Lamplight in the Shadows (26 page)

Set on a south-facing slope amidst several acres of landscaped gardens and surrounded by the hills of Wharfedale with the River Wharfe winding its way through the valley floor, Norton Abbey was a stage set for peace and tranquillity. Such was its immediate effect on James as he parked the MG in the gravelled car park, switched off the engine and listened to the silence that engulfed him.

A few weeks previously, he had borrowed a few books from the Bishopsworth public library and studied the history of Norton Abbey. Set in the heart of the North Yorkshire Dales, the abbey was, in fact, initially a 12
^th
-century priory outpost of Fountains Abbey situated to the northeast. It had been built to serve, protect and develop the interests of the Cistercian monks at Fountains Abbey and their trading routes to the west, as well as to ensure a cordial relationship with their Augustinian brothers at Bolton Abbey to the south. The priory closed in 1539 with Henry VIII's Dissolution of the Monasteries. The local populace demolished part of the buildings and removed the stone to build local houses. However, the main hall and chapel remained intact and for a while saw life as a royal hunting lodge.

All of this James recollected as he sat in his cooling MG staring at a gravelled drive, which wound away from the parking area and disappeared into a woodland on its way up to the abbey. Three upright wooden posts blocked the drive, an early indication of how the Warden protected the quietude of the retreat. On the dashboard lay Luke Palfreyman's business card. He had left strict instructions to be telephoned from the nearby village of Kettlewell in order to ensure that someone was on hand to assist James with his luggage upon arrival.

A sharp tap on the driver's door brought him out of his musing and he turned to see a young man in his twenties, dressed in jeans, working boots, a battered waxed jacket and a cloth cap. Without waiting to be asked, the man opened the car door.

‘Hello, sir. Dr Armstrong, I presume?' James smiled at the allusion to Dr Livingstone and nodded as he climbed out of the car.

‘Indeed I am; and you are…?'

‘Paul.' He offered James his hand, who in turn noted the slightly grubby, coarsened skin as he shook it. ‘Paul Jenkins, to be precise. I'm the gardener-cum-caretaker. The Warden asked me to be here for when you arrived. Sorry I didn't quite manage that; I was having a spot of difficulty with the cider press.'

‘Cider? I wasn't aware that apples grew that well up here?' His question elicited a throaty chuckle.

‘Oh yes, sir. We have some hardy varieties. They are good at withstanding the frosts, though the fruit tends to be a bit on the small side. They are reasonable enough for eating, but they make an even better cider. I dare say there'll be some available at dinner tonight if you want to sample it.'

‘With some intrigue, I look forward to doing so.' He moved towards the back of the car, but the gardener reached it first and started to untie a small holdall from the boot's luggage rack.

‘Do you have anything else, sir?'

‘Just a small shoulder bag in the boot and briefcase on the passenger seat. I'm sure I can manage that myself.'

‘Not at all, sir.' He retrieved the second bag and slung it over one shoulder before picking up the holdall and then the briefcase. ‘I walk better if the load's balanced.' He gestured with his head towards the gravelled drive. ‘The abbey's about ten minutes' walk up there.'

Locking the car, James joined him as he started up the drive at a brisk pace, his booted feet making a rhythmic crunching sound on the small stones.

‘Do you look after all of this on your own?' He gestured towards the wood, where horse chestnut trees were in the process of dropping golden brown leaves in sufficient profusion to form a pleasingly soft carpet in places.

‘Not quite, sir. I have a couple of part-time staff and then there are always a few students who come from an agricultural college near York and work as volunteers for a few weeks at a time.' He inclined his head to the right. ‘This wood is what we call Tarn Ghyll Wood. It's full of rhododendrons, which look lovely when in bloom, but are a bit of a bug— pardon me, sir… a bit of a nuisance when they start spreading to other areas.' He waved the briefcase towards the left of the path, his pace failing to slacken despite the growing incline of the track. ‘That bit is Daffodil Bank. Looks glorious in spring. It would make Wordsworth feel very much at home.'

‘I imagine spring is the time to see the grounds at their best?'

‘If you like flowers it is. The next area on the left is full of camellias in April and May. But we do have a small winter garden – terraced it is, just in front of the main hall. You'll see it in a moment just round this bend. As for me, I like the autumn here. From the house, you can see all the tree-covered hills around, with their richness of red, brown and golden colours. Makes me feel quite melancholic.'

A loud honking noise grew nearer overhead causing both men to pause and look up. Some thirty or so Canada geese flew in a wide v-formation, filling the immediate skyline.

‘Never ceases to please me, though I dare say that some of the farmers don't share the sentiment.'

‘In this setting, I am reminded of W.B. Yeats' poem ‘The Wild Swans at Coole':
“The trees are in their autumn beauty, the woodland paths are dry…”
It goes on to speak of the clamorous wings of the swans flying overhead. It's the wrong bird and I cannot remember the rest, but the sentiment is there!'

‘You see, sir, Norton is already working its magic on you. We'd best get you up to the abbey before you get too carried away!' He shifted the shoulder bag onto the other shoulder and took a renewed grip on the briefcase and holdall. ‘Not far now, just round one more bend.'

True to his word, in less than two minutes, the woodland cleared and a terraced garden came into view. James counted four levels before his eye was drawn to the small but imposing grey stone façade of the hall of Norton Abbey. He paused and gazed around, already calmed by the tranquil stillness of the place. His eye settled on another stone building a short way from the house.

