Courting Shadows Read online

  Did I imagine that I could transform the building into something approximating to my vision? Obviously not. Its ugliness was irremediable, and my brief was in any case inhibitingly mundane: I was to carry out such consolidation of the fabric as seemed strictly necessary; to install a stove and heating-pipes; and to replace, subject to detailed approval from the Dean, any unserviceably worn or damaged furnishings. But I think I felt – yes, I know I felt initially – a faint tremor of excitement at the mere thought of working on a church; and I suppose that can be traced back to those early projects and the powerful but suspect emotions once aroused in me by the abstract contemplation of ecclesiastical architecture.

  I could hardly avoid reflecting on such matters as I sat among the congregation at what was to be the last service held in the church prior to its closure. Once we moved indoors – and my intention was to begin stripping out the pews during the following week – Mr Banks and those of his parishioners who wished to continue with their weekly devotions would have to make the three-mile journey to the neighbouring parish each Sunday pending completion of the works. Perhaps it was the imminent disruption of the regular patterning of their lives which accounted for the sombre mood of the worshippers that morning, but even in the normal course of events their surroundings could hardly have been conducive to emotional or spiritual uplift. The windows – some of which, as I had explained to Banks at our single, rather constrained meeting, would undoubtedly have to be replaced in their entirety – were cracked and holed; and the cold airs seeped through them and wandered around the nave, chilling our hands and faces. How, I asked myself, should such a place provide inspiration? So much meaningless clutter, so little coherence of design; everything tending to drag the gaze and spirits downward, so that even when the organ roared out the triumphant strains of ‘Rejoice, the Lord is King’, and I threw back my head and raised my voice in a deliberate attempt to lighten the almost palpable sense of oppression created by the dark surfaces of the pews and pulpit, I simply found myself appraising, with a cold professional eye, the bulging plaster to the right of the chancel arch, wondering whether I might have underestimated both the extent and the seriousness of the problem it represented.

  Banks made strenuous, perhaps over-strenuous, efforts to compensate for the drabness of his surroundings. His sermon was delivered apparently extempore yet with remarkable rhetorical control. He had the trick of repeating particularly significant words or phrases with an almost passionate emphasis, leaning forward over the edge of the pulpit, his pale eyes searching the faces of his parishioners with a peculiar and compelling intensity; or he would break off for several seconds at a time, still holding us with that unsettling stare, creating a silence so highly charged as to induce in his congregation a quite unusual state of nervous receptivity. His choice of subject was, perhaps, a little disappointing – I have heard too many sermons preached on the stock themes of compassion and neighbourly behaviour – and I was unable to dispel the suspicion that the high polish of his performance indicated a degree of self-regard not quite appropriate to a clergyman; but I was left with the strong impression of a man who might justifiably have aspired to higher office or, at least, to office in a less remote and backward community.

  There was little evidence of comparable distinction among those members of the congregation visible to me from my admittedly unsatisfactory vantage-point, the single and obvious exception being a man of about my own age who sat alone in the low-sided box-pew in the south aisle. Even in his case, it would have been difficult to deduce breeding from the face alone, which was rather weakly proportioned and, in every sense of the phrase, lacking in resolution; but his upright bearing, coupled with the discreet elegance of his dress, left me in no doubt of his social standing, and I determined to make his acquaintance at the earliest opportunity.

  It was not until the end of the service, as we rose to leave, that I discovered that the pew immediately behind mine had been occupied by a figure in some respects even more remarkable. I have always prided myself on my measured response to feminine beauty, but this young woman struck me as quite exceptional, appearing to stand out from her surroundings with what I can only describe as a kind of radiance. Despite the unusual darkness of her hair and eyes, despite the sobriety of her clothing, that was the impression she gave as she turned, one hand on the pew-end, and looked me full in the face for a second or two before moving slowly down the aisle towards the door. What was it? The clear lines and tones of her pale face, perhaps – but the effect of light seemed relatable to something deeper. Attempting later that day to isolate and define its source, I found myself unable to get beyond the tired, familiar abstractions – beauty, refinement, nobility, grace – and abandoned the attempt as futile.

  I emerged into the watery sunlight to see her standing beneath one of the yew trees, adjusting her bonnet, the ribbons whipping about her face in the stiff wind. The woman at her side was evidently her mother: the same accentuated cheekbones, the same open gaze, though the older woman’s skin was lined and her features generally of a sterner cast. As I looked, a young man strode towards them, apparently with the intention of engaging them in conversation; but they barely acknowledged him before turning and walking away, leaving him staring after them, his face and awkward stance betraying an acute awareness of his humiliation. That, I thought to myself, observing with a certain satisfaction his foolish, crestfallen expression, is what happens when a man presumes to approach his betters on terms of false equality. As the pair left the churchyard, both moving with the same upright dignity, the younger woman glanced back over her shoulder. It seemed to me that she was looking in my direction; but the sun was in my eyes, and I might well have been mistaken.

