Читать книгу Like Bees to Honey - Caroline Smailes, Darren Craske - Страница 10

~four

‘And here we have Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King, known to the Merseyside locals as Paddy’s Wigwam. This is said to be linked to the large Irish Catholic congregation and the building’s architecutural design, which draws on that of a Native North American wigwam…’

I first met Jesus in Liverpool.

There are two cathedrals in Liverpool. The Metropolitan Cathedral stands proud; it lives in harmony with Liverpool Cathedral. The two majestic beings face each other along a street that is called Hope.

When I first arrived, that street, that view, the two churches, made me feel safe. In Malta domes and steeples take over the skyline. On the corner of Hope, I felt closer to my island, to Malta, somehow.

When I first arrived here, I was living in student halls just off Hope Street. I could see Catholic faith from my window. I could attend mass, be thankful, continue to grow.

When I broke my promise, my mother’s heart, I refused to walk along that street called Hope, again. There were other routes, longer routes and I took them. I felt that to walk that street would be to play with my Lord, to tease, to laugh. I did not deserve to feel protected, safe, any more. It was my belief that in the insulting of my parents, my island, that I must also refuse that link with my Lord that connected my people.

I did not realise, then, that my Lord was vengeful.

At the end of Hope, tourists, visitors, students stand on grey pavement. They look up the stone steps to the concrete construction formed into a giant tepee of a Catholic cathedral. Tent poles stick out from the top, catching my Lord’s sunlight and my Lord’s tears.

When I first arrived, I approved of the cathedral, the construction. A giant tent, connecting, sheltering and yet crafted into a fine-looking thing. There was something about the vast space, the structure, the contrasts: uniqueness.

Three days ago I missed, I longed for my mother.

I thought of the tepee of the cathedral.

I did not understand the link.

Three days ago, before this journey began, I found myself on the corner of Hope Street, Liverpool. My Lord was weeping, again. It was raining, I had no umbrella, my hair was curling, frizzing into a nest.

I felt cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

‘Welcome to Paddy’s Wigwam,’ I whispered.

Three days ago, I stepped out into the road, not checking for cars.

I thought of my Lord. I thought that if He was there, watching, listening, wanting, then He would do as He wished.

Three days ago, I did not care.

I had nothing.

I walked a.

~z – ig.

a.

~z – ag.

across the road.

Cars stopped, waited, beeped. Drivers moved their lips, cursing. I could not hear their words. Tourists gathered at the bottom of the grey steps. Some spilled from the shop, some stood very still, eyes fixed on the cathedral, mesmerised; others listened to a guide who spoke of architecture and history. I pushed through, I divided a tour of day-trippers, huddled under huge yellow umbrellas. I climbed the steps leading up to, down from, the overwhelming cathedral.

The doors opened, automatically, dramatically, sensing my movements on the welcoming mat. I walked in, demanding, needing.

I had been sitting, staring, searching the inside of the cathedral for some time. Father Sam knew me, he knew my grief, my rejection. He came to me, sat next to me, cupped my hands in his.

‘I’m being punished.’ I spoke in a hush, a respectful hush.

‘It doesn’t work like that.’ Father Sam spoke softly, carefully, his hands joined over mine. I remember seeing a blue ray reflecting over our hands. For a moment I dwelled on the light, on my Lord’s breath, on union.

‘I don’t trust your faith.’

‘Why Nina? Tell me,’ he asked.

‘I failed to keep a promise. I broke a promise to my parents, to my island.’

And then, suddenly, I was sobbing and as I started, it grew, increased, my weeping was uncontrollable.

the tears fell, my shoulders shuddered.

~shud – der.

~shud – der.

~shud – der.

I was beyond restraint.

‘Tell me, Nina,’ he said.

‘I thought that I couldn’t cry any more, that I’d forgotten how,’ and with those hushed words all of the tears that had failed to be shed were released.

My tears formed into a puddle.

‘We have choices in life, Nina. You are clearly distressed. You are living in a hell of your own making.’

‘My son, Christopher, has gone,’ I sobbed.

‘I know.’ Father Sam lowered his head and began reciting a prayer.

‘Please don’t.’ I began to rise. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t be here.’

‘You need to find your way, Nina. You need to allow God into your heart.’

‘I have nothing.’ I stood, I turned, my knees shook as I staggered towards the exit.

‘You have a husband, a daughter. Think of how you are affecting them, of the punishment that you are binding onto them.’

