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DowntheavenueoftreesIcansee

aspotofsunlight.I’mtryingsohardtogetthere.

(GreyOwl)

CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

AfterWords

DiscussionQuestions

AConversationwithPenelopeWilcock

Throughthewindowofthetraintravelingnorth,youcouldseethischurchinafield.Iwanttosayitwasalittlechurch,butchurchesaren’teverlittle,arethey,notwhen youget up close to them.Only in that landscape of fields andhills,away it seemed fromanyvillageor town, it lookedsmall.Built in the familiaryellow-grey stone, a church such as a church of any imagination would be,ruggedandenduring,ancientofdays,obdurate,asharp,insistentspirepointingforevertotheabsentrealityofheaven.Iwouldtellyouthestyleinwhichitwasbuilt—wordslikegothicandperpendicular,phraseslikeSaxonarchandbarrelvaultingmoveinmymindlikevagueshapesofsheepgrazinginfogattheedgeofaditch.ButIdon’trememberthemnow,andIcan’trecall theirmeaning.Iwouldtellyoujustwheretogotofindthatchurchinthefieldsoyoucouldseeitfor yourself—I remember that I noted the place so carefully and toldmyself Iwouldsearchforitalongthelanestheresomeday.ButIhavelostitnow.Idon’tknowtheplaceanymore,norevenifIwastravelingtoYorkortoLiverpool.IrememberonlythatIsawitthroughthewindowofthetrainhurryingnorth—

leaned forward inmyseat tosee itas longas Icould.Achurchstanding inagreen fieldwith no other building nearby. A border ofwall or hedging, quitehigh,protectedthefieldandthechurchinside.Ihaveforgottenwhichitwas,butIrememberitgaveasenseofsafety,hedgingaboutthatsanctuarysoitshouldbeutterlysafe,aplaceperhapswhereinonemightatlastfindpeace.AndIknowIwantedtobetheremorethananything;thatIbelievedifonlyI

could find the way there, and stay there, it would be a shelter and a restingplace.IcannotremembertheplacefromwhereIsawit,andIdonotknowtheway; but in some sensewhat itwas has lodged insideme, and is obscurely, Ithink,asourceofhope.

E

ONE

smeheldthispieceofpaperinherhandsandreadwhatshehadwrittensolongago.Backinthedayswhenshewrotethosewords,hersoulhadbeen

full of searching,ofyearning—and these imply alwayshope.Then the churchhadstoodforsomethingfullofquietandmystery:heart’sdesire,homecoming,belonging.Possessed in those days by a fierce hunger andhuntinghermiracle like the

gospel story of the woman twelve years with an issue of blood, Esme hadwriggled and elbowed herway through the press of life and people to find aplacewhereshemightstretchoutherhandandtouchthehemofthegarmentofJesus;andsoitmightbringtherestlessnessofhersoultopeace.An oddity in her family, Esme had the sense of being less respected than

kindly tolerated. Church attendance had been an unquestioned element of herupbringing, and her family had been established figures in the large parishchurchthatoccupiedthecenteroftheaffluentvillagewhereshehadgrownup.Equallyunquestionedhadbeen theexpectationofmaterial success,andwithacombination of personal confidence and conscientious application, Esme’sbrother and two sisters had solidly achieved this in their lives. The youngestchild of the family, Esme had dithered, occupying herself with temporarysecretarial posts on the strength of a six-month intensive course when shefinishedhighschool.Sheknewshewaslookingforsomethingbutdidn’tknowwhat.Aboveallshehungeredforaplainandauthenticspirituality,sufficientlyfree of aesthetic pretension to pierce the conventionalmold that had nurturedher. She thought she had found thiswhen, in her early twenties, she began to

attendaMethodistchapelpastoredbyayoungandzealousminister,freshoutofcollege,withafireinhisbellyforwitnessandmissionandapoliticaledgetohispreaching.Inspired,EsmeinvolvedherselfintheMethodistchurch.Shefellinlovewith

a young man in the worship band, a budding executive in a Christian musicpublishing company. His lean good looks and brooding eyes appealed to hersense of romance. His sharp and fashionable style impressed her. So did hisperpetualairofbusynessandpreoccupation,andthevariouselectronicgadgetsnecessary to support the maintenance of his extensive social and businesscontact network. His interest in her gave her an unaccustomed sense ofsophistication. He was widely regarded as quite a catch. He himself felt theimportanceof choosingawifewhocouldbe relieduponnot to lethimdown.Esmewasflatteredtobechosen.Hewentabouthisromancewithcharacteristicintensityandfocus,securingEsmeasabrideinamatterofmonths.Herfamily,perplexedbyher tendency todrift, felt relieved to seeher settled.Hermotherhoped she would have a baby, but Esme’s new husband decided they shouldprioritizetheacquisitionofahouseandacarmoresuitableforhisprofessionalimage.Esmedidn’treallymind;shewashappytogoalongwithhisplans.Sheadmired him, she enjoyed the status that marriage conferred on her, and hisromanticattentionsmadeherfeeltreasuredandadored.Yet something restless inside her still persisted, and she began to feel

positively trapped.All her upbringing drewher towardmaterial consolidation,butarogueelementinhersoulfrettedtobefree,asthestarsandthewindandtheclearcoldlightofmorningwerefree.SheburrowedfurtherintothespiritualteachingsoftheGospels.Shebegana

dailyroutineofmeditationandprayer.ShefeltdrawntoaclosenesswithJesus,andinherheartgrewadesiretofindthepathswherehewalkedandfollowhisfootstepsintothewildernessandthehills.Fromthere to theparsonagehadbeena longslog,notwhatshe imaginedat

thebeginning.Applyingtobecomealaypreacher, training, takingexams;trialservicesandtutors;othersweighingherinabalancehungfromthesafeheightof their established accreditation. Then—local preacher status under her beltalong with years of service to the church in Sunday school, Girls’ Brigade,coffeemornings,pastoralvisiting,committees,andLadies’Fellowshipmeetings—she offered herself for ordained ministry: more exams, interviews, trialservices.Booklistsandreferencesandmedicalexaminationswererequired,herknowledge tested and her opinions examined. Psychological screening andpolicecheckingandtheologicalallegiancesweresought.Herfinancialstatusandher relationship with her husband were inquired into. And at last acceptance,thentraining,thenprobationaryministry.ThentheordinationceremonyandthereceptionintotheFullConnexionoftheMethodistchurch,andtwomoreyearsfinishingherprobationaryappointment.“Formation inministry” they called those years of testing and training; and

certainly she had found them formative. It had changed her. The differencebetweenavocationandacareerblurredconfusingly.Shehadtopolishhersocialand professional skills. She had to study time management and peoplemanagement and develop a circumspect persona of encouraging butnoncommittalaffability.Somewherealongtheway,herhusband,afterfourteenyearsofmarriage,had

found the authority and status of her new role undermining to his sense ofmasculinity and deserted her for the gentler contours of a hotel receptionist’scompanionship. He had left her with no children (for which she felt gratefulnow), and a deep, unexamined wound of bereavement in the middle of her,whichthepassingof timeflowedaroundandwashedoverbutdidnotseemtomakewhole.Shelettheirhousegotohim,sinceshehadaparsonagetolivein—herfamilyexpressedmisgivingsatthislackofprudence,butEsmecouldn’tbeartheideaofalegalwrangle.Hersenseofherselfasadesirablewomanseemedtohavebeencauterizedby

thisparting.Shechosetothrowherselfwithdeterminationintoherworkandtoignore the helpless, frozen center of her being. The time of tears and anguishsoonpassed.Afteritcameadeepsenseofvulnerability.Realizingthatshehadnobodybutherselftorelyon,Esmedevelopedanagginganxietyaboutmaterialsecurity.Shehadverylittleinhersavingsaccountatthebank,andnohomebutthe parsonage provided by the church for herworking years. She pushed thisuncomfortable feeling of vulnerability to the back of hermind and immersedherselfinthemyriaddailytasksofheroccupation.Shegotusedtoignoringtheemptyspacesinhersoulandthedeprivationofcompanionship.Hercolleagueshadlivesasfullastheycouldmanage,andallowinghercongregationtoseeherinsecuritiesandherlonelinesswasunprofessional.Esme turned forty. More self-possessed, easy in her production of words

suitableforpublicoccasions,moresophisticatedinherreligion,shehadgrownless trusting of other people and chronically weary. On the journey she haddevelopedakindofspiritualirritation,aneczemaofthesoul,whichitchedandtormentedhermercilesslyasshesatinthehomesoftheelderlymembersofhercongregation,listeningpatientlytotheirinterminable,tediousconversation,theirstoriesofthewarandthedetailsoftheirsurgicaloperationsandthedescriptionsoftheirinfirmitiesandtheprogressinlivesoftheirgrandchildren.Sherepressedthissuccessfully—hiditalmostevenfromherself—sothatshe

wasapprovedandevenlovedasapastor,andhercongregationsaidtheirgood-byeswith tearswhen the time came for her tomove on from her probationerappointment,extendedafurtherthreeyearsbyunanimousreinvitation.Itseemedsuchaverylongtimeagonowthatthecalltoservethechurchasa

ministerhadbeentheexpressionofEsme’sdesiretocreepascloseasshecouldtoJesus.Hersoul indefinablybleeding inside,shehad thought that ifonlyshecouldgetcloseenough,nearenoughtotouchthehemofhisrobe,healingwouldcome for that half-ignoredpersistent inner sense of loss.Ministry had seemedlikeaspiritualthing,holdingoutthepossibilityofaconnectiontothepresence

ofChrist.Then.Now, so much later, it seemed just an impossibly complicated tangle of

demands and expectations. A balancing act of appeasements andaccomplishments.Amuddle of paperwork andmeetings, crumbling propertiesand aging, lonely, ailing people waiting with ever-decreasing hope for her toproduce what they thought any good pastor should be able to manifest—areplicationofthe1950s,withfresh-facedyoungwives’groupslaughingastheyprepared huge chapel teas, and devout businessmen willing to decorate thepremises and calculate the chapel accounts in their ample spare time; andcheerful youth clubs happy with campfire songs and table tennis. Only withcomputerliteracy,sophisticatedchild-protectionadministration,andhigh-profileecumenicalrelationshipsasanadd-on.ShewascaughtinthethrongandpressofthecrowdthatstoodaroundJesus.It

didn’tlookbigbutitknewhowtojostleandshove.She’dexchangedtherelativecalmoftheperipheryforthestruggleofthethickofthings,apparentlywithoutgettinganyclosertothehemofhisgarmentatall.Andtherewassomethingelse,whichnooneknewbutEsme,andofwhichshe

felteverydaymostdeeplyashamed.Backinherstudentdaysatordinationschool,immersedintheChristologyof

St. Luke’s Gospel and the anti-Semitism of St. John’s; Deutero-Isaiah anddemonologyanddoceticism;thenarrativetheologyoftheHebrewScriptureandliberationtheologyofLatinAmerica;theempowermentofinclusivelanguageinliturgy,thedarknightofthesoul,andtheoptionofGodforthepoor,Esmehadunderstoodonevocationalrealityaboveallelse.Her college principal, scholarly, wise, and gentle, whom she loved and

admired,insistedonthepastoralcentralityofprayer.ThedayEsmewentforherinterviewtotheimprovisedofficeintheconverted

church building housing the ordination course where she would eventuallyundergohertraining,theprincipalspoketoheraboutprayer.

“Yourpeoplewillexpectmanydifferingthingsofyou,”hesaid(accurately,asEsmediscovered),“butonethingallofthemwillexpectofyouisthatyouwillpray,andthatyouwillprayforthem.”Rarely a day went by that Esme did not reflect on this uncomfortable,

undeniable requirement. For she had all but ceased to pray. Somehow, thesedays,herlifewassopushedandshovedbysomanypeopleandsomanytasksthatthepossibilityofreachingouttotouchthehemofhisrobe,forherhealingoranyoneelse’s,hadrecededintoadistantdream.Everyfewdaysshemadeherselfgointothechurchwiththebookofoffices,

readthereadings,saythepsalms,rememberthesick,andreadthepastorallistinthecontextofahalfhourofprayer.Therestofthetimeshejustfeltguilty.Shealwaysfeltguilty.Andabsolutelyeverythingmatteredabitlesseveryday.In her visiting, perched on the edge of an old man’s hospital bed, as she

looked at his unshaven face and anxious eyes, his mottled purple feet coldwithoutsocksininadequatevinylslippers,theinevitablestirringofcompassionwasoutweighedby thedisgust and revulsionat the contentsofhis sputum jarwaitingonthebedsidelocker.Idon’tlovepeopleanymore,shethought,andIdon’twanttosaymyprayers.

I’mallchurchedout.Ijustwanttobeleftinpeace.She couldn’t face a theological book, she couldn’t pray, and the people

wearied her. But ifministry had taught her nothing else, it had given her thedisciplineofkeepingupappearances.Fromsomewhereshefoundtheenergytokeeponkeepingon,andshewonderedwistfullyifthatinitselfmightcountasaformofprayer;oratleastoffaithfulness—ifnotwithpeople,thenmaybewithGod.Itneverfelteasy.Now, at forty-four years old, she sat at her desk in a new parsonage, the

stationing process successfully negotiated, appointed for at least the next fiveyears to be the minister of Portland Road Chapel in the seaside town of

Southarbour,withpastoralchargealsoof two littlecountrychapels,one in thecharmingandhistoricvillageofBrockhyrstPriory,andtheotherinthehamletofWilesGreen.Anunexceptionalappointment,butdauntingenough.Intheweeksandmonthstocomelayallthebusinessoftakingintoherhands

thereinsofministryamongpeoplestillstrangersasyet.Shemustwintheirtrustand their confidence, earn their respect. Learn their names, hear their stories,discovertheirfeudsandtheirpowerbases,theirsilenthatredsandalliances.Shemustfindtheirhungerandfeedthemthere,findthewoundsofthemandtouchthem gently, understand their weaknesses and call to their strength. Shemustseek out her ecumenical partners and discover the shape of the Anglicandeaneries and learn the social and commercial profile of one town and twocountrycommunities.Shemustacquaintherselfwiththreechurchbuildingsandallthatwentoninthem.Shemustlearntheroads,theshortcuts,andthejunctionapproaches.Shemustfindadentistandadoctor,abetterbakerthantheoneinthehighstreet, andacheaper sourceofvegetables than the supermarket. It alllay ahead of her, and somehow it all would get done. Except the difficult,shameful thing:Theywouldexpecther to take time topray for themall.Andsomehowithaddiedinher.ThisAugustdayshehadbeenforty-eighthoursinhernewhomeandwasstill

sorting through the boxes marked “STUDY.” Going through a file labeled“WorshipResources,” shehadcomeacrossanynumberofoddsandends thatcameundernootherobviousheading.And there she foundagain thepieceofpaper she nowheld in her hands, that brought back so vividly the vision of acountrychurch,glimpsedintheblurofpassinglandscape,callingtothesoulofher,evennowatthememoryofit.For twominutesmore Esme gazed at thewords she hadwritten years ago,

thendroppedthemontothepileofpapersonthefloor,destinedfortherecyclingbin.August was precious. The new church year began on the first day of

September. Sorting through old papers and getting her new home into somesemblanceofordermustbedonethisweekornever.Therewasnotimenowforreflection.Thereneverwas.But as (turning as she always turned from the restlessness in her soul that

neverquitehadfoundpeace—notinprayer,notinstudy,notinfellowshipnorsolitude)shegotupimpatientlyfromherdeskandwenttothekitchentomakeherselfacupofcoffee,Esmesurprisedherselfbysayingaloud into theemptyroom, “Is there no one in the world who would really listen, really hear me,reallyseemeforwhoandwhatIam?”Havingassembledmilk,hermug, the jarofcoffee,andapacketofbiscuits,

shestoodwaitingforthekettletoboil.Leaningagainstthekitchencounter,shegazedthroughthewindowat thedarkbulkof thegardenshedacross theyard.Because of its darkness, her image stood clearly reflected in the window; adepressingreminderthatinthelastsixyearslivedinthedriver’sseatofacar,inthe office chair behind her desk, in the chairs at hospital bedsides, and in thearmchairs of housebound members’ sitting rooms, she had put on thirty-fivepounds.Despitewhichsherefusedtobedeprivedofabiscuitwithhercoffee.Perhapshere,thoughtEsme,asshecontemplatedherreflection,Ishouldturn

overanewleaf.Icouldbuild inaprogramofregularexercise.Icouldgoforwalks in the country when I domy visits to the villages.Maybe—a new ideacametoher—perhapshereIcouldrideabike.Depressed by the vision of herself in thewindow glass, shemade her way

back to the study. For a littlewhile she sorted papers, drank her coffee, filedthings,andmadenotes,butwithlessandlessenthusiasmorattention.Justthisweek,shetoldherself,justthisweektogetprepared.Butsomethinginsideherrefusedtopayattentionandbegood.Shetoyedwiththeideaofpreparingaheadone or two sermon outlines, glancing through the lectionary for the Year Creadings for September. But the same something inside dug in its heels andwouldn’t,andintheend,shesatwithherelbowsonthedesk,gazingoutintothe

garden.Iwanttogooutside,shethought,it’slovelyoutside.Abandoningherpapersandboxesofunsortedbelongings,Esmegrabbedher

bag, stepped purposefully out of the house, got into her car, and fished in theglove compartment for the newmapbook shehadbought.Shedecided that aforay to exploreWiles Green could reasonably count as work. She had beenthereonceonly,onthedayofhervisiteighteenmonthsagotomeetthestewardsineachofherthreechapels.BesidethegrimandcrumblingmajestyofPortlandRoad Chapel in Southarbour, Wiles Green Chapel had looked like a doll’shouse; small and trim, setback from the road, surroundedbya flowerborder,shelteredbyatree,andenclosedonthreesidesbyayewhedge—thefourthsidebeingopentothecarpark.Asquaregaphadbeenneatlytrainedinthehedgeasitgrew,toaccommodatetheWaysidePulpitcontaininganotice,thatwhenlastshehadseenithadread,SEEKYETHELORDWHILEYETHEMAYBEFOUND.Insideasoutside,Esmehadbeenimpressedtofindthechapelwellmaintained

and lovingly kept; austere and free of religious art or any embellishment, butwithanindefinablesenseofgoodcheer.On that first day her interest had been focused entirely on the chapel. She

thoughtitnowtimetoexplorethevillage.ShehadatleastlocatedthepostofficeandthesupermarketinSoutharbour,andspentamorningwanderinginthebusyvillageofBrockhyrstPriorywithitsthrivingfamilybusinesses,itsteashops,andgiftshops;butWilesGreensherememberedonlyasanindeterminatescatteringofhouses,andapub—aplaceofnorealconsequence.She refreshed hermemory from themap as to the directions and set out to

explore. She left the town and drove through the beauty of the late-summercountryside,throughBrockhyrstPriorywithitspicturesquewindingmainstreet—youcouldn’tseethechapelfromhere,itwasupbehindthehousesonMarketStreet—left at the fire station, out through fields and woodland, left at thecrossroads,rightatthenextturning,downthehillthroughalanethatresembled

adry stream runningbetween steepbanksof earth fixedby thegnarled roots,greenwithmoss,of trees thatmet inacanopyoverheadandcarpeted theroadwithleafmold.Esme remembered from her earlier visit how long the lane had seemed,

tunneling through the countrysidewith a sense of entering depths, passing thelimitsofcivilization.Imustdriveouthereatnight,shepromisedherself,therewill be badgers, foxes—maybe even hedgehogs and owls! The journey had asuggestionofhavingmistakentheway,aprofoundsenseofsecrecy,wilderness.IhopeI’mnotlost,Esmebegantothink.Withreliefshecaughtsightofarathermossysignpartlyobscuredbythehedge,onwhichshecouldmakeoutmostofthe letters ofWiles Green. The road remained uncompromisingly narrow butclimbed a hill past a cluster of farm buildings and cottages and then turned acornerintothehundredyardsorsothatmadeupitsvillagestreet.Therewasthepub—The Bull—the ancient and delightful parish church of St. Raphaels, adozenorsohouses,mostlycottagesbutsomemoreimposingresidences,andatemporary-lookingstructurebuiltofcorrugatedironwithahandmadesignoverthedoorsayingVillagePostOffice&Stores.Alongtheroadedgesthepavementcameandwent,andthereweresomanytreesandhedgesthatthehousesseemedhalf-buriedintheundergrowth.Leavingbehindthesebuildings,EsmecametoaturningwhosesignsaidCHAPELLANE,andshedrovealongittoremindherselfofherchapel’ssituation.SomeonehadhunganewsignintheWaysidePulpitsayingTHEWAGESOFSIN

ISDEATH,andEsmemadeamentalnotetoorderanewsetofposters.Shehadbroughtthekeyswithher,butsomethinginthechapel’sneatappearancelookedsoclosedandcompletethatshefeltdisinclinedtogoin.Shecouldremembertheinterior.Shewouldsoonbepreachingthere.Todayshecouldtakethechancetoexploreplacesshewouldbelesscertaintoseelateron.Sheturnedaroundinthecarparkandmadeherwaybacktotheparishchurch.Thereshecouldfindnodesignatedparkingplace,soshepulledofftheroadas

well as she could and got out of her car to look in the churchyard. Rosessprawledontheoldroughstones,lichenedyellow,ofthewall,andtreesspreadwelcomeshadeoverthehiggledy-piggledygravesinthelonggrass.Oh,butit’ssopretty,thoughtEsmeassheventuredslowlyupthepath,gazingatitall,andwhenshereachedthedoorandtriedit,shefoundtoherdelightthatitwasopen.She stepped inside, smelling the holy smell of cool stone and incense andbeeswax candles. The sun through stained-glass windows dappled the deepgoldenbrownofthepewswithrichcolors.Esmesatdowninthebackpew,andafter aminute, pulled towardher oneof thekneelers covered in hairywoolenfabric of a gentle blue. For the first time in years, she knelt down to pray,wonderingfleetinglyassheslidtoherkneeswhyMethodistsneverdo.Atfirstshejustknelt,andletthepeaceoftheplaceslideintohersoul,butas

shedidsothecallousedresistancebegantoeaseandwordsstartedtoform.Shewhispered,“WhatI’dreallylike,please,ifitcanbedone,issomeonetobemyfriend.Itcanbesoverylonely.Please.”Andthenadded,withapangofguilt,“Andhelpmetoserveyouwell.Andallthepeople.”She held the moment in silence—what was it about prayer that could so

uncover the heart’s surprising secrets? Surrounded every day by people, herphoneringingfrombreakfast timetobedtime,herdiaryfull twomonthsaheadand almost every hour accounted for, days off jealously guarded, she had notrealizeduntilshetookthisfleetingspaceofsolitaryprayerthatthehungerandthe restlessness had to dowith loneliness; the longing to be really known andacceptedandunderstood—notonlylovedandneeded.Someonetobemyfriend.Thethoughtthathadcometohershonefaintlywithhope.Perhapsitwouldbe.Maybe in the chapel communities shehadcome to serve shemight findotherwomenlikeherself—professional,single,withinterestsincommon.Ifso,theremight be a chance of some fun, projects shared, leisure outings together. Afriend.The habitual guilt began to pull at her.Here shewas, kneeling in prayer—

shouldshenotseizethemomentasanopportunity,commitherministryinthisarea toGod, intercede forher stewards,her treasurer,herpastoralvisitors,heryouthwork,hercolleagues?Probably.Buthereshefeltsomehowanecessitytotakeherprayernofurther thanhonesty, tooffer toGodthesimple truthof thedesireofherheart:someonetobemyfriend.Esme stayed where she was, looking at the sturdy stone pillars, the rood

screen,and thealtarbeyond; thecarvedwoodenpulpitand thepolishedbrass-eagle lecternbearing theheavyBibleopenon its spreadwings.Shecouldnotquite place from where comfort came, but she was stilled by the profoundserenityoftheancientplacesteepedinsomanypeople’ssecretprayers.Afteralongwhileshegottoherfeet,andslowly,communingwiththeliving

sense of the place, walked back down the aisle to the heavy door, her handcaressingthedarkwoodencurvesofthepewendsasshepassed.Beforesheleft,shestoppedandturnedtolookdownthelengthofthechurchtoitsaltarundertheeastwindow.“Thankyou,”shewhispered.“Good-bye.”Out in the churchyard, the sunlight seemed dazzling. Esme lingered there a

littlelonger,lookingattheinscriptionsonthegravesasshewanderedalongthepaththatledbacktotheroad,enjoyingthewarmthandthebirdsong,watchingabeetleonthegrassstemsandthebeesvisitingtheflowersagainstthewall.Withasighshewentoutthroughthelych-gate.Therewassomuchstilltodo.Outontheroadside,besidehercar,shefoundaveryoldlady,whoseclothing

seemed tobecomposedofassorted loose layers in fabricsofavarietyofhuesbutwithout the decoration of patterns or flowers, creating rather the effect ofrobes.Her hair, grey anddisheveled,wasmoreor less assembled in twoverylongplaits.Onherhead,sheworeamulticoloredAfricanhatandsomecurious,primitivetribalearrings.Herrighthandgrippedthesilvertopofawalkingstick.Ajazzprophet, thoughtEsme.Inspiteoftheoverallimpactofherappearance,undoubtedly the most arresting thing about this old lady was the unswervinggazeofherextremelydarkeyes,whichglitteredatEsmeassheemergedfrom

thechurchyard.“Yourcar.”Itwasastatement,notaquestion.“Yes,”Esmesaid.“Isthereaproblem?”Theoldladylookedather.“Supposing,”shesaid,“Iwastobringoutatableandchairandsetitupinthe

middleoftheroadtoplaycards,wouldthatbeaproblem?”Esmeblinkeduncertainly.Theoldladycontinuedtofixherwithhergaze.She

didn’tlookcross,butsomethingmomentousregardedEsmethroughthosebrighteyessetinthewrinkledbrownface.The old lady continued, “There’s something about cars that gives folks the

ideathatthewholeworldmustmakewayforthemwhileatthesametimetheyhave absolute right to block the way of others. ’Tisn’t so. Pavements is forpedestrians.WemaynothavemuchofapavementinWilesGreen,butsuchasthereis,isentirelyfilledupbyyourcar.”“There’snowhereelsetoparkbythechurch,”saidEsmereasonably.“Putitsomewhereelse,then,”saidtheoldlady,“andwalk.”The sense of well-being Esme had found in the quietness of the church

evaporated.Whywas life like this?Wheredid theycome from, thesevileoldladieswhomadeacareeroutofbeingrudeandfindingfaultandtellingpeopleoff?DidGodsendthemtotestourfaithinthedivineimagewithinthehumansoul and thegoodnessof creation?Whoneeded abelief in a personal devil—wouldn’toldladiesdojustaswell?Shelookeddownatthegroundandcountedtotenslowly.“Iamsosorry,”shesaid.“I’llmoveitstraightaway.”The old lady’s wrinkled face reassembled into a most mischievous grin.

“There’spatience!”shesaid,andheldoutherhandtoEsme,“SeerEmber.”ThesetwowordsmeantnothingtoEsme,butsheshookthehandofferedher,

shookitpolitely,andsaid,“Pleasedtomeetyou,”climbedintothesafetyofhercar,andleft.

Asshepulledaway,sheglancedintohermirror,chancingthereforetoseetheold lady, her medley of clothing bright in the afternoon sun, prodding thehedgerowmoodilywithherstickandpausingtospitintheroadassheambledalongitsverge.Esmekeptherinviewinamazement,untilthenarrownessoftheroadclaimedherundividedattention.Shehadmet thestewardofWilesGreenChapel. She hadmet this extraordinary person. Shewonderedwho elsemightliveinWilesGreen.Following the lane back along its twists and turns the way she had come,

Esmeglancedalong theunexploredways that ledoff ithereand there, savingthem for another day. She paused at the crossroads for a very shabby andantiquatedgreen-paintedopentrucktopass,otherwisemeetingverylittletrafficuntilherpassagethroughthecenterofBrockhyrstPriorycoincidedwithtradersandcustomersmakingtheirwayhomefromthefarmers’marketjustclosinginthevillagehall.Whenshereachedtheparsonage,andmadethenowalmostfamiliarturninto

her short driveway, Esme made a determined effort to muster the resolvenecessaryfor tacklingherdeskworkagainassoonasshecamein throughthedoor.Shebeganbyvisiting thekitchentocollectacupofcoffeeandabiscuit(twobiscuits—sheate thefirstwhile thekettlewasboiling),whichshecarriedalongthepassagetoherstudy.Sheturnedonhercomputerandcreatedanewfile,setupthepagemargins,

andfontsizeandcenteredaheading:SermonNotesforPortlandStreet,10:30,September6th.Shepressed the returnkeyandcenteredasubheading:Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time. And she gazed at the empty screen, ate herbiscuit,sippedhercoffee,gazedattheemptyscreen,playedagameofsolitaire,andreturnedtothefileshehadbegun.TheTwenty-thirdSundayinOrdinaryTime.“OrdinaryTime.”Esmethoughtaboutallthethingsthathappentoordinarypeopleintheirlives

in ordinary time. A baby being born to a girl of seventeen in a precarious

partnership,livingonwelfarebenefit,andhousedinabasementflat.Awomanof forty-eight opening a doctor’s letter telling her the ominous results of hersmeartest.Ateenagerwhodesperatelywantstobeaveterinarianwaitingfortheresultsofhisuniversityapplication.Afive-year-oldclutchinghismother’shandastheywalktogetherthroughtheinfantschoolgatesatthestartoftheautumnterm,tryingtofindthecourageforseparation.Ahousewifemarriedtwenty-sixyears, looking across the street at young lovers locked in passionate embrace,wistful for the passing of the years and so much that slips away almostunnoticed.Ayoungmanwhohastriedandtriedtofindemployment,wonderingabout joining the army.Ordinary time is the placewhere people are born anddie. It is full of hopes and regrets and scored over and overwithmoments ofdeepemotion.Andordinarymeansalsothatwhichisordained;thepathsthatcross,theeyes

that meet, the decisions made, and bargains struck that shape the future. Shethoughtofhowasaneight-year-oldchild,during the schoolholidays, shehadtagged alongwith hermother going to fulfill her turn on the church-cleaningroster.WhileMotherrubbedthefragrantlavenderwaxpolishontothepewswiththe stiff, waxy putting-on rag and then buffed them vigorously to a beautifuldeepshinewithacleanduster,Esmewanderedabout thechurch, touching thecoolstoneandsquintingthroughthegratingsetinthefloor,exploringthechoirstalls, and eventually, greatly daring, climbing the steps into the pulpit, like atreehousejustrightforachild.Shestrokedthefadedvelvetclothontheslopingpulpitdesk,peeredovertheedgeattherowsofpewsbelow,andwonderedwhatitwouldbeliketobetheminister,standingherepreachingtheSundaysermon.She wondered if St. Raphaels had done something to reach that child buriedunder the passing years. An ordinary child in ordinary time, growing into anordinary woman with all the ordinary griefs and doubts and insecurities.Memories might open a way back to the lost self hidden by her professionalpersonawithitscollateralbrittlenessandweariness.Shereflectedthatordinary

means just normal and ordained; that even the casualness of every day is onpurpose, meant to be. The net of heaven is wide. Not even the whisper of athoughtslipsthroughit.Thisimposesgraveresponsibility.Sometimesitbringshopeaswell.Esmebegantotype.Shehadnoformedideasasyet.Shewasjustcopyingthe

wordsoftheCollectfortheTwenty-thirdSundayinOrdinaryTime:OGod,youbearyourpeopleeveronyourheartandmind.Watchoverusin

your protecting love, that, strengthened by your Spirit, wemay notmiss yourwayforus—andthenthephonerang.Ontheuppersideofthetelephonereceiver,tocatchherattentionbeforeshe

lifteditfromitscradle,Esmehadattachedastickeronwhichshehadprintedinboldletters,breathe. smile,anddrawnalittleflower.Despitethis,shefeltasmallfrownofirritationandaninvoluntarycompressionofherlipsasshegrabbedthething that had scattered her train of thought and said into it, crisply, “Hello.EsmeBrowne.”“Um…MarcusGriffithshere.”Esme recognized already the deceptively absentminded tone of her senior

stewardofthechapelatBrockhyrstPriory.“Oh, hello,Marcus.” She tried to sound friendly, and thenwaitedwhile he

paused.“Look—amIdisturbingyou?Imean,youaren’tyethere,areyou.Tellmeif

I’mintruding.”Yes,youare,leavemealone,thoughtEsmeasshereplied,“Ofcoursenot,it’s

lovelytohearfromyou.HowcanIhelp?”“Oh, well—” he hesitated. “I mean really, feel free to say no—but really.

HildaandIthoughtthatyoumightberelishingthepeace,butontheotherhandyoumightbe lonely.And ifyou’renot relishing thepeace, ifyou’d like to—Imean,please,justsayno—wouldyouliketopopoverforsupper?Thisevening—ifyou’dliketo?Notifyou’drathernot.”

HesoundedsothoroughlyapologeticthatEsmehadn’tthehearttosayno.Sheacceptedhisinvitation,thankedhim,andwentbacktohersermonnotes,addedafewobservationsonthelectionaryreadingsandonwhatitmeanttobeordinary.She made a list of appropriate hymns and then shut down her computer andabandonedherstudyforahotbath.And so, for the second time that day, as the evening chillmingledwith the

amber of late sunshine, she found herself driving out toWiles Green, whereMarcusGriffiths,aretiredbookseller,livedwithhiswife,Hilda.Their home proved to be a comfortable family house, with pleasing

proportions and low ceilings, furnished with unpretentious but lovely antiquefurniture (fruitwood, rural craftsmanship with an unerring aesthetic eye),armchairs, and a generous sofa occupied by a truculent-looking border terrierwhowatchedher out of one eye.The largeopen fireplacewas filled, in thesedaysstillhotattheendofthesummer,withanarrangementofdriedgrassesandseedheads.Anassortmentofpaintingshungonthewalls,strikingmodernoiloracrylic portraits mixing surprisingly successfully with more traditionallandscapesandwatercolorsketches.TheancientoakfloorboardsweresoftenedwithEasternrugswhosecolorsglowedwiththerichnessofsilk.Takingallthisin,EsmereflectedthatMarcusmusthavebeenaspectacularlygoodbookseller.Atall,thinman,withsparsehaircombedbackfromhisbrow,Marcusgreeted

heratthedoorwithimpeccablecourtesy.Avague,indefinableabstractionhungin the air about him like the dust around an old easy chair that has had itscushions too roughly handled. His glasses provided a dual function—theyfocusedtheacuteobservationofhisveryintelligentgaze;theyalsoservedasaformofscreenorhideformomentswhenhepreferredtomakehimselfabsent.Esme thought he looked both perceptive and kind, which reinforced theimpressionshehadreceivedattheirfirstmeeting.Hestoodasidetoallowhertoenterhis livingroomaheadofhim.Drawnto

theviewofthegardenthroughtheFrenchwindowsframedinheavylinenfloral

curtains at the far end of the room, Esme walked across to look out at theprofusion of late-summer flowers in the herbaceous borders, at the stonefountain in the liliedpond,andat thegroupedshrubs, stoneurns,andstatuarythatstoodhereandthere,dwarfedbymatureandgracefultrees.“Goodness me!” she exclaimed. “Your garden’s massive!” adding quickly,

“andsobeautiful!”Marcuswanderedacrosstheroomtostandbesideher.“Alittleoverblown,perhaps,atthistimeofyear.Ienjoyitatalltimes,butI

preferthesculpturalqualitiesofawintergarden.Somanyflowerscanbealittlecloyingattimes.Ratheranexcessofpink,wouldn’tyousay?Wine?”Ashetraveledacrosstheroomtofillwithageneroushelpingofwineoneof

the heavy crystal glasses on the sideboard,Marcus bellowed, “Hilda!” in thedirectionofthedoor,andthiswasrewardedbyasenseofenergeticbustlingthatheraldedhiswife’sarrival.Stout and well made, a handsome woman conventionally and expensively

dressed,wearingnomakeupbutwithimmaculatelydressedhair,Hildahadbold,darkeyesandadeterminedchinthatgavenoticeofaforcefulcharacter.“Marcus,howremiss!Ihadnoidea!Welcome,mydear,welcome!Won’tyou

sitdown?Ididn’thearyoucomein—areyouparkedoutside?It’snotlikemetooverlookacardrawingup.I’msogladyoucouldcome!Haveyoubeenoffered—ah, yes, good—letme find a littlemat for that glass.You do eatmeat,mydear? IwasmostannoyedwithMarcus—‘What if she’svegetarian?’ I said tohim.‘Youmustcheck;youmustalwayscheck,timeshavechanged,theseyoungidealistictypesliveonthemostextraordinarythings,lentilsandwildrice,’buthewouldn’tcallyoubacktocheck,hewouldnot!Notthatweeatsomuchmeatourselvesnowadays,alittlesavorypâté,arasherofbacon,theoddchop.Whenthefamilywasherewithus,itwasdifferent;ofcourse,itwasalldifferentthen!Mygoodness!Mybroodcoulddivulgeawholebirdatonesitting!”Marcus’s eyes flickered momentarily as Esme registered the strangeness of

this last remark, but he saidmerely, “Do you eatmeat,Esme? If not, I’ve nodoubtwecanfindsomethingelse.”Esmereassuredthemthatshedideatmeat,thoughlikemostpeople,lessnow

than once; andwhen later they sat down to dine (at an exquisite beech-wooddining suite, the table laid with Georgian silver and damask napkins), theselectionofvegetablesgrowninthegardenaccompanyingtendercutsoflocallyraisedmeatwithdeliciousgravymadehergladshehadacceptedthisinvitationtosupper.Inevitably,theirconversationdriftedtomattersconnectedwiththechapel,and

EsmediscoveredthatinadditiontoMarcus’sresponsibilityasseniorsteward,heandHildabothwerekeymembersofthefinanceandpropertycommittee.“It’sbeenadifficultyearfordecisions.Mydear,yourwineislow—Marcus!

Esme’swineislow!Driving?Thensometonicwater?Marcus!Verydifficult.Itseems not five minutes since we were raising funds for the replacing of thewindows—Iwon’t say ‘replacementwindows’ because in a conservation areathat’shardlywhattheyare;andbesidesasMarcussays,it’ssuchaquaintidea—Imeantheyareactuallywindows;butyouknowwhatImean.Butthethingisnowthathavingmadegoodanddecorated,theawkwardplacewiththedamphascaused the emotion paint to thewest corner of the chapel to lift, and I reallythink—more gravy? More carrots? More potato? Nonetheless, when Marcuscomestopresentthedraftoftheaccounts—stilltobeauditedofcourse,stilltobeaudited,buthe’srarelyout—intheautumn,Ithinkyoumaysatisfyyourselfthatourheadsarestillabovetheparapet.”Marcuslaiddownhisforkandwavedhishandinvaguedemur.“Water,”he

said.“Water?Mydear, youhave a full glass—Esme, too. I think sometimes you

reallyshouldhaveyoureyescheckedagain—trytheothermanthistime,I’mnotconvincedMr.Robinsonisn’tbecomingquestionablyvisionaryhimself!”Marcusglancedathiswifewithakindofwonderingincredulity.

“Mr.Robinson is a practicalman,who could never have been described asvisionary,questionablyorotherwise. Iamadequatelysuppliedwithbeverages,andatBrockhyrstChapelwemaybeconsidered still tohaveourheadsabovewater,though,asyousay,theyearaheadpresentsitschallenges.”Hildagazedathim,baffled.“Marcus,whateverareyoutalkingabout?You’re

simplyrepeatingeverythingI’vesaidandaddingnothingtotheconversationatall—andwhy on earthwere you asking for water if you know perfectly wellyou’vealreadygotsome?Really,youcouldtrythepatienceofasaintattimes—youcanseemypoint,Esme, I’msure!Heavens!Arewe ready tomoveon topudding,orisanyonestillwaitingforsecs?”“Seconds, Esme?” asked Marcus, with utter gravity, but a certain sardonic

gleambehindtheglassesandundertheeyebrowsliftedininquiry.“I’dlikeyouto be clear as towhat youwere being offered. Potato,maybe?Ormeat?No?Puddingthen,Hilda,Ithink.”Feelingmostcomfortablyrepleteafteranexcellentmeal,Esmesettledherself

intothecushionsofanarmchairasthethreeofthemreturnedtothesittingroomtoenjoytheircoffee.Intheirabsence,thedoghadmovedoffthesofaandnowslumberedpeacefullyonthehearthrug,snoringslightly.Forashortwhile,asHildasetoffpurposefullytothekitchentofetchthetray

ofcups,MarcusandEsmelapsedintosilence,andshewonderedifsheshouldtakesomeconversationalinitiative.“I’vebeenthinkingaboutgettingabike,”shesaid,searchingforsomethingto

talkabout.“Ispendsomuchtimeinthecar,andtheroadsaresobusy.Canyourecommendagoodplacetogoforabike?”Marcusconsidered.“Howmuchofacyclistareyou?”heasked,atlength.“Ohwell—Imean,IcanmanagehillsandIdon’tfalloff,butIshan’tbegoing

inforraces.Justforabitofexercisereally.”“Isee.ThenI thinkJabezFerrallmightansweryourpurpose.Hesometimes

hassomething tosell,andhe’s inanycaseausefulman toknow. Inevermet

anyonesoresourceful.He’sinWilesGreen—notfarfromhere,fiftyyardspastTheBullasyoucomeintoWilesGreenfromBrockhyrstPriory.BackoftheOldPolice House, where PamColeman lives, you’ll find him. He could certainlyadviseyouandmaintainforyou,regardlessofwhathemayormaynothavein.”Esmefishedinherbagforherdiary,whichexperiencehadtaughthertotake

withhereverywhere,andin thememorandapagesat thebackshewrotedownwhat Marcus had said: “Jabez Ferrall” (Peculiar, old-fashioned name, shethought), “Wiles Green, behind the Old Police House, fifty yards beyond thepub.”“BIKES”shewroteabovethismemo,underlined.Over coffee they chatted about Esme’s parsonage. “Have you got all you

need?”askedMarcus.“Iseverythingasitshouldbe?”“It’sallinverygoodorder.”Esmehesitated.Whatshewantedtosaysounded

alittleunappreciative.“WillyouunderstandifIsaythatformeadifficultthingtocometotermswithinministryisthatIrealizeaparsonagecanneverquitebeahome?Pleasedon’tmisunderstandme—thecircuit stewardshaveworkedsohardtomakeitlovely,thekitchenhasjustbeencompletelyredone,andIhavenotasinglegrumble.It’sjust—well—lookingroundatyoursittingroomIcanseeyouarepeoplewholoveyourhome,andpartofwhatmakesithomeIthinkisthatit’seithertheplaceyougrewup,ortheplaceyouchosebecauseyoufellin lovewith it.Andpartofwhatmakes it lovable is its idiosyncrasies—likeaperson,really.Butofcoursethewholepointaboutacquiringandmaintainingaparsonageis tofindaneutralkindofplace—asensiblepurchase—withasfewidiosyncrasiesaspossible,andironoutwhatonestherearebeforeeveranybodymovesin.Little things,oddities, Idon’tknow.…”Shewasbeginningtofeelabitsillyandwonderedifshewouldhavebeenbetternevertobeginthis.Marcusand Hilda were both listening to her thoughtfully, and she could feel herselfgettingembarrassedandhot.“Please don’t think I’m complaining. The parsonage is really nice. There’s

nothingwrongwith it as a parsonage, but—well, for example, here you have

yourfireplace,anditmustbelovelyinthewintertositdownbyanopenfireintheevening.ButinSoutharbourofcourseit’sasmoke-freezone,andnaturallytheparsonagewillbetherebecauseit’sthebiggestplaceinthesection,themostconvenient,andanywayparsonagesneverhaveopenfires.ButIdoloveafire.D’youseewhatImean?Icanseewhytheydon’thaveone—noteveryonelikesa fire,chimneyshave tobeswept, firesarehazardous, thenaswell theymakedustandashandsoon.Icanseewhyparsonagesonlyhavecentralheating.…”Marcus justwatchedher (andEsmewishedhewouldn’t), butHilda nodded

sympathetically. “Iknow justwhatyoumean,dear!” she said,warmly. “It’s ablessing!Centralheatingisablessing.Havingthecircuitstewardstosortthingsout leavesyoufreetodoyourwonderfulwork.Ienvyyouyourspankingnewkitchen—ours leaves a lot to be desired—the parsonage is very convenient,everythingdone,allmodcons—buteverythinghasabackside.”Insilence,EsmeandMarcuspondered this judgment.Marcusputhiscoffee

cupbackonthetray.“Downside,”hemurmured,absently.ThenhelookedveryhardatEsme.“Iknowexactlywhatyoumean,”hesaid.“Youaretalkingabouthomebeing

somewhere that somehow recognizes one; a place where one truly belongs.Somewhereonecaninthefullestanddeepestsensecallone’sown.Well,pleasemake this a second home. Investigate the junk shops. Find yourself a toastingforkandkeepithere.Youwillalwaysbewelcome.”He nodded slightly to give this emphasis, and Esme felt a sudden deep

gratitudeforthekindnessofthiscouple.“Thankyou,”shesaid.“Andthankyousomuchforalovelyevening.Iwon’t

makemyselfanuisance,butcertainlyI’dlovetocomeagain.”

Beforesheknewit,theremainderofAugustslippedaway.Esmemetsomeothermembersofhercongregations.Oneor twodroppedinwithflowersorcards—

onewithanapplepie—towelcomeher,andshewasintroducedtomorepeoplethanshecould rememberwhenshestayed forcoffeeafterworshipatPortlandStreet and Brockhyrst Priory chapels on her remaining free Sundays. ThenSeptember came, the beginning of the Methodist year, with its flurry ofcommitteemeetings, special services, the round of preaching and visiting andleadershipresponsibilities,andsomanythingstoplananddo.Esme’s diary filled upuntil itwas back to its usual level of dense notes on

every page, scarcely thinning out until two months ahead. Her day off sheguarded jealously; the rest of the time was like a juggling act in a circus ofbureaucracy.ShehadaskedGodforafriend,butrightnowshefeltgratefulshedidn’thave

any within easy reach of her—friends are a time-consuming luxury in aminister’slife.Anythoughtsofexercise,ofcycling,orwalkinginthecountrywereshelved

forthetimebeing.Shemightwellgettothat,butfornowitwouldhavetowait.Sheknew that induecoursepatternswouldestablish, and familiaritywould

give space in thework; beginnings are always hectic. Sheworried sometimesthat all her energies could be absorbedby the bigger congregation atPortlandStreet, leaving Brockhyrst Priory a poor second andWiles Green to fend forthemselves(whichiswhattheywereusedto).Asshewenttobedatnight,inthebrieftimebeforeshefellasleepexhausted,

Esmewhispered toherself, “Don’tpanic,Es,” and felt guilty that shewas tootiredtopray.

T

TWO

henexteighteenmonthswentbysoswiftlyforEsme.Theancientseasonsoftheliturgicalyear,withitsbalanceoffastsandfeastsrestinglightlyonolder

paganfoundations,woveinwiththeslightlydifferentrhythmsandobservancesoftheMethodistcalendar.Inhernewpastoralappointment,shewentsoftlywiththeinevitablechangesherpersonalitybrought.Shehadbeenaskedatherfirstinterviewwiththecircuitstewards:“Whatwill

youdofortheyoungpeople?WhatwillyoudotoinvolvetheSundayschoolinworship? What will you do to improve the profile of the church in thecommunity?WhatwillyoudoaboutthefallingnumbersatWilesGreen?”Heranswertoallthosequestionshadbeen,“Nothing.Iwillwatch,andwait,

andlisten.Nothingforayear,attheveryleast.Then,whenIhaveseenenoughto understand,where change seemshelpful, it can begin.But at first, nothing.Untiltheytrustme.Letthemgetfamiliarwiththesoundofmyvoice.”One of the strangest and most surprising things to Esme in her first

probationer appointment had been the unsettling accuracy of the similedescribing a congregation and their pastor as sheep and shepherd. Therelationshipcenters in thevoiceof the shepherd. “Mysheepknowmyvoice,”Jesus had said once, long ago, and Esme had grown up thinking that to be areferencetospiritualcall,butshehadfounditinpracticetobesimplerandmorebasicthanthat.Whenafaithcommunitycomestoknowandtrustaleader,thatleader’svoicecanbringthemtopeace.Asthepastor’svoiceopenstheworshipofthecommunity,thetrustimplicitintherelationshipgathersthepeopleofGodintoone, so that their prayer andpraise arises inonepeaceful drift of incense

smokefindingitswaytoheaven.Inherfirstyearandahalfwithhernewcongregations,alreadytherehadbeen

theusualtrickleofdomestictragediesandsmallemergencies.Atroubledmotherhadpouredout toEsmeher concerns about a child truanting from school andmaking friends on the fringes of the drug world. There had been twobereavements in Portland Street families—one SIDS—and one of herBrockhyrstPriorypastoralvisitorshaddiedafteraveryswift illness.AtWilesGreen a much-loved member of the congregation in her nineties had beendiagnosed with cancer—Gladys Taylor, a sweet and gentle white-haired ladywhohostedtheBiblestudyinhersmallroominthealmshousesbySt.RaphaelsChurch.Gladys,unfailinglykindandunderstanding,restoredEsme’sfaithinoldladies; it waswith a pang of real sadness that she heard of the diagnosis.AsEsmespenttimewiththeseandotherspassingthroughtroubleandanxiety,wordwent around that when they needed her she came. She chaired her businessmeetingswithcompetence, insistingthat theyclosenolater thanhalf-pastnine—well, twentyminutes to ten if “AnyOtherBusiness” turnedoutheated.Herstewardsinall threechapelsworkedwellwithher,andallherpastoralvisitorsdidtheirworkwithdiligence.Theusualcoldwarsandsimmeringfeudsseemedtemporarily dormant:After eighteenmonthsEsme relaxed enough to considerher own life beyond the occasional visit to her mother or day off window-shoppingandenjoyingacappuccinoinBrockhyrstPriory.Herminister’sdiarywasprintedtospanwellbeyondayear,andthoughshe

hadbegunhernewoneinSeptemberatthebeginningoftheMethodistyear,theoldonestilllayonherdesk,handywhenrequiredfortransferringdetailsofthisyear’sengagementsmadefar inadvance.She intended to trawl throughnotingdown all engagements still forthcoming and all the valuable margin notes ofaddresses and telephone numbers and personal details; but so far she had notfoundthetime,andlastyear’sdiaryhadnotyetoutliveditsusefulness.InFebruary,asLentbegan,Esme looked inherolddiary—theone thathad

beennewwhenfirstshesatatherdeskonthoseAugustdaysatthebeginningofthis appointment—to check the memoranda pages for details of services andstudycoursesheldjointlywithchurchesofotherdenominationsatthisseasonoftheyear.Assheflickedthroughthepages,shecameacrossherlong-forgottenentry:Bikes Jabez Ferrall, Wiles Green, behind the Old Police House, 50 yards

beyondthepub.Shepausedandrereaditandlookedatitforawhile.Thewaterysunofearly

springstreamedthroughthewindowontoherdesk.Thetree thatoverhungherdriveway was developing sticky red buds that one day soon would unfurl incrumpled new green leaves.When she drove out toWiles Green for Sundayworshipor to lead theWesleyGuild, thedogmercurywasadvancingcautiousearlyshootsonthevergesofthelanes.Theairsmeltfreshandinviting.Abike,shethought.Whynot?Nottoday,butonedaysoon.Andtimewenton,buttheideastayedwithher,

sothatontheTuesdayofHolyWeek,beforethedayseruptedintotheliturgicalmarathonofMaundyThursday,GoodFriday,andHolySaturday,culminatinginEaster Sunday’s multiple Eucharists, Esme made a space to investigate thepossibilityofbuyingabike.

