Pastoral
Authors: Andre Alexis
Coach House Books, Toronto
copyright © André Alexis, 2014
ï¬rst edition
Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Coach House Books also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Alexis, André, 1957-, author
Pastoral / André Alexis.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55245-286-8 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-77056-370-4 (pdf).--
ISBN 978-1-77056-371-1 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8551.L474P37 2014 Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C813'.54 Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C2013-907680-8
Pastoral
is available in a print edition:
ISBN 978 1 55245 286 8.
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ABOUT THIS BOOK
There were plans for an official welcome. It was to take place the following Sunday. But those who came to the rectory on Father Pennant's second day were the ones who could not resist seeing him sooner. Here was the man to whom they would confess the darkest things. It was important to feel him out. Mrs. Young, for instance, after she had watched him eat a piece of her macaroni pie, quietly asked what he thought of adultery.
André Alexis brings a modern sensibility and a new liveliness to an age-old genre, the pastoral.
For his very first parish, Father Christopher Pennant is sent to the sleepy town of Barrow. With more sheep than people, it is sleepily bucolic â too much Barrow Brew on Barrow Day is the rowdiest it gets. But things aren't so idyllic for Liz Denny, whose fiancé doesn't want to choose between Liz and his more worldly lover Jane, or for Father Pennant himself, whose faith is profoundly shaken by the miracles he witnesses â a mayor walking on water, intelligent gypsy moths and a talking sheep.
Praise for André Alexis's previous books:
âAstonishing . . . an irresistible, one-of-a-kind work.' ââ
Quill & Quire
(on
Childhood
)
âAlexis [has an] astute understanding of the madly shimmering, beautifully weaving patterns created by what we have agreed to call memory.' ââ
Ottawa Citizen
(on
Childhood
)
          To     Jane Ruddell
                    and Veronika Krausas
                    and Roo Borson
          And In Memoriam     Eighteen
Only the billowing overcoat remains,
everything else is made up.
â Franz Kafka,
Diaries
(1912)
everything else is made up.
â Franz Kafka,
Diaries
(1912)
I
APRIL
APRIL
C
hristopher Pennant had passed through a crisis of faith. His time at seminary
had not been enough to free him entirely from doubt, but it had given him the
strength to go on, and when he'd taken holy orders he had been both proud and relieved.
hristopher Pennant had passed through a crisis of faith. His time at seminary
had not been enough to free him entirely from doubt, but it had given him the
strength to go on, and when he'd taken holy orders he had been both proud and relieved.
     While waiting for a parish of his own, he assisted Father Scarduto at St.
Matthew's, in Ottawa. This suited Christopher perfectly. He was himself from Ottawa, so
some of the strangeness (and pleasure) of being called âFather Pennant' was offset by the familiarity of his surroundings. Whenever he allowed himself
to think about where he might like to go â that is, where he might like his first parish to be â he imagined he'd be happiest in a small city of some sort: Cambridge, say, or Peterborough. So,
he was dismayed when he was told he'd be going to a place in Lambton County called Barrow.
Matthew's, in Ottawa. This suited Christopher perfectly. He was himself from Ottawa, so
some of the strangeness (and pleasure) of being called âFather Pennant' was offset by the familiarity of his surroundings. Whenever he allowed himself
to think about where he might like to go â that is, where he might like his first parish to be â he imagined he'd be happiest in a small city of some sort: Cambridge, say, or Peterborough. So,
he was dismayed when he was told he'd be going to a place in Lambton County called Barrow.
     He was not unhappy to be leaving the city, but the city was where he had lived
out most of his life and the word âcountry' â Barrow was in the âcountry' â was vague to him. It was a word that called to mind Cumberland, the town near
which his parents had a cottage, the place where he'd spent his summers as a child. He had vivid memories of its farm fields and
hills, but he had never gotten to know the town itself or its inhabitants. So,
Barrow would be an adventure. He hoped he would be a suitable shepherd for
those who needed spiritual guidance.
out most of his life and the word âcountry' â Barrow was in the âcountry' â was vague to him. It was a word that called to mind Cumberland, the town near
which his parents had a cottage, the place where he'd spent his summers as a child. He had vivid memories of its farm fields and
hills, but he had never gotten to know the town itself or its inhabitants. So,
Barrow would be an adventure. He hoped he would be a suitable shepherd for
those who needed spiritual guidance.
