Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
January, 1933
Gil,
Strictly speaking, I don't suppose this is a manse any more. The church is dissolved, my people scattered. Actually, my people are still very much where they ever were, in the Patterson St row and council houses. What they are not is attending the newly established Hope Park and Martyrs' on the High. This, should you be wondering, is what was Hope Park, its name since changed to reflect the absorption of our parish. All in the interest of continuity, apparently. And my people aren't staying away because of loyalty. I'm not so vain as to suppose that, I hope.
Faith paid the pew rent for the year and she says its higher than anyone ever paid on Patterson St. No surprise there, though some disappointment. Worse, the few former congregants that scraped payment together were turned away at the door because they smelled of fish. As if it was novel that people who fish for a living … I would be uncharitable were I to continue.
At least Rev Hannigan agreed to Faith continuing her Sunday surgeries at the newly-formed Hope Park and Martyrs. So, if the people who need her can just get past the sidespeople, they can at least receive bodily help, if not Godly.
I also hear they'll use the money from the sale of the Martyrs' Manse to commission new vestments. This isn't what I would do with the money, but since it's no longer my parish, what I would do is moot.
Instead, I'm overhauling the former manse's central boiler system. Not by myself, Gil! I'm no engineer. Sam, Shirley and Jake are going to have a look at it come Easter. In the meantime, the High St church isn't a bad one. The sermons are good, and since I don't smell of fish, people are friendly. But it's strange becoming a congregant after years of preaching. Phil says it won't last, that I can make a project out of anything, and I hope she's right. I never had John's gift for hunkering down with a brick of a book and reading. So, I'm keeping both eyes peeled for community work that won't offend still-active ministers. If I wasn't much for bookishness, I was even less for church politics. One thing I emphatically do not miss is answering to a secretariat.
Also, travelling for Christmas was nice. Ruthie hosted a Bolingbroke Christmas of the old kind, all tinsel, and baubles. The mountains of gifts weren't as high as in the old days, but I don't see that as a failing. If you tell my grandchildren I said so, I'll deny everything.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.
Jo
New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
January, 1933
Jo,
Happy New Year! We spent ours freezing on the Ingleside veranda, ringing it in with pots and pans. Susan was Shocked with a capital S. Hector gamely clobbered a skillets with tongs, and Miss Abby whacked a lid against a saucepan as musically as she could. It was Di's idea. She said they used to do it during the Swallowgate Era.
But what I wanted to say was that Carl telegrammed about the baby. It's brief; Her name is Iris. Letter soon. They had better send pictures, too. We're longing to meet her.
Ingleside is on the receiving end of much rhapsodizing, as is your daughter. They're extremely gracious. Anyone would think no one had invented babies until Iris. But Naomi's really pleased. She ran over as soon as she got her telegram to share the news. She's only sorry the children won't grow up together. Iris and little Gordon are almost of an age. They could have begat all kinds of mischief together.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
P.S. Of course Martyrs' is still a manse. As long as you are there, then so is God. Besides, what else would we call it? Nothing would stick.
New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
January, 1933
Jo,
Una's letter arrived, photos inclusive. It's exhilarating reading, once we got past staring starry-eyed at the photos. They aren't newborn photos. What I mean is, she's a beautiful baby. Solemn-looking, like her mother, but beautiful. Pearly and sleek, and with eyes like water without moonlight, deep and dark, and lovely.
Una and one of her ACS helped deliver her. The doctor wouldn't come. Carl wanted to go rale at them in person. Carl, who's never raled at anything in his life that I can remember. But there wasn't any point. They knew and Li knew that the doctor would have come for Una, but it wasn't her baby and no amount of indignation would change that. Meanwhile, the baby wasn't waiting for some rarified medic to see the light, so they got on with practicalities.
Needless to say, everyone was relieved it was an uncomplicated birth. They gave her Una for a middle name, and Cecilia too. I hadn't expected that. I hadn't expected to be so moved by that. Iris is for the flowers Carl gave Li back when they were courting.
They all adore her, even Puck. Especially Puck. He sings to her in Monkey and rocks the cradle – and Una lets him. Nenni actually sleeps in the cot, curled around her especially noisy kitten. I mentioned of this last time I spoke to Larkrise on the 'phone, and one of the girls said breezily, 'Just like the tabby cat at the manger!'
I suppose you know all about that? Or should I place it on the Fox Corner doorstep? Because I've never heard anything about tabby cats at the Nativity. That reminds me, I have an appointment with my study to peruse books for mentions of it. I'll pass on what I find.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
Feb, 1933
John,
The university got in touch the other day. Since absorbing Holy Trinity Waterford and Martyrs' into his parish, the Rev Hannigan has stepped down from the chaplaincy position. Would I like it? What I am is stunned.
