The bookbinder
by James Moody
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
At the back of P&G Wells Bookshop on College Street in the ancient city of Winchester, a side door reveals a back room that smells of fine leather, glue, and old parchment. Mr. Wiltshire, the proprietor of this back room, has spent his days (and many nights, no doubt) repairing very old books and making them loved again. For fifty-two years his attention to the finest details has remained as unchanged as the old cobblestone street outside his shop. The immutable gas lamp standing watch outside has shined forth its perpetual beams into more than one dark, misty Hampshire night, just as he has sent forth many a resurrected tome for the enjoyment of yet another generation.
“I had a gentleman who came in here once,” he explained to Mr. Timothy Moore, his current customer, “who asked me to put a new binding on an 1856 copy of Coleridge’s poems. He returned to the States—American he was—and I didn’t hear from him for ten years! Strange lot those Americans. He came back, though. Book lovers never forget where their sweethearts are, you know.”
“Look—I’m sure that’s a fascinating story,” Moore interrupted, “but all I want to know is, can you get this done by the end of the month?”
Moore had brought in a coverless manuscript from the early nineteenth century—drawings, details, and descriptions of the “newest” machines of the day, especially connected with the rise of the Industrial Revolution. They were the representations of humanity’s progress, so the author declared.
Mr. Wiltshire, peering over, under, and sometimes through his small, quarter-sized spectacles took his time in deciding. “It’s missing some pages, you know.”
“Yes, I do know, but I’d still like it repaired.”
Mr. Wiltshire resumed his examination, every few seconds emitting a “hmmm,” or “not sure about…” or “possibly.” After a polite passing of time (at least to Mr. Wiltshire, but not Mr. Moore), with an air of finality, he smiled broadly and declared, “Oh yes, of course. No problem at all!”
Moore, happy to be over with the diagnostic phase replied, “Excellent, excellent. So you can have it within the fortnight then?”
Rubbing his chin and looking rather desperate, Wiltshire answered: “Oh, not sure about that. It’s not a lot of time, you know—delicate things books. And, it is the Christmas season and all that. Very busy this time of year. Perhaps. But let me ask if I may, Mr. Moore: Why this book? It is old and very much worth keeping for its own sake, of course, but it isn’t really very valuable after all, is it? I expect you know that already. Even with a new binding its value won’t rise, you know.”
Moore’s usually shallow tolerance had disappeared and his patience was now as thin as the tissue paper lying on the counter. “Look: do you want my business or not?”
“Oh yes, yes” Mr. Wiltshire stated simply but without enthusiasm, realizing his skill was as scarce as an original Guttenberg itself. “End of the month? No problem at all…perhaps.”
“Oh, just please make an effort,” Moore replied, realizing he too had no alternative.
The bookbinder turned around to get his receipt book on the counter behind him, muttering to himself as he did so, “No value, at all, though. No value.”
“If you must know,” Moore continued, feeling a slight regret for his lack of manners, “I collect books on machines—you know—progress, industry, human advancement. And by the looks of your shop here, you could use a little progress to speed up your work—increase your revenue, perhaps.”
Showing his displeasure now, Wiltshire turned back to the counter. “I’m very pleased with how things are now, thank you very much. I’ve had all the progress--as you call it—that I will ever need.”
Moore started to reply but couldn’t think of anything to say. The old gentleman’s declaration carried a sense of finality that allowed for no rejoinder.
The transaction complete, Moore took his receipt and returned to the bookshop proper. After shutting the side door behind him he turned to walk into the cozy shop, no bigger than the foyer of a chain bookstore on every High Street. Immediately, his eyes met those of another customer—bright green eyes attached to a head of brown, wavy hair of the feminine variety. A small nose and naturally red lips completed the portrait that greeted him, though, “greeted” was far too generous a term. It was more like, “briefly glanced” at and away from him. Her eyes quickly darted back to the cover of the book she held in her small hands. His eyes were fixed on her.
He moved ever-so-slowly and gradually down towards the shelf of books where she remained stationary. He glanced occasionally at the titles on the shelves, pretending to browse, but mostly he glanced at her, out of the corner of his eye.
When he did actually catch a glimpse of the section she was browsing, though, his first response was one of repulsion: Theology, Philosophy, Religion. “Why would a beautiful woman be spending her time looking at that nonsense,” he thought to himself.
