In memory of joy lost

Another sad poem. It seems to be a constant theme at the moment.

In memory of joy lost

Time to come back, time to return
So often, so very often I yearn
For those past evenings, full of peace
But change came, and they did cease
Reaching outwards in song and prayer
Love at the centre, we held so dear
Dew in the evening, in darker skies
A community of hope, bound in ties
Of hearth and home, of candlelight
Mary on the wall blessed this sight
Frescos from ancient time, past days
And yet we still follow in their ways
Until suddenly it stopped, was ended
A fracture that could not be mended
And inward turning, to feeling self
Evening prayers placed on the shelf
Enlightenment and a journey taken
Which I still feel was so mistaken
We made choice, and paid the cost
Change leaves a memory of joy lost

Surville Manor: 1967 Report – Part 1

Surville Manor: 1967 Report – Part 1

SURVILLE MANOR
GARDES LA FOY
By PHYLLIDA CAMPBELL
Jersey Life, 1967

PEACEFUL AND REMOTE, approached only by traversing narrow twisting lanes, Surville Manor in the parish of St. Helier and St. Lawrence, is surrounded on all sides by pastoral scenes, and had it been built a trifle further north would have been sited in the dead centre of the Island.

It is certain that Surville Manor is ancient, perhaps one of the oldest manors in Jersey. The Fief de Surville belongs to Mr. Hedley John Messervy, solicitor of Hill Street and the Manor and grounds are owned today by Commander and Mrs. T. Chamberlayne, who make their home in the new 'cod-house' built in 1841 in front of the ancient dwelling, now restored and let to a farmer and his family.

Many people are a little vague as to what a Fief in Jersey really means. The system is of course a survival of feudal days, in fact from the time a Duke of Normandy named William Longsword captured these Islands in A.D. 933, dividing his new possession into fiefs, keeping some for himself and giving others to his followers. There were the great ones, St. Ouen, Rozel, Trinity, Samares and Melesches whose seigneurs owed knight service, and a hundred or so smaller fiefs divided into various sizes. All, whether big or small, carried with them certain privileges and certain obligations, particularly in time of war.

`Ten sixty-six and all that' could have meant little to the Channel Islands, still a part of the old Duchy of Normandy. It was when King John lost his Norman possessions in 1204 and the Channel Islands, given complete autonomy of Government, stayed with the British Crown, that some of the Norman-Jersey fief owners began to wonder where their loyalties lay. In many cases they also held rich lands in Normandy and after all, were of French descent. Those who departed had their fiefs confiscated by the Crown, some to be re-bestowed later, some to remain today as 'fiefs de la Reine'. Nine in all, of which Surville was one, remained loyal to King John and retained their fiefs on the original terms of grant. The 'disloyal fiefs' were subject to new rights on re-bestowal and remain as it were, junior. Naturally, for one reason and another, the changes of ownership of most of the fiefs over the centuries have been innumerable.

An Ancient Fief

The mists of antiquity tend to shroud the origins of Surville Manor, but it is known that the fief, which forms the northern boundary of the Fief de Bellozanne, was held by Guillame de Sureville in the twelfth century. A Mathilda de Sureville was mentioned as owing 40 shillings for 'fine and relief' in 1180 and then there were the brothers Robert and Nichola de Surville who owned the water mill, Moulin de la Haye at St. Lawrence at about that time. The name of Nicholas, heir of Thomas de Surville, crops up in old documents for having extorted relief illegally, a bad habit of mediaeval seigneurs. There is mention of Maitre Nicholas de Surville, a clerk, in the thirteenth century, also of his son, and then the name seems to have died out. In 1399 the fief passed to the family of le Gallais who lived in the charming little manor for 15 generations.

The Le Gallais family migrated to Jersey from Brittany long before the time of the Norman Conquest, and a Matthew Le Gales was the first Seigneur of Surville of that name. After their long sojourn, little that is positive is known about the occupants, but there is an interesting pointer in the fact that the Coat of Arms of the famous family of Pawlett of Poulet who governed Jersey for three generations in Queen Elizabeth the First's reign, are displayed on the facade of the new manor.

There over the front door of this early Victorian mansion are the arms 'sable three swords in pile silver, points meeting in base, hilts and pommels gold' and the crest `Gardes La Foy', an identical replica of which can be seen by any visitor to Mont Orgueil Castle at Gorey, the official Governors' residence of those days. Unless there was some monkey business, these arms must surely have been removed from the decaying old Surville Manor and placed on the new house which is so unfortunately built directly in front of it as happened so often in those days.

Queen Mary's Gaoler

During the rule of the Pawletts from 1550 to 1600, members of this family inter-married with any number of prominent Jersey families, and a descendant must have found himself in possession of Surville Manor, possibly through marriage. This was a fine old Somerset family, and the first to come here, Sir Hugh, was appointed by the Queen to the governorship of Jersey in 1550. He, his son and later his grandson, had endless struggles with the Queen to be granted more money for repairs to the fortifications of Mont Orgueil Castle, and spent hundreds of pounds from their own pockets when she held out on them, preoccupied as she was with building the new castle to be named after her in St. Aubin's Bay.

Sir Hugh's son, Sir Amyas, was once called from his duties in Jersey to act as gaoler-in-chief to Mary, Queen of Scots.

A suggestion was made to him, presumably from Royal channels, that he might quietly liquidate the lady, but he replied that 'never would he make such a foul shipwreck of conscience'. Eventually with gentle gallantry he escorted the ill-fated Queen to the scaffold. She turned to him and her last words were 'Thanks, Sir Amyas, this will be the last trouble I will give you'.

