The awakening

I. MYSTERY

 

It happened overnight, without warning.

As the summer Solstice dawned one cloudless Monday morning, large-scale farmers and small-scale gardeners across the British Isles woke up to find that their potatoes had rotted. The green tops had withered. The tubers underground had turned to brown, mushy pulp. It was as if they had been sprayed with a powerful herbicide overnight. Every variety was affected. Everywhere.

                Except, that is, in Holywell Allotments. There, that same morning, Hippy Libby, aged about 30, lifted some of her plants. The tubers were large and plentiful. She placed them gently in the basket on the front of her bicycle.

Libby was muscular, athletic-looking, with small tattoos on her tanned upper arms and legs. At the allotment she invariably wore her trademark yellow wellingtons, loose green shorts flapping over her thighs, and green T-shirt. Her long brown hair was tied back untidily with a thin red scarf. She worked vigorously but not hurriedly, with an air of a determination.

She glanced across to Colonel Jeffreys, the titular chairman of the eight gardeners who had clearly-demarcated plots inside the ancient walled garden that once had provided food for a monastery. An austere figure aged about 70, his hair was short and thinning, and he wore his trademark brown cords, check shirt with plain tie, and standard grey wellingtons. He too was digging up some of his potatoes.

Libby and the Colonel both paused briefly in their labour, straightened up for a moment, and exchanged eye contact and a knowing nod. However, the signal meant different things to each of them. She knew that. But he did not.

                                                                    *   *   *

Libby Harding’s plot had been cared for by her family for generations. She was the youngest, and only female gardener, and remained an enigma to most of the others. They called her “Hippy” because of her looks, her lifestyle – she lived with several others who she called her tribe – and her habits. She accepted the soubriquet with good humour.

Initially they had cast a critical and disbelieving eye towards her. “She won’t last long!” Joe Wilkins, the grumpiest and most opinionated of them, predicted. “Big plot for a woman to manage.” Others, more sympathetic, had been free with unasked-for and often contradictory advice. So when, against their privately-wagered odds, her vegetables did as well, and generally better, than theirs, they put it down to the fact that they’d taught her well. Until someone asked her how she got into gardening.

“I trained as a horticulturalist,” she answered in a matter of fact tone. “And then worked in the gardens at Holywell House. I still do, when they need extra help.” The tourist attraction a couple of miles away was internationally renowned for its spectacular gardens. They mostly left her alone after that.

                Not long before Libby had taken over her allotment the gardeners had persuaded the planning authorities to allow them to install running water, electricity, and even a toilet (“so long as it is technically a temporary structure”, the Planning Officer had said). Sir Clarence Rathbone, the owner of Holywell House, had suddenly taken an interest in the garden. He had funded an archaeological dig which showed that there were no medieval foundations under the solid wooden doorway in the wall, and thus there was no reason why a trench could not be sunk there for the pipes and cables.

Libby took advantage of the services. She had cleared the vegetation from a shallow depression in her plot. There she created a pond with a little rockery and waterfall, which one of her tribe linked up to a nearby power socket. Beside it she erected a stout pole from which she hung wind chimes, with a metal tray below them on which she burned incense and scented candles in jars. Whenever she came in, she would spread a mat on the ground beside the pond, meditate for a while and then do some slow yoga exercises.

Joe complained to Colonel Jeffreys. “This is a vegetable garden, not a Buddhist temple. And them bells disturb the peace. Can’t hear the birds.” Others, though, thought the sound of trickling water and tinkling chimes added to the mystique of the garden. They told Joe he was getting deaf, and prejudiced.

“It reminds us of the constant flow of nature,” Libby countered when the Colonel challenged her. “We’re working in harmony with it, aren’t we? Besides,” she added with a grin and a wink, “they help scare the birds off your peas! And don’t forget in monastic times you’d have had the monks chanting and the church bells tolling. At least mine are more musical.”

The Colonel, a man of few words who hated confrontation and division among the gardeners, had no answer to that. Besides, there was nothing in the regulations to say that wind chimes or ponds were not allowed. Colonel Jeffreys, who always followed regulations, reminded the dissenters of that.

What was more of a problem was what Libby grew – or allowed to grow – on her plot. Around her ramshackle shed she had a sprawling patch of nettles and dandelions. In winter, she even nurtured dandelions under cloches.

“There’ll be weed there soon,” Joe announced. “You know. Cannabis. Regular drug factory, that’s what she’s got. Taking advantage of the privacy.”

The allegation required the Colonel’s intervention once more. Rather than face her personally, he put it on the agenda for one of the gardeners’ regular monthly meetings that took place around his greenhouse. Libby, always polite but also firm, gave a quick-fire response. “First, weed wouldn’t thrive in the microclimate here. Secondly, neither I nor my tribe touch drugs. Not even paracetamol if we can help it. Thirdly, nettles and dandelions are food crops, not weeds.”

It took a few seconds for that idea to register with the others. There was a pause until someone muttered, “Don’t be so ridiculous.”

Libby heard him. “Want to know how?” Probably no-one did, but as the silence continued she told them anyway. “Both are packed with vitamins. Better than an expensive detox. Nettles make soup and tea. They attract the bees and make brilliant compost. And you can use them as a green dye.” She pirouetted, showing off her shorts. “As you can see. Was important in the last war, wasn’t it, Colonel?”

He nodded, grudgingly. He could always hold forth on military history. “Coloured camouflage nets and stuff,” he admitted. “But the dandelions?”

“Just as versatile. The leaves and flowers go into salads. If there’s enough you can grind the roots for coffee. Tastes like the real stuff without the caffeine. Even sauté them with parsnips or potatoes. What’s not to like?” 

“Having them spread onto our plots,” Joe muttered. But now that they were firmly classed as an edible crop, there was nothing in the regulations to ban them. So they put up with her odd habits and sometimes brought her the fruits of their periodic weeding and dumped them by her shed. Whether that was out of frustration or generosity, no-one revealed.

“All donations gratefully received,” she’d cheerfully call out.

                                                                  *   *   *

Libby worked in the garden two or three mornings a week. Miles, the newest (and next youngest) tenant, had taken over the plot next to hers. He mostly came in the afternoons. But occasionally, if he came in early or she came in late, she’d lay out her prayer mat and call across. “Want to join me, Miles? I could teach you another way of saying your prayers!”

“I’ve done mine,” he replied cheerfully. “I could probably teach you another way too!”

Miles, aged about 40, of average build and light hair, was the local vicar. Despite his casual dress of jeans and jumpers, and entreaties to be known by his name, most of the gardeners except Libby called him “Vicar”. He had been in the town for about eighteen months. When the plot unexpectedly became vacant shortly after his arrival, he had accepted the invitation to take it on. Regulations said that the vicar should always be given the first opportunity. By rights, he should also have been the chairman of the gardeners, because the land was held in trust by the church. But vicars came and went, while Colonel Jeffreys seemed to have been there for ever. And Miles was not inclined to pull rank.

Indeed, he was the first incumbent in living memory to have taken up the option. Previous clergy hadn’t even set foot in the garden, although that was partly because one of his predecessors had lost the church’s key to the door, and no-one had asked for a new one. As a bona fide gardener, Miles had been presented with his own key by Colonel Jeffreys.

He was also the only gardener whose family – wife Rebecca and three young children – regularly accompanied him to the plot. Like Libby, they had exotic tastes in colourful wellingtons. His were crimson; “Manchester United colours”, he’d claim. Rebecca’s were sky blue; “Manchester City”, she’d counter. The children’s were multi-coloured with an assortment of polka dots and cartoon characters.

Their non-conformity went further. They had installed a chicken run. That, and the children’s habit of running around and shouting, had also become an item on the agenda at a gardeners’ meeting.

“Supposed to be a vegetable garden, Vicar,” Colonel Jeffreys said, rather awkwardly. “Not a playground. And grazing isn’t allowed. It says so, more or less, in the regulations.”

“Chickens don’t exactly graze, Colonel,” he replied amiably. “We can’t keep them at the vicarage. Too many foxes. We watch them on the field. Here’s secure. Besides, every monastery had chickens. They were a major source of protein.”

He caught Libby’s eye; she grinned her approval and added, “Pigs, too, of course. Just saying” as everyone turned to stare at her.

“As for the kids, obviously I’m sorry if they disturb anyone, but they don’t stray far and they love it here. They’re fascinated by seeing things grow, and they’ve each got their own chicken to look after. It’s great we can do something like this as a family, and it’s introducing them to gardening.” There was no answer to that, either. Neither Libby nor Miles received further complaints.

As the months went by, Libby’s pond became a magnet for the children. When their visits coincided with hers, especially at weekends and in school holidays, Libby would show them how to catch and handle frogs and toads around the pond; they would show her their chickens and sometimes give her eggs. They called her Auntie Libby, and on hot days she would have water fights with them.

She also began visiting the vicarage, a substantial 1980s property on the edge of the town overlooking fields at the back. While she was sometimes invited, mostly she dropped in unannounced. Yet, as Miles and Rebecca reflected much later, Libby never arrived at an inconvenient time. It was as if she just knew when to come to play with the children or help Miles make easy-maintenance herbaceous borders in the rear garden, which was otherwise grass with several mature trees. She brought spare plants from Holywell House, with Sir Clarence Rathbone’s permission. Sometimes she came just when the kettle was on, to chat over a cup of tea with Rebecca, who was a part-time nurse in a local GP practice.

In Holywell Allotments the children’s voices added another, lighter dimension to the ethos, combining with the splashing of water, the clucking of hens, and the tinkling of wind chimes. “It’s a happy place,” Rebecca said one day to Libby as the family collected eggs and vegetables. “You can sort of sense it when you walk in.”

Libby smiled. “Yes, we can. But maybe a bit more than that? Sort of, spiritual, special? Different?”

                                                              *   *   * 

That was what Libby meant when she exchanged glances with the Colonel on the morning that Britain’s potatoes suffered their mass demise. He, however, interpreted the look and nod as a tactical message: Keep quiet about our good fortune. Other gardeners would receive it when they came in, as surely they would, when they heard the news of the disaster. They would say nothing outside the walls. They would tell their families that they were drawing on carefully-stored stocks which providentially had been lifted before the disaster took hold.

The white lie was plausible. In the corner of the garden, built into the old brick wall, was what looked like an ancient privy. It was a covered stairway leading into a spacious underground storage cellar. Shelved for trays of produce, it was dark, never damp, and always cool. “Those old monks knew a thing or two,” Colonel Jeffreys would say.

Miles came into the allotments with Rebecca. Libby greeted them. “You’re up early!”

“Cheek!” Miles responded. “Monday’s my day off. Kids at school. What’s the damage?”

“Well, here’s the good news.” Libby held up a potato plant laden with tubers.

She wasn’t smiling, and Miles noticed. “And the not so good news?”

“From what we can make out so far, this is the only place that’s not affected. Yet. Even the municipal allotments across town have been hit.”

“That’s good, surely?” Rebecca ventured. “Offers hope. Maybe it’s not as bad as they’re saying.”

Libby tilted her head towards Colonel Jeffreys who was in conversation with several other gardeners. “Depends how we handle it.” She explained the plan.

“But we haven’t stored them,” said Rebecca.

“I thought you might say that.”

“And there’s no way I can swear the children to secrecy. They’re young but not stupid. They know what potato plants look like. They’ll see them. You know what kids are like. Tell them something’s a secret and they’ll go straight and tell their best friends.”

“Primitive form of one-upmanship,” Miles commented. “But look. What’s to stop us lifting them now? Then whatever we eat will be from storage. Maybe the walls have sheltered us from whatever’s caused the disaster. It could be here tomorrow. We’ll be saving our crop and telling the truth.”

“I thought you might say that too,” said Libby. “Which is why I’ve already started. But you might need to persuade some of the others. We’re lucky. Most of us have got earlies. But Joe’s got main crop. They’re not ready to lift. At least, the spuds are more marbles than tennis balls. He wants to leave them in. Got his eyes on the autumn show. He grows giants. To go with his gargantuan marrows, colossal onions and obscene runner beans.”

“Are they edible?”

“Probably not but he doesn’t care. He’s a hobbyist. Size is everything. Puts trophies on the shelf. Food on the table’s a bonus, not a lifestyle choice or necessity, as it is for us.”