The young lady, wrapped in a three-quarters length black overcoat (it was December, after all) adjusted the olive green scarf around her neck. She opened the book in her hands and looked through the contents page.
Moore was close enough to see the title and decided to speak out: “Oh, Saint Francis,” he said to her. “He’s that chap of stone who stands in the gardens with the birds, right?” He chuckled self-consciously. It wasn’t the best of opening lines, but it got the ball rolling.
“Among other things,” the young lady replied, never once raising her eyes to his.
“Churches, saints, all of that lovey dovey stuff about heaven: not really believable in this day and age, is it?” he said casually.
“Some of us think it is,” she said looking him straight in the eye this time. She placed the book back on the shelf, pushing it back in place while continuing to keep her eyes on his.
Moore, realizing he had just galloped with the noble six hundred into a field with cannons to the right and left of him, decided a retreat was in order.
“Well…well, yes, of course. I suppose there is something in it. No offense meant.” And at that moment he recognized her, or at least he thought he did. “Hang on a minute. I know you. You were at Saint Swithun’s Girls’ school up on the hill when I was here at the College with your brother, Squibby Bellingham. Wait, wait, don’t tell me—it’s…Laura Bellingham, right?”
“It’s actually Angela,” she replied.
He was certain that Squibby’s sister was called Laura, but perhaps he had remembered wrongly. “It’s me, Timmy, er…Timothy Moore. I was one of Squibby’s closest pals, or I guess I should say, ‘Andrew’ now, eh?”
Her face still showed no sign of recognition or acknowledgement, but Moore carried on assuming her to be simply shy.
“So what brings you back to Winchester now? God, I couldn’t wait to get away from this place after being here so many years—some of the most miserable years of my life.”
“I simply love Christmas,” Angela replied. “It’s my favorite time of year. And being at Winchester during Christmas couldn’t be more rewarding.” She then turned the tables. “So, why have you returned to the scene of such horrible crimes foisted upon you in childhood?”
“I’m not really sure, at least, entirely, I should say. I did come to drop off an old book at the bookbinders, but apart from that, I don’t know, really. I could have found one in London, I expect, but there’s no sense in re-designing the wheel, eh? Besides, I did want to see the old place again. Do you have some time,” he said, turning the table back around. “Like to get a coffee down at the Bridge Patisserie? Best coffee in town, you know.”
Angela agreed. They both buttoned their outer coats and walked down the one step onto the sidewalk of College Street. It was damp outside, the drizzle of the day making it hard to decide whether to put up the umbrella or not.
The street lamps were lit up as the two walked down the narrow road. On one side were twenty-foot walls made of Hampshire stone surrounding the prep school and on the other side of the street stood the oldest buildings of Winchester College, made of equally ancient stone. They walked on, past the huge oak doors to the College through which multitudes of England’s nascent leaders had walked before. Above the portal stood a statue of Mary and the infant Jesus.
They continued on past the Bishop’s palace and the fields where King Arthur’s Knights were reputed to have jousted in tournaments but now served only as the playing fields of the boy choristers from Winchester Cathedral. They rounded a bend in the footpath that followed alongside a calm and slow-flowing river called the Itchen—the kind of waterway that was typical of Hampshire. Their conversation reflected the river’s nature—shallow, calm, and polite—until they reached their destination.
At the end of the path, the walkway rose to street level. They turned right, crossing over the equally ancient bridge, where the Patisserie sat overlooking the water. They sat down at a corner table, lattes steaming in front of them. Christmas shoppers and tourists alike passed to and fro in front of the large, picture-framed window looking out onto the road.
“Look at them out there,” Moore said reproachfully, “rushing around as if there’s no tomorrow. I know it’s all a bit of fun, but all this Christmas nonsense—I mean--you don’t take it seriously, do you?”
“What do you take seriously, Timothy?” came the unexpected reply.
He hesitated and puffed out his cheeks. “Oh, I don’t know. This, I suppose.” He spread out a hand as if to take in the whole world around him.
“Everything?” she pressed. “Surely you don’t spend your time taking everything seriously in your own thoughts? No man has that much time in life.”
“Well, no, of course not. I meant this—the world, my world, my life, my here and now.”
She took a sip from her cup to allow time for his own words to ring in his ears.