I'm not sure I do want it. What could I possibly say to so many young people? I can't always reach my sons when shadows fall over them. Even Naomi loses me, sometimes. She was homesick – no other word for it – for Singapore this Christmas. I saw that plainly, but what good does seeing it do? I can talk till I'm blue in the face about how glad I am to have her back, how relieved I am that she's miles away from all that trouble with China; Mao and the Japanese, and all the rest, but that doesn't stop her missing it. Fred Arnold had it right, I think, when he said the place gets into your blood. Once you've been, you can't forget.
Then he said he and Naomi wanted to take a mission group over to visit for the next Jubilee. I'm afraid to tell Gilbert. I know Di loved it out there, and I don't suppose she's well enough to travel. But they were so excited about catching up with old friends and meeting Iris.
I'm comforted that the Glen also sounds like Naomi's home these days. That's your doing, as much as anyone's. All those lengthy talks over tea about Asiatic geography and mutual friends, I shouldn't wonder. Keep it up, John. Do the thing I can't for my child.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
February, 1933
Jo,
I suppose your house is likewise full of opinions about the political climate? The phone has been ringing off the hook ever since news came in, and I blame your daughter for her thorough coverage of the German election. Hitler Makes Gain but still Short Majority is exactly the kind of subhead that gets talked about. Ed Morris was up the other day and I hinted he might move her on to something mundane and leave International News to less capable people.
'Like what?' said Ed, 'Housekeeping Advice? Even if Naomi would do it, it would be terrible business policy.'
He may be right, but he's got Susan back to writing letters to politicians. I endorsed this, because it's a sedentary activity. It's probably terrible for her blood pressure, but if it makes another generation of children laugh (it does), it's worth it.
I don't know who suggested that university work wouldn't suit you, but I've a bone to pick with them. So has John, and he usually leaves bone-picking to me. You got both my boys into a church where previously they weren't members. John couldn't do it, and The War couldn't do it, but you did.
Ah, says you, but that's up to their wives. It plainly isn't, because Shirley is no more Catholic than he is a Dutchman. Think on that a minute. Think of all the fits you saved Susan having. No, you built Martyrs' from the ground up. You founded it on a community that drew people in. Jem never grasped John's studied theology, and Shirley never understood the Elect. You gave them fellowship. Rosemary calls it Conversion by teacup. I venture that is exactly what students need. They are sermonised at on a near-daily basis. Go on, give them Food Ministries, Fish Suppers, and Red Cross Hampers intended for the baking prairies. I think you'd be pleasantly surprised by the turnout. It wouldn't happen overnight, but what worthwhile thing does?
Don't you remember how I half-killed myself over that Cooper Prize? It can't be only me. Find my inheritor, Jo, and give him an alternative that's a bit less brutal, won't you? Make them laugh with stories of choral schisms and bell tower carpentry. Warn against the bureaucracy of Heritage Trust Applications. Shock them with extemporary sermons on life rather than lectionary, and for goodness' sake, prove that not all learning comes out of a book. Academics forever forget to say so.
I have this all on the brain. It's Bruce's fault. He's at the terrifying stage where one shifts from double- and cross-checking a diagnosis to trusting one's gut. It's terrifying. Perhaps the most terrifying thing a doctor does. I'm afraid I told him so. Honest, but pretty cold comfort when you're up against it.
Alastair doesn't help. The way he works all hours to finish up the new downstairs bedroom brings my Cooper Prize era back in full colour. It's going to be a lovely room. Much brighter and sunnier than I expected, given its origins. He and Di can move down there in the spring. Fewer stairs for Di, and two people closer to an ailing Susan.
Susan doesn't like that at all, but she's too distracted writing to politicians and knitting for the impending Fox Corner baby to give it full grumble. She's knitting up the same baby blanket pattern she always does. A teddy-bear design in alternating stripes. This baby will get green and white.
Speaking of children, I had an interesting chat with one of mine. Di and I got talking over Othello the other night. She's still better than the man that taught her, and I suspect, secretly a bit pleased that the infant paralysis didn't undermine that on top of the rest.
I'd had a letter from Nan, so was reading sections aloud, and doing my usual fretting about the little girls – who aren't little these days, not really – being isolated.
'It can't be healthy,' I said. 'Think of how alone you were when Nan was off with her bosom friends, and your Laura had moved away. You hadn't anyone else. That's Mandy and Miri all the time.'
