Read Online The Rich And The Profane by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Gash
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The window showed where the original stained glass had been excised, for a cheapo painted glass replacement concreted in. I’d seen holier sheds.
You can’t do much in a vigil cell, except vig. So I pondered.
The Channel Islands were news to me. I’d never been there. What did I know about them, offhand? Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, Sark, Herm. Were there more? Odd facts, like the Dame of Sark never lets motor cars ashore. There’s no love lost between Guernsey and Jersey, word is, because the former feels disadvantaged and the latter’s a snob. Herm is minute. Tourists abound. Did I know anything else?
Bits of the Channel Islands still have their own variants of the old Norman lingo, varying parish to parish. No antiques I could think of. No great tradition of joinery or jewellery, no dazzlingly brilliant silversmiths slogging away.
End of message. I’d been chucked into the priory’s pokey, I was especially narked to remember, on the orders not of Prior George, but of a trendy bird.
Two hours later, I’d searched my cell top to bottom. From outside I could hear some plainchant, nuns’ fragile warbling contrasting with the monks’ uneven bass. I felt daft and embittered. What God lets visitors get imprisoned? I’d only come from interest, to see how a religious community actually works, hadn’t I? Well, no. I’d come because Prior Metivier promised me filthy lucre, but I was still a person interested in God’s rotten old priory. I sulked.
After a third hour I wanted to pee, but there was no loo. The doors were locked. I decided to wait until everything went quiet - even the Inquisition had a rest now and then - whereupon I’d break a window and do a moonlight into Aldeburgh.
Just when I was getting really desperate there came a rattle of keys, locks, bolts. The door opened. A midget nun stood there.
‘Please come, my son,’ she piped. Son? That crinkly white biscuit-tin paper round their faces makes them all look like comely teenagers.
‘Where to?’ I didn’t budge.
‘To the prior’s sanctum.’
‘No. I’ve had enough.’ I stalked past her. Three monks stood in the cloister. Noisy, they’d have been formidable. Silent, they looked scary. ‘Which way?’ I asked the nun.
She walked ahead. Following a nun is quite boring, whereas following any other woman’s quite interesting. There’s always something to see. I heard the monks’ sandals going slap-slap-slap behind me. They let me have a pee in a spartan loo.
Then I felt it. We were going along a cloister when I stumbled. For a second I thought somebody had clouted me. I looked about. Nobody, except the nun, turning to see what the heck, and my trailing gaolers.
We were on one side of the inner courtyard. Work had ceased for the whilst. Against the cloister wall, no windows, was an array of artefacts on loose tiered shelving. Prior Metivier had evidently learnt display from his trip to the boot fair. Some had labels, ciborium - twelfth century; and vellum hours of the virgin - English, fifteenth century, and the like. They were covered by plastic.
‘Are you well, my son?’ asked this little titch in her saintly falsetto.
‘Eh? Ta, er, nun,’ I said. ‘I feel a bit queer.’
‘Please rest a moment.’
She pulled away the plastic, giving me room to perch.
The feeling worsened. I doubled with a groan, sweat coming down my face. I felt really giddy. Then I saw it. Up and to the left, almost burning my shoulder, was a metal animal mask. It looked home-made, as if some kiddie had worked it in Plasticine. Two recesses showed where eyes had been. Less than five inches wide, its mouth held a metal ring. Flecks of goldish colour gleamed, where inlay had once been. It was a simple handle. I looked, felt, listened. No, just the one. The other of the pair was missing.
‘Is he unwell, Sister Cecilia?’ one of the monks said, voice sepulchral.
‘He seems overcome, Brother Gervaise. Please bring his friend.’
Friend? I hadn’t any
You can’t do much in a vigil cell, except vig. So I pondered.
The Channel Islands were news to me. I’d never been there. What did I know about them, offhand? Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, Sark, Herm. Were there more? Odd facts, like the Dame of Sark never lets motor cars ashore. There’s no love lost between Guernsey and Jersey, word is, because the former feels disadvantaged and the latter’s a snob. Herm is minute. Tourists abound. Did I know anything else?
Bits of the Channel Islands still have their own variants of the old Norman lingo, varying parish to parish. No antiques I could think of. No great tradition of joinery or jewellery, no dazzlingly brilliant silversmiths slogging away.
End of message. I’d been chucked into the priory’s pokey, I was especially narked to remember, on the orders not of Prior George, but of a trendy bird.
Two hours later, I’d searched my cell top to bottom. From outside I could hear some plainchant, nuns’ fragile warbling contrasting with the monks’ uneven bass. I felt daft and embittered. What God lets visitors get imprisoned? I’d only come from interest, to see how a religious community actually works, hadn’t I? Well, no. I’d come because Prior Metivier promised me filthy lucre, but I was still a person interested in God’s rotten old priory. I sulked.
After a third hour I wanted to pee, but there was no loo. The doors were locked. I decided to wait until everything went quiet - even the Inquisition had a rest now and then - whereupon I’d break a window and do a moonlight into Aldeburgh.
Just when I was getting really desperate there came a rattle of keys, locks, bolts. The door opened. A midget nun stood there.
‘Please come, my son,’ she piped. Son? That crinkly white biscuit-tin paper round their faces makes them all look like comely teenagers.
‘Where to?’ I didn’t budge.
‘To the prior’s sanctum.’
‘No. I’ve had enough.’ I stalked past her. Three monks stood in the cloister. Noisy, they’d have been formidable. Silent, they looked scary. ‘Which way?’ I asked the nun.
She walked ahead. Following a nun is quite boring, whereas following any other woman’s quite interesting. There’s always something to see. I heard the monks’ sandals going slap-slap-slap behind me. They let me have a pee in a spartan loo.
Then I felt it. We were going along a cloister when I stumbled. For a second I thought somebody had clouted me. I looked about. Nobody, except the nun, turning to see what the heck, and my trailing gaolers.
We were on one side of the inner courtyard. Work had ceased for the whilst. Against the cloister wall, no windows, was an array of artefacts on loose tiered shelving. Prior Metivier had evidently learnt display from his trip to the boot fair. Some had labels, ciborium - twelfth century; and vellum hours of the virgin - English, fifteenth century, and the like. They were covered by plastic.
‘Are you well, my son?’ asked this little titch in her saintly falsetto.
‘Eh? Ta, er, nun,’ I said. ‘I feel a bit queer.’
‘Please rest a moment.’
She pulled away the plastic, giving me room to perch.
The feeling worsened. I doubled with a groan, sweat coming down my face. I felt really giddy. Then I saw it. Up and to the left, almost burning my shoulder, was a metal animal mask. It looked home-made, as if some kiddie had worked it in Plasticine. Two recesses showed where eyes had been. Less than five inches wide, its mouth held a metal ring. Flecks of goldish colour gleamed, where inlay had once been. It was a simple handle. I looked, felt, listened. No, just the one. The other of the pair was missing.
‘Is he unwell, Sister Cecilia?’ one of the monks said, voice sepulchral.
‘He seems overcome, Brother Gervaise. Please bring his friend.’
Friend? I hadn’t any
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