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History is Now and England

“ . . . fellow citizens with the saints . . .”
Eph. 2.19

More than any other country, England, to Dr Atherton Grainge, had always seemed a place where the past, present and future were commingled. “History is now and England.” So the poet T. S. Eliot had put it in his poem “Little Gidding” from the Four Quartets.
Although Blexley was mentioned in their tourist guide for its Norman church, Dr Grainge and his wife Denny had not intended to stop there. But when their rental car’s oil pressure warning light came on suddenly, Dr Grainge thought it prudent to pull over to the side of the road.
“We may damage the engine if we drive on,” he said. “According to the last signpost we passed, Blexley is thirty miles away. I suppose the best thing to do is wait for the next car that comes by and hitch a lift. There’s sure to be a garage there and we can get a mechanic to come out and check the car.”
“I guess you’re right honey,” said Denny. “How about a coffee in the meantime?”
They drank coffee from their vacuum flask and played a hand or two of Ichythos, their personal version of Fish.
Half an hour passed, and there was still no sign of another car on the road.
“I think I’ll get out and take in the view,” said Denny, slipping the cards into the glovebox.
Dr Grainge studied the road map and tried to estimate how far they’d travelled since passing the signpost.
When he got out of the car to stretch his legs, he found he had developed double vision. To be more precise, he could see, with equal clarity, two landscapes simultaneously, as if one image were superimposed on the other.
He saw his wife standing a few yards from the edge of the tarsealed road, one foot resting on a stone, looking out across the neat fields of clover and rye. In the other scene, the stone was in the same place but his wife was not present. The stone was at the edge of a rutted track that meandered across muddy fields that were rank with weeds.
By comparing the two scenes, using the stone as a marker point, Dr Grainge came to the astonishing conclusion that he was looking at the same landscape from two vantage points in time. The old track roughly followed the line of the present road but it was evident that much of the farmland had been mechanically levelled since then. A modern farmhouse occupied the site of a stone cottage from the earlier time, but the stones from the cottage had evidently been incorporated into a low wall at the front of the property.
Comparing the contours of the distant hills in the two scenes, he noted they were essentially the same. Even though tracts of woodland had been felled, the essential features of the landscape had not changed over . . . how many years? Five hundred years? A thousand years? He felt he couldn’t begin to guess.
“At least we’ve been lucky with the weather, honey. The warmest summer in eight years, so they say.”
Denny had turned to him. She slipped her hand through his arm.
“You’re very quiet. There’s nothing wrong is there?”
“No, I’m sorry if I seem a bit preoccupied.”
He was looking past her; the weather in the other scene was grey and overcast. The smell was different too: there was a autumnal dampness in the air.
He looked back at Denny and thought how pretty she looked. She would be alarmed if he told her what he saw, and he would tell her, but not yet. Instead he said: “Maybe I should stand by the road if we want to flag down the next car.”
There was still no sign of traffic in either direction. But when he looked along the old road, he saw two figures approaching on foot.
“Are you sure it isn’t safe to drive the car? It might just be a problem with the electrical system,” said Denny.
“You’re right. I guess I should check the oil level.”
He raised the car bonnet and removed the dipstick.
He could see the wayfarers clearly now, stooped under the weight of the packs on their backs. Their cloaks, jerkins and leggings were of a style he associated with the Middle Ages.
Both men were below average height. The elder was a stocky man in his early fifties, with a pock-marked face. Dr Grainge was struck by the good humour and patience of his expression. There was something in his appearance that said to Dr Grainge: This is a man I could trust with my life.
His companion was a scrawny fellow with a wispy reddish beard. He had cataracts in both eyes. He gripped the sleeve of the older man as he walked. The words that came unbidden into Dr Grainge’s mind were: He’s blind but not as blind as he likes to make out.
The travellers passed within three feet of him.
Dr Grainge wiped the dipstick.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
They neither saw nor heard him. The blind man said something that struck a chill into Dr Grainge.