“I suppose that sounds somewhat selfish,” he finally offered, the lights in his brain starting to flicker on. “But, I mean, this world—that’s all there is, isn’t it? It’s all we have—this life. We’re born, we make the best of the life we have, then we die and it’s all over. There’s no baby in a crib that will change all of that, no matter how good a story it makes for the kiddies. I guess that’s why I’m fascinated with machines—with man’s ability to create things that improve the human condition, to create a better future—something with which to leave our mark on the world, eh? Oh, I know it all sounds a bit cold, but it’s all about creating a better future, right?”
“And what of the past or even the present?” she asked. “What of tradition? What of those things that never change, never die, remain the same from generation to generation?”
“Are there such things?” he said with a slight tone of contempt.
“Of course there are.”
“You mean like that enormous cathedral sitting just beyond the wall behind us?”
“Yes, that, and more. It’s not just the building, but what it stands for—for life, love, redemption, hope. Surely those are of more value than your machines, of your ‘progress.’”
The café was silent for many seconds. The only noise came from the bean grinder of the espresso machine as another shopper had escaped the chill of the early December evening and was seeking a moment’s rest from her toil of shopping. She had sat down with her cup and biscotti near the outside window before Angela resumed the conversation.
“Tim, will you go with me to the cathedral’s carol service tonight? It’s actually the reason I came into town today. I know you may not believe in what they do there, but I’d love to have your company.”
Having nothing particular planned for the evening, and having already been captivated by her beautiful green eyes in the bookshop, he agreed. “Yes, why not? I haven’t set foot in that place since I was here at school. In fact, I haven’t set foot in any church since.”
They left the patisserie, headed up Bridge Street towards the High Street, passed by the statue of Alfred the Great, and took a shortcut through Abbey Gardens. Just a brief walk up Colebrook Street brought them to a footpath that led behind the east side of the magnificent Medieval building. A scattering of graves rested peacefully in the grounds just outside the enormous windows where the high altar stood inside.
The lampposts sitting outside the west entrance shone brightly as the evening’s mist settled. Flood lights made the great stone building take on a warm, sand-colored hue. Though the building’s interior was rarely fully warm during the winter months, the numerous candles and subdued lighting made participants feel their overcoats to be almost superfluous—but only almost.
The two wandered down the left side of the nave and took their seats just opposite the burial place of Jane Austen. The organist was playing the prelude as a few more people settled quietly with their families as others had done before them, century after century.
Angela and Tim talked little from that point onward. Tim, though feeling uncomfortable at first, gradually began to warm to the surroundings. He began to recall nostalgic memories from school day services there. He gazed on the mammoth stone columns and recalled how colossal they seemed to him as a nine-year-old. They had not changed. Nothing had. He mentally measured the length of the building and the height of its soaring vaulted roof, stumbling in his mind to comprehend its purpose, yet admiring the men who had built such a place before steam engines ever existed.
As if reading his thoughts, Angela leaned over and whispered in his ear: “And just think, Timothy, all of this was built for the worship of that little baby who came on Christmas morning.”
He said nothing in reply, but the words cut deeply into his heart. Maybe there was some value to it all. Maybe there was some truth he had yet to know, maybe some hope for people who had been hurt in the past, who had suffered wrongly at the hands of others. And having allowed that mental stone to be pulled from his defensive wall, another soon came loose. His mind returned, yet again, as it had so many times before, to those painful memories. He could feel the anger rising up yet again, as it always did. He could feel the hurt again, as he did in those days when he was at school. He once again felt himself traveling down a path, down the road that Eliot described as “Streets that follow like a tedious argument / of insidious intent.” But this wasn’t the time, the place, he told himself. He had to push those thoughts down, away, back into the grubby corners of his mind.
The great pipe organ stopped. The last notes of the prelude echoed down the nave for a full five seconds. The lights dimmed yet another degree. A few service sheets jostled around as congregants settled themselves. A child in the front dropped one on the stone floor, and its echo was heard all the way to the west door.
As all the noise in the Medieval sanctuary died away, a lone treble voice of a boy chorister, sounding so far away, gently sang as so many had done before him. The voice was clear, pure, innocent, full of hope and new life:
Once in Royal David’s City
Stood a lowly cattle shed
Where a mother laid her baby
In a manger for his bed
The words awakened even more memories in Timothy that came wandering down the footpath of his mind—memories from his English class at school while reading Romeo and Juliet. His classroom’s window faced the cathedral where the boys could see the Norman-era bell tower just beyond the Bishop’s garden. He could remember his teacher, Mr. Perry. But it wasn’t the story he recalled in particular, so much as it was the gentle, kind nature of the man who taught him.
