Now I Know (6 page)

Thumps book shut, replaces on top of
The Times
.

Silence except for heavy breathing from Old Chum. Vic bends forward and pats him. Decomposing doggy pong rises like a gag.

I gag. Cough. Try not to breathe. Fail. Say: Might need a bit more, if you wouldn't mind. I mean, how does belief feel?

Vic, looking startled, sits back in chair and says: Feel! Good lord! Can't say one honestly
feels
anything. Rather . . . that is . . . one does not
feel
belief . . . one . . .
accepts
it.

I stare at him. He toys with a pen lying on the stool at his side and stares at Old Chum. Old Chum pluffles in sleep.

Selah.

Vic is not a man in a hurry. Eventually looks up, smiles, says: Warned you it was a tricky subject. I don't mean one doesn't feel anything about one's beliefs, only that one doesn't feel belief.

Silence. Stares at pen as he toys with it.

Then goes on: One decides that God is, by and large, bad. days taken with good, more likely
to be
than not. This . . . one believes.

Pause.

STOCKSHOT
:  
Canst thou
[Vic says]
by searching find out God? Canst thou find out the Almighty unto perfection? It is as high as heaven; what canst thou do? deeper than hell; what canst thou know?

He looks up at me. Says: If you understand me.

Pause. I stare at him.

Not quite, I say.

Vic says: No, thought you mightn't. He sighs (sounding so like Old Chum I wonder if Vic ventriloquizes the dog, or maybe even vice versa. Then also realize they look pretty much alike as well, except Vic doesn't have the watery eyes yet). He slumps further into his puffy chair and his own bulgy waist.

Silence again. Vic stares between his hillocky knees at Old Chum's hillocky body for so long I think he's forgotten me or eternity has begun without me noticing.

But then he stirs himself, glances up, says: Look, er . . . Nik? What's all this about? Thinking of asking for confirmation?

I explain. He laughs. Quite revived, he seems for a minute. (Old Chum lifts his head at the sound of Vic's laughter, takes a bleary glim, and flops, comatose again. The millennium is not yet.)

Vic: How splendid! A reluctant Jesus in search of belief in himself! That does appeal, I must say!

I'm laughing too, because it is pretty funny.

Don't be upset, says he, I'm not laughing at you, dear boy.

(I love the dear boy bit.)

I say: It's okay. I think it's a pretty stupid idea myself.

Not at all, no no, says he. Then, perking up even more: You don't happen to play goff, do you?

Sorry? say I.

Pity, says he. You know . . . Nik? . . . what I'd do if Our Lord walked through that door this minute? After the required pleasantries, of course.

I shake my head.

Vicsays: I'd say, My Lord, will you honour me with a round? And, you know, Nik, it has always seemed to me that He would reply, My dear vicar, I'd be delighted. Or words to that effect.

I say: Maybe we can make that a scene in our film. (I'm only half joking, I realize as I say it.)

You could, Vic says in all seriousness, do worse. Better than pretending to perform miracles. More likely. More real. More to do with belief, in fact.

But, I say, how would you know he was Christ?

Ah! says he, now there you have it, you see. That's what belief
is.
I'd know because of believing. It doesn't feel like anything. It's just
there,
a fact of one's life.

Now it's my turn to stare at Old Chum while trying to sort out this nugget. Then: Sorry, vicar, but I don't find that very clear.

Vic slumps even further into his own and his chair's upholstery and looks deeply disappointed.

He says: Convincing is what you mean.

I do? say I.

He nods, sighs: I'm not very good at this, I'm afraid . . .

I didn't mean . . ., I say, feeling embarrassed.

Vic, flapping a hand: I know, I know. But I'm not. One must have the courage to acknowledge one's limitations. And I have to admit that I'm not too good at talking about God. Never really have been. Every week I hold confirmation classes. Mostly young people of thirteen or fourteen, and mostly attending because their parents want them to. Rather like baptism, you know. Parents want their children done just to make sure. Hedging their bets. If God exists, having it done might get him on your side. If he doesn't, who cares?

He chuckles. Chummy fluffles and slobbers.

Well, Vic says, I talk to them. Tell them as best I can about church and prayer, and about God. They listen – rather dutifully, I have to admit, and politely. Too politely, I sometimes think. Might be better all round if they argued. They do ask the odd question now and then, but just to show willing and to be kind, I'm sure.

He smiles, but sadly, and goes on:

Some drop out. But mostly they stay the course and go before the bishop in their best new clothes for the laying on of hands. All very pretty and pious and their mums and dads looking proud. But as I stand at the bishop's side and witness the performance of this holy rite I know that six months later they'll mostly have given up any pretence of being in the slightest interested in God or church or anything religious. And I wonder how much their falling off is a failure of mine.

He pushes himself up in his chair, not looking at me. I sit stone still. I'm not sure he's talking to me now. He might not even remember I'm in the room. Is he just talking aloud to himself? I feel a bit guilty, like I'm eavesdropping on a private confession.

He speaks so quietly I strain to hear: Of course, if you suggest to them that they aren't Christian any more, they're most indignant, quite insulted in fact, and tell one sharply, and not so politely any more, how Christianity isn't the same as being a church-goer, and how, if it comes to that, the church has betrayed Christ because it's more interested in old buildings and out-of-date customs than in people and their needs, and how the church supports evil rulers and amasses wealth while people die in oppression and hunger and terrible poverty. And frankly, Nik . . .

He does remember I'm here after all!

. . . I have no answer to such accusations. I'm quite inadequate to the task of explaining that what we're really talking about is the Being who, by definition, is so all-containing of ourselves and the world and the entire universe, as well as whatever unimaginable wonders lie beyond, that it is impossible to say anything meaningful at all. God is a being who is beyond being. How can one speak of such a . . .