Housewife 1947: Something to Read

I am never quite sure why some books I are considered so eminently suitable for holiday reading, but each year at about this time lists of them appear in the Sunday newspapers and in the magazines. Their titles have a drowsy, deck-chair sound, and their contents, I imagine, conform to a definition once given by Aldous Huxley to this kind of book. It should be, he said, one you can open anywhere and be sure of finding something interesting which does not require continuous or prolonged mental effort. Holiday reading for me, however, is nothing like the kind recommended by the literary critics, or even Mr. Huxley. For years now it has been queer, fascinating stuff, as you shall see. In the family circle I am looked upon as a mild bibliomaniac, chiefly because I buy books with the money I might be spending on cigarettes or the cinema. When quotations come up in the conversation, or some doubtful literary reference is made, faces turn expectantly towards me, often with most disappointing results. 'She's a great reader,' they say, in tones that suggest this is an eccentricity, and go on to mention a youthful occasion when I sold a drop pendant in order to buy a complete set of Shakespeare in limp leather. The pendant was atrocious, but nothing is said about this.

Reading for pleasure, profit and information is part of my job. I belong to two libraries, subscribe to a reprint society, and buy as many books as I can manage. This takes care of what children might call 'reading properly.' But all bibliomaniacs, even the mild cases, have their special madness. When I go away on a holiday for a fortnight or less, I read what I find in the places where I stay. In the spare rooms of dear friends and comparative strangers, in shelves of small hotel lounges—you never find anything exciting or strange in hotels that get starred in the guide books!—in boarding-house drawing-rooms and, best of all, in 'rooms,' I have found reading that is almost a holiday in itself. My searches for 'something to read,' as distinct from mere books, have led me up wild, improbable and enchanting paths, and along some so gloriously dull that even in memory they can still fascinate.

It all began in a Donegal cottage twenty-years ago. I was sent there to recover from an illness and from too much study. Part of my prescription was to lie still and drink in the winey mountain air for three weeks. A large box of books was sent well in advance because, although I was forbidden to study, I was allowed to read if it kept me in one place. The cottage belonged to Bridie O'Hare, the widowed mother of our housemaid, Teresa. She was seventy-two, a famous local story-teller, and a master baker of griddle bread. Her nearest neighbour lived three miles down the mountain valley.

The box of books was not there when I arrived, and on the first evening I inquired anxiously for something to read. 'I have a fine book,' Bridie said, with great pride, and took down a huge volume from a curtained shelf above the fireplace. It was not the Bible, as you might suppose, but a Sears Roebuck catalogue, sent to her many years before by her emigrant son from America. `What any man can write, surely I can read," said dear, good Charles Lamb, but he made some exceptions. Among them he included court calendars, directories, pocket books; draught boards, bound and lettered on the back; scientific treatises, almanacs, statutes at large—all those volumes which 'no gentleman's library should be without.' I am sure he would never have included a Sears Roebuck catalogue on his list.

In the weeks that followed I read the catalogue, issued by that famous American mail-order firm, from cover to cover. My own box of books disappeared into the maze of the Irish railway system and was not found until three months later. During the long, soft days I progressed from reapers and binders, dairy equipment and domestic utensils, through medical supplies and seeds to the latest—twenty years before—in ladies' underwear. I made innumerable calculations on how much it would need to furnish a house or stock the perfect medicine chest, and took notes which later earned me good money. I have them still.

In the evenings I sat in the chimney corner and talked to Bridie about the book. She could not read a single word of it, but from the old, worn catalogue she had made a picture of American life, as complete and a lot more accurate, perhaps, than any she could have made from more conventional sources.

`It's a wonderful place,' she said. I asked her if her son had ever come back to the old country. 'No,' she said humbly. 'Sure, why would a fine boy like that come back from a place where he gets his fill three times in the day and a grand house with taps in it ?'

Some authors seem destined to linger in hotels, boarding-houses and rooms. The quality of the work, its subject, the fame of the writer, and even the price of the book, does not seem to affect this. I have read, though not recently, all the works of O Henry in hotel sitting-rooms, but in twenty years I have never come across a single copy of Katherine Mansfield. Among the classics, people leave behind Scott and George Eliot, but never Trollope or Dickens—or at least that has been my experience. There was a time when I expected to find some work by Bishop Heber in any modest lodging. He must have been the favourite prize-book writer of his day, for I came across him everywhere, always in flawless condition and with “For general progress” written on the flyleaf. Another dead certainty was Windsor Castle, fat, lush, good reading for several days.

PERHAPS because they have a peculiar fascination for me, old books come first on my long list of holiday reading over the years. You might belong to the London Library for ever and never come across Maria Monk, with ghoulish illustrations; a deliciously prim tale called a Kiss for a Blow; and the Imperial-Royal Dream Book, Fortune Teller and Book of Fate Combined. Those were my weekend portion as lately as 1940 at a Welsh inn.

A Devon farmhouse produced Meriel's Pilgrimage in twelve parts, and The Art of Tormenting, or Illustrations of the most approved Methods of excelling in this valuable acquisition comprised in Forty Four subjects. I fell in love with Meriel so deeply that I copied her twelve parts out and learned most of them by heart. For years 'Tell .us about Meriel' was a favourite bedtime request in our house. Who cares if the summers' evening is set or drawing in when bookcase has yielded an Esquimeaux Vocabulary, for the use of Travellers to the Arctic Regions! In hotels and lodgings which cater mainly for men—fishing and golfing hotels for example—you can be sure of a fine selection of books on dog breaking, salmon fishing, hurricane guides, every kind of extremely ancient sporting annual. Under any roof that shelters me and a good encyclopaedia, there can never be a dull moment, but if I may choose, it should be Britannica, and the twelfth edition.