Itmustbesomewherenearhere,then.Nosingthroughthenarrowstreet,Esmetriedtobemindfulofthetrafficand

lookoutfortheOldPoliceHouseatthesametime.Withalmostnothingtoboastin thewayofcommercialpremisesatWilesGreen, thepubstoodoutproudly,and“Abitbeyondthepub,fiftyyards,nomore—setbackalittlefromtheroad,”Marcushadsaid.Esmepulledupattheroadside,juststraddlingwhatpavementtherewas,and

found that the squareand solidpinkpaintedhouse,behind theneatly trimmed

privethedgealongsidehercar,boreanengravedplate:OLDPOLICEHOUSE.Sotheunmadetrackhalf-grownwithweedsandruttedwithpotholes thatdisappearedaroundthebackofthehousemustbethepathshewaslookingfor.She climbed out of the car and looked up the little lane.Walking up it she

passed on her left the Old Police House and on her right the brick wall thatformed the sideofahouse that fronted the road.A few tender shootsofearlyweeds and the hopeful beginnings of buddleia sprouted from the base of thewall. Ahead of her, self-seeded hawthorns and elder overhung the path. Shecould smell wood smoke. Beyond the limits of the back-garden walls thatflanked theway, the path finished at a low picket fence lichened and leaningwith age, pushed out of place somewhat by an unruly planting of lavender,rosemary,andsage;andaconfusedburdenofhoneysucklevines thatsproutedthe beginnings of their leaves among the dry, climbing, thorny stems of wildrose.Behindthisfence,twognarledappletreesbowedoverthetangleofgrassand herbs. A few brown hens wandering there muttered to each other andremarkedonthefinds,theirfierceeyesdetectedintheundergrowth.Inthefenceagatestoodajar,openingontoadampbrickpath,hometoamultitudeofsmall,earlyweeds,leadingdirectlytothefrontdoorofacottage.Thecottagewindowsweresmallandlow,thewallsredbrick,andthedoorpaintedgreen.Onthelintelof this door, a hand-painted sign said JABEZ FERRAL—BICYCLE REPAIRS. And agrey-weatheredtabletotheleftofthedoorheldacollectionofjarswithacardpropped against them that read LOCAL HONEY, alongside a tray of eggs, acardboard basket of last year’s apples, and a jam jar for callers to leave theirmoney.Esmepushedthegatefullyopen,half-surprisedtofinditswungsilently,hung

preciselyonperfectlyoiledhinges.Shetookafewstepsalongthebrickpathandstopped,entranced.Whoeverlivedhere?Somethinginthesightof it tuggedattheheartofher.Itlookedpeacefulandsimple.Quietandlefttobe.Andagreenfragranceofherbsandearthhungaboutitall.Entirelystillonthepathshestood,

andtookitallin,andlovedit.“CanIhelpyou?”Thequietvoicewithitscountryburrstartledher,comingfrombehind,andshe

turned quickly, flustered momentarily by a sense that she had intruded—anunfamiliarsensationtoherthesedays,accustomedbyyearsofpastoralvisitingtoawarmandgratefulreceptionbypeopleinanystate.I am soglad I camehere,Esme thought, as she looked at theowner of the

voice.IamsogladIdidn’tmissthisinmylife.“Mr.Ferrall?”shesaid.JabezFerralllookedathershyly;alittlesideways,fromunderhiseyebrows,

whichwerewiryandsilvergrey.Hewouldhavemadefivefeet,seveninches,inhiswork boots if he had not stood,with the habit of years, slightly hunched.Clothed in faded and shabby green corduroy trousers below a battered brownwaxedcottonjacketthatwasfartoobigforhim,hishairinawaterfallofsilverandwhitealmost tohiswaist,andhisbeardstragglingtoastopsomewhere inthemiddleofhischest,Esmecouldalmosthavebelievedoneofthecharactersfromherchildhoodfairystorieshadcometolifebeforeher.Shegazedathimindelight.He stood his ground, but something in his habitual stance gave the odd

impressionthathewasbackingawayfromher.Verybrightandclearwashisglancewhenhiseyesbrieflymethers.Ahalf-

formed impressionof somethingvery transparent and truthful, andyetwary—no,guarded—no,onlyshy,Esmethought.“Yes,”hesaid,andagain,“canIhelpyou?”“Myname’sEsmeBrowne.I’mtheMethodistministerforthechapelhere—”

EsmeregisteredinherselfasenseofsurpriseasJabezFerrallinclinedhisheadslightly—the smallestmovement, but clearly indicating that thiswasnot news“—andI’dliketobuyabicycle.Iwasrecommendedtocomehere.”Aflickerofamusementcameintohiseyes.

“Fromme?”hesaid.“Whotoldyoutocometometobuyabike?”Esmefeltmildlyirritated.Hedidn’tseemtobetakingherseriously.“Well,it’swhatyoudo,isn’tit?”sherejoinedcrisply,“—bicyclerepairs?”“Yes,but—”helookedatthegroundamoment,andwhenheraisedhisface

toglanceatheragain,theflickerofamusementhadbecomealopsidedgrin,“—comeandhavealook.”Thepathwasnarrowfortwopeopletopass,andJabezFerrallhesitated;once

againthebright lookhedartedathergavehertheoddfeelingofcomingfrombehindsomething,fromaplaceofhiding.Asthoughhesawhermoreaccuratelythanshemighthavewishedbutkepthimselfhidden.“Shall I come by you?” he asked, and stepped on to the grass to pass in a

carefulcirclearoundher.“Thisway.”He lookedoverhis shoulderather,andshefollowedhimalongthepath,whichprogressedfrombricktogravelandmudbetweenavigorousgrowthofassortedweeds,aroundthebackofthecottagetoayardpavedwithstoneflags.Theycrossedtheyard,passingthebackdoorofthe cottage, where a cast-iron frame supporting an old-fashioned grindstonestoodagainstthewall,totheentranceofalong,lowshedbuiltoutfromthesideof the cottage and in the same red brick.As theywent across the yard,Esmelooked at the small and antiquated green open truck that stood parked ratherhaphazardlyagainstthehedgethatborderedtheyard.Doeshepainteverythinggreen? shewondered.Perhapshe’dhada job lot touseup.Amemorystirredsomewhere.Hadn’t she seen that truckbefore?Following Jabez into the shed,whichwashisworkshop,Esmestoppedforamomenttoallowhereyestoadjusttothegloom.Awindow,notverybig,wassetintothesamewallasthedoor,butEsmethoughthecouldhavedonewithatleastonelargerooflight.Inside the workshop, the walls were lined entirely with a combination of

shelves storing an assortment of containers—rusty biscuit tins, mostly, andmargarine tubs relabeled with paper and adhesive tape—and things hangingfromnailshammered into thebrickwork—bicycleparts,machineparts,garden

implements,andtools.Inthecenteroftheworkspacestoodazincbathofwater,thesurfaceofthewatermadearainbowwithafilmofoil.Esmelookedatitall;at theclutteredworkbenchunder thewindowwhich (she thought)wouldhaveadmitted more light with fewer cobwebs; the bike stands supporting variousframes,asturdytablespreadwithnewspaperonwhichstoodcleaningcloths,acanof three-in-one oil, and somedismantledmachinery thatmeant nothing toher. There was so much to take in, she did not at first register, against thefurthest right-handwall of the shed, a spreading bed of ashes, in themidst ofwhich layasmallheapof smoldering logs, their lazysmokedriftingup intoabrickcanopyleadingintotheflueabove.Nograte.Notevenafireplaceinanyverystructuredsense.Alargecatlaydozingontheedgeofthemoundofashes.Jabezmeanwhilewas picking hisway through the clutter ofmachinery that

occupiedtheperipheryoftheshop.“Idohavealadies’bike,asithappens,”hesaid,“butitmaynotbewhatyou

hadinmind.It’shere.”Hemovedasideabikestandsupportingaframewithnorearwheel,pusheda

coiledlengthofhosepipeoutofthewaywithhisfoot,andbroughtintothespaceinthemiddleoftheworkshopaveryelderlybicycle,inadmirablecondition,butdefinitelyacreationofyesterday.“It’s a nice bike.” Jabez looked at it thoughtfully. “Got some components

added in the’40sand’50s,buta lotof it stilloriginal—celluloid-coveredbarsandmudguards.BSA three-speedhubgearwithapanhandlechanger.Monitorrear brake. Challis bell—I put that on. I’ve still got the original saddle, but Ithoughtthisonewouldbemorecomfortable.Newtires,ofcourse.Imean,I’veoverhauleditproperly,strippeditdown,andcleanedit,doneallthatwasneededandwaxedtheframeandeverything.Justdepends,asIsay, if that’swhatyouhadinmind.”Againthebright,swift,amusedglancethattookinmorethanitgaveaway.Esmedecidedthebestcoursewouldbetoabandonherdefensivenessandlet

himhelpher.“Idon’tknowanythingatallaboutbikes,”shesaid.“Imean,Icanrideone,

butIhaven’tdoneforyears.IjustfeltIhadtogetsomeexerciseandlosesomeweight.Whyshouldn’tIhaveabikelikethisinmind?”And thehonesty seemed topayoff.He lookedathermoreopenly; and this

timeshesawakindnessthatshefeltobscurelygratefulfor.Almostunnoticed,athoughtpassedtheedgeofhermind,Thismanwillnevercheatme.“Modernbikes,likeyoumightgetinBarton’sBikesinSoutharbour—whichI

think is also nearer your home for repairs and such—havemore sophisticatedgears,much lighter aluminum frames; theymake for easier cycling, especiallyonthehills.Costyoumore,ofcourse.”“Whataretheprices?”Esmeaskedhim.“Well—maybe you’ll pick up a good modern second-hand bike for two

hundredpounds, ifyou’re luckyandyoudon’tmindwaiting. I’daskyoufiftyfor this.Becauseof the tires,and thework I’vedoneon it. Ididn’tpay for it;MissMcPhersonhadnomoreuse for it, and she sent it along tome incase Icould make anything of it. Nice bike, as I say, but you’d use less puff andmuscleonamodernjob,there’snodoubtaboutit.”“IfIbuythisbikefromyou—”Esmehesitated;shehadafeelingthiswasa

manwhocouldseethroughpretensetoulteriormotive;“—wouldyoumaintainit forme?Helpme look after it, Imean. Because they need oiling and stuff,don’tthey?Youhavetoknowthings.”And,whichshedidn’tsay,Ijustlovethisplaceandyousointrigueme,Imustfindareasontocomeback.Esme had rightly detected Jabez Ferrall’s capacity for insight, but he had a

certainhumilitythatpreventedhimeverimaginingEsmetobeinterestedinhim.And he was very familiar with other people’s inability to care for their ownbicycles.“It’showIearnmyliving,”hesaid.“Iexpectyou’llfinditeasiertodoallthe

routinestuffathome—tirepressuresandlubrication,brakeblocks,andwhatnot

—butyoucanalwaysbringittomeforservicingorifyouhaveanyproblemsorthewheelsgooutoftrue.”Esmelookedathimaghast.“Idon’tthinkIcandoanyofthat,”shesaid.“I’m

onlyjustaboutgoingtobeabletorideitwithoutkillingmyself.”Hiseyesmethersthenwithadefinitetwinkle:“Youwouldn’tbetheonlyone.

I spent most of last Wednesday getting mud and nettle stalks and grass andheaven knowswhat else out ofMrs. Norman’s axles.Mud’s a bit out of hersphereofexperienceitwouldseem.Whatever.Icanhelp.”“ThenI’dlikeit,”Esmereplied,“butI’mnotquitesurehowI’llgetithome.

IsthereabusthatcomesoutherefromSoutharbour?”“Was.Butnotsince1973.”“Oh.”Esmefeltabitoutofherdepth.“Well…IexpectIcouldasksomeone

fromchapeltogivemealiftoverhere,only…”Hewaited, and raised his eyebrows at her enquiringly. To her considerable

embarrassmentshecouldfeelherselfblushing.“I’djustrathertheydidn’tknowIwas getting a bike. In case it turns out that I never really ride it. I’d feel sosilly.”Jabezchuckled.Smoker’steeth,Esmeregistered.“Areyousureyouwanttobuyabike?”hesaid.“Whydon’tyougohomeand

thinkaboutit.I’mnotlikelytosellthisinahurry.”Thencameamomentofinspiration.“CouldIcomehereafewtimesandwatchwhatyoudotomaintainabike?So

I’dfeelmoreconfident?”Jabezdidn’treplyatonce.“Yes…yes, I suppose so,”he said reluctantly, after amoment’shesitation.

Heseemedalittletakenaback.“Notifyou’dratherIdidn’t.”“No.No, it’s all right. It’s justpeopledon’t comeheremuch; it’s abitof a

refuge.”

Esme took a deep breath. She was unsure how much this man wouldunderstand.“Ipromisenottobe‘people,’”shesaidsoftly,“andIwouldbeverygratefulto

havetemporaryadmissiontoarefuge.”Jabezshiftedhisgriponthebicycleframeandlookeddownatit.“Letmejust

put this away,”he said, and turned fromher to reposition thebike against thewall.Havingdoneso,hestayedamomentlongerwithhisbacktoher,buriedhishandsinhispocketsasheturnedagaintofaceher.“Youwouldbewelcome,”hesaid,“anytime.”Butitwasquietlyspokenand,

Esmesensed,somewhatcostly.Amanwhodeeplyvaluedhisprivacy.“Iwon’tgetintheway.”Hertonebeseechedhim,andhesighed,movedhis

heada little impatiently.He returned thehosepipeback to itsoriginalpositionwithhisfoot.Hewouldn’tlookather.Shesawshehadimposedtoomuchonhisseclusion.“Is any time better than another?” she persisted, ashamed at intruding, but

determinednottolosethisenchantedplace.Heshookhishead,hisgazeavertedstill.“Anytime.”The tabbycat rose to its feetamong theashes,elongated itsbody ina long,

shaky stretch and ambled across the shed to wind itself around his ankles,scatteringa light fallof theash thatclung to its fur. Ithadapurr likeadieselengine.Jabezbenttoscratchitshead,andthecatraiseditschinappreciatively,closingitseyesinslowecstasy.“Thankyou,Mr.Ferrall,foryourunderstandingandyourhelp,”saidEsme.Straightening, he looked from under his eyebrows at her; appraised her

carefullyforamatterofseconds.“Iexpectithadbetterbe‘Jabez,’”hesaid.Esmestowedthistreasureinherheartwithjoy.

Whenshesaidgood-byeandlefthiminhisworkshop,Esmebecameawareofahappiness thathadbeenabsent so long itsqualityhadbecomeunfamiliar.Shehad become used to the satisfaction of a job well done, and the pleasantcompany of decent people who were disposed to be nice to her; used to theappreciation and delight called forth in her by a sunny day or dewdrops on acobweborthefirstsightofnewlambsinthespring,andusedtothecomfortablefeeling of five minutes longer in a warm bed on a chilly morning, or therelaxationofacupofcoffeeenjoyedcurledinanarmchairattheparsonageaftertheendofa longbusinessmeeting.Lifeheldmanycomfortsandconsolations.Butnotforalongtimehadshefeltthissongofdelightthatcamefrommeetingsomeone whose soul she recognized as—what? A kindred spirit, maybe?Someonewhosebeingspoketoherdestiny?Atanyrate,someonetowhomherownsoulgaveitsunhesitating“yes.”Ithink,shereflectedasshepausedbythefrontdoorofhiscottagetobuyapot

ofhoneyandhalfadozeneggs,JabezFerrallisgoingtobecomeafriend.As shemotoredpeacefully back along thenarrow lanes in their dapplingof

sun and shade, through the wooded hillsides and pastureland around WilesGreen toward Southarbour with its banked terraces of Victorian red-brickdwellings clinging to the steep coastal hills, Esme decided to disregard herstandard plan of preaching from the lectionary so as to offer an ordered butvariedtheologicaldietofcarefulscripturalexegesis.OnceEasterhadgone,andtheywerebacktoordinarytime,asachange,shethoughtshemightpreachoncontentment. Something about thewisdomof stayingwhere you are, being atpeace with what life has offered you, living quietly and simply, recognizingwhen you have enough, and finding satisfaction in daily work, in what isordinary—even,maybe,alittleold-fashioned.Philippians4woulddonicelyasascripturalbasis.Thewholeofit—possiblytrimmingEvodiaandSyzygusoffthebeginningandthesamewithEpaphroditusattheend.Andforatext,majoringontheassertion,“IhavelearnedhowtobecontentwithwhateverIhave.”She

might evenhaveapoint tomakeabout the countrysidewith its little cottages,and the virtues of the bicycle as compared with the motorcar—alwaysrecognizing of course that some people needed cars and even small trucks tofulfill the requirements of their occupations. Worth pointing out though thatbicycleshavean importantpart toplay inagreen future.Especially theolder,recycled,lessgarishlypaintedkindsofbikes.Changingdowntonegotiateasharpbend,Esmeslightlyadjustedherthinking

to lower the profile of the bikes in her sermonplan.The spiritual potential ofcycling she felt suremightbeconsiderable,but its theological applicationwasperhaps limited. Though there again…Her thoughts were interrupted as shepulledoutofthebendandspottedaheadofheralineofcarsbehindanelderlytractormakingvaliant progress but nonetheless creating anobstruction.On anordinarydaythismighthaveirritatedher.Todayshechosetoregardthetractoras a form of angel, a protective escort gentling the excesses of acceleratedmodernliving,promotinglongevityintherabbitpopulationandinnerpeaceandpatience in the lengthening queue of motorists in her rearview mirror. Esmehummedalittletuneandfeltdisinclinedtoovertakeevenwhentheopportunitycame.Asthetrafficbecamemorecongestedintheapproachtothetown,soalsothe

road signs proliferated and the view changed to one of faded advertisementhoardings, bus stops, edge-of-town supermarkets with huge parking lots andadjacentgarages,allhuddledinagainsttherailwaystationwithitstaxirankandlittlefruitstallandtheinexplicablepilesofrustedmetalgirdersandbroken-upconcrete. Esme felt its familiarity challenged by a new sense that the smallcountry chapels and the village communities in which they were set had aspecial value, deserving at least as much pastoral attention as a larger townchurch.Possiblymore.Thetownchurchcouldprobablylookafteritself.Uptoapoint.WhenEsmegotin,shefoundthirteennewmessagesonheranswer-phone(all

counteringhernotion that a larger townchurchcould inany sensemanage itspastoraloradministrativetaskswithouttheassiduousattentionsofitsminister)andalatemaildeliverycomprisingofacomplicatedletteraboutchangestotheministerial pension scheme, the local preachers’ quarterly magazine, and thedraft minutes and agenda for next month’s meeting from the church councilsecretary.Esme applied her usual solution of a large mug of coffee and a chocolate

flapjack.Andthenanotherchocolateflapjack.Shefeltevenguiltieranddislikedtheroundcontoursofherfaceandthedisappearanceofherribs,butitstavedoffthemomentshehadtogointoherstudy,beginreturningtelephonecalls,prepareher Sunday sermon, and give a little advance attention to the agendas of herthreeforthcomingchurchgeneralmeetings.Easter.Light.Morninglightdawningintothedarknessofthetomb.Newlife

comingwith the light.Living.Living lightly, she thought.Thewayof thepoorcarpenterofNazareth:simplicity,anonymity.Detachmentfromallthebaggagethat weighs down human beings: complications of material possessions andrelationalpossessionstoo—justofbeingpossessive.Jesusletthingsgomaybe;perhapsthat’swhytheylethimgotoo—thewaypartingtolethimwalkthroughdeath into life alight and unlimited. His presence reversed cling and effectedfreedom.Death could not hold him.He lived lightly.Hearose. JabezFerrall,shethought,youareamostextraordinaryman.Easter.Light.Thepowertobefree. Simplicity. Soaring. Flight. Even the sparrows are numbered.Do not beafraidtolivesimply.Donotbeafraidtosoarandtofly.Easter.Livinglightly.Simplicity.Donotbeafraid.Jabez—intheBible,isn’tit?Whereisthat?Sheleanedbackinherchairandreachedacrosstotheshelfherconcordance

shared with several translations of the Bible, theConstitutional Practice andDisciplinemanual(volumes1and2)oftheMethodistchurch,itsWorshipBook,and its Minutes of Conference and Directory. Her favorite translation of theBiblewasseriouslyindangeroflosingthecovertoitsspine,andthecellotape

patchesholdingtheconcordancetogetherhadlongsinceyellowedandlosttheirgrip.Mustgetareplacementcopy—IthinkIcanset thatagainst incometax—darn!Ihaven’tfilledinmytaxreturnform,shethoughtassheturnedthefragilebrowning pages to the “J” section. She found Jabez in 1 Chronicles, in acomplicatedgenealogyofthelineageofKingDavid.Hehadonlyasentenceortwo, but it had to dowith relief from distress.Hismother had so named himbecause of the pain and distress she experienced in giving birth to him. AndJabezprayedtotheLordaskingthatthedivinehandmightbestretchedoverhim—butherethetextsdifferedastothedesiredoutcome;somemakingtheprayera plea for protection from distress in his own life, others a plea for his owndistresstocease,butonecuriouslyinterpretinghiswordsasaprayerforGod’sblessing to restrainhim fromevil, so thathewouldnever againbe a causeofpain.Howstrange,Esmethought,assheponderedthetexts;IwonderwhyJabezFerrall’sparentschose…?OrmaybetheyjustlikedthenameJabez.Anyway,theprayerofhislifeseemedtobedirectedtowardhealingandpeace,andin1ChroniclesGodhadgrantedwhatheasked.

OnGoodFriday,Esmehad an afternoon service out atWilesGreen. Itwas acircuittraditiontohikethefourandthree-quartermilesacrosscountryalongthefootpaths from Brockhyrst Priory. The walkers were joined at Wiles GreenChapel by the lazy and the infirm and kept watch for an hour in a vigilmeditatingon the cross andpassionof Jesusbefore emerging into theSundayschoolroomforarobustbring-and-sharetea.Alongwithtwoorthreeothers,Esmelefthercaratthechapelandreturnedas

apassengertothestartofthewalk.Thewindblewchillybutthesunshone,andEsme enjoyed chatting with the various members of her churches, getting toknowthema littlebetteras theystrolledalong thehedgerowsorstoppedfromtimetotimetoadmirethepasturelandrollingawayfromthebrowofahill.As

theywalkedtogether,Esmeaskedtwoofherchurchmembers,ahusband-and-wifecouplewhoranthenewsagencyatBrockhyrstPriory,iftheyknewofJabezFerrall.Theylaughed,saying,“Ohyes,Mr.Ferrall,yes,knownhimforyears.”Beforehe retired,whenMaeve,hiswife,was still alive, they said,he’dhadanewspaperdeliveredregularly,butlikesomanyoftheoldpeoplehehadtocutback once he became a pensioner. They asked where Esme had come acrosshim, and she said Marcus had mentioned him to her. They agreed that Mr.Ferrallwasabitofanoddity;thentoherexcitementEsmespottedabullfinch,andtheconversationmovedontorecentsightingsofbirds.Onarrivalatthechapel,thewalkershadanopportunitytorefreshthemselves

with a cup of tea before the service.Esme reflected that the sheer quantity ofteacups washed up in the course of the afternoon overall required a stoicismworthyofGoodFridayonthepartofherWilesGreencongregation,nearlyallofthemwelloverseventy.Asshecamein throughthedoorof thechapel,wherethe trestle tables ready with teacups and milk jugs and huge brown enamelteapotsstoodintheSundayschoolroomthatformedananteroomtotheworshipspace,Esmepaused towatchherchurch treasurer,MissLucyTrigg,divestingherselfofher felthatandplum-colored tweedcoat.MissTrigg, localpreacherandseniorstewardatWilesGreen,hadtheentirecongregationunderherthumb.ThoughshewasraisedasaStrictandParticularBaptist,shehadfoundherwayto this chapel when still only a teenager and unstintingly lavished herconsiderable energies upon its spiritual welfare ever since. The Southarbourcircuitpreachers’meetinghadneitherthebackbonenortheforesighttorefusetoaccreditherasapreacherandhadsufferedtheeffectofherextraordinarygospelofchimeraandretributioneversince.EsmehadheardMissTriggpreach,ononeoftheSundaysinAugustbeforeshehadtakenupherappointment.MissTriggalways came in handy forAugust.Ministersmight bemoving, preacherswithschoolchildren in the family necessarily taking their holiday then; but youalwayscouldrelyonMissTrigg.

Esme remembered the sermon, vividly.Miss Trigg had preached about theVirgin Mary, with reference to the lamentable slippage of traditionalinterpretationinthecredoofthemodernchurch.“The Lord Jesus Christ was born of a pure virgin,” she had asserted,more

aggressivelythanwasnecessaryjudgingbythenodsofagreementhereandthereinhercongregation.“Hehad tobebornofavirgin,because ifhehadn’thavebeen,hisbloodwouldhavebeenthesamekindofbloodasyoursandmine.Andourblood’snogood—nogoodatallforsalvation.JesusChristwasn’tbornwithbloodlikeyoursandmineinhisveins.HehadGod’sblood—God’sbloodthathad tobe shedon thecross forour salvation, to save sinners likeyouandmefromtheeternalpunishmentthatawaitedus.Quiterightlyawaited:‘Deliverusfrom evil,’ the Lord’s Prayer says, and note that word evil. Evil is not justknockingfolksontheheadandbumpingthemoffbutahundredandonelittlethings that you andme get up to every hour of every day.We are born evil,sinnersfromthedayofourbirth.Littlechildrenareevil,howeverinnocenttheymaylook.Youleaveachildaloneinaroomwithabowlofsweetsonthetable,andyoucanguaranteethatchildwilleatone,forchildrenarethievesandevilbynatureuntiltheyaresavedfromthethrallofSatanbythepreciousbloodoftheLamb;andbroughttothemercyseatbythefreegraceofJesusChristwhogavehimselfasacrificeforsinandlaiddownhislifeinourplace:Forthewagesofsin isdeathandonlyhisbloodcouldatoneasanacceptableoffering toaholyGod.‘Vengeanceismine,’saiththeLord.Wearenotcalledtounderstand,onlytoaccept.Neverbeashamedofthevirginbirth.”Esmehadlistenedtothisinsomeamazementbuthadoverthemonthscometo

a workable relationship with her Wiles Green senior steward. Miss TriggdisapprovedofherappointmentbecauseEsmewasnotonlyawomanbutalsoadivorcedwoman.ButshewasgraciousenoughtorelinquishnoneofherofficesandmaintainherusualgriponthelifeofthechapelatWilesGreen.SometimesEsmefeltthatgripamountedtoastrangleholdandwasoccasionallytemptedto

theviewthat if thecongregationjustifieditsexistenceinnothingelseitdidsobythecommunityserviceofkeepingMissTriggcontainedinthechapel.Still,shekept thebookswellenough, livednearby,andwasalwayswillingto let inthebuildersandthemanfromtheelectricityboard.Sheterrorizedtheleadersofthe Mothers and Toddlers group that met in the Sunday school room everyThursday and the cleaner employed to come in on a Friday (not today,GoodFriday,butthatladywasexpectedtoattendtheactofworshipinstead).Oncefreeofhercoat,MissTrigggotbusywiththeteapot.Hersconeswere

herownrecipeandherteahotandpowerfullystrong.Muchlikethegospelshepreachesthen,Esmethoughtassheapproachedthetrestletable,saying,“Lovelyday,MissTrigg—thankyouforallthis;Iknowwhathardworkitis.Halfacupwillbeplenty,I’lladdsomehotwaterfromtheurninthekitchen.”SometimesMissTriggrememberedthatsmilingwasherChristianduty;today

shewasconcentratingonpouringthetea.Agemadeherhandsalittleunsteady,butshescornedtoacknowledgethis.ShewantedtheLordtofindheratherpostwhen he came again. The second coming caused her a certain amount ofconsternation because of the amount of traffic on today’s roads,whichwouldinevitably be thrown intomayhem by the selective nature of the rapture. Shewalkedtochurchwhenshecould,onthedayswhenhersciaticadidn’tplayheruptoobadly.Silently, sheheldoutahalf-filledcup toEsme.Theireyesmet.“Niceday,”

said Miss Trigg gruffly, prompted by the requirements of Christian charity.“Enough?”Esmeknewthatshamelessflatteryandmanyexpressionsofsolicitousconcern

forherhealthcouldmelt thatseeminglyimplacableexterior,but todayshefeltdisinclined.“Yes.Thankyouverymuch,”shesaid,takingherdrinkwithhertotherefuge

of thesmallandspotlesskitchenwheresomeof the ladiesofhercongregationstoodchatting,withdishtowelsattheready.

“I’vegotsomeneatteahere,needsdiluting,”Esmesaidasshemadeherwayto the urn. They laughed. Esme thought it an undeserved kindness that herchurchmembers would usually laugh at her jokes, however feeble. They hadmanywaysofsurroundingtheirministerswithtacitencouragement.Shestayedwith them,enjoying theirgood-humoredcompany,while shedrankhercupoftea.ItoccurredtohertoaskthemaboutJabezFerrall,whomallofthemknew.Theytoldherhowhiswifehaddiedsomefiveorsixyearsago,andhowtheythought the bereavement had aged him. They agreed on his devotion to her,especiallyinnursingherthroughthreeorfouryearsofgruelingillness;terrible,they said; started in her breast andwent to her liver in the end, poorwoman.Theymused fora littlewhileonhisavoidanceofchapelpeople; they saidhismotherusedtobeamemberatWilesGreenChapel,yearsago,andMr.Ferrall’sname must surely be in the baptism register somewhere. But they thoughtthere’d been some kind of upsetwithmembers of the prayer groupwhile hiswifewasill—notthatthathadstoppedhimcomingbecausehenevercameneartheplaceanyway.Theyagreed thathewasa funnyoldso-and-soand that theoldladywholodgedwithhimwasevenfunnierthanhewas,andtheychuckledastheyconsideredthehousehold.ButtheyallagreedthatMr.Ferrallwouldbethemantogotoifshehadanyhouseholdrepairsneedingattendingto—“He’shandyisMr.Ferrall,andveryhonest,”theyconcluded.ThentheytookEsme’scuptowashupasshewentintothechurchtoprepareforworship.Theysangthepassionhymnsofmourningandtoldagaintheterriblestoryof

Christ’s betrayal and agony, and this year as every year, despite the resolutehabits of ordinary cheerfulness that conditioned their lives, the dark narrativetookthemdownwithitselfintotheeeriedanksilenceofthetomb.It was right to remember, Esme thought afterward, but right also to restore

people afterwardwith the conviviality of a chapel tea. This annual eventwaswellsupportedbyallthechapelsinthecircuitandwasanimportanthighlightoftheyearforWilesGreen.

Eventually,havingcirculatedwellandspokentoalmosteveryone,andhavingthankedthe ladies in thekitchen,Esmeslippedawaytohercar,parkedoutontheroadwhereotherscouldnotboxitin.“Home to finish my Easter sermon,” she said to herself, but she knew she

wasn’tgoinghomequiteyet.She could have driven out along Chapel Lane down the back way to

Southarbour, but instead she drove into the village, as far as the Old PoliceHouse, where she drew up, parking carefully to keep well out of the way ofpassingtrafficbutleavingenoughspaceforanypedestrianstopassontheinsideaswell.Foramomentshesatinthecar,undecided,unwillingtointrudewhereshefeltunwelcome,awarethatsuchashorttimehadgonebysincelastshehadcalledin.Sheputherhandonthekeysstillintheignition,almostwenttoturnthemand

firetheengineagain,butinsteadtookthemoutandgotoutofthecar.The cottage had all the enchantment of her first visit. She hesitated on the

path,wonderingwhethertoknockatthefrontdoor,choosinginsteadtofollowthe way around to the backyard and the workshop. As she came around thehouse,sheheardtheclankandscrapeofmetalonstoneandcomingaroundthecornerintotheyard,shefoundJabezsquattingonthegroundbrushingcleantheunderneathofarotarymowerthatlayonitssideinfrontofhim.He didn’t look up at first, when Esme said hello. For a few seconds, he

continued brushing the odd corners and the bottom of the engine withoutspeaking. Esme began to wonder if he had heard her, when he said, “You’reback.Welcome.IcanwelldowithasecondpairofhandsinamomentwhenI’msharpeningtheseblades.”Heglancedaroundatherbriefly.“Unlessyou’drathernot.You’renotreally

dressedforstrippingdownalawnmower.”Esme smiled. “I’d like tohelp,” she said,perchingon the edgeof akitchen

chairstandingoutintheyard.Shefeltabitself-consciousinherclericalcollar

andherneatblackskirtbutwaspleasedtobenotentirelysuperfluous.ShewatchedJabezlayasidethebrushandreachforthemetalkeytoundothe

nut holding the blade in place. “You got to have it turned thisway so the oildoesn’trunintothecarburetor,”heremarked,ashelaidthebladeasidewiththenut placed carefully beside it and began to loosen the sump plug under theengine.“Beenatchurch?”Heshotaglanceoffriendlyinquiryatherashegottohis

feetandlifted the lawnmoweruprightoverabatteredenamelpuddingbasin tobleedawaytheoldoil.“Yes,”shesaid.“It’sGoodFriday.”He looked up at her. “I do know,” he said. “I thought about you in the

service.”Hehadanoldglassmeatdishhandyforhisnexttask,whichwasflushingout

thesump,afterwhichhesetthemachineonthegroundagainandsquatteddownto dismantle the air filter attached to the carburetor on the side of the engine.“Excuse me a minute,” he said, and carried the outer gauze of the filter inthrough the open door of his kitchen. She could hear him at the sink, not farwithinthedoor,thetaprunning,andscrubbing,thetaprunningagain,andthenhe reemergedpatting itdrywithadishtowel,andpropped itagainst thehousewallatananglesotheaircouldfinishthedrying.Heblewthedustoffthecardboardsectionofthefilterandsetitasidewiththe

gauze.Then,movinglightandquick,hecrossedtheyardtohisworkshopfromwherehereturnedwithabigboxwrenchforthesparkplugs.Ashebentoverthemachine,examiningtheplugs,heremarked,“Isitinthe

porchsometimesandlistentothehymns.Eventotheserviceinthesummertimeiftheyleavethedoorsopen.Idon’tcomein,butIsitintheporchsometimes.”Hecleanedoffthecarbondepositscarefully,fishinginthebackpocketofhis

trousersforapieceoffinesandpapertorubeverythingclean.Esmewatchedhisface,bentoverhiswork,givingnothingaway.Shefeltthe

bynowautomaticresponseofhersoulgoingonalert.Thishappenstoministers,shehaddiscovered.Thereisaprofessionalinterestthatsendsashaftdownintothefabricofaminister’sbeingastenaciousasadandelionroot.“Whydon’tyoucomein?”sheasked,withwhatshehopedwasacasualair.Jabez smiled at the transparency of her proselytizing but continued to

concentrateonresetting thegapusinghis thumbnailasagaugeashe replacedthe clean plugs. He dusted the terminals, brushed them lightly with hissandpaper,andrefittedthehigh-tensionlead.“BecauseIdon’tlikethechurch,”hesaid.Esmewatchedhimashecheckedandblewcleanthecarburetorjetsbeforehe

begantoreassemblethefilter.Shelikedthecomposureandfocusofhisfaceasheworked.“ButyoubelieveinGod?”sheventured.Heglancedupathermomentarily.“Ibelieve…”hehesitated,searchingforthewordstosaywhathewanted.He

turnedasideandreachedforthesumpplug,replacedit.“Yougottomakesurethisistight.”Hepausedinwhathewasdoing,restedhisweightforwardonhiskneesonthe

stoneflagsoftheyard.“Ibelieveinthestoriesyouhearofpeoplewhodiedandwereresuscitated.Thosestoriesaboutalongtunnelleadinguptothelight.Andthe light is fullof loveand truth. Ibelieve that.Light that sears and light thatdances,exquisitetotakeyourbreathaway,blindingbright.Lightthatcouldcutlikea laserbutalsonourishandhealandcleanlikesunshine.Ibelievein that.AndthatonedayIwillfindmywayhomethere.Ormaybenot.IsthatGod—whatIbelievein?”Esmestaredathim.“Jabez,that’sbeautiful!”Irritation twitched somewhere in his look, because he hadn’tmeant beauty,

he’dmeanttruth.“You ready tohelpmewith thisblade, then?”he said, reachingdown for it

withoutlookingather,gettingtohisfeetagain,andcrossingtheyard.Heshowedherhowhewantedher to turn thehandleon thegrindstone that

revolvedinawaterbathsupportedbyacast-ironframe.Asshedidso,heheldthebladeagainstitforsharpening.“But it doesn’tmatterwhat I believe, I still don’t like the church,” he said,

withasortofstillnessofdeterminationthatEsmeguessedranverydeep.“Didwehurtyou?”sheasked,gently.Shehopedhertonesoundedingenuous.

Itwouldn’tdotolethimknowshe’dhadthegossipofseveralchurchmembersabouthim,but shewanted toknowabouthiswife andwhat itwas theprayergrouphaddonetoupsethim.Jabezlookedsuddenlyverytired.Sharinghissoulhadbecomeunfamiliar.He

feltunsureaboutthisintrusion.“That’s fine, you can stop,” he remarked, as he lifted the blade and turned

backtothelawnmoweragain.Esmewonderedifherquestionwouldbeleftunanswered,butasJabezkneltto

reposition thebladeon themower,heglancedathernarrowly fromunder thewirysilvereyebrows,saying,“Ithinkyoumayknowabitmoreaboutmethanyoupretend.”Thatmomentwasacrossroadsforthem.Esmehadtodecidethenwhethershe

wanted Jabez to be an acquaintance or a friend, whether she was to be theministerofthechapeltohim,orjustherself,Esme.It is understood that a pastoral relationship is without the quality of

truthfulness thata friendshiphas.The transactionsbetweenministersand theirflocks are ritualized; there are expectations and therefore pretenses. This isunderstoodandpartoftheworldofformalrelationshipsundertakenbypeopleinthepubliceye.Buta friendapproachesbarefootwithneedsasunadornedasabeggar’sbowl,orthegiftofselflikeaflowerheldinthehand.She might have stayed as a minister then, evaded his rebuke with a joke,

retreated to safe footing—“Oh!Sorry!Didn’tmean to intrude!”Esmeknew it

waspossibletomakecommentsofthatsort injustsuchatoneastoimplytheotherisprickly,oversensitive;therewasnoneedtoadmitone’sowndishonesty.Shemight have taken that course, but in her few years as aminister she hadlearned toknowhow rare a thing it is to beoffered the chance tobe truthful.Realityisalwayssodemanding.Notmanyattemptitsrigors.Jabezrefitted thebladeassheconsidered thisand tightened thenutwithhis

key,afterwardslippingitintohispocket.“Yes, Idoknowabitaboutyoualready.”Esmefeltashamedasshesaid it.

“I’veaskedseveralpeopleaboutyou. Iknowyouweremarried,and thatyourwife died; and that something happened there to do with our chapel prayergroup. I wanted to find out about it. Just nosy I suppose. It’s none of mybusiness.I’msorry,Jabez.”And as simply as that, they crossed over into friendship—his offer of

truthfulness and her shamed acceptance. Esme thought later, what slightmomentsaretheoccasionsofhumantransformation.Jabezsatdownbesidethelawnmowerandfeltinthepocketofhisjacketfora

tin of tobacco, inside which were also cigarette papers. He rolled a cigarette,carefully,verythin,andpattedhispocketstolocatethematcheswithwhichtolightit.Esmesatontheedgeofthewoodenchairagainandwaitedforwhathewouldsay.Recoverytimeneeded,itseemed.Hedrewonthecigarette.“Mywife,Maeve,”hesaid,affectingahardandmatter-of-facttone,“diedof

cancer.” He paused, and looked suspiciously at his cigarette, and with goodreason, because it hadgoneout.Esmewaitedwhilehe relit it.Hedrewon it,lookedatit,andflashedheronequickglance.“Itwasawful.Horrible.Shelostherhair,andshehadalotofpain.Herarm

swelledandhermedicinesmadehersick—desperatelysick—andherbellyfilledupwithfluid,andshesmelledbad,andsheknewshedid,andshegotsothinshelookedasthoughherteethdidn’tbelonginherfaceanymore.Shewantedtostayhere,soInursedher.”

Hestopped.Esmewaited.Hedrewonthecigarette,relititbecauseitwasoutagain.Esmewaited.“Andthen—wewereclutchingatstrawsIthink—someonefromthechapel,”

hedidnotlookather,butgazedsteadfastlyaheadatnothing,“askedifagroupof them could come to the cottage and pray forMaeve andme. I don’t knowwhat possessedme to agree to it, but—well…perhaps you can imagine.Wewereshortonhope.”Hestoppedspeakingforamoment,hisfacesetandstill,remembering.“Sotheycame.Here,inourcottage,theycame.NotMissTrigg,sheisn’tinto

all that,butawomanthat twitteredandawomanwithasilentenigmaticsmileandamanwhostoodtooclosewhenhetalkedtomeandalittlebaldblokewhowasdeaf.ToprayforMaeveandme.Maybeyouknowthem.Idon’t.Ihaven’tbeentochapelforyears,andIthinkalotofthosethatworshiptherenowaren’ttheoldonesbutrunoutfromSoutharbourtokeepitfromclosingdown.“Anyway,theysaidcouldtheylayhandsonherforhealing,andshewantedit

soIsaidyes.Ididn’twanttoraiseMaeve’shopesbut,youknow,hereyesthathad been so dull and enduring suddenly looked alive again. I felt angry andhelplessbecauseIknewitwouldbenogood.ButIwentalongwithit.Ihelpedherintoachair inthemiddleof theroom,andthefourof themjostledaroundher intoagroupwith theireighthandsplasteredonher thin,wastedshouldersandherpoorbaldhead.Abitexcessive.Andtheystartedtopray.D’youknowthekindofthing?Dotheystilldoit?‘Lord,sendyourSpirit,Lord,tohealandblessher,Lord;makeherfreefrompain,Lord,blah,blah,blah.’”Hedrewonhiscigarette.Itwasout.Hedidn’tbothertorelightit,butlethis

hand come down to rest on his knee. He glanced at Esme, but only for amoment.“IrememberitsinkinginwithsuchappallingclaritythatMaevewasgoingto

die. I hadn’t really faced it till then, till I heard their church-speak full ofunreality and realizedwhat realityheld forus. Iwas standingby the table, an

onlooker, trying to get under control the grief that was suddenly going crazyinsideme.Iwastryingtoputitononesidetodealwithlater,whenthedeafmanmusthavefoundhismomenttogetaprayerinedgewaysbecausehestartledmebyboomingoutlikeafoghorn,Imeanreallyincapitalletters,‘OHLORD,WEPRAYFORMAUVE!’AnditwasatthatmomentthatIlostitall.TothatextentI supposeheprayedwithpower,becausehisprayercertainlyhadaneffectonme.‘Mauve!’Insidemeitallmuddledtogether;allatoncesomethinglaughedand something wept and something died. Apart from her funeral and sittingeavesdropping in theporch someSundays, I nevergonear chapel nor church.Well,tobefairIhadn’tanyway,notforyears.”Abrief,wrygrin twistedhis face. “You’dhavebeenproudofme though. I

madethemacupofteabeforetheywent.AndIgavethemabiscuit.”Thedesolationof thisstorymovedinthecenterofEsme’ssoul.Shefelt the

sharpnessofitsanguishandwasatalosswhattosay.Afteramoment,“WhatdidMaevethinkoftheprayer?”sheasked.“Didshe

findithelpful?”Jabeznoddedslowly.“Shedid.Shedid,butshedied.”Helookedthoughtfullyatthelifelessremainsofhiscigaretteinhishandand

flickeditbackoverhisshoulderinthedirectionoftheorchardgrassthatgrewdowntomeettheflagsoftheyard.“Esme, Idon’t like thechurch. Idon’t like itshypocrisy, and itsneed tobe

right and to control everybody. It works by fear and manipulation anddoublespeakandtobehonestIgotnotimeforitatall.Nowifyou’llexcuseme—”hegotupandliftedthelawnmowerintothebackofhistruckandfetchedacan to decant the used oil for recycling; “—Imust take thismower down theroadtoMr.Griffithsbeforetheafternoon’sover.Itwasnicetoseeyou.”Therewasadefinitedismissalinhistonethatwentbeyondtherequirements

oftheafternoon’stasks.Esmestoodupandstraightenedherskirt.Shelookedathim,buthedidn’tmeethergaze.

“AmIapartofallthat,then?”sheasked.“Thechurch?”Hiseyes flickered, andhe stood lookingdownat themetal can inhishand,

slowlyscrewingdownthecap.“Well,yes,”hesaid,quietly.“Iguessyouare.”Esmefeltasharppainofdisappointment:Themomentofhonestythatbrought

intimacybetweenthemseemedtohavebeenlost,andtheclaritybetweenthemhadslippedaway,leavingthembackastheywere,littlemorethanstrangers.“Butit’sstillokaytocomehere?”Leaveit,Esme,avoiceinsideherwarned.

Butsomehowshecouldn’tleaveit;shehadtobesure.Hesighed,impatiently.“I runabusinesshere,”hesaid,addingwithaquickglancearoundhisyard

andaninvoluntarylaugh,“ifImaybepermittedtodignifyitbycallingitthat.Anyonecancallinanytime.Youaskedtoseehowbikesaremaintained.That’sall right. Apparently you’re interested in lawnmowers, too. As far as it goes,that’sallfine.But—look—I’mnotamissionfield.Canwebeclearonthat?”Esmefelthercolorrise.Hewasdenyingthepuretruththathadshonebetween

them,andshefeltbelittledandshutoutbythewayhespoke.“Most certainly,” she shot back defensively. “You make yourself perfectly

clear.Iwon’tholdyouupanylonger.”Sheleftveryswiftly,withoutlookingback.

J

THREE

abezmovedabouthiskitchenslowlyandstifflyinthehalflightofthedawn.Itwasjustafterhalf-pastfive,andhefeltwearystill.Hehadn’tsleptwell.He

had added some dry kindling to the dying remains of yesterday’s fire in theRayburn’s firebox, seen it crackle and blaze up nicely, pushed some chunkierbitsontop,filledthekettle,andsetitonthehottestplaceofthestove’shotplate.Heturnedhisbackonitandleanedagainstthedishtowelrailonthefrontofthestove, glad of thewarmth as he listened to thewater begin to stir.He leanedforward and reached for his tobacco tin on the kitchen table, and he rolled acigaretteashewaitedforthekettletoheatup.Theradiomutteredquietlyinitscorner.Hefumbledinhispocketformatches,andlitthecigarette.Helookedatthe end of it glowing ruby in the cold, uncertain light of themorning; and hethoughtitbeautiful,thatsmallredglow.After awhile, as he heard the first sounds of the water heating increase to

somethingmoredetermined,hepushedawayfromhisrestingplace.BytheyarddoorhestruggledhisfeetintohisWellingtonboots,andwentoutofthekitchenacrosstheyardforthefadedplasticbuckethemixedthehenfoodin.Thetabbycatappearedathisside,windingitselfsinuouslyaroundhisankles,andhebentfor amoment to scratch its ears affectionately. Theweather had changed, thesunshinehadgone, and today’snortheasterlywindcarriedacold, thin rain. Inthesmallwoodenshedwhere,inwithvariousgardeningimplementsandabaleofstrawforhisnestboxes,Jabezkeptthehenfood,hescoopedsomemealintothebucketfromthetinmuginsidethepapersackandrefoldedthetopwiththeabsentmindedmethodicalprecisionofhabit.Hecarried thebucketback to the

kitchen, thecat runningathisheels,andaddedhalf theheatedwater from thekettletothemeal,setthekettlebackonthehotplate,andtookthebuckettothesink, stirring in thewater and somescraps left from lastnight’s supperwithaspoonthatlayonthedrainingboard.Thenhecarriedthesteamingmixtureoutintotheyard,shiveringintheslantingdrizzleborneontheunrelentingwind,upthroughtheorchardtothechickenhouse,wherehisbrownhens,shutinsecurelyagainstthevisitsofthefox,werestillfastasleep,butwillingtowakeupfortheirbreakfast.Heproppedthehenhousedoorbackandscrapedtheirmealintotheaged and dented aluminum bowl that lay on the grass there, watched themtumbleoutoftheirhouseinhastetofindtheirfood,checkedthelayingboxes—not expecting and not finding any eggs so early in the day—and turned backdown to the yard, where he could hear the kettle beginning to whistle in thekitchen.Heleftthebucketintheshed,kickedoffhisbootsatthekitchendoor,grateful

tostepoutofthewind,andwentintomakehistea,stronganddark,thewayheliked it.He sniffed at themilk he found in the fridge andpaused reflectively.Sniffedagain,andafteramoment’shesitation,resignedhimselftopouringsomeintothestainedandchippedmughehadrescuedfromitsfellowsonthedrainingboard.Hepouredsomeintothecat’ssauceronthefloornearthesink.OpeningthedooroftheRayburn,headdedasplitlogtothefire,closeditupagain,andadjusteddownthedraught.Thenteainonehand,cigaretteintheother,Jabezmovedinthatquietwayof

his fromthekitchen intohis livingroom,makingfor therefugeofhis firesidechair.Nothinginthegratebutlastnight’sashes,stillfaintlyastir.Heputdownhis teaon thehearth.Sittingon theedgeof thechair, leaningforward,his lefthand rested on his knee and held the glowing cigarette while he took up thepoker in his right hand, riddled the ashes through. He straightened upwith asigh,thensatforamomentwiththepokerdanglinginertinhishand,hisfaceasgrey and hopeless as the ashes on the hearth, just still and letting his mind

wander, until a cough shook him and he grimaced, recalled to the presentmoment, laid thepokerdown, andwentpatientonhishands andknees to laykindling,rollthepagesofthefreelocalnewspaperintofirelighters,setamatchtobeginwhatwas,forhim,alwaysaclingingtohope,warmth,life,andhome;afiretositby,gazeinto,broodupon.There came a moment between kneeling to contemplate the yellow-orange

flamesbeginningtodevourthetwistsofpaper,andrisingawkwardlybackintohischair,whensomethingsharpandpainfulslidobliquelyalongJabezFerrall’ssoul; a simple blade of acknowledgment—so abysmally lonely.But he turnedfromitbeforeitbecameself-pity,tothelasthalf-inchofhiscigaretteandtothecomfortofteastillhot.Inhissixthyearasawidowerandthesixty-ninthyearofhislife,Jabezkept

that economy ofmovement, inner stillness, of thosewho prefer to disturb thedeepbarrenacheoflivingonlyasmuchasmustbe.Itwas,hereflected,ashedrewonthelastofthecigaretteandflickedthebutt

ofitintotheflames,aluxuryreallytolighttwofires,especiallynowthatspringhadarrived.Still,thestovehadtobekeptintokeepthehousedryandwarmandinreadinessforcookingmealsandheatingdishwater.Andthisfiretositbywasasmallandtemporarydelight;justforamoment,thespaceittooktositawhileanddrinka cupof teabefore thedaybegan.Primitive, really,he thought; notmuchadvanceontheStoneAgeorwheneverinhumanhistorytheyhadlitfiresto keep away thewild beasts and the evil spirits. For here he sat, keeping hisowndemonsatbaywith thecomfortofa fire’s light; settingsomethingbrightand living between himself and the shades mocking his inadequacy and hisentrenched, habitual gnawing of grief.Well, loneliness.Nothing to assuage it.Nohelpforit.Butfirelightissomethingofconsolation,essentiallyalive.Ashedrankhistea,foldinghishandsaroundthemugandsittingforwardin

his chair toward the fire’s warmth, Jabez reflected on his conversation withEsme yesterday.Thememory embarrassed him.Howhad he come to give so

much of himself away?He regretted his bitterness and his frank contempt ofwhat after all was her way of life, the context for most of what she did. “Ishouldn’t have said those things,” hemurmured, ashamed.He felt the stirringinside him of the bad stuff—the self-reproach and uncertainty, the sense ofinadequacyandweakness.Whatareyousupposed todowith it, all that stuff?Whereisitsupposedtogo?AfterMaevehaddied,hehadjustkepthimself tohimself,manageditallas

best he could, the tearing, evisceratingmisery of grief. Now he had grown aflimsycarapaceoverthefirstrawnessbuthadn’tgottenfurtherthanthatreally.Itsufficedfortheday-to-day,butwhen,asyesterday,hecametotalkaboutanyof it, thedespaircamebackas freshasever,uncontainable.Andwhatareyousupposedtodowithit?Jabez sat a moment longer, his face drawn into haggard lines of weary

bewilderment.Then,irritatedathimself,heshrugged,inspectedthequantityoftealeftinthemug,knockedbackthedregsofit,andgottohisfeettobegintheday.Therewasworktobedone.

