My friend wanted to ask Brother Thomas something

 A friend wrote to me to ask about Brother Tom, thinking back to the time Father Peregrine was ill, and how Tom felt about visiting him.

My friend wondered, particularly, how this might have affected Tom’s feelings and thoughts about his own process of ageing. She said, I wonder if now that he must be quite a bit older, any of the difficult thoughts and feelings from watching Father Peregrine struggle are affecting him now in relation to his own present and future . . . I wonder if he found a way to be sure of God's love again, after witnessing Father Peregrine's repeated decline and possibly realising he might have to go through something like that himself.

And she mentioned that she feels Scared of how, when changes happen in our physical brains, it affects who we are as people and how we can relate to those around us. Scared of physical dependence and of not being able to move … Scared about how unreal prayer can feel if we are not able to stay being who we are…  

My friend has been involved in caring for someone who has dementia and heart problems, and this has brought these health challenges up close and personal. She wondered what Tom might think about all of this now.

So I went to find him. I tried Abbot John’s atelier, and sure enough Brother Tom was there, on this day of cold wind blowing persistent sleet off the moor. He was occupying himself waxing and polishing the abbot’s boots, primarily because that’s something you can do sitting by the fire on a distinctly dark and gloomy day. 

Abbot John was there too, writing letters. I told them about my friend’s thoughts, and asked the abbot if it would be all right for me to talk with Brother Tom.

“For sure,” said Abbot John. “Shall I go away and leave you in peace to talk by the fire?”

To which Brother Tom immediately responded, “No, thanks, Father! For goodness sake, stay! You know far more about this kind of thing than I do.”

“I think,” said the abbot, “our Little Ghost’s friend wasn’t really looking for advice from a physician, so much as what it all did to you — that time with Peregrine — and how it left you, in your heart, in your soul.”

“Even so,” said Brother Tom. “Just don’t go.”

So Abbot John stayed, listening quietly to what Tom had to say. And I sat on the stones of the hearth which were nice and warm, and not too ashy because Tom had swept them before he got started on the boots.

“Well then,” said Tom, “please will you tell your friend it scares me too. Some of what I saw — the helplessness — I realised that . . . well . . . there’s nothing you can do to lift it away, to ease it. It’s hard to live through, and it’s lonely. Yes. That’s just how it is. It made me do a lot of soul-searching at the time. 

“But then, in fairly short order after all of that, Father William showed up on our doorstep, and that turned me inside out, as I think you know. There was life and death and pain and facing stuff I didn’t want to think about there, as well.

“And those two things kind of melded together. I mean, watching Peregrine suffer so much, and finding the courage to stay with him through it — but then also accepting I was just going to have to live with William and learning to love him. Which I did. 

“There was a turning point, of sorts, the day William tried to kill himself. Brother Stephen ran for Father John, and that left me sitting holding William in my arms to make sure he didn’t choke because he was throwing up. And there was . . . about all that . . . something immediate and something eternal . . . where I realised that all you can ever do is just be there. It’s . . . well . . . you can’t predict what will happen, and life takes you by surprise. You think you know what’s going on and what opinion you hold about it — and then right in front of you it suddenly transforms into something completely unexpected.

“I’ve thought about it all quite a lot, one way and another. I’ve come to see that life is only found in days, in ordinary things, in small encounters. And you know — the best thing I ever did for either of those men was just hug them, hold them. They had enough thoughts of their own and some to spare, they didn’t need mine. I mean, I didn’t need words; only to be there.

“What all that did is bring my focus nearer. Because the only thing we ever have is today. If we don’t live in the here and now, we miss life altogether. The beauty of life is this firelight, the smell of the wood smoke, the feel of soft ash under my hand on the uneven surface of the hearthstone, a mug of ale, some bread fresh made and plenty of butter. That’s . . . that is the love of God to me, and the flame of life. 

“I don’t know what tomorrow will be like. Oh God, yes, I hope I will never be blind or incontinent or mad. I hope I die quietly in my sleep one night, and I don’t mind when. 

“But . . . look . . . life is so sweet, so precious, such a gift. It was William brought that home to me. Holding on to him after we cut him down from the rope. Hugging him after he got in such a mess with our money and he was so full of shame and everything. Doing what we could after Madeleine died. It made me see — grab every moment and love it for what it is. Don’t waste any of it. If this is a day when you can still walk, still hear, still eat; if there’s anything to laugh about, if there’s a robin singing or a blackbird, if there’s the smell of new-mown hay . . . and most of all, if there’s anyone who loves you, if you have a friend  . . . well . . . don’t trade any of that for fear of tomorrow. Don’t let a future that hasn’t even happened rob you of it. Just refuse. 

