his attention is first taken with the imposing painted cross suspended at the head of the altar, a surprisingly Catholic touch for so English a village. A Norman souvenir, it stands five foot by three; a pleasingly severe depiction of sufferance and benediction. Austerity aside, as perhaps a reflection of their being in the country, lush and lazily bountiful, he looks for the slightest smirk across Christâs tight lips.
None of you have it hard the way I do.
Many times he has sat in the twelfth pew â further enough away from the door to deflect conversation withflower-changing busybodies, and the nearest he can get to fully appreciate the crucifix in all its severe, glossy detail without craning his neck. Sat open-mouthed, like stone, willing the one who died for our sins to absorb his petty frustrations: a sore cock and balls from Claudâs shagging schedule; wanting to spend his weekends anywhere else other than a village tucked into the hills.
There were certain pictures of Shiva, Ganesh, and Lord Krishna that had the same effect up in Leicester, but he had never shared this with his parents. There, worship was domestic, visiting temples something that was done while in India or during the bigger festivals. His experience of home worship was all backroom incense, and pins and needles from sitting an hour cross-legged.
Ma and Puppa would often equate the rolled eyes and the sulking at having to put aside the bike, computer game, long-planned dalliance with a girl to his godlessness. It was not the act he was fighting, more a sense of suffocation; his inability to take prayer seriously, when just yards away from the front step he had stubbed out an illicit cigarette the night before, having to creep down at 6 a.m. to scrub it clean for fear of detection. His attention was most often taken with what was directly above his head, his bedroom, which offered a more alluring and pleasurable array of distractions. (His temple was under the duvet. It was the same for all the lads in his class.)
Up until he married his experience of life was cramped. Home: small rooms; university halls: small rooms; rented studio: small room; first one-bedroom flat: small, low rooms. The spatial dimensions of the church are what hook him. The fact that he can sink into the pew and feel insignificant and no longer aware of himself; so taken is he by sensations of fascination and fear. The city temple north of Birmingham gives a similar feeling, but what puts the church forward is the fact that he is often the only person there. Ten minutes alone in there and it becomes his own place; Godâs House on a temporary let.
But there are things to put a cap on his sentimentality, namely the understanding that staring at the face of Christ is unable to take him back in time to prevent what was lost. That the Crucifixion is no adequate shoulder for the ache that fills him, the size of a boulder settled in the place where a baby should be. He does not feel the oncoming lightness often attributed to a pensive posture facing the altar; nor can he understand how those who find themselves in unexpected, dire circumstances, can leave this building after a few minutes, an hour, and claim to be healed.
The stillness is a comfort. Perhaps it is the coolness of the interior, and the silence, that pushes him into a state where comfort is felt: a starting point for prayer. There is stillness in the house in Richmond too, but here the rooms are overwhelmingly personal, shell-firing memoriesat every turn to the point where only methodically sweeping the front drive or hosing the bins can block them.
Except, there isnât complete silence. The louvres have been pulled open, allowing the pulse of the Herald to intrude with every heartbeat. Distracted now, he turns his head to catch it. Too close to be dismissed as white noise, his overactive brain is no longer capable of filtering it out. Voices ringing, high and in unison; soaring sharply over claps
None of you have it hard the way I do.
Many times he has sat in the twelfth pew â further enough away from the door to deflect conversation withflower-changing busybodies, and the nearest he can get to fully appreciate the crucifix in all its severe, glossy detail without craning his neck. Sat open-mouthed, like stone, willing the one who died for our sins to absorb his petty frustrations: a sore cock and balls from Claudâs shagging schedule; wanting to spend his weekends anywhere else other than a village tucked into the hills.
There were certain pictures of Shiva, Ganesh, and Lord Krishna that had the same effect up in Leicester, but he had never shared this with his parents. There, worship was domestic, visiting temples something that was done while in India or during the bigger festivals. His experience of home worship was all backroom incense, and pins and needles from sitting an hour cross-legged.
Ma and Puppa would often equate the rolled eyes and the sulking at having to put aside the bike, computer game, long-planned dalliance with a girl to his godlessness. It was not the act he was fighting, more a sense of suffocation; his inability to take prayer seriously, when just yards away from the front step he had stubbed out an illicit cigarette the night before, having to creep down at 6 a.m. to scrub it clean for fear of detection. His attention was most often taken with what was directly above his head, his bedroom, which offered a more alluring and pleasurable array of distractions. (His temple was under the duvet. It was the same for all the lads in his class.)
Up until he married his experience of life was cramped. Home: small rooms; university halls: small rooms; rented studio: small room; first one-bedroom flat: small, low rooms. The spatial dimensions of the church are what hook him. The fact that he can sink into the pew and feel insignificant and no longer aware of himself; so taken is he by sensations of fascination and fear. The city temple north of Birmingham gives a similar feeling, but what puts the church forward is the fact that he is often the only person there. Ten minutes alone in there and it becomes his own place; Godâs House on a temporary let.
But there are things to put a cap on his sentimentality, namely the understanding that staring at the face of Christ is unable to take him back in time to prevent what was lost. That the Crucifixion is no adequate shoulder for the ache that fills him, the size of a boulder settled in the place where a baby should be. He does not feel the oncoming lightness often attributed to a pensive posture facing the altar; nor can he understand how those who find themselves in unexpected, dire circumstances, can leave this building after a few minutes, an hour, and claim to be healed.
The stillness is a comfort. Perhaps it is the coolness of the interior, and the silence, that pushes him into a state where comfort is felt: a starting point for prayer. There is stillness in the house in Richmond too, but here the rooms are overwhelmingly personal, shell-firing memoriesat every turn to the point where only methodically sweeping the front drive or hosing the bins can block them.
Except, there isnât complete silence. The louvres have been pulled open, allowing the pulse of the Herald to intrude with every heartbeat. Distracted now, he turns his head to catch it. Too close to be dismissed as white noise, his overactive brain is no longer capable of filtering it out. Voices ringing, high and in unison; soaring sharply over claps
Similar Books
