News, Stories

EASTER BY JANE COTTLE

THIS IS THE WINNING ENTRY IN OUR EASTER COMPETITION

A patch of sunlight fell across the form that Essie was filling in, highlighting the section that said forename.  It was always the same that pang of anger mixed with guilt when she had to write her full name.  Easter Faith Montgomery, not only a mouthful to say but it raised questions.

‘Is it a spelling mistake?’

At least at school she had classmates whose parents had chosen individual spellings for names because it was cool. Names like Danii and Amii.  Cool girls with cool parents who wanted their children to stand out.  Her name was not cool and her parents certainly weren’t cool.  In fact they were the opposite of cool if there was such a thing but they stood out in a way that made Essie cringe with embarrassment. 

When she started primary school she had decided that she would be called Esther and soon became Essie for short.  Even her mum and dad called her Essie now most of the time.

Soon she would be an adult and it wouldn’t matter. It was just on her birth certificate. She would be starting Uni in a few months and she could call herself whatever she wanted and hopefully no one would ask her why she was called Easter, except maybe on her birthday.

Only ten days now and she would be eighteen. The patch of sunlight made her look out of the window.  The magnolia tree in next door’s garden was in full bloom, enormous creamy petals tinged with pink.  It looked magnificent this year.  It seemed such a shame that the blooms lasted such a short time, the April wind and rain knocking them to the ground like little boats with pink painted hulls. The adverts on the TV were gearing up with chocolate eggs and bunnies and spring lamb dinners.  Families making plans for gardening and decorating and spring cleaning.  Not her family though.  They would be going to church as usual and thanking the Lord for the blessing that is their daughter.

Her family went to church a lot.  Twice on Sundays, morning and evening not including the Sunday school class that she taught in the afternoon.  Then in the week there were Bible study meetings, men’s meetings for her dad and women’s meetings for her mum and youth group for her. Sometimes they had special rallies or meetings on Saturdays too.  Essie would moan about the Saturday meetings when she wanted to go out with her friends or do something different.

‘Why do we have to go mum?’

Her mother always had an answer to make her feel guilty, telling her that she should count her blessings.

‘The devil makes work for idle hands.’

She found it difficult explaining to her school friends why she couldn’t go out with them.  She avoided chatter about Sundays.  In her house there was no TV, no homework and no house work on a Sunday. Her mother would look at her neighbour’s washing flapping on the line and say it was a terrible thing, having to wash on a Sunday and she would pray for her.  Essie had got used to it though and she wondered what she would do when she left home for Uni.  Would she break out and try something else or would she stick to the security of the local church and the Christian Union?

She smiled when she imagined the consternation her birth must have caused.  She had heard the story many times.  Her parents were at the Easter Sunday morning service when part way through her mother went into labour.  She tried to keep it quiet but was unable to and the minister had to stop half way through the sermon.  The church was a small wooden hall – it still is – and when the ambulance arrived the congregation had to stand outside in the car park to give them room. After she was born her dad had to get a taxi home and he was too late for the evening service, probably the only time in his life he had missed.

Easter.  A time of rebirth and renewal, a time of resurrection. She was the saviour baby. The blessing from God to show that her parents were forgiven.

There were pictures in the sitting room of her older sister Eve.  The sister she never met.  The sister she replaced.

Eve had died before she was born.  A cot death at just six months old.  Her mother had never forgiven herself and she was sure that it was God’s punishment for her sins.  Essie could not imagine her parents sinning but they had and she had heard them repent for it many times.  God loves a sinner who repents.

Her parents had convinced everyone that Eve had been born prematurely when she arrived so soon after they were married. Luckily she was a small baby, a honeymoon baby they said, a blessing on the couple.  However after her sudden death there was a post mortem and the truth about her conception came out.  The kind words of condolence withered into accusations. They had sinned and had been punished.  Ten barren years followed before they were forgiven and were blessed again with a child. They were rewarded for their faith with a rebirth.

