Second Spring

Epiphany

A short story

By Léonie Caldecott

I'm a prehistoric fish, she thought: a useless curiosity.

"What's a Benediction?" asked Nicholas.

She was thinking about the day, and about past days--the days of Christmas during which she had run hither and thither in pursuit of excellence according to the standards of Good Housekeeping magazine,

Anna fastened her eyes on a large statue of the Virgin Mary, her serene features peering out from under a golden crown.

"For Mama!" crowed Nathaniel triumphantly.

Anna gazed at the head in the glass case. Her tired eyes moved in and out of focus: now on the shrunken, blackened head, now on the reflection of her own face in the glass. She was not sure which she disliked more. Her mother's clipped tone, punctuating Christmas with its critical litany, resounded in her ears. "Really my dear, you must take more care of yourself, you used to have such a lovely complexion." Anna caught sight of her dank hair, revealed as the heat of the museum persuaded her to unswathe; the frown marks, the lines around the mouth that spoke of a resignation that was far from peaceful.

Her gaze switched back to the contents of the display case. The heads were war-trophies collected by the Jivaro tribe of Ecuador, severed, shrunk, and preserved by elaborate processes, in order to capture the spirit of the enemy. Anna couldn't help smiling, in spite of her headache: the mouth of the victim, its full lips sewn shut, seemed almost to smile back. With enemies to preserve you like this, who needs friends? it seemed to say.

Before she had time to dwell further on the incongruous reflection, the children's voices broke in. The twins had found a trio of monkeys, exquisitely carved, one hiding its ears, one its eyes, one its mouth. "Why are they doing that, Mama?" said Nicholas. "Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil," said Anna. "It's a traditional Chinese saying." Before she could launch into further explanations, they were off to look at the next thing, a model of a Mongolian temple inhabited by a giant golden god. Lucy said she'd like to have it as a doll's house.

"Forget it," said Nicholas; "gods can't be treated like dolls."

"All right," said Lucy, "I'd keep it as a god's house then, and pray instead of play."

They never stopped, this pair; neither ever let the other get the upper hand. Theirs was an intimacy of perpetual repartee, an incessant tour de force in which the audience was blissfully guaranteed. As Anna watched them, a habitual reassurance crept through her. May they find strength in this, against the disappointments of later years. Her eye, wandering back along the glass, passed by a series of mother and child figurines. There fraternized the large-breasted Hindu goddess Parvarti, a rigidly enthroned Isis, and the Chinese goddess of mercy, Kwan-Yin, each with her son in her arms. There was also a medieval Madonna, whose dignified robes echoed most closely those of the Chinese goddess. Only her son had no head. And his hand, raised to bless, was missing.

* * *

Nathaniel was now stirring in his buggy. For a few moments, the bright blue eyes gazed impassively around at the strange environment, the Victorian railway depot with its cast-iron balustrades, its maze of display cases, its bulging collection of anthropological trophies. Oh, said the eyes, the sleepy lips, the small pointing finger, the curious, stretching foot: Oh look, Mama, look. Anna wheeled him towards the object of his interest: a massive totem pole, stretching up from the ground floor into the upper galleries. There was a moment of amazement, before immediate needs asserted themselves.

"Dink!"

There was some juice left in the beaker, but somehow the cap had come loose, and it had leaked into Anna's bag. Cursing herself for putting it away too hurriedly during the tantrum that had preceded the nap, she tried to survey the damage. It would require a complete turning out of the contents of the bag, something that was impossible in the present circumstances. The other visitors wouldn't appreciate tripping over this impromptu contemporary exhibition. Anna rounded up the twins with promises of tea, and they made their way out of the ethnographic section into the airier outer part of the museum. It was a relief, somehow, to be away from the brooding presence of human artifacts and into the clear-cut realm of natural history.

"Look, Mama, here's a prehistoric fish," said Nicholas. "There are still some surviving," said Lucy, reading the notes under the title Coelacanth, "deep in the ocean. They don't lay eggs. They carry their babies inside them, just like us." Just like us, thought Anna, looking at Nat, wriggling in his buggy to get a look at the "big fishie." I'm a prehistoric fish, she thought: a useless curiosity. She swam steadily toward the exit as an elegant couple looked with leisurely interest at the remains of the dodo on the far wall.

"A fat bird without the strength to fly," laughed the young woman. She reminded Anna of her single sister-in-law, who worked out in a gym and told her she'd be less tired all the time if she got more exercise. "So it wasn't just a figment of Lewis Carroll's imagination then?" said the young man. No, lectured the prehistoric professoressa, from her interior podium. There are more throwbacks in heaven and earth than your philosophy dreams of, dinkie-do.

The museum had inspired in the twins an acquisitive ardor of their own. Having extricated them from the souvenir shop, Anna finally got everyone outside. It was growing dark, and was bitterly cold. She attended to buttons and zips, hats and scarves and mittens, and thought the problem of tea through in her mind. There was nowhere really suitable for children within reach, and the Old Parsonage had become the preserve of people like the dodo couple. She pressed on through the graveyard to the bright lights of Browns. That was expensive too, and noisy, but at least you could drop your tea-cakes on the floor with impunity. And there was a disabled loo as well, she seemed to remember, for delinquent dodos to clean up their babies' bottoms and their shameful handbags.