“And he’d risk losing the lot?”

Libby nodded. “Uh huh.”

“So why don’t we just do our own thing? We dig ours, they leave theirs. And it’s their look-out if they lose them.”

“We can. But there’s still the little matter of public accountability. And your observant children. And the Colonel.”

“Of course,” Miles said. “All for one and one for all. No mutiny allowed in the ranks.”

“And right now, I think we three are likely to face the firing squad.” Libby looked across again at the Colonel. “Your job, I think, Miles. Men do the fighting. Women gather the food. Fancy some digging, Becky?”

“I’ll go and get the fork.”

“Hang on. When did you two ever endorse gender stereotypes?” But Libby and Rebecca were already walking away.

                There was a good chance that the fact that their potatoes were unaffected could go unnoticed. There was only the one solid, locked door in the ten-foot high wall. Furthermore, the site, which was protected by an ancient covenant from any form of development, was surrounded by a copse of mature trees shielding it from nearby houses and roads.

When Miles joined the debate, Joe was arguing fiercely with Colonel Jeffreys. Other gardeners were hovering around them. The Colonel looked flustered. “Vicar?” he asked hopefully.

                Miles summoned his diplomatic skills, honed from arbitrating between parishioners warring about hymn tunes and flower arrangements. “We can’t keep it quiet for ever. And even if we did escape the disease, which is unlikely, you couldn’t show your prize potatoes, Joe – there’d be no competition.”

                “Grown under sterile conditions,” Joe responded. “What’s wrong with that? Anyway, we can’t be the only ones to have escaped. Must be lots more. News people always exaggerate.”

                As the argument raged Joe became more assertive and obstinate. “Keep your kids out, then, if they can’t keep their mouths shut! I’m not abandoning my taters when they ain’t spoiled.”

                Libby quietly joined the group as they reached an impasse. In the lull she said, “There’s one other thing. Shouldn’t we inform the authorities? We’re bucking a trend. Shouldn’t they have an opportunity to take a look?”

                Joe exploded. “I’m not being told what to do by any so-called experts. No-one comes in and touches my crops. If anyone breathes a word outside, they’ll be sorry. My potatoes stay. And I’m not taking no advice from hippies or vicars.”

                Libby rose to the bait but kept her voice even. “There’s no point making threats, Joe. And I’m not a hippy in the sense you mean. Nor are my tribe. We’re not layabouts or dropouts. We’ve all got jobs and we pay our taxes to fund your pension. We’re just a group of people who’ve chosen to live together, pool resources and live simply.”

                But Joe was on a roll and would not be pacified. “Jobs! You’re always here! What jobs?”

                “You know I work at Holywell House sometimes, Joe. I also have a household to run. And some evenings and most weekends I’m serving meals at the Riverside Restaurant in town, where you and your good lady had lunch last Sunday, I recall. You had the roast beef followed by apple pie, she had salmon followed by fruit salad. You drank draught beer and she had a glass of house white.” Libby raced on, hardly pausing for breath. “Strange, isn’t it, that waitresses remember their customers even when we’re rushed off our feet, but the customers never seem to notice or even recognise us in our uniform.”

                Silence fell on the group. Some drifted away. Joe stalked off. Colonel Jeffreys shrugged. “Never had a division before, Vicar. Not good. Not good at all. Most of us are inclined to follow you and dig up what we’ve got now. But I guess we can agree not to talk about Joe keeping his? Won’t be mentioned in your sermon?”

                “You’re the chairman, Colonel. We don’t need to say anything, although I agree with Libby that the authorities should be told. Maybe we leave it a few days, and see what happens? They could all die off tomorrow. I’ll do what I can with the children. People will just have to live with their consciences.”

                “And the consequences,” Libby said as she and Miles walked back to their plots. She sounded downcast. “This can only end in tears. It wasn’t meant to be like this.”

Miles asked her what she meant, but she just shook her head. “Thanks for trying, though. There was more chance they’d listen to you than me. Before you go, could you and Becky spare me five minutes?”

                When they’d stored their crop in the cellar, Libby asked Miles and Rebecca to join her by the pond. Almost in a whisper, she said “Would you indulge me, please? Would you say a prayer?”

                Miles hesitated, more from surprise than reluctance. “Sure. For what, exactly?”

                “There’s too many other people here to do it properly.” She lit a candle in a jar, placed herself between them, and took hold of their hands. Rebecca noticeably jumped, took a sharp breath, and turned to look at the young woman, but Libby was staring ahead. “Forget the religious jargon. I’ll tell you what to say. We start by facing north.”

                Libby told Miles to pray for the garden to be protected from weather and disease. He virtually repeated her words. They turned east and prayed that the young crops would grow to maturity. Turning south, they gave thanks for the rain and sun, and facing west for all the fruits of the earth. As they finished a breeze ruffled the wind chimes, the first time they’d noticed them that morning. Libby took a deep breath and held their hands firmly for a few seconds longer. Then she dropped them and turned back to her shed to fetch her mat. “I’ll stay a bit longer.”

                “What was all that about?” Miles asked Rebecca back in the vicarage.

                “Did you notice her hand?”

                “It was hot, bit sweaty I suppose, from the digging.”

                “Hot? It was scorching! I felt I’d touched a boiling pan. I pulled away but in that instant my hand seemed to adjust to hers and I felt, kind of, strength? Peace? It was weird.”

                “I did feel a sort of tingling, now you come to mention it.”

                “There’s something unusual, mysterious, about that woman. But I can’t work out what it is.”

                “She calls you Becky. You usually correct that. Except when it’s me.”

                “I don’t mind it from her. Feels right, somehow. I really feel like I’ve known her all my life. Yet we hardly know a thing about her. She never talks much about herself or her tribe. Have you noticed?”

                                                                       *   *   *

For the next few days the potato failure dominated the news headlines and replaced the weather as the chief topic of casual conversation. Government and university experts were dispatched around the country to take samples of affected crops back to their laboratories. There was little agreement about the cause apart from it probably being a hitherto unknown virus. Quite why the whole country had been affected in a matter of hours was inexplicable. Conspiracy theories began to circulate. Some suggested biological warfare launched by a rogue state. Others alleged that there had been an accidental escape of a deadly virus from a government research facility.

                For consumers, imports from the continent and the Americas guaranteed there would be potatoes on the shop shelves, but at inflated prices. Supermarkets imposed a rationing system to prevent panic buying. Fish and chip shops reduced portions and raised prices. Burger chains initially absorbed the extra costs but could not sustain them for long. TV chefs changed their scheduled programmes to demonstrate how to use alternatives such as turnips, swedes, rice and pasta, the prices of which also rocketed.

                Late one afternoon, Libby, in blue jeans and red top, called at the Vicarage. Miles was out; Rebecca answered the door. The children were noisy.  Rebecca invited her in.

                “It’s Auntie Libby!” Ruth, the middle child shouted.

                Zebedee, the youngest, rushed into the hall. “We’re building a den in the garden! Come and see!”

“In a minute. I’ll come and find you.”

The children dashed out. From the kitchen window the two women could see the eldest child, Bethany, overseeing construction. Rebecca put the kettle on. “I need to sit down,” she said. “I had a hard shift this morning and now the kids are going crazy.”

Libby took a slim book from her bag. “I’ve brought you and Miles this. It’s a potted history of the Holywell Monastery. You’ll find it interesting. Enlightening, even. I think you should read it, or at least skim it.” It sounded more like a command than a casual invitation. “There’s more historical detail than you need just now. You can skip that and many of the anecdotes. I’ve marked the important bits.”

There were shouts and screams from the garden as the children argued. Rebecca rushed to the door. “For goodness sake, play nicely! And don’t shout so much! The whole town can hear you!” She turned back and sighed. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s got into them today.”

Libby patted her arm. “Don’t worry. Make some tea. Is it OK if I go and see them for a minute?” She didn’t wait for an answer but went into the garden. Rebecca watched as Bethany showed Libby what they were doing, with constant interruptions from the other two. She saw Libby raise her hands, say something, and the children jump in excitement. Then everything went quiet.

They sat cross-legged on the grass in the sunshine, their hands pressed together, their eyes closed. Zeb’s blonde hair – Miles’ colour – glowed in the golden light. Ruthie, small and petite, was bolt upright, her movements precise and ordered. Beth, bigger built, always slightly dishevelled, flicked her darker hair – Rebecca’s colour – from her eyes and for a moment looked like a younger version of Libby.

Libby called out, “Thaw!” and the three children jumped up, and raced round the garden shouting. Then above their voices, Libby’s rang out: “Freeze!” They dropped to the floor where they were, stopped shouting, put their hands together and closed their eyes. Libby repeated the process several times, then left the children to continue building their den. She sauntered along the garden borders, peering at some of the shrubs, before returning to the kitchen.

“Don’t worry,” she said again to Rebecca. “It wasn’t anything you’d disapprove of.” She picked up the spare mug of tea.

“Why, as a matter of interest, do you call your friends your tribe?” Rebecca asked.

“‘Friends’ sounds a bit loose, casual. We’re more than that. ‘Tribe’ is more, sort of, confraternal? Better than ‘commune’. That’s got too many nuances.” She finished her tea. “I must go. I’m on cooking duty before I go to work. Enjoy the book. I’ll let myself out.”

Miles came back, glanced at the small book, and tossed it into a tray of papers on his desk. They went into the garden to admire the children’s handiwork. “What was Auntie Libby teaching you?” Rebecca asked as casually as she could.

“It’s a secret!” cried Zebedee.

“It isn’t really,” Bethany replied. “Auntie Libby says some grown-ups do it all the time. It’s just that when people get cross, or when we start arguing about something, we’re to sit down, breathe in a special way, and think of the nicest possible thing we can imagine.”

“It makes you feel all warm and cosy inside,” added Ruth.

“And when we’d done it, we suddenly knew exactly how to build the den better and finished it ever so quick. It’s the best we’ve ever done. Come and look inside!”

 “She’s quite a girl,” Miles said to Rebecca when they were out of earshot.

“Who? Libby or Beth?”

“Both.”

“Talking of which …” Rebecca tugged Miles’ sleeve and guided him round the borders, roughly following where she had seen Libby looking. Suddenly, she stopped. “Look – what’s that?” Behind a shrub two unmistakeable plants were pushing well above the bark mulch. They moved closer, stepping carefully on the earth.

Miles bent down and felt the foliage. “It’s a potato,” he whispered. “I’m sure it is.”

                                                          *   *   * 

The potatoes that Joe had left to grow in Holywell Allotments had continued to thrive. The foliage was strong and vigorous. Joe was unable to contain his smugness. “Should have listened to me!” he said. “Knew they’d do well. They’ll be best in show. Could be best in the country.” He still refused to believe that the disease had otherwise destroyed the entire UK crop and that there would be no section for potatoes in any show. The Colonel, Libby and Miles became more concerned that something should be said to someone in authority, somewhere. But betraying Joe, difficult as he was, seemed a step too far.

But despite the conspiratorial silence of the gardeners, their unique circumstances were discovered. As one of the gardeners was entering the allotments, a dog walker in the copse outside looked through the open door and saw the rows of plants on Joe’s plot. “You got potatoes?” he called, but before he could get a reply the dog, off its lead, bounded through the open door to explore an area it had never entered before. The gardener had no option but to let the owner in to retrieve it. “They are potatoes! You’ve got potatoes! Hey! How did that happen?”

                The Colonel was there, and came across to relieve the hapless tenant of the task of dealing with an unwanted intruder and an unanswerable question. He mumbled something about it looking like potatoes but was unconvincing, and resorted to protocol. He explained this was private land and the man was trespassing. Meanwhile the dog had done a circuit of the garden and was now sniffing excitedly around the chicken run, making its occupants cluck noisily with fear. It ignored calls to come back.

Colonel Jeffreys tried to guide the interloper towards to the door. The man kept looking over his shoulder, calling half-heartedly to the dog. “They’re potatoes,” he muttered. “I know a potato plant when I see one. What are you people up to?” The Colonel laid his hand on the man’s shoulder, too heavily, as he urged him through the door, provoking an angry reaction. “Don’t you touch me! You’re hiding something here! Who knows about it? Anyone? Well they will now! And we’ll be back!” And with that he caught the dog, put it on its lead, and marched off. The dog strained and yelped as it was dragged away from the smells and trees of the copse that it usually wandered among freely.

