A candle guttered, licking upwards, momentarily drawing attention to itself, pushing Ruth to force her eyes properly open again. Keep them open, or she’d be sleeping like the disciples. Could you not watch with me one hour? Alone, though not alone, surrounded by others all silent in their own devotion. One hour? No, longer, let me stay. Let me be there. Let me be there when they come to carry you away. Let me go with you, don’t leave me behind. The white veil, glowing in candlelight, surrounded by spring’s tribute, nature’s throne for the cast-out King.
Some of the retreat guests had drifted away, and several of the older nuns. She should go to bed, really, rest in preparation for tomorrow’s trials. Rest, while Jesus was carried off, the judge condemned, the innocent made to suffer… rest, as she did every night, as that happened throughout the world.
The candles flickered on, uncaring, and there was a face in the flames. I set you up as a shepherd over my flock. How many have you lost? How many have you driven away? Did the veil move, shift like the garment of a sleeper? Like one rising up? No, it was only tiredness, Go to bed. And see them in the shadows, the tears and the silent darkness of the cliff. The crunch of footsteps on gravel. Look out, call down, who’s there? Is everything okay? Too late, the footsteps gone, too late…
No. Stay. Where candles keep the ghosts at bay, where a friend sits too and… looks away. A friend, a lord, a ruler turned away. Her hands had laid him here… a different person to the one who knelt now. The mask allowed to drop, failed humanity darkening the robe of baptismal white. Too late to fix what was already done, too late to step back, see things she should have seen before. Should have seen, should have seen… Now soldiers come, to carry him away, and she is left alone… alone to watch, in darkness.
A pocket heavy, as with silver, but with air. A candle burning low. A final flicker, and then darkness, as outside birds heralded the day. Crucify, crucify! Sweet notes the trappings of the echo, crucify! She hadn’t meant to watch all night, but here she was, joints now too stiff to move. What use was it, to watch all night? What use, but vanity? When nothing would be changed by it, it only meant she’d have to see…
Reality flooding back too fast: see what? A white veil on a silver cup? A glorious array of flowers and candles, a fantastic mockery of dark Gethsemane? Where had the hours gone? Perhaps in sleep, despite all… a daydream fading in and out. Wasted time, which changed nothing, and now the dawn was here. Stand up, force her body into motion… nothing but old age, no glory in the aches of years. Leaving Sisters still in silent vigil, in real prayer, taking their turns hour by hour. Outside, the first gentle light before the dawn, the birds beginning to stir. A dawn not all would see.
A few hours’ sleep. Why bother, for so little? But now, with the sun to chase away the shadows, was the best time. Besides, weary eyelids refused to stay open. Once, she could have done it…
Later, three hours. The time so long, and yet so short. First, speak… how could she speak? What right had she to speak? To read the words she’d written some two weeks before, in a different time. The relief, and bitter shame, once that was over. Lay down before the cross, face against the cold ground, to pour out from deep within a silent muddle of emotions… then struggle up with tear-swelled eyes and take up that cross, hold it up and invite them in, invite everyone in to come and offer their own agonies of love. Mother, behold thy son... Mother, behold thy daughter. Father, behold… behold thy daughter’s body, no replacement, no comfort of a third-day resurrection. Give them Mary’s strength, Lord. And more, the strength to live without hope, without a miracle. As there on the cross the figure became a woman, and the wind seemed to lick her face, and the salt of tears seemed the salt of waves. It was I, Lord, I crucified thee.
The chapel bell stilled, and the silence wore on. How many others watched on, around the world, keeping the same vigils, hearing the same words? So many innocent lives lost, so much attention for this one. A baby, forgotten except in the hearts of a few. Emily Grace, why remember her now? Because today was Good Friday, when the earth shook and the dead walked about once more… were they here, watching, ghosts shimmering in the shadows? Watching as they went out on their way, went back into the world?
And while traffic passed on the road outside, and a crow heckled from the rooftop, within the priory walls the silence wore on.