She did not feel like a saviour.  She was just an ordinary girl with a name laden with emotional significance. Soon she would be able to move on from her parent’s story and write a story of her own.  She would go to Uni and have a career.  She wouldn’t be a housewife like her mum. She might marry or she might not.  Easter 2019 was full of opportunity and she was bursting into life just like the buds on the trees.  All she had to do now was finish filling in this form and then work at getting those A level grades.

CONGRATULATIONS JANE COTTLE
Poems

UNA LETTERA D’AMORE PER VENEZIA

For all the people, the noise and the heat,

And some might claim, the smell,

La Serenissima never fails to enchant

In all her fading, crumbling majesty.

At dawn’s emerging light, vaporetti and traghetti 

Compete for space on crowded Canal Grande,

Past the bustling barges of bass and bream

Destined for slabs on Mercato di Rialto. 

After a lukewarm doppio espresso

And fistful of olive e uovo tramezzini,

Most fragile and delicate of sandwiches,

I resolve to lose myself and escape the 

Oppressive throng slouching towards me. 

Narrow, dark calli and sotoportegi 

Open into vast, vivacious campi

Where scruffy children chase footballs, 

Dreaming they are Messi or Ronaldo,

Or if their fathers coached them well,

Paolo Rossi or Roberto Baggio. 

Intervals of sweet, intense silence,

Splintered only by hurried footsteps,

Or the plash of a gondolieri’s oar,

Pervade the squares and alleyways 

Of Castello and Canareggio.

Down a deserted, soundless rio,

Far from the countless, careless hordes 

Spewed from colossal cruise ships

Docked at Baciano Della Stazione Marritima,

A charming pizzeria calls to me from

Beneath a washing line of “smalls” hung high.

At midnight the bands at Florian and Quadri

Are muffled by the mighty, mournful toll 

Of the Campanile di San Marco; 

And English tourists recluctantly drink up

Their gin and tonics and squint

Incredulously at the final bill. 

Mia cara Venezia, tu sei troppo bella

Ti amero sempre.

A POEM BY TONY QUARRINGTON

Poems

ACROSS THE ROOM BY MARY LEADBETTER

I hope these moments never die
When your gaze makes love to me
I glance back, a little shy
And wonder whether you are free.
Silently I urge you to speak
But you look away
I am bewitched but also meek
At what you might or might not say.
Quietly our fondness grew
Within the silence of our eyes
Imploring you to come to me
Until our gaze turn into sighs.
Too late now the moments have passed
Today has gone and tomorrow diminished
Somehow I knew it couldn’t last
Yet how will I know that it is finished?

A POEM BY MARY LEADBETTER

Stories

A LOVE NOT MEANT TO BE BY MARY LEADBETTER

I never meant to fall in love with her. I knew I mustn’t. Throughout my priesthood I had followed the path – Christ’s path and my whole being subsumed in God’s glory. My best work was helping troubled souls. My life’s mission was to heal the sick as Christ had done. Being a priest allowed me that privilege and I embraced it completely when I took my vows in my mid-twenties.


Frances turned up at an Open AA meeting in my local parish of Beckley, Somerset. I always attended these monthly meetings as non-alcoholics or family and friends were allowed in and take part. I was welcomed for my humour and compassion and felt privileged to be there.
She hadn’t noticed me. I saw her and inexplicably fell hopelessly in love with her. What was it that I saw? She was beautiful to be sure, but it was something else – her face shone with humanity. She seemed totally unaware of herself and the effect she had on other people, men and women alike. I thought she was one of the world’s innocents. I wanted to get to know her better – to be close to her, to breathe into her.