The day did not improve but continued in fitful showers and keen, persistentwind.Through the morning Esme finished off her Easter sermon and worked

through a pile of correspondence. She had one more Holy Week housecommuniontodo,atGladysTaylor’salmshouseoutatWilesGreen.Facinghersicknesswithdignity,Gladysnevercomplained,andgreetedEsmeonhervisitswithwarmthandkindness;butEsmesawthepinchoffearunderlyingthesetofGladys’s features andheard the resolveof courage thathad enteredhervoice.Shecalledwhenshecouldwithcartonsofhigh-calorie,complete-nutrientdrinksandmagazines,andtodayforHolyWeek,thebreadandwineofcommunion.ShestoppedbrieflyatBrockhyrstPrioryonherwaythereandboughtabagof

sixcurrantbunsandaloafofbread,mindfuloftheclosedshopsinthecomingpublic holiday. She took in a bun for Gladys—who would not eat it, shesuspected,butmightliketobethoughtof,andmaybewouldmanageataste.Shewas shocked by the deterioration of Gladys’s health; a new frailty, and blueshadows circling her eyes—“Let me call the doctor,” she said, but Gladys,surprisingly stubborn, refused to disturb her doctor until normal office hoursresumedonTuesday.Whenshecameawayfromthehouse,Esmesatinhercarforseveralminutes

feelingupsetandadjustingtotheevidentrealitythatGladyswouldbewiththemverylittlelonger.As she drove back through the village, shewentmore slowly, and stopped

eventually, outside theOld PoliceHouse. I can’t go back again, she thought;that’sthreedaysrunning.Imustn’t—Ican’t…andsheslowlytookthekeysoutoftheignition,tookthebagofcurrantbunsfromtheseatbesideher,andgotoutofthecar.Asshefollowedthemuddypatharoundthecottage,earlyweedsheavywith

rainwetting the legs of her jeans, Esme became aware shewas treading verycautiously—silently,actually.Inonehandshecarriedthebagfromthebaker’s:apeaceoffering.Shecameintotheyard.Thesheddoorstoodopen.Esmestolecloserandstood

uncertainlyinthedoorway.Inside,Jabezwascrouchedoverhiszincbathinthemiddle of the shed, running an inner tube slowly through his hands under thewater, checking for a puncture.Hedid not look around.Apparently he hadn’theard her. His hair was tied back, but she couldn’t see his face; still hismovementswereasalwayscalm,methodical.Hedidn’tlookcross.Shestoodinthedoorway,watchinghim.After a few moments, “You’re standing in the light,” he said, and she

answered,softly,contritely,“I’msorry.”Helookedbackatherbriefly,anunreadablelook,andstoodup,holdingthe

drippinginnertubeoverthewater.“Forstandinginthelight?That’squiteallright.”“No,Jabez.Fortrespassingonsoreplaces.Forhurtingyou.”He hooked the tube over the handlebar of a bike propped against his

workbenchand rubbedhishandsdryonhis trousers.He liftedhishand tohisfaceandwiththebackofitwipedawaythedripthathadgatheredontheendofhisnose.Esmetookinthewrinkled,shrunklooktohisskin,presentlyvariousshadesof

mauveandblueexceptforhisnose,whichwasratherred.“Jabez,”shesaid,“youlookabsolutelyfreezing.”“I am,” he replied, and, looking absently around for somemislaid item, he

added,“andreadyforacupoftea.”Andsuddenlyhelookedup,lookeddirectlyather,lookedherintheeye—whichinthatmomentsherealizedherarelydid—thebrightflashofaglancethatremindedherofeverywildcreatureinahedgewhoseeyeshadevermethers:“Wouldyouliketocomeinforacupoftea?”Onanafternoonofpastoralvisits,aministercanbeawashwithtea.Novillage

chapelmeeting,noteventhechurchcouncil,canproceedwithoutacupoftea.Esme had lost count of the cups of tea she had been offered inWilesGreen,BrockhyrstPriory, andSoutharbour since shecame to live there.Buthere shehad the feeling of being offered somethingmost precious and rare. Jabez, shethought,wouldnotgivehishospitalitylightly.“Iwouldloveto,”shesaid,“andIbroughtyousomebuns.Tosaysorry.”Hewasrummagingamongthejumbleofthingspushedagainstthewallatthe

backofhisworkbench—sandpaperandbitsofchalk,oilyrags,spanners,andoldmargarinetubs,holdingassortmentsofdifferent-sizednutsandvalves.“Tomakepeacewithme?”hesaid.Shedidnotanswer,butwatchinghimshebegantowonderiftrulyhehadlost

somethingorjustfoundtherummagingarefugefromtoodirectameeting.Andhe stopped suddenly, placing his hands on the edge of theworkbench, rough,

red,cold,chappedhands,restingthereinabsolutesimplicity,stoodwithhisheadbent,addingquietly,“Becausethere’snoneedto.Ever.”Andagainthatquickglancethatshotlikedarkfirefromhissoultohers.You

andI, she thought,haveknowneachother fora thousandyears.You’reright.Nothingcouldbreakthepeacebetweenus.Andthenshethought,Mygoodness!Wheredidthatcomefrom?Butshesaidonly,“Thankyou.”Andhewithdrewhishandsandlefthisruseofsearching,cameouttoherand

into the yard, switchingoff the light, andpulling the sheddoor closedbehindhim.Aroundthemiddleofhersolarplexus,Esmefeltachildisheffervescenceof

excitement.Forshesowantedtoseeinsidethiscottage.Asshefollowedhimacrosstheyard,clutchingherbagofbuns,Esmehadthe

curious sensation of being oncemore about four years old: eager, inquisitive,excited,happy,andalive.Hepushedthekitchendoor,whichstoodajar,fullyopen,andstoodbackfor

her to go in first. She stepped inside, taking in at a glance its smallness andfriendly clutter—a paper feed sack printed with the words Layers Mash laydownasadoormat;thesaucerforthecatwithitsrimofcongealedyellowmilk;theshabbywoodentable,twostoolsandachairroughlydrawnuptoit;thewallaboveitfittedwithshelvestohousemiscellaneouscrockeryandgrubbyjarsofoatsandriceandpulses,anddriedfruitandherbsandbrownsugar.ShelookedattheRayburnthatstoodagainsttheinnerwall,givingoffasteadycomfortofwarmthanda faint smellofwoodsmokeandashes,anddishtowelsseton therailtodryatthefrontofit.Shesawtheclothesrackdrawnuptotheceiling,afewgarmentsstillhangingthere,andthevariousbootslefthiggledy-piggledybythe door; the deep white ceramic sink with its sturdy old-fashioned taps andwooden draining board, where various pieces of crockery stood propped todrain,andacrackedandgrimybarofworkmanlikesoapwaitedinasaucernearthe taps.Everythingwasfunctional,comfortable,andplain;and, fornoreason

she could identify, it made Esme feel very peaceful, verywelcome, and verymuchathome.“I’lljustwashmyhands,”Jabezsaid,“andthenI’llmakeyouacupoftea.”Hekickedoffhisboots andwent to the sink.Esme satdownononeof the

stoolsatthetable,andshewatchedhim;thestoopofhisshouldersandthelongtailofsilverhair thathungdownhisback; thequiet focusofhisabsorption inwashing his hands—soap, nailbrush, thorough rinsing; and yet she could feelhimawareofher,eventhoughhisbackwasturned.Hewasdoneandcameacrosstothestovetorubhishandsdryonadishtowel.

Hedidnotlookather,andshesensedhimsuddenlyshy.Hetookthekettleofwaterfromthebackofthestove,liftedthehingedcoverbackfromthehotplate,andsetthewatertoboil.“It’llbeawhile,”hestartedtosay,“but—”Thedoorthatledfromthekitchen

into the rest of the house opened, and Esme turned her head to find herselflookingintotheeyesoftheoldladywhohadaccostedheroutsideSt.RaphaelsChurchonthefirstdayshehadvisitedWilesGreen.“Good afternoon,” said the old lady, who looked as disreputable and as

extraordinary as she had at their firstmeeting. “Where have you parked yourcar?”HerfaceassheaskedthisregardedEsmeimpassively,butinthealmostblack,

sharpeyesEsmesawamockingtwinklethatstoppedherintimefromtakingthequestiontooseriously.“Downontheroad,”shereplied.“Well,halfacross thepavementactually. I

dowhatIcantomakelifedifficult.”Theold ladynodded. “I thought asmuch,” she answered. “Areyoumaking

tea,Jabez?I’llhaveacupifso.”Helookedather,hisheadcockedtooneside,notsmiling,butacertainwry

amusementinhisface.“Not ‘please Jabez’; not ‘thankyou’; not any such thing.Esme, this isSeer

Ember.Sheliveshere.ButIgettheimpressionyou’vemet.”Esmesmiled,andJabezlookedather,sharply,thenat theoldlady.“Ember,

youweren’trudetoher,wereyou?”Esmewaspuzzled.“Forgiveme,”shesaid,“butwhatisyourname?”Theold lady’s facewrinkled in a grin—“Foreign, you think?”She laughed.

“Seer.’Tisaword,youknow,youaholywoman.Onewhosees,aseeris.Insidesight.AndIexpectyoucomeacrossanemberbefore today.Theembers isallthat’sleftwhenafiredies,buttherealheatofthefireisthere,undertheashes.Embers look likenothing, finished—butwoebetideyou ifyoudon’t treat ’emwithrespect.‘SeerEmber.’See?”“Yes,”saidEsme.“Yes,Icertainlydosee.I’msorrytobesoobtuse—doyou

mindifIjustgetthisstraight?Whichbitofit’syoursurnameandwhichisyourChristianname?”Ember’s eyes had depths like jewels, and her bright regard held Esme in

mockingconsideration.“IhadafatheronceandIwasbornunderhisname.Iwasgiventoamanin

marriage, and I came under his name. He left, and good riddance: He foundanotherandIhopeshebroughthimtheluckhewelldeserved.Iwasbaptizedina church and given aChristian name; butmyways parted from theways thepious tread in longago. Ibowmyhead toJesusChrist, forhewalked,andhestopped,andhewasnailed;heunderstoodthespeedoflove.Loveburnsslow.Enduring.ButIwantmyownname.I’mnobody’sproperty.IamwhatIam,andmy name’smy own self.Seer Ember. I sit in the ashes now, but I still got aspark,andIknowrealitywhenIseeit.Willthatdoyou?”Jabez,listeningtothisconversationwithhisarmsfolded,leaningagainstthe

rail along the frontof the stoveashewaited for thekettle toboil, offered thecomment, “I tried to tell her thatTsunamiwas aprettyname thatwouldhavesuitedherjustaswell,butshewouldn’thaveit.”Embertooknonoticeofthisremarkatall,hereyeschallengingEsmewithan

insolentsparkle thatEsmefoundendearingbut imaginedmightbehard to livewith.“So—”Esmepersevered,“I’msorrynottobequickerontheuptake—‘Seer’

isaformofaddress,like‘Mrs.’?AndIcallyou‘Ember’?”“Yougotit.Jabez,youbeentotheshop?Idon’tknowwhatthereistoeatin

thehousetogowithacupofteaifwegotavisitor.”“Oh!” Esme held out the bag of buns. “I bought these from the baker at

BrockhyrstPriory. It seemed likeanafternoonforholingupwithahotcupoftea.Theymightbenicewithsomebutterifyouhaveany.”Emberpeeredintothebagwithinterest.“Smellsgood.Yes,Idon’tdoubtwe

gotbutter.I’velaidafireinthehousefortheevening.Shallwelightitnowandtoastthem?”Jabez, moving about the kitchen washing up mugs and finding milk and

emptying the cold dregs from the teapot into the compost bucket, nodded inassent. “Yes, I’m ready to sit down. Take Esme through and light the fire,Ember;I’llbetherewiththeteainjustatick.”Ember turned on her heel and retreated the way she had entered, Esme

following her into the living room, which looked friendly and shabby, thefurnishings reasonablyclean,butoldandworn.Onone sideof the fireplacealong sofa with squashy, untidy cushions stood under the low, square windowwherepottedplantsgrewonthedeepsill.Anarmchairstoodtotheothersideofthefireplace,andanothersmallerchairatopaconfusionofknitting,newspapers,and spilling piles of books also faced the fire. The tabby cat Esme had seenbeforeintheworkshoplaycurledinthischair.“SityoudownwhileIlightthefire—trythesofa,”saidEmber.Esme sank into the feather cushions andwatchedEmber as she kindled the

crunchedpaperandsplit sticks tobegin,hersmall,plumpfiguredressed in itsapproximationtorobesbentoverasshewaitedthemomenttoaddlargerpiecesof wood. She wore her hat still, even indoors. You look extraordinary, Esme

thought,andEmberturnedherheadtolookather.“’Tisn’tusualforJabeztoasksomebodyin.Hedoesn’ttrusteasy.Musthave

takentoyou.”Having got the fire going to her satisfaction, Ember turned to the smaller

armchair,unceremoniouslyroutedthecat,andsatthereherself.Jabezcameintotheroomcarryinga traywithmugsof teaand thecurrantbunscut in twoandpiledbesideadishofbutter.Hesetthetraydownonthefloor,gaveEsmehertea,forwhichshethanked

him,andEmberhers,whichshereceivedwithoutcomment.SittingdownoppositeEsmeinthearmchairnexttothefire,Jabeztookupthe

toastingforkthatlayonthehearth,andspikingahalfcurrantbunonit,heldittotheflamesforawhile,turningitwhenthefirstsidewasdone.“Help yourself to butter,” he said, giving her the first one completed and

beginningtotoastthenext.Esme found herself feeling wonderfully content. The homeliness and

simplicity of this place permeated her being. The world of committees andcomputers,ofsafeguardingpracticeandhealthandsafetyregulations,oftactfulingratiation and carefullyworded preaching seemed to have receded to a verydistantplace,andshefeltmorerelievedthanshewouldeverhaveguessed.“Thisislovely,”shesaid.“Itfeelslikebeingonholiday.”Jabez smiled, handing Ember a toasted bun. Fitting the third one onto the

toastingfork,heglancedatEsme,drewbreathasiftospeak,andthenchangedhismind.“Well?”saidEmber,notlookingupfromspreadingbutteronhercurrantbun.“Ithink—”Jabezkepthiseyesonwhathewasdoing,“—IthinkIoweyouan

apology,Esme.”“Youdo?”Shewasstartled.“Imusthavesoundedbitterandcontemptuousyesterday—”“That’snothingunusualforyou,”Emberinterjected,whichheignored.

“—and I’msorry ifwhat I saidwashurtful. Ididn’tmean it so.Therehavebeensomebadtimes.Thankyouforgivingmeanotherchance.”“That’ssmoking,”saidEmbernoddingtowardtheteacakeheheldtothefire,

addingwithsomecuriosity,“whatdidyousaytoher,then?”Jabezlaidasidetheforkandreachedacrosstobutterhis toastedbun.Hesat

back in his chair, a mug of tea in one hand and a currant bun in the other,lookingintotheflamesofthefire.“Iwasrudeaboutthechurch,”hesaidquietly,“andjustgenerallypricklyand

unfriendly.”“The religious establishment is fair game, generally speaking,” said Esme,

withagrin.“Imean,evenJesuscalledreligiousleaders‘whitewashedtombsandaviper’sbrood.’Whywouldanythingchangeintwothousandyears?”“Well,youmayhavesomethingthere.”Jabezshotheranamusedglance.“But

thenagainperhapsit’snotformetosayso.”“Okay,”saidEsme,“soyou’vetoldmewhatyoudon’tbelieveandwhatyou

don’t like about the church, and I have to admit I sympathize. Tellme aboutwhatyoudobelieveaswell.”His brief, expressive grimace communicated the daunting nature of this

prospect,andhetookabiteoutofhisbun,chewingitthoughtfully.“ItellyouonethingJabezbelieves,”remarkedEmber,beforehewasreadyto

speak. “He read a book onmacrobiotics while he was nursingMaeve, whichgavehimallkindofideasabouttheyinandtheyangofhistable,andputintohisheadtheideathateverymouthfulshouldbechewedthirtytimesbefore’tisswallowed—and you may take it from me, there’s no sillier sight than amacrobioticconvertdoinghisbesttochewporridge.Sobetweentryingtochewthat bun and trying to chewhis cup of tea and trying to describe theCosmosAccordingtoJabezFerrall,you’dbettertakeovertoastingthembunsorit’llbeamightylongtimebeforeyougetyourotherhalf.”Jabez’seyesclosedbrieflyinsilentdismissalofthisspeech,butwithasmile

Esmetookupthetoastingfork.ShecouldseeEmberhadapoint.“Ibelieve,”hesaideventually,“inthemysteriesofChristianity,don’tmistake

me.WhereIstandinlifeIcanwellseethecross,andIcomprehenditspowertotransform.Iseetheresurrection,too,howitliesattheheartofthings.Ifathingis true, then its truth runs through all of the universe; you take soundingsanywhereandyou’llfindthesametruth.Everywinterandspring,everysunsetandsunriseisthemelodyofresurrection,andtheChristsitsattheheartofitlikethepipattheheartofthecherry.There’sadeepreverenceinmeforwhoChristis; Iknowhim.Iknow.ButwhenI toldyouIgotno timefor thechurch,I’mspeakingaboutthehouseofcardsthat’sbuiltonthetopofthemysteries.I’mnotinterested in all of that. It interferes with the nature of things like Victoriancorsets interferewithawoman’sbody.What I liveby is the interweavingandinterdependence of all life. The vitality of Spirit is in all creation like sap orbloodorbreath—eveninthestonesandthedustandthelight,everything.SoIbelieveintreadinggently;inhealingitwhereit’shurtandholdingitwhereit’sindanger;notusingup toomuch,not takingwhat isn’tgiven. I think I’mnotseparatefromanythingthatshareslifewithme;ifIhurtyouordisrespectyou,Idiminish myself, whoever you are—a mouse, a sapling, a river; or anotherhumanbeing.Weareallonething,thebeingofGodexpressedincreation,mostlovable,mostprofoundlytobeadored.Tome‘integrity’meanstheout-livingofthatoneness in accountability; lookingafter things,being trustworthy,keepingfaith.”“Hehardlyknowswhathotfoodis,”observedEmber,whichpromptedJabez

totakeamouthfulofteaandanotherbiteofhisbun.“Haveyoudonewiththebutter?” she added as Esme passed her a newly toasted half of teacake, and“Tossastickortwoonthatfire,Jabez.”Jabez obediently added some splitwood to the fire, andEsme leaned down

andpushedthebutterdishalongtheruginEmber’sdirection.Esme felt a sudden, unfamiliar quickening of joy in listening to Jabez. The

biggest and most unexpected disappointment for her, in pursuing the path ofordainedministry,hadbeenthereluctancetoengageinconversationofspiritualthings among the people with whom she lived and worked. She found theaspirations and yearnings and adventures of the human spirit caused universalembarrassment,exceptamongthosewhoseliveswouldverysoonbeatanend.Tofindhere, inthissimplecottage,anapparentlyuneducatedmandiscoursingwith ease on all thematters she had longed to explore further, the things thatwereclosesttoherheart,delightedher.She leaned forward eagerly. “I suppose what you mean,” she said, “is the

relationshipbetweenholinessandwholeness.IntheLord’sPrayer,‘hallowedbethyname,’thewordhallowmeansholybutcomesfromthesamerootasintheOldEnglishgreetingweshal!whichmeans‘bethouwhole!’andisthebasisforourmodernhallow.Healing,completeness,comefromSpirit.”Jabeznodded,wipingatraceofbutterfromhisfingersontohistrousersashe

completed the chewing of his teacake. He swallowed, his eyes kindling withpleasure at her ready interest, and said, “The Native Americans’ tepees arecircular dwellings arranged into circular villages because they believe themovement of power is circular, like the roundness of the sun and moon andsacredearth,thecycleoftheseasonsandthecurvingarcoflifethatcomesbackonitself fromthehelplessnessof infancyto thehelplessnessofgreatage.Lifehas a circular dynamic.What goes around comes around. There is no escapefromwhatweputintolife;onedayitwillreturntousagain.”“Doyouthink,then,”askedEsme,“thatthereisaseparateGod—aGodover

and above us, like theFather of theChristian faith, essentially other, standingapartfromcreationandwatchingoverit?OrdoyoubelievethatthereisdivineSpiritdiffusedthrougheverythinglikeperfumeorsmoke?”Emberhadspreadbutteronthesecondhalfofhiscurrantbuntoastedforhim

byEsme,andputit inhishand.Havingjust takenabiteofit,Jabezshookhishead.

“No,”hesaid,whenhehadfinishedit,“neither.IbelieveweareheldinGod.It is all sacred because it is held in themind ofGod andmaintains its beingbecauseitisheldintheheartofGod.WeareinGodasthewaveisintheocean;andGodisinusastheoceanisinthewave.”Embergrinned.“Youwanttowatchoutformywave,it’sgotastingrayinit,”

sheinterrupted.Jabezlookedather,butwouldn’tbedrawn.“When I was a child,” he continued, “Mother had a text framed on the

chimneybreastthere,IFGODFEELSFARAWAYFROMYOU—WHOMOVED?AfterDadandMotherdied,ItookitdownbecauseIneverlikedit.BecauseIthinkifyoufeelfarawayfromGodthat’sjustpartofthelonelinessofbeingweallsuffer.Maybeitmeansyouneedahugoracupofteawithafriendoranearlynight,butitcan’tpossiblymeanyoumovedawayfromGod;Imean,wherewouldyougo?‘WhithercanIgofromthySpirit?’Godwouldn’tbeGodifGodhadfinitebeing—loveyoucouldstrayoutsideof.Ember,isthereanymoreteainthatpot—wouldyoulikeanothercup,Esme?“I read a storyonce,”he continued, asEmbergathered theirmugs andbent

overthetraytopourmoretea,“aboutaZenmonkonpilgrimage,whosatdownatthesiteofaholyshrineandputhisfeetuponastatueoftheBuddha.IexpectI’m telling you what you already know if I say that in the East it’s a gravediscourtesy even to sitwith your feet pointing toward something sacred—yougottokeepthemtuckedbackunderneathyou.Sothismonkwasintrouble,andafellowpilgrimpassingbyreprovedhimforhisshockingdisrespect,whichwasfairenoughexcept,asthemonksaid,‘ButwhereshallIputmyfeetthatisnotholy?’ Is that tea too strong—I like it that way, but you might find it a bitoverpowering?”“So everything is good?” Esme said. Jabez glanced at her briefly, but said

nothing in reply. Ember grinned and drained the remains of her tea from hermug.“And if everything is good,” Esme persisted, “where does the force behind

greedandcorruptionandoppressioncomefrom?IfweallliveinGodandallareholy,wheredotorturechambersfitin?Ifyoutakeawaythebalanceofheavenandhell,GodandtheDevil,youhaveanawfullotofexplainingawaytodo.”Jabezsmiled,andlookedintothefire.“Yes,Iknow,”hesaid.“There’slotsof

ways of resolving this, isn’t there? ‘The problem of evil.’ The Parsees—Zoroastrians—whowereverybigwhentheBiblewasbeingmade,sothatlotsoftheirthinkingwaswovenintoit,believedinauniverseatwar.Theyposedtwosupernaturalgiants,AhuraMazda,thecreatoroflightandorderandpeace,andAngraMainyu,thecreatorofdarknessanddisharmonyanddisease.Thesetwowere eternally at war, and the whole cosmos was caught up into their battle.Everysinglethingeverysingleoneofusdoeswouldservetoadvancethebattleinonedirectionortheother.Everywordoractionorthoughtcontributestowardtheeventualsupremacyoflightandwholenessorofdarknessanddisintegration.It’s interesting that, as far as I can tell reading theOldTestament, the ancientJewsdidn’treallyhaveaformalbeliefinlifeafterdeath.Theimmortalityofthehuman soul is the concept of a different culture—Hellenistic, I suppose. TheancientJewsmadelittledistinctionbetweentheindividualandthecommunity;youlivedoninyourdescendants.YourlivingbeingcamefromGod’sbreathing—he breathed out, you were created; he drew breath in, you died. But theZoroastrians seem to have introduced a belief in spiritual orders of beings—demonsandangels—whichbecameculturallyincorporatedintoourTestaments.Then of course, also, they divined wisdom astrologically—like the magi inMatthew’s gospel, who would have been Zoroastrians. Matthew wrote fromSyria, fairly near their territory, and like the book of Isaiah, which speaks sohighly of Cyrus of Persia, there’s a lot in his writing that resonates withZoroaster.”“Suchas?”Esme,fascinatedandastonishedbyJabez’seasyerudition,wonderedhowhe

hadcome to sucha familiaritywith thingsmostpeople shemetknewnothing

about,evenministers.Shewaited,intrigued,tohearwhathisreplywouldbe.“Oh,”he said, “in Isaiah, the roughplacesbeingmadesmooth—theParsees

believed theworld should be perfectly round.The lumps anddents areAngraMainyu’swork.AndinMatthewthebroadwayandthestraitandnarrowway—it’s a reversal of a Zoroastrian teaching. But anyway, what I’m trying to getround to is that ifyougoback toancientJudaism,youhaveaconcept thatallthat comes our way comes from the hand of God to train and shape anddisciplineus—everything,‘wealandwoe.’Isuspectthisdemonsanddevilstuffcamefromadifferentculture—verystronginMatthew,asIsay,whoseemstobemuchacculturatedtoZoroastrianthought.FormyselfI’mquiteinterestedinwhat William Blake said about the polarization of reason and energy, as analternativeconcepttogoodandevil.Ibelievethateverythinghasacircularflow,comingfromgoodandreturningtogood;thecirculationofGod,maybe.Whenwe try to go against the flow, we run into trouble; life hurts us then—it’s alearning opportunity, a chance to find the direction of God’s love. But thenyou’llaskme,howshouldwetrytogoagainsttheflowifwe’repartofit?Wemakemistakes,don’twe,awfulmistakes,andwewoundeachotherterribly.ButIstillbelieveinthegoodnessatthecoreofeveryhumansoulandthecenterofall living being. I believe it’s all a chance to channel energywisely. I believeevery agony, every cruelty, every adversity is a chance to learn wisdom andcompassion,abetterway.Patience.LikethepaintingsthatshowChrist’shandsopen,with the nails in their palms.Not clenched.Agonized, but open. It isn’thow itmust have been, physically; it’s an icon of the spiritualwisdomof thecross.AndevenwhileI’mstrugglingtoexplain,Iknowitdoesn’talltieupneat.There’sjustsomethingsIdon’tunderstand.ButinmyheartIfeelit.”Jabezstoppedspeakingsuddenlyandglancedather,anxious.“Ohdear, I’m

sorry—I’mgoingontoomuch.Esme,I’msosorry—youmustbeboredoutofyourmind.Igetcarriedaway.I’msorry.”Esme sat looking at Jabez in some amazement. She had never met anyone

quite like this.He flushed slightly under the intrusion of her gaze and lookeddownathishands,grippedtogetherinsuddenembarrassmentbetweenhisknees.“Whatdidyousayyoudoforaliving?”shesaid.“Mendbicycles?”AndJabez’sheadshotup—stung,heflashedaglanceather,affronted.“That’s right,” he said, on the defensive. “That’s me. But I can read and

informmyselfaswellasanyman.AndIcanthink.Isthatokay?”“No,no!Ididn’tmean—ofcourseit’sokay—Ididn’tmeantoimplytherewas

anythingwrongwiththat,I’mjustsurprisedyouhaven’tchosento—er—”“Makesomethingofmyself?”TherewasadangerousglintinJabez’seye.Ember,whohad takenupherknittingwhileJabezwas talking,said,“Sixty-

nine years ago in January, the immortals in their grand stupidity made theblunderofenteringJabezFerrallfortheHumanRace.Allhedoneeversinceisdawdle along admiring the buttercups and the vetch that grow alongside thetrack.Hewon’tbecominginsecondplace,hewon’tbecominginthirdplace,nobodyevensuggestedhemighttryforfirstplace.Ifthegodsarekind,they’llwatch over him wandering along to the finishing line and give him a rosettesaying‘Ihadago.’He’sgotallhisgreymatterintact,inafunnyorderbethatasitmay;butyoucouldhardlyaccuseJabezofbeinganachiever.”Esmesmiled.“Isupposeitdependswhatyoumeanbyachievement. I’veno

idea what academic qualifications he may have, but he clearly has theintellectualcapacityforanything!AndIdon’tthinkIcouldmakealivingwiththeworkofmyhandslikehedoes.Isimplyhaven’tgottheskills.Speakingofwhich, Jabez, itoccurs tome—should Ihave the lawnmowerat theparsonagelookedatbeforethesummer?Orwillitjustbeallright?”Jabez,relaxing,relievedtobeletoffthehook,placedasmalllogonthefire

andasked,“Whatdidyouhavedonetoitlastyear?”“Lastyear?Nothing.Imowedthelawnonceortwicewhenthegrassgotlong

andemptiedtheclippingsontothecompostheap,andthenIjustputitbackintheshed.”

“Didyoucleanit?”“Well—no,Ididn’tactually.”“Last time I serviced that mower was two summers before you came. Is it

runningallright?”“I think so. I mean, I didn’t find it very easy to start, and it coughs and

spluttersabit—butitcutthegrass.Wouldyou—shouldIhaveitserviced?HowoftendoyoudoMarcus’s?”“Ilookitoverbeforehestartscuttinginthespringandbeforeheputsitaway

intheautumn.Areyouaskingmetocomeandseetoyours?”“Well,ifthat’sokay.Ifyoudon’tmind.Howmuchdoyoucharge?”“Oh,well…passmeyourmug.”Jabezbegantogatherthethingstogetheron

the tea tray.Esmehadanoddsenseofseeinghisspirit furling,ofwithdrawal,andaquietshutteringofhissoul.“Thursdaybeallrightforyou?”hesaid.“IgottogointoSoutharbourthento

have a look at the window frame in the bathroom at your superintendent’sparsonage.Icouldcomeonafter.Beaboutthreeo’clockIexpect.”“Thatwouldbereallyhelpful,”saidEsme.Thissoundedlikesomethingofa

dismissal,andshestoodup,concernednottooutstayherwelcome.“It’sbeeneversokindofyoutoinvitemeinfortea.Itfeelslike,well,sortof

likehomehere.You’vedonemenoendofgood.”Jabezstraightenedupwiththetray.Helookedpleased.“Next time you come,” said Ember, without looking up from her knitting,

“youcanbringsomemoreoftheybunsifyoupassthroughBrockhyrstPriory.Iliked’em.It’snicetohaveatreat.Maybetheydococonutmacaroons?”“Ember!Forpity’ssake!Youcan’t—youmustn’t—”Jabezblinkedanxiously,

andEsmecouldn’thelplaughingathim.“Theydo,asithappens,”shesaid.“I’llbringboth.”Embernodded,continuingserenelywithherknitting.JabeztooktheteatrayouttothekitchenandEsmefollowedhim.Shestoodin

thedoorwaytotheyard.Therainhadstopped,butthewindstillblewcold.“Thankyou,Jabez,”shesaid,turningbacktofacehimbeforeshewentonher

way.“It’sfeltsonicebeingheretoday.Imean—”shehesitated,feelingshy;“—likebeingwithfriends.”Jabezstoodwiththedishclothinhishands,lookingdownatit.Henodded.“I’llseeyouThursday,then,”hesaid.“Esme!”hecalledafterherasshewentoutintotheyard.Shestopped.“Esme,

when you come again, bring your car up into the yard. There’s room. Don’tleaveitparkedontheroad.”“Oh,I think it’sokaythere,”shesaid.“Iknowitblocks thepavementabit,

andIknowEmberdoesn’tlikethat,butIparkitcarefullysopedestrianscangetby.”“Yes, but…” He shrugged his shoulders and buried his hands deep in his

pockets, offering her a brief sideways glance. “Traffic comes by closesometimesandbesidesthat…Bringyourcarintotheyard,Esme;don’tleaveitparkedontheroad.”“Well,okay,ifyouthinkso.Thanksanyway.Bye-bye!”As shewent on her way, Esme felt a warmth of acceptance and belonging

somewhereatthecenterofherbeing.Nexttimeyoucome…Whenyoucomeagain. She stowed their words away as a secret treasure of belonging. I lovethose two. They’re amazing. I love that cottage, she thought. She walkedcheerfully down the path to her car, smiling at the thought of Ember lookingforwardtomacaroons.Jabez went back into his kitchen, checked the firebox in the Rayburn, and

threwinacoupleofsmalllogsfromthebasket.Hepickedupthetinoftobaccofromthetableandrolledhimselfacigarette.Hestoodleaningagainstthestoverail,smokingreflectively,verystill.After a shortwhile Ember came into the kitchen. Shewashed up themugs

theyhadusedandemptiedtheteapot.

“’Tisn’t likeyou to invite somebody in,” she remarked, drying the crockeryandhangingthemugsontheirhooksbeneaththeshelfbesidethetable.“Ilikeher,Jabez,”shesaid.Theireyesmet,andheheldhergaze,buthesaidnothing,hadnoneedto.“Youwanttoroll’emthicker,”saidEmber.“Thatthing’sgoneout.”

Though she andMarcusworshipped atBrockhyrstPriory, on the afternoonofHolySaturday,HildaGriffiths tooka largearmfulofdaffodilsandagenerousmound of greenery from the garden to help decorateWilesGreen Chapel forEasterDay.She returned from this mission to findMarcus relaxing in the sitting room

withacupofteaandtheSaturdayTelegraph.“Do you know, my dear,” she said conspiratorially, “I’ve just seen Pam

ColemaninthevillageasIwascomingawayfromthechapel.”“Really?”Marcustriedunsuccessfullytosoundimpressed.“And,doyouknow,shesaysshe’sseenEsmegoingintoJabezFerrall’splace

threetimesthisweek!Parkshercarrightoutsideontheroad!”“Well, I should think she’swise to do that,”Marcusmurmured vaguely. “I

expectJabez’syardhasbeenclutteredupwithbitsoflawnmowerbelongingtopeoplelikemewiththefirstsignoffairweather.”Hilda perched herself on the chair opposite him, and leaned toward the

screeningTelegraph,nottobeputoff.“I said to Pam, ‘I expect she’s looking for a bike, dear—I know she was

interestedtofindone;MarcusrecommendedhertotryMr.Ferrall.’But,really!Threetimesinoneweek!Ithinkit’sabitindiscreet!Inapersonofherstanding—don’tyouthinksheshouldknowbetter?Afterall,anodd-jobman!Andrightunderournosesinthevillage!What’smore,Mr.FerrallmustbetwiceEsme’sage!”

“Twiceherage?”Marcusloweredhispaper,disregardingthecrumplingofitspages,hiseyesvaguelyaglow.“Twiceherage?Then,mydear,thetimemustbeauspicious for them, if your surmise is correct, and they have embarked on anowdeepeningfriendship.Becauseonlyinoneyearofyourrespectivelifetimescanyoubetwicesomeoneelse’sage.”“Marcus, whatever are you talking about?”Hilda’s tone grew petulant, and

she flung up one hand in a gesture of frustration. “He’s twice her age and healwayswillbe!”Marcus’sgazeresteditslambentgleamuponher.“Not at all,mydear, you are surely not considering. SupposingEsme to be

thirty-five and Jabez to be seventy—though I amnot as convinced as you arethatthegapissoverygreat;IshouldhaveputEsmemorenearlyatfortymyself.But,takingtheseagesascorrect—forsurelyJabezFerrallisnoteightyyearsold,then hewould indeed be twice Esme’s age. Yet, in the year Esmewas born,whennodoubtJabezwouldthenhavebeenalreadythirty-five,hewasclearlyatthattimefarmorethantwiceherage;ashewouldhavebeenwhenshewaseight—orsixteen.But, as shegrewolder, shewouldhavegainedonhim,until shehas this year, if you are right, achieved the triumphofbecominghalf his age.Therefore,bythetimesheisseventy(giventhatishispresentage,thoughasfaras I amawarehehasnot in realitycelebratedhis seventiethbirthdayyet), shewillbetwo-thirdshisage,forhewillbythenbeonlyahundredandfive.And,shouldhelivetobe140(thoughbythesoundofhiscoughnowIthinkhemaynot),whybythenshe,at105,willbethree-quartershisage;timethusperhapsmoving more slowly for Jabez Ferrall than it does for Esme—as indeed thethoughtful observermight in any casededuce from the relative tempoof theirlifestyles—thoughnodoubtitseemstocrackonfastenoughtohim.Whoknowsbut,ifhecouldonlylivelongenough,shecontinuingthustogainonhim,onedayshemightsofaradvanceastobetwiceasoldasheis!”Hildaeyedhimwithuncertaintyandsuspicion.

“But…”shepausedtocomputeinhermind,“thatcouldn’thappen,mydear,”shesaidfirmly,adding,afterapause,anoteofuncertaintycreepingin,“couldit?”ButMarcus had returned to his paper, declining to take further part in the

conversation.“No…”hemurmuredabsently,hisvoicebarelyaudible,not thefaintesthintofencouragementinhistone.

A

FOUR

sthedayslengthenedandwarmed,andfullsummerburgeonedinthegreatgreen canopy of leaves, Esme delighted in the sparkle of sunlight on the

oceanwhen shewas in Southarbour and the country lanes adornedwithwildflowersasshedroveouttoBrockhyrstPrioryandWilesGreen.Withsomereluctance,becauseshewouldratherhaveboughtsomethingfrom

him,Esme accepted Jabez’s reiterated advice to choose amodern, lightweightbicycle.Hefoundheroneinthe“ForSale”columnsinthefreenewspaperandcamewithhertohavealookatitbeforeshepurchasedit.At first, as spring blossomed into summer, she restricted herself to modest

cycling forays at quiet times of the day—round the corner to the grocer’s oralong to Portland Street for worship and evening meetings. Then, moreadventurous, in the warmth of the long summer days, she cycled out toBrockhyrst Priory for her pastoral visiting; and by the middle of August, thesevenmilestoWilesGreenseemedentirelymanageablegivenadaywithanot-too-crowdedschedule.Shefeltstrongerandfitter,movedeasier.Everynowandthen she had hopes of losing weight, but cycling increased her appetite.Somehowitseemedlessimportant;shelikedherselfbetterthanshehad.Herhairwentblondeinthesun,andherskinbrown,andlifeseemedgood.SheknewthatmuchofhercontentmentcamefromherfriendshipwithJabez

and Ember, whom she visited several times in the week. She would call inwhenever she passed throughWiles Green; and on her day off, or if she feltlonelyoratalooseend.Withoutceremony,theymadeherwelcome.Sittingonthe floor of Jabez’s workshop, watching his capable hands patient on a task,

mending and making, coaxing the best out of worn machinery most peoplewouldhavethrownaway,Esmefeltutterlyathome.Oncolderdaysshewouldlightthefireatthebackoftheworkshop,andthecatwouldclimbontoherlapasshesatontheedgeoftheashes.Mostdays,throughthesummer,Jabezworkedoutintheyard,andthenshewouldsitinthesunshine,restingherbackagainstthewallofthecottage.Theytalkedaboutsomanythings,andsometimessilencelaycompanionablebetweenthem.Early on in this friendship, Esme had been puzzled by the relationship

betweenJabezandEmber.“AreyouandEmber—isEmberyourpartner?”sheaskedhimon theday in

latespringthatJabezcheckedoverthebicycleshehadboughtasshesatontheedgeofhisworkbench,amugofteainherhands.Helookedup,startled.“Ember’seighty-six!”hesaid.“Notthatageneedsto

beabar,”headded,returningtohistask;“’tiswhoyouarenothowoldyouarethatcounts.But…Godsaveus…”Hestraightenedup,gazingsightlesslyoutthroughtheyarddoor,alookofabsolutehorroronhisfaceasthethoughtsunkin:“ImaginebeingmarriedtoEmber!”“Somebodywas,once,”saidEsme.Heglancedatherandlaughed.“Yes,”hereplied,“butnotforlong.”He looked at the bike from all angles, having examined, cleaned, and oiled

partsofittohissatisfaction,thenpronounceditfitforuse.“Yougotagoodbuy,”heapprovedandpickedupthealmost-coldmugoftea

waitingforhimbesideEsmeonthebench.“Ember’slivedinthevillageforever,”hesaid,“butshegate-crashedmylife

afterMaevedied.Iwasinastate,then.Inpieces,tobehonest.Emberturnedupat thecottageoneevening,asking if Iwould fillherThermosflaskwithsometea.Shehadaverysmallclapboardcottage,dilapidated;fallingdownitwas,butshedidn’tcare.Shecookedoutsideonafireinthebackgardenwhenitwasfineandonherfireindoorswhenitrained.Ithinkshedidmostofwhatshehadtodo

outside,butshehadwaterlaidonthere—onetapifmymemoryservesmeright.Shecame tomycottagebecause avarietyof thingshadhappenedall at once.She wasn’t very well, which is unusual for her; she’d had an intruder, anunpleasantyoungmanwho threatenedherwithallmannerof thingswhenshesawhimoff,whichshedidinnouncertainterms.Andthewasherhadgoneonhertap.AThermosofteasoundedabitinsufficient,andIofferedherabedforthenight,becauseitwasduskandsheseemedrathervulnerable—”hegrinned,“—Ididn’tknowherverywell,then!Shecameinandhadameal,andIthoughtitwasmedoingheragood turn,but Iwas sograteful for someone to talk to.Everythingstillhurtinaveryrawwaythen,anditallcamepouringout,andshelistened.Shehadnoadviceandnoplatitudes,whichwasarelief.Isortedhertapwasherforherinthemorning,andshewentbacktohercottageforawhile.Myplacewasinabitofamess;I’dletitslip,lostinterestinlifeandmyself,really;and after that night Ember came and cooked for me and did some basichousework—very basic, is Ember’s housework. She wouldn’t have anypayment,butsheatewithme,andafterawhileitseemedsenseforhertomovein.Afterall,she’sgettingonabit.Soshesolduphercottage—orinrealtermsIsupposeyou’dsayshesoldthelandhercottagestoodon,becausenoonecouldhavelivedinthatruinbutEmber.Thatwasaboutfouryearsago.Wegetonallright, but no—” he smiled, “—she certainly isn’t my partner. There you are,then; that looksgood to ride.Whathidden faults ithaswillnodoubtshowuplater.”Hedrainedthemugandputitbackonthebench.“Happycycling.You’llgetgooduseoutofthat.”AsEsmegainedinconfidenceandexperienceinherministry,establishingher

own style as a pastor, her own role in the community, she found thatwhen itdrainedher,when shewas confusedor bewilderedor discouragedor tired, aneveningcurleduponthesofabythefireinJabez’scottagewouldrestoreherandbringherbacktopeace.Therewere timeswhensheneededJabezandEmberverymuch.AsGladys

Taylor’s illness progressed through that summer,Esme spent asmuch time asshecouldwithher;visitingherinhospital,sittingbyhernursing-homebed.Sheknew itwas routinework foraminister, so it tookherbysurprise todiscoverhowfarhersoulslippedoutofitscustomaryhousingtowalkwithGladysontheunearthlypathsofspiritasGladysbeganthelongjourneyoutofthisworld.Afterward,onthedayofthefuneral,whentheservicewasoverandGladys’s

body committed to cremation, Esme shared in the tea and sandwiches thatfollowedatWilesGreen,andthentookrefugewithEmberinthecottage—Jabezwasoutfixingsomeone’shencoopthathadbeendisastrouslycompromisedbyafox.Embermade tea and said little, didn’t resort toherusual sardonicbanter,listenedwhile Esme told her the story of Gladys’s commonplace dying, tearsslippingdownherface.“Youdonewell,mylove,”wastheonlycommentshemade.Esmerealizedthatsomethinghadeasedinherbeing;thattheordinarytroubles

ofhercongregationnolongerchafedonher;herhouseboundelderlymembers’anxiouspreoccupationsandfixationswithpresentillnessandpastrelationshipsnolongerirritatedher;shehadtimeforthemandaffection.Shewonderedifthiswasbecauseof JabezandEmber,whoaskednothing,butalwayshad time forher.Apart fromthesicknessandsorrowtowhichshewasoftenwitness,and the

ongoing difficulties presented by the responsibility for aging and decayingbuildingscarriedlessandlesseffectivelybyaginganddwindlingcongregations,oneofthegreatestchallengesEsmemetinanaverageweekwasthatoftryingtokeep the peace between some of the stronger personalities of her chapelcommunities.Sometimes thepersonaleffortof tactanddiplomacyrequiredbythisalmostexhaustedher.AtPortlandStreet,shehadmadeahugemistake.Herproperty steward had stepped down from office after nine years of smoothlyfielding the emergencies and routine dilemmas ofmanaging the premises. Toreplacehim,shehadbeendelightedtosecurethewillingservicesofaquietand

reticentmanwhohadbeenamanager fora largeelectrical supplierbeforehisretirementsevenyearsago.Withhorror,havingappointedhernewsteward,shewatchedas,intheintoxicationofnewpower,heblossomedintosomethingakintoamilitarydictator, so that in turn the leadersof theplaygroup, theMothersandToddlers group, theBrownies, theBoysBrigade, the karate club, and thewomen’smeetingcalledonthephoneor inpersoninstatesof indignationanddistress.ThelongsagaofwhatEsmeafterwardthoughtofasTheBlutackWartookmostofherenergiesforseveralweeks.It was easier when she herself bore the brunt of the oddities of her church

members.Asenseofhumorwasusuallysufficient,evenwithMissTrigg.ThechapelatWilesGreenhadnocentralaislebuttwoaislesoneithersideof

themainblockofpewsandflankedbythesmallersideblocks.Attheconclusionofworship,Esme,havingblessedhercongregation,wouldmakeherwayfromthepulpitdownoneaisle, throughthedoorat thebackinto theSundayschoolroom,where shewould bemet, greeted, and thanked by the steward on dutyemergingfromthedooratthefootofthecorrespondingaisleontheothersideofthechapel.Thiswasoftenamomentof friendlyandkindly fellowship—abrief time to

commenton theweather andcatchupon the steward’shomenewsbefore therestofthecongregationfinishedtheirpersonalconcludingprayers,greetedeachother,andmadetheirwayoutofthechurch.This brief moment of fellowship metamorphosed into an ordeal on the

occasionswhenMissTrigg’s turn cameon the stewards’duty roster.Zealous,grim-faced, and overlooking nothing, shewould greet Esmewith a list of thetheological shortcomings of her preaching, as often as not demanding anexplanation.ThefirsttimeEsmeventuredallthewayouttoWilesGreenonherbicyclefor

evening worship (Miss Trigg approved this mode of transport, being botharduousandfrugalandthusremindingherofheryouth)onadrySundayaftera

wetweek inearlyAugust,herdutystewardfor theservicewasMissTrigg. Inthe vestry before worship, Esme was as charming as she knew how to be,enquiringsolicitouslyaftertheconditionofMissTrigg’shiatalhernia,thewell-beingofhernieces,andtheprogressofhervegetablegarden.MissTrigg,whosearthritiseasedinthesummer,ineasygoingmood,feltdisposedtobepleasant.Afterworship,withakindlysmile,shehadpreparedhercompliment.“When you came to us,” she said, advancing to shakeEsme’s hand as they

emergedthroughtheirrespectivedoors,“theysaidyoupreachedgoodsermons;theysaidyoupreachedwonderfulsermons!”ShecontemplatedEsmefromunderthebrimofherfelthat.“Well,Ihaven’theardanyyet.ButIthoughttonight’swasalittlebetter.”“Thankyou,” saidEsme,weakly.Straight after leadinganactofworship, a

preacherhasverylittleinthewayofdefenses.When she had shaken the hands of her congregation, enquired after their

various ongoing life situations, and seen themon theirway, she foundherselfaloneagainwithMissTrigg,who,withanarmfulofhymnbooksreceivedfromthedepartingworshippers,stoodadmiringherbicycle.Theychattedforawhileabouttheolddaysbeforethewar,whenMissTriggasayoungwomanhadbeenable to reach terrifying speeds freewheeling down Stoddards Hill, and MissTriggenquiredgeniallywhereEsmehadacquiredherbike.As theywanderedacrosstothebookshelvesandEsmepickedupherpaperstostowinthebasketJabezhadfixedonherhandlebars,sheexplainedabouttheadvertisementinthenewspaper and added thatMr. Ferrall in the village had been kind enough tolookthebikeoverbeforesheboughtit.“Mr. Ferrall? Oh, so you’ve met him, have you?”Miss Trigg replaced the

hymnbooks in the shelves with a certain veiled violence. Esme waited forwhatevermightfollow.ShehadafeelingMissTrigghadnotfinished.“Backslider,Mr. Ferrall is,” continuedMiss Triggwith the particular air of

vicious relish shekept formattersofdisapproval.Esmewaited, intrigued.Her

imaginationwastryingunsuccessfullytofitJabezintothecontextofthischapelcongregation.“Knownhimallmylife.”MissTriggslappedthelasthymnbookintolinewith

itsfellows.“HewasinmySundayschoolclasswhenhewasalad.”Esme’s eyebrows rose. Jabez inMiss Trigg’s Sunday school?However old

mustshebe?“A quiet lad,” rememberedMiss Trigg, “and quick at his lessons.Quick to

learn and to remember. Always had his verse ready, from the week before.’Course,hehadagoodstart—hismotherwaschapel.Sheusedtobringhim,notjust send him, every week: Faithful, was Alice Ferrall. And a true believer.Washed in the blood of the Lamb. From sixteen. But Silas Ferrall, he was afreethinker!”MissTriggflashedaglanceofabsoluteknowledgeatEsme—“Thesinsofthefathers!”sheexplained.“AliceFerralldiedwhenJabezwasfourteen.”MissTriggnarrowedhereyes

andleanedinalittletowardEsme.“Andsincethatdayhe’ssetfootinachurchbuttwice.Oncetomarryawomanandoncetoburyher.Andthatwaschurch,notchapel.Backslider.There’snoredemptionforsuchas’e.Onewho’sknownthewaysoftheLord.Whichhedid.Onewho’sputhishandtotheploughandlookedback.He’snotfitnowforthekingdomofGod.That’stheWordoftheLord.HaveyouyourkeyoramIlockingup?”As she cycled home from this encounter, Esme turned it over in hermind,

consciousofadivergenceofpossibleresponsesopentoher.ShecouldchoosetoconfrontMissTrigghead-on,takingissuewithherstrangetheologyandflagrantbigotry.Shehadasuspicionthatsoonerorlaterthismightbenecessary,becauseMiss Trigg’s disapproval of her resulted in a steady low-key campaign ofundermining that would bring them in time face-to-face—unless her pastoralinputinsicknessorpersonaltragedyinsomepresentlyunforeseeneventshouldwin her that allegiance of gratitude that can bridge any depth of doctrinalmismatch.