‘That's the chapel, sir. It has its own garden, including a Glastonbury Thorn and a Hinoki cypress. Apparently, Hinoki are usually planted near Shinto temples in Japan.' He started to climb the steps to the next terrace. ‘Oh, and there is a fernery with an
Aralia spinosa
.'

‘And just what is one of those in English?' James took the first few steps two at a time in order to catch up with his energetic guide, who gave him a sidelong glance and a wry grin.

‘The Devil's Walking Stick.'

* * *

‘James, welcome to Norton Abbey.'

The Reverend Luke Palfreyman was waiting as they approached, clothed in a black cassock, his imposing figure framed and further dignified by the stone archway entrance to the hall. He held out his hand in greeting.

‘Just leave the bags there, Paul; I'll assist Dr Armstrong to his room.'

‘Certainly, sir.' He unloaded his burden, handing James the briefcase in the process. ‘I'll be quite happy to show you round the rest of the grounds later if you wish, sir. The Warden will tell you how to find me.'

‘Thank you, Paul. I am sure I will enjoy that.' Paul gave a small nod and started back down the terrace steps, the two men watching him depart. ‘You have a splendid place here, Luke; and the grounds are superbly kept.'

‘We do our best. There is never enough money, but God works in mysterious ways and it usually comes right. Our main aim is to provide an environment conducive to assisting people on their spiritual journey.'

‘Of course, this wonderful building helps.'

‘Indeed. Its fortunes were partially restored in the 19
^th
century as part of the Oxford Movement, when men within the Anglican Church became the forerunners of the movement since then known as Anglo-Catholicism. Some of those priests had leanings towards the Benedictine Order and it was they who initially re-established Norton Abbey as a retreat for clergy within the Church of England.'

‘Good for them. I shall raise a glass of cider tonight in their honour.'

‘Absolutely! Paul has obviously briefed you about the important parts of life here.' Smiling, he took hold of a bag and beckoned James inside. ‘Come; let me show you to your room. You must be tired after such a long journey and there will be plenty of time later for talking.'

As they walked the corridors on the way to the dormitory side of the hall, Luke briefed his new guest on some of the more functionary aspects of life at Norton Abbey.

‘Most of our guests are on organised group retreats, but we do have a small number of individuals like yourself who are here to find their own way with solitude and prayer. Andrew Walker is one you might particularly care to meet; professional background like yourself, only he was originally training as a lawyer. We have a structured order of community worship in the chapel on a daily basis and you are welcome to join us as often as you wish. The chapel is open at all other times for private reflection and prayer. There will be a notice in your room giving the times, along with the refectory meal times.'

They turned at the end of a corridor and took a short flight of stairs to the first floor.

‘I always think that it is best to have a room up here, as the views from the south-facing windows are most pleasing. Here we are; this is you, C10.'

He stopped outside a small wooden door into which was set a rectangular hatch at head-height.

‘It reminds me of the entrance to a prison cell.'

‘Hence the letter C before the number; except in our case they are reflective of monastic cells. We started to call them rooms instead of cells a few years ago when the diocesan marketing boys thought the concept of a cell might sound too austere for 20
^th
-century priests. Don't worry about the inspection hatch; they are locked from the inside, so your privacy is ensured.' He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Tea with cake will be served in the drawing room in about half an hour. Do come along and I will introduce you to some of the other guests.'

‘Thank you, Luke. I appreciate your welcome. I feel sure that the next two weeks here will be good for me.'

‘If it helps you unravel your tangled thoughts, then we will have done our job.' He gave an open-handed wave and turned. ‘Until later.'

Inside room C10, James surveyed his home for the next two weeks. A single bed was positioned in the middle of a polished-wood floor, the latter being devoid of coverings apart from a token beige rug on one side of the bed. A small bedside table supported an equally small lamp, along with a water glass, a decanter and a candlestick complete with a stub of a candle. In one corner was a washbasin, mirror and shaver socket, whilst in another stood an old, dark-brown wooden wardrobe combined with two drawers at its base. In front of the window of small, uneven glass panes and lead surrounds stood a writing desk and chair, alongside which was a well-worn armchair of the type frequently seen in gentlemen's clubs from the twenties. Two unevenly faded green curtains framed the window. A freestanding, electric-fired oil radiator was the only visible means of heating, whilst the uneven magnolia-coloured plaster walls were bare except for a small, plain, wooden cross hung above the bed. A battered black leather-bound copy of the Bible lay on the desk and supplied the only other ornamentation to the room. It was clear that the diocesan marketing boys had only meant their upgrading of the product to be confined to the advertising. It seemed that absolutely nothing was present that might serve as a distraction to the singular purpose of Norton Abbey as a spiritual retreat.

As he closed the door to his chamber of frugality, he spotted two notices pinned with brass drawing pins to the back of the door. The first stated:

7.45 a.m. – Morning Prayer

8.15 a.m. – Holy Eucharist

12.30 p.m. – Midday Office

5.30 p.m. – Evening Prayer

10.00 p.m. – Night Prayer

8.45 a.m. – Breakfast

11.00 a.m. – Coffee with biscuit

1.00 p.m. – Lunch

4.00 p.m. – Tea with cake

6.30 p.m. – Supper