Set in the Somerset countryside during the summer of 1987, Our Lady of the Orchards is an exploration of two of life’s more implausible bedfellows – sexuality and religion. It is a dangerous land, sensual and liberating; one that refuses to adhere to the traditional tenets of faith. Conversely, it finds the dark, opposing desires of martyrdom and masochism deeply alluring. In this sense, Our Lady of the Orchards is both passion and true romance; a victory for beauty and truth over bigotry and hatred.
CHAPTER ONE
WELLS
'The ancient city of Wells, in its lovely situation below the Mendip Hills, is the typical quiet cathedral city of poetic imagination. The cathedral cities of England are generally populous towns as well. But Wells, brought into existence as solely an ecclesiastical centre, so remains. It has little other hold upon life, and is a dreamy spot with only sufficient business to support a weekly agricultural market.'
As the name would imply, this is a place of springs, wells and fountains. It was founded here precisely because of those waters, in this fertile vale beneath the waterless hills, about A.D. 704, by King Ina.’
WELLS
'The ancient city of Wells, in its lovely situation below the Mendip Hills, is the typical quiet cathedral city of poetic imagination. The cathedral cities of England are generally populous towns as well. But Wells, brought into existence as solely an ecclesiastical centre, so remains. It has little other hold upon life, and is a dreamy spot with only sufficient business to support a weekly agricultural market.'
As the name would imply, this is a place of springs, wells and fountains. It was founded here precisely because of those waters, in this fertile vale beneath the waterless hills, about A.D. 704, by King Ina.’
He didn’t look like a happy-clappy. Didn’t have the demeanour of one of God’s holy fools and to be perfectly honest a cathedral is the last place on earth I’d have expected to come across one of their ilk.
Ironic, isn’t it? Something about the atmosphere, I suppose, though I've never quite understood what they say about the serenity of churches; for me it’s the intensity increased one hundred fold, hardly a soothing experience.
What I don’t need now, not at this moment in time, are people like him upsetting my delicate balance or, worse still, probing the fragile façade I’ve so carefully constructed around myself. Life's hard enough already without having them cling on to me as if I were the widow of some modern-day martyr.
And I despise them.
I know that's an awful thing to say, especially coming from someone like me but that's how it is and I can't help thinking God sees it that way too. He realises He’s made a mistake and wants nothing more to do with it. We all know that not everything He created is perfect or turned out as He intended but it's not His fault; we are called upon to make the best of what limited abilities we possess.
It was raining outside, a heavy drizzle that ushered me into the porch from where I was driven into the cathedral itself by the volume of two overpowering American accents. I'd been in there most of the previous day, it was a Sunday and I'd attended each and every service.
I sat on a pew at the rear of the building and stared mindlessly at the maze of masonry that covered the ceiling. Vertigo got the better of me, even seated safely at ground level the height unnerved me, to think of men so precipitously suspended up there induced a giddy nausea. My gaze descended and picked out a plaque on the wall directly opposite me.
He stepped into my line of sight, not that I was looking at anything specific, and realising he had done so immediately apologised.
‘I’m sorry’, he said, ‘I didn't realise you were studying it too.’
‘Oh no, no, I wasn't really.’
He couldn't contain his enthusiasm and had to qualify his apology. ‘I never expected to actually find this; I didn't think I'd find anything at all. This is wonderful, absolutely wonderful. It changes everything. Completely.’
He sat down on a pew in front of me, his tall, thin body seeming to crease at his midriff, as if he were designed to fold down into a small box. He placed his straw Panama beside him and swivelled about to direct his attention solely at the plaque. From where I sat it was just possible to make out the wording, although the letters were writ large they'd faded over the centuries, the bronze had become tarnished:
In memory of Count Nestor de Lacey, the Lord of Nerôche, whose life expired this twentieth day of March in the Year of Our Lord 1796. Blessed are those whose eyes have seen the Lord, their sons shall live to reap great riches.
It meant little to me, I've seen such memorials the length and breadth of the country, but in straining to read it I must have unwittingly spoken out loud. He bounced out of the pew and hopped about in the aisle.
‘That's it! That's it! Blessed are those who have seen the Lord, their sons shall live to reap great riches.’