Orshecouldchoose tocontinuewithherpresentcourseofcarefulcourtesy,agreeingwith everything shecould find to agreewith,persistingwith friendlyovertures, andworking at damage limitation among themembers of her flockwounded by Miss Trigg’s ruthless promotion of her views, undertaken withunflagging scrupulosity as a biblicalwitness. Esme disliked confrontation andknewthat thewayshehandled things,sympathizingbehindMissTrigg’sbackwiththeenemiesshemade,waslessthanhonest.Yetshealsoknewthat,becauseoftheresponsibilityofauthoritysheheld,if

sheevertookMissTriggonindirectandoutrightbattle,itwasessentialshewinthe fight, or Miss Trigg’s grip on that long-suffering congregation would beunbreakableandwouldbeaproblemforanypastorfollowingEsmeaswellasEsmeherself.Therewassomethingmorebesides.IfEsmewonthatfight,MissTrigg,who

was eighty-one, would be broken and would have to retire from battle inhumiliation. Her aggressive religion and self-righteous posturing arose partlyfrom narrow experience of life and loyalty to those she had loved and thetraditions they had instilled in her, but also covered, Esme felt sure, a deepinsecurityandlackofself-esteem.MissTriggwasabully,andbulliesarebrittleandfrail.Shemustjustcarryonwithherpresentapproachfornow—keepthingssweet.Timewouldtell,andthebalanceofrelationshipsinthefaithcommunitywasalwaysanevolvingdynamic.When she offered herself to serve as an ordained minister, Esme had not

imagined that her energies would be so occupied with the shadowboxingexercise of negotiating the minefield of intricate relationships among thepersonalities of the chapel communities. She had imagined spiritual battles inintercession alongside dedicated prayer warriors; she had imagined herselfempoweringthefaithfulbyhercollaborativestyleofministry;shehadimaginedapersonaldisciplineofprayerand theologicalstudy, refreshedbya rhythmofretreats—notkeepingherheaddownwiththelowstealthandcunningofafoxin

thewilyaccomplishmentofthesmallestachievements,alongwithapermanentlow-grade exhaustion that made the tasks of prayer and theological study sounattractive.Spacetobreatheanddreamandbeistheessentialfoundationunderlyingany

programofreadingandprayer.Esmeknewthisbutwatchedhelplesslyaseveryday and all her energywere relentlessly swallowed by the unending round ofexpectationsandjobstobedone.Itseemedimpossibletoclawbacktheamountof time necessary for an adequate routine of spiritual refreshment. Time andagain, in the vestry, before worship began, beneath the prayer the stewardofferedaloudtoGod,Esmeslippedinherownsilententreaty,I’msorry,God,I’m sorry—I haven’t given this enough prayer or thought or time. Feed thembecausetheyareyourflock.Theyshouldbefedbecauseofme—butfeedtheminspiteofme,foryourlove’ssake.Inherpreaching,sheknewshehadaddedverylittleoffreshinsightinthelast

fewyears.Shestillreliedontheresourcesofherordinationtraininglecturesandwasgratefulthatoversightofthreedifferentchapelsmeantmostsermonshadaminimumofthreerunsbeforetheyhadtobediscarded.Cyclingthroughthefadinglightof theevening,Esmeturnedall thisover in

hermindasshehadsomanytimes.OnthesteepinclinesweepingdowntowardBrockhyrst Priory, preoccupied with the perplexity of how to pick her waythrough everything with some kind of spiritual integrity, she almost collidedwithasquirrelthatscamperedacrossherpath,stoppedsharplytoavoidhurtingit,andfeltherbrakessuddenlygo.Thesquirreldashed tosafety,andEsmeswervedsideways into thehedge to

avoidpickingupanymorespeedonthewaydownthehill.Feeling silly, and grateful for the deserted road, she freed herself from

entanglementwith the twigs and thorns, dismounted, andwalked down to thefoot of the hill, then cycled the rest of the way home to Southarbour withcaution,stowingthebikeintheshedwiththeintentionofdealingwithitlater.

ThoughAugust was often a slowmonth, Esme had a busyweek, occupiedwith hospital visiting, officiating at two funerals on behalf of colleagues onholiday,thenaweddingtodoontheSaturday.AsshepreparedhersermonforSunday morning, Esme reflected that she had been two years in her presentappointment,withlittlesofartofeelproudof.At Brockhyrst Priory morning worship, she thought about the difference it

madetohaveacheerfulandpleasantstewardonduty,asMarcusmetheratthedoor with a smile, unobtrusively available as she organized her papers in thepulpit and spoke to the organist, and ready to accompany her into the vestrywhenshewasreadytogothere.Inthevestry,duringthetenminutesremainingbeforethetimeforMarcusto

sayaprayerwithherandprecedeherintothebodyofthechapel,theychattedamiably,EsmeenquiringafterHilda’shealthandtellingMarcusaboutherbikeandhowmuchshewasenjoyingit.“Yes,I’vespottedyoufromtimetotime,whizzingbyoutinourneckofthe

woods.DidyoufindJabezFerrallanyhelp?”HenoddedasEsmespokeenthusiasticallyaboutJabez’skindnesstoher,both

inhishelpwiththebicycleandwithavarietyofminorrepairsathome.“Indeed,he’sagoodman.Veryable.Veryintelligent.I’mgladyou’vefound

himuseful.Idomyself.”“Yes, I’ve come across him getting your lawnmower ready for cutting the

grassinthespring.”“Oh well—” Marcus chuckled, “—he does sterling work. I always say to

Hilda, it’s important to take our custom to people in the village ifwewant aliving village community to continue. Otherwise it’ll just peter out into aholidaymakers’dormitory.Ican’treallyputmuchbusinessJabezFerrall’sway—butmaybeenoughcustomtohelpkeephimindieselforthatoldgreentruckof his—which he seems to have had from time immemorial and keeps on theroadbypatientdeterminationandconsummateskill.I’mgladyouwenttohim.

He’sretirednowreally,ofcourse,butIdoubtifhehasanysortofpensionfromwhatheused toearn.Andhemay look likea leprechaun,but I imaginehe isactually flesh andbloodandoccasionallyhas to eat somebreadwithhis free-rangeeggsandhislocalhoney.Whattimedoyoumakeit,Esme?Tentwenty-eightbymywatch.Areyoureadytopray?”Esmeheardnotawordofhisprayer,thoughshedidherbesttoconcentrate.

Jabezhadneveraskedforpayment foranyof thenumeroussmall jobshehaddone for her, and she felt suddenly sick with anxiety at the thought of himmanagingonastatepension,undertakingworkfornothingforawomanwithnodependentslivinginoccupationalhousingonastipendthatprobablyamountedtomorethantwicehisannualincome.ShefollowedMarcusintochapelfeelingwretched,fluffedhercalltoworship,

andhardlyrecoveredherconcentrationuntil two-thirdsof theway through thefirsthymn.Sheconsoledherself thenwiththerecollectionthat thefailureofherbicycle

brakeswouldrequirearepairforwhich,thistime,shewouldofferpaymentonaproperfooting.When the first prayerswere done, as she listened toMarcus giving out the

notices,welcominghertothepulpitandannouncingtheoffering,itoccurredtoEsmetowonderwhyheandHildaworshippedatBrockhyrstPrioryandnotinthechapelatWilesGreen.ShethoughtperhapstheyhadlivednearerBrockhyrstPriory before his retirement, and she asked him about this at the end of theservice,asshestoodwithhimbythedoorwaitingtogreetthepeople;hehavingshaken her hand and thanked her, commenting thoughtfully on some of thepointsshehadraisedinhersermon.Theseconddoorstewardstoodafewfeetaway,replacingunusedhymnbooks

intotheemptyshelves.“The chapel atWiles Green—well—um—Wiles Green…”Marcus seemed

embarrassedbyherquestion.“Imean,Ihopeyou’llbeunderstanding,Esme,ifI

say that the chapel style atWilesGreen is just a bit too holy forme. I’m anordinary chap, really. Please don’t misunderstand me. My faith is of hugeimportancetome.But…”Esmelookedathim.“It’sMissTrigg,isn’tit?”Marcusshifteduncomfortablyand lookeddownathis feet.“MissTrigg isa

forceatWilesGreen,certainly,”hesaid,andthen,valiantly,“WhatwouldWilesGreenChapelbewithoutherthough,eh?”“Alotnicer,”interjectedhisfellowsteward,withoutturningfromstowingthe

hymnbooks.Marcuslookeddiscomfited.“I absolutely didn’t hear that,” he said, his face clouding. “Esme, they’re a

longtimecomingoutthismorning.Youstayheretoshakepeople’shands,andI’llgoandfetchyouacupofcoffee.”As she greeted her flock straggling out of the church and through into the

afternoonof thatday,Esmecontinued tobroodon theproblemofMissTrigg.She wished something would alter or give in the situation without directintervention. The church had to have a place for everyone, an unconditionalacceptanceof even themost awkwardpersonality.Thedifficulties camewhenone individualwassohard to relate to that thecommunityasawholebecamediscouraged, newcomers felt alienated, and the faithful unobtrusively driftedaway. Given that Miss Trigg had already lived eighty-one years, a naturalsolution lay in the not too distant future, but Esme hoped a less negativepossibilitycouldbefound.Besideswhich,MissTrigglookedastoughasbakedleather,withplentyoflifeinheryet.ShewasstillonEsme’smindafterthecloseofworshipintheevening.Esme

hadbeenpreaching in her superintendent’s chapel atWestParade, in thenexttownalongthecoastfromSoutharbour.ShedroveacrosscountrytowardWilesGreen, tired at the end of the day. Sunday preaching always drained her ofenergy, and the habit she had acquired over the summer of spending an hourwith Jabez andEmber had transformed the feeling of Sunday evening from a

fretful,spent,overwearinesstoasatisfiedsenseofcompletion.She turnedoff the roadandup theunmade track thatcurvedbehindJabez’s

cottage into his yardwith a sense of homecoming. She felt that she belongedhereassheknockedonthekitchendoorandletherselfin.Inthecottage,althoughtheeveningwaswarm,asduskapproachedJabezhad

litafire inthesittingroom,andEmbersat inherusualchairwithherknittingwhile Jabezhadabookonhis lap inhis armchairby the fire.Hehad left theRayburn togoout,and theirkettlestoodona trivet, fastened to thegrate, thatcouldbeswungroundovertheflames.Esme curled up in the corner of the sofa and told them about her day. She

askedJabezaboutbeinginMissTrigg’sSundayschoolclass,andhesmiled,andreminisced about the other children and their experience of chapel fifty yearsago.Hespokeaboutgoingtoeveningworshipwithhismother,abouthowmuchithadmeanttoher,andhowpleasedshehadbeenbyhisowndevoutleaningsinthosedays.“Yes.IgavemylifetoJesus.Isupposehe’sstillgotit.Idon’tseemtohave

onemyself.AndIinvitedhimintomyheart.And—”helookedatEsmewithasudden defiance, “—he’s still there, whateverMiss Triggmay have told you.Somewhere.Bitdustyperhaps.ThepoorcarpenterofNazareth.”Hebentdownandpickedupthepoker,proddedthelogstogetheronthefire,

and poked the trivet, onwhich the kettle had begun towhine, aside from theflames.Thenherelaxedhishandandlettheendofthepokerrestonthehearth.“DearLord,whatmustitbelike?”hesaidquietly.“Alltheseyears.Aprisoner

intheheartofsuchasme.’Tisn’ttruethen,whattheysayabouthell.He’sthere,too.Wewerequiteastretchtheretogether.”With a sudden smile ofmischief, Esme remembered and recounted to them

Miss Trigg’s glowering remarks on the state of Jabez’s soul, his ignominiouscondition as a backslider, unfit for the kingdom of God. She laughed at thememory,butJabezsaidnothing.

Ember startled them both by spittingwith sudden force into the fire,whichhissedbackather.Shelookedintotheflamesforafewseconds,andthenturnedherfiercegazeuponthem.“Iliketoknow,”shesaidbelligerently,“whatkindofkingdomthiskingdom

of heaven be; all peopled withMiss Triggs and slamming its doors on JabezFerrall.Soundsahellofaplacetome.Ichoosemywordwithcare.NowondertheirGod’salwayssomiserable.I’dbethesamemyselfifIhadthegoverningofit.Suchakingdomasknowsnothingofthemeaningofgentleness.Troublewithchapel is all their eternityoffers them is a choiceofonehell or theother.Nowonder they all look as though they got indigestion. ’Tis all that doctrine; itrepeatson’em.Heavendefendusfromtheirsalvationifithasnopartinthelifeofsuchas’e.”Sheshuthermouthlikeatraponthecloseofthisvehementspeech,hersmall

eyes snapping and sparkling with her fury. Then, holding Esme’s gaze, lessangrybutnolesscompelling,sheadded,“Jabezisagoodman,andyouknowitwell.And if you let that eyesore tell youdifferent andyounever contradictedher,thenIhopeyou’reashamedofyourself.”Esmecouldnot thinkofanyadequate reply to this.Withoutbringing it into

consciousness, she vaguely registered the sense of dragging weariness thatunderlay everything in the years since she had been ordained. It came in nosmall part from the inescapable exposure to the relentless expectation andexcoriating blame of strong-minded old women. Somehow she had becometrappedinalifethatforeverheldherinadirectglaredemanding,“Well?”Shecouldfeelherselfblushing.Jabezdidnotlookather,buthewasswiftinhisrescue.“InevercouldstanduptoMissTriggmyself,”hesaid,“andshe’sright,Iam

unfitforthekingdomofGod.Ithoughtweallwere.Ihaven’tevenaspiredtobefitforit.I’dbeenhopingformercy,Ithink.AndMissTrigghastheedgeonme,becauseIhaven’tevendonemyselfcreditinthekingdomofearth,whichisless

fussyandmoreforgivingthanthekingdomofheaven.Atleastshe’shelddowna steady job and earned herself a pension:All I’ve achieved is a terror of thehumanraceandalifetimescrapingbyrepairingbicycles.Iadmireher.Shewasa doctor’s receptionist for forty years and very competent. She nursed hermotherfifteenyearsaninvalidinherownhome.Andsherunsthatchapellikeclockwork.”Silencefollowedthesewords,butnotforlong.Jabezhadhisheadbent,turned

awaytolooktowardthefire,buthecouldn’tignoreEmber’sgazeboringlikeapowerdrillintothesideofhishead.Heshifteduncomfortably.“What?”hesaiddefensively.“Doyou lie inbedatnightpracticing these ’umble things to say,ordoes it

come natural?” Ember demanded. “Because they trip off your tonguewith aneasethatastonishesme.LucyTriggisahorribleoldwomanandyouknowit.”“Practicing?Ember,that’sjustnotfair!”Hisheadjerkeduptolookather,his

faceflushedwithindignation.“Horribleoldwoman,isshe?Well,ittakesonetoknowone,anyway.”Embergrinnedathim,taunting,hereyessparkling.“That’smorelikeit,”she

said, her gaze holding his with the jaunty confidence of a very experiencedcombatant.But Jabez looked tired. Esme could see that whatever he thought of it

rationally,MissTrigg’sindictmenthadfounditsmarkandhurt.Shewishedshehadnevermentionedtheconversationandfeltunsureofhowtosalvethewoundshehadmade.“Bikerunningallright?”Jabezfoundawayoutoftheimpasse,settingMiss

Triggaside.“Youcame inyourcar tonight,didn’tyou? I thought Iheardyouturnintotheyard.”“That’sright—it’spartlywhyIcame,actually,butIforgotaboutitafterIgot

here.Ithinkthebrake’sbrokeninsomeway.IwascomingdownStoddardsHillquitefastintoBrockhyrstPriory,andIslammedthebrakesonforasquirrelout

thrill seeking, and theywent. Imanagedokay justgoinggentlyenough tousemyfootasabrake,butIwantedtoaskyouifyouwouldfixthemforme.WillyoubecomingouttoSoutharboursometimesoon?I’mnotsureI’dbequitesafecomingallthewayoutherewithoutbrakes.”“Youcertainlywouldnot!Cablesnapped,bythesoundofthings.IthoughtI’d

checkedthebrakesoutcarefully;theyshouldhavelastedyoulongerthanthis.Icancomeover tomorrowmorning—willyoube there?Giveme thekey to theshedifnot.I’lljustpickthebikeupandbringitbackhere,that’llbetheeasiest.”“D’youknow,”saidEsme,stillmindfulofthehurtshehadcausedbefore,“it

makessomuchdifferencetometohaveyouhere.Therehavebeenallmannerofthingsyou’vefixedandmendedforme:Yougivemeteaandtoastandyouchecktheoilinmycar—youmakemefeelsosafeandwelllookedafter.”Jabez’s eyes shone in a sudden smile and then, shyly, he bent to push the

kettle back over the fire. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly as he did this,“you’re welcome. You’re just part of the family.” He glanced across at her,happybutslightlyembarrassed.“Wouldyoulikeacupoftea,Esme?Ember?”Esmelaughed.“Ineverknewanybodydrinkasmuchteaasyoutwodo—but

yes,please.”“Tea’s good for you.” Jabez took thepot to empty the dregs from their last

drinkandputnew tea leaves in.“It’scleansing for thesystem,”hesaid,ashecamebacktothefiresideandinterceptedthenowshriekingkettle.“Isit?”askedEsmeinsurprise.“Ithoughttoomuchteawasbadnews.”“YoutakeapeepattheinsideofJabez’steapot,mylove,ifyouwanttosee

for yourself howcleansing it is,” saidEmber,whohadpickedupher knittingneedlesandwascastingonanewrow.“Hisgut’sasfulloftanninashislungsisfulloftar.I’specthegotfurred-uparteries,too,fromlivingoffthoseeggsfromhischickens.Notatubeinhisbodybutwillbeblockedwithsomekindofgunk.Onewayoranotherhisinnardsisprobablycoatedwithstuffamorefrugalmancouldharvestandsellintinsforshoepolish.”

“Thanks,Ember!”Jabezstirredtheteainthepot,pouringEsme’sfirstbecauseshelikeditweaker.“Idon’tlikeyousmoking,”saidEsmesoftly,ashehandedherthemugoftea.

“It’ssobadforyourhealth.”Jabezbegantolookslightlyharassed.“Idon’tsmokemuchindoors,notwhen

you’rehere.”“It’snotthatIminditforme—Ithinkyourtobaccosmellsquitenice.It’sthe

damagetoyourbodythatworriesme.”“Don’t you fret about Jabez,my love. Smoke?He don’t really smoke.You

everseenJabezwithacigaretteproperlyalight?Besides,he’snotgotthemoneyto smoke. He rolls they things so thin I could pass one through the eye of adarningneedle.”“Oh,”Esmelaughed.“Hedoesn’tsmokeCamelsthen!”Emberlookedatherblankly.“Camels,” Esme prompted. “The eye of a needle? Nevermind, Ember, it’s

nothing—itdoesn’tmatter.Camels—they’reakindofcigarette.”Jabezsatdowninhisarmchairbehindhiscupoftea.“Doesthishaveanend?”

he asked, amused but looking somewhat cornered, uncomfortable at being thefocusoftheirconversation.“Ihaven’tgotmanyvices.Comparedwithshootingcrackandhuntingfoxes,teaandcigarettesisfairlyinnocuous,isn’tit?Esme,areyouhungry?Didyouhaveabitetoeatordidyoucomestraightfromchurch?”Sheadmittedthatshewashungryandacceptedgratefullytheofferhemadeof

cheese sandwiches.Whilehewasout in thekitchenmaking them, she said toEmber,“Jabezhasbeensokindtome—andyouhave.Thingsgetabitwearingwhenyou’reonyourown.Really,I’meversograteful.”Emberturnedherknittingandsippedhertea.“Youmadeadifferencetohim,

too,mylove.Doanythingforyou,wouldJabez.Yougivenhimagreatdeal.”“I have?” Esme looked at her in surprise. “I sometimes feel a bit guilty

becauseIcomeheresomuchandletmyselfbefedandlookedafteranddon’t

giveanythinginreturn.”“That’sthethingyougivenhim,”saidEmber,thedarkbrightnessofhergaze

amid a thousand wrinkles contemplating Esme over the top of her knitting.“Jabezisn’thappywithouthegotsomeonetolove.Beenlikegivingapuppytoachild,havingyouturnuphereasyoudid.Donehimtheworldofgood.Suitsusall.”It was with a sense of well-being that Esme parted from them later in the

evening.Theyhadchattedaboutthisandthatandnothing,discussedtheparasiteinfection troubling the legs of one of Jabez’s hens, and the promising crop ofapples ripening inhisorchard.Emberdescribed toEsme thevariousgarmentsshehadknittedand themixedreactionswhenshepresented themasgifts,andhervividaccountmadeEsmelaugh.Whenshewentonherway,theconcernsofherworkhadreceded,andshefeltatpeace.Jabezcameoutintotheyardwithher.“Gocarefully,”hesaid,asheoftendid

whenshegotintohercar.“I’llbeoverinthemorning,toseetoyourbike.Justleavetheshedunlockedifyougoout.”ThestarswereshiningasEsmeleft,withthefirstscentofautumninthenight

air.

“Yourcable’ssnapped.”Esmehadastaffmeetingin themorningandreturnedtofindthatJabezhad

calledandtakenherbike.Shehadseveralvisitsinnursinghomestomakeintheafternoon, but drove out afterward to Wiles Green and found Jabez in hisworkshop,squattingdowntoexamineherbike,hiscatstretchedcontentedlyintheashesbythecomfortableglowthatsmokedundertheflue.“Iwonderifitwouldtakeoneabitthicker.Anyway,I’vebeenthinkingfrom

whatyou said Imighthave tightened thepivotbolts toomuchwhen Iput thebrakearmsback.It’sbeensowetandmuddyforthetimeofyear,morewearand

tear I expect—I better look at them. Don’t want you having an accident. Putanother stickor twoofwoodon the fire,andsityoudownby there—itwon’ttakemelong.”Heliftedherbikeontoastand,andkneltdownbesideit,lookingcriticallyat

thebrakesystem.“CanyoupassmetheAllenkey?”Helookedupatherswiftly,smiledatherblankincomprehension,andgottohisfeettofetchithimself.Esmepushedtogethertheglowingremainsoffirewoodinthebedofsoftgrey

ashandaddedsomesmalltwigstorekindleaflame.“YouwereveryniceaboutMissTrigglastnight,”shesaid.Thedrystickscaughtfire,andsheplacedsomelargerpiecesinapyramidon

top.“Ibelieveinbeingniceaboutpeople,”hereplied,andshewatchedhisfingers

deftlyremovingtheanchornutsandthewirefromthestraddleyoke,settingthebitscarefullybesidehim,dismantlingitsmysterieswithcompetence.“Besides,”he added, flashing her a glance ofmischief she thought almost reminiscent ofEmber,“MissTrigg’sdonealotforme—morethansheknows.”“Has she?” Esme looked at him in surprise, pleased and relieved to hear

somethinggoodaboutMissTrigg.Hehadthebitsonthefloorandlookedatthemall,wipingthemwithanoily

rag,turningthemovertolookforfaults.Hereachedacrosstoatinonthegroundnearhimandselectedapieceofemerypaper,sandedametalstud,examineditagain,sandeditsomemore,thenreachedthepaperbackintothetinandwipeddowntheparthehadsmoothed.“Goon,”saidEsme.“MissTrigg.”Jabezhesitated.“Well?”shesaidcuriously.Hetookabreath,uncertain,thenproceeded.“Igotmarriedinthe1960s.Iwas

twenty-six and Maeve was nineteen. We hadn’t been anywhere much, weweren’t sophisticated people. Brought up church and chapel, we were—a bit

innocent.Idon’tsupposeyourememberthe1960s.”“Notmuch,notreally.Imean,Iwasbornin1959,soIwaslittlewhileitwas

allhappening.Butwhat’sthatgottodowithMissTrigg?”Jabezwassatisfiedwiththestateofthebitshehadbeforehim,andfetchinga

length of cable he began to reassemble the cable housing, threading the wirethroughtheholeintheyokeanchorbolt.“Atthattime,MissTriggranayoungpeople’s fellowship at the chapel. I never went and Maeve was church notchapel,butMaeve’sfriendSusanalwaysusedtogo.”Hepulledthetintowardhimwithhisfreehandandrootedinitforaspanner.“Althoughyouwereonlyababeinthe’60s,I’msureyouknowitwasatimeofrevelationtousyoungfolkthen. There were books and magazines and things—pamphlets even. ‘Thingsyoualwayswantedtoknowandneverdaredask.’Areyouwithme?”“Yes,”saidEsme.Shesensedacertainreticenceinhim,andfeltsocuriousas

towhathewasgoingtotellherthatshehardlydaredbreatheincasehethoughtbetterofitandwithdrew.“Yes.Well, Susan—I don’t knowwho she got it from, a girl fromwork I

think;sheworkedinadressshopatSoutharbour—shehadthisbookletthathadcomefreewithamagazine that toldyouallkindof things.”Herummagedforhis cutters and trimmed thewire, then got up to find a cable end-cap from atobacco tin on his workbench. “About making love,” he explained,unnecessarily.He fitted the cap onto the cablewire and crimped it on tightwith a pair of

pliers.“Therewaseverythingyoucouldimagineinthislittlebook,”hesaid,“anda

fewthingsyou’dneverimagineandwouldn’tliketotry.”Hetossedthepliersbackintothetin.Esmewaited,fascinated.“SusangavethebooklettomeandMaeveforalaugh,youknow—’causewe

were gettingmarried.”He stoodup and tested the brakes, shakinghis head atthem. “That still isn’t quite right.” He squatted down by the bike. “It had

pictures,”headded.“IthinkIneedasmallerAllenkey.”He found it and adjusted the little center screw, tested the brakes again,

“That’sbetter,”andturnedhisattentiontolookingovertherestofthebike.“ButSusan,shewasabitofastirrer,andsheenjoyedbaitingpoorMissTrigg,

whomusthavebeenaboutyourageatthetime,thoughshelookedancienttous.Thatspoke’snotright.Darn,where’sthespokekeynow?”Hesearchedonhisworkbench.“Hereitis,”hesaidandreturnedtothebike,

removingthetireandthetubefromthewheel.“Sosheaskedheraboutthisbooklet.Idon’texpectshetoldherallthatwasin

it—Ihopenotanyway—butalotofit,andsheaskedherwhatayoungChristianpersonshouldthinkofit.”Havinglaidasidethetubeheremovedtherimtapehehadputin,unscrewed

thenipple,anddrewthespokeoutfromthehubflange.“Miss Trigg, as you might guess, told her it was all the Devil’s work,

wickednessandsinandacertainroadtodamnation.LikesomanyotherthingsMissTrigg never had the chance at.Dancing and theLondon theaters and aneveningatthepub.”Hedrewthebentspokethroughhisfingers,examiningit:“How’dyoudothat

then?Youbeenridingoffroad?”Hetookthespoketothebackoftheshedandmeasureditagainstsomethathe

keptthere,untilhewassatisfiedhehadanexactmatch.Hebroughtthembothback,laidtheoldoneontheground.“Bentbicyclespokesandtinfoilmakegoodbird-scarersforthepeas,”heremarked,andspunthewheeltotheplacethathewanted.“IsupposeMaeveandmehadabitofrebellioninus,elsewewouldn’thave

leftoffgoingtoSundayworship.Anyway,whenSusantolduswhatMissTrigghad said—”he pushed the spoke head through the eye in the flange andwithgentlepressureflexedittoweaveintorelationwithitsfellows,“—wethought

we’dhaveatryatthethingsinthisbook.”Hethreadedthespokethroughtheeyeattherimandpushedthenippleonto

theend.“Will you passme that can—not the three-in-one, the synthetic one—yes—

thanks.Andthelittlescrewdriver.Thatone.Withtheredhandle.Thanks.”He tightened the nipple, looked critically at the tension, tightened it a little

more, thenlookedroundforhisfile,andworkedat thesmallprotrusionof thespokeendonthewheelrim.“MeandMaeve,”hesaidsoftly,“wehadnoideahowmuchpleasurewasin

ourbodies.Thethingsyoucoulddowithhandsandtongue—maybeIshouldn’tbe discussing this with you, but you’ve been a married woman; I think youknow.”He began to turn the wheel, plucking each of the spokes gently at their

midpoint,hisheadcockedlikeabird,listeningtothepitchoftheirtension.“Not all thatwas in the little book appealed to us.We just likedwhatwas

gentle.”Hestoppedatthespokeoppositetheonehehadjustfitted,tighteningithalfa

turn,listeningagaintothetension.“SoIthinkmaybeIoweMissTriggsomethingforfortyyearsofthesweetest

pleasureinmymarriagebed.ItheightenedmyrespectforGod,whichIhavetosayismorethananythingelsemuchdidinmydealingswithher.”Heturnedthewheelslowly,feelingwithhisthumbforanyprotrusions.“Didyouevermakeloveoutside, inthefields,under thesky?”askedEsme,

wistfully.Hesmiled.“Wedidnot.There’salotofflintinthegroundinthispartoftheworld;and

plentyofthistles.”He lifted the bike from its stand and upturned it on the floor to rest on the

handlebarsandsaddle,settingthehandlebarsstraight.“Makinglove,”hesaid,squattingdownbehindthefrontwheel,checkingthe

alignmentwith thebackone,“should—inmyopinion—bedone inbed. ’Tisathingoftenderness,anditshouldbewarmandcomfortable.”Hestoodupandbentoverthetintolookforchalk.“Andprivate.”Spinning thewheel,hebrought thechalkslowlyagainst it to

markthehighpointsontherim.“YoumakeyourbedinafieldandtentoonethelikesofSeerEmberwillhavechosenthathillsideforaneveningramble,andhavethingstosaythatleaveyouhardlyknowingwheretoputyourself.”Hemade somemoreadjustments to the spokes, loosening, tightening,going

overthewholewheel.“Thatshoulddoit,”heremarked,andreplacedthetape,thetube,andthetire,andsetthebikeupright.Takingtheairpumpfromtheframe,hesaid,“Howeverdidwegetontothis

subjectanyway?”Heinflatedthetiretillhewashappywithitandcontinued,“Yougottokeep

thesetiresproperlyinflated,Esme,oryou’remorelikelytogetapuncture.Youshouldgoforthepressureleveltheygiveyouonthetirewall,butdon’tbetoogingerlywithit,youcouldtakeittotwicethatbeforeyoublewitofftherim.Ithinkthat’lldonow,therestofitlooksfine.”Shegottoherfeetandwenttoadmirehishandiwork.Heglancedathershyly.“IhopeIhaven’tbeentoofreeinmyconversation.I

somehowfeelIknowyouperhapsbetterthanIdo.”Ashestoodbeforeher,hisroughened,oil-blackenedhandsrestinglightonthe

handlebarsofherbicycle,hisheadalittlebentandhiseyelidsveilinghiseyesinawkwardmodesty,shehardlylikedtosaythatheroverwhelmingimpulsewastoputherarmsroundhimandhughim.“You do knowme better than you do,” she said, “and you’re a darling for

fixingmybike.”It ismyambition,Esmethought,ashisheaddroppedstill further tohidehis

face,shybutpleasedatwhatshehadsaid,tohavethismanabletolookatmeformorethantwosecondsatatime.

“Shall I put it outside while you tidy the things away?” she asked, justallowing her fingers to touch his as she put her hands on the saddle and thehandlebars.Hereleasedthemfromhishandsinstantly,andtookastepback,hisheelcrashingagainstthetinontheconcretefloor,startlinghim.“Thankyou,”hesaid,“butjustsetitagainstthewall.Ithinkit’scomingonto

rain again, and—oh, but I’m sorry, maybe you must be going? I was justassumingyou’dlikeacupoftea.IknowIwould.”Knowingshewouldbeathiscottagelaterintheday,Esmehadavoidedteaall

day,drinkingcoffeeatherstaffmeeting,anddecliningtheoffersofdrinksfromkindlystaffinthenursinghomes.Inhiskitchen,shesatononeofthestoolsbythetablewatchingJabezsetthe

kettletoboilandthenscrubtheoilfromhishandsatthesink.“Jabez,”shesaid,withsuddenmisgivingsaboutthesimplequestionshehadto

ask,“howmuchdoIoweyouforthiswork?”JabezlookedatherbrieflyashecrossedthesmallspacetotheRayburnand

took a dishtowel from its rail to dry his hands. “You owe me nothing. Mypleasure,”he said ashe leanedpasther to reach the tea caddydown from theshelf.“No,really,Jabez,thisisyourliving,”sheinsisted.“Ifyousupplyfreeparts,

freelabor,andfreedeliverytoallyourfriends,you’llbebankrupt.”He spooned tea leaves into the pot in silence, fetchedmilk from the fridge,

turnedtoshooawayahenappearingincautiousinquiryatthedoorway,tookthekettleasitbegantosingfromthehotplate,andpouredtheboilingwaterintothepot.“Jabez?”shesaid.“Youowemenothing,”herepeated,quietly.Hepouredmilkintotheirmugsandreplacedthebottleinthefridge.Hesaton

thekitchenchairalongsidethetable,pullingtheotherstooltohim,andputtinghisfeetuponitscrossbar.

Intothesilence,ashewaitedfortheteatodraw,hesaidgently,“Letmehavesomethingtogiveyou.”Esmelaughed.“Somethingtogive?Jabez!Youfeedme,yougivemeteaby

thegallon,youshareyourfireside,andyourfriendship.Howaboutmehavingsomethingtogive?Letmepayyouforthis;it’scostingyoumoney.”Jabezpoured the teaout into themugsandpushedhers towardher,without

lookingather.“I thinkyoudon’tknow—”hebegan,glancingatherfleetingly,but thought

betterofitandshookhishead.“Youowemenothing,”hesaidagain.“Here’stodrierweatherintheautumn,”andheraisedhismugtoherinatoast.“Oh,Jabez,”shemurmuredinreproach.“Igotideasofmyownaboutmoney,”hesaid,settinghismugdown.Itserved

allrightforarefuge,but theteawastoohot todrink.“Ibelievethataffluenceandambitionarediseases.LikeSaintPaulsayingtheloveofmoneyistherootofallevilandsayingforhimselfhe’dlearnedtobecontentwithwhathehadineverycircumstanceoflife.AndJesussayingthecaresandpleasuresoftheworldarelikebramblesthatchokethelightandlifeoutofthetendershootofintegrityandcompassioninaperson.Humangreedisatthebottomofhalfthetroublesoftheworld. If you aspire toward a spiritual life,whatever religious systemyoupractice in—be you Hindu or Buddhist, Christian or Humanist, Taoist orMuslim, or Jew; whatever—the gateway to spiritual path is simplicity, andunless you undertake a discipline of simplicity, your spirituality will be likejoistswithdryrot.”Helookedathermomentarily,hisglanceshy,buteager.Thatthismatteredto

himwasveryclear.“WhenSaintFrancisofAssisitaughthisfriendsandfollowersabouttheway

ofChrist,hewasadamantaboutsimplicity—forthatmatter,sowasGandhi,sowasJesus,sowasLaoTzu.FrancistalkedaboutbeinginlovewithLadyPoverty—his bride, he said. He saw a vision of beauty in extreme simplicity; the

beggar’s bowl, the borrowed donkey shed, walking barefoot. Humility, youknow, andofferinghis time to serveotherpeople as agift of himself in love.He’sabitofaheroofmine.I’mnotmanenoughtoscaletheheightshedid,butIcanmake little forays into the foothills. I canmanage tinybitsofhospitalityandtheoccasionalactofkindness.Notoften.AndIknowthatSpirit, life, isawildflowerthatdoesn’ttaketocultivation.Youtrytopickittomakeitanimagething,astylishornamentinavase,thefinishingtouchtoanaffluentsetting,andit’ll droop and die. To find it, you got to walk the sheep tracks, not ride themotorway. Frugality. Humility. Quietness. Working with your hands andfinishingajobcarefullyandwell.Doingwhatyoudomindfullyandwithpeace.Paying attention. Simplicity. Kindness. Looking after things. That’s my faith,andIcan’tcall itareligion, it isn’tsystematic—butitholdstogether, itmakessense.Dogmaanddoctrine are toogrand andoverstuffed for thehousewheremysoullives.I’mnotpoor,Esme.Idon’tneedverymuch.”Esme drank her tea, watching him. He spoke quietly and unpretentiously,

almostwithreluctance.Whathehadsaidcamefromverydeepwithinhim,shethought.“SowhatmayIgiveyouinreturnforeverything?”sheaskedhim.Jabezcuppedhishandsaroundthemugoftea.“IfIcanchoose,thenIwouldtreasureyourfriendship.”“Jabez,that’salreadygiven.”“Okay.Sowe’requits,andyouowemenothing,”hesaid.

S

FIVE

eptemberwasmanic.Inaweakmoment,whichshenowregretted,Esmehadagreedtotakeonthe

managementoftheannualcircuitserviceatthebeginningoftheMethodistyear.Shehadinvitedtheguestpreacherayearbeforehand,butnowcametheplethoraof details to be settled as the event drew near. Esme had to weave into thisannualeventamomentofstardomforeveryoneconcerned.Alltheareasofworkin her circuit—a sprawling territory with fifteen chapels and a Methodistgeriatricresidentialhome,fourpastors,andalayworker—hadtoberepresented.WestParadeChapelboastedaprofessionalmusicianwhohadattracteda first-class organist and organized a stunningly good choir considering the rawmaterial the choir mistress began with. In her chapel at Portland Street thecongregationhadaworshipbandwithguitarsandacontentiousdrumkit (thisdrumkitneverfoundahappynicheinworship,beingalwaysjustloudenoughtoantagonize the traditionalists and just quiet enough to frustrate the drummer).The teenagers from the various chapels had organized into a loose-knit youthfellowship that deserved a voice at any circuit event. Theminister in pastoralcharge and the lay worker were each expected to have their special area ofresponsibility in the service. The superintendent had to be allowed tomake aspeechofwelcomeatthebeginning,butunderallmannerofthreatsberequiredtosticktohistimelimit,asthemainlyelderlycongregationdidn’tliketobekeptoutlateintheevening,thepewswereuncomfortable,andiftheguestpreachermissedthe8:55,hewouldn’tgethistrainbacktoLondontill10:20onaSundaynight.

Esme satwith a pad of paper charting out the balance of traditional hymnswith choruses, choir items with congregational singing, and apportioning thereadings (chosen by the preacher to support his theme) and the prayers to thestaffandcircuitstewards.Shehesitatedovertheoffering.Therehadbeenarowlastyearbecausetheyouthfellowshiphadbeeninvitedtotakeuptheoffering,muchtothechagrinoftheWestParadestewardswhohada“system”andsaidithadn’tbeencarriedoutproperly.Shehesitatedalsooverthereadings.TheguestpreacherhadrequestedamoderntranslationoftheBible,whichmeantnotusingthespeciallecternKingJamesBiblerecentlydedicatedatWestParadeChapelinmemory of the senior steward’s wife, who had died after a miserable andprotractedillnessthepreviousyear.Then she remembered that she had ages ago invited a youth leader from

BrockhyrstPriorytosingasolo.Thissecuredtheloyallysupportiveattendanceofanumberofleadersfromtheguidesandscouts,butalsoputagreaterweighttothedesirabilityofarelevant,accessibleactofworship,whichdidn’tmattersomuchifnoonewascomingexcepttheMethodistdiehardswhosimplywantedtosing some rousingCharlesWesley numbers and enjoy the visit of a dignitaryfromLondon.Esmesatatherdeskwithherheadinherhand,tryingvainlytothinkofways

tofit itall intoanhour-longactofworship.Eventually, inafitof temper,shescrewed up her sheet of paper into a tight ball, threw it across the room, andwentouttothekitchentomakeacupofcoffee.Whilethekettleboiledsheateaflapjack. She knew how many calories they contain, so once the coffee wasmadesherestrictedherselftoaplainbiscuittogowithit.Andasecondonetosaveher comingback for another, knowingperfectlywell she’dhave finishedthefirstonebeforethecoffeehadcooledenoughtodrink.Shereturnedtoherstudy.Themostdifficultpartaboutorganizingthecircuit

servicewasthatthedrafthadtobesubmittedtothesuperintendent,whowouldask for amultitude ofminor details to be adjusted, and then ask to check the

redraftandmakefurtheralterationsbeforeshecouldtypeitupandprintcopies.Esmemadealistofthepeopletobephoned.Theyouthfellowshipwantedto

doadramabutcouldonlymanageonethey’dpracticedalready,whichwouldn’tnecessarilyrelatetotheoverall theme.Nonetheless, theirtitleshouldbeontheprinted order,whether or not they changed their plans at the lastminute. Thechoirmistress,sheknew,wouldbereadywithalistofbeautifulbutobscureandhighbrowmusic—anything fromByrd toBirtwistle if the last two yearswereanythingtogoby—forEsmetodisposearoundthevariousliturgicalmomentsofintroit,offertory,anthem,recessional,andanythingelseshecouldthinkof.Andshe had to check the availability of her proposed readers, intercessors, andstewards.And,Esmereflected,she’dbettergetonwith itbecauseitwashappeningin

three weeks time, and as it was late this year, she had three church councilagendas to put her attention to at the same time, as well as the pastoralcommittees,thefinanceandpropertycommittees,themissionandneighborhoodcommittees,andthestewards’meetingsforallthreechapels.Then,shesuddenlyremembered Portland Street had decided to hold their covenant service inSeptember instead of January this year, and she had undertaken to make thenecessary phone calls and publicity fliers to elevate it into an ecumenicaloccasion.Herphonerang.MarcusaskingifshewasreadywithSunday’shymnsyet—

no, shewasn’t, she said she’dphonehimback.As soonas she’d replaced thereceiveritrangagain.OneofherpastoralvisitorsfromPortlandStreet—hadsheheardthatMrsWhitworth’ssister-in-lawhadgoneintohospitalforanoperationonhervaricoseveins?NodoubtEsmewouldbegratefultoknow.No,I’mnot,Esme felt like saying. The woman doesn’t even come to church and doesn’tknowmefromAdam,andnowyou’vephonedme,I’llhavetogoandvisither,asifIhadn’tgotenoughtodoalready.“Oh,right, thankssomuchforlettingmeknow,”sheheardhervoicesaying

cheerfully.“WithabitofluckIcangetuptothehospitalthisafternoon.Whichdaydidyousayheropisscheduledfor?”As she made a hasty trip to the hospital toward the end of the afternoon,

logging her mileage for her expense sheet, Esme noted with amazement thedistance she had traveled since last her car had been serviced. In a circuitstraggling along the south coast, journey distances mounted up astonishingly,andshemadethefourteenmilesroundtripfromherparsonageinSoutharbourouttoWilesGreenoftenenoughtomakeanappreciabledifference.SundaycamebeforeshedroveouttocallonJabezandEmberthatweek.By

Sundayeveningshefeltfrayedandbadtempered.Theweekhadbeentoofull,andshewasexhausted.ShepreachedatBrockhyrstPriory in theevening,andthen drove on to Wiles Green. As she turned into the track and stopped inJabez’syard,Esmefeltasenseofprofoundrelief.Spentandweary,shelongedfor the homeliness of the cottage and acceptedhungrily thewelcome thatmetherasshetappedatthedoorandletherselfin.Curledupinthecornerofthesofa,asJabezascertainedthatshehadn’teaten

andwenttomakeheranomeletandEmberlitthefireinthegatheringduskoftheevening,Esmebegantorelax.“I’vebeensobusy,justsobusy,runningaroundlikeaheadlesschicken!”she

saidtoEmber.“Therehardlyseemsamomenttostop.Igetupathalf-pastsix,Icrash out at half-past ten at night, and there’s hardly a minute unfilled. Mygarden’sfullofweedsandmyhouseisfilthy.There’salistaslongasmyarmofoldpeopleIhaven’tvisited,anddon’twantto,andshouldhave.WhenI’dbeento domy hospital visits on Thursday, I called at the supermarket on thewayhome,andthey’ddoneahugeswap-roundofall theirstock—nothingwasstillwhere I expected it to be. I was wearing my dog collar still—you know,minister,aprofessionalniceguy—standinginthemiddleoftheshopbarkingattheassistant,‘Wherearetheready-meals?Wherearethey?’Iwastootiredandtoo short of time to go and look for them. I had to havemy hymn list ready

beforechoirpracticeand thenfit insupperbeforeaweddingrehearsaland theplaygroupsteeringcommittee.Therewasnotimeforatreasurehuntintheaislesofthesupermarket!Oh—thankyou,Jabez;thankyousomuch.”He held out to her a plate of steamed vegetables and an omelet cooked to

perfection.“I’m not volunteering for housecleaning, but I can have a little go at your

gardenifyoulike,”hesaidgently.Esmelookedathimandburstintotears.“There’sneveranytime!”shewailed.“Notimeforanythingimportant—life,

love,walking in thebeautifulwoodlands!Theworld is tornbywarandgreed,and our country has a big part in that. But there’s no time tomake changes,becausechangestakethoughtandtime;andallthethoughtandtimearetakenupwith churning out papers and satisfying expectations andmeeting targets andmillionsofdetailedthingummiesthatuseupeverysinglesecond—anyway,whycan’t Mrs Whitworth’s sister-in-law’s own blasted people go and visit her?What’sthematterwithher,hasn’tshegotanyfriends?”Jabez sat downon the sofa beside her and took the plate off her lap as she

droppedherfaceintoherhandsandwept.“Here.Itisclean.”Shefeltahandkerchiefbeingheldagainstherhands,and

shetookitobedientlyandwipedhereyesandhernose.“Comeon,sweetheart.Eatyoursupper.I’llmakeyouacupoftea.You’llfeel

betterinaminute.”“I tell you what.” Esme looked up at Ember’s face, an odd mixture of

sympathyandmischief.“Givemeyourvisitinglist,mylove,andI’llgoandsee’em.Ireckonwecansooncutitdown.”Esme had to laugh, as the vision of Ember as pastoral visitor sank into her

imagination.“Jabezmakesagoodomelet,”Emberadded.“I’deatthat,mylove,whileit’s

stillhot.”

A great sigh shook Esme’s frame, and she began to eat her supper, feelingcomfortedandunderstood.Itwasdelicious.Afterward,holdinghermugof teainherhands,shesaid,“WhenIveryfirstcamehere,Jabez,yousaidthiswasabitofarefuge,andsoitis.Itisforme.”Henodded.“Well,it’shereforyou.”Esmeponderedthisthoughtforamoment,andthenshesaid,“Howdoyoudo

it,Jabez?Howdoyoumakeit likethis,aplaceofsanctuary?Everythingfeelscalmandonpurposehere.Mylifeshouldbelikethis,peacefulandorderlyandquiet;that’swhatspiritualpeoplearesupposedtobelike.Mylifeshouldbelikea candle burning, beautiful and recollected. Insteadof that I’m just rushedoffmyfeetandguiltyandresentful,tiredandcrosswithsomuchto—”“Ssh, ssh. Calm down.” Jabez smiled at her. “One thing at a time. Can I

pontificateforaminutewhileyoueatyoursupper?StopmeifIannoyyou.Firstthing:Rightnow,Imeanrightnowthisveryminute,apartfrombeingtiredandabitburntout,whatproblemshaveyougot?Imean,haveyougotapain,oranappointment?Areyouexpectedsomewhereelse?Arethereanymoredeadlinestomeettonight?”Esme stopped and thought about this, her fork in her hand. “No,” she

conceded.“Thenbehere.Don’tgiveawaythis timetotomorroworlet itbesouredby

yesterday. Time may come when you’re incontinent and diabetic and alone,frightenedandhungry, riddledwithosteoporosisorarthritisorcancer.Tonightyou’rewarm—Ihope—and fed, andcomfortableonmysofa, andwithpeoplewholoveyou.That’stotreasure,Ithink.I’mcertainlytreasuringyoubeinghere.Tomorrow will come with all its tasks and demands, but it’s a way off yet.D’youknow—Esme,amIwearyingyou?Tellmetoshutupifyoudon’twanttohearallthis.”“I’mlistening.”Shesmiledathim.“Myhat,thatwasanopportunitymissed,”murmuredEmber,restingherchin

ontherimofhermugasshegazedintothefire.“Well,whatIwasgoingtosay—whentheyfoundtheCullinandiamond,the

biggest one ever, they didn’t realize what they’d got at first. The chap whodiscovereditbroughtitintotheoffice,andthestoryIheardwasthattheblokeinthere laughed at him, said, ‘That’s not a diamond!’ and chucked it out thewindow.The thing is,adiamond is justa rockamongrocks ifyoudon’t lookwith a seeing eye. And moments are the same. Among all the dusty bits ofrubble that make up the ordinary life, there’s a scattering of diamonds. Theimportant thing is not to throw them out of thewindowwhen theminer putsthem on your desk. Today was hard work and by the sound of things so istomorrow.Don’t lose this littlebit that comes inbetween.Keepyourbalance;stay poised on thismoment.You’re here,with us;we love you, it’s peaceful.Chillout.”“Okay.”Esmenodded.“Yousaidthatwasthefirst thing.What’sthesecond

thing?”“Hangfire,howlongisthislist?”askedEmber.“Where’smeknitting?”“Thesecondthingisaboutsimplicity.Simplicityisthekeytoeverything.”“Shortandsweet,simplicityis,”Emberinterjected.Jabezfrownedather.“The whole thing about practicing simplicity is you got to mind your

boundaries. Don’t let other people give you the runaround. They gotexpectations—sowhat?Let ’emkeep them.Youdon’twant theirexpectationsseeding intoyourpatch.Expectationsbreed,growlikewildfire.Thanksbutnothanks to anyone’s expectations. Don’t fulfill ’em and they’ll fade away.Expectations is like straycats—don’t feed ’em ifyoudon’twant ’em. Ineachday,attemptonethinginthemorningandonethingintheafternoon,andleavetheevening forpeacewhenyoucan.Okay,yougotmeetingsatnight.Haveasleepintheafternoonthen.Visitnotsomanypeoplebutspendmoretimewiththemwhenyougo.Plantimestoenjoy.”Esme sighed. “It soundswonderful, Jabez, but Iwouldn’t get half asmuch

done.”“No, you wouldn’t. You’d get twice as much done, and it would be better

quality.”“Slowmylifedown?Youknow,I’venoticed,whenIgooutandaboutonmy

bike, I seemorepeople. I canstopeasily, so Ipause tochatand Igo into thelittleshopsandseethepeoplethatliveneartheparsonage.PerhapsIshouldgetridofthecar—Iseemtospendhalfmylifeinthecar.”Heshookhishead.“Yougottobepractical,Esme.Youhaveresponsibilities

and a living to earn.Goon the bikewhenyou can anduse the carwhenyoumust.Don’tbeallornothing;giveyourselfabreak.”“Okay,”shesaid,withsuddenresolve,rootinginherbagforherdiary.“Give

mesomeprinciples.WhenI’mrushedoffmyfeetandI’venotimetostopandthinkthroughitall,Ineedsomeprinciples.Whataretheprinciplesyouliveby?Goon.Numberone?”Jabezlaughed.“Esme,really,Idon’tthink—”“Yesyoudo,youneverstopthinking.Goon;I’mwaiting.”“Well,allrightthen.NumberOne:Simplify.Yourhome,yourwardrobe,your

possessions, your ambitions, your schedule, your whole life. Simplify.Everything.NumberTwo:Schumacher’sdictum—‘smallisbeautiful.’Ownfewthings,eatplainfoodinmoderateamounts,avoidclutter.Keepmeetingsshort.AvoidSoutharbourHighStreet like theplague.Refuse tobeaconsumer.Buywhat you must have from small, family businesses. Eat food grown locally.BringsmetoNumberThree:Cherishthelivingearth.Avoidbuyingthingsthathavetraveledalongwayinmanufactureandproduction.Remembertheearthisourhome—our life andbreath. It’s tobeheld indeepest reverence, and lovedandrespected.Eatfoodgrownbyfarmerswhonourishitandlivealongsidethewildcreatures inpeace.Don’tusemanychemicals inyourhousehold.Almosteverymanufacturingprocesswoundstheearth,sorecycle,reuse,anddon’tbuymuchstuffinthefirstplace.”