“Start close — don’t look too far along the path. If your hands are folded in your lap, then feel your hands, skin on skin, and know that is the blessing of being alive. If there’s a breeze blowing, enjoy the feel of it. If there’s a candle burning, watch the flame . . . and know this is a kind of miracle, God’s good gift that he hoped you would enjoy. I . . . am I talking too much, Father? Am I making sense?”

Abbot John smiled. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “Maybe tell your friend, Little Ghost, to be gentle with herself. Every creature, even a mouse, even a butterfly, is held in the hands of God as if that were his only concern. And so is she. The apostle said God’s grace is made known in human weakness. Whatever happens, he will never let her go. Never.”

A hare's breath — a winter's evening conversation in the warming room

 “I nearly had you there,” says Brother Thaddeus. “Nearly. I did.”

Father William doesn’t reply. There isn’t really anything to say in response to an observation that runs so starkly counter to any kind of accuracy. He allows something that approximates to a smile to gleam in his eyes, register in his features, hoping he at least looks friendly. He looks into the fire, takes a sip of small beer from his mug. 

Thaddeus broods, frowning at the gently burning logs, the settling ash that veils the crimson glow. “So often,” he says, “so often, there is no more than a hare’s breath between success and victory.”

“What?” Father William glances at him. “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Thaddeus nods sagely at this. “In the grand scheme of things, of course we could say they were. What does it matter if we win or lose? Surely the crucial thing, for a man of God, is how we play the game. Even then, I think most practical men would say success and victory are opposite — oh. I see what you mean. I meant to say success and failure. Or losing and winning. Or victory and defeat. Or triumph and downfall. Or —”

“Yes, Thaddeus. Yes, I get it.” William stifles a sigh, worried he sounded too testy. “Sometimes words get muddled up, don’t they,” he adds, trying to infuse his words with appropriate gentleness. 

This torture happens every week, playing chess with Brother Thaddeus. It never improves, resisting William’s best efforts to explain the moves and communicate the central concepts of strategy and anticipation. Yet despite Thaddeus’s comprehensive inability to conquer even the rudiments of the game, William has to admire his eagerness, his optimism, his willingness to try again. And after his inevitable defeat, there is always this time of puzzled reflection, trying to discern through the mists of obscurity what it could be that went wrong.

“Well, anyway, as I said,” Thaddeus now reiterates, “there is but a hare’s breath between being bested and worsted.”

Oh God. William closes his eyes. He can’t be bothered.

“Why do we call it a hare’s breath?” Thaddeus is in philosophical mode now. “It’s such an odd expression. I suppose a hare is only a little animal. Bigger than a rabbit, of course, but even so. There’s something fey and moonlit about a hare. I suppose its breath must be the most insubstantial thing, just a tiny vanishing cloud on the frosty air. Just a hare’s breath. Almost nothing. It’s a lovely expression, really — don’t you think?”

William slowly lifts his gaze from the fire to contemplate his brother in Christ, wondering if it’s more unkind to make him feel stupid by telling him, or leave him to roam the world unenlightened, free to make a fool of himself with somebody else.

He hesitates: then, “Thaddeus,” he says, trying to sound neutral, conversational, not dismissive or superior, “it’s not . . . well . . . the expression is a hair’s breadth. Hair like a hair that grows on your head — or for that matter, out of your nose or in your eyebrows. And it’s breadth — as in width — not breath.”

“What?” says Thaddeus. “Are you serious? Well I’m jiggered! Are you sure that’s right?” He thinks for a minute. “I suppose that explains it. There isn’t much breadth to a hair, is there? When you think about it.”

William has no idea what expression his face is supposed to be wearing. Never was a man so glad to hear the bell ring for Compline.

The Hour Before Dawn — our Humilis Hastings edition of this is now published

 If you would like to buy one of my books, please choose a title published under the imprint Humilis Hastings. This is our own imprint, and has any editorial changes to correct errata or bring the story into line with information about historical detail I didn't have when I wrote it.

I have the rights back for all my work, and we are gradually republishing under our Humilis Hastings imprint. Our latest title published is the fifth volume of the first Hawk & Dove series — The Hour Before Dawn.

You can buy it here on Amazon UK and here on US Amazon.