‘It's just a blessing’, I said, nonchalantly, not wishing to get drawn into his ravings for I now took him to be some kind of religious freak. I looked around for the nearest exit, assuming he was about to launch himself into a rant.
* * *
We went for coffee in a small cafe just off the High Street. As we crossed the cathedral square his long legs strode out purposefully and I had to trot to keep under the shelter of the huge umbrella he urged me to share. Water dripped onto the floor from coats and hats hung up to dry, steam rose from radiators, the air was thick and moist. Like a gentleman he showed me to my seat, sat himself down and handed me a menu.
‘Just a coffee for myself, please,’ I said.
‘Are you sure you won't have anything to eat?’
‘No, thank you, I'm not hungry.’
‘Do you mind if I ...’
He looked up pleadingly, as if he were making a last request. His eyes were deep, steely grey. I could not say whether they betrayed a cold, impenetrable interior or were deep, restorative pools of warmth. As he studied his menu I looked him over, making surreptitious glances in his direction whilst pretending to take in the surroundings.
Once more, with disproportionate care and attention, he placed his hat beside him. His white linen suit put me in mind of an explorer; he was smart, but in a casual, unconventional manner. The top button of his shirt was undone and his tie dropped several inches below his Adam's apple. His thick mop of curly hair was tinged with wisps of grey and framed his rather boyish looks with an impressive maturity. He was not, I now realised, at all deranged. Eccentric, yes, but rather in the iconic manner of an English country gentleman. There was something Edwardian about him, the sort of gentleman one might imagine emerging from the jungle as neat and trim as the day he left his country house. Or perhaps bump into on the village green, doffing his hat. “Good morning, Miss Puncknowle, and how are we today”. “Oh fine, Doctor Lovehayne, fine, thank you”.
His voice was crystal clear, a direct beam amongst the hazy dialects of those around us. Not a consonant was missed, not a word mispronounced yet it lacked the authoritarian baggage of the English upper class or the landed gentry. He had no accent, no geographic or social point of origin I could pin upon him.
When he ordered a soup, the surly young waitress suddenly opened up with a huge smile and gushed thank yous all over him before turning to me and scowling. ‘Certainly, madam’ she replied, curtly, that madam being imbued with resentment and jealousy.
‘I hope I didn't interrupt your meditation,’ he said, ‘you seemed deep in thought. I'm afraid that sometimes my enthusiasm gets the better of me. It's an unfortunate habit of mine, imposing my hobby on other people like that.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I was only sheltering from the rain, do you mind if I smoke?’
‘If you must, though I'd rather you didn't.’
I was fumbling in my handbag for cigarettes but stopped when my request met with such a negative response. Without the nicotine to calm my nerves I toyed with the cutlery.
‘It's such a vile habit’, he continued, ‘and so detrimental to your health. How old are you? You didn't ought to damage yourself at such an early age.’
I looked up, mildly taken aback by this, well, compliment I suppose. ‘Twenty-five’, I lied, as if he'd demanded an exact response.
‘You should take more care of yourself, then. Your skin won't thank you for that abuse when you're ten years older.’
‘I know, but I can't help it.’
‘Of course you can ...’ he was about to start a lecture but his meal arrived. I supped gingerly at my hot, frothy coffee whilst he consumed a couple of spoonfuls in silence, concentrating on his food before looking up at me.
‘Do you live here?’ he asked, quite straightforwardly, ‘you don't appear to be particularly local.’
‘No, I'm from London, I'm just sort of staying here for a few weeks.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Oh, I see.’
He returned to his food.
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘You're not from round here either, are you? I mean your accent, it doesn't quite fit.’
‘My accent? Oh, that's just my upbringing. No, I'm here as part of my research.’
‘About the cathedral?’
‘No, not really.’ He suddenly put down his spoon and wiped the corners of his mouth with his serviette, ‘I'm looking for Jesus Christ.’
Oh my God, he was a freak after all, and one of the happy clappies to boot.
‘Literally’, he smiled, ‘not religiously. Have you never heard the saying 'as sure as Christ came to Priddy'?’ I shook my head, he continued.