“Okay.Numberfour?”“Blessthecommunitywhereyoulive.Wheneveryouspendmoney,meditate

onthejourneyofthecoinyouspend.Ifyouspenditatasmalllocalfamilyfirm,itwillbereinvestedinthatlocalcommunity.Bigbusinesscartsmoneyawayinbarrowloadsandimpoverishesthecommunitylikeacuckoointhenest.”“Gotit.Five?”Jabez thought for aminute. “Gandhi’smaxim—thinkingglobally andacting

locally.Aknock-oneffectofdoingbusinesswithsmalllocalfamilyfirmsisthatnot only does our custom give us influence in local trade practice, but also itleavesotherpartsoftheworldfreetodothesame.Wethinkthebadolddaysofslaveryandtheempireareallgone,butthey’renot.Westillkeepslaves.Slavesmakeourclothes,ourfireworks,provideoursugarandtea—butthey’reslavestoahugeworldwidesystemofwhichwe’reallapart.Cashcropsandmonopoliesandbig business are badnews theworld over.Things like tea and coffee andchocolate and sugar that have to come from overseas, if we insist on havingthem,weshouldat leastmakesure theywere fairly traded, so thepeoplewhoproducedthemhadadecentlivingandbasichealthcareandeducation.Anyway,what goes around comes around. There is only one world. We’re all in ittogether.Soonerorlaterwhateverweputoutintothislifewillreturntous.Wereapwhatwesow.”“Gandhi…thinkglobally,actlocally.And?”“Watch your boundaries—what I said before; your soul boundaries, life

boundaries. We live in a speeded-up, cluttered, exhausted, stressed society.People love fly-tipping their problems. If you got an empty hour, an emptygarage,aspacetothink,someonewithaclutteredlifewillbeagitatingtofillitup for you. You do them no favors if you allow them to extend their owndisastrous agenda intoyour life.You’re a spiritual teacher, andyou shouldbeteachingpeacebyexample,andpeacecomesbymindingyourboundariesandsaying‘no.’”

“Okay.Anymore?”“Well—choose what is handmade with love. Minimize the influence and

involvement of machines in your life. Avoid mass-produced stuff, especiallystuffproducedby ruthlessbigbusiness inplacesoutof sightandoutofmind.Thingsmade in small numbers, by hand, with pride in the work have a soulquality beyond price.And if youmake things yourself, at home—bread, yourclothes, your supper, anything—it builds up the light intensity in your soul.Digging the garden, kneading dough, scrubbing the floor are activities allcontemplatives prioritize. Zen monks sweeping the steps or Poor Clare nunsturning their compost, or hermits collecting firewood in the forest.Okay, theygot computers and sewingmachines thesedays,but theyknow theconnectionbetweenspiritualityandmanualwork,physicaleffort—andthesepeoplearen’tsilly.”“That’sit?”“That’sthephilosophyIliveby.That’sit.”“So:Simplify;smallisbeautiful;cherishthelivingearth;blessthecommunity

whereyou live; thinkglobally,act locally;watchyourboundaries;andchoosewhatishandmadewithlove.Hmm.There’salotaboutwheretodomyshoppingand nothing about quiet times andmeditation.And Iwould have thought if Iforgomyone-stopsupermarketshopandstartrunningaroundmarketstallsandfarm shops, I’ll need two lives running concurrently. But you reckon, if I dothesethings,mylifewillrunsmoother?”“Well … Yes, actually, I really do. Anyway, it’s wholeness. Attending to

integrityintheordinarydailythingsiswhatspiritualityis.Itisameditationbyitself. But the most important thing of all, to have in focus every day, issimplicity.Ithelpsyoucreateslowtime,andsidestepallthisrushandtearthat’swrecking friendships and families. Time was an ordinary bloke could do anordinaryjobandfeelaprideinhisordinaryachievement.Giveitfivemoreyearsat the present acceleration of targets and clock-watching, and all the ordinary

blokes will be chronically sick with shame and failure and depression, theirmultitasking wives will be full of hatred born of too many adrenaline toxinsfrom running on empty, and there won’t be enough supermen to juggle themanagementandsupervisethemachines.Simplicityletsyoursoulcatchupwithyourbody.Prayer,making love,goodconversation,gardening,homecooking,manual skills, quality of life; they grow only in slow time, which is createdthroughsimplicity.That’smedone,I’vetalkedtoomuch,I’msayingnotanotherword.”“Ember,” said Esme, “do you have things like that, that you live by?Was

thereanythingyouwantedtoadd?”“Yes.” Ember laid her knitting down in her lap, and her small dark eyes

winked like jewels in the lamplight. “Don’t eat food you don’t like.Don’t bedeprived of firelight.Don’t take anything seriously.Don’t let the blackguardsgrindyoudown.”JabezsmiledasEsmejottedthisdowninthebackofherdiary.“Idon’tknow

whyIbother,”hesaid.“That’sitinanutshell.Iheardathingontheradiolastweek,itwasaprogramaboutChina,andtheyweresaying,‘Amongourpeople,theoldarerespectedfortheirwisdom’;andI thought,I likethat, that’showitshouldbe.”“Rubbish,”saidEmber,inbriskcontempt.“Pardon,Ember?Youdon’tagree?”Shestaredathimirritably.“Howmanyoldpeopledoyouknow?Ifyouknow

someonewho’soldandstupid—andIcouldlistyouafewinthisvillagealone,starting at the chapel—and you revere them for theirwisdom, then you knowonemorestupidoldmanwhichwouldbeyou,JabezFerrall.Getagrip.Inanyintelligentsociety,thewisearerespectedfortheirwisdom.Goats,forexample.”Esmestartedtolaugh.“Ifeelcompletelydifferentnow,”shesaid.“Ifeelallkeenandfullofhope.

I’mstilltired,andIthinkIoughttogohometobed,butIfeelsleepy-tiredand

relaxed.Idon’tfeelcrossanymore.”Shelookedatthelistinthebackofherdiary.“Simplify; small is beautiful; cherish the living earth; bless the community

whereyoulive;thinkglobally,actlocally;watchyourboundaries;choosewhatis handmade with love; don’t eat food you don’t like; don’t be deprived offirelight;don’ttakeanythingseriously;anddon’tletpeoplegetyoudown.”Emberlookedathercuriouslybutsaidnothing.Esmesnappedherdiaryshut

andslippeditbackintoherbag,andthensearchedinitsdepthsforhercarkeys.“Right.I’maway.TomorrowI’mdoingassemblyattheinfants’schoolanda

funeral in the afternoon. In the evening we’ve got a circuit leadership teammeeting. There seems to be one thing after another for the best part of threeweeks,but I’venodoubt I’llbe roundbefore long—ifonly tocomplainabouttime-tablingallthisextraintegrityactivityintomylife.”She stopped and lookedup at Jabez and felt ratherdisconcerted tomeet his

brown eyes contemplating her. But as soon as she looked at him, his eyelidsflickered,andhisgazeshiftedtotheglowinthegrate.“Aren’tready-mealsaformofsimplicity?”shesaid.“Theycertainlysimplify

mylife.”“Whatarethecontainersmadeofthattheycomein?”heasked.“Well—plastic ormetal, usually,with a cardboard or plastic film top and a

cardboardsleeve.”“Andwhathappenstothecontainerswhenyou’veeatenthefood?”“That’sthesimplicityofit.Ijustthrowthemaway.”Jabeznodded.“Isitstillsimplicityifthere’snosuchplaceasaway?”heaskedquietly.“I suppose one kind of simplicity precludes another,” Esme said. “I mean,

goingtoonebigshopinsteadofthreelittleonesissimplifyinginaway,isn’tit?Andit’ssimplertogetalltheingredientsinoneready-mademealthantohavetobuythemallseparatelyintheirseparatebagsandpackets.”

“Wheredotheycomefrom,thesemeals?”heasked.“Whomakesthem?Dotheymakethemthereinthatshop?”“Goodness,no!I’venoideawheretheycomefrom,orwhomakesthem!Does

itmatter?”“Well—itmight.Look,Esme, Idon’twant to criticize.Yougot a lot toget

throughandyoucanonlydoyourbest.Still,fortonightyouhadfoodcookedbyme,withlove:myhens’eggsseasonedwithherbsfromEmber’spatch,cookedin Squirrel Farm butter, with Bill Patterson’s potatoes, and Mrs. Willard’scarrotsandgreensfromthefarmers’market.”“Howaboutthetea?”Shegrinnedathim.“Themilk in it came fromSquirrelFarmsameas thebutter.The teacomes

fromKenya,butit’sfair-traded,soismysugar.”Heglancedather,serious.“Ithinkitmatters.Tome,myreligion,it’snotgoingtochurch,it’sthelittle

things.Keepingfaithwithallelsethatlives.Theirlives—yourlife—isentrustedtome,sameasmylifehastotrustthem,andyou.”“Okay, youwin; I see you’vemore than thought this through. I’ll give it a

try.”Shegottoherfeet.“Goodnight,Ember.”Jabezcameoutsidewithherintotheyard,whichlaybathedinmoonlight.“Ilovetheearthandthemoonandstars.Ilovetherainandthewindandthe

nightairfullofthefragranceoftheplants,”hesaid.“Taketimetoloveit.Goodnight,Esme.Gocarefully.”Driving slowly home, thinking about all he had said, Esme felt unsure if it

wouldbeoftheslightestusetoher.Itseemedallverywell,butitwentagainstthe grain of modern life entirely. She could see the point he made aboutsimplicity; and the modern shortcuts of e-mail, text messaging, edge-of-townsupermarkets,takeaways,andInternetnewssummariesseemedtobethewaytobypass time-consuming traditions of going to market, cooking, writing (andbuyingstampsforandposting) letters,spending timewithpeople,andreading

newspapers.ShewonderedifitwasjustthatJabezwasgettingold,hadtimeonhis hands, and had been too poor and too out-of-date for the electronicrevolution. Still, she thought she would bear it in mind. Some of his ideasseemed impossible—after all,wherewould she buy fairly traded coffee if shedidn’tshopinasupermarket?Unless…Iwonder…shethought,asshedrovethroughsleepingBrockhyrstPrioryandthecountryroadswidenedintothefasterapproachtothetown… ifsomeoneatPortlandStreet—andmaybeBrockhyrstPriory,too—notWilesGreen,MissTriggwouldneverletustradeonaSunday…butmaybe, in the other two, somebody—SusanMarsh perhaps atPortlandStreet,maybeMargaretSomersorAnnieO’RourkeatBrockhyrstPriory—wouldbewillingtosetupastallasaFairTraderep,andwecouldmakesomemoneyforchapelfundsatthesametime.Iwonder…Esme thought it could be very uniting, very positive, and help the

congregationtofindaclearerawarenessof theworldaboutwhichtheyprayedearnestlybutwereonlyhazilyinformed.Okay—welldone,Jabez!shethoughtasshe turned into thedriveat theparsonage: I’llcheckout theWebsiteafter theleadershipteammeetingtomorrow.Asshewenttobedthatnight,Esmefoundherselfbeginningtofeelagainfor

herworkthehopefulenthusiasmandalert interest thatsooftenfellcasualtytothe endlessdetail of administration, diplomacy,pastoralvisiting, and liturgicalresponsibilitythatcreatedatreadmillifshealloweditto.Anditwashardnotto,becauseallthosethingsweresopressing,requiringsomuchattentionthatitwaseasy to lose the broader, more fundamental vision of Christian mission, thegrounded, realisticoutlivingofChrist’scommandtobeknownashisdisciplesbyalifeofpracticallove.Inspired,shegotupearlyandfound theWebsiteofasupplierofelectricity

fromsustainable,renewableresources,andtheWebsiteofabankwhohandledinvestmentsinstrictlyethicalprojects—microcreditinpoorerpartsoftheworld,organic farms, self-employed craftsmen, social housing, and community

ventures. She printed off the information from both sites, enough copies foreveryoneatthecircuitleadershipteammeeting.Wecoulddothis,shethought:Ourcircuit chapelsandparsonagescould runonelectricity fromsources thatrespecttheenvironment.Ourdepositaccountscouldbeshiftedtoinvestmentinethicalenterprises.Jesuswouldlikethat.Excited,shestapled theprintedsheets intopacks,slipped themintoawallet

file that she stowed in her rucksack, and set off to cycle across town to hersuperintendent’sparsonageforthemeeting.Theagenda,apartfromessentialroutinebusiness,wasshort.Esmeaskedfor

timeunderAnyOtherBusinesstopresentasuggestion.Themainbusinessitemwascircuitrestructuring—beginningseriouslytoconsiderthefuturelifeofsomesmallandshrinkingcountrychapels,theirviabilitynow,andtheimplicationsofthatforfuturecircuitstaffing.The discussion was long, careful, and detailed. Her two colleagues with

pastoral responsibility in outlying rural areas spoke of tentative plans foramalgamation or even simply closure in four of their chapel communities.Memberscontinued faithful,hardworking, and supportive,butoldagebroughtshrinkage by death, and three of the chapels had fewer than tenmembers, alloverseventyandnotallresidentinthecommunitiesthechapelsserved.Closuresseemedinevitable,suchthatnexttimeoneoftheministerswasduetomoveon,insteadofreinvitationbeingsuggested,acutinnumbersofpastoralstaffwouldbenecessitated.Itseemeddesirablethatthethreeremainingfull-timeministersshouldcareforthelargerchapels,withpossiblyanactivesupernumeraryor(hadtheyhadone)ahomegrownministerinlocalappointmentratherthanafull-timerappointed in from elsewhere, tomop up the little rural causeswhile they stillsoldieredon.Thedelicatequestion tobe tackled—whichof the staffwouldbe theone to

forgoreinvitationandmoveon—camenextunderconsideration.Esmehadtwoyears to runonherpresent appointment.The superintendent’s reinvitationhad

already been agreed at the spring circuit meeting. One of her colleagues wasnearing retirement and hoping to see out his active ministry without anothermove.Thefourthministerofthestaffhadanelderlymotherinanursinghomenearby, a husband who had only recently established and built up his ownbusiness,andchildrencominguptopublicexamyears:Soshewasalsoanxiousto stay as long as possible before moving. Everyone at the meeting sat andponderedinsilence.Thesuperintendentgotupandputhisheadroundthedoortocallhiswifetomakemorecoffee.Esmerealizedtheywereallwaitingforhertovolunteertobetheonetomoveon.Shehadnodependentsnorwasshetiedby a husband’s work commitments. Although all three of the chapels in hersectionwerestillviableandingoodheart,BrockhyrstPrioryandPortlandStreetbeingpositivelyrobust,withimpressiveattendancefigures,nonethelessshesawthatshewouldhavetobetheonetogo.“Well,”shesaidbrightly,“Iexpectachangewoulddomegood.”Andsmilesofreliefallroundtheroomrewardedher.Theyspoketoherencouraginglyaboutthepositivebenefitsoffrequentmoves

for gaining experience in ministry; about the wide range of possibilities—chaplaincyinschoolsorhospicesorhospitals;overseaspostsinSriLanka, theBahamas, the Shetlands, or Malta—or opportunities in the central Londonofficesorinsomeofthechallenginginner-citymissions.Esme listenedwithmixed feelings.Shehadgrown to care abouther church

members in the Southarbour circuit, but not somuch that it would break herheart to leave them behind. She found the prospect of new forms ofministryexciting.Whenshehonestlyconsultedherheart,sheknewthatshehadjustoneseriousreservation:ShecouldnolongerimaginelifewithoutJabezandEmber.She could no longer imagine lifewithout the refuge of Jabez’s cottage or theencouragement of their friendship always there for her. Yet, surely, this waswhatallministersexperiencedwhenthetimecameforthemtomoveon?Andifshehadbeenoneoftheonestostayon,whenafterthreeyearsextensiontoher

appointmentthetimeeventuallycameforhertogo,itwouldverylikelybeevenhardertoleavethem.Esmemadeadeliberateefforttoputasidethemisgivingsthatbegantofillher

mindandpayattentiontothediscussionabouttheredistributionofthesectionsin the circuit once the number of ministers with pastoral charge had beenreduced. A new animation had entered the planning now that everyone knewwhichministerwouldnolongerbecontinuing.Eventually,when itwas growing late, the superintendent began to draw the

businesstoaclose,pleasedthattheoutcomeshadbeensoharmoniouslyagreedso far, and relieved tohaveno ill feelingamong the staffover thequestionofwhoshouldmoveon.Glancingat thescribblednotesonhisagenda,hesuddenly remembered that

EsmehadgivennoticeofsomethingtoraiseunderAnyOtherBusiness.Esme tookouther filewith thenotesonethical investmentandsuppliersof

electricity from renewable sources, but somehow the whole issue felt lessrelevant now than when she had printed them out this morning. She hadobservedinthepastthatissuesofenvironmentalorsocialconcernwereviewedas nonessentials, dilettante intellectual luxuries to be made the subject of aseminar and forgotten as quickly as possible. She had been at synod andwitnessed resolutions passed determining that all Methodist church memberswoulddo theirbest toaffirmandpromote fair tradeandsocial justice—whichmadeeverybodyfeelgoodandcommitted themtonothing.Evenasshespokeabout the importance of caring for the living earth and in our practice andchoicesworkingpositivelyforamoreequitableworld,whetherornotthatwaslessfinanciallyrewardingthanfollowingthecrowd,sheknewshewaswastingherbreath.Thechanceofthecircuitstewardsgettingtheirelectricityfromanysupplierbutthecheapestorlodgingtheadvancefundwithanybankotherthantheoneofferingthehighestinterest,wasslenderatanytime.Today,whentheirminds buzzed with administrative and pastoral restructuring, only politeness

madethempayanyattentionatall.Theydidnoteventurnoverthepagesofthenotesshedistributed.Esmesawitwasnotgoingtohappenandclosedthematterin her mind without pushing for any real consideration of the issues, toodisappointedtoallowherselftodwelluponit.Later in theweek,assheprepared tomeetwithherchapelstewards todraft

thebusinessofherchurchcouncilsandbreakthenewsofthechangesahead,shewondered whether it would be worthwhile now to put the suggestion ofbeginningastallforfairlytradedgoods.Woulditbebettersimplytoletthatgo?Afterall,therewasverylittlemorethaneighteenmonthsleftbeforeshewouldbeleaving.Esmethoughtaboutit,gazingoutthroughthewindowintothefrontgardenof

theparsonageasshesatat thedesk inher study.Undecided, she tookabreakfromthinkingtomakeherselfacupofcoffee.Isuppose,shethought,reachingabsentmindedly for thebiscuits as thekettleboiled, that itwouldbea start tobuyfair-tradedcoffeeformyself.Iwonderiftheydobiscuits,too.Asshereturnedtoherdesk,sheopenedherdiarytothememorandapagesat

theback.BIKESJabezFerrall,shereadwithasmile,and,turningafewpagesfurther in, past hastily jotted details for funerals and contact numbers forwedding couples, she found and read again Jabez’s list of principles. Thinkglobally,actlocally.Sherememberedhimsaying,“Ithinkitmatters.Tome,myreligion,it’snotgoingtochurch,it’sthelittlethings.Keepingfaithwithallelsethatlives.”Andshethought,Ohwell,whynot?Let’sgoforit.There’sstilltime.Sheaddedtoherstewards’meetingagendasforPortlandStreetandBrockhyrstPrioryanote topropose thecommencementof fair-trading.Asshesat readingthrough the notes she hadmade, it occurred to her that atWilesGreen, apartfromMissTriggwhowould certainly oppose it, the congregationwouldmostenthusiastically introduce and support a Fair Trade stall. She frownedthoughtfully at her agendas. To avoid conflict and confrontation in generalseemed only wise, but she felt her life being directed and reshaped by Miss

Trigg’s convictions and prejudices. “Mind your boundaries,” Jabez had said;“don’tletotherpeoplegiveyoutherunaround.”SheaddedanotetoherWilesGreenstewards’meetingagenda—“FairTradestallandrep.”Shereflectedthatshemightaswellhavewrittendown“Causetrouble”andacceptedthenecessityofsomekindofashowdownwithMissTrigg.ShelikedtheprinciplesoflifeJabezhadoutlined,butatthesametimeshefelt

consciousthatcontemplatingthemcreateddissatisfactionwithherchoices;shewasaministerofaninstitutionalreligion.Isiteverpossibleforaninstitutiontoexpress simplicity? The restlessness that disturbed her soul intensified as shethought about the gulf between the way Jabez had sketched for her and theinescapablerequirementsofprofessionalministry.Several times thatweek,Esmecame into theparsonageat theendofa long

evening meeting, switched on the fluorescent light in her tidy, impersonalkitchen,made herself coffee, and took it into the sitting room to drink in herarmchairbesidethegasfire,turningitonlowtodispelthechilloftheevening.Shelookedatthedeep-pile,grey-and-purplenyloncarpet—agenerouschoicebythe circuit stewardswhohad furnished the parsonage andhad selected similartones in the easy-care polyester curtains and inoffensive wipeable, embossedwallpaper. Ithadbeenkindlydonebypracticaland thoughtfulpeople;buthermind wandered to Jabez’s cottage among its apple trees, the smell of woodsmoke,thesimplepinetablehisfatherhadmade,andpapersackdoormatinthekitchen,thefloorboardsmoreorlesscoveredbyanancientrugoffadedpatternin the living roomwith its lowceilings and shabby furnishings illuminatedbylamplightandfirelight.That’swhereI’dliketobe,shethought.Somewherelikethat.Herdrinkfinished,shecheckedallthewindowswerefastenedandthedoors

locked,andmadeherwayupthestairs,pastthecloseddoorsofthethreeemptybedrooms. Behind the parsonage, through the gap next to the house whosegarden backed onto hers, and just beyond the low garden wall in front,

streetlightsshoneallnight,sothatitwasneverreallydarkinside,andoutsideitwaspossibletoseethemoonbutveryfewofthestars.Inthecornerwheretheceilingmet thewall, thesleeplessredeyeof thesecurityalarmsystemflashedandwinkedasshemovedaboutthebedroom.Verytiredandsomehowdispirited,Esmeclimbedintohercoldbed.Shefelt

too tired to read and too tired to relax. The Methodist church, chronicallyaddictedtoincessantbureaucraticchangeasoneofthelesshelpfuloutcomesofits democratic structure, had altered its stationing procedure twice sinceEsmehadlastgonethroughtheprocessofappointmentandcometoSoutharbour.Shehadaskedhercolleagueswhatthenewsystemwas,withoutverycoherentresult.Shethoughtshe’dbettergetintouchwithherdistrictchairmanforadvice.Everynight thatweek,she layfora littlewhilewaitingfor thebed towarm

up,wonderingwhatthefuturemightholdandwhatshewassupposedtodonext.She thought about her colleagues and her congregations. She thought aboutparsonagesandabouthowlongittakestogettoknowanewneighborhood.Shethought aboutwhatmakes a house feel like a home. Shewondered about thepossibilities of her churches espousing the principles of fair trade. And shethoughtaboutJabez.Butbeforelong,eachnight,sleepcame.OnSundaynightEsmepresidedataEucharistatWilesGreen,MissTriggon

dutyashersteward.Shepreachedastraightforwardexpositorysermonfromthelectionaryreadingssetfortheday,avoidingcontroversialinterpretationsoranyremarks Miss Trigg might construe as flippant or inappropriate. Thecongregation was tiny but the atmosphere peaceful. Esme wondered if theywouldmissherwhenthetimecame,soonerthanshehadplanned,tomoveon.Shewonderedifshewouldmissthem.Afterward, turning out of the car park, she glimpsed the new poster in the

Wayside Pulpit, saying REMEMBER YE THE SABBATH DAY TO KEEP IT HOLY, andthought of her forthcoming stewards’ meeting with misgiving. She drove upChapelLaneandturnedintothevillagestreet,thenwithalighteningofherheart

intoJabez’syard.Hehadanticipatedhercoming,andabowlofhomemadevegetablesoupwith

breadandcheeseawaitedher.Happilyshecurledup inhercornerof thesofa,besidethefirethatEmberhadrecentlylit.“This feelsmore like cominghome thanwhen Igoback to theparsonage!”

shesaid.“It’ssoniceofyoutotakecareofmelikethis.”“Ah,” said Ember, “’tis rare to find a kindness without an ulterior motive.

Evenhere.Jabezdon’tcookforeverybody.Notevenforhimself,somedays.”She shookout her knitting, a vast stripy thingusing amotley assortment of

endsofyarn.“Ember,that’scolossal!Whatareyoumaking,anyway?”“’Tisajumperforthewinter,”Emberexplained.“Ilikesmyclothesbaggy,”

sheaddedunnecessarily.Forawhile,silencelaybetweenthemasEsmedevouredhersoupandbread,

surprisedtofindhowhungryshewasonceshestoppedtothinkaboutit.“Delicious!”shepronouncedasshefinishedit.“Thankyousomuch.”She reached down and piled her crockery on the floor beside the sofa. She

wonderedifnowwouldbethetimetotellthemaboutthemoveshehadagreedtobutsomehowfeltunabletobringitcloserbydiscussingit.Insteadshechosetostayinthetemporaryrealityofthepresent.“Jabez,”shesaid,“I’vebeenthinkingaboutallyousaidtomelastweek,and

it’sgivenmeanidea—IthoughtImightseeifwecanbegintosellfair-tradedthingsinthechapelsIpastor.ButIcan’tdothatatWilesGreenwithouttakingonMissTrigg.HaveyougotanyideasabouthowImightsortherout?”Jabez laughed as he considered this. “I can far more readily imagine her

sortingoutmethantheotherwayround,”hesaid.“ButsurelyMissTriggwillbeinfavoroffairtrade?”“I expect so,” Esme replied, “but not in favor of buying and selling on a

Sunday.OncewhenmycarwasinforserviceandIwenttochapelinataxi,she

remarkedthatitwasokaybecauseIwasdiggingmydonkeyoutoftheditch.”Embergazedather,perplexed.“Youknow—necessity.FromthethingJesussaysabout‘Whichofyouifyour

assoroxfallsintoapitontheSabbathdaywillnotpullhimout?’ButIstronglysuspectthattradingontheSabbath,fairorotherwise,willbestrictlyofflimits.Although,mindyou, if Icouldonly rememberwhere it comes in theGospels,JesusspeaksaboutdoinggoodbeinglawfulontheSabbath,doesn’the—andiffairtradeisn’tgood,Idon’tknowwhatis.”“It’s inMatthew12,” said Jabez toher surprise.“‘It is lawful todowellon

Sabbath days.’Don’t look so amazed. I only remember it becausemymotherusedtoquoteittoexcusemyfathergoingfishingwhilewewereinchapel.Shesaidhefishedwellbuthishymnsingingwasatrocious.Whileyou’reatitthere’sSaintPaulaswell,1Corinthians:‘Allthingsarelawfuluntome,butallthingsarenotexpedient:all thingsare lawful forme,but Iwillnotbebroughtunderthepowerof any.’Soprovided it’s expedient toholdyourFairTrade stall onSundayafterchurch,yougotabackerinSaintPaul.It’slawful,andyou’renottobebroughtunderthepowerofMissTrigg,ongoodauthority.AndyougotanauthorityinIsaiah1,‘Bringnomorevainoblations; incenseisanabominationuntome;thenewmoonandSabbaths,thecallingofassemblies,Icannotawaywith; it is iniquity, even the solemn meeting. Your new moons and yourappointed feastsmy soul hateth: they are a trouble tome, I amweary to bearthem…Learn to dowell; seek judgement, relieve the oppressed.’ And SaintPaulpicks thisuptoo,doesn’the?Um—Romans14.‘Onemanesteemethonedayabove another: another esteemeth everydayalike.Let everymanbe fullypersuadedinhisownmind.Hethatregardeththeday,regardethituntotheLord;andhethatregardethnottheday,totheLordhedothnotregardit.’AndJesussaysinMark,‘TheSabbathwasmadeforman,notmanfortheSabbath.’Yougoteveryauthority.Tellhershe’sbeingcarnallyminded.”EsmeblinkedatJabezinamazement.“Tourdeforceorwhat!”sheexclaimed.

“Howonearthhaveyourememberedallthat?”“Oh,well…” Jabez looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry; Iwasn’t showing off.

It’s just—maybe you can imagine it—there was rather a lot said about theSabbath in this housewhen Iwas a child.Quite a few heated arguments.Myfatherwouldn’tgotoworship,buthewasbroughtupchapel,andheknewwhyhe wouldn’t go and what he wasn’t going to. Quotations from the ScripturesfiredbetweenhimandMotherlikearrowsbetweencrackarchers.ThatwasoneofthefirstthingsthatbegantoputmeoffthechurchIthink,really.EveryoneIknewusedtheversesoftheBiblelikeapileofrockstohurlateachotherinanendlessbattleofone-upmanshipandself-righteousness.Yougetsickofitafterawhile.It’saroughgame,andaspitefulone,withalotoflosers.”“Butyouthinkit’sthewaytohandleMissTrigg?Imean,ifyouwereinmy

place—ifyouwereherminister—isitwhatyou’ddo?”“Stone me, Esme! That’s a bit unfair! Tell you what, I’ll do you a swap.

Marilyn Prior’s son was out on his bike in the lanes after school during thisweek.Hehittheedgeofapotholewhilehewasgoingdownhillquitefast.Hischain sprang the cogs, the bike leapt forward, and hewas thrown. Somethingelsemusthavehappened—I’mnotquiteclearwhat—involvinghimandatree.Hehasn’tbenttheforks,buthe’scrumpledboththetoptubeandthedowntube.He’sgotabumponhishead. I’vegothisbike.Okay.You tellmehow to fixDannyPrior’sbike,andI’lltellyouhowtofixMissTrigg.”“Tellhismothertobuyhimanewone,”saidEsme.“Yourturn.”Emberchuckled.“That’smygirl.”“Well,allright,Ireckonifit’sonlyideasasbrightasthatyou’relookingfor,I

maywellbeabletohelpyouwithMissTrigg.Cupofteafirst?”Havingmadeapotofteaandpouredamugforeachofthem,Jabezresettled

himselfinhischair.“Don’tforgettochewit,”mutteredEmberashesippedhistea.Jabezignoredthis.“MissTrigg,then,”hesaid.“AsfarasIcanseeyougotthreeproblems.One,

she’s lived in Wiles Green all her life, knows nothing but the folks and theattitudesshegrewupwith,soshe’sgotsmall-lifesyndrome.Two,she’shookedonfundamentalistreligion,andhersecurityisitsrigidframeworkthatactsasasplintandanexoskeletonandasteelcorsetofthesoul—likethoseAfricanladieswithall the rings round theirnecks—they’dhavebeenbetteroffwithout thembutifyoutookthemoffnowthey’dgoallfloppy.Three,shewasbroughtupbyatyrannicalmotherandafatherwhobeather;sheworshippedthegroundtheywalked on but she takes it all out on the rest of the human race. She’sweak,she’sabully,she’salwaysright,andshe’shavingfunnippingyourankles—isthatit?”Esmelaughed.“Youknowherverywell.Ithinkyouhaveitexactly.Heaven

knows,she’snotallbad,sheworkslikeaslaveforthechapel,andorganizesallsortsofgoodevents,but…”“All right.Well, in gratitude for your excellent advice aboutDanny Prior’s

bike,I’mgoingtogiveyoumyequallyvaluableopinionaboutMissTrigg.Firstthingis,haveyouheardherpreach?”“Ohyes,”saidEsme.Jabez grinned. “Me, too,many times.Would yoube prepared to preach the

kindofideasMissTriggpreachesandupholds?”“Well,ofcoursenot!”Esmeexclaimed.“Shepreachesalotofnonsense,she

doesreally!Andit’sharmful,dangerousnonsense too.Andit’ssooff-putting!Youknow,ifIcouldpersuadesomeofthemumsfromMothersandToddlerstocome toworship oneSundaywhenMissTriggwas preaching—not that I canpersuade themtocomeatallbecause they’veallmetMissTrigg—I’llbetyouanymoneyyoulikethey’dnevercomeagain.”“Seemsreasonable,”saidJabez.“Butsurelythen,askingforthefreedomtobe

yourself implies offering the same freedom to other people—even to MissTrigg.”“Oh,that’sallverywell!”Esmewassittingupright,annoyed.“ButMissTrigg

isn’tlettingtheothermembersofthechapelbethemselvesorthetoddlergroupmums—orme!”Jabezshookhishead.“MissTrigg’salotofthings,”hesaid,“butshe’snota

witchoutofafairytale.”“Yousure?”interruptedEmber.Helaughed.“No,butIthinkso.Shecan’tputaspellonyoutomakeyoubea

frog or a donkey or a statue; neither can she put a spell on you tomake youangryorafraid.That’syourchoice.D’yourememberlastweekI toldyou—ohEsme,Ihatethis—”hebrokeoffindismay,suddenlyhorrifiedatthethoughtofhimselfregularlyofferingadvice.“Thisissodidactic,Ican’tholdforthlikethis;it’slikeacourseofinstruction!”“Correct,”saidEsme.“Goon.”Heshookhishead.“Ican’t.It’sembarrassing,Ifeelsuchafool,I—”“Oh,getonwith it,”saidEmberasshe turnedherknitting round tobegina

new row. “Just say what you think without drawing attention to yourself somuch.”Jabezlookedabsolutelyfurious.Heclosedhiseyesanddidn’tspeak.“Youweresaying?”saidEsme.“Beingangryisone’sownchoice?”Jabezbegantolaugh.“Thankyou!Yesitis—yes,itis.Okay.Lastweek,one

of the thingsIsuggested thatyouwrote inyourdiarywasaboutmindingyourboundaries.Areallyimportantpartofanyspiritualtoolkitistheabilitytokeepsoul boundaries—a poise that falls to neither domination by others norsubjugationofthembyyou.BeingwithMissTriggisprobablythebestchanceyou’llevergettoholdyourradiancesteadyintheturbulenceofotherpeople’senergy.Anytimeyoufindyourself inatug-of-warwithher, just letgoofyourendoftherope.Iknowyou’rethepastorofthechapel—butthatgivesyouarealauthorityshehasn’tgot.You’reinapositiontoofferthemthechanceofaFairTradestall,butifMissTriggterrorizesthemintoturningitdown,don’tpanic.Ifyouaren’tchoosing to fight,youdon’thave towin.Ministry is responsibility,

butallthepeoplesharetheresponsibilityofministry,notjustyou;it’sallofyoutogether; so theygot to learn tomind their boundaries too, not letMissTriggannextheirlivesanddecisionstoherown.“Wordsarepower,Esme.Breathenergyisspirit;it’snottobesquanderedor

usedinviolence.It’simportantnottospeakunlessyoureallyhavesomethingtosayandothers are ready to listen.Youcan speak softly, and theuniversewillstillhearyou,yourwordswillmakeadifference.Andthere’snoneedforhurryorimpatience,youcantakeyourtime—theearthwaits.Timeisflexible,elastic.ThearkofGoddoesn’tsailwithouttheunicorn.”Embersatwithherknittinginherlap,staringimpatientlyatJabez.“Whatever

areyoutalkingabout?”shesaid.Jabezsaidnothinginreply.“Ithinkhe’ssayingthatevenif itdoesn’tseemlikely,gentlenessisenough,

andthereisn’tanotherway.Ijusthavetokeepmynerve.”Esmeventured.Jabeznodded.“That’sright.D’youwantanothercupoftea?”“Onemore;thatwouldbelovely,thenIoughttobeonmyway.Thankyou,

Jabez.Andd’youthinkyoucanfixDanny’sbike,too?”Hesmiledather.“I’msureIcan.IfItakemytime,andthinkaboutit;lookat

itcarefullyandonlytrytodoonethingatatime.”AsEsmedrovehomethatevening,shewonderedifsheshouldhavetoldthem

about the proposed changes in the circuit structure, and her volunteering tomove. She told herself that the business of the circuit leadership team had toremainconfidential,butshehadafeelingthatwasnotthereasonshehadn’ttoldthem.Itwasalong,longtimesinceshehadknownanyonewhowouldtalkwithher

so freely about walking the paths of the spirit. She felt that she had foundsomething—a kinship, an understanding—too precious to discard and leavebehind.Still,shehadvolunteeredtogo,andithadbeentherightthingtodo,and

shecouldthinkofnothingthatcouldbedonetochangeit.Shehadherlivingtoearnandnohomebutaparsonagetogoto.Therewerenootherchoicesthatshecouldsee.Sheresolvedtobepracticalandmakethebestofit;thereseemednootherway tostop thespreadingstainofsadness, thequiet,persistentgrief thatweptinherwhenshecontemplatedlosingthisfriendship.Sheavoidedintrospectionbyimmersingherselfinherwork.Toherpleasure

and surprise, all three church councils embraced her proposal of a Fair Tradestall with enthusiasm, almost unanimously. EvenMiss Trigg was remarkablyrestrainedandcontentedherselfwithabstainingfromthevote.

E

SIX

sme,watchingOctobercomeandgo,with itschurchcouncilmeetingsandHarvestFestivalservicesandsuppers,feltuncomfortablydetachedfromher

congregations.I shall be leaving, she thought, I shall be leaving, and youdon’t know.Not

until the following spring did the leadership team plan to inform the circuitmeetingandthechapelsoftheirdecisiontoreorganizethecircuit.Inthesmallerchapels,keepinggoingfeltnoworsethanthestruggleithadbeenforsolong.InEsme’s congregations, even Wiles Green having enough members to remainviable until death took its toll of the elderly congregation, it had crossednobody’smindthatintheeventofacutinstafftheirministerwouldbetheonetogo.Shehadspent time readingup inherbulky (hithertopristineandunopened)

current edition of theConstitutional Practice and Discipline of theMethodistChurch,soastoappearappropriatelyinformedwhensheaskedherchairmanofdistrictaboutstationingherforhernewappointment.Hehadreassuredherthatnothing would happen until next May at the very earliest; nothing would beknownuntilthefollowingSeptember—ayearbeforeshewouldmakehermove.“Sodon’tpanicyet!”heboomed,inhisjovialway.Esmecouldseenothingtopanicabout.Shecouldseethatherchurcheswould

be well served by her colleagues when the time came for her section to beparceledout into theirneighboringsections.Shecouldseethat timewasbeinggivenforcarefuldecisionstobeproperlymade.Shecouldevenseethat,inthelongrun,shemightcometolookbackwithgratitude;astheothermembersof

the leadership team reassuredherwhen theymet a second time to discuss theredistributionofthecircuit,theforthcomingmovecouldbroadenherexperienceandenrichher life. Itwas just that, listening to theothersdiscusspossibilities,andtoherchurchcouncilstalkaboutfuturesthatonlysheknewshewouldnotbesharing, somethingof theoldacheofwearinessbegan to return. In the lastyear,confidenceandenthusiasmhadgrownalongwithasenseofbelonging,inpartbecausethepeopleinmembershipofherchapelswerenowfamiliartoherandshetothem.Sheknewtheirhistories,andtheirfamilyconnectionsnow,theplaces where they worked, and what their homes were like. Preaching on aSunday had a deeper pastoral significance. She knewher sheep, and they hadcometoknowhervoice,andtrustwasgrowing.Andthen,Jabez…Ember,too,but,especially,Jabez…Asshecontemplatedmoving,shebegantobemoreandmoreunsettled,untiltheparsonagethathadneverfeltreallylikehomebegantoseem positively distasteful. Esme stood in its sitting room, looking at thewallpaperandcurtainschosenbyotherpeoplewiththecriteriaofstickingtoatight budget and giving offense to nobody. She looked out through thereplacementwindowswiththeirhideousaluminumframesontothesquarelawnandmodestherbaceousbedsdesigned for easymaintenanceat thebackof theparsonage.Therewasnothingtocomplainofandnothingtodelight in.Idon’tbelonghere,shewhispered,andthatwastruenowwhicheverwayyoulookedatit.WhenEsmehadfirstofferedfortheministry,shehadbeenamarriedwoman,

andithadbeenlatebutnottoolatetothinkofhavingchildrensomeday.Atthattime,hersenseofbelonginghadderivedfromhermarriage.Thathadgone.Thedemandsofherworkensuredminimalcontactwithherparents,hersisters,andbrother,alltiedthemselvesbyworkandfamilyobligations.Shehadgrownawayfrom themanywaynow, inherown soul journey; lonely,herheart longed forsomeonetobeherkindred.WhowillIbe?sheaskedherselfnow.WhosesisteramI,andwhosechild?Whowillloveme,andwherewillIbelong?Whatwillmy

homebe—justmyself,maybe?She wondered about looking for some sort of pet. She thought that a dog

would requiremore attention and companionship than herworkwould permithertogive:Butshetoyedwiththeideaofbuyingacat—Siamesecats,shehadheard,were likedogs insomerespects,affectionate,butwith theadvantageofin-builtfelineindependence.Shewonderedifhavingacatmighthelptocreateasenseofhome.Thennumbly,standingstill,gazingwithoutseeingthroughthewindow,Esme

thought,Ishouldprayaboutthis.That’sthethingIreallyoughttodo.Whenyoupray for things, they comeout right.Well,maybe better than theymight havedone otherwise. At least, if it’s awful, I’d have the comfort of knowing itwasGod’swill.She frowned,puzzled.Then…does thatmean then… ifprayer—well,isGodlookingaftermeoramIlookingafterGod?Isthereapattern?Atall?And if so, does it really rest onmy initiative somuch, if there is aGod?DoesprayerreallymakeadifferenceifallofitisGod’swillanyway?Andifit’snot, does that mean God isn’t infinite—or all-powerful—after all? With asudden,peevish,restlesssenseofirritation,andaninexplicablebutdeep-rootedmutinyagainst thedutyofprayer, insteadEsmewent into thekitchen tomakeherselfacupofcoffee.Shelookedinthetin.Noflapjacksleft.Shethoughtbackto lastweekwhen she had stowed a bar of fruit and nut chocolate in the topdrawerofherdesk,andthoughtshe’dsettleforthat.As she poured boiling water onto the instant coffee granules, she reflected

wryly that however bigher next congregationmight be, anymove away fromJabezwouldinvolveareductioninherintakeoftea.Andshesurprisedherselfbystartingtocry.Hastilywipinghereyesandblowinghernose,refusingtolooktoocloselyat

what leavinghimmeant toher,Esmetookhercoffee into thestudy,andmorefrom forceofhabit than for any specific intent, sat atherdeskand turnedhercomputeron.Thepastweekshadbeensobusy,aneveningopeningupsuddenly

free left her at a loose end.Shehadnoneed toprepare a sermon forSunday;theywerebackinOrdinaryTime,shewaspreachinginadifferentchapelfromthepreviousSunday—lastweek’ssermonwoulddo.Thechurchcouncilsweredone, as were the circuit meetings and the Synod, and the Harvest Festivalproducewasallsatisfactorilydistributedtovariousworthycauses.Shesupposedthatnowwouldbe the timetoprayor toreador tositquietly

andinviteGod’sholypresenceintotherestlessnessinsideher.Butsomehowshefounditimpossibletosettletoanythingrequiringfocusandaclearspirit.Esmeplayedsevengamesofsolitaireandfinishedhercoffee.Without really thinking about it, she found herself telephoningMarcus. By

virtue of being himself more than through office held in the circuit, Marcusserved on the circuit leadership team. Esme thought maybe he would be ahelpfulpersonwithwhomtodiscussherproposedmove.Perhapshewouldhavesomesuggestions,helphertoframeamorepositiveoutlookontheprospect.Hercallwasansweredbyaladyfromahouse-sittingfirm,hiredforamonth

tolookaftertheirhomeandtheirdog.Assoonastheladybegantoexplainherresidence in theGriffiths’ house, Esme remembered that the date of themostrecent leadership team meeting had been conditioned byMarcus and Hilda’sforthcoming late holiday in Italy. They were traveling, she recalled, throughSwitzerland, and staying for a fewdays in a hotel by the Italian lakes, beforestoppingoff for aweek inVenice, continuing toTuscanyandon toa favoritespotinFlorence,flyinghomefromthere.Theywouldbeawayamonth.Esmethankedthehousesitterandendedtheconversation.Shewonderedaboutgoingout toseeJabez,butdecideditwouldbetoolate

forthathouseholdbythetimeshearrived.Thefollowingdayshehadpromisedtheafternoonforpastoralvisiting,butthemorningwasstillfree.ShethoughtiftheweatherremainedfineshewouldcycleovertoWilesGreeninthemorning,justtosayhello.Esmeplayedfivemoregamesofsolitaire,lookedatvariousInternetsitesshe

hadlistedforafreemoment,andthendecidedonanearlynight.After breakfast in the morning, she cycled over toWiles Green and found

Emberreturningdownfromtheorchardwith thehen-foodbucketasshecameroundthecornerofthehouseintotheyard.“Mornin’.”Emberwatchedherdismountandprop thebikeagainst thewall.

“Youwelcomeasalways toacupof tea ifyou fancymycompany,but Jabezgone to Shropshire to see his son. Went Monday. He’ll be back for theweekend.”Esmelookedatherinsurprise.“IhadnoideaJabezhadanychildren!”“Twosonshegot.Hardlyeversees’em.Hegotnomoneytotravel.Theygot

nomoneytotravel.Hewritessometimes.”“Oh.Aretheymarried?Hashegotgrandchildren?”“Onewasmarried but hiswife left him, took the kidswith her—you know

how’tisnowadays.Theotheronesitstheothersideofthechurch;hewon’tbemarrying.”Sheswungthebucket,makingthehandlerattle.“Youhavingacupoftea?Igotthekettlejustontheboil.”“Thankyou.”“I’lljuststowthispailbackintheshed.Don’tyouletontoJabezyoucaught

mefeedinghishensthislate—he’llbetickingmeoff.Don’tseewhy.Henslikesalie-insameasIdo.”Esmedoubtedthis,butdidn’tsayso.ShefollowedEmberacrosstheyardinto

thekitchenandsatatthetable,watchinghermakethetea.“Jabez’s sons,” volunteered Ember conversationally, as she peered into the

browndepthsofthepotandstirredthetea,“is,asyoumightexpect,notunlikeJabez.Achievementsandqualificationsallaboutasspectacularashis.Samuel,theoldestone,hegotaBA—failed—fromYorkUniversity.Enjoyedprowlingaround the North YorkMoors, investigating ancient archaeological sites, andstudyinguponTheDreamoftheRoodandOldEnglishasIgather,butnotsoenthusiasticwhenitcametoGeorgeEliotorMilton.YoungSamuelsaysMilton

is good for sterilizingnappies and that’s about all.According to Jabez, unlessyou got a good nodding acquaintance with the Gospels, the Psalms, and theCatholicMass,yougotnounderstandingofanyEnglish literatureupuntil the1970sanyway.That’swhathesays.If’tissothenit’shardlysurprisingSamuelmissedhismark—neverbeennearachurchinhislife,notevenbaptized.Adamnow,hisyoungerson,heneverfailedanythingonaccountofheneverwenttoanycollege in the firstplace.Adamsayshe’s likehis father—gotahereditaryDNAinGettingBy.Seemstobethecase,hecanturnhishandtomostthings.Iflifehasamanualorarulebook,nobodyevertoldthosethree.“’TisSamuelwasmarried.Well,ifthisain’tbrewednow,itneverwillbe.”Jabez usually poured the tea through a strainer into themugs.Ember didn’t

bother.Shesaidanoccasionaltealeaftochewmadeitmoreinteresting.“I suppose I should finda fewdays tovisitmy family sometimesoon too,”

said Esme, with less enthusiasm than she had intended. Ember watched her,attentiveandshrewd.“I’msorry—thatsoundedasthoughIdidn’tlookforwardtoseeingthem.Ido

—Imean,they’remyfamily.It’sjust,Idon’tknowwhatexactly,somehowtheymakemefeelabitofafailure.They’renotMethodist.IwasbroughtupChurchofEngland.Theythinkchapelisquaintandunsophisticatedandabitvulgar.Myparentscametohearmepreachonce.Irememberit.Igavemybestshotatquitea complicated expository sermon on the teaching structure of Saint Mark’sgospel. Afterward, my mother said—I can only imagine the remark was oneshe’d dreamed up earlier to have ready, and she’d slept through the actualservice—‘Ah,youMethodists;asimplebelief:Justhavefaith.Howcomforting.I wish I could be like that, but the Anglican Church is a thinking church,intellectual.’ They never came to hear me again. One of my sisters is theheadmistress of a girls’ private school. Shewent on a conference lastMarch,wheretheyweretoldhowimportantitistogivethemselveslittletreatstorewardallthehardworktheydo—shesayssheworksahundred-hourweek.Soshedid

treat herself. She bought herself a state-of-the-art wall-mounted CD player.Goodnessonlyknowshowmuchitcost.Myothersisterisadoctor.Mybrotherisaresearchchemist.I’mnotquitesurewhathe’sdoingatthemoment.It’sallcoveredbytheOfficialSecretsAct.They’reverysweettome,fondofme.Butwith the same affection they might show to a much-loved poodle, one that’sbeen in the family a long time. I’ve dreamed sometimes of becoming asuperintendentandthenadistrictchairandthenthepresidentoftheconference—just to show them. Even if Imanaged it, I’m not sure they knowwhat thepresidentoftheconferenceis,ordoes.Actually,I’mnotsureIdomyself.Ithinktheyvarywildlybetweentheonesthatdeliverimpassionedspeechesexpoundingradicalpoliticalviewsandtheoneswithnicesmilesthathavetroublefindingaplace toput their handbagdownwhile theybless thewinnerof the sandcastlecompetition.”Ember chuckled. “Something been upsetting you? You sound a bit curdled

today.”Esme didn’t reply. She felt unsettled and restless and sad. Eventually,

“Ember,”shesaid,“doyoupray?”Emberconsideredthisquestionwithoutsurprise.“Ilightfires,”sheoffered,afterawhile.“Pardon? Fires?Where?” Esme looked at her, slightly startled, waiting for

enlightenment.“Anywhere. In the orchard. In the little hearth in my bedroom. At my old

place I lit ’em in the garden near the hedge. Under the stars is best. Fires isfragrant,andcallstotheBeingattheheartofitall.TwigbytwigImakes’em.Itakesmy time—just little fireswe’re talking about, not roaringgreat bonfires.OntheburningIlaydriedpineconesfromthewoodsandtheroadside.Slipsofrosemary,driedsage.Inthesmokeisallmyyearnings.Dreamsthatnevercametobe.Mysenseofhome.Inthesmokeis thebrownbears,kept incages, theirgallbladderstappedforbileforChinesemedicine.Andfoxes,runningforhome,

notknowingtheirearthisblockedbythehunter.Andtheforests,cutdownforloggersandcattle ranchers.And the streams, fouledwith factoryeffluentsandsewageandcorpses.Inthesmokeisthebluebellwoodsandthedaffodilwoods,the brilliance of themoon, and a bird singing after dusk on a warm summernight.Thesoundofthesurfontheshingle,andthewindinthetopsofthepines.I sitsby the fire,and I saysnothing,althoughsometimes Iweep. I’mnot surewhatdeityis,mylove;butlifeissacred,lifeiswise.Oneday,ifmysmokefindsthewayhome,andwakesthegreatSpirit,thenthefaceoflifethatisdeathwillcomespeedingsilentlikeahuntingowl,andtakethecancerofhumanityoffthispoor, stripped, raped mother Earth, take it silent and quick, no more than asqueakofalarm;andthemountainswillhavetheirpeaceagain,andtheoceansgivebacktheheavenlyblue.Thegunsandthecarswillrust,andthetelevisionswillbequietatlast,andthefactoriesandschoolsandgovernmentbuildingswillbeforthebramble,therat,andthecrow.Isthatwhatyoucallpraying?Orisitjustfires?”“I think it’s what I call praying,” said Esme. “Ember, I just can’t pray

anymore.”Therearevery,veryfewpeopletowhomaminister,whosehouseandincome

are linked inextricably to the willingness to pray, may make that deadlyconfession.Emberseemedlikeoneofthefew.Esmeheardherownvoicesadlyandhopelesslyspeakthewords;anditcameasarelief.“Another cup of tea? I think we’d squeeze onemore each out of this pot?