“Sir?” he called out on one of those days years ago while the boys were working on an essay in school. Mr. Perry walked over to his desk, knelt down beside it, and placed a tender hand on his shoulder. “Sir, what I don’t understand is, why did Romeo and Juliet carry on seeing each other since they knew it wouldn’t work out in the end? Why go through all the trouble and cause so much pain for themselves and everyone else?”
In his quiet but confident manner, the teacher explained: “The answer is right there, my boy! Shakespeare always says it best himself! Act II, Scene 2: My bounty is as boundless as the sea / My love is deep; the more I give to thee / The more I have, for both are infinite.”
“Love, my dear chap. The answer is “love” clearly! Despite the hurt, the pain, the wounds we cause each other, there is only one infinite, eternal quality that sustains the human soul—love.”
The booming bass notes of the organ started in earnest now as the whole choir began to sing and the procession down the aisle of the nave moved forward as one. Each choir member carried a single burning candle, giving the impression en masse of an advancing troop of soldiers, each bearing torches instead of weapons and slowly making its way towards the altar. The red and white of the choir’s surplices and robes perfectly matched the festive season.
He came down to earth from heaven
Who is God and Lord of all
As if enveloped in an electric blanket, Tim remembered the warmth he felt inside at the touch of his teacher’s hand upon his shoulder that day. He could not recall ever having felt such warmth again—until now. As if the embers of a once-bright fire had received a fresh wind and new fuel, the warmth inside began to spread. It spread from his present to his past and back again. The anger and hatred he had felt time and time again when travelling down the dark cul-de-sacs of his mind, melted in the light of this balmy glow. The frustrations of those never-ending streets of unresolved thoughts broke through the barriers and opened up onto new, hopeful avenues for him. He couldn’t see the destination, but somehow he felt he was on a new path again, as if he were a boy sitting in that classroom again. In his mind he heard only those words repeated over and over: one, infinite eternal quality—love.
* * *
Almost everything that followed that night was lost on him. He heard the music, the singing, but he was lost in another world. He would not lose the new peace, the new life that took hold of him for anything in the world.
When he did open his eyes and remember where he was, he realized he should probably apologize to his companion for being so absorbed and so negligent in his manners. But she was no longer next to him. Everyone was standing, moving around, and starting to leave. The carol service was over.
“Excuse me,” he said to the man two seats over from him. “Did you see which way the young lady who was sitting here went?”
“Eh? What lady? No one was sitting in that seat during this service, Mister. Nothing been sittin’ there but that book. Thought it was yours. You feeling alright?” he said with just a hint of concern.
Tim’s reverie gave way to a moment of confusion, the kind of brief instability that overtakes a person when trying to determine if he is awake or still dreaming. He was stunned. He scanned the many faces, the coats, the backs of heads, all without success.
“I’m sure she didn’t leave. She was…she was here at the beginning,” he stammered.
The wife of the man next to him replied as they walked away. “Never saw her come in, dear. And we were here before you.”
While trying to unravel this mystery Tim looked down at the book, on top of which rested a small, folded slip of white linen paper. His name was written on it. There was nothing else on the paper so he picked up the book, turning it over in his hands. He noted the beauty of this newly-bound, olive-green, cloth-covered volume. Its spine and gilded edges were meticulously crafted. He thumbed through it, wanting to know what its contents were. And there, another mystery confronted him.
“Hang on,” he said out loud. The overwhelming sense of being out of control mentally, had loosened his lips. Realizing what he was doing, his conversation with himself turned inward: “This is…it’s my book—the one I dropped off at the bookshop just a few hours ago. There’s no way he could…I mean…it’s not possible. It’s not….”
His mind had reached another roadblock. Even the missing pages were in the book—pages he’d not seen before. The overwhelming warmth he had just enjoyed rushed into his heart again with words to match: one, infinite eternal quality—love.