If I must give a prize to one find in my long and fruitful search for holiday reading, it goes without hesitation to four copies of Thomas Hoods' The Anniversary of the Literary Fun, published each year between 1830 and 1833. I commend it to all those who make collections of story, feature, and verse, either in fine binding or paper covers. I doted so much on these books that my landlord said I could have them for half a crown. Nobody ever got a better bargain. There is an article in one called `The Wooden Leg,' which is a model. It begins, 'Ever since the year 1799, I have had, in the, coachman phrase, an off leg and a near one; the right limb, thanks to a twelve pounder, lies somewhere at Seringapatam, its twin brother being at this moment under a table in Brighton.'

Another particular joy is a Letter from a settler for Life in Van Dietnan' Land, written by Susan Gale to her friend Mary, a housemaid at 45 Mount Street, Grosvenor Square. `Little did I think,' writes Susan, 'when I advertised in the Tims for annother Plaice of taking wan in Vandemins' land. But so it his and hear I am amung Kangerooses and Savidges and other Forriners. But goverment offering to Yung Wimmin to Find them in Vittles and Drink and Close and Husbands was turms not to be sneazed at, so I rit to the Outlandish Seckertary and he was so Kind as Grant.' I can never find this kind of literary fun in modern holiday reading. and from all appearances neither can any of the guests who so often occupy my spare room.

The Visitor

"The Visitor" is an eerie 29-minute horror episode of the BBC television series West Country Tales, originally airing on February 22, 1982

The Visitor
by Elizabeth Elliot

From the first I loved the cottage. This was the one I wanted, and I was deaf to all suggestions that I might feel lonely here, with Andrew — my husband — away at sea one month out of every two. The whitewashed walls, uneven ceilings and thatched roof were as different as possible from the suburban home we had left. I thought I should never be tired of looking out of the windows each one framing a different fascinating view of the Cornish countryside. Beyond the cottage, less than a mile away, great Atlantic rollers hurled themselves against a rocky coastline. I had not quite lost my childhood idea that people who actually lived at the seaside were outstandingly lucky, their lives a perpetual holiday.

We are nearly a mile from the village, and our only neighbours are an elderly couple down the lane. I would be solitary here, I thought — but not lonely. And of course I would have Kelly, our three-year-old daughter, and Andy, a sedate collie who takes her responsibilities seriously. Andrew had bought her before he went away. To protect me, he said.

How good those first days were. I locked up the car in the garage, bought some stout shoes, and made up my mind to become a walker again. Most mornings I went up to the village — Kelly in her push-chair and Andy at my side. I had expected the villagers to regard us with reserve — we were foreigners from London after all — but a three-year-old is a great breaker-down of barriers. Soon they knew her name — and her teddy's name — and she would be greeted with a smile, and sometimes the offer of an apple or a lollipop in the village shop. I felt I had been quietly accepted too.

In the afternoons we went further afield, making the most of a spell of fine autumn weather. We walked through leafy woodland paths, smelling of wet moss. Kelly called them 'green tunnels'. She saw her first seagull and I shared her delight in discovering beaches almost empty of holiday makers. We picked our way among stones sea-washed to an exciting smoothness, 'popped' seaweed, and watched little crabs scuttle away under the rocks.

Towards evening, I would light a fire in my small sitting room, and with Kelly asleep upstairs and Andy gravely watching the crackling wood from her place on the hearth rug, I would sit down to write to Andrew -- a daily chronicle of small events. Writing to him was so easy, then. And always I would be looking ahead in my letters to the time when he would be home to share it all with me.

Peaceful, ordinary days. A little too peaceful, I began to think. With no adult company -- none of the friends who had said they would visit me seemed able to get away at that time — my life had shrunk to the scope and focus of three-year-old. Kelly was with me all day, for there is of course, no nursery school near us. Eventually I asked the woman down the road if she would do a bit of cleaning and baby-sitting for me. She and Kelly had taken to each other, and I could confidently leave Kelly in her charge some afternoons while I explored further afield.

One day, taking my usual way along the cliff top, I noticed a narrow track, almost overgrown with grass and gorse — a hidden path but definitely a path, and I could see that it led gently downhill. I followed its gradual descent, Andy bounding ahead. Country smells seem to make her quite young and skittish again. I could hear the reverberating boom of the breakers, and caught glimpses of the sea between the trees. In a few moments I was standing at the entrance of a little secret cove. The rocky cliffs, rearing up on each side, seemed to cut it off from the rest of the world. The waves made lace ruffles along the edge of a beach peppered with large stones. With a wonderful sense of freedom, as though I had re-entered my own childhood, I strode and ran about the beach, glorying in the great expanse of sand, the little shining pools around the rocks, and the tremendous sound of the wind and waves. I felt a child's pleasure in seeing my shadow stretch ahead of me, knife-sharp, as I followed Andy to the edge of the sea.