Yes?”Emberpouredoutthetarry,coolingdregs.“Whatdoyoucallpraying,then,mylove;thatyoucan’tdo?”Esme sighed. “Well, just the usual things. I should have a quiet time in the

morning; read theBible.Maybeuse theprayerhandbookor thedistrictprayercalendartointercedefortheworldandthechurch.Ishouldconfessmysinsandprayfor thesick;Ishouldpraythroughthepastoral list. Imightuse theOrder

forMorningorEveningPrayerintheMethodistWorshipBook.There’slotsofmodernresourcestuffIcouldgettohelpme,ifonlyIcouldgetbythisterribleinertia.IcoulddoIgnatianvisualizationsormeditateonashort textorusethewordsofahymn.”“I’mnotsurprisedyougottroublepraying!”Embersoundedimpressed.“You

got the same trouble I get buying food in a supermarket.Betterwith an applefromtheorchardortheeggnew-laidfromunderthehen.”“ButwhatamIgoingtodo?”Esmecriedout.“I’maminister,Ican’tcarryon

justnotpraying;I’mafraud!”“MymotherwasborninWilesGreen,”saidEmber,withapparentirrelevance,

“butmyfatherdidn’tcomefromthispartoftheworld.Myhat!Thisteatastesfoul,don’tit!Letmethrowthatout,andwe’llstartagainwithafreshpot.”Theslopswentinthecompostbucket,andEmberdrewfreshwater,whichshe

settoboil.“MyfathercamefromsomemountainpartontheborderofIndia,Ithink.He

grewupinoneoftheyvillagesyouseeoncalendars,houseswiththeroofmadeoutofgreystoneshingles.Hehadapilgrimsoul,myfather,didn’tstaywithusall that long;but afterhemovedonheused towrite tomenowand then.HesometimesusedtospeaktomeaboutSiddhartha,theBuddha.MyfathertoldmethiswordBuddha justmeans someonewho is awake.He said that Siddharthataughtpeopleonlytowakeup.Topayattention,bepresent—‘asIamtoyou,’my father used to say—to livemindfully.My father spoke about life livedonpurpose.Whenhewalked,hewalked slow,becausehis feetkindof loved theground.Everystephetook,hegaveattentionto.HesaidwhateverIwasdoing,Iwastodoitwithallmyattention,evenjustsittingquietly,watching,orlistening.Hesaidyougottohavepresenceofmind.WhenIwaspoddingpeas,hetaughtmetogazeonmyhandsandlovethemworking.Hesaidthatinthepeasweresunshineandrainfromcloudsanddewandearth.Ourmotherspokeabout thegardenhavinggoodsoilforgrowingpeas,andheusedtosay,‘Notsoil;soilisa

wordthatmeansdirt.Sayearth,notsoil;fortheearthputsoutlivingplantsfromthelivingbodyofhersacredbeing.Reverencethegift.Reverencetheearth.’Hewouldtakeupahandfulofearthinhishands,rubit,andsniffit,andhe’dnodinsatisfaction.‘Earthiscleanandgood,’hetoldme.Andhesaidtoourmotherwechildren were to have earth and air, fire and water to play with, whichfortunatelywasn’t hard in the part of the countrywe lived in at that time.Heoften told us to practice the yoga of reverence, untilwhen Iwas a teenager Iaskedhimwhathemeantbyit.Helaughedatme—almosteverythingmadehimlaugh; not unkindly, he just didn’tmind about things.He said itmeant seeinginto the heart of whatever you had before you until the fire of its divine liferevealeditselftoyou.Anything—fromacutfingertoaplateofsteamedcabbagetoasinkfulofwashingup.Avaseofperfumed liliesordogmess in theyard.Theeyesofyourbridegroomwhenhegiveshimselftoyouinmarriageandtheeyesofthesamemanwhenhetellsyouhe’sleavingyou.Hesaidweweretobepresent to everybeingwe encounterwith absolute respect, and treat ourselveswiththesamerespect.Icanrememberhimnow,hespokesoftlyalways,saying,‘Every living being is present to this moment, therefore you are a part ofeverythingbecauseyouarealsointhismoment.Thereforeyouareholybecausethismomentpulsateswith thedivine.Youronlyresponsibility is tobringyourattention to this moment; when you do so, you will perceive the radiance ofdivinelightilluminatingeverythingthatis.’Hesaidallkindsofstuffalongthoselines. I never saw him praying as such—but I saw him peeling potatoessometimes,andIbelieveitwasmuchthesamething.”Esmesatquietlyandthoughtaboutwhatshehadjustheard.Shedrankhertea

Emberhadmadeandpouredoutandsetbeforeherasshewastalking.“I thinkmy congregationwould expectme to have a daily quiet time,” she

saidatlast.“Then take quiet time every day,” Ember replied. “Invite your God. Say,

‘God, have you noticed the quietness of this time? Have you got your full

attention on thismoment?Good. So have I.’ I tell youwhat isn’t prayer,mylove.Worryingisn’t.”Esmesmiled.“No—you’reabsolutelyright.Icanseethat.”The conversation remained with her through the week—she realized that it

hadbeenthefirsttimeshehadtalkedwithEmberatanylength.ShefeltthatinEmber she had encountered something very solid and uncompromising andstrong, very wise, too. Esme had mentioned how helpful she had found it tospendtimewithJabez,tohavethefreshviewofhisperspectiveonlife,andtohearwhathehadtosayastheysatandchattedinhisworkshoporbythefiresidein the living room of his cottage. Ember had looked at her, a look that Esmecouldn’tread.“Jabez?” she had replied. “He got plenty to say to anyone with the same

interests.Andsometimes,mylove,youdowelltolistentowhathedoesn’tsay—especiallytoyou.”That puzzled Esme.Had she been insensitive in someway?As she looked

backonthemanytimestheyhadtalked,becomingeasywitheachotherasthemonthswentby,Esmefelt thesuddenupwellingofsadnessagain;shedidnotwantthismove,withoutreallyknowingwhy.In early November, onceMarcus had come back from Italy, the leadership

team met again. It was decided that after Christmas, Esme could talk to thestewards in her section churches about the changes to come. Then alternativeplansforthefuturewouldbepresentedtothechurchcouncilsandtothecircuitmeetinginthespring,theimplicationsofthedecisionstherebeingreturnedforconsiderationattheannualchurchmeetings.Astheydisbandedafteraneveningof animateddiscussion,Marcus said toEsme, “You ranguswhilewewere inItaly,mydear.Wasitsomethinginparticular?Isallwell?”Esme shook her head. “No problems, nothing to worry about. I just had a

thoughtthatmaybeIcouldcomeandseeyou,totalkthroughwhereImightgo,whatImightdonext.”

“Why don’t you join us for supper, Esme? Tonight is good if you have nootherengagementandfeelyoucanfaceanymoreonthetopictoday.”Esme accepted, gratefully. That evening, driving through the dark lanes to

WilesGreen, she reflected on how quickly the summer seemed to have comeandgone;theseasonslikeawheeledthingrollingdownhill,pickingupspeedasitgoes.Isupposeit’sbecausethesummerwassochillyandwetthisyear,shethought.Ihaven’thadenoughofthesun,Ifeelsotiredanddispirited;I’mnotreadyyetforthewinter.Hilda,onthelookout,sawherapproach,andstoodframedinthewarmlight

ofheropendoorwayasEsmeclimbedoutofhercar.“Welcome!Comein,mydear,comein!Suchadrearynight,comeinbythe

fire,comein!”AsHildatookhercoat,EsmeaskedhowthetriptoItalyhadgone.“Oh,marvelous,mydear,butjustmarvelous!ItwassolovelytohaveJeremy

withus—ouryoungestson,didyouknowhecame?It’snevereasyforhimtoget time away from that business of his, it seems to gobble up his livingdaylights, but just foroncehe could snatcha fewweeks—hehad to flyhomefromVeniceofcourse,andIwouldsomuchhavelikedhimtobeabletoenjoyFlorence, but well—I’m sorry, Marcus? Did you call? No, of course we’recoming,justamomentofgirlishchatter—wineIshouldthinkifyou’repouring.Comealongin,mydear,I’mjustdyingtoshowyouourphotographs—unlessofcourse you absolutely detest other people’s holiday snaps—well, it can betedious,don’tyouthink?Ofcourseitcan.Therenow,inyougo,makeyourselfcomfy, that’s right, here’sMarcuswith yourwine.Oh, and nuts—I shouldn’tknowMarcusatapartywithouthisnuts,averypressinghostsometimes—takeahandful,thereyouare!”Esme admired the photographs of lakeside hills and wayside shrines, the

Venetian squares andbridges andwaterways, and thegloriesofFlorence.ShelearnedthatJeremy,whoappearedinsomeofthesnaps,ayouthfulcloneofhis

father,ranasmallchainofjuicebarscateringtohealth-consciousexecutivesintheWest End of London. Hilda again expressed concern about how hard heworkedandhow time-consuminghisbusinesscommitmentswere.Required tocorroboratethis,MarcusexpressedtheopinionthatpossiblyJeremy’sattitudetohisworkwasa little less languid than ithadbeen tohis studiesat school;butEsmecouldseehowproudoftheyoungmanhisfatherfelt.“AndofcoursenowSophiehasherlittlegalleryinPiccadilly,it’smuchmore

handy—sheandJeremycanbothbebasedintheLondonflatnow,anditdoessave somuch running about.Back and forth to Pariswas no joke in the longterm.”Esmesaidshecouldseethatthiswouldbeso.Gatheringthephotographsinto

neat piles again, she replaced them in the envelopes on her lap. “Those arebeautiful.Whatawonderfultrip,”shesaid.“Oh, itwas!Lastyear inRussia,”Hilda threwupherhands inhorrorat the

memory;“well,Marcuswouldgo.Leningrad ithad tobe.Oh, Iadmitwesawsomesplendid thingsbut,dearme, iconsad infinitum and theacrylicalphabetthatnobodycouldmakeheadortailof.Iwashonestlyjustgladtocomehome!Nowthenyoumustbefamished—I’veanicelittlecasserole,justthethingforacold night. You andMarcus can talk over your church nonsensewhile I flapabout in thekitchen.It’ssoniceofyouto lookatmyphotographs,mydear—youknowhowitis,peoplejustfallasleeplooking!”Marcus,ensconcedinthecomfortabledepthsofhisarmchairontheotherside

ofthefire,sippedhiswinereflectively.“Areyouhappyaboutyourmove?”heaskedEsme,whenHildahadgoneout

oftheroom.Sherespondedcautiously,“Well,ifthishadn’tcomeup,IthinkIshouldhave

hopedforareinvitationtostay,butitallseemspractical;Iamlookinguponitasanopportunity.”Marcusnodded.“Butyou—”hebentandplacedhisglassonthecornerofthe

modernYorkstonehearth,whichlookedremarkablyathomeinthisoldhousewith its antique furnishings, “—you had no particular reason why you mighthavepreferredtostayonwithusatWilesGreen?”heasked.WilesGreen?EsmethoughtofMissTrigg.HowstrangethathemightthinkI

had a special attachment to the chapel at Wiles Green. He can’t faceworshippingtherehimself!“No? Just aquestionof finding the rightway forward? Ihad thought—”he

hesitated,“—IhadthoughtthesuggestionImightofferforrestructuringwouldbetocombineSoutharbourwith the littlechapels that remain to thewestof it,leavingBrockhyrstPrioryandWilesGreentothenorthasatinysectionsuitableforahalf-timer;whichcouldbeasupernumeraryjustretiredlookingforafewmoreactiveyearsoraministerinlocalappointmentwhomightwelcomehalfastipend.”“Isuppose it’spossibleoneofourretiredministerswould take themon,but

those two chapels are no doddle to run,” said Esme. “And we haven’t got aministerinlocalappointment.”“No,”Marcusadmitted.“Notatthemoment,butyouneverknow.”“Well,butwe’vegot toplan forwhatwehavenow,”saidEsme,perplexed.

“UnlessyouknowsomethingIdon’tknow.”Marcusshookhishead.“Itwasonlyathought,”hesaid.“AndI’mquitesure

youknowmore about it all than I do.You feel there are no ties for youherethen, beyond the natural preference for spending a while longer with thecongregationsyouhavecometoknow?”“Yes,butsomehow…well,ifI’mhonest,I’msadtobegoing;butit’sclear

I’mtheobviouschoiceifoneofushastoleave.Andafterall,I’dhavehadtomoveoneventually,wouldn’tI?I’mgettinglessandlessconvincedthatit’spartofthevocation,buttherealityisthatit’spartofthejob.”“Yes.” The curious, speculative way Marcus was looking at her suddenly

remindedherofthewaySeerEmberhadsatconsideringherinJabez’skitchen.

“What?”sheasked,feelingslightlyunnerved.Marcussmiled.“Ifeelnotentirelyhappyaboutthesedecisionsforchange.It

seems to me the discussions might have waited until a moment of naturalparting.I’mgoingtogoaheadandmakemysuggestiontotheteam,Esme;thatwemakeasmallsectionsuitable for,say,aminister in localappointment.Wemayattractsomebody.Itisn’tonlyolderpeoplewhogoforlocalappointment.Sometimesfolkfeelcalledtoministrywho,forreasonsoffamilycommitmentsorothertiestoalocalarea,arelookingforsomethingmorestable,morerootedmaybe.”Whyishetellingmethis?Esmewondered,bewildered.Forheaven’ssake,I

knowwhat localappointmententails.Why ishe insistingonpursuing thiscul-de-sacwhenthere’snoonehereitappliesto?“Ah!Ready,mydear?”Marcusgottohisfeetandstoodpolitelywaitingfor

Esmetoaccompanyhimtothediningroom.Aftertheyhadeaten,asHildadisappearedtobrewsomecoffee,Esmeasked

Marcusforsomeadviceinchoosingherwayforward.“It’sfunny,”shesaid,“thereseemstobenoparticularareaortypeofministry

that calls to me—all I know is, I’m quite happy here. I think I’ll try forsomewherenottoofaraway.”Marcus had no advice to offer, however, and as she mulled over their

conversation on the way home, Esme concluded he was probably sensible;peoplehavetoacceptresponsibilitythemselvesforthechoicestheymake.

November,overcastandcold,dampwithrecurrentdrizzle,persisteddismallyinthedirectionofAdvent.Esmegazedoutofher studywindowat the cheerlesssightofherfrontgardencloggedwithasoddenmatoffallenleaves,theearthofitsbordersbetweentheskeletalrosebushesinterruptedbythebroken,awkwardshapesofdeadplantsblackenedbynightfrosts.

She sat planning the format for Portland Street’s service of Advent LightscheduledforthefirstSundayofDecemberintendaystime.Piledonherdeskwere files of previous Advent services, carols-by-candlelight liturgies,Christingles, and school end-of-term winter services, intended to offer herinspiration.Sofarnonehad.Shepulledalinedpadtowardher.“People,LookEast,”shejotteddown,and

“Ocome,Ocome,Emmanuel”and“WhentheLordinGloryComes.”Changingtack for a moment, she reached for her card file, flicked through to find thetelephonenumbersofthechoirmistressatBrockhyrstPrioryandSoutharbour’sworshipbandleader;theseshewrotedowninreadinessatthebottomofthesheetof paper. Suddenly, her attention was caught by something green pulling upalongside thepavementbeyondhergardenwall. “GoodLord! It’s Jabez!” shesaidaloud,wonderingassheleftherdeskandwenttoopenthefrontdoor,ifitwasrighttofeelsopleasedattheinterruption.“Hello!”shecalledouttohim,happyathisunexpectedarrival.Hehadbeen

abouttotakesomethingoutofthebackofhistruck,buthearinghercall,leftit,andcametowardthehouse.Esmedelightedafreshinthecurious,shy,“I’mnothere”modeofhisapproach.Howdoeshedoit?sheaskedherself,smilingatthesightofhiminhishugewaxedjacketandriversofsilverhair.Heliftedhiseyesinonebrightglanceashecametowhereshestoodonthe

doorstep.“Ithoughtyoumightbegladofyourleavesraked,”hesaid,noddingtowardthedampmassobscuringhersmallfrontlawn.“Androundtheback,”headded.“Ipoppedinyesterdaywhileyouwereout,butnorakeintheshed,soIcamebacktoday.Allright?”“Oh, Jabez!Youare adarling!Thatwouldbeabsolutelywonderful!Would

youlikeacupofteafirst?”Hesmiled.“Well,youputthekettleonwhileImakeastartonthese.Cupof

teabemostwelcome,butIhaven’tcometoholdupwhateveryou’rebusywith.”Esme shook her head, laughing. “Oh, no! Please do! I shall be glad of an

excusetostop!Haveyougotarakethen?Isthereanythingelseyouneed?”“No,IgotallI’llbewantinginthebackofthetruck.Esme,yougotnoproper

compostbinshere,haveyou?IfIfindasparemorningandIcanpickupsomeforkliftpalletsorsomethingsomewhere,shallIpopinandknockupaplaceforleafmoldandforyourkitchencompostdowntheendofthegarden?Rotsdownbetterifit’sproperlycontained.”“Does it? Well, yes, that would be lovely.” Esme didn’t dare tell him she

recyclednothingandthrewallherkitchenwasteoutwitheverythingelseforthedustman to take to the landfill site—or that there wasn’t much kitchen wasteanywaybecausemostofwhatsheboughtwasready-mealsinthefirstplace.“I’llputthekettleonthen,”shesaid,changingthesubject.When,havingmadea cupof tea andput some flapjacksoutonaplate, she

returnedawhilelatertothefrontdoorsteptoinvitehimin,shefoundhimwiththeleavesrakedintoneatpiles,whichhewascollectingontoatarpaulinhehadspreadonthetarmacdrive.Sheobservedthathehadbroughtayardbroomwithhim,andpresumably,intendedtosweepupthefallenleavesthicklyedgingthedriveway,too.“Withyouinaminute,”hesaid,glancingup.IntheonceortwiceshehadseenhimsincehisvisittoSamuelinShropshire,

Esme had at some pointmentioned in conversation the despair she felt at herinability to tend her garden adequately. “It’s such a tangle,” she had said. “Iquitelikegardening,butit’sabitbigforme,andtherearesomanyotherthingstobedone.Theministerbeforemeneverdidanythinginthegarden,buttheonebeforehimwas a real enthusiast, so there are all thesedead things andweedsthathavecolonizedthebareearthoftheveggiepatch.Reallyhorridweedstoo.Groundelderandbindweedandthingswithdeeproots.Andnowtheleavesarefalling,Idon’tseehowI’lleverbeabletocatchupwithit.”“Iamjustsograteful,”shesaid,asheperchedonthehighstoolatherbuilt-in

Formicabreakfastbar.“Haveaflapjack.Havetwo.It’ssoniceofyou.Itfeels

likethecavalrycomingoverthehill.Whoeverelseinalltheworldwouldturnupoutofthebluetorakeupalltheseblessedleavesforme?Thankyouso,somuch.”Jabezblinked,pleasedandslightlyembarrassed.“Steadyon,”hesaid.“Igotafreeafternoon,that’sall.I’mgladtobeofsome

use,Irarelyenougham.”Esmesmiledathim.“You’vealargecrumbofflapjacklodgedinyourbeard,”

sheobserved.“HaveI?That’snothingnew.”Hefeltforitandfisheditout.“Therearesome

things that don’t gowith beards, like professional advancement and spaghettibolognaise,”he remarked, “but it’shandy for catching thecrumbs, it savesonshavingstuff,andIgetupquickerinthemorning.”Esmelaughed.Foramomenttherewassilencebetweenthem.“D’youknow,”shesaidthen,“nobodyelsecomestohelpmewiththedifficult

thingslikeyoudo.I’vethoughtaboutitoften,becauseit’sacuriousthingaboutwomeninordainedministry.Sometimesthequestionisraisedastowhetherit’smore difficult for women to be ministers, whether there are practices ofdiscrimination or prejudice thatwe should attend to. Inmy own experience, Ihave nevermet any sense of individuals intentionallymaking life difficult—Imean, there are plenty of people likeMiss Trigg, but then as you said, she’sentitledtoherpointofviewasmuchasIamtomine.Andyet…oh,it’shardtoput my finger on what the difference is, it’s just little things all the time;ordinary,mundanethingsthatnobodynotices—evenIdon’tnoticemostofthetime.You know, I’ve sat in the Synod at lunchtime, and all theministers areundoing their sandwiches, opening their plastic boxes and their cling-filmpackets—andI’veheardthemensayingthingslike‘What’sthisthen?I’veneverhadoneofthesebefore’;whichmakesitcleartheydidn’tpacktheirownlunch,noryetdidtheshoppingthatenabledthepackedlunchtobemade.OnceImadearemarktoamalecolleaguecomparingonegrocerystoretoanother;hesmiled

with a sort of polite interest and then said he didn’t really know because hehadn’t been in any of them—hiswife does all the shopping. Thatman’swifedoesn’t sit at home polishing her nails the rest of the time either; she’s acommunity psychiatric nurse.And our superintendent, at a staffmeeting,willlookathiswatchandsay,‘I’llhavetobebackbyone,becauseJeanwillhavethedinnerready.’I’vesatinacommitteeatWestminster,aroomfulofmenandmetheonlywomanexceptone—andshewas thesecretaryofoneof themen,there to takenotes,youknow?Andwesat round the tablebefore themeetingbegan,politechat.ThetalkwasallaboutrecentlyvisitedLondonartexhibitionsandthelatestcomputersoftware.Acoupleofthemenwerehavinghardtimes.Oneofthemsaidhissecretarywasoffsick,andtheotheronesaidhiscomputerhad crashed—orwas it the otherway round?Then the door swung open, andinto this elegant chatter—I mean, the committee was to discuss poverty inBritaintoday,andtheMethodistchurchissupposedlyascrupulouslyegalitarianinstitution—inwalked two black ladies bearing platters of sandwiches. And Iaskedmyself, is this the churchof JesusChrist? Is this how it’smeant tobe?But,Jabez,whatreallygavemethecreepsisthatnobodyelsethoughtanythingofit!“And inmy own life, if I were aman alone—I know this is true from the

experience of male colleagues—they’d bring me chocolate cake and ask meroundtodinnerandoffertohelpmecleanmyhouse.ButbecauseI’mawoman,theyexpectmetohelprunthebazaarandtakeanactiveinterestinmakingthecoffee afterworship and bake buns for church teas. It’s so unfair! If Iwere amalemarriedminister,mywifewouldprobablydohalfmypastoralvisitingandhelpmewith all the socializing and remember Christmas cards and relatives’birthdays,aswellasget theshoppingandvacuumthefloorsandcookthe tea.ButifIasawomanweremarried,myhusbandwouldgoout toworkandthatwouldprobablybehiscontributiontothehousehold.Fullstop!“SometimesasI’vebeendrivingsevenmilesouttoWilesGreenalongrutted

laneswithafruitsaladorahugevatofsouponthepassengerseat,onmywaytoaneventwhereIhaveresponsibilityforalltheproceedingsaswell,Iaskmyself,WhyamIdoingthis?IfIwhineaboutittoanyotherwomenminister,shejustlooksatmeoverherpackofsandwiches(nottheoneherhusbandmade,theoneshestoppedtobuyatthegarageshopwhenshewasfillingupwithpetrolonthewaytoSynod)andsays,‘Well,whyareyou?’AndI’lltellyouwhy,Jabez,it’sbecause although I can preach and chair a meeting and do all that the jobrequires,underneathitallI’mnotamodernwoman;I’mnotsureofmyrole,andsomethinginmemournsthepassingoftradition.”HelookedatEsme.Oneeyebrowtwitchedexpressively,andtherewasasmile

inhiseyes.Hesaidnothinguntilhewassureshe’dstopped,andthen,“Um,mendovary,”heventured.Esmegazedathimhopelessly.“Jabez,I’mso,sotired,”shesaid.Jabeznodded.Hesippedhisteaandsatquietly.Esmelookedathim,hisbody

relaxedbutaware,hiseyesthoughtful;shesawapoiseinhimthatshehadseeninwildthings,notofteninhumanbeings.In the course of her life, Esme had usually had a special friend. When

something interesting or important happened to her that she was bursting toshare,shewouldfindthatwhoevershetold,shehadn’treallytoldit,notfeltshehadreallybeenheard,untilshetoldherspecialfriend.Overthelastfewmonthsshehadbeguntofind,withoutconsciouslyrealizingit,thatsoitwasnowwithJabez.Whateverhernewsorhertroublemightbe,ifonlyshecouldtellJabez,nothingmoreneededtobesaid.“Fouryearsago,myhusbandleftme.”Esme’sfingerspickedupatillreceipt

thatlayamongotherdiscardedpapersonthebreakfastbar.Absentmindedly,shebegantofoldandrefoldit.“Itrustedhim,youknow.Hetoldmehelovedme,spunsuchdreamsforme,tillIwascaughtinthesilkenthreadsofromancelikeaflyinaspider’sweb.Hepromisedmehe’dlovemealways,takecareofme.Hecalledmehisprincessandhesaidthemoonwasasilverballandhe’dclimbup

toheavenandbringitdown.”Shebrokeoff,feelingfoolish.Trulyshehadfallenfor the loveliness of it all, thewedding and the happiness of being chosen, ofachieving something her family might admire; of being, for a man who hadseemedsocleverandaccomplishedandsophisticated,theOnlyOne.Exceptshehadn’t been. “It was all right for a while,” she said. “I mean, we managedfourteenyearstogether,justabout.Wewerehappy,moreorless,rightupuntilthetimeIwasacceptedasacandidateforordainedministry.Idon’tknowwhathappened,itwasasthoughhesawmeasacompetitor.He’dalwaysinsistedhesupportedtheideaofmefollowingthatpath,but…”Hervoicetrailedaway,andshesatforawhileremembering.Thenshestirred,

and looked at Jabez. It intrigued her, theway under a veil of quietness in hisface, lights and shadows of his soul dappled and flickered. He sat withoutmoving, impassive, but so alive. He waited for her to speak, but she feltunderstood;shehadnoneedtosayanymore.“Esme,Ibettergetthoseleavesdone,”hesaidafterawhile,finishinghistea.

Hegotdownfromthehighstool,tookhismugtothesink,rinsedit,andlookedroundforthedishtoweltodryit.“My experience is limited,” he said, glancing at herwith a shy smile as he

dried themug,“but Iguessyouhave tobewaryofeloquence. Ingeneral, ifamanisinlove—Imeanreally,deeplyinlove—youwon’tgetmuchmoreoutofhimthan thebleatofastrangledsheepwhenhe tries to tellyouhowmuchhecaresforyou.Nevertrustthestayingpowerofalovethatcanbeexpressedas‘Iadoreyou,darling!’”Esmelaughed.“Isee!”shemockedhim.“Soyoucouldgoweakattheknees

atthesightofme,andyou’dneverbeabletotellmeso!”Heputthemugbackonitshookwiththeothers,andhungthedishtowelback

ontherailithadcomefrom.“That’sright,”hesaidquietly.“NowIbettergetonwiththoseleaves.”

E

SEVEN

smewokeearly,withAdventonhermind.Tuesday today, firstSunday inAdventcomingup.Throughherchildhood,andasayoungwoman,Advent

hadbeenaseasonofexcitementandhappyanticipation,amagicaltimeofyear.Allthatseemedtohavebeencrushedoutofitnow,bytheweightoftoomanyevents. She had organized her Christingle service for Portland Street, with amodestprizeforthechildwiththebestdecoratedorange.ShehadcontactedtheScoutleadersfromBrockhyrstPriorytoarrangeasmallbandofinstrumentalistsfortheAdventserviceoflight.ShehadappealedforcarolsingersfromallthreechurchesforcarolsingingroundthevillageatBrockhyrstPriory.HerChristmasservice details were in to the local paper, and she had written three pastoralletters for the churchmagazines of each of her three chapels, remembering toincludeaplugfortheCovenantserviceinearlyJanuary,therebeingnoJanuarymagazine. The watch-night service on New Year’s Eve was sorted and theChristmasmidnight communion, too. The carols services at each of her threechapels had been scheduled so that she could officiate at all three—it meantWilesGreentakingthe4:30slotagainthisyear,buttheydidn’tseemtomind.Inher diary she had noted a number of social occasions; the circuit staff andstewards’NewYear’s party (all ladies to bring a dessert, the superintendent’swifetoprovidethemaincourse;Esmewasonfruitsaladagain)andthePortlandStreetchoirdinneratatwo-starhotelinasideroadafewhundredyardsinfromtheseafront.Thechoirwentthereeveryyear,securingataknockdownpriceacheerfuleveningwithamediocremeal.TheyouthleaderhadinvitedhertotheBrownies’andRainbows’Christmasparty,andshehadbeenapproachedwitha

requesttotakeasmallservicefortheplaygroupthatmetatPortlandStreet.ShehadbeeninvitedtotheChristmascelebrationsoffivehousegroups;ineachcaseEsmewastogiveaChristmasmessage,afterwhichtherewouldbeapartywithfingerfoods.ShehadbeenaskedtogivetheChristmasaddressfortheMultipleSclerosisSocietycarolservice,takingplaceinBrockhyrstPriorychapelforthefirsttimethisyear,andshewastosayaprayerattheconclusionoftheannualjunior school Christmas concert in Portland Street chapel. There remainedoutstanding somearrangements tobemadeabout thedonkeybelonging to theliverystables,inpreparationfortheLivingCribthatthevicarofSt.RaphaelsatWilesGreenmasterminded each year. It had occurred to him that ecumenismwouldspreadtheburdenofforwardplanning,andhehadinvitedEsmetobepartof theproceedings,which involvedhersourcingarecentlydeliveredmother,alantern on a hook, and a reliable donkey. The stable was a regular venue, sonobody had to fix that. On the first Saturday in December, which was AIDSweek,EsmehadpromisedtotakepartinaspecialserviceattheAnglicanchurchinthecenterofSoutharbour.ShealsonotedthatshehadtwoplanningmeetingsscheduledinearlyandlateDecemberforabereavementgrouppreparingspecialintercessionsforthehospiceanniversaryservice,whichwasn’ttillFebruarybuthadtobeplannedaheadtoenablefliersfordistributionintheNewYear.Suddenly remembering the preparatory planning necessary for the week of

prayer forChristianunity inmid-January and the ecumenical serviceonBibleSunday, Esme found herself very wide awake at six o’clock in the morning,which was early for her. Lying in bed mentally reviewing her variouscommitments and responsibilities for awhile hardly seemed to improve them.FerventlyhopingthatnoonewoulddieandrequireafuneralbeforetheendofthefirstweekofJanuary,Esmegotuptomakeacupoftea.Seizing theopportunityofferedbyanearly start to theday, in amomentof

resolveshetookhercopyoftheMethodistWorshipBookofftheshelfandusedthesetformofMorningPrayerasdevotionstostarttheday.Feelingvirtuous,as

lightcame,shedecidedtogoforarideonherbikeaswell.Sheateabowlofcerealandleftthewashingupinthesinkforlater,lockedupthehouse,andgotherbikeoutoftheshed.AsshecycledoutinthedirectionofBrockhyrstPriory,encouraged by the emergence of a promise of sunshine after two weeks ofdrizzlingrain,itoccurredtohertopushoninthedirectionofWilesGreenanddrop in for a cup of teawith Jabez and Ember,who she thoughtwouldmostlikelybeupbynow.Themorningsunlightstrengthenedassherodethroughthelanes. She encountered a number of people out walking their dogs and someschoolchildren walking along to the main road to wait for the bus. She wentcautiously,becausethepostaldeliveryvanswerebusyinthelanesatthistime,and other vehicles were hurrying to workplaces. Fallen leaves packed on theroadsurfacemadethewayslippery,andintheplacesofshadowitwasstillicy.Esmefeltglad toarrive inonepieceat theOldPoliceHouse.Shedismountedfrom her bike and wheeled it up the path to the cottage, leaving it proppedagainstthewallofthekitchen.Knockingon thedoor,and then immediatelyopening it to letherself in, she

found her friends in the warmth of the kitchen, chatting, the early sunlightstreamingthroughthewindowabovethesinkthatlookedupthegardenintotheorchard.Onthetable,theremainsofbreakfastthingsstillstoodaroundthebigbrownteapotinitsmulticoloredknittedteacozy(Ember’swork).Embersatinhercornerbythestove,andJabezsatbythetableononestool,hisbackrestingagainst thewall, his feet up on the other stool. They each held amug of tea,steaming.Itwasacompanionablesight,andasJabezputdownhisteawithoutquestionandreachedupahandtotheshelfforathirdmug,Esmefeltasuddenimpulse of happiness in the warmth of the welcome always there for her,confidenceinfriendshipgiven.“You’reabroadearly,”saidEmber.“Youhadyourbreakfast,orwill Imake

somemorefriedbread?”“Oh,dear,don’tgivemefriedbread!”Itmayhavesoundedungraciousbutthe

wordswerespokenbeforeshethoughttwice.“Imean,it’seversokindofyou,butIjusthavetolosesomeweight.IcycledeverywhereduringthesummerbutIdon’tseemtohavelostapound—itjustmademehungryandIatemore.”“Iexpectit’sjustmusclethen,”saidEmberconsolingly.“Musclesbeheavier

thanfat.”Jabezheldoutthemugofteahehadpouredherandtookhisfeetoffthestool,

pushingittowardherforaseat.“It’sokay,”shesaid,leaningherbackagainsttheedgeofthesink,“I’mfine

overhere.Idon’tthinkitismuscle,Ember,Ithinkit’smiddle-agedspread.”Shesighed.“Itmakesmefeelsofrumpy.”“Youdon’t lookfrumpy,”Jabezsaidquietly.“Just—”andthenhemumbled

somethinginthedirectionofhisteathatEsmedidn’tcatch.Shelookedathim,intrigued,buthewouldn’tlookbackather.Ember,alert,hereyessnappingwithmischief,caughtEsme’seye.“Ibelieve,”

shesaidwithagrin,“thosewords,ifthat’swhatyoucancall’em,were‘nicetohold.’”Esme took amoment to register her owndelight in the compliment—that it

wasmoreprecioustoherthanshemighthaveexpected.Jabeztookrefugeinhismugoftea.Emberregardedthembothwithintenseinterest.“Well,”shesaid,“youbringhimsomethingnicetohold,hegotthebikeshed,

whatareyouwaitingfor?”Jabezfrozeinrigidembarrassment,hishandhalfwayreturninghismugtothe

table.Foramomenthesaidnothing,juststaredfixedlyatthespaceinfronthim.Thenheplacedthemugveryquietly,deliberately,onthetable.“Ember,forheaven’ssake,she’saminister,”hesaid.“That’sdisrespectfulto

saysuchathing.”Notintheleastputoutbythisrebuke,Emberregardedhimwithskepticism,

leaningforwardtosay,“JabezFerrall,youtellmeyoulookatEsmeandseeaminister,andI’llcallyoualiartoyourface.”

Desperate,turninghisheadawayasananimalturnsitsheadfromthebarsofacage,notlookingateitherofthem,JabezsaidfirmlytoEsme,“Iwouldn’tleanagainstthatsinkifIwereyou;you’llgetalineofwateronyourback.Excusemenow,Ihaven’tfedthehens.”Avoidingtheirgaze,hegottohisfeetandcrossedthekitchen,escapinginto

theyardandclosingthedoorfirmlybehindhim.“Hehas,”saidEmber,withagrin.Theyheardthepostmancall tohim,andJabezreply;buthedidn’tbringthe

lettersintothecottage.“Oh,dear.”Esmefeltworried.“Ithinkhewasreallyoffended,Ember.Don’t

youthinkyoushouldmaybegoandapologize?”Ember’sfacewrinkledintolaughter,whichshookhersmallframe.“Leavehimbe,he’llcomeround,”shechuckled.“Bring that teaandsityou

downhereat the table. Jabez takeshisself tooseriousmostof the time. ’Tisamaledisease.”Esmesmiled,andcametositwithEmber.AfterawhileEsmeasked,“WilleitherofhissonscomehomeforChristmas?”Embershookherhead.“If you ain’t religious that way, then all Christmas brings is expense,” she

replied. “He sends them a card andwhatmoney he can for a present. If he’slucky, they remember to send him a card, at least before January’s too farstarted.WehaveChristmasveryquiethere.Jabezlikestolistentocarolsontheradio,andwhentheshopsreducethepricesofeverythingafterBoxingDay,wehavesomestuffingandabird,aChristmaspuddin’anda jarofbrandybutter.Last year he gaveme some chocolates—that was nice; and I’d knitted him ascarfwhichhewasgladof.Igotabookputawayforhimthisyear;sawitatajumblesaleinthesummer.”“What’sthebook?”Esmeasked.“Annie Dillard—Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. She done a good thing in there

aboutstalkingmuskrats,andIreckonJabez’lllikereadingthat.”“Idon’t think Iknow it,” saidEsme.She sat for awhile, contemplating the

monthaheadandshookherhead.“IthinkI’llbeluckytogetthroughChristmasalive! It’s just sohectic.The last thing in themarathonwillbe justamorningservice on Boxing Day (being Sunday, but we’ve cancelled the eveningworship); and then I drive up to staywithmy family for a fewdays.Back ingoodtimefortheNewYear’sservices.Itfeelsabitlikeatreadmillsometimes.”Emberlookedathercuriously.“Doyouenjoyyourwork?”sheasked.Esme blinked, surprised. “Do you know,” she replied after a moment’s

thought,“thatisnotaquestionI’veeveraskedmyself.Ibelieveinit—Ithink.It’sworthwhile,Isuppose.Thechurchatitsworstissoul-destroying,butit’stheonlyinstitutionfoundedonacommandtoofferunconditionalloveandthat’sawonderfulraisond’être.”“Awhat?”“Reason for being there. When my husband left me, I lost quite a lot of

myself.Hope,youknow,andconfidence.Ihavefoundcomfort inthework; ifnothingelseitkeepsmebusy.”“Youain’tveryhappythen?”Esmeconsideredthis.“Well—yesandno.Ifeelabitrestlesssometimes,for

reasonsIcan’tfullyanalyze.Somethingtodowithmyownfulfillment—Idon’tknow.Iseemtoachieveremarkablylittle.Butthepeoplearekind,andtheworkissomethingIfeelabletooffer.WhenIpreach,Ifeelalive.”UnderEmber’sperspicaciousgaze,Esme felt it all soundedveryemptyand

inadequate.“Moretea?”Emberaskedher,butsheshookherhead.“Surely,though,”Esmeprotestedthen,“that’showitisforallofus,isn’tit?

Life in the real world is a very humdrum thing; we have only moments ofexhilaration.Isn’tit thesameforyou?Liketheprayerbookcallsit—‘ordinarytime’?”“I’vehadgoodtimesandbad,”Embersaid.“Iwasnotmuchmorethanagirl

when I married; my husband left and good riddance and I never looked foranother.Badnewsismen,mostof’em.Ineverhadanymoneynorwantednone.Idonebitstogetby,that’sall.ButIhadadaywhenIaskedmyself,Whatisitall?What’sitfor?Irememberit,Iwasstandinginthelanethatleadsoffthetopof Stoddards Hill, high summer, and I just stood there and listened to theheartbeatofit,andIsawthatlifeheldoutitshandstome,andthatintheverycoreofitall thereis joy.Makenodifferencethatyougottogrievesometimesandthesethingshappenthatteartheverygutoutofyou.Makesnodifference.Itsheartbeatisjoy,anditholdsoutitshandstoyou,andtheonlydoorwayintoitisthislivingmoment.Worryandfearandlonginganddesireisaboutlivingintomorrow, and grief and bitterness and regret and pain is living in yesterday.Life is joy, and joy is never tomorrow.There is only now. If you ain’t livingnow,why,then,you’redead.Andtryingtopleaseotherpeopleslamsthedoortojoyshutinyourface.Walkyourowntrack.Listentolife’svoicewithyourownears.Don’ttrusttruthinpackets,especiallytheonesgotwarningsandcontractswith’em.Don’tparadeyoursoularound;livequietandsmallandsimple.Don’tblame anybody forwhat happens, don’t ask favors and, Esme, don’t look forapproval.There’s joyat themiddle,butyougot to trust thingsenough to turnyourbackonthepartyandchooseit.”“Ember,”saidEsme,“you’reamazing.”On a sudden impulse, she got up from her stool, went round the table to

Ember’s corner, and hugged the oldwoman’s small, plump body against her,bendingdowntokissthetopofherhead.Emberclosesmelledofwoodsmokeandherbsandgarlic—woodsmokeprincipally;butaverypleasant,wholesomesmell.After a moment, slightly embarrassed at her own display of emotion, she

released her and stepped back, and returned to sit on her stool again. Emberlookedacrossather,darkeyeskindandlaughingandwise.“Jabez’ll be up the orchard, Esme,” she said. “Always goes up the orchard

whenhe’supset.AndI’veupsethimgoodandproperthismorning.Oversteppedhis boundaries by about fifteen mile.” She spoke with perfect tranquillity,making no comment on Esme’s gesture of affection and contemplating withpeacefuldetachmentthedistressshehadcausedJabez.“He’ll come round,” she added. “Needs a bit of a shove sometimes, does

Jabez.”She got up from her chair and opened the stove door, fed it with more

firewood,andbegantocollectthebreakfastcrockeryforwashingup.“You’llfindhimintheorchard,”sherepeated.Esmehesitated.“Maybehe’drathernotbedisturbed—maybeIshouldjustgo

home,”sheventured.Emberpausedwiththepileofcrocksinherhandsandregardedherinaway

thatmadeEsme feel that shewaspitied, better understood than shewasquitecomfortablewith,andanunwillingsourceofamusement.“Whatyougetoutofthislifedependsonwhatyouputin,mylady,”wasall

Emberoffered, sayingagain, “You’ll findhim in theorchard,”beforebusyingherselfwithhertasksatthesink—thisrequiredturningherbackonEsme:Theconversationseemedtohaveterminated.Esmedrewbreath to say onemore thing, but, “In the orchard,” saidEmber

firmly,anddidnotlookround.SoEsmewanderedupintotheorchard,whereshedidindeedfindJabezinthe

furthest corner, sittingonapileof firewood, smokinga cigarette, and lookingupset.“I’monmywayhome,Jabez.”Esmeapproachedhim,speakinginacheerful,

ordinary tone,choosing to ignore the lookonhis face.Shehad towait a littlewhileforhisreply,andwonderedifitwouldbebetterjusttogo,buteventually,“Whatmustyouthinkofus?”hesaid,bitterly.“Thinkofyou?YouandEmber?IthinkI’mso,soluckytohaveyouasmy

friends.Youfeel like real friends, true friends,bothofyou.Youalwaysmake

me feel welcome and loved. And I love your honesty—Iwish the world hadmorepeopleinitashonestasyouandEmber.”He shot her a glance of incredulity. “Ember! I dare swear the world could

standanotheroneortwoashonestasme,butifIthoughttherewereanymorelikeEmberI’dtaketothewoodsortopmyself!”“Jabez,whyareyousoupset?”Esmewasbeginningtolaugh;itallseemeda

bitoutofproportion.“Shewasonlyjoking!Shedidn’tmeanit!”“Joking?Emberdoesn’tmakejokes.Sheseeswhat’sinsideyou,andshegot

nomercy.AndIhateit.Itwasn’tproperwhatshesaid—itwasn’tdecent.Bikeshed!I’mnotthatkindofman!”Helookedat theendofhiscigarette,sawithadgoneout,and threwitwith

someforceintothehedge.Fromunderthesilvereyebrowsanotherfierceglanceshotherway.“And,yes,youarewelcome.Andyouareloved.ButI’mnot—Iwouldn’t—”Hestopped,findinghimselfindifficultterritory.“I’mnotthatkindofman,”hesaidagain.Hebenthishead,andEsmelookedathimsittingwithhisshouldershunchedtohisears,hiselbowsrestingonhisknees,andhishandsclasped tight together.Shenotedherownsenseofhope that resulted fromhisbeing unable to go through with his insistence that he was not and that hewouldn’t. And what on earth am I doing? she asked her heart.What am Ioffering him anyway? Where does Jabez fit into my world? How can I beanythingbutaday-tripperinhis?She watched him, not sure what to do. They seemed to have reached an

impasse, it was time to go; and yet she felt certain that shewould leave himunhappyalldayifshecouldn’tbringsomethingbetteroutofthisbeforesheleft.So,what toput in?Forwhat after all did shewant toget out of this life, thisencounter?There isonlynow,Emberhadsaid:“Ifyouaren’t livingnow,whythenyou’redead.”Whatdidshewantnow,then?Herheadandherheartseemedtohavemethead-on inaWilesGreen lane toonarrowforpassingplaces.Shejustknewshedidn’twanthimtolooksoupset.

“Iknowyouaren’tthatkindofman,”shesaidatlast.“Bikesheds,Imean.Fordidn’t you tellme once,making love should be done in a bed; because it’s athingoftenderness,anditshouldbewarmandcomfortable?”Startled,helookedupather.Sothat,shethought,iswhatittakestomakethis

manlookatmeformorethantwosecondsatatime.Sheraisedhereyebrows,enquiring, smilingathim,deliberatelykeeping things light.Trying to,at least.Heswallowed,blinked,continuedtolookather.Shehadratherhopedhemightlaugh,buthelookedabsolutelytransfixed.“What must you think of me?” She echoed his words to him, but gently,

offeringhimhisowndignityback.“Jabez,IthinkIshouldgo.”NowwhateverhaveIgotmyselfinto?sheaskedherself,assheturnedandleft

him,sittingmotionlessonthepileoflogs.Is this normal behavior? shewondered, exasperated, as she got on her bike

and set off through the lanes.Doesn’t he knowhow tomake light of a thing?Whatevernext?ShepedaledfuriouslyalongthelanesbacktoSoutharbour.I’mneglectingmywork.Ishouldbeinmystudy!WhyamIwastingtimeonvisitingpeoplewhowillnevercometochapelandonpotteringroundthecountrysideonabicycle?Suddenly thrust closer to Jabez than she had quite expected to be, she felt

flustered and defensive. She directed the energy of her confusion into cyclingfast,quiteimpressedattheeasewithwhichshecouldmasterthehillsthesedays.Without allowing it to break into her conscious mind, she turned vigorouslyfrom the sense that therewas something unfair about keeping from Jabez theplansforherfuture.She lumpedthemtogether inhermind,JabezandEmber,and reflected that delightful as they both were, they were also undeniablyeccentric, odd, and difficult. Tiresome of Jabez tomake somuch of Ember’smischievousjoke;tastelessandprovocativeofEmbertosayitinthefirstplace.Sheavoidedthememoryofherownquickpleasureatwhathehadsaid—“niceto hold”—and of something more unsaid between them in the orchard: “For

didn’tyoutellme,makingloveshouldbedoneinabed?”Jabezlookingather,startled,hearingwhatshedidn’t say—shouldn’t say,couldn’t say,becauseshewasleaving.Andbecause—withaneffortshesuppressedthewholememory—therewasnothingtobesaid.When she reached the safety of the parsonage, Esme felt surprised and

impressedwithherselftoseethatshehadmadeitouttoWilesGreenandback,and had half an hour’s conversation, and it stillwasn’t quite ten o’clock. Shemadeacupofcoffeeandretreatedtoherstudywithtwobiscuits.Sheswitchedonthecomputerandgoingonlinetocheckherinboxshefoundane-mailfromhersuperintendentminister.Hehadsomethingtodiscusswithher,hesaid,andwouldsheringhim,tomakeanappointment.E-mail didn’t come naturally or easily to Esme’s superintendent, though he

had recognized the necessity of electronic communications and mastered thebasics required.Hewasof the old school andutterly predictable; in the studyevery morning, visiting in the afternoons, meetings in the evening. His wife,Sheila, had dedicated her life to being his mainstay and support, her unself-conscious sweetness ofmanner andwarmhearted concern for others providingthebackboneofthepastoralcareheoffered.Ontheoccasionsshehadbeeninhisparsonage,itamazedandintriguedEsmetoseethat,afterthirty-sevenyearsof ministry, when he heard the telephone ring, which he probably did abouttwentytimesaday,hersuperintendentwouldstillrunfromwhereverhestoodinthehousetoanswerit.She wondered why he had asked to see her. An inarticulate man with few

social skills, he would never contact his colleagues unless he found itunavoidabletodoso.Aminer’sson,broughtupinafamilyofsevenchildren,frugalitywasnearer thansecondnature tohim;hisphonecallswereshort,hisletterscamebysecond-classpost,andhewouldcalculateinadvancewhetherhehad tomail them at all, carefully consulting his diary to ascertain if hemightrather take advantage of crossing paths with the recipient at a forthcoming

church business meeting. He had worked out the shortest mileage from hisparsonage to everydestinationhiswork regularly encompassed.Hewastednomoneyofhisownandnoneofthecircuit’s,thoughhewasgenerouswithbothwhencalleduponbyothersinneed.Hispreachingwassound,safe,uninspiring,andconscientiouslyrecycledoverthethirty-sevenyears,eachsermonannotatedwiththeoccasionsandvenuesofallitsoutings.Esmerespectedhim; inhisdealingswithhiscolleagues,heerredfromstrict

fairness only when he felt it necessary to be kind; he understood hisadministrative responsibilities clearly and undertook them with meticulousdetail,rememberedeverything,andshetrustedhimtoplayhispartinthecircuitreconstructionwithhonesty,competence,kindness,discretion,andtotallackofimagination.Shepickedupthetelephoneanddialedhisnumber.NinethirtyonaTuesday

morninginlateNovember.Heansweredthetelephoneinstantly,beingseated,asshehadvisualized,inthepaddedofficeswivelchairprovidedbythecircuit,athisdeskinthestudy.“BrianRobinson,”hesaid,inhisloud,unemotionalway.“Hello,it’sEsme.Youwantedtoseeme.”“Ah,yes,mydear.SomenewsfromthechairmanI’dliketodiscusswithyou

whenyoucanspareamoment.”“Icancomeovertodayifyoulike,”shereplied.“Today? Now let me see. I’ve got a funeral call later this morning, about

eleven, and a Wesley guild in the afternoon. Tomorrow is my midweekcommunion, and then in the afternoon I’m runningSheila to theosteopath forher regular visit, taking in some pastoral calls on the way home. How aboutThursday?”“Can’tdo,”saidEsme.“I’vegotaschoolassemblyearly,asickcommunion,

thenI’mthespeakerfortheladies’fellowshipatBrockhyrstPrioryafterlunch,andaweddingrehearsalintheevening.Friday’sbusyalldaytoo—Imean,Ican

popoverrightnow,Icanbewithyouintenminutes;orevenwecouldtalkonthephone?”“Ohno,I’drathernotdiscussthisonthetelephone.Letmesee.…”Hepaused.