You mean to preach in Blexley? Has not the Bishop forbidden you to preach?
I would sooner obey God than the Bishop.
You are a fool, Anystoun. He will put you to the fire, with all the other heretics he has burned.
The oil level on the dipstick showed full.
“I think you’re right, honey,” said Dr Grainge. “We’ll take it slowly into Blexley and get the car checked just to be sure.”
They passed the travellers on the old road, trudging in the direction of the village.
Dr Grainge noticed the older man wore a sword, slung from the pack on his back. It suggested he had served as a soldier, possibly in the Crusades. The blind man would have been unfit for military service. He earned his living by his wits — thieving and beggary were his stock in trade. War and plague had drained the country’s resources. That explained the untended fields. Dr Grainge realised he was looking at a grim period in English history.
They rounded a bend in the road and Dr Grainge found his double vision had vanished. It left him with a sense of foreboding.
“Honey, you’re very quiet,” said Denny.
“I saw something on the road back there. A glimpse into the past, maybe seven or eight hundred years ago. It wasn’t a good time to be living in England.”

They found a garage at Blexley and arranged for the car to be checked. Wandering into the main street, they found a market in progress. Stalls selling food, clothing, antiques and bric-a-brac were doing a brisk trade.
While Denny was looking at a stall selling jewellery, Dr Grainge found his double vision had returned. A cluster of low, timber and mud cottages occupied the site of the present-day shops with their pretty bow-fronted windows. Pigs tethered to stakes outside the cottages rooted in the mud; mangy dogs foraged among the dung heaps. The smell — miasma — from the open drains made his stomach heave.
The market place was thronged with people but their mood seemed tense and sullen. Malnutrition, disease and poverty had left marks on every face.
“Look at this cute turquoise and pearl ring,” said Denny. “I’m sure it’s Victorian. Shall I try it on?”
“Go ahead, honey,” said Dr Grainge, absently.
He was being drawn into the other scene, caught up in the crowd, which was moving in the direction of the church.
Where are we going, father?
To see a heretic who is to be burned.
I saw three heretics burned at Hanton last month. One was a lad of twelve. . .
What is a heretic, father?
Heretics are blasphemers who preach without the authority of the church.
Dr Grainge saw with horror that a wooden stake with a heavy iron staple, surrounded by faggots, had been driven into the open ground in front of the church.
Where is the heretic?
On the cart.
That is Anystoun of Grainge. He is no heretic.
He was betrayed by that beggar, I’ll be bound. He looks the devil’s imp.
The beggar has stolen his pack, I see.
Some filthy dog turd has stolen my purse!
“My God,” said Dr Grainge. “They can’t do this.”
The executioners pulled Anystoun off the cart and dragged him to the stake, fastening him to it with chains.
The beggar betrayed him to the Bishop.
He has a lying tongue.
Take care, he is speaking to the sheriff’s men.
I have no stomach for this.
They will strangle him first. The big fellow does the strangling . . .with the rope round his waist.
The Bishop has forbidden strangling. He has ordered them to lay green faggots on the pile.
I say the Bishop will answer before God.
Take care what you say, friend. A man has died for saying less than that.
Dr Grainge was very close to the condemned man now. Close enough to hear him praying aloud.
Our Father which art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy name.
One of the executioners began lighting the brushwood with a brand. The Bishop raised his hand towards Anystoun.
We deliver your body to destruction by fire that your soul may be saved at the last . . .
Dr Grainge saw the fear in Anystoun’s eyes.
“Dear Christ, let him not suffer,” he prayed. “Let me bear the fear and pain for him.”
Bring up the fire. More at the side here.
Anystoun, do you hear me?
I hear you.
I have a word from the Lord for you. Do not be afraid of the fire, for there is another who has already borne the pangs of death for you. You have been faithful to the calling to preach My Word in England. Know that your son shall live to preach My Word, and his son and his son, from generation to generation, and My hand will be upon them all . . .