Colonel Jeffreys had no option but to go home (he didn’t possess what he called a field telephone) and call an emergency meeting of the gardeners for later that day. Miles had another meeting scheduled that he couldn’t miss, and Rebecca felt it wasn’t appropriate for the children to hear the debate. They were the only absentees. The Colonel asked for comments and ideas, which flowed readily.

“People can’t get in. What’s the problem?”

“They could batter the door down. It’s only a single lock.”

“They could climb over with ladders.”

“Why did you have to keep yours, Joe? Got us all in a right mess now.”

“They could bring a rabble. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“They could be armed.”

“We could lose all our crops. Not just Joe’s potatoes. They’ll trample everywhere.”

“We could sell them at a premium.”

“They’re not ready yet,” growled Joe.

Libby bit her tongue for a while. She resisted saying that they should have thought of the possibility before. Instead, she suggested, “Perhaps we should just tell the police. Say we thought the potatoes would die off any day. Get some temporary protection and let the experts in, if they must.”

“Well said,” Colonel Jeffreys agreed. “When under siege, call for reinforcements. That’s my proposal. Any objections?” No-one dared, but Joe glared at Libby. “I’ll stay and man the barricades for a while,” he continued. “Anyone care to join me? And someone needs to go straight down to the police station.”

A gardener went to explain the unlikely situation to a disbelieving desk sergeant. He gave the police Libby’s mobile phone number; she’d agreed to stay for a while before her evening shift at the Riverside.

A patrol car stopped outside. Two young constables phoned Libby and were let in. Neither had seen potato plants before. “Is this what the fuss is about?” one asked. “How can we be sure they’re potatoes?”

Libby got her fork and lifted the one plant she’d deliberately left in the ground on her plot. It was laden with tubers. She pulled two off and gave them to the officers.

“These are worth their weight in gold,” she said. “They’re the only ones in the country. And there’s people out there desperate enough to break in and steal some. More importantly,” she continued, “the government needs to know about this cache and find out why it’s the only one. And also, I’ve asked my mates to come and guard the crop tonight. They’re quite used to camping under the stars. And one of them has a licensed gun.”

“Hold on,” said one of the police. “You mustn’t do anything hasty.”

“We won’t, if we’ve got proper protection. And if we haven’t, your chief constable is going to have to answer to the Home Office as to why his force hasn’t guarded a national treasure.”

The officer gulped. “I’ll report back and see what can be done.” They went back to the car and radioed for advice.

“Has your friend really got a gun?” the Colonel asked Libby nervously.

“Two. Shot gun for clay pigeon shooting. And an air gun for target shooting. But I didn’t say he’d bring either. We’re peace lovers. Don’t worry. My electrician will bring some lights,” she added. “LEDs so they won’t take much power. If anyone looks over, it’ll be obvious there’s people here. But while we’re waiting, shouldn’t you work out a defensive strategy or something? There’s a lot of wall to protect.”

The Colonel looked at her with a degree of admiration. “You’re quite a resourceful woman, aren’t you? Wouldn’t want to meet you on a dark night.”

“Then you’d better station me at the opposite side of the garden to yourself,” she replied, and they both chuckled. It was the first time she’d seen him laugh.

Libby’s tribe pitched a couple of small tents on the narrow strips between the plots. They set up a brazier in the centre of the garden which later sent up showers of sparks into the darkening sky as the evening drew in.

Joe kept in the background, refusing to leave his precious potatoes. “Dear God, one of them’s got a guitar,” he said to the Colonel, adding, more loudly so that Libby would hear, “sing-song round the camp fire, is it? While you smoke a few joints?”

Libby walked over to him and said, quietly, “That’s James. He likes to keep his fingers supple. It’s how he earns his living.”

“What, busking?”

“Sort of. He plays piano in the city sinfonia, gives recitals around the country, and teaches guitar and piano to local secondary kids. He’s currently recording an album for a big record company. He’s a rising talent. He’ll probably serenade us with something relaxing, like Vivaldi’s Guitar Concerto.” For the second time that day the Colonel smiled, but not so that Joe would notice.

                                                                     *   *   *

The news went viral on social media within hours. A few local people gathered in the copse to try to catch a glimpse of the phenomenon. The presence of regular police patrols, and the lights and sounds from inside the garden, deterred any attempts at a break-in.

                By the next morning the traditional media had flocked into town. Photographers found that their usual step ladders were too short for them to see over the wall, and local tool hire companies soon ran out of longer ones. TV satellite trucks parked in the road, to the annoyance of nearby residents, and crews manoeuvred extendable boom cameras through the trees to peer into the garden. A couple of them flew drones above the trees and captured panoramic images of the whole garden, and close-ups of Joe, who had returned to the garden at the crack of dawn, standing defiantly by his potatoes. He aimed a hosepipe at one, but the water pressure wasn’t enough to reach the aerial observer. Pictures of Joe gesticulating angrily and squirting water into the air were soon appearing on TV screens around the world.

                The gardeners had left the overnight occupation to Libby’s tribe. She had returned about midnight and slept fitfully on her prayer mat in her shed. She later told Miles and Rebecca that when the drones appeared in the morning she was strongly tempted to leave the shed stark naked, and lie on her back among Joe’s potatoes. But as the tribe had a policy of keeping a low profile, and as such action might also cause irreparable damage to Joe’s heart, she had reluctantly decided not to provide the TV producers with an ethical dilemma. “Just in case they didn’t pixelate the image accurately,” she said. “Or, indeed, if the French or Italians didn’t pixelate it at all.”

                Colonel Jeffreys was in his element. He took charge. He demanded a proper police guard, and called his old friends at the Ministry of Defence to provide extra support. In a rare act of co-operation and co-ordination between several government departments, a group of soldiers from a military base about 50 miles away was deployed to deter trespassers and spies. One was always stationed, expressionless, in front of the door. Another was behind it, opening it when required for legitimate entrants. Others patrolled the perimeter. They were visibly armed.

                It didn’t stop the drones, nor the media scrum. Rebecca decided that it was unsafe for the children to go to see their chickens, and unwise for Miles, as the local vicar, to show his face. She was anonymous to the reporters, and could truthfully answer their questions as she pushed past them, by saying that her potatoes had been lifted before the outbreak, and she didn’t know why one patch was still thriving. She was careful not to take any potatoes from the store, however, in case they were spotted. That was one of the Colonel’s ideas. All the others did, and said, the same.

                By mid afternoon, the government scientists began to arrive. They had been booked into local hotels by staff in the Prime Minister’s office who, it was rumoured, was taking a strong personal interest in the crisis. But that was when the problems really began. Initially, they familiarised themselves with the layout of the allotments. Then they asked for keys so they could come in the next day without having to explain to the soldiers who they were, or bothering the tenants.

                Colonel Jeffreys dug his heels in, much to the surprise of Libby, Miles and Rebecca. To begin with, he refused to issue any keys at all. “Could get passed on,” he said. “Then we’ll have every Tom, Dick and Harry coming in.” When the scientists explained that they had government authority to examine the garden, he compromised. He would give them one key. But there were several groups of experts from different departments and universities. They were staying in different hotels and guest houses, and would need access at different times.

                He finally agreed to issue one per group, on condition that they paid and signed for them with their full contact details, and returned them when they left. The formalities were acceptable. The payment was not. No-one knew who they should bill, or who they should ask for authorisation to fork out ten non-returnable pounds (the Colonel had quietly added an administration fee to the price charged by a local key-cutter). Eventually, after a couple of hours of stalemate, representatives of each group agreed to pay the fee out of their own pockets and try to claim it back on expenses. “Should make them more careful with it,” the Colonel said. “Less likely to lose it if they’ve paid for it.”

                When the scientists asked for receipts, the Colonel, who understood bureaucracy, was ready. He had a standard receipt book and a rubber stamp that said “Holywell Allotments Trust” with the address of the church office.

                From then on, the scientists swarmed over the garden. They took soil samples from every square metre, and temperature, humidity and air quality samples every hour day and night. They snipped samples of crops and took scoops of the tenants’ compost heaps. They went to the farm that supplied regular trailer loads of manure, and tested that. They asked tenants to fill out complex questionnaires about when they planted what, how frequently they fed and watered their vegetables, and with what.

                None of the gardeners could remember such details, which annoyed the scientists. Joe annoyed them even more. “Not telling them my secret formula,” he declared. “They can go whistle for it. Else next thing you know it’ll be all over them gardening programmes.”

The Colonel hadn’t quite finished with his obstructiveness, either. The weather turned wet as soon as the scientists began work. They asked if they could set up gazebos to shelter them while they bagged and tested their samples. “No. No room,” he said. “The paths between the plots are too narrow. And I’m not having anyone trampling on people’s crops or compacting any bare patches of soil.”

But awkwardness breeds awkwardness. The following day the vicarage phone rang. It was the Colonel. “Got a problem, Vicar. We’re locked out of our own gardens. Chief boffin from some ministry or other says she’s applying for the garden to become a Site of Special Scientific Interest and only licensed people can be allowed in. Apparently being a tenant and having a key isn’t enough. We’ve got to have proper ID. The soldiers are taking their orders from her now. It’s preposterous.”

                Exactly what proper ID was hadn’t been specified, so Miles said, “Tell you what, Colonel, can you give me a list of the full names of all the tenants? I’ll get Moira in the church office – she’s in this morning – to knock out some cards. We’ve got badge holders to put them in. Then we give the soldiers and the scientists a list of names, and they can check them off against the badges whenever we go in. We can have them done by lunchtime. How’s that?”

                “Splendid, Vicar. Knew you’d come up with a solution.”

                Meanwhile, the rain continued to fall.

II. MONASTERY

That evening, Miles and Rebecca had some rare free time. “You ought to read this,” said Rebecca as they sat together on a sofa after the children were in bed. “Libby seemed to think it was important. I’ve skimmed it and it’s quite interesting.”

                “I hate church history. Never could get into it at college. All popes and politics. Never about ordinary people.”

                “She’s marked a few important bits. It won’t take long. She seemed very insistent. And it is about your parish.”

                Miles sighed. “Our parish. I’m tired. You read it for me.”

                “OK.” Rebecca opened the book, looked for the parts Libby had marked, and began reading aloud.

 

The Life and Legends of Holywell Monastery

By Sir Clarence Rathbone

Author’s Note

“Sir Clarence? He’s one of the patrons of the parish. Comes to church occasionally. He wasn’t on the interview panel but he did come to the bash after it. D’you remember him? Tall, gaunt, bit eccentric-looking. Property developer or something. History buff too, they say.”

                “There you are then. Another reason why we should read it.”

                “Why? So we’ve got something to talk about over sherry at the House?”

                “We’ve never been invited.”

                “People say he’s a bit of a recluse.”

There are several excellent printed guides to the history of the Rathbone family, Holywell House and its unique gardens and artefacts. However I am often asked for more information about the nearby Monastery which was endowed by one of my forebears, Lord George Rathbone, in the twelfth century. Of special interest are the strange, mystical stories of Abbott Theodore the True, the hermit Wulfrun the Wise, and their sister Winifred. They were the last key figures in the Monastery’s story before the Dissolution of the Monasteries ordered by King Henry VIII.

                “I remember the stuff about the Dissolution. Henry’s land grab under a cloak of religious reform.”

                “So you did pay attention in history lectures.”

“Barely. Anyway, I thought we were skipping background.”

“We are. Here’s a bit about Theodore.”

 
In the late 15^th and early 16^th century, Holywell Monastery was home to some 30 monks. It was not directly affiliated with any Order. Life at Holywell was relatively relaxed, which owed much to its last Abbott, the mystical Theodore the True. Today, we might describe it as “progressive” although the more strict orders at the time would have regarded it as decadent. However, there is no evidence that the Holywell monks were ill-disciplined, and they were much loved within the village.

The traditional eight services observed by many Orders through the day and night had been reduced to just three at 6.00 am, 12 noon, and 6.00 pm, and sometimes the midday service was skipped by monks working down in the village. “God’s work consists of everything we do, for one another and for the community,” Theodore wrote in the Order’s Rulebook. “Our times of worship provide a rhythm and focus for our whole lives. They should not become our whole lives. Our work in the fields and in the villages, and our ministry to travellers who come to us, is itself a form of worship and service to our Lord.”