Shecouldhearhimbreathing.Healreadyhada funeral call to takehimawayfromhissermonpreparationinthestudy.Thiswouldfurthereatintohistime.ItwasTuesdayandhelikedto typeupandprinthisorderofserviceandnoticessheetonThursdaymorning;thesermonwouldhavetobefinishedbeforethen.Esmecouldfeelhimweighingitupinhismind.“Well, all right.My funeral call is nomore than half amile from you. I’ll

finishoffthiscorrespondencelater,andcomeovertoyounow.Seeyoushortly.Righto.”Puzzledandcurious,aquarterofanhour laterEsmeopened thedoor tohis

ringontheloudelectricbellandofferedhimcoffee.Heacceptedtheoffer,butaskedforasmallcup.Sincehepassedhissixtiethbirthday,largecupsofcoffeetakenearlyhadstartedtobeaproblemtohimlaterinthemorning.Heseatedhimselfonhersofa,shegavehimacoffeeandsatinthearmchair,

andlookedathim,hisalmost-baldheadcoveredbyafewthinstrandscombedcarefully fromabovehis left earover thepink shiningexpanseofhis scalp tomeet thebalancinggrowthofhairathisrightear.Theelbowsandcuffsofhisbatteredtweedjackethadbeenreinforcedwithleather,probablybySheila.Hishand-knitted dark blue waistcoat concealed the fact that his clerical shirt wasreally only a stock, easily removed when it was time to do his half hour ofgardeningwhileSheilawashedupthedishesaftertheirlunch.“Well?”saidEsme.“It’saboutyourappointment,mydear.”IttranspiredthataministerfromacircuitinawealthysuburbofLondonhad

rather precipitately abandoned his congregation in the company of his seniorsteward, who was the wife of his organist. The organist, heartbroken andembittered,hadrefusedtohaveanythingfurthertodowiththeMethodistchurch

and offered his services to the Baptists (they had gratefully accepted, havingbeenmanagingforyearswithasecond-ratepianistwhocouldneithersight-readnor play the pedals). The church community had been left shocked anddistressed,withoutaminister,aseniorsteward,oranorganist.Intheimmediateemergency,thechairmanhimselfhadpluggedsuchgapsas

he could, and theother staff of the circuit hadarrangedmedium-termpastoraland preaching cover. But the chairman had promised to do what he could tosecureanewministerwithoutwaitingfortheusualslowwheelsofstationingtobegintogrind.KnowingthatwhenEsmeleftshewouldnotbereplaced,ithadoccurred to him that though she should give her congregations ample time tomake theirparting, and thecircuit ample time to adjust, nonethelesshermovemightbebrought forwardandconsideredbefore theusual time inMay, if shewereinterestedininvestigatingthepossibility.“It’saplumjob,”hersuperintendentstatedfrankly.“Ifyouwant todowell,

thiswouldsetyouonyourway.Theywouldn’ttoleratejustanybodyinthatpartofSurrey.It’sacomplimenttoyourpreachingandadmingifts.There’saroughpatch in that circuit, but the section they’reofferingyou isvery smart indeed.Goodparsonage—I’vebeeninit.Complimenttoyourpastoralgiftstoo—itwilltake something to pull the congregation through this in one piece. Chairmanthinkshighlyofyou,mydear;heknowsyouwon’tlethimdown.Whatdoyouthink?Takealook?”Something inEsme’s stomachgavea lurchas the realityofhermovecame

alarmingly nearer. She hesitated. Then, reasoning that as she had committedherselftogoing,thiscouldsaveprotracteduncertainty,andproveashrewdstepon her inevitably nomadic chosen path, she agreed to pursue the matter. Hersuperintendentcongratulatedher;evidentlyheapproved.Itmadelittledifferencein this circuit except for accelerating the time-table of restructuring. It wouldhelpthechairmanoutofahole,whichwouldberegardedfavorably.AndhefeltitwouldbeasoundandpositivestepforEsme,whichmadehimfeelalotbetter

aboutherhavingbeenedgedoutoftheteam.Withoutrealthoughtordiscussion,shefeltherselfcrossinganotherthreshold.Whenhe left,promising tocontact thechairman forher,whowould initiate

thenecessaryliaison,Esmeclosedthedoorbehindhimandleanedherbackonit,feelingshakyandterriblyweary.This had been a sound decision for aminister. If she discussed it with her

mother, or any of her family, theywould be enthusiastic, Esme felt sure.Hercolleagues would be impressed and think she had done well. The circuitstewardswouldfeelrelieved.Herownchurchstewardsandmemberswouldfeelaspositiveaboutthisasaboutanymove.Itwasonly…Withasigh,feelingslowandtiredandinexplicablymiserable,Esmemadeher

way like a sleepwalker to the kitchen. She made herself another coffee and,beingtemporarilyoutofflapjacks, tookhalfapacketofbiscuitsintoherstudywith her. She sat down at her desk and opened the document folder on thecomputertocheckhernotesforthelastschoolassemblyshehaddone.Untilshehadtalked this throughwithJabez,shewouldn’t reallyknowwhat

she thought about it herself.What were the implications of that anyway, sheaskedherself?Andwhyanywaydidthedeepestpartofhersay,Notyet!Notyet!whenever she thoughtabout tellingJabezandEmber?Would it cause themsomuchofaproblem?Theyhadcertainlybeengoodfriends,butshetoldherselfitwouldbevanity topresumeshe figured thatmuch in their lives,whateverhadpassedbetweenthemthismorning.She opened the file named Priory Street Infant School. She put Ember and

Jabez and everything about the move out of her mind. Nothing had beendecided. Itwould takeagesanyway.Nextweek saw thebeginningofAdvent.ShewasunlikelytohearanythingbeforetheNewYear.Esmeworkeddeterminedlythroughwhatremainedofthemorning.Shecycled

out to see a blind and frail housebound church member on the outskirts ofBrockhyrstPrioryintheafternoon.OnthewayhomeshecalledintotheDVD

librarytochooseafilm,thenstoppedatthesupermarketanddidhershopping,wobblingratherprecariouslyhomewithherbicyclebasketfullandthreecarrierbagsdanglingfromthehandlebarsunevenlyweightingthebike.She spent three hours as afternoon crossed over into evening ransacking

poetryanthologiesandtheInternettoputtogetherapresentationfortheLadiesFellowship on The Spirituality of Winter. While her supper heated in themicrowave,sheprintedout thepoemsshehaddownloaded.Thenshe tookhermealonatraywithacupofcoffeeintothesittingroomtowatchherfilm.Sheatehersupperfromtheplasticcontainerithadcomein,tellingherselfthatthiswas simplicity interpreted by the twenty-first century. In another mood shemighthavefoundthefilmfunnyandtouching:Tonightitseemedirritatingandtrite.Shepaused it four times toanswer the telephone,without reallymindingtheinterruption.Ateleveno’clockthatnight, thefilmfinished,andshetookthetraythrough

the dark passage into the kitchen, where she caught sight of her bicyclehandlebarsrestingagainstthewindowsill.Shehadforgottentoputitawayintheshed.She deposited her fork and mug in the sink. She looked at the encrusted

remainsofovermicrowavedlasagnaonthewallsoftheemptyplasticcontainer,andguiltilythrewitinthebin,tryingnottothinkaboutJabez’sdisapprovalofexcesspackaging.Thensheopenedthekitchendoorandwentoutintothebackgarden toputherbikeaway.Thestreetswerequietat this timeofnight,apartfrom the sound of a vehiclewith a diesel engine climbing the hill toward theparsonageandthenceasingsomewherenearby.Shetookholdofthecoldbike,and,asshewheeledit totheshed,stoppedtolookupatthenightsky.HereinSoutharbourthedarknesswasneverprofoundenoughformanystarstobeseen.Buttonightasicklemoonshoneclearandbrightinaskymostlyclearofcloudnow,andthetingleoffrostnippedtheendofhernose.In the shed she startled herself by treading on an empty plastic flowerpot,

which broke with a loud crack. It was difficult to stow the bike in the dark,especiallyastheshedwasnotlargeandalreadyaccommodatedthelawnmower.Extricating herself, she shot home the bolt to fasten the door and snapped thepadlockshut.Asshedidso,shehalfthoughtsheheardsomeonespeakhername;withasuddenfrightassheturned,sherealizedshewasnotaloneinthegarden.Herclutchofterrorturnedtosimpleastonishmentassherecognizedthefigure

standingonthefrostygrassbetweenthegateatthebottomofthegardenandtheshedwhereshestoodherself.“Jabez?”Esme’sbreathasshespokelingeredinacloudonthefrigidair.Shestaredat

himinamazement—forJabezindeeditwas.Shehadnotbeenmistaken in thinkingsheheardhisvoicequietlyspeakher

name,halfwantinghertohear,halfafraidtorevealhispresence.The moonlight discerned him, but though he carried something, held

somethinginhishand,shedidnottakeinwhathehadthere.Nowseen,hestoodthere quite still, and across that distance of yards, and even in the dimness ofnight,thereformedbetweenEsme’seyesandhisanelectriccorridor,suchthatshe felt she might say for certain—and maybe for the first time ever—thatlookingintotheeyesofJabezFerrall,hereyeshadbeheldanimmortalsoul.Hedidnotmove.Justlookedather,witheyesasfulloflife,asvital,asafox

ordeeroranywildthingthat,firstsurprised,willholdyourgazeinmessageandappraisal;totalencounter,amomentaryprecursortoinevitableflight.ItoccurredtoEsmethathehadexpectedtofindheroutinthegardenaslittle

as she had expected to find him.Her immediate surmise, that somethingwaswrong,gaveway toasense thathavingnotexpected tobediscovered,hewasurgentlycontemplatingretreat.SoitcameaboutthatEsmeabandonedherfirstintentionofspeech—“Areyou

allright?”—thequestionframedinpractical,conventionalformatinthebright,sociablemindthatfilledallthefrontstageofherhabitualthinking.Instead,from

somewhereelse,perhapsfromthetwilightmindofhersolarplexusreachingouttoworldsbeyond,cameunbiddenthewordssheactuallysaid.“Don’trunaway.Please.Don’trunaway.”Andshesaidit tothewildnessandshynessinhim,tohisprivacyandtothe

depthsofhalf-healedpaininhimthat,forsomereasonshecouldn’tunderstand,suddenly stoodbeforeher.His facechanged then.Theuncertaintyof thewildthingpoisedonthebrinkofinvoluntaryflightcrystallizedintosomethingmorefrightened, aswill came in to control instinct andhe knewhewould stay.Hecameacrossthegardentoher.She understood when he spoke. The fear that had stolen across him like a

shadowmoresomberthanthedarknessbewilderedheruntilsheheardhimsay,“I’vebroughtyousomeflowers.”Flowers.InNovember.Inthemiddleofthenight.Andthenshefeltasscaredashedid,becauseobviouslyhewasofferingher

hisheart.Andwheredidthatleavethem?Esme thought fast. She could see no way not to hurt him. To accept the

implicitgiftofhislovewouldbeagrossunfairnessinviewofherintentionofmoving away. To refuse it would wound and humiliate him. He saw herhesitation,andsomethingchanged.Hedidhisownquickthinking.“Ibeenuneasyallday—aboutwhatwassaidthismorning.”Hiseyesmethers,

andshesawthe flickerofprevarication in them.“Ihadn’t thought to findyououtandaboutatthishour.Ithoughtyou’dbeinbed.Ithadbeenmyintentiontoleavethesehereforyou.Forthemorning.Toapologize.Emberandme,wemayoverstep themark sometimes.We’re simple country folk.Youmustn’t expectwe’llalwaysgetitright.”Esmehad to admire the skillwithwhichhe turnedhis self-offering into the

buildingofanunbridgeablechasmbetweenthem.Ithurt,though.“Ember and you?” she said, picking up the very deliberate discontinuity he

hadplacedbetweenthemandher.“Simplecountryfolk.Areyou?”Hereyesmet

hisgaze,levelanddirect.“Yes,”herepliedquietly.Oh,God,hersoulsentitssilentdistressflare,nowdon’tletusturnthisintoa

fight. Troubled, anxious not to damage the friendship between them that hadbecome such a source of strength to her, instinctively, without consciousformulation,thecoreofherspiritreachedoutforhelpandstrength.He lookeddownat the flowers inhishand,andheld themout toher. In the

gardenatthefrontofhiscottage,oneyellowrosethatclimbedagainstthehousebloomedgamelyonintoDecember.Mingledwithivyfromthehedge,rosemary,andafeatherysprayofbluejuniper(filchedfromthegardenoftheOldPoliceHouse;sherecognizedit),thelastoftheseroseswerewhathehadbroughther.“Jabez,comeinside,”shesaid,assheputoutherhandtotakehisflowers.Herewardedherwithatense,shysmile.“IthinkI’dbestnotstay.”Shefeltthesplintingofhisprideinthestillnessofthewayhespoke.“Jabez—”butheshookhishead.“I’llseeyousoon,”hesaid,gently.“Leaveitnow.”He left the roses in her hand, and in an understated gesture of finality, he

turned andmade his way across themoonlit garden, out through the gate, asquietlyashehadcome.I’ll seeyousoon.Sheexamined this small tokenofhope. Itwas something,

butshefeltbereft.It felt impossible, too difficult. Jabez’s life had been built on a different

foundationentirelyfromhers.Hissenseofselfandhissenseofbelonginggrewoutofrootednessintheearthandthefamily,outofhowhehadloved,andoutofthemakingofhishands.WhatEsmeaspiredtohadbeenbasedonprofessionalachievementandonmembershipofabodyofpeoplescatteredacrosstheworld—somewhomshehadnevermet,somealltoofamiliar.Buttheywerebondedtogether by the traditions and doctrines they believed in—or in some cases

acceptedwithout analysis, for the comfort of a sense of belonging. She felt asudden sharp misgiving about the wisdom of tying home and income to sostructuredanideology.Whathappenswhenapersonchanges?sheaskedherselfinsuddenpanic.TowalkwithGodisanunfoldingrhythmoflife,awildmusicof many moods and tempos, embracing the shadows of doubt anddisillusionmentandtheblackdarkofdespairaswellasthesweetblueheavensofjoyandaffirmation, theglorioussunsetcolorsof thesoulmovedbybeauty,amazedbypeace.Toserve thechurchasanordainedminister isanaltogethernarrower,moreprosaicthing.Asshestoodtherealone,holdingherflowersandstilllookingalongtheempty

gardenatthegateJabezhadclosedbehindhim,Esmebecameawareofherselfshivering.Shewent indoors, findingavase forher flowers, lockingup for thenight,making a hot-water bottle for her bed, the core of her congealed into ahardlumpofwretchedness.“I’msorry,Jabez,”shewhisperedinthedarknessasshecurledroundherhot-

waterbottleinhercoldbed.“I’llcomeoutandseeyouinthemorning.”Andafterawhile,sheslept,butshewokeearly.Isittoosoontogoandseethemagain?AmIsendingthewrongsignalsand

makingthingsworsebygoingtoseethemsooften?AsEsmebathedanddressedandcleanedherteeth,shefeltcompletelyatsea,aloneinthecomplicationsofasituationthatwaspullingherrelentlesslyinconflictingdirections.Then,seeingthatthedaypromisedfairagain,andrecallingthatthenextfewdayswerefilledwith commitments already, bringing it to Sunday night before anotheropportunity presented itself, Esme decided to cycle out toWiles Green againwhether itwaswise or not.The separation Jabez hadmade between them thenightbeforehadbeensensibleandredeemedanawkwardsituation,buttheacheitleftfeltunbearable.Shecouldn’tcontemplatewaitingaweektoputitright.Shewent,alittlelaterthanthemorningbefore.Asshepushedherbikearoundintohisyard,shecouldheartheirvoicesinthe

kitchen.Throughthewindowat thebackof thehouseshesawJabezstanding,washingup at the sink.Heglancedup and caught her eye as she passed. Sheheardhimspeakquietlyandthentheconversationceased.“Morning!”shecalledcheerfullyassheproppedherbikeagainstthewalland

cameinthroughthedoor,which,despitethecold,stoodopenforthesunshine.EsmesteppedoverJabez’sboots,abandonedinthedoorway.Above thekitchen table, in thecorner thatheld thewarmthof thestove, the

dryingrackhadbeenletdownonitspulleysystem,andEmberwasfoldingdrywashingfromitontothekitchentable.“TalkoftheDevil,”shesaidamiablyasEsmecamein.Shedrewbreathforfurtherspeech,butJabezsuddenlystoppedwhathewasdoing,grippedtheedgeofthesink,and,imploring,almostwailed,“Please!Ember—please!”What on earthwas she about to say? Esmewondered, but for once Ember

forbore,continuingserenelywithhertask.Jabezleftthesink,wipinghishandsonthedrying-upcloth,andsaidmorecalmly,withonlyatraceofdesperation,andwithoutlookingather,“I’llmakeacupoftea,shallI?”“Thatwouldbeverynice,”saidEmber,withanelaboratecivilitydesignedto

betrayothermattersbelowthesurface.“What?”askedEsme.“Whatisit?”ShewonderedifJabezhadtoldEmberof

theirmeetingthenightbefore.“Have you fetched the milk in, Ember?” asked Jabez, ignoring Esme’s

question.“Stillonthefrontstep,Iimagine,”Emberreplied,turninghergazeonhimin

blandinnocence.“Youbettergoandfetchit.”“Ember, please,” he entreated again, and hesitated a moment before going

throughthehousetoopenthefrontdoor.Embermovedlikelightning,quickerthananywomanofeighty-sixshouldbe

abletomove,topushthekitchendoorclosedwithherfoot.LowerthanEsmehadimagineditwaspossibleforapersontospeakandstill

makeherselfaudible,EmbersaidasshepassedEsmeinreturningto the table,“Hebeentellingmehowmuchhelovesyou.Ineverwouldhaveguessedhehadthatmuchpassionabouthim.Youbetterwatchout.”Andshewasback foldingclothes insilencewhenJabezpushed through the

doorwithapintofmilk inhishand, lookingfromone to theotherof theminhelplesssuspicion.These words dispelled all Esme’s anxiety; she had not turned him away

irretrievablythen.Shefeltawaveof joythat itwasasshehadhoped,andnotadmitted that she hoped.An irrepressible desire to giggle began to bubble upinsideher.“You seemabit lowon firewood,” she said,herwords slightlyunsteadyas

shetriedtostillthequaveroflaughterthatwantedtoescape.“ShallIgetsomemoreinfromoutside?”“That’d be kind,” said Jabez doggedly, setting themilk down on the table.

Wherehestoodobscuredthewaypastthestove,andEsmehadtocomebyhimforthewoodbasket.“Excuseme,then,”shesaidsweetly,gentlyputtingherhandsonhiswaistas

she brushed by. It was the first time she had ever touched him, except themomentlongagothatherfingershadtouchedhisonthebicyclehandlebarsandthebriefinevitablemeetingoftheirhandsashegavehertheflowerslastnight.He turned and looked at her, searching, as she came back past him with thebasket.Shesaidnothing,butEmber’swordshadstartedsomethingeffervescinginhersoullikesparklesofsunlight,andshecouldn’thelpthegrinthattuggedatthecornersofhermouth.Asshewastwostepsintotheyard,sheheardhimsayinquietbutvehement

reproach,appalled,“Ember,howcouldyou?”WhenEsmereturnedtothekitchen,Jabezwouldnotlookather.Hemadeher

amugoftea,andsetitbeforeherwithoutspeakingasshesatdownathistable.Emberhad taken thepileofclean linen toputaway,andEsmesearched fora

wayintohisself-conscioussilence.“Thank you for the flowers,” she said gently, after awhile. “You shouldn’t

havepickedthelastofyourrosesforme.”Heshrugged,embarrassed.“You’rewelcome.I—well,you’rewelcome.”She

sat,watchinghim.“Jabez,forgoodnesssake, lookatme!”Sohedid,butonlyforamoment.“Leave it,”hesaid,shakinghishead.“Leave it, let it sort itselfout.Let’sjustseehowwego.”Shesighed.“Okay.But—areweallright?Areyouallright?Imean—isitall

rightbetweenus?”Hestretchedacrossthetableandwithhisfingertipslightlystrokedherhand.“It’s all right,” he said, “but leave it for now. Esme, I gotwork to do. I’m

expectedinBrockhyrstPrioryathalf-pastnine.”She drank her tea, and as she left the cottage, he came outsidewith her to

collectthenecessarytoolsforhismorning’sworkfromtheshed.Hesmiledather,sohopelesslyshyhemadeherfeelshytoo.Thisiscrazy,shetoldherself.We’reliketeenagers!AndwheneveramIgoing

totellhimaboutmyjob?

The days that followed plunged Esme into an unremitting round of pre-Christmas social gatherings and liturgies. She drove out to Wiles Green andcalledatthecottageafterthePortlandStreetcarolserviceonthesecondSundayofAdvent,butapartfromthatthereseemednotime;eventheSundayeveningsafterworshiphadturnedintospecialoccasionscelebratedwithobligatorymincepies.Esmehatedmincepies,butitwouldhavebeenimpolitictoconfessit.The busyness of the season drove from her mind all concerns about the

impendingmove,apartfromtheoccasionalpangofwistfulnessasshereflectedthat if things developed smoothly, this would be her last Christmas with hercongregationshere.

NeithercouldshegivemuchtimetoworryingaboutherfriendshipwithJabez.Withcharacteristicself-possessionhehadcontainedhismortificationathavinghis confidences of love betrayed, and when she called after church in mid-Advent, he made her welcome, cooking her supper and hearing with quietamusementherexasperationatalltheexcessessmotheringthesimplebeautyofChristmas.Esmeaskedhimif,intimetodecoratePortlandStreetchapelforthejuniorschoolend-of-termcarolserviceonTuesday,shemighthavesomeoftheivyandthebright-berriedhollythatgrewinhishedgeatthetopoftheorchard.Jabez readily agreed, offering to cut her some and bring it over on Mondayafternoon.“If I don’t find you home, I’ll leave it somewhere in the yard,” he said.

“Unless—”hehesitated.“WouldyouratherItakeitstraighttothechapel?”Esme’sheartwentout tohim.ShesensedthatJabezwouldratherdoalmost

anything than involve himself with a party of church members arrangingflowers. “Myplacewill do fine,” she said. “It’s really kind of you to bring itoverforme.”Emberhadchuckledatthereliefonhisface.About ten days beforeChristmas, Esme became conscious of how tired she

felt.Shelookedatherpackeddiary,whichhadlongoverrunanyhopeofadayoffbeforeBoxingDay,turningthepagesdesperatelyinsearchofsomethingshecouldcancelwithoutcausingoffense.Shefoundnothing.ChristmasdayfellonaSaturdaythatyear,andtheprecedingweekendhelda

Christmas Fayre at Portland Street on the Saturday morning (Esme had beenwrittendowntoopenitwithaprayerandthenhelprunthewhiteelephantstall);achurchconcertatBrockhyrstPrioryontheSaturdayevening(Esmehadbeenaskedtosayablessingattheend);andontheSundaythejuniorchurchnativitypresentation at Portland Street in themorning, followed by two carol servicesoneafteranotherintheeveningatWilesGreenandBrockhyrstPriory.As she stood in the doorway of Brockhyrst PrioryMethodist Chapel in the

bittercold, shaking thehandsofvisitors leaving theSaturday-eveningconcert,Esme’sheadachedandherthroatfeltsore.“Niceforyoutohaveaneveningoff!”beamedthehusbandofoneofthechoir

members,andEsmelookedathiminamazeddisbelief,unableforamomenttoframeareply.“Yes,”shesaidlamelythen,seeingsomeresponsewasrequired.Shehadno

needtosummonasmile.HerChristmassmilehadbecomeapermanentfixture.Herfaceachedwhensheletthesmilingmaskdropasshegotintohercartogohome.On theMondaymorning,when the ladies fromPortlandStreetcame for the

annual“ParsonagePies”event,erectingfoldingtablesladenwithbric-a-bracforsaleinherfrontroom,Esmewasbeginningtofeelshiveryanddistant.Gratefulthatwelcoming themintoherkitchenwithall thechapelcrockery,coffee,andboxesofbiscuitsseemedtobeallthatwasrequiredofher,shesubsidedontooneof thechairs thatshehadrangedroundthewallsofherdiningroom, the tablebeingpushedagainstthewallbelowthehatchtoservecoffee.Normallyshefeltencouragedandcheeredbythejollityandgoodfellowship

of these gatherings. The evident goodwill and friendliness of her churchmemberswasheartening tosee,but through thatmorning,aspeoplecameandwentinfaithfulsupportof theevent,herheadswamandhereyeballshurther.She felt faint and dizzy and slightly nauseous, butmost of all, despite the airdesiccatedbythecentralheating,shefeltsocold.The ladieswashed up, counted the takings from the bric-a-brac stall, asked

Esmeifshewouldmindiftheyleftalltheunsoldbitsandpieceswithherattheparsonage,andmadetheircheerfuldepartureataboutoneo’clock.Imustgotobed,Esmethoughtasshesaidthankyouandsmiledandwavedin

farewelltothelastone.I’vegottogotobed.Ican’tbeillnow,there’sthejuniorschoolend-of-termconcerttomorrowandalltheChristmasservicescomingup.Ican’tbeill.IexpectI’llbebetterifIjusthavealie-down.

Shivering uncontrollably, her teeth chattering, she began to climb the stairs.Shewantedherhot-waterbottle,butitseemedsuchalongwaytogotofetchit.She thought she ought to lock the back door, which meant returning to thekitchenanyway,sosheperseveredinherjourneytocollectthehot-waterbottle.She felt as thoughshewouldnever reachherbedroom,andwhenshe reachedthe top of the stairs, she crawled along the landing on her hands and knees.When she got to her bed, she collapsed onto it and lay there for a while,summoningthestrengthtomakeherwaybackdown.Eventually,withaneffort,she sat up on the bed, pulled off her clothes, and dropped them on the floor.Eventhetouchofhernightdressseemedtohurtherskinassheputiton,butshefeltpatheticallygratefulforthesnugglysoftnessofherdressinggownoverit,awarmpinkchosentobecomforting.Shesatforawhile,andthenmadeherselfbegin the trip back to the kitchen; but halfway down the flight of stairs shecrumpledandsankdown,shaking,hunchedintoaheapoffeverishmisery.Oh,God,Ifeelsoill,shemuttered.Oh,help!She sat there for a fewminutes, shivering violently. She felt as though she

were spinning in the cold loneliness of black space, weak and drained andempty.Oh,God,Ineedsomebody.Ifeelsoill.Shegaveupallhopeofmoving,andjustsatinastateofcollapse.Shevaguelyheardaknockatthebackdoorwithouttakinginwhatitwas.The

knock was repeated, and the door opened. She heard Jabez’s voice calling,“Esme?”anditfeltlikethemostwelcomesoundintheworld.“Hello!” she called back, embarrassed at the feeble croak of her voice.For

heaven’ssake!shethought.HalfanhouragoIwasonmyfeetsayinggood-byeto people, I can’t be that bad. She lifted her head and leaned it against thebanisters, listening to the sound of him kicking his boots off just inside thekitchendoorbeforehecame through from thekitchen into thehall toward thesoundofhervoice.Helookedupandsawher.“Esme!”—andthenextmomentshewasenfolded

inhisarms.“I don’t feel very well,” she murmured, turning toward him, shivering,

clingingtohimpatheticallyforwarmthandrestoration.“Comeon,sweetheart,youshouldn’tbehere.Letmeputyoutobed.”Esmeclutchedathissweater,longingforthefriendly,woollyfeelingofit,and

nuzzled her face against him, smelling him; tobacco andmachine oil and thewarm,humansmellofhim.Heheldherforamoment,andshefelthimkissherhair,feltherselfenfolded

inabsolutetenderness.“You’renotwell,mylove,lookatthestateofyou,”hesaid.“Letmeputyou

tobed.Whatareyoudoingsittinghere?”“Iwas going to fillmyhot-water bottle,”Esme said, reaching to pull it out

fromwhereithadwedgedbetweenherandthebanisters.Hetookitfromherandlaiditdownonthestairs.“I’ll do that,” he said, “andget you ahot drink if you’d likeone.Comeon

now.”Hecameupstairswithher,andsheshowedhimwhichwasherbedroom.He

straightenedthebedclothesandturnedbackthequilt,andEsmecurleduponthebed,herdressinggownwrappedtightlyaroundher,shiveringconvulsively,herteethchattering.Hetuckedthequiltroundher,andshestayedtherecurledinatightballwhile

hewentdowntothekitchenandboiledthekettle.Hewasbackquicklywiththehot-waterbottleandasteamingcupofmedicatedlemondrinkforcoldsandfluthat he had found at the back of the cupboard where Esme kept her tea andcoffee.Shetookthehot-waterbottleintothebedgratefully,andgraduallyitswarmth

enabled her to relax.After a fewminutes she sat up, and propped against thepillowsshedrank thehotmixturehehadmadeher.Shebegan to feelwarmerandalittlelessdesperate.

“IsthereanythingmoreIcandoforyou,mylove?”Jabezaskedherashetookthe empty cup from her hands and put it on her dressing table ready to takedownstairs.“Yes,”saidEsme.Evenasshespoke,arationalpartofhermindwastelling

her,Don’tdothis,Esme;don’tdraghimintothisanydeeper—befair,butshesaid,“Iwantyoutolieonthebedwithmeandholdme.Oh,Jabez,Ifeelsoill.”Foramomenthehesitated,lookingdownather.Hereyesachedunbearably,

and now she was beginning to feel hot. She lifted back the covers andimmediatelyawaveofshiverycoldreturned.Sheclosedhereyes.“Ifeelsoill,”shesaidagain.“Please,Jabez.”Diffidently,becausesheaskedit,helaydownonthebedbesideher,andtook

her intohis arms. “Just for a littlewhile,” he said. “I thinkyouneed to go tosleep, my love.” Esme snuggled against him, hungry for the comfort of hiskindness and warmth. As he held her, breathing quietly, saying nothing, thesoftnessofhisbeardagainsther forehead;as the tension smoothedoutofher,shebegantofeelhisheartbeat,andanunfamiliarsenseoftrustandpeacewelledupandsuffusedherwholebeing.Shefeltlikeachildagain.Shefeltasthoughshe’dcomehome.“Esme,”sheheardhimsaygentlyasdrowsinessenvelopedher,“willitbeall

rightifI letsomeonelikeMr.Griffithsknowyouaren’twell?Iguessthisisabusyweek,anditmightbeaswelltosortoutsomeonetostepinforyou.”“Oh…yes,please…whatever…thankyou,Jabez.…”Andshefellasleepin

hisarms.Forthenexttwenty-fourhoursEsmedriftedinandoutoffeverishsleep.For

twodaysafterthatshefelttooweaktogetoutofbed.EachdayJabezcalledintwice to make sure she was all right, and he brought her simple, nourishingthings to eat and left her with a hot drink in a Thermos flask by her bed. AmessagecamefromMarcustosayhehadcontactedthepeopleinherdiary,aspassed on to him by Jabez, and she need have no concerns, just getwell.He

added that five other people from Brockhyrst Priory had flu, including theorganist; but not toworry, hewould deputize on the organ for the Christmasservicesifnecessary.OnChristmasEve,whenEsmewasonherfeetandfeelinglikeherselfagain,

shakybutnormal, shediscoveredwithdelight that in threedaysof illness shehadlostfivepounds,whichmadeitallworthwhile.JabezcalledintoseeherinthemorningandexpresseddoubtaboutherbeingsufficientlyrecoveredfortheChristmasservices,but she reassuredhimshewouldbe fineand thankedhim,promisingtocallintothecottagebeforeshewentawaytovisitherfamily.Shefeltwellenoughtotakethechildren’scribserviceatPortlandStreet,and

their midnight communion, and despite feeling strangely insubstantial byChristmasmorning,shemanaged theearlyserviceatBrockhyrstPriory,whereMarcusplayedforher.“Welldone!”shesaidtohimafterward.“Ihadnoideayoucouldplay!”“Oh, well…”He shrugged his shoulders in deprecation. “I can fill in, my

dear,butI’mnotapatchongoodoldClifford.Whenheplays,thespiritsoars,butwithme it’smore a case of Toccata and Fudge inDminor, and that’s ifyou’re luckyonagoodday.Gladtohelpout—butareyousureyou’rebetter?Shouldyoubehere?”Esmesmiledathim.“Ifeelabitfloaty,butI’mfinereally.Thanksforallyour

help.”Marcus lookedather thoughtfully.“Justaswell JabezFerrallwasabout;he

explainedhe’dbeencallinginwiththechurchgreeneryandfoundyouunwell.Kind of him to help outwith decorating the church for Christmas. Jabez is agoodman.”“Ah! There you are, my dear!” Hilda’s arm was suddenly around Esme’s

shouldersinalovingsqueeze.“Iwaslookingforyouatthedoorandsomeonesaid,‘Theresheis,look,Hilda,overbytheorgan!’—andhereyouareindeed.Ateeny littleChristmas gift, dear—just a small packet of fossilized ginger, very

warming,goodforthecirculation.MerryChristmas!”“Crystallized,” murmured Marcus, as he turned to assemble his sheets of

musicandlockuptheorganconsole.“MerryChristmas,”headded, lookingatEsmeoverthetopofhisglasses.“Andmakesureyougetsomerest.”Esmewent straight fromBrockhyrst Priory to themorning service atWiles

Green, where one by one as they left the chapel, her congregation expressedtheirloveandconcern—“Areyouallright?”“Takeiteasy,now!”“Haveanicerestwithyourfamilyaftertomorrow.”She thoughtof theChristmascardsmingledwith“Getwell”cardscrammed

onevery ledgeandsurfaceat theparsonage, thegreetingsandaffectionofherchurchmembers.Asshewalkedaway from thechapel towardhercar,Esmefeltwarmedand

encouragedbytheirfriendshipandsupport,andprivilegedthatsheshouldbeitsfocus.“Esme.”When she reached her car,Esme looked around to seewho had spoken her

name.Intheshadowoftheyewtree,welloutofthesightofworshippersleavingthechapel,stoodJabez.“Would you like to come to us for lunch, or have you got other plans?” he

asked.Esmesmiled,grateful.“HappyChristmas,”shesaid.“I’dlovetobewithyou.”

I

EIGHT

n the days between Christmas and New Year’s, Esme spent time with herparentsandwithherbrotherandhisfamilywholivednearthem.Over dinner one evening she told them about the changes agreed for the

Southarbour circuit, and the suggested possibility of a move to Surrey. Theylistenedwithinterestandsawitoverallasapositivemove—“Providednoone’sdoing you down or trying to push you out of where you are at present,” herbrothersaid.“Is the rectory in the Surrey parish nice?” asked her mother, and Esme

explained that everything had still to be discussed, letters written, meetingsarranged. Looking at the Surrey parsonage belonged to a later stage ofnegotiation.She wondered whether to talk to them about Jabez but decided there was

nothing really to tell.He had never referred again to themoment of intimacytheyhadsharedwhenshewasill,andonChristmasDayshesawinhismannernohintofaninvitationofferedtomovetheirrelationshipontoadeeperlevel.Hewashisusualself;quiet,friendly,andkind.Nothingmore.Yetshefeltsomuchhad passed between them that to refrain from mentioning him to her familyseemedwrong.“IhavemadesomeverydearfriendsinSoutharbour,”shesaidtoherfamily,

ashermotherbrought in theglassandsilver-plateFrenchpresssteamingfromthekitchenattheendoftheirmeal.Unsurehowmuchtosay,orhowtodescribeJabezandEmber,Esmehesitated.Itseemedoddthat,thoughtheyhadbecomesoimportanttoher,inallthediscussionswithhercolleaguesandnowwithher

family,thereneverseemedanappropriatepointtomentionthem,tobringthemintotheequation.Shesupposeditwasthattherewasnomoretobesaidthanthatshelovedthem;andlovehadlittleplaceindecision-makingabouthousemovesandcareeropportunities.“It’s my one misgiving about going,” she went on; “I don’t want to leave

them.”“That’s the way of the world, young Esme,” her father said sagely, as her

motherhandedhimthejugofcreamtopourintohiscoffee.“Lifewaseverthus.You’re a professionalwomanwith a living to earn; youmust put your careerfirst.Friendsareallverywell,butI’mafraidwhatyoumustdoisjustmoveonandforgetthem.It’ssad,butthat’showithastobe.Thejobhastocomefirst.Justforgetthem.Welcometotherealworld.”Her mother nodded thoughtfully in agreement, and her brother added,

“Besides,Es,ifyouplayyourcardsrightandstaygoodfriendswiththem,you’llhaveseasideholidaysforlife,whichcan’tbebad.”Itsoundedsosensible.Perhaps that’swhat’swrongwithme, thoughtEsme;

maybeIjusthaven’tgotmyfeetontheground.Afterall,Ihavegotmylivingtoearn.Noone’sofferingmeanalternative.Andthere’snothingtobegainedbyfeelingmiserableaboutwhat’sinevitable.Shedidnotpursue thematter,andher familyhadnoquestions toaskabout

JabezandEmber,seeingnothingofinfluenceorsignificanceintherelationship.BythebeginningofFebruary,thenegotiationsforEsme’smovehadbegunin

earnest. The chairman had spoken to the circuit stewards in Surrey, andrepresentatives from that circuit had discreetly attended one of her services tohearherpreach.Shehadbroken thenews to thestewardsofeachofher threechapelsandfounditoddlygratifyingtoseethemsostunnedandupsetatlosingher (with the single exception of Miss Trigg, who made little comment, butwhosefaceshonewithholytriumph).ByMarch,theSoutharbourcircuitchurchcouncilshadbeguntheirarguments

about how the circuit chapels should be redistributed between the remainingstaff;andEsmehadreceivedaletterinvitinghertoSurreytomeetthestewardsandsomeoftheofficeholdersofthechurchesshewouldserve.Only at this stage did Esme finally make herself talk to Jabez about the

changesthatwerebynowfarmorethanaproposal.Shesatonanupturnedwoodencratebythefireinhisworkshoponacoldday

inearlyMarch,absentmindedlystrokingtheearsofthepurringcatrollinginthewarmashes.“Therearetobechangesinthecircuit,Jabez.”Jabez said nothing. She looked up at him, standing at hisworkbench in the

lightfromthewindow,methodicallycleaningthepartsofabicycleheadsetinabiodegradable solvent. Sometimes when Barton’s Bikes at Southarbour hadmorebicyclesthantheycouldhandle,theysubcontractedworkouttohim.Thiswasoneoftheircustomer’sbikes.“Itmeansamoveformeearlierthannormal.I’mbeingaskedtolookattwo

churchesinSurrey.”Hepausedforamoment,suddenlystill,andthenglancedacrossather.“Oh,

yes?” he said. “Excuseme amoment, Imustwashmy hands before I greasetheseballbearings,IthinkI’mdirtierthantheyare.”Whilehewasgone,Esmereflectedthatheseemedtohaveminimalreactionto

her news. She thought of the distress among her Brockhyrst Priory stewardswhenshebrokeittothem,andthedisappointmentofherWilesGreenstewards.Bycomparison, Jabezappeared littledisturbed.Whatdoeshe feel forme?shewondered.Anything?When he returned, he opened the grease pot and began to position the ball

bearingsinthecup,carefullycoatingthemwiththerightamountofgrease.“Isitwhatyouwant?”hesaidatlast,withoutlookingather.Esmeexplainedhowthedecisionhadcomeabout,emphasizingthatshehadin

realitynotmuchchoice.

“Here,theyneedmetomove,soIneedachurch;theretheyneedaminister.Ioughtatleasttogoandlook.”With precise attention, Jabez put back the forks and all the parts he had

dismantled and looked around for his headset spanners. “I had them aminuteago,”heremarked,exasperated;adding,“andyoudon’tmindleaving?”“All ministers have to leave,” said Esme. “Well, not ministers in local

appointment,theyjuststaylocal,buttheygetpaidonlyifthey’relucky.Thoseof us in the full-time work have to move on. That’s why it’s called itinerantministry.That’sthesetup.”“Yes,”saidJabez,tighteningthetopcupgentlywithhisfingers,untilhehadit

tightenoughfortheretobenoplayintheheadset,“Idoknow.”Heseemeddistant,unconcerned.Iwasworryingaboutnothing,Esmesaidto

herself;Icouldhavetoldhimagesago.“Sothey’veinvitedmetogoandsee—nottillApril,becauseoneofthecircuit

stewardsisawayonacruiseandtheirsuperintendent isrecoveringfromopen-heartsurgery.”Jabez nodded, holding the cup in place with one of the headset spanners

(found hidden beneath his cleaning rag) while he locked it in place with theother.“Whatifyoudon’tlikeit?”“I’mnotsurereally.BacktothedrawingboardIsuppose.Anyway,it’sworth

atry.”Againhenodded,andheaskednomorequestions.Esme had expected something more from the conversation. She wished he

mightatleasthavesaidsomethingtoreassureheroftheircontinuingfriendshipafter hermove. In somedeepplace she refused to look at, it hurt that he saidnothingtotrytopersuadehertostay.Hisremotenessfeltlikearebuff,adenialofthewarmthandclosenessbetweenthem.Itconfirmedthedecisionforher;herfatherwasright,shehadnothingtostayfor—intherealworldpeoplemoveon.

She remembered as a child hearing him remark heavily on more than oneoccasion,“Youcan’teathope.Lovedoesn’tpaythebills.”Shethoughthewasprobablyright,butsomehowitmadeherfeelsosad.Thetimethatfollowedfeltstrange,alimbo.TheweeksofLentpursuedtheir

usual pattern, culminating in the intensity of HolyWeek and Easter, late thisyearagain.When,onthesecondweekofEastertide,thedateforherinterviewinSurrey

finally came around, Esme felt intrigued and excited, her misgivings nowmingledwithcuriosity.Lenthadbeenbusy,andthoughshehadcontinuedtocallintothecottage,she

hadfoundJabezquietandwithdrawn,expressinglittleinterestintheinformationshehadgleanedsofarabouttheSurreycongregation.Disappointed,ratherhurtbyhisdisinclinationtodiscussallthatthechangesmeant,Esmewonderedifshehad imagined or at least misjudged the quality of their relationship. Shewondered if itwas simply that thedaily roundof his ownworldoccupiedhisthoughts,andhewas too insular to lookpast that into theconcernsofher life.Chilled by his response, she felt discouraged from mentioning her plans toEmber—andnothinginEmber’sconversationledEsmetobelievethatJabezhadtalkedtohereither.AloneinherstudyaftereveningworshipontheSundaybeforeshewasdueto

makehervisittoSurrey,Esmefeltsuddenlyswampedbyloneliness.Thepeopleshehadmet inhercongregationswere tobe leftbehind, forgotten,no lookingback. Ministers who hung on to old friends were a nuisance to pastors whosucceeded them. Her family lived by principles that sounded sensible andpracticalbutleftherfeelingcoldandempty.HercolleaguessimplyfeltrelievedandgratefulthatitwasEsmegoingandnotoneofthem.Jabezappearedtohaveclosedhishearttoher.Shequitedesperatelyhungeredforsomeonetowanther,tosaynicethingstoher,toofferheraplacetobelong.Surreybegantolooklikeabeaconofhope.

Onthedayof the interview,shedressedwithcare, tookthenewmapbooksshehadboughtfromthesupermarketservicestation,andsetoutwithasenseofadventure.She returned from that day more than anything else flattered to have been

considered: The experience had brought the sense of a career taking off.Glancingintothewindowsoftheestateagentsasshehadstoppedtoinvestigatethehighstreet,shehadbeenastonishedbythehousepricesforthatarea.Surreyseemedtobeonevastgreensuburbpopulatedwithsleekcarsdrawnupinonesandtwosonthebrick-laiddrivewaysofmassivehouses.Esmehadneverseensomuchevidenceofmoneyinherlife.Theleathersuitesonwhichshewasinvitedto sit, theup-to-the-minute fittedkitchens sheglimpsed throughdoorways, thequality of the music centers she saw in the living rooms whose size wasaccentuatedbytheflawlessyardageofimmaculatelysteam-cleanedcarpets;thegroomed gardens with their azalea beds and judiciously selected conifers andhugepots spillingwithbegonias,and the large,confidentvoiceof thestewardwho led her interview—a retired barrister—had impressed upon her thesignificanceofthisappointment.Itmeantshewasonthewayup.IfshetookthischanceshemightnolongerbepoorEsmeoutinthestickswhilesherecoveredfromherhusbandleavingher.Hercolleaguesandherfamilywouldstopfeelingsorry forher at last.When she stepped through the archedporchandover thethreshold of that solid 1930s parsonage set back in its huge leafy garden, shewouldhavemadeit.The stewardsaskedEsmewhather responsewouldbe if they invitedher to

come.Shefoundherselfcaughtinafinalindecision,asthoughshewerewaitingforareasontochangehermind.“This seems like a wonderful appointment,” she said honestly. “I like the

chapelsandall thepeopleI’vemet.Therearenoproblemsatall.JustbecauseI’macautiousperson,canIsayIshouldneedtothinkitovercarefullybeforeIsay‘yes’?”

Thisprudentresponsewasfavorablyreceived,andEsmedrovehomefeelingexultant that such an opportunity had been held out to her, and that they soclearly likedher.She turnedimpatientlyfromthe tugofsadnessforJabezandEmber, for the cottagewith its apple trees andquietness, itswood smoke andlavender and hens.After all, she told herself,with a garden that size I couldplant my own apple tree: I could grow lavender and keep hens myself.Whatwould be the difference? There was an answer to that, and she refused toacknowledgeit.Inthedaysthatfollowed,alettercamewithgratifyingspeedfromthesenior

circuit steward of the Surrey chapel, offering her the appointment if she feltinclinedtotakeitup.Excited,with theletterstill inherhand,Esmeleft theenvelopelyingonher

studydesk,andhastilylockingthebackdoorshegotinhercar,threwtheletterontothepassengerseat,anddroveouttoWilesGreen.ShehadtosharehernewswithsomebodywhetherJabezwasinterestedornot.Asshemadeherwaythroughthelanesdarkenedbytheunfurlingleafcanopy

andnarrowedbythewildherbsandgrassessproutingintheverges,enjoyingthespreadinggreenofspring,Esmeadmittedtoherselfhowmuchshehadgrowntolovethishidden,beautifulplace,andhowmuchshewouldmissit.ShesmiledattherecollectionofachanceremarkoverheardthepreviousSunday.Greetinghercongregationas theymadetheirwayoutof thechapel,shehad

heardthedoorstewardsayamiablytoHildaGriffiths,“Hasn’titbeenlovelyandwarm!Suchachangefromallthedamp,chillydayswe’vehad.It’sbroughttheflowersonso,thegardenlooksbeautiful.”“Mydear!”Hildahadnoddedwithenthusiasm.“MarcusandIhavebeenout

in thewoodsandfieldswith theRamblers,and it’sdelightful,quitedelightful.AndIdon’tcarewhattheysay,Iknowpeoplefrownonitandcomplainaboutit,butIthinkrapeislovely.I’dhardlyknowthespringhadcomewithoutit.”Esmelaughedaloudassherememberedthemomentaryshockedbewilderment

onherdoorsteward’sface;butasshelookedalongthelaneandsawthroughthecoolgreentunneloftreestheblazinggloryofyellowrapeindazzlingblossom,shehadtoconcedethatHildawasright.PooroldMarcus—shegrinned—he’llbegettinganundeservedreputation!She brought her car to rest on the roadside by the Old Police House, and

snatchedtheletterupfromthepassengerseat,tooimpatienttonegotiateinthecarthepotholedtrackleadingtotheyard.Her intention focused on Jabez’s whereabouts, Esme walked with the

swiftnessofpurposeuptheruttedlaneandaroundthecottage,butthelovelinessof theorchard inspringblossomfloodedherconsciousnesswith itsglory,andshesmiledatitasiftoaperson,inspontaneoushappinessatitsbeauty,whichshoneintohersoulsovividlyalthoughherfootstepshardlypaused.She found Jabez sitting on the ground outside in the yard, in the sunshine,

evidentlytakingabreakfromgivingMarcus’slawnmoweritsspringservice,thedismantledpartsspreadabouthim.Hesatwithhisbackagainstthecottagewall,smokingaroll-up,amugofteasteamingontheflagsbesidehim.Shepausedforamoment,theineffableauraofpeacethathungabouthimaffectingheralmostphysically.Andfromthatcamearushoflovefromthemiddleofher,agratitudetohaveknownthismanandthisplace;tohavelearnedsomuch,andhavebeenloved so much, to have been allowed into his refuge-place and known hiswisdom,andhisgentleness.Thathehadheardherstepandwasawareofhersheknewwithnodoubt.She

never really understood why he kept this stillness, allowed her to approachwithoutacknowledgement,notspeakingorlookingatheruntiltheirtogethernessinthespacewasaself-establishedfact.Yetthiswassomuchapartofhim,andshefoundithadtheeffectofholdingamomentarymirrortohersoul,showingherthequalityofselfthatshebroughttotoday’sencounter,beforethedubiouscurrencyofconversationopeneditsownnegotiations.“Jabez,I’vehadaletterfromthechurchinSurrey!”Esmefelttooexcitedat

theimportanceofhernewstoletthetimeofcomingintothepresenceofanothersoulunfold.Sheexpectedhimtoturnhisheadthen,andlookupatherwiththefamiliar warmth of welcome: It surprised her when, instead, his habitualquietnessfellintoanalmosttotalstillness,asthougheveryrhythmofhisbeinghadtemporarilystoppeddead.“Jabez?”shesaid,unsure.And then he did turn his head to look at her. He smiled, her excitement

requiringaresponse,butheaskedhernothing.“SitdownaminutewhileIgetyouacupoftea,”hesaid,gettingtohisfeet.