He flipped through the book and stopped at the inside leaf, upon which were written words in the loveliest script he had ever seen. It said, “Here is an early Christmas gift. Many things are possible, Timothy, even the repair of ripped pages from the past. After all, the mysteries of God are more satisfying than all the answers you find in the world, as one of your poets has said. –Signed, Angela”
At the back of P&G Wells Bookshop on College Street in the ancient city of Winchester, a side door reveals a back room that smells of fine leather, glue, and old parchment. Mr. Wiltshire, the proprietor of this back room, has spent his days (and many nights, no doubt) repairing very old books and making them loved again. For fifty-two years his attention to the finest details has remained as unchanged as the old cobblestone street outside his shop. The immutable gas lamp standing watch outside has shined forth its perpetual beams into more than one dark, misty Hampshire night, just as he has sent forth many a resurrected tome for the enjoyment of yet another generation.
“I had a gentleman who came in here once,” he explained to Mr. Timothy Moore, his current customer, “who asked me to put a new binding on an 1856 copy of Coleridge’s poems. He returned to the States—American he was—and I didn’t hear from him for ten years! Strange lot those Americans. He came back, though. Book lovers never forget where their sweethearts are, you know.”
“Look—I’m sure that’s a fascinating story,” Moore interrupted, “but all I want to know is, can you get this done by the end of the month?”
Moore had brought in a coverless manuscript from the early nineteenth century—drawings, details, and descriptions of the “newest” machines of the day, especially connected with the rise of the Industrial Revolution. They were the representations of humanity’s progress, so the author declared.
Mr. Wiltshire, peering over, under, and sometimes through his small, quarter-sized spectacles took his time in deciding. “It’s missing some pages, you know.”
“Yes, I do know, but I’d still like it repaired.”
Mr. Wiltshire resumed his examination, every few seconds emitting a “hmmm,” or “not sure about…” or “possibly.” After a polite passing of time (at least to Mr. Wiltshire, but not Mr. Moore), with an air of finality, he smiled broadly and declared, “Oh yes, of course. No problem at all!”
Moore, happy to be over with the diagnostic phase replied, “Excellent, excellent. So you can have it within the fortnight then?”
Rubbing his chin and looking rather desperate, Wiltshire answered: “Oh, not sure about that. It’s not a lot of time, you know—delicate things books. And, it is the Christmas season and all that. Very busy this time of year. Perhaps. But let me ask if I may, Mr. Moore: Why this book? It is old and very much worth keeping for its own sake, of course, but it isn’t really very valuable after all, is it? I expect you know that already. Even with a new binding its value won’t rise, you know.”
Moore’s usually shallow tolerance had disappeared and his patience was now as thin as the tissue paper lying on the counter. “Look: do you want my business or not?”
“Oh yes, yes” Mr. Wiltshire stated simply but without enthusiasm, realizing his skill was as scarce as an original Guttenberg itself. “End of the month? No problem at all…perhaps.”
“Oh, just please make an effort,” Moore replied, realizing he too had no alternative.
The bookbinder turned around to get his receipt book on the counter behind him, muttering to himself as he did so, “No value, at all, though. No value.”
“If you must know,” Moore continued, feeling a slight regret for his lack of manners, “I collect books on machines—you know—progress, industry, human advancement. And by the looks of your shop here, you could use a little progress to speed up your work—increase your revenue, perhaps.”
Showing his displeasure now, Wiltshire turned back to the counter. “I’m very pleased with how things are now, thank you very much. I’ve had all the progress--as you call it—that I will ever need.”
Moore started to reply but couldn’t think of anything to say. The old gentleman’s declaration carried a sense of finality that allowed for no rejoinder.
The transaction complete, Moore took his receipt and returned to the bookshop proper. After shutting the side door behind him he turned to walk into the cozy shop, no bigger than the foyer of a chain bookstore on every High Street. Immediately, his eyes met those of another customer—bright green eyes attached to a head of brown, wavy hair of the feminine variety. A small nose and naturally red lips completed the portrait that greeted him, though, “greeted” was far too generous a term. It was more like, “briefly glanced” at and away from him. Her eyes quickly darted back to the cover of the book she held in her small hands. His eyes were fixed on her.
He moved ever-so-slowly and gradually down towards the shelf of books where she remained stationary. He glanced occasionally at the titles on the shelves, pretending to browse, but mostly he glanced at her, out of the corner of his eye.
When he did actually catch a glimpse of the section she was browsing, though, his first response was one of repulsion: Theology, Philosophy, Religion. “Why would a beautiful woman be spending her time looking at that nonsense,” he thought to himself.