Indeed, the monks spent as much time outside the Monastery as in it. Not a day passed when they were not assisting villagers in some practical ways, helping with harvest, tending animals, taking food to the poor and comforting the ill and dying. They carried with them an air of unhurried efficiency, a quiet confidence in the power and love of God of which theirs was but a pale and imperfect reflection.

In a further departure from traditional practice, the monks’ worship was conducted in English rather than in Latin. They had also acquired an early printed copy of William Tyndale’s English Bible. Many villagers came to hear it read on Sundays. Some of the monks were copying it by hand so that they could carry its message beyond the monastery walls.

“Sounds my kind of guy.”

“Not so bad after all, then, is it?”

“Thought he was a mystic or something?”

“We’re coming to that.” 

There are no verbatim records of Theodore’s sermons. However the account of Monastery life compiled by his sister Winifred contains many tales of his uncanny insights and foresights. Often he seemed to address directly people’s situations, anxieties or even sins, which were none the less unknown to him. For most of his listeners, he was merely illustrating his point or applying a biblical passage to everyday life. But to certain of them, his voice seemed also to be that of God dispensing advice, encouragement or rebuke.

Such was his accuracy that a few sceptical people claimed that he had spies in the village listening at windows. One even accused him of witchcraft because of his apparent ability to read people’s minds. However, Abbott Theodore was generally well-loved, and the village was a place of harmony and peace. Crime was almost unheard of and a spirit of co-operation was everywhere in evidence among the villagers in what were of course much harder times than those we experience today. 

 “Not sure about times not being so hard today.”

“True. Food poverty and that. There’s kids in Zeb’s class who don’t get fed properly at home.”

“We ought to think about setting up a breakfast club or something in the holidays. Except I’m not sure we’d get enough volunteers to staff it. Most people don’t believe the need exists or reckon that by turning up on Sunday they’ve fulfilled their spiritual duties.”

“Are you getting frustrated here already?”

“Disappointed, more. Too much complacency, not enough vision.”

“Maybe we’ll get a boost somehow. We’re here for a reason. Anyway, there’s a bit more about Theodore here.” 

Theodore was said to be especially gifted with foresight. Each morning when the monks gathered in the Chapter House after Matins he would brief the monks on their duties for the day. For many, who had specialist skills, these rarely varied. But an important part of monastic life in the Middle Ages was giving hospitality to travellers. Theodore would “know”, it is said, when people would arrive on any given day, even, sometimes, their names or their purpose and direction of travel.

So he would direct the monks to make appropriate preparations for their guests, if necessary abandoning their normal tasks to give additional help where required. Many a traveller is said to have been surprised, and disarmed, when greeted by the Prior or Almoner at the door as if they had been long expected – as indeed they had.

His openness of heart, generosity of spirit, and gentleness of nature made Abbott Theodore popular among the villagers. It was from this, and his remarkable gifts, which led to him being called Theodore the True. 

“Maybe the travellers had messengers galloping ahead to book a room.”

“It wasn’t that sophisticated then, surely? Do you think people can see into the future?”

“Elisha was supposed to use precognition. Probably just had informants.”

 “What about prophecy? And fortune tellers?”

“Biblical prophecy is mostly big, broad stuff. Fortune tellers use vague generalities and acute observation of body language. Stage magicians do it all the time.”

“And telepathy?”

“Don’t brothers or sisters sometimes sense things? You’re a medic.”

“Not a psychologist. Twins do sometimes, I think. Here, Libby’s marked something about the allotments.” 

Every Monday morning, Abbott Theodore led the monks into the vegetable garden, swinging a smoking thurible of incense. They processed round, rain or shine, chanting a liturgy which Theodore himself is said to have composed. Each time as they paused the Prior rang a handbell, and Theodore swung the thurible.

                At the entrance they prayed for all who would enter the garden to work the soil, that they might treat the land with love, and care for all that grew there. At the north wall they prayed for the protection of their crops against damage from storm, tempest, and pestilence. At the east wall they prayed for the seeds in the ground and the young plants, that they might not be damaged by frost and would grow strong and be fruitful. At the south wall, they gave thanks for the sun and the rain without which their crops would fail and they would starve. And at the west wall they gave thanks for all the bounties of God’s good earth, there in the garden and in the wider world.

When they completed their circuit they moved to a small depression in the garden which was not cultivated. Beside it they had erected a large crucifix. Here, they would bow their heads in silence to meditate on the mysteries of the natural and spiritual worlds. The prior’s bell would arouse them from their thoughts, and with a final swing of the thurible they would return to the monastery and their tasks for the day.  

                “Must be where Libby got the idea of that prayer we did.”

                “Bit like the old beating the bounds ceremonies. Interesting that Theodore did it on Mondays. The potatoes died on a Monday.”

                “Coincidence. Not getting superstitious, are you?”

                “Course not. But Libby’s pond is in a bit of a depression. Maybe it’s the same spot. Put her pole thing where the crucifix was. Stop interrupting. Here’s a bit about Wulfrun.” 

Wulfrun, who was Theodore’s twin brother, lived in the Hermitage which was situated about a mile from the Monastery. There he maintained a strict regime of prayer and tended the Monastery’s pigs, a field where barley was grown to brew the Monastery’s ale, and his own kitchen garden. Most days, his sister Winifred, who lived in the village, brought him supplies of things he could not grow or make for himself, usually leaving them in a hollow beneath a large oak tree near the gate to his fields.

                He had not always been a hermit. He had lived in the village for many years, working as an estate manager for Lord Rathbone. Wulfrun had raised four children, two sets of twins all of whom survived, which was unusual in days when childbirth was hazardous and many children died in infancy. When the children were adults, his wife died from an unspecified illness, and he went to live in the Hermitage.

Once a week he would walk to the monastery to join the monks at one of their services. Once a month, Theodore would lead a procession to the Hermitage which was often joined by villagers. Wulfrun would stand in the middle of the barley field, his hands stretched out to his sides, the palms facing upwards. The procession would pass slowly around the perimeter, Wulfrun turning so as always to be facing it. Then, after the final sound of the bell and puff of incense smoke, he would return to his cottage.

A steady stream of people would come to seek his counsel. Again, we have only general accounts. But it seems that his interviews often consisted of much listening and few words on his part. But his words were always choice and apposite, and his reputation for wisdom grew rapidly. His advice was said always to have accurate outcomes when it was put into practice by the petitioners. It was also said that he knew what concerned people even before they told him, and that he could predict events in the community. He soon earned the name Wulfrun the Wise.

Lord Rathbone, the Monastery’s benefactor, regularly sought Wulfrun’s counsel, and in return brought the hermit food, clothes, or wood for burning. No record exists of what passed between them. It is believed that he was a relative of Theodore, Wulfrun and Winifred, possibly a cousin. He also regularly rode to the monastery to attend services. His donation in the alms box kept by the monks for the benefit of poor villagers and travellers was always generous.  

                “Sir Clarence had to get that in about his ancestor’s philanthropy. Keep up the good family name. Bet life was hell for the villagers.”

                “Shut up. You can be so cynical, sometimes. There’s more about their mystical powers. And Winifred.” 

Whenever villagers were sick or in need Abbott Theodore ensured that he, Wulfrun his brother or Winifred his sister visited them. It is perhaps hardly surprising that stories began circulating about the mystical powers of the three siblings who were as much a part of local life as of the Monastery.

The three of them were said to be able to communicate with each other in ways that we would describe today as telepathic. While there are only a few recorded examples of this, it seems to have been an accepted fact among them that they were frequently “of one mind”. When one needed the other for any reason, they would simply do whatever was required.

One of the most outstanding examples was the day the village blacksmith’s house caught fire. Both Theodore and Wulfrun had already set out for the village, impelled by some inner motivation, while Winifred sat in the door of her cottage, alert, listening, as it were, for some call for her services. It was a hot day, there had been no rain for some time, and sparks from the smith’s forge ignited straw bales and tinder-dry wood. The fire quickly spread to the thatched cottage adjoining his workshop where his wife and four children were trapped.

Neighbours ran to fetch water from the stream but the blaze had taken a firm hold and the flames beat them back. When Theodore and Wulfrun arrived they both ran into the burning building, hitching up their monk’s robes. Each carried two spluttering children to safety and then returned to carry between them the blacksmith’s wife who by this time was unconscious. Laying her beside the shocked children outside, they joined Winifred in giving them water and medicines, and anointing them with holy oil. All the victims recovered, and the rescuers appeared to have been untouched by the heat and flames. More monks arrived and took the stricken family to Holywell Grange, the Monastery’s overflow hostel for lay brothers and visitors, where they were cared for. In the days to come the monks left many of their normal duties and helped to rebuild the smithy and cottage. 

“Do you believe that? Unscathed? Sounds a bit legendary. Think of the protective gear modern firefighters need.”

“Why shouldn’t we though? What about fire walkers? And there’s that story of Daniel in the furnace, isn’t there?

“His friends, not him personally. I’ve never known what to make of that. Could be metaphorical.”

“But that’s not the point here, is it? The point that Sir Clarence is making is that they were all in the right place at the right time – they knew ahead of time that they’d be needed and managed to do what others couldn’t. On to Winifred.” 

The story of Winifred is shrouded in even more mystery than that of her brothers. It is believed that she was one half of a set of twins, born a year or two after Theodore and Wulfrun, and that her twin died, possibly at birth or in infancy. What is certain is that unusually for the time she never married, and that she became so well educated that she took on the role of chronicler of the Monastery and her brothers’ activities. There were of course nunneries where some girls could be educated to a high standard, but there is no record of one having existed near Holywell. It has been suggested that she disguised herself as a boy in order to attend the monastic school; she herself was silent on the matter.

She was however quite open about her adult activities in the village and Monastery. Most Monasteries had a barber-surgeon, their equivalent of a doctor, but Holywell did not. Winifred seems to have adopted this role from a quite early age, progressing from giving the monks haircuts to preparing herbal remedies for their various ills. (A list of some of them has been compiled by my son Luke and is included as an appendix… 

“Of course! Luke Rathbone. Silly me! I didn’t make the connection. I married him a couple of weeks after we’d arrived. Bride – what was her name? – Cathy. Big do, obviously. Libby was there. Maid of honour. I recognised her from it when we took over the allotment soon after.”

“Interesting. Not the sort you’d imagine in her tribe.” 

 What is more remarkable is the assertion that Winifred herself was a kind of faith healer and also had a similar gift of precognition and perception as her brothers. When someone was sick in the village, or about to give birth, Winifred would arrive without being sent for and offer her assistance, even in the middle of the night. She was also reputed to have a mystical touch. Laying her hands on an affected person, it was said that they felt a strong heat and broken bones or dangerous illnesses were often quickly healed. 

Rebecca paused. “Gosh.”

“What?”

“What I felt when Libby grabbed our hands in the garden.”

“She was hot and sweaty. And you weren’t ill.”

“No. But it was weird. I felt something. A sort of – strength? Don’t laugh. There’s people who seem to heal today, aren’t there? I mean, you pray and lay hands on them if they’re in need, don’t you?”

“Symbolic gesture. No evidence about so-called faith healers being effective. Could be psychological though. Restores hope, which can have an invigorating effect. Are we nearly finished? It’s getting late.”

“Let’s see. There’s stories about Winifred’s midwifery and stuff. Then the monks were ordered out of the monastery. We can skip those. Here’s a longer bit, taken, it says, directly from Winifred’s account, in updated language. Libby’s marked it: ‘Make sure you read this.’” 

The monastery was empty now. The rooms and corridors echoed to the soft sound of Theodore’s sandalled feet as he walked through them one last time. All the other monks had left. Some had returned to their families. He might have hidden in Holywell House, but Theodore felt his presence there would be a needless burden to the kindly old Lord Rathbone. Besides, the soldiers would be sure to search the house if they found the Abbott was missing from the monastery.

                Of course, Winifred had offered to shelter him. There was indeed something attractive, comforting even, about the thought of retiring to the village, replacing his brown habit with the rough working clothes of village peasants, and returning to the land to raise crops and rear animals as he had as a young man. He could even, as a priest, hold secret services for the villagers who wished to continue their traditional ways.