I felt buoyant with energy, and after a bit, wanted to climb the rocks and possess myself of the whole place. I easily clambered up, and was soon looking down on my cove --- as I thought of it — from a rocky platform. I decided to bring Andrew here as soon as he got home. I could just see him climbing up to the ledge with Kelly on his shoulders. I have always specially enjoyed the times we can share our daughter's company. I took my book from my pocket, and spent a lazy hour or so alternately reading and gazing round me. The beach was empty now, but I tried to picture the people who might have been there in the past. It was just the sort of cove that might have been used by smugglers, I thought. One could imagine the boat grating on to the shingle under cover of darkness, the laden figures making their silent way up the cliff path. Then I wondered if ships had ever been wrecked on those cruel-looking rocks. I knew this coastline was famous for wrecks. That would have been a different kind of landing — the air full of shouting and cries and the sound of splintering wood.

Perhaps my imagination became too active. I began to be aware of how isolated I was in my new-found eyrie. There was no one in sight over the whole landscape — nothing but sea and cliffs and swooping, screaming gulls. The sun had gone in, and — suddenly it seemed — the rocks took on a sombre, menacing look. I felt inexplicably uneasy, and thought longingly of my cosy sitting room. I called Andy, who had clambered up after me, put my book in my pocket, and we began making our way down to the beach again. As we set off, I thought I heard something in the wind; it sounded like a cry. I stopped and looked back. It had seemed to come from the rocks. But there was no sign of anyone there. I started off again. Then — there it was again; unmistakably the cry of a child. This time I didn't look back; I walked on as quickly as I could without breaking into a run. It must have been a gull, I told myself. Gulls can sound extraordinarily human. After all, there had been no child or in fact anyone at all in the vicinity all afternoon. But my spine was tingling with fear.

It was a relief to reach the road again, and meet a couple of fellow walkers. I was back in the world of people and familiar sights. By the time I reached my own front door, the memory of the desolate cry had faded, and I was almost ready to laugh at my fright.

As soon as I walked in, I smelt cigarette smoke. Then

I saw an unmistakable carpet bag in the sitting room, and I knew with a sinking heart that Fran had come. I was surprised — yet not surprised. We had parted on cool terms, and I had thought I might not see her again. But Fran always turns up.

She first came into my life when I was working in London at one of the big hospitals, sharing a flat with two other physiotherapists. None of us can ever remember how we first got to know her. Was she a cousin's friend, or a friend's cousin? Anyway, after that unremembered first meeting, she was always dropping in. Perhaps our stable, well-organized lives fascinated her. She would get us to talk about ourselves: 'You really did play hockey every day at school?' 'You really do clean the flat every Saturday?' It was not a friendly interest. Of her own way of life we knew very little. She seemed to have no settled occupation, but never to be out of funds. We gathered she did odd jobs from time to time including a little modelling and film extra work. She had a face to interest a photographer, with its slightly slanting eyes and secretive smile. A fascinating face, somebody called it. Another of our friends said there was something waif-like about her. He was mad about her — but none of her relationships with men seemed to last long. Whether she ended them or they did, one didn't enquire.

One Christmas time, she arrived unexpectedly with three young men in tow. One of them was Andrew, who had only met her that evening. It was love at first sight with us, and within weeks we were engaged. I rather hoped that after we were married, I should see no more of Fran. But she continued to drop in at our new home, and Andrew didn't seem to mind. He said she interested him. I used to tease him about her — I knew she just wasn't his type. Andrew is a warm, outgoing person, energetic and practical, good at every kind of sport. I share his interests, which is what makes our marriage so good.

I looked through the window and saw that Fran was in the orchard with Kelly. There was no sign of Mrs Kims. I assumed, with annoyance, that Fran had sent her home. I steeled myself to seem welcoming as I went out to join them. Kelly was clinging around her, as usual, and had no eyes for me. I suppose I have always slightly resented the way my daughter abandons me as soon as Fran appears. Fran cares nothing for children, I know. But she has quite a way with her when she sets out to please. And she certainly was sparing no pains to please Kelly. They were playing hide-and-seek as I joined them. I hung about for a few minutes, feeling almost an intruder, then suggested we should go into the cottage and have some tea.

As we strolled across the grass, Fran told me she had just come back from 'wandering around India', and thought she would come and see how I was making out in Cornwall. She seemed amused at the idea of my living in an isolated cottage. But then she has always taken a slightly mocking attitude towards me. She said she had spent part of her childhood in Cornwall. Where you live as a child, she said, with one of her odd looks, is home. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I knew very little about her past life, though mine was an open book to her. She never spoke of any family or relatives.

When I came into the sitting room with the tea, she was already settled in my chair. Her presence — although she had gone into one of her silent moods — changed the room. Her reticence made me chatter on about the first things that came into my head. But I was not at ease. All the time I was wondering, why had she come again? What did she want?

It was obvious that, for whatever reason, Fran was here to stay for a while. She had soon made my pretty spare room her own. It was filled with her clutter, including some strange things she had brought with her from India —masks and ornaments. Although I've known her for several years, I have never felt comfortable with Fran. There is something alien about her. I wanted her out of the cottage. Yet, as always with her, I couldn't bring myself even to ask how long she was staying.

So the days went by . . . The rhythms of her life were quite different from mine. She would still be asleep when we went to the village in the mornings. Later in the day she would go wandering off on her own. I never knew where. Certainly she didn't seem to be known to the locals. At night, long after I was in bed, the melancholy haunting chords of her guitar kept me awake. I could imagine her long fingers twanging the strings as she stared into the fire, half-tranced, as I'd often seen her do.

Her attitude to Kelly was quite inconsistent. She would completely ignore the child for a couple of days, then spend hours with her, swinging her tirelessly in the garden, making daisy chains, telling her stories which stopped abruptly as soon as I appeared. It irritated me that Kelly still appeared devoted to her.