'There's an old Somerset legend that claims that when he was young, Christ came to Britain with his uncle, Joseph of Arimathea. I read an article about it a few months ago. I dismissed it as rubbish at first but the more I thought about it, the more plausible it became. There's a lot of fragmentary evidence, most of it very vague but nevertheless I decided to look into it; gradually it started to get a hold of me. You see, I have this strong, investigative streak in me, and I thought it might make an interesting book, local history and folklore. But I'm only a part-time writer, I'm a doctor, really, a psychiatrist - and I'm not at all religious.’
‘Oh.’
‘You sound disappointed. It's not a spiritual quest, it's purely historical, and I’m glad to say I've not been converted yet.’ He pushed his half-finished soup to one side and went on. ‘Are you a Christian?’
‘Yes, of course.’
'And you're upset because I'm not, aren't you? And I'm treading all over your emotional territory.’
‘No not at all’, I replied, taken aback by his sudden intrusion into my personal beliefs. ‘I don't think you can confuse the Bible with superstition.’
He laughed. I felt he was mocking me, pouring scorn on something I held very dear.
‘Are they not both one and the same thing? Believe me, there's far more to prove that Christ was here, two thousand years ago, than there is to back up all that nonsensical gibberish about miracles and resurrection. And I can’t think of anything more detrimental to the well-being of women than the concept of a Virgin birth. Perhaps you can tell me? Why does Christianity wage a constant war against sex and sexuality?’
I blushed horrifically, and tried to hide my face behind my hair. These were not the sort of questions I needed to address, the truth was surely self evident. I tried to divert the conversation back to the subject of my saviour. ‘But you must believe that Christ existed?’ I pleaded with him, wanting at least a modicum of conviction.
‘Sure he did, but only in the same way that you and I do, and, for example, Hitler did. I’ll concede to you that Jesus Christ is a historical fact, but he’s not unique in being greeted with messianic zeal. It’s all to do with a communal psychosis, and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the dangers that brings. Just think of the Nazis.’
I ignored his attempt to provoke me. ‘So why are you so interested in proving that he came here?’
He dropped his assertive, interrogative stance and sat back in contemplation. ‘You know, I'm not really sure about that; it just fascinates me. As I said, it's a hobby; some men watch football, some collect train numbers. Me? I like to make sure history is accurate, nice and symmetrical. I can't stand loose ends, I suppose.’
He smiled and picked up his bread, broke it in two and mopped up the remains of his meal. The couple on the table next to us talked loudly about the falling price of milk.
* * *
' Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee,
Blessed art thou amongst women,
blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners'
Pray for us sinners.
Oh Lord, make me holy, but only if it hurts ...
He'd said “why don't you come up to Priddy with me tomorrow, get out in the countryside, a bit of fresh air will do you good”. He'd said I looked a little pale and wan, he'd addressed me as Miss Puncknowle and I'd replied “Sam, please, everybody calls me Sam”. And then he'd put his hand on my shoulder and I'd felt hardly any pressure or weight. 'We can talk about this some more', he'd said. ‘If you like’.
'What are we going to look for in Priddy?' I'd asked.
‘For Jesus’, he'd replied, ‘we're going to find God.’
Ironic, isn’t it? Something about the atmosphere, I suppose, though I've never quite understood what they say about the serenity of churches; for me it’s the intensity increased one hundred fold, hardly a soothing experience.
What I don’t need now, not at this moment in time, are people like him upsetting my delicate balance or, worse still, probing the fragile façade I’ve so carefully constructed around myself. Life's hard enough already without having them cling on to me as if I were the widow of some modern-day martyr.
And I despise them.
I know that's an awful thing to say, especially coming from someone like me but that's how it is and I can't help thinking God sees it that way too. He realises He’s made a mistake and wants nothing more to do with it. We all know that not everything He created is perfect or turned out as He intended but it's not His fault; we are called upon to make the best of what limited abilities we possess.
It was raining outside, a heavy drizzle that ushered me into the porch from where I was driven into the cathedral itself by the volume of two overpowering American accents. I'd been in there most of the previous day, it was a Sunday and I'd attended each and every service.
I sat on a pew at the rear of the building and stared mindlessly at the maze of masonry that covered the ceiling. Vertigo got the better of me, even seated safely at ground level the height unnerved me, to think of men so precipitously suspended up there induced a giddy nausea. My gaze descended and picked out a plaque on the wall directly opposite me.