“Thenyoucantellmeallaboutit.”Thekitchendoor stoodopen,andhe tookonlyamoment to returnwithher

tea,butinthattimeshefelttheinsideofherfidgetingwitheagernesstotellhim.Shetookhermug—“Thanks”—andperchedontheedgeofthewoodenchair

that stood in the yard among the bits ofMarcus’s lawnmower. Jabez slid hisbackdown thewall to resumehisearlierposition.Partof thepeace inJabez’scompany was that having brick dust all down his jacket was no more aconsideration than the oil-black that usually smudged his hands and hadextended its grubby influence to every garment he wore. The exacting socialrequirementsofetiquetteandcleanlinesswerewaived.“They’veinvitedme!”shesaid,prideanddelightspillingintohervoice.Itfelt

likesuchanachievement, inspiteofwhichEsmehadasense that itwouldbeutterlyimpossibletocommunicatetheconsequenceofanyofthistoJabez.So, “It’s a big opportunity,” was all she said, rather lamely, watching him

inspecttheendofhiscigarette,whichhadgoneout,andthentakeadrinkofhistea.AdvancementandcareeropeningsmeantlessthannothingtoJabez,thatEsme

understood,butshecouldnotrepressasenseofdisappointmentthathesaidnotaword,onlypattedhispocketstolocatehismatches,relit theflimsycigarette,drewonit,andcontemplatedthedriftofsmokehebreathedoutintothespring

sunshine.Atlast,hisvoicelevel,steady,heaskedher,“Thenhowlonghavewegot?”Esme could never analyze, though on occasion she had given it a lot of

thought, how Jabez could both create an aura of stillness even when he wasworking,orwalkingdown the street, andequally impart a senseofmovementwhen,asnow,hesatentirelystillyetinsomewayshecouldnotdefine,seemedtobevanishing,withdrawingintohimself,beforehereyes.“Stationingnormallytakesabouteighteenmonths,”shesaid.“Butbecauseof

the particular situation both here and in Surrey, they’re going to curtail myappointment here. It might be as early as this autumn. More likely in thebeginningof thewinter.We justwant togiveourselves time todoeverythingproperly.”Shewaitedforhimtospeakagain,eventuallysayingintothesilence,“Aren’tyoupleasedforme?”Hetookadrinkofhistea.“I shall miss you,” he said finally. “If it’s what you want, of course, I’m

pleasedforyou.”Heglancedupather,squintinginto thesunlight.“I’msorry,I’m not meaning to be a wet blanket. I can’t quite imagine life without younow.”Esmesmiled.“YoucanalwayscomeandvisitmeattheparsonageinSurrey!

It’shuge.Youcouldstayovernight.”Jabez stubbed his cigarette out thoughtfully on the stone flags of the yard.

“CanI?”hesaid.“Thankyou.”Hepickeduphismug,drankmostof thetea,andtossedthedregsdownthe

nearby drain. “Better get on,” he remarked. “Well done, Esme; that’s greatnews.”Esme watched himwork until she finished her cup of tea. Deflated by the

flatnessandanticlimaxofhis reaction,shedecidedagainst trying toshowhimtheletter.Hewasevidentlydeterminednottodiscussit.Itwashardtothinkofanyonewhowouldbepleasedtoreaditamongherchurchmemberseither.So

afteralittlewhileoffurtherdesultoryconversation,shetooktheletterhomeandtelephonedhermother,whowascomfortinglycongratulatory.Asshesatdownatherdeskwithacupofcoffeethatafternoon,andswitched

onhercomputertodraftherorderofserviceforSundayintimefortheorganistphoningthroughfor thehymns,Esmefeltexultedinhersuccess.I’vemadeit!she said to herself. Then, as she waited for the computer to be ready,unexpectedlyhermoodchangedtorevealaninexplicableunderlyingweariness,as thoughthewholeSurreythingamountedtonomorethanaballoonbroughthomebyachildfromaparty.Shehadasuddensenseofherprofessionallifeasaflimsyhousebuilttoimpress;insteadofasolidfoundation,anemptyreservoirofloneliness.Don’tbesilly,you’re just tired, she toldherself firmly.She turned from the

thought,remindingherselfthatstayingwasnolongeranoption,andsheopenedanewfileandsetupthepageasshewantedit.

In the yard of his cottage at Wiles Green, carefully, meticulously, Jabezcompletedtheservicingofthelawnmower.Heloadeditinthebackofhistruck,returnedittoMarcus’sgarage,andreceivedhispaymentpolitely.HewantedtoaskMarcushowmuchheknewaboutEsme’smovebut thoughtbetterof it incaseshepreferredanythingkeptprivate.Throughtheafternoonheoccupiedhimself,workingdoggedly,systematically,

sortingandtidyingthingsinhisworkshop,listingsparepartstobeordered.Hetooksomeoldoiltoberecycledandcalledforsomebreadatthebakersonthewayhome.Hisfacewasstillandremoteasheworked,likereflectionsondarkwater. In some locked recessofhisbeing,he felt the terrifyingmusicofgriefbegin again, and he held his being as still as he could to quiet its broken,discordantcacophony.Hishandsshook.Hehadbeenthiswaybefore.Hefeltitapproaching.

Ember,comingthroughtofeedthehenstowardevening,foundhimstandinginthemiddleofthelivingroom,hisfaceinhishands,theconvulsingmusclesofhisbellybendinghimalmostdouble,hissilverwaterfallofhairshakingwiththestormofsobbingthatrackedhisbody,themuffledgroanofhisvoiceindespair,“Oh,Jesus;oh,Jesus.”Emberwentswiftlytohim,andwithfirmhandsguidedhimtothebatteredold

sofa,sathimdown,andseatedherselfbesidehim,veryclose,onehandonhisbackandoneonhisknee,feelinghisbodyhardandtensewithhisanguish.“What?”sheaskedhim.“Whohasdonethistoyou?”Longago,Jabez,havingwonderedifwhenaheartbreaksitsnapslikeadry

twigormoreraggedlylikeagreenbranch,orrendsreluctantlylikethetearingofstrong linen, discovered that in fact the human heart never breaks at all. Itstragedy is that it belongs to our flesh, andhowever lacerated and swollen andbruised,itgoesonloving,itcannotletgo,beingofferedneithertherespitenorthewelcomeendofbreaking.“She’s leavingme.Oh, it’ssopainful!Sopainful!Sopainful!She’sgoing.”

Hesobbedoutthewordsincoherently.“Oh,God,itjusthurtssomuch,somuch,somuch!”Hecollapsedintoaparoxysmofweeping,andEmberwaited,quitestill,while

thetempestshookandrackedandwrenchedtheframeofhim.Eventually thechoking sobs that torehimabated,until he sat trembling,his

breathshudderingandcatching,hishandscoveringhisface.ThenEmberliftedthecornerofherapronand,removinghishandsoneafter

theotherfromhisface,wipedawaythetearswithoutspeaking.Hedidnotlookather,butshookhishead,hopelessly,deeptremorsofgriefrunningthroughhiswholebody.“Oh dear,” he said at last. “Oh, dear, dear me; what am I going to do?

Whatever am Igoing todo?Oh,dear…” Inuttermiseryhewrunghishandstogether,andthenhisfacetwistedashecollapsedagainintohelplessweeping.

“Ican’t!”hecriedout throughthetears.“Ican’tgothroughitagain!Ican’tloseher!Oh,God,helpme.Oh,God,whatcanIdo?”Emberheldhim,rockedhimgently,talkedsoothingnonsensetohim,stroked

his hands. She sat by him until, empty andwrecked, hewas still. Then, “Liedown,Jabez,”shesaid,“whileImakeupthefire.”Sheput a cushion to pillowhis head andmadehim lie downon the couch,

stoodinpitywatchinghisbodyinvoluntarilycontractingintoatightballasthetortureofgriefstartedagain,andhisfeaturesdistortedoncemoreintoamaskofagony.Heturnedhisfaceawayintotheprivacyofthecushion.Ember frowned, inasmall,denselyconcentratedspaceof thought.Thenher

habitualexpressionofclarityanddeterminationreturned.Shelefthim,wenttoherroom,andpulledtheblanketfromherbed,broughtitdownstairsandtuckeditaroundhim.Shekneltat thehearth to light the fire, thengot toher feetandstoodbythesofaagaintolookathim,curledupindesolation,hiseyesopenbutgazingwithouthopeatnothing.Emberbentandstrokedthesilverhair,tenderlymoldingherhandtothecontoursofhisheadandneck.“Youjustrestnow,mylamb,”shesaid.“Getyousomesleep.It’llbeallright.

You’llnotloseher.’TisentirelyofGodthatliesbetweenyouandshe.’Tisnotapassingfancy, ’tiseternal.Takecomfortnowandrest. Itwillbewell,Jabez, Ipromiseyou.”She regardedhimamoment longer, then treadingquietly she left the room,

foundhercoatandscarf,fedthehensandlockedtheminagainstthevisitsofthefox,shutupthegardenshedandtheworkshop,fetchedherhatandstick,andsetofftowalktoSoutharbour.IthadturnedmidnightwhenEsme,finishingofftheupdatingofherpastoral

lists onher computer,was startledby adeterminedknocking at her door.Sheswitchedontheporchlightanddrewbackthebolt.“Goodgracious,Ember,whateverisit?”sheasked,astonishedassheopened

the door and beheld the small and furious bundle of rage wrapped in winter

woolliesonherdoorstep.“Comein!”“Thankyou,Iwill,”snappedEmber,continuingasshesteppedintothehall.

“WhatdotheyteachyouintheseChristianchapels?Anything?Nothing?Haveyounoshame?Haveyounopity?Haveyounowisdom?Nounderstanding?Noinsight?Dotheynotteachyouthatlovebringsresponsibility?”Shestood,bristling,glaringatEsme,herobsidianeyesbrightwithanger.Esmeexperienced the familiarquailing inherabdomen, theurge to run, lie,

gethelp.Shewonderediftherewasanyplaceintheworldsafefromoldladies.“What are you talking about, Ember?” she asked when the gunfire of

questionshadstopped.“Comeintothekitchen.Letmemakeyousomecoffee.Howdidyougethere?It’sawfullylate.Comeon.”She let Ember follow her into the kitchen, filled the electric kettle, and

switcheditontoboil.“Iwalked.”Esmeturnedandlookedatherinamazement.“Walked?Why,Ember,you’re

eighty-six! It’s sevenmiles toWilesGreen fromhere! Itmusthave takenyouforever!”Esme often felt that Ember’s eyes might almost as well have had sound

effects.Justnowtheylookedasthoughtheyshouldbespittingandcracklinglikefaultyelectricals.“Yes,”saidEmber,asEsmesetamugofcoffeedowninfrontofher.“Butit’ll

bea lotquickergettingback,becauseyou’llbe takingme in thatcarofyourswhenyoucomeovertosortoutthemessyou’vemadeofJabez.”Esmelookedcompletelytakenaback.“Jabez?Ihave?”ShestaredatEmber,

and then, slowly, comprehension dawned on her face. “Because of theappointmentinSurrey?”sheasked,horrified.“Surrey?Where’sthat?What’stheplacelike?Isitfaraway?”Sitting down opposite Ember at the table, Esme told her about the

appointment, the opportunity, the letter. She explained all that it meant, able

somehowtoputintowordstoEmberwhatJabezwouldneverunderstand—thedesire tomake somethingofherself, todowell, toget past thehumiliationofotherpeople’spity.“Ihadn’treallythoughtthroughwhatitmightmeantoJabez,”sheconfessed.

“Ihonestlydon’tknowwherethingsaregoingwithhimandme.IfeelasthoughI’veknownhimforever,althoughithasn’treallybeenverylong,andIcanseehelovesmedearly,but—well—he’snotaverydemonstrativeman,ishe?Inanycase, just suppose Jabez and I were together—and that still is presumingsomethingbeyondwhereweseemtoberightnow—couldhenotcomewithme?TheremustbebicyclesandlawnmowerstofixinSurrey,mustn’tthere?Womenmove togowith theirmen.Thesedays themenare learning tomovewith thewomen.”Emberconsideredthis,frowningferociouslyatthetable.“Ibelieve,”shesaidthen,thoughtfully,“inthefreedomoflivingbeings.Not

onlyhumanbeings,mindyou,butallbeings. Ibelieveweshould live inwaysthat respect the freedomof all beings.And protect it from those that have nosuch respect. Protection brings limiting of course. Locking things in at nightfromthefox,maybe.It’sacomplicatedthing.Bethatasitmay,amonghumanbeings,Ibelieveinthefreedomofwomenaswellasthefreedomofmen.Iwasmarriedbutayearor two,andInevermissedhimwhenhewasgone.Ididn’twantamanclutteringupmylife.Mistakingmeforhismotherandclamoringforthe needs of his belly and his bed. Confounded nuisances are men. MeetingJabezFerrallwasquiteasurprisetome.Hedon’tflirtwithanyone,hecanthink,helivesbyhisprinciples,heexpectstodohisowncooking,andhedon’texpecteither of us to clean his house—had I a-been twenty years younger hemighthavecausedmetorevisemyhabitsofmind.I’mnotsendingyoutosleepwithmychunteringon,amI?”Esmesmiledather.“Goon.”“SoIbelieve inyour freedom,Esme. Icanseeyou’reanambitiouswoman.

Youhaveanurgetogetoninlife.ButIthinkIseealsointhewomanyouare,something that understands simplicity; how precious it is—how you have toworkforitandstruggleforitanddefenditinthisdayandage.Andthenagain,you’reaspiritualwoman;soamI.Andifyou’llforgivethetedioushearken-to-meofanoldwomantoayoungone,IbelieveIgottoremindyouthatsimplicityis thegatewaytospiritual living.Youcan’thaveonewithout theother.That’swhyyouloveJabez—becauselovehimyoudo,mydear;andIthinkyou’dfindyourself in a pretty pickle lost in the barren desert of all they streets and carswithout Jabez Ferrall’s bicycle shed for a refuge. Youwas hungry enough inyoursoulwhenyoufirstfoundhim.AmInotright?”“Yes,Isupposeso.”Esmesighed.Shestirred.“Isupposeso.”“You got to see, there’s something you are overlooking in Jabez.Hewon’t

transplant.Youmightaswelltrytoputasixty-eight-year-oldtreeinaclaypot,take itwithyou to thisSurrey, stick it in the flowerbed, andhope it’ll be allright. Jabez is not just passing throughWiles Green. He was born there. Hisparentswerebornthere.It’shishome.HisfatherwasborninthebedroomwhereJabezsleepsofanight. Jabezbroughthisbride tobed in thatcottage,andshebore his children there, three of them—two of them grown and gone into theworld, and his baby girl buried under the apple tree in his orchard there. Henursedhiswifeinthatcottagewhenshewassickand’twasfromtherethattheycarriedoutherbody.Youmightaswelltakeafancytotagthemoonalongwithyouontheendofastringas try touprootJabezfromhiscottage.Thekindofmenyoumeanthatmoveabouttheworld,andtheprofessionalwomenwhokeepthemmoving—someofthemaresophisticated,someofthemareunhappy,someofthemarelikeairplantsthatthriveonanyrockwheretheyperch.Butthey’veforgotten, the whole modern world has forgotten, the meaning of home. Andmaybe your Jesus was much to blame. Itchy feet, that man. What can youexpect, born in a stable, dropped like a bit of baggage at the journey’s end.Hardlyknewwherehebelonged,Ishouldthink.”

“Well,notinthisworld,anyway,”saidEsme.“But,thankyou,Ember.IfI’mhonest I hadn’t liked to look at it too closely, really. I can’t see that I’ve gotmanyoptions.IhavetriedtotalktoJabezaboutthenewjob,buthejustblanksmeout.”She cupped her hands around thewarmmug of coffee, gazing thoughtfully

into space. “You’re right. I do love him. We must surely be able to sortsomethingout.”“Thenitmaybealldowntoyou,mydear.Itoldyoubefore,Jabezneedsabit

of a shove sometimes.Doesn’t like to push himself forward or intrudewherehe’snotwanted.”“Not that kind of man,” said Esme, with a smile, downing the rest of her

coffee. “Now, what about tonight? Are you staying here? Am I taking youhome?”“Taking me home,” replied Ember firmly. “He’s not fit to be left alone at

present.Almostmadehisselfsicksobbingthisnight.”“What?”EsmestaredatEmberinhorror.“Forgoodnesssake!Okay,let’sgo.

I’mready,I’lljustgetmycoat.”Emberlookedatherspeculatively.“What?”Esmeaskedher.“I’lljustuseyourlavatoryifImay,”Embersaid,coyly.Itrangalittleodd,but

itpassedEsmeby—“Oh,I’msorry,Ishouldhaveaskedyoubefore,”shesaid.“There’sonedownstairsandoneupstairs.”“Upstairs, please,”Ember replieddecidedly andheadedpurposefully for the

stairs.While Ember was in the bathroom, Esme went back into her study to tidy

awayconfidential filesandshutdownhercomputer.Thenshewentout toputher bike away in the garage, returned to lock the back door, and find her carkeys, after which Ember appeared on the stairs, clutching her coat about her,readyfortheoutdoors.

“’Tiscoldtonight,”sheremarkedconversationally.“Ihopetheblossomdon’tgetfrosted.”Esme felt concernedabout Jabez,but sheenjoyed thedrive toWilesGreen,

thestarsshiningdownfromaclearskyuntilshelostsightofthemastheroaddippeddownbetweenthetreesandhedges,andthemoonlightflickedbarredonher car through the branches overhead. There coming up from the ditch herheadlightspickedoutafoxslidingsilentlyintotheundergrowth,andalongsidethefieldgatethestripedfaceofabadgerwatchingthemgoby.When they reachedWiles Green and turned off the road, Ember suggested

theyparkthecarinthelane—theremightbetoolittlespacetoturnaroundintheyardwiththewayJabezhadleftthetruckparked,notexpectingEsmetocometonight, she explained—and reassured Esme they would be in nobody’s way.Thisseemedsensibleenough,sotheyleftthecarinthelaneandwalkedtogetheralongthepatharoundtothekitchendoor.“Freezinginhere,stove’sout,”mutteredEmberasshesteppedintothehouse.

“Ilefthiminthelivingroom,”sheadded.Esme looked toward the door that led into the house. No lights had been

turnedon,butinthelivingroommaybetherewasaglowoffirelightshecouldsee.With a sudden feelingof apprehension, guilty at the unhappiness she hadcaused,shewenthesitantlythroughfromthekitchenintotheroombeyond.Brightmoonlightshoneinto theroomandfoundthesilver lightsofhishair.

HewassittingwithEmber’sblanketpulledaroundhisshoulders,gazingat theglowing remains of the fire, very still. Even in the kindness of shadow andfirelight,hisfacelookedhaggardandlostandold.“Jabez?”Helookedupinamazement.“Esme!”Hestaredather.“Whattimeisit?”he

asked,bewildered.“Nearlytwoo’clock,Ithink.Embercametofindme.Shesaidyouwerereally

upset.”

Hemovedhishandinavaguegestureofdeprecation.“I’mallright.Whatdoyoumeanshecametofindyou?Walked,youmean?”Esmenodded.“Yes.It’stakenherhours.Jabez,canIputthelampon?Ican

hardlyseeyou.”“Ofcourse,”hesaid.Assheturnedbacktohimfromthelightswitch,hewas

blinking from the comparative brightness, and then as he adjusted to it, shelookedathimmoreclosely,hiseyesbaggyandbloodshot,hisfaceravagedfromweeping.“Jabez, you look exhausted!You look absolutely done in.Oh, I’m so sorry

aboutwhat I said; Ididn’tmean tohurtyouso. It’llbeall right,wecanworksomethingout.”Emberappearedinthedoorbehindher.“Exhausted?He’snottheonlyone.Andifhe’stired,thenit’stimehewasin

bed. I’m going that way myself. You, too, my love. I’ve brought your nightthings.”“Ibegyourpardon?”Esmewasbeginningtofeeloutofherdepth.“Ibroughtyournightthingsfromyourbedattheparsonage.Havesomesense,

Esme.Lookatthestateofhim.I’mtired,you’retired,helookslikehediedlastweek.Whatdidyouhopetodo?Tryandhaveaconversationwithhim?You’llhavetosavethattillthemorning.”“ButwherewillIsleep?”saidEsme.Emberlookedatherveryhard.“Well,notinmybed,forthat’swhereIshall

be in five minutes. You can work something out between you, I shouldimagine.”Jabezpushedhishand,tremblingwithweariness,acrosshisfaceandthrough

hishair.“I’llsleeponthesofa,”hemurmured.“Idon’t thinkso,” retortedEmber, shortly.“You’ve let thekitchenstovego

out,andyoudon’tlooklikeyou’reabouttospringtoyourfeetandbuildupthefire beside you. I certainly amnot planning to forage for firewood at such an

hourofthenight.AndI’llwantmyblanketformyownbed,thankyou.SevenmilesI’vewalkedforyouthisnight,JabezFerrall.I’vefetchedherbackforyou.I’ve filched her night things out of her bedroom to satisfy yourmodesty. Pullyourselftogether!Thinkofabetterwaytokeepwarm.”WiththatsheunbuttonedhercoatandproducedfromwithinitsfoldsEsme’s

nightdress,whichshetossedontothefloorathisfeet,draggedtheblanketoffhisshoulders,andtraileditbehindherassheclumpedupthestairs.Theyheardthedecisiveclosingofherdoor.Jabezdroppedhisfaceintohishands.“Oh,myGod,”Esmeheardhisgroan,

muffled.She couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, for goodness sake, Jabez, it’s not so bad!

We’regrown-uppeople.I’mforty-five,you’resixty-eight,Idon’tsupposeitwillwreakhavocwithourinnocencetoshareabedtogether,willit?Foronenight?”Hedidn’tmove.Shesteppedclosertohimtopickuphernightdress,andasshestoopedsheput

herhandonhisknee.“Please,Jabez.Let’sgotobed.”Herubbedhisfaceandhiseyes,thenputhishanddowntosqueezehersgently

whereitlayonhisknee.Helookingentirelydazed,bewilderedwithwearinessandemotionalexhaustion.“Jabez?”shesaid.Jabezsighed,along,deep,shudderingsigh.Heturnedhisheadtolookather,

andEsmehadasenseofhimdrawinguponresourcesdeepwithin,summoningthelastdregsofenergytofacethis thingproperly,saywhathewantedtosay.She knelt down on the floor beside him, waiting for him to frame what wasinsidehim.Hiseyesdarkanddeepheldhers,serious—allhissoullookingoutatherthere.“Esme,Iunderstandthecommonsenseofit.’Tislate,I’mwornout,hereare

you,there’sonebed.Butitisn’tassimpleasthat,isit?What’sheldouthereisapossibility to beone.WhatEmberhas inmind, andwhat you andme are not

saying, is this isn’t about sleeping, not onebit. It’s aboutyou andmemakinglove.”Hesmiledthen,andliftedhishandtoherface,hisfingertipsdelicatelytracing

theoutlinesofhercheek.“TiredImaybe,butifIletmyminddwellonthat,Idon’tfeelverysleepy,andIthinkyoumayknowbynow,Iwouldn’tneedmuchpersuading.”Hehesitatedamoment,thencontinued,findingthecouragetobehonest:“I been so lonely, Esme. At night in bed sometimes I could havewept for

loneliness. Just for a cuddle, to feel someonewarmbesideme. Somenights Ibeenlyingherehuggingthepillowforsomecomfort.Ibeensoterriblylonely.AndIloveyousomuch.ItseemslikeforeverI’velongedforyouandlovedyou.Only I never dared offermyself, because I’ve got nothing to give you, and Icouldn’tseehowIcouldfitinwithyourlife.Whatwe’retalkingaboutnowiswhat I’vedreamed for,yearned for,wantedmore than I can find thewords tosay.Don’tyouknowthat?Surelyyoucouldsee?“Butforallthat,Igottosay,Ican’treallyapproveofthis.Loveissomething

faithful,somethingthatendures.Ifwhatyou’replanningistomoveawayfromWilesGreenandleaveme,thenIthinkwe’ddowrongtolookforanykindofunionmorethanthefriendshipwealreadyhave—andalwayswillhave.Oh,mydearest!Youmustknow,mybody’syours,andmylove,andallthat’sminetogive,ifyou’llhaveme;butIjustthinkitshouldbenotatallorforever.Wegotto sort ourselves out first, before we get into this. We got to have anunderstanding. Esme, I can’t reach out for something that’s only a mirage, aunionforonlyonenight.It’stooimportanttome.Iloveyoutoomuchforthat.Itwouldbeunbearable.Itwouldbreakmyheart.”Watching him, listening to him, Esme discerned the intensity of his soul

unconcealed in his eyes searching hers and the vulnerable uncertainty of hismouth.“Am I too old-fashioned?” he said, anxious. “Did youwant us to—do you

mind?”Esmesmiled.“Don’tworry,Ithinkit’llbeallright,”shesaidgently.“Wecan

talk about it in the morning.We’ve got each other. We’ve got time. It’ll beokay.”Remembering her first swift instinct that herewas amanwhowould never

cheat her, gratitude and trust quickened in the very roots of her soul for thehonorablepatienceofhislove.“Then,arewe—”hehesitated.“Imean—doyouwanttobe…Esme,whatare

wetooneanother?”Esmedidnotreply.Sheliftedherselftokneelup,closeagainsthimashesat

onthecouch,takinghimintoherarms.Sheheldhimtoher,herheartopeningtoafloodofprotectivelove,movedtocompassionforhisdefenselesslongingforher and thehumilityofhis self-offering.She strokedhimgently,brushingherlipsagainsthis face,untilwitha small,half-suppressedgroanofyearning,hismouthfoundhersandhekissedher—hungrily,urgently—verythoroughly,shethought, for a manwith somany reservations. Held close in the ardor of hisembrace, she felt his heart beating against hers. Itwas answer enough.As hekissedheragain,everytraceofreserveinhermelted.Sheclosedhereyesandletherwholebeingopentohispassionandtenderness,theexquisitegentlenessofhislove.He kissed her brow, her cheeks, her throat, lost in his wanting her, the

irresistiblehungerofhislove.And then he just cradled her, his love enfolding her; for each of them

homecoming,heart’sdesire,completion.“That’sallright,then,”hesaideventually,andhesatbackonthesofa,looking

atherinthelamplight,hiseyesshiningwiththejoyoffindinghimselfloved.“For tonight,sleep inmybed,mylady. I’llmakeup thefiredownhere.No

doubt I’ve a bit of kindling in the kitchen; and I believe Imay have anotherblanketifIlook.

“Comeon,then,”hesaid,asEsmestoodupandhepushedhimselfupontohisfeet.Hestoodamoment,lettinghisbodyadjust,crampedfromsittingsolong,thentookherhandandledhertowardthestairs.“We got no electricity upstairs,” commented Jabez as she followed him up,

“butthere’sacandleinthebedroom.”Esmefelt thesamesenseofcuriosityandexcitementas shehadon the first

dayhewelcomedherintohiscottageasheopenedhisbedroomdoorandlitthecandlethatstoodbyaboxofmatchesonthewindowsilljustwithinthedoorway.The head of his bed, a big bed—his marriage bed, Esme thought—stood

against the breast of the chimney that passed through on itsway up from thelivingroombelow.Awardrobewithasimpledoorofboardshadbeenbuiltintotherecessononesideofthechimneyandshelvescrammedwithbooksintotheother alcove. In front of the bookshelves stood a small table with a glass ofwater.He turned back the covers of the bed. “Here ’tis, then. I hope you’ll be

comfortable,”andwithgentleandhumblesimplicityhe tookher intohisarmsand drew her to him onemore time. He closed his eyes and pressed his lipsagainstherforehead,movinghisfacetenderlyagainsthers.“Good night,my dearest,my darling,my love,” hewhispered. “Sleepwell.

Godblessyou.”Shesettledherheadagainst thecurveofhisshoulder,andJabezpressedhis

lipsagainstherhair.Hereinhiscottage,heldinhisarms,Esmefeltasenseofhomecomingandpeace.“Time for bed,” he said eventually, and smiled at her, leaving one last kiss

uponherbrow.Jabezclosedthedoorquietlybehindhimasheleftherinhisbedroominthe

candlelight,andEsmelistenedtohisfootstepsonthestairs.Sheshiveredasshechanged into her nightdress and climbed into the cold, unfamiliar bed. It feltstrange,andshemissedhim,wantinghimtherebesideher.

Downstairs, Jabez, who had lied about both the blanket and the kindling,turnedoutthelightandcurledupasbesthecouldundersuchwarmthashiscoatofferedforacoveringonthecouch.Hedidn’tmindbutclosedhiseyesinpeace.“Thankyou,”hewhisperedintothegratefuldark,“thankyou,thankyou.Oh,

pleaseletmehavethis.Pleasedon’tletherleaveme.Pleasedon’tlethergo.”

When Esme awoke from a deep and peaceful sleep, she felt completelydisorientedforaminutetofindherselfinanunfamiliarbed.Theroomhadfilledwith the clear light of day, and through the window, which Jabez kept ajar,pouredthegloryofablackbird’ssong.As the night’s events reassembled themselves in her consciousness, Esme

wondered about what lay ahead. She supposed that a properly responsiblewomanwouldhaveviewedthefuturewithmisgiving.Butanysuchqualmswerelost in the beautiful peace she felt, lying in the homely simplicity of Jabez’sbedroomwashed in spring sunshine, awareof thedistant household soundsofsomeoneriddlingtheashesinthekitchenstove,andoftheabsolutesecurityofthecocoonofloveshefeltaroundher.Shestretchedherbodyluxuriouslyinthebedandyawned.Thenpresentlyshe

got up and picked up her clothes discarded on the floor, dressed herself, andwentdowntofindJabezandEmber.“Slept well?” asked Ember innocently. “Jabez has gone out to the shed for

somekindling.We’llhavethekettleonanytimesoon.”“Where’syourcar,Esme?”asked Jabezashecame inwithhis arms fullof

wood.“I left it just off the road in the lane,” Esme explained—“Ember thought it

wouldbetrickytoturnaroundagainintheyard.”Jabez didn’t answer her at once. He slipped the logs into the basket and

droppedthekindlingwoodinhishandontothefloorinfrontofthestove.Ember

busiedherselfwithgettingtogetherbreakfastcrockery.“Atmosphere!”exclaimedEsme.“Nowwhat’swrong?”Jabezsquattedbeforethestoveandpokedinvarioustwistsofpaperandtorn

card,strikingamatchtoset lighttothesebeforeslowlyaddingthekindlingastheflamestookhold.“Twothings,”hesaid.“TwothingsthatEmberknows.Firstisthateverycar

hasareversegearandiswellabletogetoutthesamewayitgotin.SecondisthatWilesGreengetsupearly,andifyourcarwasinmylaneatfirstlightthismorning,allthevillagewillknowitbymidday,notsparingthechapel.Ember,youreallyhavesurpassedyourself,Ihardlyknowwhattosaytoyou.”Ember took the jar of oats and the saltcellar off the shelf in readiness for

makingporridge.“You’ll just have to make an honest woman of her then, won’t you?” she

replied,undented.“Yes, I seewhatyour intentionwas.” Jabezglared at heroverhis shoulder,

really annoyed. “But I just think you shouldmind your ownbusiness for fiveminutes!”Emberignoredthisremark,butEsmesmiledhappily.“I think it’ll be all right, Jabez. Diplomacy and subterfuge come easily to

ministers. It’s theonlywaytocomethroughthe jobalive.Let’ssayapastoralvisit—you know; you weren’t well. Didn’t Ember walk all the way toSoutharbour to find me? Surely that must have been a pastoral emergency?Anyway,Ithoughtyouwantedtomarryme.Thatseemedtobewhatyouweresayinglastnight.”Ember leanedpasthimtoget thekettle fromthehotplateand took it to the

sinktofill,allwithoutaword,butEsmecouldseethemischievousgrinonherfaceasshecarriedthewaterbackandsetitonthetopofthestove.Jabezcontinuedslowly to feed thefireboxwithwood,blowinggentlyon its

contents.

“Ididhearyou,”hesaidafterawhile,“butIexpectyou’llbewantingacupofteaaswellasananswer.”Havingsatisfiedhimselfitwaswellalight,hefittedinasmalllogandclosed

thedoor,adjustingthedrafttogetitburningbriskly.He stood up and wiped the soot and wood ash from his hands onto his

trousers.Heturnedaroundinthesmallkitchenandcontemplatedher.Theevasion,the

quickglances, thewildcreaturehidinghadallgone.Hiseyes lookingdownatherwerepurelyhappy.“I can’t think why you would want me,” he said. “I am nothing and I got

nothing and that’s how it’s likely to stay. But I do like to go about thingsproperly.Ifyouandmearegoingtobetogether,thenit’sgoingtobeforreal.”Andhewentdownononekneebeforeherandtookherhandinhis.“Esme,

I’myoursifyouwantme.Willyoumarryme?”“Oh, yes,” said Esme, wondering how much joy the human spirit could

contain.“Oh,yes!Thedetailswecanworkoutlateron.”Onbothkneesthen,hedrewherclosetohimandtouchedhislipstohers.“I’d

like to kiss you properly too,” he said, “but notwhilewe’ve got an audience.That’sprivate.”“Private! Ha!” Ember opened the tea caddy and ladled two spoons of tea

leaves into the pot. “If you’d been let to keep your private life private, youwouldn’thaveoneat all, JabezFerrall! I reckon Ideserved tobeawitness tothat.”Sheregardedthemwithshining,inscrutableeyes.“AndI’mveryhappyforyouboth,exceptIthinkyoutookadevilofalong

timeaboutit.Hangback?I’veneverseenamanlikeit,sohelpmeIhavenot.I’llgetthemilkinthen,forIdon’tsupposeyouhave.”

On the shingle beach at Southarbour, Esme found a spot where the bankedpebbles and thewooden groyne, greenwithweed,made a shelter against thesharpspringwindthatcutsocold.Sitting there, no one and nothing between herself and the meeting of the

suppleoceanwiththewidegreysky,sheallowedthethoughtstocome.Therewould be no future, then, such as she had planned.No career. There

wouldbe thesatisfactionneitherofsuccessnorofadmiration.Her friendsandacquaintances—most of all, her family—would have come to see the solid,respectable, unimaginative amplitude of the suburban parsonage, unwittingtemple of complacency; and they would have been impressed. Should sheagainstherbetterjudgmentallowthemtoseeherinthesettingofJabezFerrall’scottage, theywouldmost likely think she had taken leave of her senses.Andthen—howcould theyvisither therewithoutmeetingJabezand(evenmore tothepoint)Ember?Esmebroodedonthis.Shecouldn’tgetasfarasvisualizingherfamily’sreaction—itwasimpossibletoimagineintroducingEmbertothematall.Hermovementfromfull-timeitinerantministrytotheprecariousterritoryof local appointment—an honorarium or a half stipend at best; filling gaps incolleagues’absences,gleaningunwantedfuneralsandhelpingoutwithweddings—itwould drawpuzzled pity, questions, alongwith the inevitable inability ofmodern people to understand Jabez and his sense of home. It would beimpossibletoexplainthathewouldexpecttolivewithhiswife—andlivewithherinhisowncottage,andthatwasjusthowitwas;awayofbeingthathadnodialogue with contemporary employment structures. In today’s world, aprofessionalwomanwithsavvytendedhercareer,watchedherback,andsawtoher pension. If Esme chose Jabez, shewould grow old into grinding poverty,tornattimesnodoubtbetweenthenecessitytoearnalivingandbeingtheretocare forEmberandJabezas the frailtiesofoldagebegan tomake themselvesfelt.Shewondered,“WhathaveIdone?”butatthesametimeregisteredwithmild

surpriseherlackofdreadorregretorapprehension.Herplaceintheinstitutionof thechurchwith itsbureaucracyand liturgyandpetty feuds failed to fixherattention.Withoutnoticingtheshift,asshelookedoutoverthepatienttidesoftheoceanwaves, herminddrifted, and shebegan to think about silver.Silverhadbeentarnishedinthenarrowworldoftraditionthatshutsoutlife,reducedtothirtycoinsthatbetrayedamantodeath.Butevensilver,thecurrencyofhumangreed, had kept its beauty if she remembered to open her vision to the livingearth.Thesilverofthecloudsinthisovercastday,underlitbyabarredwashofrose

asafternoondrewtowardevening.Themuscular ripplingof thesea, reflectingthebrightnessoftheskylikepewter,silverybrightalongthepathsofthelight.The silver, clear lightofday;not the squintingglareofcloudlessmidsummer,but this cool and luciddove-light.She thoughtof Jabez’shair, as the sunlightcaught it, the faintest suggestion of auburn warming its stranded silver fall—youth’slastallusion.Jabez… the look inhis eyes.Observant.Perceptive.Shy sometimes, bright

glancesothertimes.Fleetingly, inthemidnightgarden,theutter longingofhislove. Warm in laughter. The downward gaze of controlled annoyance whenEmberneedledhimtoexasperation.Quietgaze, intelligent, focusedonapieceofmachinery.Shaftsshehadglimpsed,steepdropstorememberedpain;dizzy,acute,frightening.Jabez,hiseyesdarkanddeepintheshadowandmoonlight,drawinghertohimself,gentle.Shehadmadeherchoice,andtherewerenoregrets.Jabezhadlittleornothingtoofferherbuthimselfandthewillingnesstoshare

with her everything he had. To take this path, considered prosaically, was toembracepovertyandinsecurity.But Jabez, with his humble trust in the power of simplicity, gave her an

obscure sense of safety; as though his cottage, hedged aboutwith its fragrantherbs and ancient apple trees, was a sanctuarywhere she could be absolutely

safe;theplace,sherealized,whereshehadatlastfoundpeace.And she knew that she wanted to be there with him more than anything.

Havingfoundherwaythere,ifshecouldbelievethegoodnessinlifeenoughtostay,itwouldbeashelterandarestingplace.Friendship,honesty,belonging;afireside,ahome,simplicity,andspace.Havingfoundherwaythere,itwastooprecious to let go. She had made her choice as, in the unfolding months ofdeepeningfriendship,shehadletallthatitmeantlodgeinsideherandbecomeadeep,upwelling,crystalsourceofhope.Itwaslikeachurchtoher;likethelittlechurchshehadglimpsedinafieldfromthetrainsolongago.Aplaceofrefuge,awayof lifeoffering space tobeand time to think, a chance to feelwithherfingers the dusty hem of Christ’s homespun robe, and find the daily walkingmeditationofthebarefootwayofprayer.

…alittlemore…

Whenadelightfulconcertcomestoanend,theorchestramightofferanencore.

Whenafinemealcomestoanend,it’salwaysnicetosavorabitofdessert.

Whenagreatstorycomestoanend,wethinkyoumaywanttolinger.

Andso,weoffer...

AfterWords—justalittlesomethingmoreafteryouhavefinishedaDavidC.Cooknovel.

Weinviteyoutostayawhileinthestory.

Thanksforreading!

Turnthepagefor...

•DiscussionQuestions•AConversationwithPenelopeWilcock

DiscussionQuestions

Atthebeginningofthenovel,Esmereadswordsshehadwrittenyearsagoaboutacountrychurchshesawthroughatrainwindow.Whatdoyouthinkthischurchrepresentstoher?

WhatcontributestoEsme’srestlessnessatthebeginningofthenovel?Howdoesshebegintomovepastthisfeeling?

AfterEsme’sfirsthusbandleaves,shethrowsherselfintoherwork.Howdoyouseethisaffectingheremotionallyandspiritually?

Esme is immediately fascinatedby Jabez.Whydoyou think she findshim sointriguing?

Esmefearswhatpeoplewillthinkofheriftheyfindoutthatshefeelsunabletopray. Do you think pretense is more or less apparent in ministry than othervocations?Whyorwhynot?

Jabezfeelsthechurch’sprayersforhiswife,Maeve,werefilledwithunreality.Whatdoyouthinkhemeansbythis?

Esmefacesthedilemmaofchoosingfulfillmentthroughprofessionalsuccessorthroughrelationship.Whydoyouthinkshechoosesnottomove?

AConversationwithPenelopeWilcock

ThebookopenswithaquotationfromGreyOwl:“DowntheavenueoftreesIcanseeaspotofsunlight.I’mtryingsohardtogetthere.”HowdoesthisimagerelatetoJabezandEsme’sspiritualjourney?

Atthepointatwhichthestoryopens,Esmeislivingwithanunacknowledgednumbness, damage from the loneliness of her role as a minister, from thebereavementofherfailedmarriage,andfromhersenseofunfulfillmentintermsofpersonalfaith.Jabezisfrozenataplaceoflonelinessandgriefafterthedeathofhiswife,andiscoping,butonlyjust.Thoughhehasadeeppersonalfaith,hefinds the answers and attitudeshemeets in churchunsatisfactory.Yet eachofthemhasaninstincttoreachforsomethingthatmakessenseoflife;thatbringswholeness,healing,andfulfillment.Toreachtheplaceofopenlyadmittedloveand need of each other that they are at by the end of the book is amatter ofstruggleforeachofthem,permittingvulnerability,riskingmuch.Itistheendofonejourneytowardwarmthandlightbut,asalwaysinlife,willbethebeginningofanother.

TheClearLightofDayisaboutinsight.HowdoyouseethisthemeillustratedintheteachingsofJesus?

Of the four evangelists, Mark and John focus particularly on this theme.Mark’sgospelhasaparticularteachingstructure,seekingtoawakenthemindsof his readers to the foundational role of suffering in the call of theMessiah.Mark,inhistinyprologuestates,“HerebeginsthegospelofJesusChristtheSon

ofGod,”andwhatunfoldsinthefollowingchaptersisaninvitationtoinsight,tounderstandwhoJesusisandwhathecametodo.Thefirstchaptersarefullofquestions:“Whoisthisthateventhewindandsea

obeyhim?Whoisthiswhocanforgivesins?Whoisthiswhocanhealthesickand cast out demons?” etc. Then Jesus asks his disciples, “And you—who doyousayIam?”(“Iam”ofcourseisthenameofGod.)Thisquestion,andPeter’sconsequentconfessionoffaith,followsontheheelsof thehealingof theblindman.AndPeter iscommendedbyJesusforhis faith,but thensharplyrebuked(“Get behindme, Satan”) for remonstrating with Jesus about the necessity ofChrist’ssufferinganddeath.TherethenfollowsablockofteachingaboutthecrucialnecessityforJesusto

sufferanddie,andinthemiddleofthisblockofteaching,atthemidpointofthegospel,comestheMountofTransfigurationwhereJesusisrevealedingloryforwhohe is.At the endof the teachingon suffering comes thehealingof blindBartimaeus, one whose sight is instantly restored—and then the Passionnarrativebegins toroll,culminating in thedeclarationoffaithby theunnamedoutsider,theRomancenturion—“SurelythismanwastheSonofGod”(bringingusbackfullcircletotheprologue).Thusonecansee,thewholegospelisaboutattaining insight into who Jesus is (the Son of God) and what that means(accepting the role of Suffering Servant). The central teaching block aboutsuffering,inthemiddleofwhichJesusblazesforthintransfiguredglory,flankedasitisbythetwohealingsofblindmen,thefirstrepresentingPeterwhosawbutnotproperly,thesecondrepresentingthedisciplewhofollowsinthewayofthecross (Bartimaeus is described as following Jesus “in the Way” after hishealing),isallaboutrevelationandinsight;hencethehealingofblindnessbeingthemiraclechosen.InJohn’sgospel,thepresenceofChristisportrayedaslightmovingthrougha

darkworld.Fromtheprologue,whichspeaksoflightpresentbutnotrecognized,not understood, but never extinguished, through the miracles that John calls

“signs” (pointing the way to us or helping us understand), and through theteachingsthatspeakofJesusaslightandexhortingthefaithfultoworkwhilethelight is with them for the dark times will come, light and vision are centralthemes.Thisculminatesinthestoryoftheresurrectionmorning(John20:1–10),wherePeterandthebeloveddiscipleruntothegardentomb.TheEnglishword“saw” occurs three times in this story, but each time it means somethingdifferentintheGreek.First,thebeloveddisciple“sees”(glimpses,catchessightof) the grave clothes, but does not go in. Then Peter goes in, and he “sees”(examines, scrutinizes) the grave clothes and the head-cloth, then the beloveddisciple also goes in, and he “sees” (catches on, gets it, understands) andbelieves.Soit’saboutenteringin,andaboutthemovementoflightanddark:Inthedarknessofthetomb,thelightoffaithandinsightawaitsthem;astheyenterthedarkness,thelightentersthem.TheGospels arewonderful documents, and insight is a central theme in the

Gospels: The teaching of Jesus fits into that overall communication, teachingwho hewas, what he came for, and the cosmic spiritual shift effected by hisredeemingdeathonthecross.

TheClearLightofDayfollowsthequestofanordainedminister’spersonalsearchforinnerpeace.HowdoesEsmebegintofindherwayoutofformalityandintoanaturalexpressionofherfaith?

TheClearLightofDayisintendedasthefirstbookofatrilogy.Inthisbook,JabezandEmbereachhavequiteaclearandsettledoutlookonlife,butEsmeisreachingforsomething that feelsmorereal toher thanwhatshecurrentlyhas.Right at the end of the book, because of the healing that comes about in herthroughbeingloved,andbecauseoftheglimpsessheisreachingofavisionofsimplicity, Esme comes to a position of hope that her uncertainties andrestlessnessmaybegintoresolve.Iamworkingatpresentonthesecondbookofthetrilogy,TheLightReturning,whichwillexploretherelationshipbetweenthe

spiritual and the physical, and the natural rhythms of the seasons with theteachingoftheChristianfaith.

LikeEsmeyouhaveservedasaministerintheMethodistchurch.IsTheClearLightofDayinanywayautobiographical?

Ithinkmaybeallnovelsmustbealittleautobiographical.Ihavebeenpleasedtofind that readersofTheClearLightofDaywhoareMethodistmembers, inthe different Methodist circuits where I had worked, all thought it was theircircuitIwaswritingabout.SoIguesstheremustbesomethingtruetolifethere.ButEsmeisnotme,thoughIamfamiliarwiththedilemmasandstressesofherworkingweek.

Thenovelseemstosuggestthatspiritualityisexpressedinthedailyrhythmoflife.Howdoesthisviewofspiritualitydifferfromonethatcreatesafalsedichotomybetweenthesecularandthesacred?

OnBritishtelevisionrecently,wesawaprogramcalledGodIsGreen,whichthrew a challenge to all the mainstream religions, especially to those inleadership,regardingtheirsilenceabouttheseriousissuesofclimatechangeandglobalwarming that face us all.The problem for church leaders, of course, istheyaresobusydoingallthatmustbedoneinserviceoftheorganization,thereisnowaytheyhavetheleisureforthedetailedthinkingandtransformationthatsuch challenges as climate change and global warming require. In order todiscover and exercise vision, we have to disentangle from the treadmill ofmaintaining the status quo, and take time and space to bewith the silence ofwhatisreal,likeJesusgoingintothedesert.Ibelievethatspiritualityisholisticandexpressesitselfessentiallyinattitudeandinchoice.Howeverholywefeel,however fervently we praise God, if the small daily choices we make don’tcelebrate theCreator in his creation, or serve theRedeemer in loving his lostsheep,or reverence themysteryandwonder thatencountersus in theordinary

momentsoflife,thenwehaven’tgraspedthemeaningofrighteousness.Asapastor,Ifoundthisespeciallychallenging.Ionceheardamemberofone

of my congregations say with appreciation and approval, regarding an act ofworship led by a visiting preacher, “We told her what wewanted, and that’sexactlywhatshedid.”Mydifficultywasalwaysthatfulfillingtheexpectationsandestablishedtraditionsofmycongregationsneverallowedmetodemonstrateanddevelopmyownsenseofcallandvision,whichsawthingsdifferently.At the present time, I am working out a new form of expression for my

ministry and am not currently the pastor of a congregation. I believe that thethresholdofall spiritualpractice is simplicity.Without simplicity, the spiritualpathcan’tevengetstarted.IamestablishingaspiritualdailypaththatpracticesthepresenceofGodinthedetailofeverydaylife.Ipreachandteachaboutfaith,life, spirituality, and practice healing, craft liturgy and ceremony, conductretreats, and write about the way of faith. Other than that I live very, veryquietly,eatingsimplefoodmindfullyprepared,chosenwiththoughttohonortheCreatorinhiscreation.Iconsciouslycreatebeauty,anddonotengageinfastandworldly pursuits. I focus on modesty and reverence, on quietness andprayerfulness. I think about the links and consequences that my actions andchoices set inmotion—the journey thatwill bemade by the coins I spend inpurchases I make: Who will they enrich? Will they bless my neighborhoodcommunity by becoming part of the trade network of family businesses, orimpoverishitbybeingtakenawayforthepocketsofcorporategiantsandtheirshareholders?ThefoodIeat:Willitmakemecalmandpeaceable,healthyandalert for service and positive relationship—or will it make me nervy, tired,aggressive,andill,onewhohastobeservedratherthanserving?Ibelieve,alongwithsomanyotherpeopleoffaith, thatGodspeaksthrough

thejoyandimmediacyofcreation.SoItouchthepresenceofGodinthebirdsinmygardenandintheancientstoneofthepillarsintheparishchurchandintheflowingofrivers,cloudsdrivenbythewind,thecurrentsofthesea.

Andmostofall,thelight—ordinarylight;sunlight,firelight,starlight,thelightthat shinesoutofall livingbeings—light isacarrierofmystery,andactsasaparableforme,oftheChristlight,ofthelightthatbetokensthepresenceofthelivingGod,ofthelightthatisshininginapersonwhentheywakeup,whenfaithisborn.