Between Fran and me there was little communication. She remained the most remote and secret person I have ever known; in my house but not of it.

One day, a disturbing thing happened: I came back from the village to find Andrew's photograph smashed to pieces on the sitting room floor. Fran was sitting in my armchair looking particularly dreamy. It must have been the wind, she said. But the windows were all shut against a sudden shower of rain. I was sure she had deliberately broken it. But why should she do such a thing?

All this time I was waiting for a letter from Andrew. Usually, his letters arrived every few days. But now, when I especially longed to hear from him, I had to wait over a week. At last, I came• down one morning to find the envelope waiting on the mat. I took it to my favourite seat in the garden to read, feeling light-hearted for the first time for days. This should give me details of his arrival next week. And once he was home I knew he would help me, tactfully but firmly, to get rid of Fran. The first part of the letter was full of allusions to our pet jokes. His letters always make me laugh. But in a moment I was trying to keep back tears. His leave had been postponed. We must now wait five weeks to see each other. Five weeks! It seemed an eternity. I felt unaccountably desolate.

For once I needed Fran. I had to pour out my disappointment to somebody. I started up to go into the house and wake her— she was sure to be still asleep at this hour. Then I saw a curtain move upstairs and saw her move away from her window. I had only caught a glimpse of her expression, but somehow I was sure my news was known to her. Was it then that I began to feel frightened?

It was a fine day of wind and glinting sunshine. After lunch, I decided to pack up a picnic for Kelly and myself and get away from the cottage for a long afternoon. A good walk, I told myself, would get rid of this bout of depression. I was in the kitchen, looking for Kelly's favourite biscuits when Fran appeared in the doorway, and for a minute stood watching me. Then she asked if I was going out. Yes, I said, getting milk out of the fridge. I did not elaborate.

THE VISITOR

After another pause, Fran said she thought she would come along with us. I opened my mouth to tell her she was not wanted, that I particularly needed to be on my own with Kelly. But that sort of remark doesn't come easily to me. I said nothing.

I filled a thermos, added another cup to the basket, and we set off, Kelly in her push-chair clutching her teddy, which she had insisted on bringing. I was fond of Teddy —he had been mine as a child, and age had given him a sort of battered leering charm — but he was a large creature, and I usually ended up having to carry him. Andy walked close to my side, between me and Fran. She did not share Kelly's affection for Fran. In fact her distrust of my visitor could have been embarrassing if I had cared about it. I had not mentioned Andrew's letter, and did not now. Nor did Fran. We were an oddly silent party.

For a while we walked along with no discussion of where we might go. Then we passed the beginning of the path I had followed on the day Fran arrived. She stopped and said she was sure she had been this way before. Didn't it lead to a cove? There was something tense about her attitude. I felt strongly against going there again — especially with Fran. It was not worth seeing, I said, and too long a climb up again with the push-chair. But she walked ahead, taking no notice. I need not have followed her, but Kelly began demanding to 'get out and walk with Fran'. I almost pushed her out, and let them go ahead, while I followed with the push-chair and picnic. My jealousy had become an obsession. I recognized, but could not control it. It seemed to me that Fran was trying to take over my child. I felt she had some sort of power over all our lives which I could not shake off.



Fran went ahead, more and more purposefully. Soon she seemed oblivious even of Kelly. I dropped further and further behind, hampered as I was. When I got to the cove, I at first could not see either of them. Then I saw Fran, a motionless figure, looking out to sea. Kelly was playing at the edge of a pool. Some instinct of danger made me leave the push-chair and hurry across the sand to her. It was not until I caught up with her that I felt she was safe again. Fran hardly seemed to notice when I called Kelly to come and look at some seaweed. For a while Kelly and I played on the edge of the ocean as though it were an ordinary afternoon. But all the time I was aware of the silent, rapt figure looking out at the waves.

At last she came towards us, holding a piece of drift-wood, which seemed to interest her. It might have come from a wreck, she said Gulls were circling, screaming, above our heads, almost drowning her words. Fran glanced up at them.

`You know,' she said, 'there's a legend that seagulls are the souls of dead children?'

`No, I didn't,' I said composedly. I knew she meant to frighten me, and was determined not to show it. But I remembered the mysterious cry I had heard before, and felt as though cold water were being poured down my spine.

I asked her if she did remember the cove.

`Oh yes,' she said. 'It's just as I remember it.'

That was all. But I was sure it was no ordinary childhood memory which had kept her tranced beside the sea.

Suddenly she swooped on Kelly and picked her up. Kelly shouted happily as Fran ran off with her towards the sea. I ran after them, pretending to join in the game; but it frightened me to see my child in her arms. The mood of the beach had quite changed since the sunny afternoon when I had discovered it. The stones and rocks now looked to me like part of a stark, primeval landscape. And I was possessed by the most primitive emotions — fear and anger. Anger had liberated me at last: I was ready to tell Fran to clear out. But while she still had Kelly I dared not speak, could only call out that it was time to climb the path again for our picnic.

At the suggestion of a picnic Kelly began struggling to get out of Fran's arms. Fran did not put her down, but changed course, and we all set out for the cliff top.

`I suppose you've heard the local story of the shipwreck and the child?' Fran said, as we climbed. Her question sounded rehearsed, as though this were another attempt to frighten me. I shook my head, looking uninterested. But Fran went on to tell me the tale whether I wanted to hear it or not.

