Chapter 6: Epilogue

Peter Clifford, retired bishop, was living at Aston Hall, the priests' retirement home in the Staffordshire countryside. It was mid morning, and he sat in his wheelchair, enjoying the fresh air of the garden after Mass and breakfast. He read his breviary while he waited for his visitor.

He felt the sun on his right arm and so knew that he had been praying for about 30 minutes. It amused him to position his wheelchair just inside the pointed shadow thrown by a cypress tree with a groomed triangular profile. And he knew that, positioned where he was, the sun had to move through about eight degrees to cross his wheelchair. He was not sure whether the cypress tree really had been intended as the gnomon of a sundial: no-one seemed to know – it was several decades old. The style, if that was what the sloping edge was intended to be, inclined more west than north. At one time he had placed cocktail sticks in the lawn in an attempt to calibrate it as a sundial, not that the gardener had liked this at all – the lawn mower either flattened or threw them.

Peter closed the breviary, repositioning the marker ribbon for the day's evening prayer. He stretched his back, flexing his shoulders, and looked around the garden, the large circular lawn ringed by rhododendron bushes, just past flowering now. It had rained overnight and despite the pleasant hazy sunshine there was a mist lying over the adjacent fields, through which the River Trent meandered. Traffic noise from the nearby Stafford road was a distant hum. The only identifiable sounds were the just audible slow diesel of a boat on the canal and the warning cries of the thrushes and blackbirds as a pair of magpies searched for their nests.

He looked to his right as he heard footsteps crunching the gravel path around the house; his visitor approached. He moved his wheelchair alongside one of the benches. He had known Fr Anthony Grieve for many years. Anthony had originally come to him on the advice of his Dean after he had fallen in love. The Dean had recalled a seminar given by Peter at St Mary's College, Oscott, in which he had touched on his own experiences as a young priest. They had become firm friends, and, now that Peter was retired, Anthony called on him whenever he was in the area.

Catching sight of Peter, Anthony hastened his walk. Coming to a standstill beside Peter, Anthony threw a deep bow and dramatic flourish with his arm: "My Lord of Valentiniana and Aston-by-Stone, I am deeply grateful for this audience."

They had been playing this teasing game for years, ever since Anthony found out that Peter really hated being called 'My Lord', the conventional mode of formal address for a bishop. Peter had folded his arms so that Anthony could not kiss his right hand, a courtesy that had been abandoned in the 1960s, even in jest, but played along.

"And how is the very reverend the Vice-Dean of Lichfield?"

"Oh, in transition, my Lord."

"Really?"

They abandoned the game. Anthony sat on the bench seat next to Peter and gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder.

"You're looking well, Peter."

"Kind of you to say so. I'm learning to live with my limitations."

"Are you still getting the headaches?"

He leaned away from Peter to get a good, close look at him. He tried not to see the oval hairless patch on the right side of his head, nor the still red scar that surrounded it. But the smiling sad eyes were the same as ever, albeit set in a greyer and thinner and more lined face. The beard that had been a dark grey shadow when he had last visited was now white, and long enough to move with the breeze.

"I'm learning to avoid provoking them. I don't read or write or watch TV for more than 20 minutes at a time. But I have to take the painkillers in the evening, and they just about flatten me. What's this about being in transition?"

"The Arch is moving me, down to Caversham."

"That's about as far south as the diocese goes, isn't it?"

"Yeah. So, I'm afraid that I'll not be able to get to see you as often."

"Is it a big parish?"

"About 3000, a couple of schools and a hospital; I'll have two permanent deacons and there's a retired priest in residence. But I'll also be joint secretary of the St Barnabas Society."

"That sounds interesting. But I thought they always had a convert priest for that role?"

"Yeah. They've always had a full-time priest as secretary, but there's no-one suitable available, apparently. So, they are appointing a layman, a former Methodist, and me jointly. I've been told to expect to spend a day a week at their HQ in Wolvercote, but much of the work is done on the phone anyway."

"You are going to be busy."

"I'm really excited about it. I've met the deacons and they're great guys."

"Just remember to pace yourself and take regular time away to pray!"

"Yeah, I know. I've not forgotten the pickle you got me out of."

"How are …"

Anthony noticed the tremor in Peter's right hand. He reached over and held it affectionately in his left. "Jeanette and Robert?"

"Sorry. Yes. Sorry, I'm tiring and memory plays up."

Anthony had noticed too the slight slurring that had crept into Peter's speech. "They're fine, just about to be grandparents for the third time. They've already got me to promise to do the baptism." Jeanette was the girl he had fallen in love with.

Peter smiled and nodded, but said nothing. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Anthony still holding Peter's trembling hand.

Sister Anne stepped out into the garden, walked over to the two priests and mouthed to Anthony, "How is he?"

Anthony mouthed back, "Tired."

Sister Anne nodded and walked back into the house.

- - - 888- - -

Anthony looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I shall have to go, Peter. I have to be back in Rugeley for a Deanery meeting at one."

Peter stirred himself from his reverie. "Can you stay for a bite of lunch?"

"Sorry, no, old bean."

Peter smiled at the allusion to PG Wodehouse. "Well thanks for coming. Lovely to see you. Can I ask a favour before you go?"

"OK, if it's quick – I've stayed too long as it is."

"Can you push me into the chapel."

"No problemo!"

Peter groaned. "You do have the strangest literary taste!"

Grinning, Anthony steered the wheelchair through the garden door into the hallway, past the main staircase, the dining room and sitting room, then turned right into the private chapel. Peter helped by pushing the heavy door open.