“Ruth.” It was Sister Margaret who came beside her and broke the silence in a murmur. “You’re not looking well.”
“It’s Good Friday, that’s all.”
“You kept vigil all last night?”
“Only until dawn.”
“You should be in bed.”
“It’s Good Friday.”
Sister Margaret shook her head. “Jesus is sleeping in the tomb. Time for you to sleep too. In your bed.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ve seen you almost fall, more than once. I saw you forget the words for a moment, words you know well. Your soul might be hurting, but your body is too, and that one's easier to look after, and caring for one will help the other. Go to your room. I’ll bring you food.”
“It’s a Fast…”
“None of that. Go to your room, I’ll bring you food. Or I can fetch Sister Antonia, she’ll say exactly the same.”
Ruth went. Took the stairs slowly, hand on the bannister for balance, and then sat looking out of the window. A high, grey ceiling, bright as if the sun were at full strength. A book unfinished beside her, she took it up, tried to persuade the words to stop jumping about the page until the knock came on the door. “Come in…”
Sister Margaret, a well-laden tray, with bread and cheese and soup from a tin, and a small pot of camomile tea. “To give you strength and help you sleep.”
“I don’t need all this, Sister.”
The book was removed from her grasp, the tea poured. “I’m staying until you’ve finished it.”
Ruth reached out and took a spoon with a sign. “I suppose this is an exercise in obedience?”
“You can see it how you like, so long as you eat it.”
Sister Margaret did watch her eat, and poured more tea when the first cup was drunk, and sorted everything out on the tray when she was finished. And it helped, in spite of her reluctance, she could feel strength returning, if only to restore feeling to shaking limbs, and to turn sheer emptiness into exhaustion.
“Well done. You’re ready for bed?”
She nodded. Don’t bother arguing.
“Medications done for now?”
“Oh. No.”
“Will you do it yourself or would you poke yourself in the eye?”
Ruth gave just the hint of a laugh. “You know the answer to that.”
“Where is it?”
“Bedside table.”
“Okay… head back for me. Eyes as open as you can, you can close them soon…”
The cool sting, the firm touch to wipe away the excess, a brief reminder of the waking world.
“Well done. Now, bed, no reading…”
“I am an adult…”
“Don’t we all need to be treated like children sometimes? As Jesus said, we should all aim to be like little children.”
“I don’t think he meant… like… like this.”
“To be humble and dependent on others?”
“You’re too wise.”
“Come on, Ruth. You’ve just had an operation, are overwhelmed with guilt and grief, have hardly slept all week, and will have a good deal more to do on Sunday. Now, sleep. And don’t worry when you will wake, we won’t let you miss anything of importance.”
“Thank you, Sister. I don’t deserve you.”
“Thank me by turning up rested tomorrow.”
“Yes, Sister.”
It was early afternoon, not a time to be sleeping, not with work to be done… but Sister Margaret was indominable, so Ruth got into bed. No reading, though she could try to pray, that wasn’t forbidden. It was as well to lie back, really, to acknowledge the pounding of her head. She should have gone to bed after an hour, shouldn't have had the vanity to try to stay up longer... the disciples couldn't, so why should she? But she knew the answer: because it was better than being alone with her thoughts. Just as she was now. God, I’m so tired, I can’t do any more now, don’t ask me to do more…
*
A seagull crying outside her window, that was the first reminder of the world outside. Otherwise, a strange hush, the chapel bell silent until Easter morning. She raised a leaden arm enough to check her watch. Matins was well and truly in progress. Too late to go, even if she didn't have to dress and make herself look awake…
She reached a fumbling hand for her phone and said morning prayer sitting up in bed, something she hadn’t done for months, even on days off. After all, if you were going to break habits, you might as well do it properly. Then she put off getting up still further, reading a few blog posts, checking the news. Eventually she couldn't put it off any longer and got dressed, made it down in time for the end of breakfast, forcing herself to appear awake. Eyed the coffee, reached for the tea. Nodded thanks to Sister Margaret across the room and enjoyed the silence to wolf down toast and cereal far too fast. Save the feasting for tomorrow, Ruth, take it steady…
She was shooed away from the washing up, and instead drifted back upstairs, finally surrendering to the temptation to check her emails. A reply from Samantha’s parents, with the details for the funeral –she’d told them she knew Samantha had friends in the Church who’d like to be there. She contemplated phoning Lucy, but thought better of it and found Tim's number instead. He would be slightly less phased by an unexpected call from his bishop.