But his presence with her would be a further risk. He could be betrayed by a frightened villager, and then she too might be summarily executed for harbouring him. She, along with Wulfrun’s children, were the guardians of their story, their work and their unique gifts. She must be allowed the time to prepare their brother’s offspring to protect and nurture those gifts, secretly for generations if necessary, until the time came when they were awakened again and the Monastery restored. When that would be, only their descendants would know.

“Our times are in His Hand”: the words rang loud in Theodore’s head. He knew the Voice. He was reassured that all would not be lost, that one day when the world had changed in unimaginable ways, a Wulfrun, perhaps, or a Theodore or a Winifred, or even all three, would walk these lanes and fields once more and be a channel of peace, love, truth and healing for troubled souls.

Besides, he had given over 30 years to this monastery. His calling was to lead a community of servants of the Lord. That community had been broken by the King’s edict. But no King could force Theodore to break his promise and deny his calling.

And what good would hiding do? He would end his days as a fugitive. That would be a betrayal of all that he believed. Did the Lord shrink from his Calvary? Did St Peter, whose feast was celebrated by the church on this very day, who Theodore had remembered in his dawn prayers, shrink from Nero’s murderous guards? Did he not in fact ask to be crucified upside down as he felt unworthy to suffer the same fate as his Master? This was not the time to shrink back. This was the time to stand firm. His life was here. His death would be here, too. 

“St Peter’s Day. The date I was ordained. June 29.”

“Last week. When Joe’s potatoes were rumbled.”

“So it was. Not an anniversary I celebrate. Ordination, I mean, not the discovery. Maybe I should.”

“So long as you remember our wedding anniversary, I don’t mind. Can I go on?” 

The Chapel was the last stop on his tour. There, he lit a large Advent candle, symbol of the coming of the Lord. It would burn for hours. The soldiers would see it. Maybe, before extinguishing it, some of them might be reminded, however fleetingly, of the eternal verities they were being forced to snuff out. Then he knelt for the last time at the altar. He needed no words, no Missal, not even the Our Father. He gazed forward, and knew the Presence was there.

He glimpsed an image of Wulfrun, enjoying the same sensation in his cottage, and another of Winifred, preparing for her daily errand to the Hermitage, pausing to look towards him in the Monastery. He clasped both to himself, and knew that they could feel him, as he could feel them.

Rising, he bowed to the altar, and burst into the ancient song of Simeon, bellowing into the empty building the last chant the timbered roof might ever hear. “Lord now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy Word, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people, to be a light to lighten the Gentiles, and to be the glory of Thy people Israel.”

He waited for the echoes to die away, turned and left the Chapel, closing the door and locking it behind him. The door was not stout. The soldiers could easily break it. But the least he could do was to hinder their inevitable desecration of the holy place. He took the key, and threw it into the cloister well, allegedly the holy well from which the House and Monastery were named.

Theodore walked to the edge of the Monastery fields, raised his hand and solemnly blessed them. Then he made his way to the walled vegetable garden, the place where, second only to the chapel, he felt most at home, most at peace. Here, the good Earth had never let him and his community down. Always it had brought forth the fruits and vegetables on which they had thrived.

He stood in the corner and surveyed the garden. To the whole, he pronounced the full prayer which every week had been repeated around each of the four walls. Then he walked to the small hollow that had always been there and the crucifix planted in it. Now there was nothing left to do but wait, to bask in the Presence which soon would become his entire Life.

The soldiers were not long in coming. He could hear them, split into small teams, searching the Monastery and surrounding fields. “Here!” one cried.

They dismounted at the door, its lintel too low for horse and rider to pass beneath. Theodore stood and faced them. They surrounded him, trampling on the vegetables as they did so. Their leader stepped forward and demanded his name.

“I am Theodore, Abbott of Holywell Monastery.”

“I have a warrant from the King demanding your lands.”

“I am alone and unarmed. I cannot stop you taking what is neither yours nor the King’s but God’s lands given for the good of all. Please take them if you must, and leave me in peace.”

“I also have a warrant for your arrest as a traitor to King and Country.”

“I owe allegiance to God alone.”

The soldiers surrounding him shifted uneasily. The leader demanded, “Do you renounce the faith of the Bishop of Rome and will you now follow the faith which Henry our King requires of all his subjects?”

“I own no allegiance to any bishop. Nor to any King who requires me to follow his religion rather than that of Our Lord, or his edicts that forbid me from following my faith.”

One of the other soldiers shouted, “Treason!”

The leader lowered his voice. “I have orders that if you do not recant the practices you have followed here and leave quietly, that I am to arrest you and take you for trial, or to execute you here.”

“Then execute me here. I will not leave this place.”

“As you wish.” The leader nodded to the soldier next to him, who drew his sword. Theodore held up his hand. “Would you slay an innocent priest who has faithfully served this community and brought nothing but peace and hope to people?”

“You’re an enemy of the King,” the soldier said.

“But I’m not your enemy, my friend. And no King or Pope can deny that by killing me in cold blood you will bring eternal damnation upon yourself. Would you so easily risk your soul?”

The soldier hesitated. Theodore continued, “Pray, give me your sword. I cannot harm you. And I would spare your soul if I can.” The soldier didn’t move. “Give me a sword. Any sword.”

One of the others threw his on the floor. Theodore picked it up. “See, here where the crucifix is. The ground is soft. Allow me to make my own grave.” He knelt, scooping the fine earth with his hands, and then placed the hilt of the sword into the hollow, packing soil around it to keep the weapon upright. The point was close to his chest.

“Father,” said one of the soldiers, “is this not a mortal sin too?”

“All my life I have sought to serve my Lord. He has never left me nor deserted me. I do not believe He will leave me now. By saving your soul, might I also not save mine?” He turned to the leader and asked, “A prayer, if I may?”

The leader nodded. “Quickly.”

Theodore stood, prayed one last time for God’s protection on the garden, then blessed the soldiers and prayed for their forgiveness and his own. He could hear some of them mutter, under their breaths, “Amen.”

He turned and faced the crucifix, spread out his arms, and crumpled onto the sword. 

                “Oh God. I’m sorry.” Rebecca put the book down and reached for a tissue. “That’s so sad.” She leaned against Miles, and tears trickled down her face. “So sad. And so noble.”

                “Cruel and needless.”

                They sat quietly together for a few minutes. “I don’t think I can read any more.”

                “Is there much left?

                “Not a lot. Libby’s marked two more bits. Wulfrun’s death. And a bit about Winifred and the Monastery artefacts.”

                Miles took the book. “Better finish it. In case we’re examined on it. I’ll read it.” 

Wulfrun closed his Missal and pulled himself up from his knees. Then he sat on a hard wooden chair, and spread out his hands in wordless prayer and meditation. The silence of the Hermitage was palpable. He could feel it like a presence. It was a Presence. The Presence. The Ineffable, the Infinite, the Inexpressible, the Near and the Far. The Warm Glow of Love and the Cool Breeze of Justice.

He stayed there for time without measure, his mind still, yet filled by the familiar awareness, that unspoken Knowledge and unarticulated Wisdom. Alongside him, fleetingly, he could feel the spirits of his brother and sister, and he embraced their presence. He remembered his children, too, safe in the village. They had been taught to keep their own counsel, to live as others lived, their only task to pass on to their offspring in the privacy of their homes the story of Theodore, Wulfrun and WInifred, and to await the time when their powers would awaken and the Monastery be re-established in some other form, to serve another community. He knew they would be faithful to the task.

                Eventually, he stood up, slowly. His old knees creaked in protest at the addition of his body weight on his calloused joints. As he took a step forward, a sudden pain seared through him, beginning in his side and spreading across his chest. He sat down again quickly. The pain was sharp, unrelenting. He felt beneath his pounding heart, and the flesh was burning hot, hot as a fire, searing through his linen habit.

He struggled to breathe. He screwed up his eyes, shutting them tight. The Presence had fled. The Silence was replaced by a cacophony of psychic noise, thoughts too swift to capture, like a rabble on the rampage. It was followed by a kaleidoscope of lights and flashes and images racing across his head like galloping horses, too fast to be seen except as shapes in a blur of dust.

After a few minutes the pain eased. The noise quietened. The lights grew dim and faded into blackness. Tentatively, Wulfrun opened his eyes. He blinked in the bright sunlight streaming through his window. A thrush alighted on the sill, and sang a lonesome song. The Presence returned in a warm, lingering embrace.

Wulfrun knew. Theodore had just died by the sword. He made the sign of the cross and stood up. Now was not the time to mourn his brother. Now was the time to prepare himself to follow him on the final journey. He left the Hermitage, walked around the field to the gate and the great oak beside it. There he found some bread and cheese left there by Winifred.

He went back to the little house, stopping in his vegetable garden to pull up a thin onion. It would be enough. He sat at his table, facing the open door. He raised the loaf in both hands, high above his head, and uttered the words he knew by heart but which ecclesiastical law forbade him, a layman, to utter. But ecclesiastical law didn’t matter now. What mattered was Reality. What mattered was The Presence. “This is my body, which is broken for thee. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for Thee, and feed on Him in thy heart by faith with thanksgiving.”

He lowered the loaf and pulled a chunk from it, chewing it slowly for several minutes. Then he lifted his flagon of ale – he had no wine, but he assumed God understood that it was the best he could offer – and spoke aloud again. “This is the new covenant in My Blood which is shed for thee. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s Blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.”

He took a mouthful and lowered the flagon to the table. Wulfrun focused his mind on the liquid, cold at first yet with a strangely warming effect, as it sank into his inner being. After a few more minutes, he peeled the onion, and ate it with some bread and cheese, washing it down with more ale.

Refreshed, he left the house, and closed the door behind him. Winifred would come and clear away his meagre belongings, and finish the bread, cheese and ale. In the distance he could hear the soldiers, the trotting hooves of their horses, the jangling of their armour.

Wulfrun went first to the pigs’ enclosure. They grunted and ran to him. He patted them, speaking softly to each one. They fell silent and watched as he turned away and walked calmly into the barley field. He prayed it would be villagers, not the King’s men, who ate the pigs and harvested the barley. He stood in the centre of the field. Facing the gate, he looked towards heaven, stretched his hands out from his sides, the palms turned upwards, and waited.

The posse of horsemen rode in, trampled the barley and circled the lone figure. Unseen, huddled in the hollow base of the oak to which she had returned, Winifred crouched, too frightened yet also too proud to flee. She could not abandon him now. She extended her hands in supplication and relinquishment as far as the confines of the tree allowed. As the soldiers dismounted and moved closer to Wulfrun, she withdrew her hands and made the sign of the cross in the air. Then she bowed her head, averting her gaze, to grant her brother the privacy in death that he had sought in life.  

                Rebecca reached for a second tissue. “Powerful, isn’t it?”

                “Tragic. Sad. Senseless. It’s always the innocent who suffer most.”

                They sat in silence again for a few minutes.

                “She’s marked one last bit,” Rebecca said. “I saw it when I skimmed through. About Winifred.”

                Miles flicked over some pages.  

There are conflicting reports as to what happened to the contents of Holywell monastery after the dissolution and the deaths of Theodore the True and Wulfrun the Wise. It is generally assumed that Henry’s soldiers plundered the treasures for the public coffers. They may also have divided some between themselves to supplement their pay. Others were left for those to whom Henry bequeathed properties and lands as a reward for services rendered to him.

However Winifred’s rather cryptic, and at this point sparse record suggests that she took some trusted villagers, together with Wulfrun’s children, to both the Monastery and the Hermitage in order to remove some of the artefacts for safe keeping. Winifred does reveal that she had keys to both buildings (although it appears that the Hermitage was rarely if ever locked). Given the close relationship between the three siblings it is certainly not unreasonable to conjecture that she took away some items of personal interest or value, perhaps leaving some at Holywell House for the sympathetic Lord Rathbone to hide in plain sight among his own possessions.

Winifred lived on for some years, continuing her healing and charitable work among the villagers. When she died she was buried in the monastery churchyard alongside her three siblings. She had arranged for a headstone to be erected, which has long since been lost. The inscription was to be “We sleep now, and our gifts and work sleep with us. Until the day when they awaken in fresh bodies.” 

                “They all said something like that. What’s it mean?”