He stepped into my line of sight, not that I was looking at anything specific, and realising he had done so immediately apologised.
‘I’m sorry’, he said, ‘I didn't realise you were studying it too.’
‘Oh no, no, I wasn't really.’
He couldn't contain his enthusiasm and had to qualify his apology. ‘I never expected to actually find this; I didn't think I'd find anything at all. This is wonderful, absolutely wonderful. It changes everything. Completely.’
He sat down on a pew in front of me, his tall, thin body seeming to crease at his midriff, as if he were designed to fold down into a small box. He placed his straw Panama beside him and swivelled about to direct his attention solely at the plaque. From where I sat it was just possible to make out the wording, although the letters were writ large they'd faded over the centuries, the bronze had become tarnished:
In memory of Count Nestor de Lacey, the Lord of Nerôche, whose life expired this twentieth day of March in the Year of Our Lord 1796. Blessed are those whose eyes have seen the Lord, their sons shall live to reap great riches.
It meant little to me, I've seen such memorials the length and breadth of the country, but in straining to read it I must have unwittingly spoken out loud. He bounced out of the pew and hopped about in the aisle.
‘That's it! That's it! Blessed are those who have seen the Lord, their sons shall live to reap great riches.’
‘It's just a blessing’, I said, nonchalantly, not wishing to get drawn into his ravings for I now took him to be some kind of religious freak. I looked around for the nearest exit, assuming he was about to launch himself into a rant.
* * *
We went for coffee in a small cafe just off the High Street. As we crossed the cathedral square his long legs strode out purposefully and I had to trot to keep under the shelter of the huge umbrella he urged me to share. Water dripped onto the floor from coats and hats hung up to dry, steam rose from radiators, the air was thick and moist. Like a gentleman he showed me to my seat, sat himself down and handed me a menu.
‘Just a coffee for myself, please,’ I said.
‘Are you sure you won't have anything to eat?’
‘No, thank you, I'm not hungry.’
‘Do you mind if I ...’
He looked up pleadingly, as if he were making a last request. His eyes were deep, steely grey. I could not say whether they betrayed a cold, impenetrable interior or were deep, restorative pools of warmth. As he studied his menu I looked him over, making surreptitious glances in his direction whilst pretending to take in the surroundings.
Once more, with disproportionate care and attention, he placed his hat beside him. His white linen suit put me in mind of an explorer; he was smart, but in a casual, unconventional manner. The top button of his shirt was undone and his tie dropped several inches below his Adam's apple. His thick mop of curly hair was tinged with wisps of grey and framed his rather boyish looks with an impressive maturity. He was not, I now realised, at all deranged. Eccentric, yes, but rather in the iconic manner of an English country gentleman. There was something Edwardian about him, the sort of gentleman one might imagine emerging from the jungle as neat and trim as the day he left his country house. Or perhaps bump into on the village green, doffing his hat. “Good morning, Miss Puncknowle, and how are we today”. “Oh fine, Doctor Lovehayne, fine, thank you”.
His voice was crystal clear, a direct beam amongst the hazy dialects of those around us. Not a consonant was missed, not a word mispronounced yet it lacked the authoritarian baggage of the English upper class or the landed gentry. He had no accent, no geographic or social point of origin I could pin upon him.
When he ordered a soup, the surly young waitress suddenly opened up with a huge smile and gushed thank yous all over him before turning to me and scowling. ‘Certainly, madam’ she replied, curtly, that madam being imbued with resentment and jealousy.
‘I hope I didn't interrupt your meditation,’ he said, ‘you seemed deep in thought. I'm afraid that sometimes my enthusiasm gets the better of me. It's an unfortunate habit of mine, imposing my hobby on other people like that.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I was only sheltering from the rain, do you mind if I smoke?’
‘If you must, though I'd rather you didn't.’
I was fumbling in my handbag for cigarettes but stopped when my request met with such a negative response. Without the nicotine to calm my nerves I toyed with the cutlery.
‘It's such a vile habit’, he continued, ‘and so detrimental to your health. How old are you? You didn't ought to damage yourself at such an early age.’
I looked up, mildly taken aback by this, well, compliment I suppose. ‘Twenty-five’, I lied, as if he'd demanded an exact response.