  It would have been wiser to have gone straight back to my lodgings, but I had time on my hands and my mind was running on my work, and it seemed natural enough to stroll over to the trench to examine in fuller light and in a calmer state of mind the effects of the previous day’s mishap. I had had a troubled night and had woken early from a dream in which the tumbled soil seemed to churn and swell, rising like a yeasty dough above the edge of the trench; and I was relieved now, lifting the end of one of the boards, to see how little had actually fallen. Enough to floor a man, of course, but not so much as to hold up the work for more than an hour or so.

  ‘I hope you’ll not be working today, sir.’

  I started and dropped the board.

  ‘With respect, sir. We are enjoined to remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy.’

  I disliked the man’s sanctimonious tone and, straightening up and turning to face him, disliked even more what I saw. A thin, sallow face, the mouth twisted up at one side in what I took to be a smile; the eyes watering slightly, rimmed with red; lank grey hair hanging over the collar of a dark jacket. I drew my handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my fingers.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I have no intention of starting again until tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. You’ll forgive me, but there are those in the village who feel the job shouldn’t be done at all. We’ve had our say and we’ve not been heeded. The best we can do is to see the work is carried out in as seemly a manner as possible.’

  ‘You’ll find nothing unprofessional about my conduct, Mr …’

  ‘Starkey, sir. James Starkey. Maybe Not, but’ – he moved over to the wall and, with a slightly theatrical flourish, placed his hand on one of the buttresses – ‘a church isn’t like an ordinary building. Each and every stone is sacred. And we shouldn’t meddle where there’s no need.’

  ‘Well, you can take my word for it, Mr Starkey, that in this particular case there’s a demonstrable need. And think for a moment about the building’s history: like almost every other church of its age, it has been modified over the years, sometimes dramatically so. If you’d been here in the thirteenth century you’d have had to watch as they tore off the roof and dismantled the walls of the original nave. My own proposals are in fact extremely modest; certai
nly in no sense comparable with developments of that order.’

  He shook his head slowly.

  ‘I’m not a learned man, sir, and I can’t say anything about that. But I know there’ll be damage and disturbance in the Lord’s house while you’re at work here. And tell me this: if it’s good work you’re about, why would William Jefford have been hurt in the doing of it?’

  That question, posed not so much aggressively, it seemed, as with a genuine perplexity, made it clear that I was dealing with attitudes too primitive to be susceptible to rational argument. I was considering how best to terminate the conversation when I saw Banks approaching, stepping towards us between the gravestones, lifting the hem of his cassock above the wet grass as a woman might lift her skirts. Starkey seemed suddenly anxious to be gone. He gave a brusque nod and stalked off, scarcely acknowledging the rector as he passed him.

  Banks himself seemed a little abstracted, greeting me with a firm handshake but a perceptible coolness of demeanour.

  ‘That man,’ I said, watching Starkey out of the gate, ‘seems to have got it into his head that I’m here to wreak havoc in the church.’

  ‘James Starkey is a man of strong opinions and very little tact. He exercises a certain influence over some of the older villagers, but I shouldn’t imagine a man of your sophistication would have much difficulty in dealing with him or with his arguments.’

  ‘No difficulty at all. But I hope you won’t mind my observing that there’s some correspondence between those arguments and the views you appeared to be promoting when I mentioned the matter of the windows last week.’

  Banks smiled weakly. ‘Some correspondence, yes. The irony is that while you recognize and perhaps exaggerate the relationship between my views and Starkey’s, Starkey himself holds me personally responsible for having laid the church open to what he regards as an act of desecration. His stance is actually rather simple if, in practical terms, untenable: he is opposed to change of any description. My own position is far more complex: I believe that change is inevitable, and often desirable. I want my parishioners to sit comfortably in their pews on Sunday mornings. I want warmth, I want light. But I have to square this with a belief in the immeasurable value of all that has been passed down to us. I see the church as an ark, a repository crammed with treasures, visible and invisible. Sometimes when I’m alone here, early in the morning it might be, or at dusk, I walk up and down the aisles almost reeling beneath the weight, beneath the richness and density of it all. All this, I think, gathered together within these walls; and I reach out to touch something, anything – the worn stone at the lip of the font, perhaps, or the polished rail of the pulpit – and think of the hands before mine, and the hands to come. There’s exhilaration in the act, but also a sense of responsibility. I’m not a prisoner of the past, Mr Stannard, but at such moments I see with extraordinary clarity that our progress towards the future must be informed by a deep respect for the lives and works of our forefathers.’

  I suppose it must be difficult for a man of Banks’s calling to know when to refrain from preaching, or even to recognize his own tendency to turn a conversation into a sermon. I stepped in quickly as he paused for breath. ‘Tell me, Mr Banks, how do you manage for company in a place like this?’

  ‘You’ve seen my congregation. Ours is a small community, but not a negligible one.’

  ‘I’m aware that there must be several dozen families here; but few, unless I’m greatly mistaken, of any social or intellectual standing. My question should perhaps have been more precisely phrased. Where in such a place do you find company suited to your own accomplishments and status?’