During the tea break I approached her. “My name is John, Father John from St. Matthew’s Roman Catholic Church. I admire your honesty and am sorry for the sadness you’ve had in your life. All will be well in time I am sure, but thank you for speaking so openly about the problems you are facing right now”. I tried not to sound patronising. I just wanted to be close so my words tumbled out. I think she recognised this and smiled – a radiant smile. “That’s OK” she said. I took this as an opportunity to spend more time with her. We were leaning against a radiator at the local village hall and I had her attention. She didn’t seem to mind as she quietly sipped her tea. “I love to hear all your stories – of how you descended into a hell, not necessarily of your own making, but I love to hear of your recovery and how you all cope now, in a harsh world without the escape of drink or drugs. I admire you all. I’ve brought Adrian here with me this evening – it’s his first meeting and he’s talking to his sponsor over there. I know you will all make him feel welcome.” Before she could respond her friend Betty came over to ask her a personal question. I backed off and walked into the kitchen with my tea cup. As the weeks went by I became more and more immersed in her. I studied her and she was totally unaware of me. 


One day I plucked up the courage to speak to her after the meeting as she was walking towards her car. She was familiar with my presence and laughed at my quirky humour and charm or so I thought. She always talked freely to me, as she did with others, so it was easy to catch her up before she got into her car.


I told her that I had to travel to Rome and Florence on behalf of the Parish and would be away for a couple of months and could I please send her a postcard from time to time while I was on my travels? She stalled for just a moment and then said “Yes of course”. It was her innocence – her vulnerability as much as her beauty that seemed to paralyse my senses. I was obsessed with her – her free spirit – I wanted that – for myself, but also with her. My Sabbatical was necessary for me to get a grip on my emotions. The thought of her brought up such memories from my own past – my youth in particular and my decision, eventually to give myself to God. I became angry with God and railed against my self–inflicted shackles. In the silence of my room I argued with Him. “Why can’t I have both – love of another human being and You? Why? Why? Was my job in life so difficult that it had to take me away from loving a woman within the sanctity of marriage – and for us to support each other’s paths throughout this life on earth?” I had many sleepless nights. The decision to stay or leave weighed heavily on my mind for weeks and I became withdrawn. I welcomed the chance to go away and contemplate on the life that I’d known for the last 30 years. 


Those two months in Italy were the worst of my life. Every week I mailed her a postcard, writing only about each town and village I visited. My stupid humour joked about putting “Wish you were here” on the card, but then I cried and prayed. I had never known such torment and for the first time in my life I really questioned my faith and my commitment to God. Even more I agonised about her feelings for me. I had no idea whether she would or could reciprocate my feelings as she had many admirers within the AA group she attended. How could I betray her innocence and my duty just because I wanted her – wanted her so badly that I couldn’t rationalise my reasons. I had no one to confide in. This was my guilty secret. My trip to Italy brought me a suntan but no easing of mind. I couldn’t wait to see her again – to see if there was even a hint of love or at least deep friendship between us. 


I saw her again, sitting in the same seat holding the same tea cup with her name on it. She looked radiant and she seemed so excited to see me. I smiled and gave her a gentle hug and kiss on the cheek. My heart started racing. We all sat down and later she spoke. I couldn’t believe it – my shoulders visibly dropped. Excitedly she shared her news with us. “Yes and I’ve been accepted. They want me to start work in two months’ time so I shall be looking for a house by the sea down south. I am so looking forward to it.” I wept inwardly and put my hand up to ruffle my hair – to mask my face. I had to speak to her, had to tell her that I loved her with every bone in my body. Before thinking I blurted out “Frances you are like a beautiful butterfly. You’ve flown into my life. You’ve touched my soul and my heart. Now you’re flying away, to make other people happy. I shall see you in heaven”. I felt a fool – a romantic fool – an infatuated man in a cheap paperback. My face smiled but my heart broke. All my training had never prepared me for this amount of pain.


Frances smiled at me from across the room. I wonder if she really knew that I’d never be the same again. My words were drowned out by the hail of congratulations from the other members of the Group. I sobbed inwardly. Indeed, she was a free spirit, something I would never be. I now had to tread the long path to salvation as my friends in this room were doing. Only for me it wasn’t the alcohol it was the love of a beautiful woman – a love not meant to be.

A SHORT STORY BY MARY LEADBETTER