“Atherton! Atherton!”
“That man looks like he’s having a fit.”
“Don’t worry darling, I’m with you.”
Christ, they will never get that wood to burn!
Filthy smoke. It’s blowing towards us.
The gates of Hell opened before Dr Grainge’s eyes. A blackened body, writhing against the chains, licked by flames. And the beggar, watching coolly, and the Bishop talking to the sheriff, and the executioners, sweat running down their blackened faces, poking at the smouldering faggots with their iron rods; the crowd surly and wanting it over, and the voices that came at him from all sides, separated by a thousand years of time.
This is no sight for Christian eyes.
Turn your eyes away, then.
“Someone stole his American Express cheques from the hotel room. The police said a man tried to cash them at a bank and was arrested.”
“Should we call an ambulance?”
“Isn’t it just maddening. You go all the way across town and then they don’t have the size you want.”
The fire’s going out.
“I’m a nurse. He’ll be all right. Just lay him on his side. Has he had a turn like this before?
He’s not dead yet . . . I saw his arm move.
“Probably just the heat. I nearly fainted in a chemist’s shop the other day. They sat me with my head down. Felt better.”
I swear if I catch that blind beggar on a dark night, I’ll slit his traitor’s throat.
Blind? He’s no more blind than you or I.
The devil in him can see well enough, I’ll be bound.
“Let him get some air. The ambulance is here.”
“Chemist? Oh you mean drugstore?”
“Icecream, there all down your shirt. Why can’t children . . .?”
It is not safe to talk like that. Christ, they’re looking at us.
“Evensong’s at seven . . . cup of tea afterwards.”
“Lovely old church.”
“Have you got the guidebook?”
“O yes, it says they burnt martyrs here. Probably in the spot we’re standing on right now.”
“Spooky.”
Whatever the case, you should not take the Lord’s name in vain . . .
“The cover’s got sticky.”
“You’re very welcome to attend. We get a lot of American visitors in the summer.”
“Move back, please sir. Would you like to get in the ambulance, Mrs Grainge, and we’ll take him to St. Kilda’s hospital.”
“I recognise that guy. Wasn’t he the preacher on the cover of Time magazine?”

Dr Grainge became aware of beings dressed in white bending over him, connecting him to a machine of some kind. So this was how the resurrection of the body was accomplished, he thought. Obviously, the verse about the trumpet was to be understood in a spiritual sense. They seemed to have finished their work because he was lapsing back into a warm, comfortable blackness. Maybe he would need to sleep until the end of the millennium before the process would be completed.
He woke sooner than he had expected, to find Denny at his bedside. She put her hand on his.
“You’re in hospital, honey, but you’re going to be all right. You’ve had a nervous shock of some kind, but the doctors say you’re doing fine. I was praying for you all the time. All you have to do now is rest.”
Later, in the afternoon, when he was sitting up in bed and wondering how he could begin to explain what had happened, Denny said there were some visitors to see him. Two men in white flannels, one carrying a cricket bat, entered the room.
“Good afternoon, Dr Grainge. I’m Father Danby, the vicar of St. Holstan’s here in Blexley. This is Father Compton, from the parish of St. Ostwyns, in Merithorpe. Please excuse our gear (waving to indicate their clothing) but we were playing a spot of cricket down on the Green. Annual match between the two parishes, you know.”
“Jolly good match, it was too,” said Father Compton. “Do you play cricket by any chance, Dr Grainge?”
“Only baseball.”
“I once played baseball for the Harlem Green Jackets,” said Father Compton. “A great game — but that’s another story. Maybe you should tell us what’s been happening to you, old chap?”
Recounting the searing sights he had seen left Dr Grainge feeling drained, emotionally and spiritually, but he knew it was necessary for his healing. To his enormous relief, the clergymen showed not the slightest inclination to doubt the reality of what he had experienced.