Just a few steps more, Anna urged the children, and we'll have something to eat. Meanwhile she gave Nat the last of the jam sandwiches, mercifully preserved from the juice by its plastic bag. There were still several hours to kill before Bob finished his seminar, and she didn't want to be stuck out in this freezing weather, with everyone just over the flu. But when they arrived at the restaurant, there was a queue. "About forty-five minutes," said the waitress at the door, her eyes flicking from Nat's sticky face back to Anna's with a practiced smile. Anna didn't like to ask if she could use the loo anyway. A wave of despair began to engulf her. Nat was now insisting that he urgently required that very convenience. I can't risk an accident, thought Anna, bending down to ask him to hold on; his spare trousers are soaked in juice like everything else in my handbag, and it's too far to the car....

To compound things, the twins had run off, ostensibly in search of an alternative, but they had headed in the wrong direction while she was reasoning with Nat. Anna was drawing breath (how raw the air felt, how sore the back, the head) to call them back, when they popped out of an archway nearby. "In here, Mama," said Lucy. "Come in here." Crossly, thinking that they had strayed onto come college property, she pushed the buggy after them. She found herself in a courtyard, where a pleasant-faced lady in a tweed coat and a woolly hat was talking to Nicholas as though she'd known him all his life.

"Hello," she said. "I understand your little one is in desperate need of a lavatory!" She made the first part of the word sound like volcanic lava. "Follow me," she said in a conspiratorial tone. Anna was shown down a passageway and through a small door. "Take your time," said the woman. "I'll give the other children something to eat in the hall while they're waiting for you." Anna repressed both her anxiety about surrendering them to a stranger (who, if eccentric, seemed not the kidnapping type), and her desire to giggle at the woman's theatrical air. There were more urgent things to attend to.

* * *

Some minutes later, when Anna arrived to join them, a clean-faced, mercifully dry Nat in her arms, and a relatively respectable handbag slung from the folded buggy, she was greeted with a cup of tea and the joyful sight of the twins, regaling themselves with sandwiches and biscuits. The hall into which the lady had led them was decorated with garlands, sprigs of holly and swathes of ivy, and laid out with marvelous food, as though for a children's party. In the center of the largest table were three ring-shaped cakes topped with crowns cut out of gold card. They and the lady who had invited them in, plus one other who was making tea in a huge teapot, were the only people present.

Anna suddenly felt awkward. Nat had joined his brother and sister at the table and was tucking in with equal enthusiasm and many more crumbs. "I'm so sorry to intrude. You're obviously expecting a host of people, with all this lovely food. It was very kind of you to rescue us. We'll be on our way before we eat you out of house and home."

"Not at all," said the tweedy lady. "Why don't you stay a bit longer and get properly warm? Unless you're in a hurry, of course. Let the children eat their fill: there's plenty, as you can see. Everyone who has come to Benediction has brought something, there's bound to be lots left over."

"What's a Benediction?" asked Nicholas.

The woman paused for a moment, and then looked inquiringly at Anna. "Do you mind if I show them?" she asked. "It's just next door in the church here, and it's a lovely sight for children. You can bring the little one in too, it won't bother anyone." Anna was about to protest, feeling more and more like an intruder, but the twins had the bit between their teeth and were already disappearing through the door. Sheepishly, she followed them with Nat, outside into the courtyard and through the great doors of the church, whose outline she had only just registered fleetingly as she had entered that mysterious archway half an hour earlier.

Inside, the light was dim, and there was a curious silence punctuated by an alive, shuffling, human sort of sound. The children had gone down a side aisle with their new-found friend. Anna followed them, dimly aware of a central area at the far end of the church, covered in stone figures, gathered around what must be the altar. There were flowers everywhere, just visible in the light of the candles. As she passed a large statue of a saint holding a golden rod that burst into flower at the top, she could smell the lilies with which his feet were adorned. Anna felt herself slipping into a dreamlike state. It was years since she had been inside a church of any kind, and in her university days she hadn't even known there was a church here, set back from the busy thoroughfare.

Rounding a large carved pulpit, she stopped dead in her tracks. The most amazing sight had unfolded itself before her. Crammed into a small chapel were dozens of children all ages and sizes. They were gathered around a huge crib scene, almost large enough for them to enter into themselves. Only they were all intent on one thing. They were looking--not at the figures: the tender Madonna and the homely shepherds with their lambs on their shoulders; nor at the kings and their camels; nor at the kneeling ox and the ass with the chipped ear; nor even at the illuminated star which shone out over the real straw around the manger. It was something else that each and every child was straining to see--in some cases bobbing and ducking to see--the smallest children at the front, the largest ones at the back holding bells and lights. There was something in the manger itself.