I kept walking, ignoring his words, lurching towards the exit. I heard him, fast, catching up to me. I felt his palm, heavy on my shoulder. I stopped.

‘Go to Malta. Speak to your family and tell them that God sent you,’ he whispered into my ear.

I carried on, forward. I did not look back. I could not turn. I could not articulate.

I stopped when I reached the top of the steps leading up to, down from Paddy’s Wigwam. I tried to breathe in and out, in and out. I thought of my life, of my inability to love since Christopher passed.

It had been six short years and in those six years I had never considered that I was affecting Molly and Matt. I had never considered the burden, the punishment that I was tying to them.

I had thought that I was protecting them. I had thought that if I loved my husband, my daughter, that if I devoted myself to them, then my Lord would come, that He would punish me, that He would pick them away from me, one by one.

Father Sam had told me that I was living in hell, perhaps, perhaps not.

Three days ago, I stood on the steps leading up to, down from Liverpool’s Catholic cathedral and I thought about my view, my vision of hell. My hell was burning damnation, with a devil, with chained slaves stoking eternal fires. My hell would not contain an innocent child. I felt confused. Father Sam’s words were shooting in, out, through me. He did not make sense to me.

Three days ago, I thought of my daily life. I still had Christopher. I felt him, I heard his voice, I saw him. He was still there. I thought of how his coming back to me had been unexpected. At first I had thought that it was my mind playing tricks with my grief, that I was imagining his presence. But I was not, I am not. He has been back with me for two years.

It is simple. I can see my dead son and his spirit brings me peace.

Three days ago, I began to walk down the steps.

I heard my name.

Voice: Nina.

I stopped, I turned.

Voice: I am Jesus.

I expected to see, something, someone. I felt a chill sweep through me then the smell of stale alcohol covered me, enveloped me. I carried on walking, slowly. The smell travelled with me. I heard the voice, again, my name, his name.

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

The voice was gravel filled, harsh, guttural. I turned, I spun. He was not there. I was standing, alone, my Lord’s tears falling onto me.

I began to descend the steps, again. The same chill swept through me, quickly, the same smell of stale alcohol covered me, stilted me. I was stunned. I stopped. The rasping voice had a familiarity, it connected, it stuck into me.

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

The voice existed, without a body, there was no physical presence.

I did not move.

He spoke, again, with the same gravel-filled harshness.

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

‘Stop it. Stop it,’ I shouted the words.

I held my hands to cover my ears. His voice, inside of my head, stayed at the same volume, constant, continuous, on a loop. We were talking through tin cans, connected by nothing.

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus. You blame your Lord.

‘Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.’

Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus. I sent him back to help you. I thought he could help you.

‘Shut up!’

My knees crumbled, I fell to the steps. With my palms clutching my ears, I bowed, forwards, backwards, rocking, sobbing.

The voice was silent, minutes passed by, silence, more silence.

I waited, I lowered my hands to the step; I steadied myself as I stood.

Jesus: Go to Malta, my Nina. I am Jesus. Bring Cadbury’s chocolate with you.

Matt,

I dreamed of you last night, the ‘of you’ was in a feeling, in the sensation that it evoked.

In my dream, I was sitting at Manchester airport. I was sitting on the floor, next to that backpack of yours that you loved so much, when we were students. A shabbily dressed lady staggered over to me. She was carrying a basket of handmade lace.

She spoke to me, ‘X’temp hazin! X’temp hazin!’

I couldn’t understand her words. She spoke in my tongue. She thought that I would understand. She thought that something within me would make me understand. I tried. I tried to pick out the words, but I could not.

She spoke again, in English. ‘What awful weather! What awful weather!’ I smiled at her. She laid her sunblessed finger onto my head. She spoke in whispered tones, ‘Gara in.cident. There’s been an accident. Gara in.cident.’

I woke from my dream sobbing. You do not come to me in the night, instead you send me old women with tongues that, with darkness, I can no longer understand. They speak words that I have, that I know, that I knew, once. And all the time I am longing. I am aching. I feel that I am dying inside to out. There is no life. There is no breath. There is nothing without you in my life.

I wish that I could tell you, that I could send this, leave this, that you would begin to understand. My love for you grows, it is deep rooted within me and even if I try to deny it, if I ignore or block it, it still grows. My love matures, stronger with each neglectful day. I am truly lovesick.

But Matt, I am leaving you; tomorrow I am flying home to Malta.

Nina x