     It would be fair to add that there was a hint of condescension to Father
Pennant's attitude. He assumed that the âcountry' was simpler than the city, that rural routes were, metaphorically speaking,
straighter than metropolitan ones. It followed, in his mind, that the people of
Barrow would be more straightforward than those who lived in and around the
Byward Market.
Pennant's attitude. He assumed that the âcountry' was simpler than the city, that rural routes were, metaphorically speaking,
straighter than metropolitan ones. It followed, in his mind, that the people of
Barrow would be more straightforward than those who lived in and around the
Byward Market.
     That this was not true he learned almost at once.
    Â
Barrow was a town of 1,100 inhabitants. Whether through some divine compulsion
for equilibrium or through poor census taking, its population had been 1,100
for twenty years. In every other way, Barrow was a typical town in Ontario,
with its grocery store, greasy spoon and churches.
for equilibrium or through poor census taking, its population had been 1,100
for twenty years. In every other way, Barrow was a typical town in Ontario,
with its grocery store, greasy spoon and churches.
     Just outside of Barrow â and all around it â there were fields, silos, barns and farmhouses. Coming in by bus, Father
Pennant was so enchanted by the land, by the thistles and yellowish reeds at
the side of the road, that he asked the driver to let him off at the sign that
said âWelcome to Barrow' so he could walk into town, suitcase and all, on the warm April day that was
his first in his new parish.
Pennant was so enchanted by the land, by the thistles and yellowish reeds at
the side of the road, that he asked the driver to let him off at the sign that
said âWelcome to Barrow' so he could walk into town, suitcase and all, on the warm April day that was
his first in his new parish.
     It was a Monday morning. There were few people about, few distractions. So,
Father Pennant easily took in the trees, the birdsong, the crocuses along the
sidewalk and the sky-mirroring ditch water that gently rippled when the wind
blew.
Father Pennant easily took in the trees, the birdsong, the crocuses along the
sidewalk and the sky-mirroring ditch water that gently rippled when the wind
blew.
     As he walked along Main Street, a shop door opened beside him. The smell of
bread saturated the air and a man came out with an apron full of crusts and
crumbs. He shook his apron. The bits of bread fell onto the street and, from
nowhere, a dozen pigeons descended, their wings flapping, quivering, flapping.
bread saturated the air and a man came out with an apron full of crusts and
crumbs. He shook his apron. The bits of bread fell onto the street and, from
nowhere, a dozen pigeons descended, their wings flapping, quivering, flapping.
     Turning to the priest, the man said
     â Morning. John Harrington
and held out his hand.
     â Good morning, answered Father Pennant.
     The priest was just under six feet, dark-skinned, neither fat nor thin,
brown-eyed and handsome. He wore a black jacket, black pants, a black shirt
with a clerical collar and, on top of it all, a dark overcoat. Mr. Harrington
smiled.
brown-eyed and handsome. He wore a black jacket, black pants, a black shirt
with a clerical collar and, on top of it all, a dark overcoat. Mr. Harrington
smiled.
     â Nice day, eh, Father? Would you like a kaiser roll or ⦠No, wait. I have just the thing.
     Before Father Pennant could speak, Mr. Harrington went into the bakery and
emerged with a loaf of bread: warm, dark, somewhat round, pockmarked, smelling
of yeast, molasses and burnt walnuts.
emerged with a loaf of bread: warm, dark, somewhat round, pockmarked, smelling
of yeast, molasses and burnt walnuts.
     â Thank you so much, said Father Pennant.
     He was about to walk on, pleased with his gift, when the baker said
     â That'll be two-fifty, Father.