  ‘This place suits me very well, and I can truthfully say the same of its inhabitants. I try not to discriminate – not, at least, along the lines you suggest – sincerely believing myself to be no more highly exalted in my Maker’s sight than any man, woman or child in the parish.’

  ‘Oh, I know we’re all equal in the sight of God. But—’

  The penetrating severity of Banks’s gaze seemed to me to constitute a subtle breach of decorum. I value directness in a man, but that searching stare suggested a culpable disregard for the niceties of social intercourse.

  ‘But what, Mr Stannard?’

  ‘I suppose I mean simply that we can’t be expected – we are not permitted – to share the divine perspective. We live in a world that requires us to make certain distinctions; a world, I would go so far as to say, in which certain distinctions are inescapably apparent. Is it so unreasonable of me to observe that your congregation consists largely of men and women with whom I should be unable to sustain a conversation for more than a minute or two? Or that, with very few exceptions, your parishioners visibly lack the refinement of men such as ourselves? I admire your idealism, but the facts stare you in the face.’

  ‘What we call facts are often little more than loose impressions, buttressed by a heterogeneous body of prejudices and assumptions. What do you really know of the merits of these people after a week in their community? I’ve been here for a good ten years but I wouldn’t presume to judge them in the way you appear to do.’

  ‘I think you may have misunderstood me. These are not moral judgements, but social observations. For all I know, every member of your congregation may be a living embodiment of all the Christian virtues. I’m not, I agree, in a position to evaluate these people’s moral worth. I simply want to insist on the rather obvious point that only a very small handful of this morning’s worshippers might appropriately be invited into our drawing-rooms.’

  ‘My own drawing-room is perhaps a little more accessible than yours, Mr Stannard. But who are your favoured few?’

  ‘I imagine you know that as well as I do. Apart from ourselves there appear to be three: the well-dressed gentleman in the box-pew to your right; the young lady who was seated immediately behind me; and her companion, whom I take to be her mother. You might wish to propose other candidates but not, I’m prepared to wager, more than another two or three.’

  ‘You’re on safe ground with Mr Redbourne. His family has occupied Anstone Hall for more than a hundred and fifty years, and I’ve no doubt at all that you’d be happy to invite him into your drawing-room. Given your sensitivity to questions of social status you might, however, experience a certain anxiety as to whether a man of Mr Redbourne’s eminence could, with propriety, accept such an invitation.’

  Banks was half smiling, but the gibe was clearly intended as a form of reproof. I decided to ignore it.

  ‘And the ladies?’

  ‘I imagine you mean Ann and Enid Rosewell. Both are striking figures, Ann particularly so, but I don’t suppose you’d – look here, Stannard, is there nothing you can do about this business?’

  He gestured with more than a hint of irritation towards the heaped bones. The wind was tugging at the sacking which covered them, exposing one end of the stack to view.

  ‘I’m not responsible for that. The bones might more conveniently have been left in the upcast and shovelled back into the trench on completion of the work. I think I’ve managed to dissuade the men from adding to the pile, but if you want it moved, I suggest you discuss it with them.’

  He stepped forward and pinned down the flapping sackcloth with a lump of limestone. Then he straightened up, ran his fingers through his thinning hair and gazed into the distance as though lost in thought.

  ‘I must apologize,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not quite master of myself this morning. The last few days … all this disruption, you understand; and then Jefford. The man has hardship enough to bear already and might well have been spared more.’

  ‘You’ve heard about yesterday’s accident?’

  ‘Of course. I visited him last night.’

  ‘Has he recovered?’

  ‘Hardly, though I understand that there’s unlikely to be any permanent damage. His chief concern at the moment is that any period of convalescence may result in a loss of income.’

  ‘I shouldn’t normall
y expect to pay my labourers for days not worked.’

  ‘I wonder, though, whether you might regard this as a special case.’

  ‘As any employer will tell you, Mr Banks, all such cases are special cases, or can be made to appear so. In my time I’ve had to listen to any number of stories – ailing wives, starving children, impending evictions – many of which, I have to say, have been completely fictitious.’

  ‘And some of which, almost certainly, have been largely or entirely true.’

  ‘Perhaps so. But once you start admitting special cases, you lay yourself wide open.’

  ‘Wide open to what, Mr Stannard? To compassion?’

  ‘To exploitation. The moment an employer shows himself to be in any way manipulable, these people will take advantage of him. I don’t blame them – that’s the way the world works. But anyone who wishes to thrive in such a world would be well advised not to drop his guard.’

  ‘It’s a bleak philosophy, Mr Stannard, though one that the age seems to endorse. But to come back to the case in hand. Jefford does in fact have an ailing wife, as well as four children who, if not actually starving, are visibly undernourished; but even if we disregard those facts, the specific circumstances of his accident would seem to give him some claim on you.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow you. You’re surely not blaming me for Jefford’s injuries?’