                “I don’t know. Sounds a bit re-incarnational to me. Anyway, what’s it all got to do with us? Why did Libby want us to read it?”

                “Maybe we should ask her. She’ll come tomorrow.”

                Miles stared at his wife. “Why, did she say she would?”

                Rebecca seemed confused. “I don’t know. I suppose she must have.”

                                                                      *   *   *

The next morning Rebecca wasn’t working at the surgery and Miles was with Moira dealing with admin in the office attached to the vicarage. The doorbell rang. Rebecca answered it.

Libby was still in her gardening clothes. “Sorry to barge in. Any chance of a cup of tea? I’ve just had a run-in with the scientists.” Miles wondered why she hadn’t gone home for a cup of tea. He left Moira and joined the two women in the kitchen, taking the book with him and laying it on the table.

“Oh. They’re so difficult,” Libby continued. “That chief woman! She’s so officious. D’you know what they’re doing now? Making us walk through a trough of disinfectant when we go in. Like we had foot and mouth or something. I said no way. I’m wearing trainers for goodness sake. I’m not spoiling them in a mucky puddle, disinfectant or not. My wellies are in my shed. If you want me to splash in that gunge then go and fetch my wellies and I’ll change into them here. So she just walked away and I went over to my plot. But after that I didn’t feel like doing much. Just collected a few bits. And then she wanted to snip bits off them to test them. She’s so butch. I’m sorry but I can’t stop thinking of her as a major in the Russian army. She’s got an Eastern European accent too, which doesn’t help.”

“Have they found anything worth knowing yet?” Rebecca asked.

“Of course not. They never will.”

“Why ‘of course’?” asked Miles. “There’s got to be some reason for the disaster. And why the allotments seem to have escaped it.”

Libby rounded on him. “Why, Miles? Why must there always be a reason? Why has everything got to have an explanation? Why can’t there be mysteries? Why can’t things just be? You’re a man of faith, for goodness sake. Surely you’ve not sold out to pure rationalism? Come on, man! Wouldn’t you say God is bigger than reason, beyond definition, above explanation? Well then, there’s some things that may be reasonable yet still beyond reason. And even if they did find out how all this has happened, they’d never be able to say why. How and why aren’t the same.”

She paused as Rebecca put a mug of tea in front of her. “Sorry, guys. I don’t usually get annoyed. And I’m trying really hard not to say it’s all Joe’s fault. If he’d just been sensible, we could have avoided all this hassle. Why do people have to be so obstinate? This wasn’t meant to be an excuse for indulgence.”

Miles looked at her quizzically. “Meant to be? You’ve said that before.” Libby again shook her head but said nothing. Covering the silence that followed, Miles added, “Joe’s probably a bit embarrassed about it himself, now. He’s keeping out of everyone’s way.”

“Then let’s hope when this is all over he shares the spoils of his obstinacy with us as compensation for the hassle,” Libby said as she gulped the hot liquid. “Although on second thoughts, I doubt even the chemists will find out what he feeds his veg on. And I’m not sure I want to know. Or consume it.” She managed a weak smile and put the mug down. “And to be fair, there could be a reason, sort of, for what’s going on. But not one they’d understand. And not one I can explain yet. Skimmed the book, then?”

Miles and Rebecca both nodded. “It’s thought-provoking, moving too,” Rebecca said. Silence fell between them for some minutes. They were comfortable in each others’ presence. “It was like we were caught up in some contemplative trance, almost,” Rebecca said to Miles after Libby had gone. “A feeling that time was standing still. That all of time was somehow focused in that moment.”

                The sun outside broke through the cloud, the first time after several days of almost constant rain. The kitchen felt more vibrant, and the colours in it looked more vivid. The sound of bird song drifted through the open window. Libby picked up the book. “I need to tell you something. Make a confession, reverend sir.” She smiled at Miles. “You may have guessed already. If you haven’t, you’ll think you had.”

                “Guessed what?” asked Rebecca.

                Libby put her mug down. “Only the members of my tribe know this. And please don’t share it with anyone. Not even the children for the time being at least.”

                “You can trust us, Libby,” Rebecca assured her.

                “I don’t doubt your trust, Becky. But I need to tell you – I’ve got no choice. I can’t explain it now. I’m just not sure where it’ll lead.” She drew herself up straight. “So. You need to know that I’m the direct descendant of Wulfrun the Wise. And therefore also the very close genetic relative of Theodore the True, and Winifred their sister.” She took a deep breath. “And that, my friends, is just the beginning.”

                “Of?” Miles regretted the question the moment it left his lips. Libby ignored it.

                “We’d like you to join us on Friday for a feast at our place,” Libby continued. “Meet the tribe properly. You’ll learn more then.”

                “Miles?” Rebecca asked.

  Her husband grunted. “Usually I’m out Friday nights. But the meeting’s been cancelled.”

  “Now there’s a coincidence!” There was a touch of sarcasm in Libby’s voice.

  “I’ll have to see if Moira can babysit,” Rebecca said cautiously. “She usually likes Fridays in.”

  Libby smiled. “I’m sure she’ll oblige. Informal dress, by the way.”

                “She’s sure of a lot of things,” Rebecca said when Libby had left.

                “So what d’you reckon? Bean burgers or nut cutlets?” asked Miles.

  “With nettle soup for starters and a dandelion side salad?”

 III. REVELATION              

The address Libby had given them was in a narrow private road Miles had never ventured down before. The surface was broken and rough. He drove slowly. Most of the large houses had security gates. The people who lived here were obviously secretive, separate from the rest of the community. “Bit incongruous,” he muttered, “living among the rich, the great and the – possibly – good. Last on the left, she said.”

                The house, partially hidden from the road by a thick shrubbery, was ungated. Miles edged the car into a sweeping gravel drive. Several vehicles were parked there and down the side of the building. Two were fully electric, plugged in to charging points. The others appeared to be hybrids. The Georgian-looking building was double-fronted and had three floors. Ivy was growing up and around one corner. There was a small plaque by the doorbell: Holywell Grange.

                The door was opened by a woman of similar build, age and colouring to Libby, but who was also clearly pregnant. “Welcome!” she said. “I’m Cathy.” They shook hands and found themselves in a spacious wood-panelled hallway with a wide sweeping staircase leading off it. A grandfather clock ticked ponderously near the stairs. Down the hall a large bell hung from a bracket. “Cloakroom’s just on your right there by the front door if you need it. Libby’s helping with the meal. Come and relax in the lounge.”

                She showed them into a door on the left. It had a similar brown plaque with neat white lettering to the one on the front door: Parlour. Even though it was warm outside there was a wood fire burning in the grate. Around the room were well-worn sofas and chairs, and modern beanbags. A flat-screen TV was in the corner, along with a CD player. A young man sat at a grand piano near the window, playing quietly. Another lounged in a chair, reading. Both waved their arms in silent greeting.

“We’ll do proper introductions later,” Cathy said. “Drinks?” She opened a cabinet with a selection of wines, spirits and soft drinks. “Beers and white wine in the fridge below.”

                “Gosh,” said Miles, trying to choose. “Not what I expected.”

                “Nothing in this place is what you’d expect,” murmured the man in the chair, without looking up. “The Abbess delights in surprising people. Even surprises herself, sometimes.”

                “That’s Luke,” Cathy said. “My other half. Master of dry observations.”

                “Of course!” exclaimed Miles. “I’m sorry. Yours was my first wedding here. A couple of weeks after I’d arrived. People always look different in their wedding clothes.”

                “And I wasn’t pregnant and we haven’t been back to church yet! So sorry from us, too.”

                After a few minutes someone rang the bell in the hall and Cathy ushered them across to a wood-panelled dining room labelled Refectory. It was longer than the lounge, with windows to both the front and the side and another door at the rear.

A huge grey-brown wooden table with thick legs ran down the centre and a matching four-sectioned dresser stood against the far wall. Ten high-backed chairs with thin cushions surrounded the table, which was laid with silver cutlery and earthenware goblets. Three small vases of cut flowers decorated it. Tribe members, all of a similar age, filed in. Two of the men were slightly overweight and dressed identically in red trousers and Caribbean-style shirts. Miles and Rebecca were given seats opposite each other in the centre of the table so that each was flanked by tribe members.

Libby, wearing a cream knee-length dress, arrived with another woman, each carrying a tray of starters, and handed them round.

“Our revered Abbess is looking cool tonight,” said Luke. “Must be a special occasion,” he whispered to Miles who was sitting next to him.

Libby gave a shallow curtsey and then cuffed Luke’s head. “I have to do penance for the starter,” she announced. “It’s my one indulgence. My one exception to the principle of eating local stuff as far as possible. I just love melon.”

The tribe banged the table and chanted in unison, “Hyp-o-crite! Hyp-o-crite!”

She ignored them as she sat down at the head of the table. “Welcome to Miles and Rebecca.” More table banging. “Before we eat together…”

“We’re hungry,” one of the gaudily-dressed men complained. “Get on with it.”

“Behave, you. Before we eat together we must cease to be strangers and become friends. So – they’ll forgive you if you don’t remember all the names at once.”

“Only up to the main course,” said Luke, as he stood to dispense wine and fruit juices from the selection on the dresser.

 “You’ve met Cathy – she’s a commercial artist and illustrator – and Luke. They have a flat in town by the way, but stay here sometimes. James, our musician. Charles, our electrician and handyman. Timothy and Thomas.”

The two identically dressed men stood and bowed. “Tweedledum,” said one. “Tweedledee,” said the other, and then together, “at your service, good gentlefolk.”

Libby continued. “Don’t worry, they’re perfectly harmless. They’re secondary school teachers.”

“Which is what has made us go quite mad,” said Timothy. Or Thomas. Miles was already confused.

“Au contraire,” said the other. “We are mad, therefore we teach.”

“Thank you, boys. Then finally there’s Megan who’s an accountant.” Libby indicated the woman who’d helped serve. “She’s tonight’s head chef.” More table banging. “And now, we have a custom – not just because you’re here, Miles – to pause before we eat, to remember our good fortune. I know it’s courtesy to ask the visiting priest to say grace but if you don’t mind we do it in our traditional way for feasts.”

                Everyone stood and joined hands. After a moment’s silence the tribe began singing as one. It started like monastic plainsong but developed into four-part harmony. Neither Miles nor Rebecca could make out the words. The music slowly faded into silence, and they all sat down.

                “That was lovely,” Rebecca began, but everyone had started eating and she guessed she wasn’t meant to ask about it. There was a continuous babble of banter. Comments and questions from Miles and Rebecca were met with responses from several of the tribe. Everyone seemed to be listening, and talking, to everyone else.

Timothy and Thomas got up without being asked to clear away the starters and, along with Megan, brought in the main course. During the break, Rebecca leaned across to Miles, “Have you noticed anything unusual?” Miles looked puzzled. Libby overheard.

“Hog roast!” Libby announced, uncovering a plate heaped with carved meat. The tribe cheered, banged the table, and passed round the meat and bowls of steaming vegetables and potatoes. Luke refilled goblets. “Well, Miles,” she said as they ate. “Be honest. You were expecting bean burgers, weren’t you? Or was it nut cutlets? Sorry to disappoint you. Anyway, have you noticed what Becky has?”

He shrugged. “I admit defeat. On both counts.”

“Enlighten him, Becky.”

“I’m not sure, exactly. Obviously Timothy and Thomas are twins. But – some of you are also related, perhaps?”

“Give the lady an extra slice of pig!” exclaimed Luke. “And pass the reverend gentleman an extra carrot to improve his eyesight.”

“We’re all related,” explained Libby. “Which is why we’re a tribe. Cathy’s my twin sister. Timothy and Thomas are, as you say, twins but also my and Cathy’s kid brothers. James and Charles are our first cousins, and also twins, although you wouldn’t know it.”

“Chalk and cheese,” said Charles. “I’m cheese because I’m mature. He’s chalk because he’s the one among us most likely to make his mark in the world.”

“James has just landed a big recording contract,” Libby explained. “And last but by no means least, Megan is Luke’s twin sister. Offspring of Sir Clarence, descendants of Lord George – and if you really have read that book then you’ll know there was – is – a family link between the Rathbones and the Harding clan descended from Wulfrun.”