     As Father Pennant, startled and slightly embarrassed by the misunderstanding,
reached into his pocket for the money, a ginger-coloured mutt charged at the
pigeons. The dog was so obviously playing, however, that the pigeons scarcely
moved out of its way. They turned their backs to it and went on pecking, as if
it were common knowledge that the worst this mutt could do was wet them with
its tongue.
reached into his pocket for the money, a ginger-coloured mutt charged at the
pigeons. The dog was so obviously playing, however, that the pigeons scarcely
moved out of its way. They turned their backs to it and went on pecking, as if
it were common knowledge that the worst this mutt could do was wet them with
its tongue.
     â Bruno, called Mr. Harrington, leave the pigeons alone.
     The dog barked, as if to say
     â Yes, all right
then left the pigeons alone, bounding away as suddenly as he'd jumped among them.
Father Pennant's first view of St. Mary's church was gratifying. The church was plain, not at all grandiose, though its
stained-glass windows, lit up by the afternoon sun, were a little garish. The
rectory beside it was also plain. It was two storeys high, narrow, and had grey
stone walls and a black-shingled roof. A young maple tree stood on its front
lawn. The house was, or at least looked to be, perfect for him.
stained-glass windows, lit up by the afternoon sun, were a little garish. The
rectory beside it was also plain. It was two storeys high, narrow, and had grey
stone walls and a black-shingled roof. A young maple tree stood on its front
lawn. The house was, or at least looked to be, perfect for him.
     As he approached, Father Pennant noticed two older men sitting in wicker chairs
on the porch. The men were partially obscured by shadow. One of them rose to
greet him and Father Pennant saw that he was not as old as all that. His hair
was white. He was gaunt. He needed a shave, and his bright blue sweater was
fuzzy and frayed. But when he shook Father Pennant's hand, his grip was firm. And his voice was strong and clear. He was in his
late fifties, early sixties perhaps.
on the porch. The men were partially obscured by shadow. One of them rose to
greet him and Father Pennant saw that he was not as old as all that. His hair
was white. He was gaunt. He needed a shave, and his bright blue sweater was
fuzzy and frayed. But when he shook Father Pennant's hand, his grip was firm. And his voice was strong and clear. He was in his
late fifties, early sixties perhaps.
     â Father, he said. I'm Lowther Williams.
     Then, with a movement of his head toward the shade-hidden man behind him
     â That's my friend, Heath Lambert.
     â Are you the caretaker? asked Father Pennant.
     â If you like. I don't think of myself that way, though. For Father Fowler, I did the cooking and
cleaning and just about everything he couldn't do for himself.
cleaning and just about everything he couldn't do for himself.
     â I'm sorry, I thought there was a woman who did the cooking and cleaning. Someone
from the parish.
from the parish.
     â There was Mrs. Young, but she died two years ago, and I kind of took up the
slack.
slack.
     â I see. That's great, but I'll have to ask the bishop. We don't have ⦠I don't think we can afford â¦
     â You don't have to worry about the money, Father. I had an agreement with Father Fowler.
I work for room and board and a few dollars now and then. If it's okay with you, I'd like to carry on.
I work for room and board and a few dollars now and then. If it's okay with you, I'd like to carry on.
     â I think I'll still have to check with the bishop. I'm a pretty good cook myself and I like to keep things tidy, so I don't know if I'll need anyone seven days a week. But let me talk it over with the bishop. You
can stay on till then.
can stay on till then.
     â No, said Lowther. I don't think that would be right. I won't stay if you've got no use for me. You can call me if you need anything fixed or anything. I'll be at my mother's old house in Petrolia for a while. The number's in the parish phone book, by the phone.
     Behind them, Heath Lambert rose from his chair and came down from the porch.
     â I told you, he said softly to Lowther.
     Feeling as if he'd been unpleasant, Father Pennant relented
at once.
at once.
     â No, no, he said. On second thought, I'm wrong. I'll need someone for the first few weeks at least, until I get on my feet. If you
don't mind, I'll still check with Bishop Henry, but it'd be great if you stayed on for a bit. Is that okay?
don't mind, I'll still check with Bishop Henry, but it'd be great if you stayed on for a bit. Is that okay?