As Anna's eyes took in the scene, the candles and the flowers, she realized that in the place of the Christ-child, there was a tall, golden object, like a large ornate mirror, except that instead of the mirror there was glass with something white behind it. As she was taking this in, a priest in richly decorated vestments, such as she had never seen except in a museum, rose from among the children and lifted the mirror-like thing in hands that were covered by a kind of veil, high above the assembled company. Everyone bowed their heads, even the smallest children, wriggling all the while like a basketful of puppies. Anna was astonished to see the twins in the midst of the older children, doing the same as the others with barely a sideways glance. As the bells tinkled out from the back of the throng, she too sank to her knees and bowed her head. Nat nestled against her, and she could feel his heart beating. This was not like being in the museum.

***

When the ceremony was over, the high children's voices singing O Come Let Us Adore Him, the recorders fluting out Away in a Manger and a hymn she had not heard before, O Sacrament Most Holy, O Sacrament Divine, Anna had allowed the nice lady to take the children back to the party. Even Nat had been keen to go, with his brother and sister each holding him by the hand. "You grab a few minutes, dear," said the woman, whom Anna had secretly dubbed the tea-and-sympathy lady; "it's lovely and peaceful in here."

And so she was sitting, in a different chapel on the other side of the church now, as the altar boys were still tidying up around the crib. She was thinking about the day, and about past days--the days of Christmas during which she had run hither and thither in pursuit of excellence according to the standards of Good Housekeeping magazine, the whims of her mother, her father, Edith-who-has-had-a-stroke-next-door and all the rest. She was thinking about the anticipation of Christmas eve, the child's belief in miracles. She envied these people, in this church, for still believing.

What shall I receive tonight? She thought about Bob, whose seminar would be over soon and who must be collected. What kind of mood would he be in? For some reason, it had been the most difficult Christmas for years. Anna remembered his expression as her mother threw subtle barbs across the breakfast table and she had broken ranks, snapping at the bait like a demented terrier. It had not been the old complicity. He himself was appraising her. It suddenly seemed to her that there were no guarantees any more.

"Forgive me, I hope I'm not interrupting your devotions...." The priest she had seen earlier had appeared at her side. He had a pleasant, melodious voice. "May I introduce myself? My name is Father Simeon." Anna looked at him, his white hair and lined face, and felt once again like an impostor. She wanted to explain that she was not a Catholic and was not praying, just sitting here for a few moments to.... But the words would not come. Anna, to her shame, realized that she was in tears. "Oh dear," said the priest, proffering a clean white handkerchief, "I'm so sorry." His tone was gentle, unobtrusive, yet he didn't withdraw. He sat there, waiting for her to dry her eyes and blow her nose. She dimly heard the sound of the children enjoying the Epiphany party next door. Otherwise, the church was completely silent.

Not knowing where to look, Anna fastened her eyes on a large statue of the Virgin Mary, her serene features peering out from under a golden crown. This time her son was in one piece, leaning out of his mother's arms, almost laughing as he reached out his arms to bless. "It's a lovely statue," said Anna, to fill the awkward silence. "They have a very damaged little one in the museum, I don't know why. All the other goddesses are represented quite well." Father Simeon laughed. "Perhaps it's because she's a little different from them," he said. "She's not a goddess. She's quite real, and quite human. She's breakable, just like you or me. Except she had a good start in life."

For some reason his correction hadn't made Anna feel foolish. She ventured another query. "What do those words mean?" Father Simeon's voice was very quiet as he read out what was painted in gold over the little altar. "Tota pulchra es Maria...." He paused for a moment and smiled slightly. Then he looked at Anna. There was an expression in those eyes that made him seem trustworthy to her. A kind of pain, turned all to tenderness. Behind his head she could dimly see a large crucifix on the wall, another head, crowned with thorns. "The words mean, All fair art thou, Mary.."

* * *

The children rushed to meet her as she reached the door of the church. Lucy was beside herself with excitement. "Guess what, Mama, I found a coin in my piece of cake and won a crown! Only Nicky said I couldn't be one of the three kings, because I'm a girl." Anna's heart sank. This was not the moment to have one of their fights. But she needn't have worried. "So we gave it to Nat," said Nicholas. "And I gave him my University Museum ruler to be his sword, so he could knight me! Doesn't he look the part?" Sure enough, it was a right royal little boy who flung himself, his brother's red jersey tied as a cloak about his shoulders, into his mother's arms. Anna held him close against her, reveling in his baby bear-hug. Then she felt the little hands, pushing the cardboard crown onto her own head. "For Mama!" crowed Nathaniel triumphantly.

Anna stood up, holding the toddler in her arms, and looked out across the courtyard to the outside world which they must soon re-enter. It no longer felt so bitterly cold, and she realized that it had begun to snow. The ground, the branches of the trees in the graveyard across the road, the roofs of the buildings, were already transformed by a robe of white. Anna found she wasn't anxious about Bob's reaction to the nuisance of driving home to London in the snow. She just reveled in the delight of it all, along with the children.

"Isn't it pretty?" she said. "Oh yes, it is," said Lucy, skipping about amidst the falling flakes. Then she stood on tiptoes, touched the crown with her forefinger and kissed her mother's rosy cheek. "And so are you, Mama."