The young lady, wrapped in a three-quarters length black overcoat (it was December, after all) adjusted the olive green scarf around her neck. She opened the book in her hands and looked through the contents page.
Moore was close enough to see the title and decided to speak out: “Oh, Saint Francis,” he said to her. “He’s that chap of stone who stands in the gardens with the birds, right?” He chuckled self-consciously. It wasn’t the best of opening lines, but it got the ball rolling.
“Among other things,” the young lady replied, never once raising her eyes to his.
“Churches, saints, all of that lovey dovey stuff about heaven: not really believable in this day and age, is it?” he said casually.
“Some of us think it is,” she said looking him straight in the eye this time. She placed the book back on the shelf, pushing it back in place while continuing to keep her eyes on his.
Moore, realizing he had just galloped with the noble six hundred into a field with cannons to the right and left of him, decided a retreat was in order.
“Well…well, yes, of course. I suppose there is something in it. No offense meant.” And at that moment he recognized her, or at least he thought he did. “Hang on a minute. I know you. You were at Saint Swithun’s Girls’ school up on the hill when I was here at the College with your brother, Squibby Bellingham. Wait, wait, don’t tell me—it’s…Laura Bellingham, right?”
“It’s actually Angela,” she replied.
He was certain that Squibby’s sister was called Laura, but perhaps he had remembered wrongly. “It’s me, Timmy, er…Timothy Moore. I was one of Squibby’s closest pals, or I guess I should say, ‘Andrew’ now, eh?”
Her face still showed no sign of recognition or acknowledgement, but Moore carried on assuming her to be simply shy.
“So what brings you back to Winchester now? God, I couldn’t wait to get away from this place after being here so many years—some of the most miserable years of my life.”
“I simply love Christmas,” Angela replied. “It’s my favorite time of year. And being at Winchester during Christmas couldn’t be more rewarding.” She then turned the tables. “So, why have you returned to the scene of such horrible crimes foisted upon you in childhood?”
“I’m not really sure, at least, entirely, I should say. I did come to drop off an old book at the bookbinders, but apart from that, I don’t know, really. I could have found one in London, I expect, but there’s no sense in re-designing the wheel, eh? Besides, I did want to see the old place again. Do you have some time,” he said, turning the table back around. “Like to get a coffee down at the Bridge Patisserie? Best coffee in town, you know.”
Angela agreed. They both buttoned their outer coats and walked down the one step onto the sidewalk of College Street. It was damp outside, the drizzle of the day making it hard to decide whether to put up the umbrella or not.
The street lamps were lit up as the two walked down the narrow road. On one side were twenty-foot walls made of Hampshire stone surrounding the prep school and on the other side of the street stood the oldest buildings of Winchester College, made of equally ancient stone. They walked on, past the huge oak doors to the College through which multitudes of England’s nascent leaders had walked before. Above the portal stood a statue of Mary and the infant Jesus.
They continued on past the Bishop’s palace and the fields where King Arthur’s Knights were reputed to have jousted in tournaments but now served only as the playing fields of the boy choristers from Winchester Cathedral. They rounded a bend in the footpath that followed alongside a calm and slow-flowing river called the Itchen—the kind of waterway that was typical of Hampshire. Their conversation reflected the river’s nature—shallow, calm, and polite—until they reached their destination.
At the end of the path, the walkway rose to street level. They turned right, crossing over the equally ancient bridge, where the Patisserie sat overlooking the water. They sat down at a corner table, lattes steaming in front of them. Christmas shoppers and tourists alike passed to and fro in front of the large, picture-framed window looking out onto the road.
“Look at them out there,” Moore said reproachfully, “rushing around as if there’s no tomorrow. I know it’s all a bit of fun, but all this Christmas nonsense—I mean--you don’t take it seriously, do you?”
“What do you take seriously, Timothy?” came the unexpected reply.
He hesitated and puffed out his cheeks. “Oh, I don’t know. This, I suppose.” He spread out a hand as if to take in the whole world around him.
“Everything?” she pressed. “Surely you don’t spend your time taking everything seriously in your own thoughts? No man has that much time in life.”
“Well, no, of course not. I meant this—the world, my world, my life, my here and now.”
She took a sip from her cup to allow time for his own words to ring in his ears.
