‘What’s that?’
‘I can’t pin it down. Other people would have been afraid. I don’t know if you’re brave, or if you don’t care. I’ll never be like you. I’ve got to be top, even if it’s only in a miserable little hole like this. But you haven’t laughed at me. Why not, eh, Groan?’
Titus didn’t say that there was so much more to pity than to laugh at.
‘I don’t want to hear your story. I just want you to go now. I’ll have to live this down with them, you know, and someone’s going to pay for it. Get out now, Groan, and keep out of my way.’
Titus shuffled up the dark stairs, out into the fresh air.
32
A Sanctuary
ONCE MORE HE walked, and after some time he found himself out of the run-down end of the town, and from the feel and silence of his new environment he imagined himself to be on the edge of a wood, or common land. There were no lights to guide him, but his feet no longer felt concrete beneath them. A grass verge he felt by touching it with his shoe, as a blind man traces the shape of objects by the touch of his fingers, and as he walked further, so that verge became larger and softer, and he found himself preferring to walk on the grass. He became aware of a high shape to his right, and it drew him to it like a magnet. As he reached it, this time his hands explored, and they diagnosed a wall, quite a rough wall, but high and impenetrable. He thought of it as something he could rest against, not of something that was keeping him out. His fatigue guided him and he sank down, obliterating thought and hunger, and slept, with no dreams, but a thankfulness for the overpowering oblivion he was vouchsafed.
‘Good morning, my son.’
Titus heard these words, but he didn’t know if he heard them or if he dreamed them.
‘Good morning, my son,’ he heard again, and again. Then he opened his eyes, and closed them, to hear the words once more. He sat up. It was light now. His hand touched a wall and damp grass, and with difficulty he sat up. An old man, with a fringe of white hair, dressed in a black robe, was before him.
‘Ah, you’re awake now. And what, may I ask, and how and why, may I ask, brings you to us?’
‘Oh, I think there are too many answers, too many questions.’
‘Well, my son, if you are hungry come with me, and there shall be no more answers to no more questions. May I suggest you come with me?’
Titus stood up with difficulty. His back was twisted, or so it felt, as he tried to reach his height. He thought that some unseen hand had hit him a sideways blow in the small of his back as he tried to straighten up, or that blunt knives were being stuck in it at irregular intervals.
An old dog, that had been sniffing the wall, came slowly up to him and looked at him with that frightening trust dogs possess.
Titus shook off the sensation of knives and became himself. ‘Yes, I am hungry. I have no idea where I am, though.’
‘Well, why not come with me, then? I was just walking. Although old Trouper has space and plenty, he likes to explore the outer walls. He and I are given dispensation. We’re both old now, and age confers one or two blessings. Come, young man.’
In the oncoming daylight, the three made their slow way along the edge of the wall until they came to some large stone pillars with, between them, a wooden door of enormous dimensions. To one side of it was a smaller door, which was ajar, and through this they went.
They were walking up an overgrown path to a drawbridge, over an overgrown moat, and Titus saw ahead of him a large building. There were ecclesiastical-looking windows. They walked towards what must have been the front door. Two men in black robes were raking pink gravel into patterns like waves and, as the trio passed and displaced some of the waves, they raised their heads and nodded a silent welcome.
They passed into the hall and a feeling of sanctuary overcame Titus. There was no sound. There was an order and a cleanliness that he had not witnessed for a long time, if ever. It had nothing to do with the polish he had been aware of in the houses of the rich or the house-proud, but it seemed to have a purpose. He became aware of his own ramshackle appearance.
‘I’ll show you, first of all, to your room. You might like to cleanse yourself, after your night out, my son, and then there’ll be breakfast with the other guests. You couldn’t have chosen a better time for me to find you.’
They walked down a corridor with doors spaced evenly all the way, until they came to one, which the old man opened. ‘This one is free.’
It was a small, whitewashed room, with a small iron bed, and a stand with a water jug and basin. It looked out upon a lawn with a cedar tree, and the lawn sloped down to a stream.
‘I’ll come back in ten minutes and take you to the refectory, and you can meet your fellow guests. Then I’ll take you to meet the Prior. We don’t ask questions, you know. If you have some money to spare we should be pleased, but if you haven’t then you can do a little work. There is always plenty to do.’
When the door had closed, Titus looked out of the window and saw a squirrel, standing upright, with its hands cradling something it had found on the grass, before turning and speeding away with it to its secret hideaway.
The water in the jug was cold, but as he poured it into the basin and covered his face, his whole spirit lightened and the pervading serenity of the house was almost tangible.
A knock came on the door. The old man had said he would return.
‘Well, then, my son. Do you feel fresher now and ready for your breakfast? Come, follow me.’
They walked back down the corridor and through the hall, until they reached a large oak door, through which could be heard the sound of cutlery and china being used. The old man opened the door and motioned to Titus to follow. The room they entered was low and spacious: oak-panelled, and lit by three windows the height of the room, which looked on to a garden that was cared for just as everything was that he had seen.
A long refectory table took up practically the length of the room and, as the old man led him to it, Titus saw that people were sitting on both sides of it. They were silent as they ate but sitting on a slightly raised dais at the far end of the room was a man reading aloud. Titus sat on the seat to which he had been shown and, though no one was speaking, his needs were attended to with deft and silent speed.
Everything that was passed to him had the goodness of food made by hands that wanted to make it. The goodness of the food overwhelmed Titus and he was so hungry that he was hardly aware that he was not alone, and it was not until he could eat no more that he raised his eyes and looked across the table.
He had been aware of an agitation, which seemed alien in the peace of the room, and he froze on his chair as he met the eyes of the man opposite. The eyes that looked deeper and beyond any eyes he had ever seen, except once before. They were the same eyes. It was the same man.
As he looked at the other guests at the table, he could see that they were mostly men, and for whatever reason they had found their way to this retreat, they had, all but one, succeeded in achieving the inner and the outer peace they had come for. Only a dreadful restlessness, both of body and spirit, seemed to consume the man with whom he felt an affinity that was inexplicable.
A chair jerked backwards, tearing into the polished floor, and the dreadful screech obliterated the quiet voice of the reader. He had left the room, with a slow shuffle, and when he had closed the door Titus made up his mind to seek him out.
The meal ended in the refectory, and as it ended each person stood for a moment while a prayer of thanks was said. The room emptied and outside small groups of people spoke together, quietly, but creating the impression that each was absorbed completely in his own universe.