‘You should take more care of yourself, then. Your skin won't thank you for that abuse when you're ten years older.’
‘I know, but I can't help it.’
‘Of course you can ...’ he was about to start a lecture but his meal arrived. I supped gingerly at my hot, frothy coffee whilst he consumed a couple of spoonfuls in silence, concentrating on his food before looking up at me.
‘Do you live here?’ he asked, quite straightforwardly, ‘you don't appear to be particularly local.’
‘No, I'm from London, I'm just sort of staying here for a few weeks.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Oh, I see.’
He returned to his food.
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘You're not from round here either, are you? I mean your accent, it doesn't quite fit.’
‘My accent? Oh, that's just my upbringing. No, I'm here as part of my research.’
‘About the cathedral?’
‘No, not really.’ He suddenly put down his spoon and wiped the corners of his mouth with his serviette, ‘I'm looking for Jesus Christ.’
Oh my God, he was a freak after all, and one of the happy clappies to boot.
‘Literally’, he smiled, ‘not religiously. Have you never heard the saying 'as sure as Christ came to Priddy'?’ I shook my head, he continued.
'There's an old Somerset legend that claims that when he was young, Christ came to Britain with his uncle, Joseph of Arimathea. I read an article about it a few months ago. I dismissed it as rubbish at first but the more I thought about it, the more plausible it became. There's a lot of fragmentary evidence, most of it very vague but nevertheless I decided to look into it; gradually it started to get a hold of me. You see, I have this strong, investigative streak in me, and I thought it might make an interesting book, local history and folklore. But I'm only a part-time writer, I'm a doctor, really, a psychiatrist - and I'm not at all religious.’
‘Oh.’
‘You sound disappointed. It's not a spiritual quest, it's purely historical, and I’m glad to say I've not been converted yet.’ He pushed his half-finished soup to one side and went on. ‘Are you a Christian?’
‘Yes, of course.’
'And you're upset because I'm not, aren't you? And I'm treading all over your emotional territory.’
‘No not at all’, I replied, taken aback by his sudden intrusion into my personal beliefs. ‘I don't think you can confuse the Bible with superstition.’
He laughed. I felt he was mocking me, pouring scorn on something I held very dear.
‘Are they not both one and the same thing? Believe me, there's far more to prove that Christ was here, two thousand years ago, than there is to back up all that nonsensical gibberish about miracles and resurrection. And I can’t think of anything more detrimental to the well-being of women than the concept of a Virgin birth. Perhaps you can tell me? Why does Christianity wage a constant war against sex and sexuality?’
I blushed horrifically, and tried to hide my face behind my hair. These were not the sort of questions I needed to address, the truth was surely self evident. I tried to divert the conversation back to the subject of my saviour. ‘But you must believe that Christ existed?’ I pleaded with him, wanting at least a modicum of conviction.
‘Sure he did, but only in the same way that you and I do, and, for example, Hitler did. I’ll concede to you that Jesus Christ is a historical fact, but he’s not unique in being greeted with messianic zeal. It’s all to do with a communal psychosis, and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the dangers that brings. Just think of the Nazis.’
I ignored his attempt to provoke me. ‘So why are you so interested in proving that he came here?’
He dropped his assertive, interrogative stance and sat back in contemplation. ‘You know, I'm not really sure about that; it just fascinates me. As I said, it's a hobby; some men watch football, some collect train numbers. Me? I like to make sure history is accurate, nice and symmetrical. I can't stand loose ends, I suppose.’
He smiled and picked up his bread, broke it in two and mopped up the remains of his meal. The couple on the table next to us talked loudly about the falling price of milk.
* * *
' Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee,
Blessed art thou amongst women,
blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners'
Pray for us sinners.
Oh Lord, make me holy, but only if it hurts ...
He'd said “why don't you come up to Priddy with me tomorrow, get out in the countryside, a bit of fresh air will do you good”. He'd said I looked a little pale and wan, he'd addressed me as Miss Puncknowle and I'd replied “Sam, please, everybody calls me Sam”. And then he'd put his hand on my shoulder and I'd felt hardly any pressure or weight. 'We can talk about this some more', he'd said. ‘If you like’.
'What are we going to look for in Priddy?' I'd asked.
‘For Jesus’, he'd replied, ‘we're going to find God.’