“Hello, Father Tim speaking...”
“Morning Tim, this is Archbishop Ruth, how are you?”
There was a moment's hesitation. “Well, I was fine..! Good morning, Archbishop. Am I in trouble?”
Ruth laughed. “No, and nor is Lucy, though this is about her."
"Please tell me you don't have concerns to raise again."
"Only pastoral ones. She hasn't refused any more meetings! No, I’ve just had an email from Samantha’s parents, to say that her funeral will be held on Thursday afternoon. I'd like to tell Lucy by phone but I'm not sure me ringing up unexpectedly will be of any benefit to her, so I wondered if you could ask her to call me when she gets a chance, I'm free all morning, and only want a couple of minutes of her time. This number. Sorry it's convoluted, I'm just aware she's not at her most robust right now and want her to be able to collect herself before she talks to me."
"No, that's fine, I'll call her."
"Thanks, Tim."
It was about twenty minutes before Lucy called, the incoming call appearing on her screen as she scrolled a news article. Ruth answered it immediately.
"Hello, Ruth speaking?"
"Hi, it's Lucy..."
"I thought it must be. How are you?"
"Um..."
Ruth didn't make her answer. "Thanks for calling so promptly. Did Tim tell you why I wanted to talk to you?"
"Yeah. Sam's funeral."
"Yes. On Thursday. I'll send you the details by email. I won’t be attending, I don’t think it would be helpful for the family but… you can share the details with anyone else who might want to know, perhaps your tutor group, anyone local from your year at college? As I think I said, it’ll be non-religious but it should still be… useful.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“If you have things in the diary already, tell Tim, he’ll understand. I know it’s last minute.”
“Yeah. I’ll… think about it. Thanks. For letting me know.”
Ruth was silent for a second. “Face the emotions now, Lucy. I know it’s hard, but leaving it won’t help.”
“I know, I’m just kind of facing all the emotions I can right now. Sorry, not to be rude…”
“I know you are, and you don't have to apologise. I just don’t want you to regret not going.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve a few days. It’ll get easier.”
“I’m fine. I’ve run out of space for… being upset. Y’know. This whole weekend…”
“Oh, I know. Stay strong, you’re nearly there.”
Lucy laughed bitterly. “Nearly where?”
Easter. But that felt trivial, and anyway, it would bring its own challenges. “Somewhere… better than where you are right now.”
“Yeah.”
“You should come here for a few days. The Sisters would welcome you. Maybe when you’re a little better… or now. Samantha was happy here, for a little while, it gave her hope... it might help for you to experience that, if just to reassure yourself that she did go from you to somewhere safe. And beside that, a retreat is always good, even just a couple of days. Just being surrounded by the rhythm of prayer, it’s… helpful.” Even if it sometimes took more than a couple of days to have an effect. Even if sometimes, the effects couldn’t be seen at all.