It seemed that in the eighteen-forties the packet for America set out from Falmouth one October afternoon. Fog came down, she went off course, and was wrecked on the treacherous rocks near the coast — just as I had imagined. Among the people struggling in the water on that terrible night was a young woman who managed to reach the shore with her small girl in her arms. She had just managed to set the child down on a ledge of rock — 'It was in this very cove,' Fran said — when a strong wave swept her off her feet back into the sea. She was rescued and brought ashore unconscious. But no one heard the child crying in the foggy darkness, and when they searched the cove the next day there was no sign of the child. Presumably she had been swept off her ledge into the sea.

`The locals will tell you,' said Fran, 'she still searches.'

I was thankful to reach the cliff top; we were safe from the sea and rocks. But Fran still held Kelly. There was no pretence of politeness as I snatched her away, and jammed her into her push-chair. Our rivalry was out in the open. Kelly began to wail, but was soon satisfied with the return of her teddy — which I had been carrying -- and a biscuit. Fran sat down beside the push-chair. She had become very quiet, dangerously quiet it, seemed to me. She refused to share our picnic. I saw that she was looking at Kelly with an expression which is hard to describe, but which chilled me. Then she looked at me, and held my gaze for a long minute. It seemed that whatever was between us must explode.

She reached out and put her hand on Kelly's head. She spoke only two words:

`My child.'

Her child? What could she mean? Horrible possibilities crowded into my mind.

Fran got up, and without a further look at either of us, walked away towards the cliff edge. I called to her to come back and explain. She just walked on as though she hadn't heard. In a second I was on my feet, rushing after her, screaming out all my hatreds, all my jealous fears about Kelly, about Andrew, things which I had not allowed myself even to think . . . A line of bushes hid her briefly from my view, and when I reached the cliff edge the beach seemed deserted. Then I saw a figure at the water's edge. Even allowing for her knowledge of the cliff paths from a child, I couldn't imagine how she had got there in so short a time. Tears of rage and shock blurred my eyes for a moment. When I could see again, she had gone. I tried to think she must have swum out to sea or hidden behind a rock to frighten me; there must be a logical explanation.

I called her name, several times, my voice cracking with fear. There was no response.

I turned away, dazed and shaky. Then I stared, unable to believe my eyes: the teddy bear, zombie-like, was rolling towards the cliff edge. At the steepest part it fell over, and disappeared. I was horrified to see that Kelly was getting out of her push-chair. She began to run -- but not towards her teddy. She was running towards another part of the cliff edge, as though someone were calling her

I don't know how I got to her in time. When I did, I clung to her, feeling my knees must give way. After a few seconds, I felt strong enough to carry her, protesting, to the security of the push-chair. But as I tried to grasp it, I felt it being pulled away from me as though by a powerful gust of wind. I tried to hang on to it, but my hands were shaking and clammy, and it slipped from my hold. I saw it roll along the grass and follow the teddy bear over the edge. I stood watching its slow, dreadful descent as it was gathered into the shadowy dusk of the cliff. So Kelly might have fallen, had been meant to fall, I now believed.

A drowned child . . . A mother who still searches . . . Had Fran some unimaginable connection with them? For a moment longer I stood as though frozen. Then I began to run as though all the powers of darkness were behind me. Panic — held at bay till now — had me in its grip. As I went running and stumbling along the path, I hardly heard Kelly's wail about her lost teddy, or Andy's short, anxious barks as she ran beside me. I had only one goal in life: to be home. Home was safety. I hardly noticed my aching arms and back, or that my breath was coming in great, sobbing gasps. Home . . . home . . . the word seemed to beat in my head with the banging of my heart.

At last the familiar front door was in sight. I was inside, gasping painfully for breath as I leaned against the door. At last I could put Kelly down. She was safe, we were back in the world I knew. I allowed myself the luxury of nearly fainting.

Kelly's shout of delight made me open my eyes. Her push-chair, undamaged, was standing in the sitting room. She was just lifting her teddy out of it He also looked no more battered than usual. Over the fireplace Andrew's photograph, whole again, stood in its usual place.

As I was trying to take this in, I heard Andy give a low growl. My eyes were drawn to the mirror. I could swear that for a fraction of a second I saw Fran's reflection, a look of sadness in her eyes. A waif, as someone had said. Then she had gone.

Yes, Fran has gone. There is no sign of her carpet bag, her Indian ornaments. I don't believe I shall see her any more. The cottage is my own again.

Yet it is not the same, and never can be. My world of familiar things, predictable days has been shattered. Fear has moved into my home with me. Staring at my distraught face in the mirror, I wonder, did it happen? Is loneliness driving me out of my mind? How can I begin to explain it to Andrew? I have passed the evening writing this down. But now darkness is enclosing the cottage. I have put on every light, but the night is still ahead.

A Short Story: Meditation in Solitude

This was written after seeing a BBC documentary on Julian of Norwich. Although this made arguments that she herself wrote her "Revelations of Divine Love", nothing is certain, and I have kept the older idea that she dictated them to a priest, which makes for a better dynamic in the story. The historical background of Norwich, and the plague and her cell have been researched, and while the extracts from the linking poem (with more modern words) are mine, most of the words spoken by her are taken from her own writings or from the hymn "Like as a Mother God Comforteth His Children"  by Maria Louise Baum. While Maria Louise Baum didn’t originally write the text about Julian,  liturgy planners have often paired her hymn with Julian’s feast day because the theological themes match so flawlessly. Julian's famous words "All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well" are also placed in the story in context, not as misplaced optimism, but faith in God despite the darkness of the world.

