, not moving even at the end of the service. She’d been quiet since the phone call. Ruth thought about waiting and talking to her, checking that everything was alright, but didn’t. She’d offered to talk enough times, Samantha knew there was help available. And now the Greater Silence had fallen.
About an hour after compline, she lay awake in bed, rain lashing at a securely fastened window. A low rumble, the room momentarily lit day-white. They could hear the waves from here, slashing against rock, battling with the howl of the wind. In the distance, carried in snatches by the wind, the lifeboat siren. How many were out, tonight? Every atom of skill and strength focused as one on the mission of living, driven by the full might of the waves towards the coast’s rocky teeth. Oh Lord, who didst calm the storm before… The bible just laid down was beside her bed, and she took it up again, caressing the worn cover before reopening it. She wouldn’t sleep, not until the storm had died down. Below, a door opening and closing, footsteps on gravel - no doubt one of the Sisters, perhaps going to check on the hens.
And then she laid the bible down, and slept, and woke, and all was quiet once more. A day begun in the chapel, with silence and then the Office, with prayers for those lost in the night and for those who would now have to rebuild. Moving into the Eucharist, celebrated by Sister Antonia, a welcome change to worship and kneel and receive among the congregation. Her eyesight was bad this morning, the President a distant shape in purple, the chalice a gleam; lack of sleep definitely had an effect.
Finally, breakfast, in silence. She scanned the tables – all present but Samantha, probably sleeping in after a night disturbed by thunder. Ruth was tempted to retire again herself, especially when she retreated to the bathroom to do her eye drop and then had to face the embarrassment of finding Sister Margaret, who’d trained as a nurse, already at work gathering scraps of plastic blown in from the ocean.
“Sister?”
“Your Grace?”
“Just a… request, if I may.”
“Of course.” She straightened immediately. “What can I do for you?”
“Just a… silly thing. I can’t keep my hand steady.” She held up the little bottle of antibiotic fluid.
“I’ll wash my hands…”
Effortless, when Sister Margaret did it, supporting Ruth’s head with one hand and squeezing the bottle with the other. Ruth smiled ruefully.
“It’s an exercise in humility, medical care.”
“There are many things for which we need each other, we weren’t made to be independent.”
There was a gentle reproach there, which didn’t need to be made explicit. If asking for help with an eye drop was an exercise in humility…
“Such as your medical care and your wisdom. Thank you.”
“You look,” said Sister Margaret as she placed the bottle in Ruth’s hand, “as though you did not sleep particularly well.”
“I enjoy storms, but they do keep one awake rather.”
“There’s no shame in going back to bed.”
Ruth did so, for an hour, lay quietly and stared at the ceiling and then sat up to read a book. Sleeping in the daytime was not one of her strengths, sadly. Outside, a chainsaw, and she looked out of the window to see a grey-habited figure making short work of a fallen branch. Work was being done, and looked far more fun than lying awake in bed, so she got up again.
Not that she was much use, but she helped to pile the remains of Sister Antonia’s freshly-chopped branch into a wheelbarrow, and then served tea to the Sisters to soothe the morning’s aches as Sister Angelina updated them with the news.
“The boat is heading back in. They’ve attended four calls, and been out all night. One was a fishing vessel on the rocks a few miles up the coast, they couldn’t get the lifeboat in. Sisters Margaret and Joan, would you come across with me and offer any support needed, to crew and any rescued sailors on board?”
Ruth stood with them. “I’ll go too, if I may.” She went to find clericals, then joined the small party of habited nuns in carrying bundles of food the short distance to the lifeboat station. A moment to admire the flotsam washed up on the beach – already being picked over by enterprising youngsters, treasures gleaned away and timbers stacked for firewood. The great doors of the station were open, the sea licking at the harbour wall below with a dark predatory innocence. The boat was still out, somewhere across those treacherous waters.
“Good morning, Joanne. Sister Angelina told you we were coming? We’re here to do whatever we may – if I might introduce Archbishop Ruth, who is staying with us and would like to help. I hear it’s been a bad night.”
“It has, worthy of the autumn. That’s the way of it, these days, sadly it’s no longer particularly remarkable, and it’ll be getting worse in the years to come. And they said it was warming we'd to worry about!”
Ruth nodded sympathetically and followed Sister Joan. “You do this a lot?”
“After every storm. We’ll go around the town later and find anyone else who needs help.”
“You do good work, the whole Order. I know that well enough from our two at Bishopthorpe, but you’re properly showing me now.”
“It’s good of you to help.”
Help. Ruth did just that, joining Sister Joan in organising the tiny station kitchen, turning on the great boiler ready to fill mugs the moment the heroic vessel returned, as the cry came from the doorway, “there she is!”
And so she limped in, still reeling from the ocean’s final kick, until at last she rested in the harbour wall’s embrace. Her little companion nudged behind, bruised and splintered and grateful. The Sisters were there, scant regard for pristine grey habits as they welcomed staggering sailors into reassuring arms, drew them up and into shelter where the ground at last did not reel beneath them. The lifeboat crew were still at work, sluicing down decks, coiling ropes, making a thousand checks as to their beloved vessel’s wellbeing. As though they had not worked the night through, in rain and bitter wind and constant peril of death. How could Ruth complain about work, when volunteers offered such single-minded devotion to their own tasks? And oh, the frustration at her own weakness, held back by blurred and misty vision from any job except talking to any who wished to talk – though that had its own importance, offering even a little help in coming to terms with the night’s horrors.
It was not until evening that they heard the names, listed for prayer. A rusting, tattered fishing vessel, crew of six, desperate for a full catch before return to harbour and the demands of creditors. Creditors who now bemoaned their claims, of course, but too late. The little boat, caught up in the wind-blown surge of tide, carried helpless to the point of no return. She’d sat and listened to the lifeboat crew describe it, dark ghosts showing pale faces in the beams of torchlight. Cries of relief turning to despair as their saviour faltered, the tug of the current too strong to risk crossing, swimmers striking out in desperation and whisked away beyond the reach of the life-ring. The rest left clinging to a rock, promises of return offered through the loudhailer, before the boat moved on to another mission less futile. Returning in the morning calm to a rock devoid of any life but seagulls. The coastguard was out now, searching.
“Your Grace, please come…”
She followed without hesitation, dread growing as she saw the police, waiting by the priory door.
“It’s Samantha,” Sister Antonia told her. “We didn’t want to worry you earlier...”
No comments:
Post a Comment