The church porch is only just set back off the street, so the slight adrenalin of the decision to go in, the break away from my normal life, is just a quick dart, not a self conscious mounting of stairs or an observed grand entrance.
The building of the church is quite ordinairy (by which perhaps I only mean a bit like the parish church I went to as a child.) I find it really pretty. The light coming through mainly clear glass windows, with just touches of coloured glass in the top floret windows and a couple of stained glass story book windows. In the front chancel the ceiling is aquamarine with gold stars and a front window of washy water colours and a silver cross. The side chapel has mosaic and flickering candles. Everywhere nice wooden chairs. Of simple design, slightly worn..
But inside there is one .......two..... men moving about, with no real purpose but (and here is still the fear) my worry is that they will ask if they can help me. Though perhaps, I think, as I bolt to a pew to sit and repel the question, it isn't something that is asked. Perhaps it is them that have just murdered for the first time, seeking haven, forgiveness. Perhaps the anxious woman rustling in with the shopping, is ordinary and soothing, like a Velasquesz painting of eggs cooking.
I am on the way back from the supermarket, the greengrocer and the butcher and with three big bags of shopping I sit at the pew, worn wood, smoothed, and polished by bottoms, and these are my worries:, a baguette that might snap (why is that such a worry/disappointment when it does?) why have supermarkets not thought of a better way to carry one - the cashier today had said 'shall I just snap it for you?' sensible but defeatist I thought and I looked mildly mad in horror at foregoing the slim chance of getting it home in one piece. I said, 'I'd like to try.' and she looked bored by my optimism Also I have a bottle of wine because I have a friend coming to dinner and it seems slightly wild on a tuesday morning to have wine in a bag, especially in a church ( for having lived with an alcoholic - all drinking, including and importantly my own becomes sniffed and measured and mildly miserable) but also a chicken. It is a warm day and a butcher chicken though I hope to be fresher/better than a supermarket one, also seems nearer to a carcass than a product and I don't want it getting hot.
And then very clearly I think of this. My youngest son had announced this morning at breakfast, a spoon half cheerioed into his mouth, that Dad, and he said Dad with the long aaa (of adore adore adore), and a hestitation that wasn't sure if he was going to get Daaad or himself into trouble, for he didn't want either but he knew it wasn't right, 'that when you are at work daaad made jokes pretending to be you and falling down the toilet and it is really funny.' though slightly doubtfully. 'And pretending to shout at you?' I hazarded. 'Yes.' He said. Pleased that I hadn't and I knew what he was talking about. Oh. I say. I think that sounds mean. I say. Yes. he says.
Here, now, sat in the church, looking around ( I don't want to look like I am praying, I want to look like I am observing, merely interested,) I am shocked by this new meanness. There have been so many. Then I see the small angel head poking out of the wall of the church, and flowers and birds carved at the top of the slim columns, then coats of arms some small gems of colour. These little details are high up, placed for wandering eye level, for wandering minds, boredom or dismay to attach again to delight, and each one confirm beauty, each one say keep looking you can discover more.
The white hush of the church, the cool, temperate conditions are peaceful. I can hear children playing, a whole school playground full, it sounds like a long way a way. As if the thick walls, some distance of place, keep everything muffled, cushioned.
Back outside, I walk and breathe well.
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