Meditation in Solitude: A Story

There was silence outside her walls. Norwich was a city of silent, deserted markets. The plague had breached the city gates, and two-thirds of the stalls in the bustling market square sat empty. Normal commerce ground to a complete halt as buyers and sellers infected each other and died. Entire streets became vacant. Dilapidated tenements and shuttered shops fell into severe disrepair, creating a ghostly urban landscape that took generations to recover. Death stalked the city, bringing emptiness and silence.

The rain had begun before dawn, a soft patter against the wooden shutter of Julian’s cell. She lay awake, listening to it, letting the sound settle into the silence that had become her closest companion. Solitude was not emptiness to her; it was a vast interior landscape, a place where God’s whisper could be heard more clearly than any human voice.

Solitude, my sweet teacher, my dearest love
Taking apart fabric that I may falsely prove
All certainly falls apart, and a note of pain
Heard in the silence, falling like the rain
So to live without intimacy, and affection
Tears holes in you, but makes connection

By mid‑morning, Alice arrived. She was one of the few permitted to approach the outer door of the anchorhold, carrying food, news, and, on days like this, ink and parchment for the priest who served as Julian’s scribe. Julian heard the faint murmur of their voices outside, then the soft scrape of a stool being placed near the narrow window that opened into her cell.

“Mother Julian,” the priest said gently, “are you ready to continue?”

Julian drew a slow breath. She had no quill, no parchment of her own. Her hands, often weak from illness, were not suited to writing. But her mind was clear, and the visions she had received years before still burned within her like coals that refused to die. She moved closer to the window, the only opening through which she touched the world.

“Yes,” she said. “Let us begin.”

The priest dipped his quill. Julian closed her eyes.

“In the silence,” she said softly, “I heard the suffering of the world crying out. It grows louder, louder still, until it becomes a great shout.”

The quill scratched across parchment.

Julian continued, her voice steady. “We are torn by loneliness, by hunger, by cruelty. Yet in this solitude, God shows me that compassion is not a turning inward, but a reaching outward. The stranger, the poor, the forgotten, these are the reflections of ourselves.”

The suffering of the world heard crying out
Becomes louder, louder still, a great shout
Calls for hope and justice against the cruel
To feed the hungry, not with left-over gruel
But with the bread of life, clean fresh water
An ending to the famine’s endless slaughter

In the city, there were as yet no painted crosses to mark the sick; instead, terror served as the quarantine. When the plague breached a threshold, neighbours simply fled, leaving the infected house to a ghostly silence. Families barricaded themselves inside out of sheer desperation, while outside, the relentless tolling of the parish death bells became the only sign that another household had fallen.

Outside, the rain thickened. Julian felt it as a kind of liturgy, each drop a reminder of the world beyond her stone walls. She imagined the mothers who came to her window seeking comfort, the widowers who asked for prayer, the children who pressed crusts of bread into her hands as offerings. She felt their wounds as her own. She remembered the words spoken to her in her showings – “Jesus feeds us with himself, and, with the most tender courtesy, does it by means of the Blessed Sacrament, the precious food of all true life”. The prayer of our Lord echoed in her thoughts: give us today our daily bread, and the most precious bread of Jesus showed us bread made holy and blessed.

Alice returned briefly, whispering through the outer door. “The widow on King Street asks your prayers. Her son worsens.” The hidden fear was unsaid. That black spots and swellings would appear, the harbingers of the angel of death.

Julian bowed her head. “Tell her she is held in God’s mercy. And give her half my bread.”

Alice nodded and departed.

The priest waited, quill poised. Julian lifted her gaze.

“Our task,” she said, “is to mend the broken world, or die in the trying. For in that labour, we find truth, no lie, no self‑deception. Only love. Like as a mother, God comforts His children. Comfort is hope and courage for endeavour, Comfort is love, whose home abides in peace.”

Our task to mend the broken world, or die
In trying; there alone is truth found, no lie
The sacred path, not inward, seeking self
But looking to the reflections of thyself

The priest hesitated. “Mother Julian… do you truly believe all shall be well, even now?”


Julian smiled, a small, tired smile. “Yes. Not because the world is well, but because God is with us in its wounds. All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well, if we answer suffering with mercy and love. . For God wills that we be not carried overly low because of sorrows and temptations that befall us, for it has ever been this way before the coming of miracles. If there is anywhere on earth a lover of God who is always kept safe, I know nothing of it, for it was not shown to me. But this was shown: that in falling and rising again we are always kept in that same precious love.”

The quill moved again, capturing her words.

She remembered from years long ago the ritual of the last rites, when the priest spoke those words spoke of her departure from the world. She first stepped inside her cell, sprinkled the room with holy water by the priest, to be a living tomb.

She looked around her anchorhold, a small, stone room built against the side of the church, with three narrow windows. The door was sealed and she was there to remain until her death, each day to recite prayers, psalms, and the hours of the Virgin Mary.

When the rain finally eased, a thin beam of light slipped through a shutter, touching the stone floor like a blessing. Julian felt the warmth of it, faint but real.

The other, stranger, not forgotten alone
As when self-enlightenment takes throne
But reaching out, with pity, love, sorrow
As others may to us upon the morrow.

“Write this also,” she said. “Solitude teaches us to listen. Compassion teaches us to act. And in the union of the two, we find the path God sets before us. The courteous giver thinks nothing of all her expense and all her trouble because of the joy and delight that she feels at having pleased and comforted the one that she loves.”

The priest finished the page. Julian folded her hands, the silence returning around her like a cloak. Her stone cell was a physical reflection of an inner reality: she was enclosed in her room, just as her soul was enclosed in God's love.