He raises his hands, shakes his head, shrugs.

I nod, meaning: I understand the difficulty.

He sighs again. Says: And now you come, asking me to tell you what belief is. What am I to say?

Now I have to shrug.

And it's his turn to nod and smile sympathetically: You're quite right to ask, I don't mean you aren't, dear boy. But I find myself in a quandary. I'm like a man who's found a sack of gold but can't tell anyone where he found it because, if he ever knew, he's forgotten now. And whenever he tries to share his gold with others, it turns to sand even as he pours it into their hands. You can imagine how embarrassing that is! For a vicar especially.

He laughs, but for some reason I can't join in.

One even gets to the point, he says, of hiding the fact that one possesses gold oneself so as to avoid the embarrassment of people asking for some. One even sometimes tries to pretend that not having is the same as having. That the gold is an illusion. Which is a painful kind of betrayal. Of those people, like you, who ask, and of one's faith. Worst of all, it is a betrayal of God.

He mutters the last sentence so quietly, so shamefaced, that, though I sit forward to hear, I look away from him at once.

Silence. Long, long silence.

Broken at last by Old Chum. He wakes like a canine Lazarus, staggers to his doddering paws, shakes decomposition into the airless air, and hobbles to the door.

Vic comes to and says with bluster: Sorry, dear boy, not much help to you, I'm afraid.

It's okay, I say. And it's time I went. Things at home . . .

Of course, yes, Vic says. I'll see you out.

At the door he slips a goff club from its bag and putts a pebble from the step. Old Chum lumbers after it like a geriatric caddy and disappears among the overgrown garden bushes.

Pity you don't play, Vic says. Easier to talk on the fairway. Fresh air. Exercise. Should try it. Strongly recommended. Give you a lesson, if you like.

He is a different man from the one I've just been talking to. More lively but less likeable. The real Vic is hiding behind a shield of hearty gamesmanship.

Thanks. Sometime, I say, and retreat towards the gate.

You've only to ask, he calls, waving his club in farewell.

I wave a non-committal hand and escape through the gate, thankful that a high wall makes it unnecessary for me to look back.

†

Nik
—Sorry to have been so little use last evening. After you left, a thought occurred that might be helpful. I suggest you see some friends of mine. They are a kind of monk. Don't let this put you off. They're quite sane. They're called The Community of the Holy Innocents. CHI for short. (We do have monks and nuns in the Church of England, though most people don't seem to know!) I think they might be able to answer some of your questions better than I.

If you can stay a day or two you might even discover some of the answers for yourself. Seek and ye shall find, as the saying is.

Whether you do or not, I think you'd have an interesting time. The brothers will put you up free of charge. (Though you may be expected to help with a few small chores.) And without any religious obligation of course. I mean you don't have to promise to let them convert you in order to qualify for free bed and board!

Do try. You won't regret it. I spend a spell there every year and always return refreshed. Write to Brother Kit CHI, at the address overleaf. Say I suggested the idea.

God bless.

†

Lacking clues, Tom visited the scene-of-crime.

No one was there when he arrived. The cross lay in between a battered mobile crane and a pyramid of old tyres. He poked about, finding nothing except a confusion of footprints drying in the mud. Whatever else there might have been would, he supposed, have been carted off for lab treatment.

An old man, hands in pockets, came wandering up.

‘After something?' he said, unwelcoming.

Tom flipped his identity wallet.

The old man was small and stocky with high, hunched shoulders. He wore a grubby cap and a torn old pullover that might once have been green and was covered with flecks of wood shavings and a powdering of sawdust. His trousers were baggy, tired grey, probably part of an old suit. His face was clean shaven, though spiky bristles grew in the creases of rugged lines. A prominent nose—almost a beak, Tom thought—and pale sharp eyes. He looked about sixty but could have been older. A hawk-like man.

‘Thought your lot had finished here,' the old man said.

‘You know what all this is about then?' Tom said.

‘Roughly.'

‘Work here?'

‘Now and then.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Now and then. Supposed to be retired. Bloody fool idea. Retirement is for the dead. I keep a workshop. Do a few odd jobs. Nothing regular.'

‘Here early this morning?'

‘How early?'

‘Six o'clock?'

‘Too early for me, that is. These days any road. One benefit of being retired, you see. Can please yourself.' The old man laughed.

‘But you know what happened?'

‘There's plenty of gossip.'

‘And what does the gossip say?'

‘That some kid was strung up on a cross during the night but disappeared after he was found this morning. Something like that.'

‘Does the gossip say who did it?'

‘Hooligans, likely.'

‘And who the kid was?'

‘No. Nothing about him.'

Tom nodded. He felt he was being stonewalled.

‘And what do you think, sir?' he said with too careful politeness.

The old man sniffed and grinned. ‘Nothing much.'

‘You don't seem very bothered.'

‘Why should I be bothered?' the old man said, looking away. ‘Anything can happen these days, and mostly does, if you wait long enough.'

‘Could I have your name, sir?' Tom said, taking out his notebook.

‘Is it that bad!' The old man chuckled.

‘Might need to talk to you again, that's all.'

The old man, shrugging, said, ‘Arthur Green.'

Tom said, ‘You don't own this dump?'

‘No!'

‘Who does?'

‘Wouldn't know. Fred Callowell runs it.'

‘Is he around?'

The old man nodded towards a hut where the access road ended. ‘That's his office. But he's often out, buying and selling.'

‘Was he here earlier, would you know?'

‘Better ask him.'

Tom looked round at the wilderness of scrap metal and pyramids of corpsed motor cars.

‘You'll be here all day?'

‘Can't think there's anything more I can tell you.'

‘All the same, you never know.'

Tom walked away, past the closed hut, along the access road to his unmarked car parked out of sight by the railway bridge.