Brothers of St Alcuins getting bewildered about nativity sets

 I met Maria here on Kindred of the Quiet Way. I find it so interesting to watch the delicate (but strong) mycelium of interaction that has grown across the spaces that divide us — the connective gift of the world wide web.

Maria lives in Russia and I live in England, but unexpectedly here she was in my life. And now we are friends. It's the same as me and the community at St Alcuins: I just materialised in their life, and they in mine.

And today Maria sent her greetings to me and to all of us here, for the Christmas season. She said: I would like to wish the brothers of the monastery and everyone here a Merry Christmas. I hope they are celebrating it cheerfully and that they have a creche. That they have learnt and sung many Christmas hymns I do not doubt at all. And that Conradus has made them lots of goodies too. 

So rejoice, and I'll remember reading the first chapter standing at a bus stop in the morning exactly one year ago. It was snowing and it was uncomfortable to read, but little things like that don't stop me :)

So I am passing that on to you, but of course I also took it to show Abbot John in the abbey of St Alcuins. He was in his atelier when I showed up, sitting talking with Father William. Brother Thomas was sweeping the room; it gets more dusty at this time of year, because ash drifts from the hearth. 

I thought I might be interrupting, but all three of them seemed pleased to see me. I took Maria’s message, and Abbot John read it out. When he’d finished reading it to us, he paused. He read it through just silently to himself again. He looked puzzled. 

The others wait for the abbot to speak, you know, in such circumstances. They were watching him, Brother Thomas standing leaning on the broom, and Father William kind of draped in the chair, in that kind of informal and graceful way that belongs to him. After a moment Abbot John looks at me.

“Please do thank her,” he says. “We certainly have sung a lot this last month. It’s been beautiful of course but somewhat . . . well . . . to say relentless might be ungracious. Let’s just stick with beautiful. And yes, Conradus has elevated our kitchens into a blur of activity, generating gingerbread and mulled ale and roast birds and I don’t know what else. We have not been hungry. 

“The feast of the Incarnation is special to us. It’s a hearth of hope where we gather and renew our vision and our sense of purpose. Yes, she’s absolutely right; it’s cheerful, and we feel that. It draws us together. But what . . . little Ghost, do you know why . . . can you illuminate . . . I mean . . . look — here — she says she hopes we have a crèche. Er . . . for . . . ? I mean, she knows this is a monastery, right?”

Now, Father William doesn’t often laugh outright, but he did then. “Oh, God, John,” he says then. “She’s not hoping we have a nursery set up for our numerous offspring — she means a manger — a crib for the bambino, the Christ child. Is that right, little Ghost? Is that what they have in your time, in how the world is for you? That thing Francis had here in our stable, a depiction of the coming of Jesus — like that, yes? Or a depiction of the nativity maybe — the holy family — carved figures like they have in Italy?”

Brother Thomas resumes his sweeping, mainly to disguise to some extent that he also finds this funny but he’s seen that his abbot now feels embarrassed. And Father John says, “Oh. Oh, I see. A crèche — yes of course. No, we don’t. Is that what you have, little Ghost?”

I tell them that I don’t personally have one, because I try not to own too many things — where would I keep them? My room is small. But I do have a figurine of Mother Mary holding the baby Jesus, and in our family room we have an icon of the Nativity that our Hebe made. 

And yes, in our church there is a crèche — a set of nativity figures in a stable. More than one, in fact.

Father William is oddly skilled at helping his abbot restore a sense of dignity on those occasions when his superior thinks he’s been unwontedly stupid. I enjoy watching William redirect the conversation, asking me if we have had snow yet (no, we haven’t), and if we have a special Christmas meal in our household. I explain that no we don’t — we used to, but none of us likes making big feasts and there’s not a lot of storage space, so we just keep things simple and normal, and make it special by spending time together, and going to church.

And today, I tell them, we have swapped out our icon of King Edward the Confessor  that our Alice made, for the one (also made by Alice) of St Thomas Becket, because it is his feast today — December 29th. I promise I will try to bring it to show them. 

“Thank you,” says Abbot John. “Look — little Ghost — please just tell your friend Maria that although we don’t have a  . . . er . . . a crèche . . . here . . . I think it is a lovely idea, and maybe we will one day.”

“My lord abbot,” says Father William: “may I add . . .?”

“Yes, of course,” says John: “whatever you like.”

“Well, will you tell Maria,” says William, “that she is in my prayers. I think she does not always find life easy. Just say . . . I have prayed for her.”

Some things my friend observed about Father William. So I asked him about them.

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.