     Heath and Lowther looked at him as if they were amused.
     â Yes, said Lowther. Thank you, Father.
     They shook hands. Or, rather, Lowther took the loaf of bread from Father
Pennant and
then
 they shook hands. Lowther then withdrew, speaking softly with Heath who, after a
moment, walked off, raising his hand in a wave meant for the two behind him.
Pennant and
then
 they shook hands. Lowther then withdrew, speaking softly with Heath who, after a
moment, walked off, raising his hand in a wave meant for the two behind him.
     Lowther opened the door to the rectory. The house was filled with light. There
was a window in every wall. There was very little furniture: a chair and
chesterfield in the living room, table and chairs in the dining room, a kitchen
with a white linoleum floor, a white stove, a white fridge, light green
cupboards. Everything was spotless. By the looks of it, Lowther Williams was a
tidy and thorough housekeeper. Upstairs was much the same. Father Pennant's bedroom had a small closet, a severe, Shaker-style bed and an equally severe
bedside table on which stood a round-bodied, white-hooded lamp. His bedroom
window looked down onto the maple on the lawn and over at the yard of St. Mary's school. Lowther's room, at the back of the house, was as bright as Father Pennant's and as chaste. But there was a music stand in the room, and on the stand a
score stood open. Beside the stand, a cello lay on its side.
was a window in every wall. There was very little furniture: a chair and
chesterfield in the living room, table and chairs in the dining room, a kitchen
with a white linoleum floor, a white stove, a white fridge, light green
cupboards. Everything was spotless. By the looks of it, Lowther Williams was a
tidy and thorough housekeeper. Upstairs was much the same. Father Pennant's bedroom had a small closet, a severe, Shaker-style bed and an equally severe
bedside table on which stood a round-bodied, white-hooded lamp. His bedroom
window looked down onto the maple on the lawn and over at the yard of St. Mary's school. Lowther's room, at the back of the house, was as bright as Father Pennant's and as chaste. But there was a music stand in the room, and on the stand a
score stood open. Beside the stand, a cello lay on its side.
     â I hope you don't mind, Father, said Lowther. I've been playing since I was twelve.
     â I don't mind at all, said Father Pennant.
     From the rectory, Father Pennant and Lowther went into the church. St. Mary's was tall-ceilinged but relatively small. There was a nave, but it was barely
deep enough to accommodate the font, a shallow but wide white porcelain bowl
set on a solid rectangle of dark wood. There were two rows of ten pews, enough
room for two or three hundred parishioners. The pews were of an unstained wood
that had been lacquered and looked almost ochre. Though the lights in the
church were off, its interior had the warm feeling of a gallery or museum. The
church's four stained-glass windows were its first oddity. The windows depicted moments
in the lives of rather obscure saints. On the left, if one were facing the
altar, were Abbo of Fleury, shown being killed by rioters, and Alexis of Rome,
dressed as a beggar with a book. On the right were Zenobius of Florence,
depicted helping a man rise from a coffin, and St. Zeno, shown laughing at the
side of a lake, a fish in his hand.
deep enough to accommodate the font, a shallow but wide white porcelain bowl
set on a solid rectangle of dark wood. There were two rows of ten pews, enough
room for two or three hundred parishioners. The pews were of an unstained wood
that had been lacquered and looked almost ochre. Though the lights in the
church were off, its interior had the warm feeling of a gallery or museum. The
church's four stained-glass windows were its first oddity. The windows depicted moments
in the lives of rather obscure saints. On the left, if one were facing the
altar, were Abbo of Fleury, shown being killed by rioters, and Alexis of Rome,
dressed as a beggar with a book. On the right were Zenobius of Florence,
depicted helping a man rise from a coffin, and St. Zeno, shown laughing at the
side of a lake, a fish in his hand.
     â Why these particular saints? asked Father Pennant.
     â Father Fowler's predecessor wanted two A's and two Z's, answered Lowther. He thought it would remind people just how many saints
there have been and maybe encourage them to be saintly themselves.
there have been and maybe encourage them to be saintly themselves.