'You're looking at it all wrong,' said Di. 'Look how close the girls are, to Nan and Jerry. Mandy's better than anyone at reading Jerry's moods. He can't bear crowds, but she can climb up into his lap unannounced, and they're a world unto themselves.'
I hadn't thought of it that way. Growing up, our children lived in worlds of their own. I heard about it in snatches between callouts and over supper, or when Anne whispered in my ear o' nights. How Nan had bargained with God, Jenny Penny disappointed Di, Rilla's mortification at carrying a cake across the Glen. Nan and Jerry don't need the catch-up. They're perpetually in that world along with their girls, intimately acquainted with everything from the names of Mandy's woodland creatures to Miri's latest story idea. Neither Anne nor I understood what it was about cakes that was so humiliating to Rilla. No one had to explain to Jerry why Mandy loved to dance.
Tell me, Jo, when did the children get to be so wise?
Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
March, 1933
Gil,
When you put it like that, I can almost see myself in the university chapel. Almost. When I think on the advisory part of the enterprise, I even think I'd like it. Then I think of the students all gowned of a Sunday, in the collegiate pews, of the Divinity Students with their aspirations towards Ministry, and know I wouldn't get away with sermonising on life. They want fine-sounding stuff on the lectionary, I shouldn't wonder, and I could certainly try, but I don't think I'd be much good at it.
Anyway, there are other things to consider. I ran across Faith at Sam's the other day – trying to disentangle her girls from his – and we got to talking about The War. Specifically the men she treated, and how the worst of it hadn't been the bone-setting, or the bandages, or even the severed limbs, but that sometimes the best she could do was a half-remembered prayer and hold a hand as their souls fled. I gather there was an irregular chaplain, but his denomination rarely matched the dying person's. I don't suppose God cares, but men do. The Susans of the world do. Maybe it isn't important, but it can feel the most important thing in the world.
And then Faith said she'd got the problem all over again. Patients sick, patients dying, and can she find the chaplain? Can she never.
'I can do the by-the-numbers stuff,' she said. 'A quick Lord's Prayer, maybe half a line of that thing about the armour of light. But I have a hospital full of patients that would appreciate someone who knew what they were doing. Lots of them aren't even dying.'
Well, that answered the question of Helen's eternal optimism, anyway. I'd always had half an idea she plucked it out of the heavens, sort of her inheritance instead of Tongues, or Interpretation or any of the other gifts. It may still be, but if that's true, it's her mother's gift also.
I don't know who I thought was doing the hospital round before. But there ought to be someone. I'll go in this week and if they need me, I'll hang about.
As it happens, I knew all about your witticisms re Naomi's column. I surmise Ed Morris told her, or else Betty did. She promises solemnly to work in a bit about silk embroidery next time she covers what Mao's doing to China.
Glad to see you haven't lost your gift for making us all laugh. That's your Gift of the Spirit, Gil. Hold onto it.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
April, 1933
Jo,
You asked about Di. It's easier to start with Dulce. She's as bad as Miss Abby for sticking to Di's side. Worse, possibly. I tried to take her on a ramble through the Maple Wood the other day, and Dulce absolutely would not go. She planted her feet on the verandah, dug her nails into the ground, and wouldn't budge. I took the lead off in case she was choking, and she bolted straight back to Di.
I know a lost cause when I see one. I forewent the walk and settled down in my armchair to finally finish Have His Carcass. Anne's been on at me to get to it for weeks so she can finally talk about it to at someone, and I finally had free time.
She's crosser now, because I saw the ending from miles off and she didn't. Blame my medical training and my mother's fascination with Queen Victoria and family.
Whereas, Di is too busy mastering crutches to read. I actually think she'd enjoy this Sayers, but she says she's fed up with sitting still. I can't blame her. She's making slow progress, but it's definitely progress. Maybe some day she and Dulce and I can ramble around the lawn.
Lest I forget in the confusion of existing, happy Easter. We miss our Wandering Merediths this year; They're holidaying in Vancouver with – of all people! – Stella. Isn't the world small?
Did I tell you about that? Nan and Jerry hadn't been at the new house days before she dropped in with one of her crumbles and a pot basil. Anne wrote that the children were coming. Stella was 'shocked and offended' (her words) that no one ordered her to greet them on arrival. So, she went and did it anyway.
I want a full report of your Bolingbroke Easter. If Christmas was anything to go on, you're in for an Occasion. Hetta's ghost will be thrilled.
Love ever,
Gil