“I suppose that sounds somewhat selfish,” he finally offered, the lights in his brain starting to flicker on. “But, I mean, this world—that’s all there is, isn’t it? It’s all we have—this life. We’re born, we make the best of the life we have, then we die and it’s all over. There’s no baby in a crib that will change all of that, no matter how good a story it makes for the kiddies. I guess that’s why I’m fascinated with machines—with man’s ability to create things that improve the human condition, to create a better future—something with which to leave our mark on the world, eh? Oh, I know it all sounds a bit cold, but it’s all about creating a better future, right?”
“And what of the past or even the present?” she asked. “What of tradition? What of those things that never change, never die, remain the same from generation to generation?”
“Are there such things?” he said with a slight tone of contempt.
“Of course there are.”
“You mean like that enormous cathedral sitting just beyond the wall behind us?”
“Yes, that, and more. It’s not just the building, but what it stands for—for life, love, redemption, hope. Surely those are of more value than your machines, of your ‘progress.’”
The café was silent for many seconds. The only noise came from the bean grinder of the espresso machine as another shopper had escaped the chill of the early December evening and was seeking a moment’s rest from her toil of shopping. She had sat down with her cup and biscotti near the outside window before Angela resumed the conversation.
“Tim, will you go with me to the cathedral’s carol service tonight? It’s actually the reason I came into town today. I know you may not believe in what they do there, but I’d love to have your company.”
Having nothing particular planned for the evening, and having already been captivated by her beautiful green eyes in the bookshop, he agreed. “Yes, why not? I haven’t set foot in that place since I was here at school. In fact, I haven’t set foot in any church since.”
They left the patisserie, headed up Bridge Street towards the High Street, passed by the statue of Alfred the Great, and took a shortcut through Abbey Gardens. Just a brief walk up Colebrook Street brought them to a footpath that led behind the east side of the magnificent Medieval building. A scattering of graves rested peacefully in the grounds just outside the enormous windows where the high altar stood inside.
The lampposts sitting outside the west entrance shone brightly as the evening’s mist settled. Flood lights made the great stone building take on a warm, sand-colored hue. Though the building’s interior was rarely fully warm during the winter months, the numerous candles and subdued lighting made participants feel their overcoats to be almost superfluous—but only almost.
The two wandered down the left side of the nave and took their seats just opposite the burial place of Jane Austen. The organist was playing the prelude as a few more people settled quietly with their families as others had done before them, century after century.
Angela and Tim talked little from that point onward. Tim, though feeling uncomfortable at first, gradually began to warm to the surroundings. He began to recall nostalgic memories from school day services there. He gazed on the mammoth stone columns and recalled how colossal they seemed to him as a nine-year-old. They had not changed. Nothing had. He mentally measured the length of the building and the height of its soaring vaulted roof, stumbling in his mind to comprehend its purpose, yet admiring the men who had built such a place before steam engines ever existed.
As if reading his thoughts, Angela leaned over and whispered in his ear: “And just think, Timothy, all of this was built for the worship of that little baby who came on Christmas morning.”
He said nothing in reply, but the words cut deeply into his heart. Maybe there was some value to it all. Maybe there was some truth he had yet to know, maybe some hope for people who had been hurt in the past, who had suffered wrongly at the hands of others. And having allowed that mental stone to be pulled from his defensive wall, another soon came loose. His mind returned, yet again, as it had so many times before, to those painful memories. He could feel the anger rising up yet again, as it always did. He could feel the hurt again, as he did in those days when he was at school. He once again felt himself traveling down a path, down the road that Eliot described as “Streets that follow like a tedious argument / of insidious intent.” But this wasn’t the time, the place, he told himself. He had to push those thoughts down, away, back into the grubby corners of his mind.
The great pipe organ stopped. The last notes of the prelude echoed down the nave for a full five seconds. The lights dimmed yet another degree. A few service sheets jostled around as congregants settled themselves. A child in the front dropped one on the stone floor, and its echo was heard all the way to the west door.
As all the noise in the Medieval sanctuary died away, a lone treble voice of a boy chorister, sounding so far away, gently sang as so many had done before him. The voice was clear, pure, innocent, full of hope and new life:
Once in Royal David’s City
Stood a lowly cattle shed
Where a mother laid her baby
In a manger for his bed
The words awakened even more memories in Timothy that came wandering down the footpath of his mind—memories from his English class at school while reading Romeo and Juliet. His classroom’s window faced the cathedral where the boys could see the Norman-era bell tower just beyond the Bishop’s garden. He could remember his teacher, Mr. Perry. But it wasn’t the story he recalled in particular, so much as it was the gentle, kind nature of the man who taught him.