She was alone, yet not alone. Enclosed, yet open to the world’s cry. And through her dictation, her voice travelled farther than her feet ever could.

Lost Angels

This is a reflection on paper angels. This year they will be crafted again, and that is a time for joy. But last year they were burnt under the Easter bonfire, without a word, a prayer, to acknowledge the effort gone into them. I would have like to have seen something like this.

Celebrant: We now come to the Easter bonfire, and the burning of the Christmas angels. These angels once carried our Christmas light; now, through this fire, may Christ renew that light in our hearts.

Parishioners may have invested prayers, hopes, or memories into those paper angels. Seeing them burned could feel unsettling, as if those hopes are being consumed rather than lifted. Angels are more often linked to light (candles, stars, music) than to fire. Having them burnt unseen is even worse. Using fire as their “end” is unusual in Christian symbolism. Without a word of meaning, this becomes careless of those. The angels are not just decorations; they are embodiments of prayer, care, and communal offering. Their burning becomes a symbolic desecration.

This poem reflects on last Easter when this happened, without a word, and buried within the Easter bonfire, they were silently destroyed.

Lost Angels

Paper angels are now high up in flight
On wire and wings, on chancel, nave
Each made of love, to show the light
Each such blessings showered, gave

Paper angels made with love and care
On side chapel, by the entrance door
They fly above, and blessings share
Sing silently good tidings everymore

Paper angels removed and taken down
Kept in a cupboard to Christ’s dismay
I remember Easter day with a frown
Burnt with no words, no time to pray

Paper angels burnt without a word
And only God weeps and is heard

1986 - 40 years ago - September - Part 2

 

1986 - 40 years ago - September - Part 2

September 15-21

TWO hundred people living in the Bagot area are evacuated from their homes when nearby commercial premises are engulfed by fire. The blaze destroys the building used by a recently-established business, Smoked Starters, but no one is injured.

Vandals cause serious damage at d'Hautree School. They cut electrical and telephone cables, slash seats and curtains, break school trophies and daub graffiti on walls and blackboards.

The results of the census taken in March are made public and the revelation that the Island's population has already passed the 80,000 mark, a level which the States have said should not be reached before 1997, causes an outcry.

The Arts Centre faces severe financial pressures but its director, Mr George Ritchie, says that the struggle to provide the service that the public wants will continue. He also calls for greater States spending on the arts.

Labour MP Mr Alf Dubs visits the Island, of whose status as a tax-haven he is critical, and addresses a public meeting at the Town Hall. He tells his audience that Jersey has a "noncritical political system" and that its housing laws turn some people into "second-class citizens".

Statistics show that the number of front-seat passengers seriously injured in traffic accidents has fallen by 70 per cent since the introduction of last year's seat-belt legislation. Defence Committee president Senator John Ellis says that the news is "marvellous". Thousands watch the annual Battle of Britain air display from vantage points all over the Island. Concorde, the Red Arrows and a Tornado fighter are among the stars of the show.

September 22-28

A RECORD "high" is on the cards when a further 13 arrests for suspected drunken driving bring the figure for the year to date to over 400.

Jersey's £5 million gift to the Falkland Islands is still in 'British Government hands. Four years after the gift was made, the Falkland Islands representative at a Commonwealth Parliamentary Association meeting being held in Jersey confirms that this is so.

Ten per cent fewer airline charter seats to Jersey are sought for the 1987 tourist season. Just under 73,000 such seats are approved by the Civil Aviation authority.

Island toastmaster Robert Michieli (24), is convicted of drunken driving and failing to report an accident. He may also face a perjury prosecution because the Assistant Magistrate, Mr R. J. Short, says that he finds Michieli's evidence about a girl who he says was driving his car "palpably false".

 

Ian Botham's 25-mile walk around the 12 parish churches is hailed as a great success. The walk, on which Botham was accompanied by his wife, Kathryn, an elephant called Lola and 400 Islanders, raises money for the Leukaemia Research Fund.

Roz Forrester, whose voice for three years invited the Island to wake up on the BBC Radio Jersey early morning programme, decides to call it a day. She will, however, continue to work for the station on a freelance basis.

Islander Mr Stuart Weaving is awarded the Springbok Foundation Friendship Personality of the Year Award in South Africa.

September 29—October 5

SEALINK British Ferries suspend their operations in Jersey without warning and it is revealed that a new company — headed by Channel Island Ferries' managing director, Mr Colin Carter — will be handling all the Island's ferry links with the UK.

Highlands College is entered by vandals and thousands of pounds worth of damage is caused. A safe is forced, cash is stolen and doors and pictures are smashed.

A man is arrested shortly after an alleged assault which leaves well-known local boxer Mr Lyndon Marquer critically ill with head injuries. Mr Marquer (22), is taken to the General Hospital's intensive care unit.

 A landlord who had 11 illegal lodgers in his house at Victoria Terrace, Georgetown, is fined £3,500 by the Royal Court. George Albert Thomas tells the Court that he took in the lodgers because he was short of cash. A man who was acting as curator of his mother's affairs but allegedly forged her signature to sell Treasury stock worth £22,950 is remanded for trial by the Royal Court. Peter Gerald Marriott reserves his plea at a Police Court hearing.

A St Clement Parish Assembly votes £3,000 from the rates to improve the appearance of the St Clement Garden of Remembrance. The funds are made available because of poor public response to improve the garden.

More sheltered homes for the elderly are needed outside St Helier, according to Housing President Deputy Hendric Vandervliet. The Deputy says that elderly people from country districts should not be expected to move to town.