“If I had to tell this to my colleagues in the United States, they’d suggest I see a psychiatrist,” Dr Grainge said.
“Ah, yes, but this is England, Dr Grainge,” said Father Danby. “We in the Anglican Church believe the Church is called to share in the sufferings of the martyrs — and goodness knows, we have a long tradition of martyrdom in England. We believe the communion of saints embraces the living, the dead and those to come. I don’t doubt that a thousand years from now, the Church will share in the sufferings of the martyrs of the twentieth century.”
He laughed. “Don’t ask me to explain it rationally. It’s one of the mysteries of the faith, and even the theologians have difficulty in explaining it. So it always comes as a shock when the doctrines we can’t even begin to explain turn out to be true.”
“I have a strong feeling that the martyr I prayed for was a distant ancestor of mine,” said Dr Grainge. “I think I had a special word for him from the Lord, but to be honest, I can’t remember just what it was.”
“Maybe T. S. Eliot had something like that in mind when he wrote about prayer being tongued with fire beyond the language of the living,” said Father Danby.
“It’s remarkable you should mention T.S. Eliot,” said Dr Grainge. “I’ve had lines from the Four Quartets running through my mind from the time I arrived in England.”
“Remember his quotation from Lady Juliana of Norwich,” said Father Danby. “‘All shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.’ Everything’s going to be well for you now, Dr Grainge — of that I’m certain.”

For Dr Grainge, it was a pleasant change to take a seat in the congregation at St. Holstan’s rather than his accustomed place in the pulpit. Their singing may have been more restrained than the congregation of his own church, he thought, but that was more than compensated for by the glory of the choir, singing the great anthems of Tallis, Gibbons and Purcell. Father Danby’s sermon, too, was in the great English tradition of preaching.
After the service, Dr Grainge and Denny were chatting to some of the parishioners when he discovered his double vision had returned. He became aware of another congregation in the church, waiting, it seemed, for the evening service to begin. He noticed some restoration work had been carried out in the church. The stained glass windows had been refurbished and new carpet laid in the aisles.
The congregation’s clothing also caught his attention: it was different from anything he had seen before, although it would have taken Denny’s experienced eye to explain just what the differences were. It was soft, flowing clothing in colour combinations such as purples, greens and browns that he could not recall having seen before. It was as if they had been dressed for a scene in a movie. The men, he noted, wore loose-fitting shirts — there was not a collar and tie to be seen. Even the hair styles were different.
The congregation’s mood was happy and relaxed. Then Dr Grainge realised he had been spotted by a boy, of five or six years of age, sitting in a pew with his family. The boy gave him a thumbs up sign and nudged his older sister, a girl of twelve or thirteen. The girl looked in his direction, laughed, and tweaked the boy’s carroty hair.
Dr Grainge moved closer.
“I tell you, I did see Great-Grand-Dad Atherton,” the boy insisted. “He looked just like he does in the televiewer. He was standing there smiling at me.”
“I didn’t see him, Ashenden. But he could have just looked in from Heaven to see how you were doing — so you’d better behave yourself while Dad’s preaching tonight! No playing with your televiewer. Better give it to me to look after.”
The double vision faded, and Dr Grainge sensed it would not return.

Later that evening, they set out from Blexley in the car.
“You know, honey, I realised something about our son tonight,” said Dr Grainge. “You know how you . . . we . . . worry that Arlington’s never found a girl, that he might be . . . well . . . gay. We’re just so . . . totally wrong. He’s still finding himself. When he gets out of gaol next year, he’s going to settle down, get married and raise kids. We’ll see them, believe me. And those kids are going to have kids too. There’ll be Grainges in the pulpit for generations to come. The only thing we’ll have to accept is that our grandchildren are going to speak with English accents, not American. I guess we’ll be making a lot of trips over here to see them.”
“I think it’s time, honey,” said Denny, “that you told me exactly what you saw on the road this morning!”