She set the phone aside. What to do now? Read? But tired eyes needed rest, especially if she was to get through the service in the Minster tonight. Instead, she found walking boots and a coat, a brisk stride through the town and then a slog up the one hundred and ninety nine steps, past the scaffolding that smothered the church, past countless wind-worn stones, names long obscured. And then turn away through the car park from the signposted way, past boards promising bunnies and chocolate eggs. Turned away, face buried in her collar, and skirted round the wall, glancing up and back at the stark skeleton of the Abbey, a burnt out husk unhealed by time. She turned the other way, towards the sea, took the smaller path around – and saw the flowers, heaped against the fence, ribbons cracking in the wind, bright colours dimmed by the mist of rain. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t stopped to think…
A photo, in a plastic wallet but damp at the edge. A young man, a shadow in his eyes. The name, repeated again and again, Thomas Larson. Poems, tied to the mesh, a year without you… She brushed the photo with her fingers. So young – nineteen? Twenty? So loved, so missed. A year without you…
She straightened up, walked briskly on, the slightest glance down at the cruel rocks below. At waves which licked, softly, gently, hungrily against them. No point in returning back the same way, when she could carry on a little further and make it a long loop. She was in no hurry to be back, nothing else to do before lunch – except midday prayer, and she’d prayed enough. She’d rather walk, beside a mile of timber and galvanised mesh, and then inland away from the constant whisper of the waves.
When she retired, she was going to go on a pilgrimage, or something. Somewhere nice, where she could just walk mile after mile, day after day, where she didn’t have to worry about other people, where mistakes affected nobody but her. The Camino Santiago, perhaps – the weather should be nice. Or go to Italy, find a route to Rome, if that wasn’t too Catholic... as if that had ever bothered her! Or, of course, return to the Holy Land, now that peace was starting to settle… or do them all, one after another? Oh to be retired, and have that freedom! Soon, she promised herself. Soon. You can’t do this job much longer, at least when you leave you can have a few months out before finding something else. Though of course you can’t leave too early either, because then what will people say about female archbishops, what will it mean for Lizzie? You can’t duck out at the end, it has to be a triumph right through, or you’ll give them ammunition, all the people who think women aren’t up to it. Anyway, there’s so much unfinished. Though if you wait to finish everything you start, you’ll be here forever…
A light lunch, and then back to nothing. While churches around the country polished silverware, scrubbed thuribles, prepared for Easter, the Priory chapel remained bare, silent, sunk in Sabbath rest. Although Ruth did see two Sisters disappear around a corner laden with white lilies. Some practicalities were necessary. Time, usually regimented between the bars of the bell, ambled freely – or at least, was restrained only by glances at a watch. Ruth retreated to her room again, found a podcast and lay back on the bed to listen. A busy world, so many distractions available, most of them worthy enough – but still distractions.
But why not be distracted? It was that or… what? Pray? She’d run out of words. What was done was, well, done. No point returning again and again to something that wouldn’t change. A guilt that clung, although she knew she’d done her best, although she knew that she was only human, that she couldn’t know everything. That far more at fault than her was a nation which allowed people to be thrust into despair – driven to suicide, even – by issues of money, by health problems, by simple mistakes or accidents. A state which allowed suicide survivors to be driven to suicide by the cost of their earlier suicide attempts – oh bitter irony, to kill people by saving them. This wasn’t a matter for God, it was a matter of their stupid, messed-up society, which might be improving but wasn’t improving fast enough. Screw free will, God. Just take over, please, before we kill anyone else. But God wasn’t going to take over, they’d been asking for millenia. It was their problem, for them to fail to deal with.
What had she said to Lucy? She couldn’t remember, really. Just the usual, what you’d expect a bishop to say – don’t give up, keep praying, God cares about you. She’d tried telling it to herself, and sometimes it worked, at other times… God, if you actually care, why don’t you sort something out? For once? Can’t we have it easy, just once? Or at least tell me it’ll be okay? Instead of just… watching? Looking away? But you don’t care, do you, it’s just a game...
She scrolled through her music library, back to selections a good thirty years old, relics of late-night dissertation crisis sessions. Dug out headphones to avoid being heard as she turned the volume up slightly too high, spent a moment pulling faces at the poor sound quality. Heavy metal and screamers, that’s what she needed now. Something angry enough to block out the thoughts.
How can I celebrate the Eucharist tonight, in this state?
And the answer, through a haze of over-amped guitar and hoarse expletives: that’s a problem for later.
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