I saw the Italian man again in Julian’s church the other day. His beard had gone grey. I approached him after mass. He didn’t remember me from when he was in his bliss. Giuliano was his name. I know, he said, that’s why she called me. We went for tea in a café round the corner. He was timid now, worn. He told me he’d gone back to Italy after that first visit, but still felt drawn to Norwich, and had moved over to work as a carer. He talked about his shifts, the elderly people on his ward, the broken boiler in the flat he was renting. The first time I come here I stay all the day in the cell, he said. Now is different. Now I work. I have people to wash, to dress. Old people. I am tired. I still go to the church but now I don’t have so much time. I pray when I work. For me is difficult. He took a folded service sheet from his pocket, smoothed it on the table and put his finger under a baptism notice. On Sunday I am godfather in the Cathedral for my friend, he said. You can come.
I did. We met by the west door and went in together. We sat near the aisle. After the sermon the verger led the parents, godfather and priest down to the font. Giuliano walked with them, solemn, and the congregation turned to watch. The baby in a white frilly dress stared up at the high ceiling. She made a small noise. The mother adjusted her bonnet. The priest spoke and asked questions of the parents and godfather, who answered for her. We all wander far from God and lose our way. Do you turn away from sin? I do. Do you reject evil? I do. Water was poured over the little one’s head, the sign of the cross traced on her forehead in oil – on a face that couldn’t focus. She was being drawn into a story she knew nothing about.
We took Communion, then gathered outside. The family invited me to their house, but I declined and walked to the Boar’s Head. It was almost empty. I took a stool at the bar and ordered a pint. I got that uneasy Sunday afternoon feeling: I should be doing something productive, like sending job applications. The service sheet was still in my pocket. I put it on the bar and set my glass on it without thinking. I worried about the child, who now too was signed up to promises none of us could keep.
A couple of the regulars came in. One had just got divorced. I commiserated and bought him a drink. We bought each other drinks. Others turned up. We all drank, turned on our stools, laughed, went outside to smoke, came back. The chat turned silly. I had a squabble with an atheist who spotted the service sheet. I made one of those sudden half-cut decisions, went home, ate and slept. When I woke up it was dark and my head was woolly. The day had started out so beautifully, in good faith.
*
The next morning, with no work, I went to Communion at Julian’s. There were four other regulars. Let us confess our sins in penitence and faith… I haven’t turned away from sin, I thought, I turn to it, the Enemy whispers in my ear every day. Forgive us all that is past and grant that we may serve you in newness of life… We gave each other the peace, took the Eucharist, and went our ways. On the walk home the empty mood came over me again, the one in which nothing seems to matter and you might as well do what you want. The cars, shops and people were distant, as if behind glass. I looked into the Boar’s Head, but it was closed, thankfully. I paused, sat on an empty beer keg and rolled a cigarette. This mood, I thought – this void – is also a space something else might pass through, if I can hold it open.
*
Ah, then let me talk to you for a while, Lord. Mend the years of damage I’ve done to the parts of me that can still hear you. Clean the soul I make daily efforts to soil. I ask this while most of me resists it. Left to myself I lead myself astray.
The words we repeat in your places are very old. We try to make them new by saying them again. But I can’t sit and wait for the length it takes. The mood comes and I escape from you, back to the streets, the pub. Hidden God, who knows me better than I know myself, help me get under things to where you live. Let me start over.
Notes from a Room 