“Sir?” he called out on one of those days years ago while the boys were working on an essay in school. Mr. Perry walked over to his desk, knelt down beside it, and placed a tender hand on his shoulder. “Sir, what I don’t understand is, why did Romeo and Juliet carry on seeing each other since they knew it wouldn’t work out in the end? Why go through all the trouble and cause so much pain for themselves and everyone else?”
In his quiet but confident manner, the teacher explained: “The answer is right there, my boy! Shakespeare always says it best himself! Act II, Scene 2: My bounty is as boundless as the sea / My love is deep; the more I give to thee / The more I have, for both are infinite.”
“Love, my dear chap. The answer is “love” clearly! Despite the hurt, the pain, the wounds we cause each other, there is only one infinite, eternal quality that sustains the human soul—love.”
The booming bass notes of the organ started in earnest now as the whole choir began to sing and the procession down the aisle of the nave moved forward as one. Each choir member carried a single burning candle, giving the impression en masse of an advancing troop of soldiers, each bearing torches instead of weapons and slowly making its way towards the altar. The red and white of the choir’s surplices and robes perfectly matched the festive season.
He came down to earth from heaven
Who is God and Lord of all
As if enveloped in an electric blanket, Tim remembered the warmth he felt inside at the touch of his teacher’s hand upon his shoulder that day. He could not recall ever having felt such warmth again—until now. As if the embers of a once-bright fire had received a fresh wind and new fuel, the warmth inside began to spread. It spread from his present to his past and back again. The anger and hatred he had felt time and time again when travelling down the dark cul-de-sacs of his mind, melted in the light of this balmy glow. The frustrations of those never-ending streets of unresolved thoughts broke through the barriers and opened up onto new, hopeful avenues for him. He couldn’t see the destination, but somehow he felt he was on a new path again, as if he were a boy sitting in that classroom again. In his mind he heard only those words repeated over and over: one, infinite eternal quality—love.
* * *
Almost everything that followed that night was lost on him. He heard the music, the singing, but he was lost in another world. He would not lose the new peace, the new life that took hold of him for anything in the world.
When he did open his eyes and remember where he was, he realized he should probably apologize to his companion for being so absorbed and so negligent in his manners. But she was no longer next to him. Everyone was standing, moving around, and starting to leave. The carol service was over.
“Excuse me,” he said to the man two seats over from him. “Did you see which way the young lady who was sitting here went?”
“Eh? What lady? No one was sitting in that seat during this service, Mister. Nothing been sittin’ there but that book. Thought it was yours. You feeling alright?” he said with just a hint of concern.
Tim’s reverie gave way to a moment of confusion, the kind of brief instability that overtakes a person when trying to determine if he is awake or still dreaming. He was stunned. He scanned the many faces, the coats, the backs of heads, all without success.
“I’m sure she didn’t leave. She was…she was here at the beginning,” he stammered.
The wife of the man next to him replied as they walked away. “Never saw her come in, dear. And we were here before you.”
While trying to unravel this mystery Tim looked down at the book, on top of which rested a small, folded slip of white linen paper. His name was written on it. There was nothing else on the paper so he picked up the book, turning it over in his hands. He noted the beauty of this newly-bound, olive-green, cloth-covered volume. Its spine and gilded edges were meticulously crafted. He thumbed through it, wanting to know what its contents were. And there, another mystery confronted him.
“Hang on,” he said out loud. The overwhelming sense of being out of control mentally, had loosened his lips. Realizing what he was doing, his conversation with himself turned inward: “This is…it’s my book—the one I dropped off at the bookshop just a few hours ago. There’s no way he could…I mean…it’s not possible. It’s not….”
His mind had reached another roadblock. Even the missing pages were in the book—pages he’d not seen before. The overwhelming warmth he had just enjoyed rushed into his heart again with words to match: one, infinite eternal quality—love.
He flipped through the book and stopped at the inside leaf, upon which were written words in the loveliest script he had ever seen. It said, “Here is an early Christmas gift. Many things are possible, Timothy, even the repair of ripped pages from the past. After all, the mysteries of God are more satisfying than all the answers you find in the world, as one of your poets has said. –Signed, Angela”