I have been in correspondence with a friend about the Hawk & Dove books. Some of her insights about Father William created puzzles for me that I could not solve.
Of course, there is always the possibility that I could have made a better job of writing the books, but — setting this aside — I decided to ask Father William instead, and see what his observations might be.
I tread carefully with him, because he has been through so much, and doesn’t find life easy. I’m aware that introspection is gruelling for him, that he takes refuge in calm routine and external order — also in beauty and harmony — but he is always willing to engage honestly, so I did go ahead and ask.
It is winter, and I found him in the infirmary after dark, sitting by the fire. There was one candle alight, in a pottery holder for stability, on the table. The room was fairly warm, but he had mittens on his hands. They looked as if they were knitted, so I think he must have got his nålbound ones back from Brother Philip. I didn’t ask him, though, because I had several questions and didn’t want to waste time. You get a lot of interruptions in a monastery, especially in an infirmary, and I wanted to have this conversation.
So I sketched out the issue for him, and he just nodded and said, “Go on, then.”
I explained that there were two basic matters under consideration. One was how abruptly — suddenly — he seemed to change, when he got to St Alcuins. At St Dunstans we saw him cold, calculating, and cruel. He explains to Brother Tom that he is not capable of caring like Tom does. He seems indifferent and detached. But then, suddenly a change. Why? And why so quick? Surely (my friend observed) such changes take years and a lot of intentional work.
At this point, annoyingly, someone came into the room where we were sitting (the infirmary frater, where their main fire is). In a dark room lit by one candle and the light of a low fire, and in a place where everyone wears black, seeing who’s just come in is not always quick and easy. But the man who’d joined us trod quietly across the room to sit with us — oh, right: Abbot John. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he says, “but I’ll join you if I may. Carry on.”
So I do, continuing to the second issue, which is that my friend made the point that William has a fixed opinion of himself as a bad person, and my friend thinks this is profoundly unhealthy. William listens to this in silence. The abbot smiles as I outline this point, but doesn’t say anything.
“So, then,” I ask, “what do you think?”
William looks across at his abbot, who has precedence in conversation, but Father John says, “Yes; go on.”
“Well then,” says William, “Inside me it doesn’t feel like anything has changed really, not as such. It . . . I think it’s mostly an issue of trust. Though I suppose you can always trust anyone to be what they clearly are — I mean, I could absolutely trust my father to fly into a rage at the slightest provocation, and that encouraged me to develop self-discipline as a protection — a fortress, a refuge. If I did not argue, did not weep, kept my face impassive and my gaze low, it gave him less to find fault with. There was usually something I’d not thought of, left over to inflame his ire, but let’s not go there.
“So the most prominent lesson of my childhood was about evasion — physically leaving, yes, but inner withdrawal from what I could not leave, to escape punishment. It was a skill that became a habit that became simply who I am. If I feel threatened in a situation where there’s not much I can do about it, I go still, I withdraw, I become functionally cold. If I can do something about it, I take prompt action — I put a stop to whatever I object to; quiet threats are usually sufficient, provided there’s enough inner conviction to them to persuade another that I will follow through. Intimidation, you know? That’s all I did to Abbot Columba — Peregrine — in effect. I just used his own vulnerability against him. I didn’t need to physically hurt him or block him; just see and expose his weakness. Yes, that’s something I do. But I have come to regard it as a sterile course of action, so nowadays I employ it only when I perceive a threat, a potential invasion, to the place or the people who have been good to me.”
“The people you love?” says Abbot John, quietly. William doesn’t look at him, but, “Yes,” he says.
“Go on,” says the abbot.
“Well,” William continues, “I would stop at nothing to keep safe what I value. I would wound and kill, without a second thought, if I thought it could serve the occasion — which, I have learned, it most likely would not. And I am grateful beyond telling for the kindness I have found in this place, the respite, the understanding, the peace. I would defend this house, and these men, to the death; with my last breath, with everything in me. I owe them that much. What was the other thing? Oh yes, about being a bad man. Well, I am. Unhealthy? Probably? I expect I’m that, too. It’s an opinion. I was raised by bad people; they did a good job. Does that answer your questions?”
The abbot looks across at me. “May I offer my perspective, Little Ghost?” he says. “I know I was not invited to this conversation, but . . .”
“Oh — please — yes,” I say.
William bends his head. I get the feeling he’s not going to enjoy being discussed.
“William is a good and loving man,” says his superior firmly, “whatever he may say or think on that topic; but he had no breathing space in his early years, and that left its mark. His instinct to secure and stabilise situations he perceives as dangerous has become. . . somewhat overdeveloped. He has lived with so much confidently expressed negative opinion about him that he has understandably internalised it. We try not to worry about that too much. So long as he can love us, that’s our primary goal for him. And he does. Here in the infirmary he is perceptive and gentle and thorough in his care of the men, diligent in every aspect of the work. He will wear himself out lifting burdens from Brother Michael — we’re grateful, but we try to protect him from himself; exhaustion is no friend to spirituality.”
He sounds as if he’s just pausing, then gestures that no, he’s finished. “That’s it, I think,” he says.
“Then let's not overlook,” says William, “the whole thing — what let me survive my childhood at all, why they didn’t kill me — what brought me here, what stymied my attempt to end my own life, what healed and redeemed me . . . it is the Lord Jesus; his presence, his power, his Spirit, his hope. And yes, his love. He followed me and found me, he lifted me up out of it and carried me here. This will continue until the day he picks up my living soul like a weary child, and carries me home with him. Is it gradual, is it sudden? Either, both, neither. Do I relapse? Constantly. Does he give up? Never. He will also do the same for you.”
“Amen,” says Abbot John. “Anything else?”
He looks as if he thinks we need to wrap this up, but I have one more question to raise with William. “My friend wondered how come you didn’t die of hunger or cold after the St Dunstans fire, when you tried so many places and no one would take you in.”
William laughs. “I walk through the world quietly,” he says, “which helps. Not to put too fine a point on it, I helped myself to what people had thrown out — mouldy bread, broken meats — and slept in their stables with their animals. I tethered my horse in discreet places and filched apples and hay from barns. I picked up food dropped in the street, and appropriated bread from badly supervised market stalls. I stole grain from the storehouses of householders, and their money too if they left it lying about within sight of an open window. It was still winter, not much growing in the hedgerows, but a few herbs here and there. I got what I could wherever I could find it, much as I did as a child. And yes, I was cold and I was hungry; it wasn't unfamiliar.”
The abbot puts his hands on his knees, a clear and courteous signal that we now finish. He stands, so of course William does too,
“Thank you,” I say.
“Please convey our thanks to your friend," says Abbot John, "and our greetings. Will that help, do you think — what we have said?” I assure him that it will, but honestly I have no idea.
And suddenly I am no longer in the infirmary with them but back on the south coast of England on this overcast December day, with tasks awaiting me.
I’m going to post this now; I hope it’s not full of typos, and I hope it makes sense.