“Rather weak now, though,” Luke added. “Probably about one per cent of shared genes, in case you were wondering about rules of consanguinity and the marriage of cousins and all that. I seem to remember that we omitted to mention that when you asked if anyone knew cause or just impediment why we should not be joined together in holy matrimony. Apologies for the oversight, but it might have complicated things.”

“I’ve heard of twins running in families,” said Rebecca. “But so many?”

“The odds against it must be very high,” mused Miles.

                “Miles!” Libby put down her knife and fork.

“Uh oh,” said Luke. “Tick-off coming. Take cover.”

“We don’t do odds. Chance isn’t in our vocabulary. Nor is coincidence. Destiny is, though. And destiny is something beyond explanations or theories of cause and effect. So, our monastic forebears were twins. And for almost five hundred years since their time our families have passed down the stories about them along with the belief that somehow our destiny was to continue, or perhaps revive, their work in some unspecified way when the time was, well, revealed – it’s the only word I can use. So when thirty years ago, give or take a couple either way, there was an explosion, an epidemic, almost, of twins in our families, our parents wondered if this was the time, or if we were the generation. So when we became adults, we made a tentative move by living together, setting this place up.  Sorry, don’t mean to lecture you.”

                “She does, of course,” whispered Luke. “Never stops. What’s for pudding?” It was meringue shells with fresh fruit and cream. The buzz of conversation resumed. After the meal, as they drank coffee, Libby pushed her chair back. “Now guys, we don’t always feast like this.”

“Starvation rations usually. Cabbage soup and dandelion salad. It’s why I’m so thin,” quipped Luke.

“Don’t listen to him. Actually, we like any excuse. This time there’s two. One, to celebrate Cathy having got two-thirds the way through her pregnancy. Only three months to go!” The tribe banged the table; Cathy attempted a royal wave. “Secondly, Miles and Becky, we’re of one mind to invite you – and your children – into closer links with our tribe.” More table banging. “However, we do have a small favour to ask.”

                “No free lunches,” muttered Luke.

                “Shut up you. They can say no. But first, Becky, we have a small gift for you.”

                Thomas rose from the table and took a roll of thick paper from a drawer in the dresser. It was tied with red ribbon, like a graduation certificate. He marched solemnly round the table bearing it in both hands, and bowed as he offered it to Rebecca. “My lady, I believe the name ‘Beecham’ is familiar to you?”

                She took the scroll and undid the bow. “My maiden name. Why?” She unfurled the paper and saw on it a family tree.

                “My lady, as you will see … ”

                “Keep it short, Thomas,” Libby interjected.

                “Not only is he a teacher, he’s a historian,” Luke said to Miles. “Never uses a hundred words when a thousand will do.”

                “History, proper history, is a matter of patient investigation and precise documentation. It is the science of discovery not the fog of speculation. Now, dear lady, if you will kindly notice here – ” he jabbed a stubby finger on the paper – “you will perceive that your family is descended from the noble Beauchamp family originally of Warwickshire in the thirteenth century. And if you will look – ”

                “Let her see for herself,” said Libby. “Becky – look for familiar names.”

                “Is this a test?” Rebecca asked. “I freeze in exams.” She scanned the page; there were many names. “Oh. There’s a Rathbone.”

                The inevitable table banging erupted again. “And that makes you auntie to me and Megan,” Luke announced. “Or cousin. About a hundred times removed.”

                “There’s another, dear lady,” Thomas added.

                Rebecca ran her finger slowly across the lines, stopping two-thirds of the way down. “Harding?”

                This time there was a cheer as well as the drumming. “Well done,” Libby said. “Which makes you auntie or cousin or something to the rest of us. I felt the connection the first time I met you in the allotments. So we’re not so much inviting you into the family, as welcoming you back!”

                “A toast, I think,” Thomas said as he went back to his place. “To the noble lady and her reverend husband.” They all rose and chinked goblets.

                “Don’t worry,” Luke told Miles. “You’re not left out. Marriage is like glue. Come to think of it, you said that yourself at our wedding. It means you’re stuck with us.”

                “In fact,” Thomas added, “you only have to go back about six generations before you find that everyone is related to someone who is related to someone else … ”

                “And so on back to the Domesday Book,” Libby interrupted.

                “And beyond. I shall investigate on your behalf, reverend sir.”

                “He will, too. Thank you, Thomas. Now, Becky, bearing in mind your new-found status we do have a small practical request. We’d appreciate it if you could, kind of keep a maternal eye on us?”

                She faltered, and Cathy took over. “The fact is, we’re all orphans now. Except Luke and Megan – their dad’s still with us. We’ve got friends, of course, but as you’ve realised we’re very close-knit. And we don’t have anyone a bit older, a bit more distant, objective, as it were, to well, lean on, talk to, bounce things off. A shoulder to cry on, even. Especially as the birth draws closer. We’ve not had babies here before. You’ve had them. You know what to do.”

                Rebecca jumped in. “I can’t act unofficially…”

                “We know that. Don’t worry. We’re all properly registered with doctors and so on. It’s the in-between stuff. What they don’t tell you. And Libby especially will need help when the babies are born.”

                Rebecca looked quizzically at the two women. “Babies?”

                “Didn’t we say?” replied Libby. “She’s expecting twins. What did you expect? As for me – you’ve heard of sympathetic pain? I had morning sickness – not as bad as Cathy – for the first couple of months. In some ways we’re very different but emotionally, spiritually as it were, we’re very, very close. Often we feel each other’s pain, know each others’ thoughts. And I won’t have the benefit of an epidural if I need it.”

                James, who had been quiet for most of the meal, broke in. “We promise we won’t call you mummy, though, auntie.” They all collapsed with laughter.

“So, Miles,” Libby continued. “That makes you a kind of father, brother, uncle, cousin or goodness knows what-in-law. Which is great but what we really need is a sort of chaplain. You know, spiritual director, teacher, keeping us on the right path, holding us back if we’re, like, too ahead of ourselves, or giving us a shove if we’re too reticent. Timothy’s been our main sounding board up to now – he teaches RE and such like – but in the current circumstances, we need you to guide us.”

                He looked and felt surprised. “Yes, but I mean … I don’t know much about, you know … meditation and all that.”

                Libby uttered a cry of exasperation, half rose from her chair, pulled the thin cushion from under her, and threw it at Miles’ head. He batted it away behind him. “You really infuriate me sometimes,” she cried. “You’re as bad as Joe Wilkins. Making assumptions, jumping to conclusions. You’re supposed to be a priest for everyone yet you so easily buy in to thoughtless stereotypes.”

                “That means she really likes you and welcomes you into the family,” said Luke. Turning to Libby he added, “Time for the tour, perhaps?”

                “Good thinking, that man,” said Libby, sitting down. “Time for the tour. Who’s on washing up?” Charles and James raised their hands. “Right. Get on with it. The rest of you get lost. You two, come with me.”

                She took Miles and Rebecca down the hallway. Next to the lounge was a door marked Chapter House. Three walls were book-lined, the fourth had patio doors opening onto the rear garden. There were two workstations with computers in the middle of the room. Beyond that was the kitchen, labelled Bakehouse, with a double-sized gas cooker, twin sinks, upright fridge and working area. Off it – she opened the door briefly – was a walk-in larder marked Cellarium. Everything was spotlessly clean.

                From there they went through a utility room labelled Laundry – washing machine, dryer, dishwasher which Charles and James were filling, large chest freezer – and out onto a patio labelled Cloister. Purple wisteria was growing over a wooden frame, partially enclosing the paved area. From this four broad, curved steps led down to a large garden. A lawn, colourful flowerbeds and a substantial pond with a fountain formed the nearest part. They sauntered along a gravel path that wound, like a meandering stream, through the lawn and flowerbeds. At the end was another wooden frame across the full width of the garden, covered with pink climbing roses. An archway in it led into a vegetable, herb and soft fruit area.

“See anything familiar?” Libby asked. She hardly needed to ask. To their left were several rows of potatoes. “I don’t usually grow them here. But this year I just knew” – she paused and looked at them – “I just knew I’d need more. Mostly main crop,” she added, “and I bet they’ll be as good as Joe’s. Only we’re eating them, not showing them.”

Miles couldn’t contain his surprise. “So they grow here too? You’ve never said.”

“You saw the name of the house when you came in? The grange was part of the Monastery,” Libby explained. “It was, in all probability, where the family grew up too, where Winifred, Theodore and Wulfrun spent their early years. Not this house, of course, but this is Holywell land. It’s been in our family for centuries.”

As if that explains anything, Miles thought. It only adds to the questions. He summoned up the courage to ask her why she had thought she would need more potatoes. “If you mean did I see the disaster coming, then no I didn’t, not consciously anyway. Knowing what to do isn’t the same as understanding why it’s important. Besides it’s a one-off. I won’t need to do it on this scale next year. Everything will return to normal. The scientists will be none the wiser and in a year or two it’ll be forgotten.” Miles was about to speak but Rebecca nudged him hard and he kept quiet. “Now – downstairs.”

                As they made their way back into the house they noticed solar panels on the south-facing rear roof. There were basement windows half-hidden in recesses below ground, facing the garden. Libby took them in and though a door under the main staircase. Lights came on automatically as they descended. There was a central passageway with a door on either side. 

                She opened the one marked Gymnasium and turned on the lights. The room stretched the full depth of the house. Dim natural daylight entered through the basement window. It contained a snooker table, table-tennis table and darts board. Two exercise bikes and a treadmill were tucked into corners, as were several exercise mats. Miles and Rebecca looked at each other but neither could find anything to say.

                The door across the passageway was marked Chapel. As they entered, soft, subdued lights came on automatically. They caught a faint smell of incense and the sound of running water. The room was smaller than the gymnasium, and without any natural light. There was a faint hum from an air conditioner. Miles looked around, and gasped. Rebecca instinctively caught hold of his hand.

Libby went and sat opposite them on one of the upholstered chairs that lined the two long sides, beside an electric piano and CD player on a stand. “Take your time,” she said quietly. “Look around. There’s no hurry.”

The floor was covered with a soft green carpet. The ceiling was pale blue, with uplighters on the walls making it glow warmly like early morning sky on a summer’s day. The two longest walls and the rear wall were a single mural. The door they had entered was painted to resemble the mouth of a cave in a limestone cliff. Stretching away towards the back of the chapel was a wooded hillside bisected by a tumbling waterfall. An indoor water feature on a low plinth gave the impression of a pool at the foot of the fall, and provided the sound of real water. There was a broad ledge with candles surrounding it. Foxes and squirrels were painted among the trees, and birds in the branches.

Along the rear wall the woodland gave way to meadows with grazing animals, and on the long wall opposite them, where Libby was sitting, there were fields of crops running up to a line of pale hills in the distance. To the left was a village, to the right a monastery and church. and close by it a small cottage. The smoke from village chimneys rose above the scene and drifted faintly across the skyline. Into the wispy smoke a Bible text was written in neat calligraphy.

 

Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation. Habakkuk 3:17-18.  

Miles looked at Libby who remained expressionless. He could think, at that moment, only of the failed potato crops, and those still growing. He pointed to the church. “Holywell monastery?” She nodded. “And the cottage by itself?”

“The Hermitage. Also known as the Vicarage.” She paused to let the words sink in. “Your house is built on the site. The fields you look over were those Wulfrun tended. Monastery land. Like the allotments. Like here.”

“Does that also explain why we’ve got potatoes in our garden – which presumably you planted?”

“Sorry. Yes. When you weren’t looking. When I sensed that I needed to plant some here at The Grange I thought it might be an idea to put some there too. Just to see what happened. I also put in a couple up at Holywell House where no-one was likely to spot them. They’ve grown too.”

Turning to the front, Miles saw a simple wooden table. On it was an embroidered cloth, a vase of flowers, a brass cross with its left arm bent as if it had been dropped and damaged, and a large old King James Bible on a stand. A single modern sheet, handwritten in the same calligraphy as the wall text, had been placed on the Bible’s open pages. Miles dropped Rebecca’s hand and went to read it.  

Text for the week.

I am the Lord: That is my name: and my glory I will not give to another, neither my praise to graven images. Behold, the former things are come to pass, and new things do I declare: before they spring forth I tell you of them. Isaiah 42:8-9 

                “Libby,” he started. “We owe you an …”  He stopped as their host put her finger to her lips and pointed to the wall above the table. Fixed to it was a medieval painting in three sections, a triptych. Miles and Rebecca moved behind the table for a closer look. The first panel depicted people working in the fields, surrounded by sheaves of corn, and various animals, vegetables and fruits.