     â Hmm, said Father Pennant.
     He would have preferred more recognizable figures (St. Paul or St. Anthony,
say), but the four obscure saints did not diminish his liking for the church.
If anything, he was, when he thought about it, inclined to agree with his
predecessor. There was something about these little-known saints that suggested
the great range of sanctity.
say), but the four obscure saints did not diminish his liking for the church.
If anything, he was, when he thought about it, inclined to agree with his
predecessor. There was something about these little-known saints that suggested
the great range of sanctity.
     The church's second oddity was endearing. In the sacristy just off from the altar there
were the usual things (vestments, wine, unconsecrated hosts) as well as a
surprising number of candles. It was as if Father Fowler had feared a shortage
of wax. There were dozens of candles â tall, short, narrow, thick, round, hexagonal â neatly stacked on the floor and in the cupboards and cabinets. The sacristy
itself smelled of candle wax.
were the usual things (vestments, wine, unconsecrated hosts) as well as a
surprising number of candles. It was as if Father Fowler had feared a shortage
of wax. There were dozens of candles â tall, short, narrow, thick, round, hexagonal â neatly stacked on the floor and in the cupboards and cabinets. The sacristy
itself smelled of candle wax.
     Father Pennant had assumed the church would be eccentric, something amusing to
talk about when he visited the bishop or wrote to his fellow priests.
Small-town churches were almost always eccentric. But here was a church in his
own image: modest and straightforward, despite its oddities. It might be that
his parishioners were âprickly,' as he'd been warned, but his church and rectory were all he might have wished for.
talk about when he visited the bishop or wrote to his fellow priests.
Small-town churches were almost always eccentric. But here was a church in his
own image: modest and straightforward, despite its oddities. It might be that
his parishioners were âprickly,' as he'd been warned, but his church and rectory were all he might have wished for.
     The rest of Father Pennant's first day in Barrow was uneventful. He unpacked his clothes and put them in
the chest of drawers in his closet. He inspected the books Father Fowler had
left on the bookshelves: novels, mostly. He ate the first meal Lowther prepared
for him: trout with lemon and salt. The trout, perfectly cooked, lay headless
on a bed of white rice beside a small handful of fried mushrooms. And for
dessert, apple-ginger crumble.
the chest of drawers in his closet. He inspected the books Father Fowler had
left on the bookshelves: novels, mostly. He ate the first meal Lowther prepared
for him: trout with lemon and salt. The trout, perfectly cooked, lay headless
on a bed of white rice beside a small handful of fried mushrooms. And for
dessert, apple-ginger crumble.
     To think he had almost dismissed Lowther before tasting the man's cooking! But then, Lowther was not easy to gauge. He had appeared to be an old
man, but he was, in fact, only sixty-two. He seemed to be rudderless, but he
was self-assured and spiritually oriented. He treated his duties as caretaker
with the utmost seriousness, but when Father Pennant asked him why he chose to
be the parish's caretaker, Lowther answered that there was no particular reason. It was the
same answer he gave when asked about the cello: no particular reason. The cello
had belonged to his grandfather. Asked by his mother if he would like to play
the cello, he had answered yes, though he had felt neither compelled nor all
that interested. Once he chose a thing, however, Lowther devoted himself to it
completely. To Father Pennant, there seemed something almost superstitious
about the strength of Lowther's devotions.
man, but he was, in fact, only sixty-two. He seemed to be rudderless, but he
was self-assured and spiritually oriented. He treated his duties as caretaker
with the utmost seriousness, but when Father Pennant asked him why he chose to
be the parish's caretaker, Lowther answered that there was no particular reason. It was the
same answer he gave when asked about the cello: no particular reason. The cello
had belonged to his grandfather. Asked by his mother if he would like to play
the cello, he had answered yes, though he had felt neither compelled nor all
that interested. Once he chose a thing, however, Lowther devoted himself to it
completely. To Father Pennant, there seemed something almost superstitious
about the strength of Lowther's devotions.
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