"There's my perch, where the fillet has been removed from the end of the pew."

Peter dropped the side of the wheelchair, and hauled himself across the seat and into the pew, while Anthony held onto the wheelchair.

"God bless, Peter. See you soon"

Anthony genuflected to the Blessed Sacrament, turned with a wave and walked to the door.

Peter called after him, "Could you tell Sister Anne where I am?"

"No problemo," came the reply as Anthony closed the chapel door behind him.

Peter smiled as he felt in his jacket pocket for his rosary beads.

- - -888 - - -

Just as he began the fifth decade of the rosary, he heard a familiar voice calling.

"Peter?"

Without conscious thought, he stood up, stepped out of the pew and looked around. There were two figures standing at the back of the chapel, one facing away from him, looking at the portrait of Blessed Dominic Barbari on the back wall. He genuflected to the tabernacle, turned and walked over towards the other, the woman.

"Peter!"

This time he recognised her voice, and her smile, head tilted slightly to one side. For a second, words failed him.

"Assumpta! What are you doing here?"

Then he became aware that he was standing unsupported, that he could walk again, and that his surroundings had greyed out, in a kind of mist. Turning about in a panic, he looked back and saw himself slumped in the pew, still with the rosary beads wound around the fingers of his right hand, and the empty wheelchair in the aisle. Realisation was dawning.

Laughing at his confusion, she said, "Welcome to eternity, Peter. And I love you! I've been waiting a long time to say that to you."

"I … I … Why …?"

The other figure, dressed he could now see in an alb, turned towards him and spoke: "She asked if she could greet you and she was given that favour."

Peter put out his hands, ran to her, pulled her towards him, and held her close, closing his eyes and fondling her hair, just as he had done by the lough years before, and rejoiced in their closeness.

"And thank you for anointing me … I've waited to say that too."

"You knew?"

"I was there! I was standing beside you. I was terrified! I was pleading with you to absolve me, but you couldn't hear. My guardian angel told me to speak to Niamh, and he spoke to Fr Mac."

"Good Lord! How long were you there?"

"I saw you throw you collar into the river. I was told about your sitting with my body at the mortuary, and about the wake, and about the Mass and committal prayers a year on."

With tears in his eyes, he tightened his hold around her shoulders and rocked her from side to side. Then, he sprang back as momentarily he felt guilty; the thought had entered his mind that he should not be doing this.

The figure in white spoke reassuringly: "Peter, be at peace. You cannot now cherish a wish or do or think anything that is wrong."

Puzzled, Peter turned to him and asked hesitantly: "Who are you?"

"My Father gave me charge of you from before you were born, to serve you and to save you. But my work is almost done: I'm here to take you home and I gladly share the joy of welcoming you with the love of your life …"

"You're my guardian angel!"

"Yes, Peter my brother, I am your angel-guardian. Come, I must take you to your judgement."

"I must prepare … but I feel no apprehension."

"Your life and ministry have been your preparation. And judgment has commenced already in your heart – that is why you feel no fear. You are already among the just."

Peter, turned back for Assumpta, but she had receded into the distant mist. But he heard her voice clearly in his mind saying, "Peter, farewell, but not forever … my dearest love! Be brave and patient on your bed of sorrow. Your night of trial will pass swiftly, and I'll come and wake you when it's over."

The angel put his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Come now …"


With apologies to John Henry Newman.

If you want to know what happens next, read "The Dream of Gerontius", starting from the third phase, at

http: / / www. ccel .org /n/newman/gerontius/gerontius.htm .

Even better, listen to part 2 of the oratorio "The Dream of Gerontius" by Edward Elgar.

Notes

1. Matthew Ch 28 v 29: He answered, 'I will not go' but afterwards thought better of it and went.

2. The quotation from Paul Burke is from 'The Life of Reilly' by Paul Burke, Hodder & Stoughton Ltd (2007), ISBN-10: 0340734477.

3. Faculties: permission from the diocesan bishop for a priest to exercise his ministry in the diocese.

4. Exeat: formal leave of absence (Latin - let him go out)

5. Bishop Costello: I have used the character, one of Fr MacAnally's golfing friends, who introduced himself when checking into Fitzgeralds in episode 2.1 "For One Night Only". 'Costello' is a phonetic anglicisation of the Irish 'Goisdealbhaigh', in turn an Irish version of a Norman name from the 11th century, and common in Mayo, Galway and Dublin. There are several common variants, e.g. Costolloe, Costelo, Costellow and Costillo.

6. 'Ad clerum', literally 'to the clergy', means a letter from a bishop to the priests and deacons of his diocese, as distinct from a pastoral letter, which is to the people of the diocese and usually read out at Mass in place of the homily/sermon.

7. The words of the Pie Jesu are: Pie Jesu, Qui tollis peccata mundi, Dona eis requiem. Agnus Dei, Dona eis requiem sempiternam. In English: Merciful Jesus, Who takes away the sins of the world, Grant them rest. Lamb of God, Grant them everlasting rest. (See Wikipedia for its derivation from the last two lines of the prayers Dies Irae and Agnus Die from the Latin funeral Mass.) The Pie Jesu does not itself form part of the funeral Mass, though several composers have included it in their settings.)

8. Valentiniana: one of the titular sees, defunct ancient dioceses, given by the Catholic Church to bishops who are not the head of a diocese. Valentiniana is the modern Valenciennes, Belgium (I think).