The central panel showed scenes from the Gospels. Jesus teaching, feeding the crowds, walking on water and stilling the storm. A little girl being raised from the dead. On the right was Christ in heaven, surrounded by angels, with light, flames and doves streaming down from them and embracing a line of people at the bottom who were kneeling and looking up in worship. “Pentecost,” Miles muttered. “Gifts raining down on the disciples.”

They stared at it for a while, taking in the detail. “It’s very old,” said Rebecca.

“From the monastery,” Libby replied. “Winifred rescued it and the cross before the soldiers ransacked the place. She had a key. She dropped the cross – hence the dent. But you’re missing something.” They looked back at the triptych, then to her. “Left hand panel. Bottom.”

“Someone digging? Potatoes?”

“We know that this triptych had been in the monastery well before the Dissolution. Say it was there by 1520 – it could be much older, to judge from the style. Do you know when potatoes were first brought to England?” Miles and Rebecca looked blank. Libby smiled. “Good job Thomas isn’t here! They arrived in the 1580s. So the monks who painted this had never heard of them or seen them, let alone grown them. Winifred seems to have been puzzled by them. She called them earth apples. Scholars who’ve examined it thought they might have been truffles, which were rare at the time – there’s pigs nearby, look, that snuffle them out – but truffles grow under trees and don’t have foliage above ground. And, in case your scepticism is kicking in, it’s been examined by art experts and it’s definitely not been altered at a later date.”

Libby stood up. “So, my friends, you can perhaps begin to see why I and my tribe have more than a passing interest in current events. Monastic soil preserves something that’s failed elsewhere and which although unknown to our predecessors was, somehow, known, to them.”

“And the text?” Miles asked, pointing to wall.

“It was written at the front of Theodore’s Rule for the Order. Cathy painted the mural and inserted the text at the time, not knowing – none of us did – that again there might be a connection with events. Now there’s one more thing you should see.” She took a key from under the cross and opened a door to the side of the table which Miles had assumed was a vestry or store. The window looking on to the garden was curtained. Another air conditioner hummed. The room contained only a bench and a large wooden box. “If you want to touch, you must use these”. She indicated a pair of cotton gloves beside the box. She lifted the lid of the box. Inside were loose leaves of ancient manuscripts.

“That’s English?” Miles said more to himself than the others. “The Bible?”

“The monks’ copy of Tyndale’s Bible – or at least as much as Winifred could get out.”

“Libby – this is priceless!”

“It’s a family heirloom, Miles. It’s not for sale, or exhibition, and the fewer people who know of its existence the better. We’re its custodians, and for us it’s a symbol – as are the triptych and the cross – of who we are, where we’ve come from, and, maybe what we’re here for.” She led them back into the chapel. “Let’s sit down. Questions?”

Miles and Rebecca looked at each other. Libby drew her chair round so that she sat facing them. “Lots, I guess,” Rebecca started. “Why didn’t you tell us about – this – before?” She waved her arm around the chapel. “It might have saved some misunderstanding.”

“True. But the world’s full of posturing, isn’t it? People pushing their credentials in order to be accepted or thought well of? Fighting for space in pecking orders? So everyone shouts, and no one really listens. Self-promotion is the other side of the coin to self-doubt – fear of rejection, being left out. And it’s divisive: inclusion in one group means exclusion from another. Theodore and Wulfrun didn’t set up a fairground stall and offer to tell people their fortunes and solve their problems. Winifred didn’t put on special healing services. And Jesus positively ran from the temptation to demonstrate his powers. They just got on with their lives, fulfilled their calling, used their powers in appropriate and unselfconscious ways towards whoever needed them.

“Here, we’re comfortable in our skins. We’re not on social media but we’re not opting out of society either. We’re actually very fortunate, we’ve all got decent jobs or careers, and we’re hugely blessed because we’ve inherited this lovely house and we don’t want to keep it all to ourselves. It’s to be used, not indulged in. We don’t have to adopt the attitudes of society. We want to model different ones. You’re the priest, Miles, but isn’t that what Jesus called his followers to do – to opt in to a radically different lifestyle and outlook?” Libby raised her eyebrows as if to invite another question.

“Powers,” said Miles. “You’ve said ‘powers’ a couple of times. The monks seem to have had, what, psychic powers? You said earlier you were all of one mind. That you and Cathy know each other’s thoughts. That you had a hunch about the potatoes. We’ve noticed, Becky and I, how you always seem to, what, know things – sense things? Turn up at just the right time? What’s that all about?”

“There isn’t a complete answer. It’s not a claim to anything. And we don’t like the word ‘psychic’. ‘Spiritual’, perhaps? Nor do we much like ‘powers’ either; it’s descriptive but not very helpful. We prefer gifts – unself-conscious gifts which come and go as circumstances require. Theodore and co had unusual gifts although of course they’ve always existed; there’s examples of insight and healing in the Bible, isn’t there? It’s just that people in our more sceptical, mechanistic times don’t expect them or look for them or try to explain them away. And yes, the potential has been passed down through the family for generations.

“But you know how animals – bears, bats and so on – hibernate in winter? Their heartrate drops to almost nothing. They hardly breathe. So likewise, for nearly five hundred years, our family has been hibernating. Ticking over. Every generation has had glimpses of the gifts – the faint heartbeat of hibernation. One day, so it goes, we’d wake up and maybe use them more widely. But it’s not just about those things. They’re peripheral. They’re tools for the task, not the task itself. What Theodore, Wulfrun and Winifred longed for, prayed for, was the re-establishment of the monastery. Not as a retreat from the world, but as a centre of service for the community. And it’s that which is exercising our minds just now, and why we want, need, you to help us.”

She paused. Miles shrugged his shoulders, Rebecca gestured questioningly with her hands.

Libby leaned forward. “Look, lots of people are waking up to the rape of the earth, the depletion of resources, the dangers of climate change. And many are lamenting the rat race, questioning the lust for power and things, looking, even if rather half-heartedly, for ways to slow down, calm down, find inner peace – all that stuff. And there’s thousands of people who give their time and money voluntarily in all kinds of useful ways to support and enhance the lives of others. Individuals adopting different principles – fairness, contentment, sharing – can make a difference, even foment change slowly. But the monastic principle at its best was more than even this. It was – is – the commitment of a group of people to live according to those core principles and radiate them to others through hospitality, encouragement, service.

“Sorry if this sounds harsh, but that, as I understand it, was what the Church was meant to do all along. But it lost that vision centuries ago when it got caught up in the very human desire for power and wealth and when its spirituality was reduced to the performance of rituals.” She smiled. “Obviously I’m passionate about this, and obviously I’ve thought about it a lot. Where we as a family go from here is unclear. It just seems that now’s the time to take our calling a bit more seriously. What with the twins, the potatoes. Make a start. But not to hurry.”

Rebecca asked, “Libby, are you saying that this apparent act of God with the potatoes was your wake-up call to come out of your enclave? Isn’t that a bit drastic? What about the farmers who are losing money? What about the businesses that are struggling? That doesn’t seem right.”

“That’s a fair question. But no, I don’t believe it was just for us. For a start, it’s surely a wake-up call to the whole country – world even – to stop taking so much for granted, to recognise that the earth is fragile. Besides, tragedies, disasters, accidents and such like happen all the time. Some people rage against them, which only increases their stress. Some are bewildered and confused, but muddle by. And others ask what they can learn, do, how they can turn bad into good, or at least mitigate it. I mean, take Joe. If he’s listening to the music of the universe, as it were, then he might just realise that the selfish pursuit of the biggest and the best is ultimately doomed and instead start gardening for fun rather than prizes. Or perhaps, that despite all his efforts to manipulate nature, nature is bigger and stronger and less predictable than he is and that he can never beat it. I can’t answer for others, of course. I can only tell you what it’s saying to us.”

“And what if this is all an unrealistic pipe dream? To some people this would sound sort of sectarian, too. I can just hear Joe sounding off about hippy idealism imposing itself on others.”

“But what if Joe is right, although not in the way he meant, and that we’re not alone? That others are thinking along the same lines? Think what a power for good, for well-being, caring communities could be – on top of all the good things single-interest groups and individuals already do. Part of our wake-up call is that we think it’s time to break cover, get a bit more involved in the wider community, including the parish church. And see what happens. Maybe nothing will. Maybe not until the next generation. It’s been five hundred years already. We’re certainly not going to be driven into precipitate action by our time-bound society.”

Libby reached across and took their hands. They felt the warmth, greater than natural body heat, flow into them. “And as for it being a dream, don’t worry. You’ll know soon enough if it is or not. You’ll just know.” She held their hands, and they sat in near silence broken only by the trickle of the water feature.

Miles looked at her and said, “You haven’t really explained what you want from me.”

“You’ll kind of know that too, Miles. And we can talk about it another time. Because right now, I think your babysitter awaits.”

She released his hand and he looked at his watch. “Goodness, yes. We ought to go.”

                                                                         *   *   *

They drove home in silence and let themselves into the Vicarage quietly. Moira was in the lounge, watching TV. “Hello,” she said. “Had a good meal?”

“Very good, thanks,” Rebecca replied.

“I’ve only met that Libby a couple of times. But I quite took to her, despite what she is and all that. Seems very deep, steady, if you know what I mean.”

“She’s certainly that. Kids been OK?”

“I don’t know what you bribed them with, but they’ve been as good as gold. As soon as you left Bethany said they wanted to draw a picture for you. She showed me where the paper and things are, and they took over the kitchen table. Then – she’s so grown-up at times – she said I could go and watch TV and they’d call if they needed anything. So I left the doors open, you know, so I could keep an ear out for them. They were so quiet at first that I crept back to look. And well, I didn’t know what to make of it. They were sitting on the floor, like they were praying. Then Bethany just said, ‘That’s it. You know what to do’, and they all sprang up and started drawing.     

“They carried on until nine o’clock, when I went and said it was time for bed, even though of course it was really past Zebedee’s bedtime, and Bethany said they’d just finished but could I find some tape so they could stick their three papers together to make one picture. So we did that, and then they just took themselves off upstairs. I went up and tucked them in, and they seemed to fall asleep ever so quickly. You have got them well-trained! Anyway, I’d better go. The picture’s on the kitchen table.”

“Thank you, Moira. Especially for coming at fairly short notice.”

“My pleasure. Any time. Especially if they’re this good. It’s been a change watching what I want instead of what my husband wants!”

Miles saw her out and joined Rebecca in the kitchen. She was leaning over the table, sobbing. “Hey! What’s wrong?” He put his arm round her. She pointed to the picture. Miles took a sharp breath. He tried to speak but nothing would come out. They held each other and stared at it for several minutes. They were looking at a children’s version of the triptych. It was obvious from the styles which child had done which part.

“Zeb’s done a sort of farm scene. Big red tomato. Green cucumber. Corn, I think that’s meant to be, growing under a sun. Chicken. And he’s put potatoes – I guess that’s what they are, those brown ovals. In the bottom corner. And a figure digging. ‘Anty Liddy’ – he’s still confusing his b’s and d’s.”

“Bible stories in the centre. This is Beth’s. There’s Jesus with a little girl – raising Jairus’s daughter? Teaching, feeding the crowd. And stilling the storm.”

“Ruthie’s got – who? Jesus? Must be – on a cloud. Sort of raining stuff down. Angels. Stars. Presents? There’s presents look – she’s drawn a bow on a couple of them. And there’s people catching them along the bottom.”

“And in the middle. Look. Beth’s drawn a cross. That cross. In the chapel. With a crooked arm.”

They continued to stare. “How on earth,” Miles began. “They’ve never been there. Never seen the triptych. And even if they had, they’d never remember all that detail.” He shook his head.

“Miles,” whispered Rebecca, laying her head on his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Suddenly they heard what sounded like Libby’s voice behind them. “There’s no need to worry. You’ll understand one day.” They both sprang round. Rebecca uttered a startled cry.

Bethany was standing in the doorway. She was wearing her cream – her only – knee-length nightdress instead of her usual pink and white pyjamas. “I woke up when you came in. Please may I have a drink?” 

© Derek Williams 2017