I have few things I would boast about but I would say I had a good sense of direction. That I know London very well. I always think the children take it for granted that I pretty much know where I am going. If you said - let's go to Isleworth or Bow, or Catford or Tottenham - I could think briefly, and set off and get there pretty directly with no trouble. Even elsewhere, I can check a map and hold a route in my head. Though once going to Wales, meeting friends for our Bardsey holiday - the rain like fat, wet carwash brushes obstructing vision, I took a turning too soon off the motorway, but realised pretty quickly and turned the car round. Though it was one of those things, the bank had stopped letting me have any money, I had spent my last 25 quid on petrol and was already looking obsessively at the petrol needle - thinking jeez - I am only just about going to make it -all the food stowed in bags, everything we needed planned and measured for a weeks trip on an island - and here I was on a wrong turning that even though I had turned around, seemed to be sending me miles out of my way. The boys, sensing all was not well, began panicking 'Mum! You are not going the right way. Mum! You are not going the right way.' The rain lashing down. It was the day I shouted 'SHUT UP!' Which they still thought was a swear word. Though hours later, ten miles from our destination, on winding welsh roads, the petrol on reserve but not empty, the eldest was sick out of the window and after I cleaned the poor boy up I shut my finger in the car door and shouted the F word. But only once. Almost too high and pained to be heard. Though I think that is the second time I have said it in this blog.
Anyhow, I think of all this today when I go up to Mayfair - I am thinking about direction, about choosing a route, the paths in my life. I am thinking about hurt and forgiveness and love and telling absolute truth. Of not caring anymore about protecting myself behind indifference or wit. The church I have seen on the a- z is a christian scientist reading room but is not open. I thought it would be the one I saw briefly from the bus on Park Lane, but it isn't, and I haven't brought the a- z with me, but I think if I set off and just wiggle round these streets I will find it. Oh, but this area is beautiful. It isn't just wealth ( though it is superhuman wealth) but elegance and grace. These are the houses that I read about being built, like palaces at the edge of fields, these make look Belgravia look like dull doll's houses. I have never ever been or seen this area before - I have been once to Claridges, a couple of times to Berkley Square, but not here, not these huge elegant residences, with secret walled gardens, - some are offices, but quite a few are just massive, huge, elegant homes. This is beyond rich but graceful, beautiful and historic. I think you would feel pleased to live in these houses but awed by the beauty and history. Though who knows. and today, the day after the day after boxing day, it is so quiet you could film a period drama without a permit, without being bothered. Eventually, I find the church I had seen. Next door to an incredible glass shop - life sized baby elephants in the window in beautiful milky glass - I love luxury, love beautiful things, though I can just admire them not have them, I can love a postcard or a beautiful stone as much - but this shop looks bonkers - and I have never ever heard of it. A tacky gift store for the super rich. And the church is not open. Remember those days, when I turned away from the slightest set back - terrified of entering a church:
St Matthews http://i-sit-in-churches-to-think-amen.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html /
Emmanuel centre http://i-sit-in-churches-to-think-amen.blogspot.com/2010/05/emmanuel-church-marsham-st.html
But here I am peering through a key hole, walking all around the building, finding a side entrance, also shut. Then it is slightly magical - like the bit in a film when soft music plays - for there is a public garden at the side of this church - walled in by railings, and at the end of this garden that I have never ever seen but was once the burial ground for St George's church Hanover Square, there is what looks like the windows of another church. Dreamily, I walk through, to an open door.
I suspect I can't explain how beautiful this church is. It is ( though I have only been to a couple and one of those having hurt my eye, so it would not stop weeping ) like a mini french cathedral but tucked away almost hidden in these wealthy streets, though once it was, at the edge of everything, squeezed in by the stables, on the site of the Hay Hill Farm that extended from the present Hill stree and out towards Berkeley Square.
Everything is beautiful, but very slightly smaller than normal. The shiny pews have the surprise of infant school hall chairs, a forgotten size that used to fit, leaving you feeling big and slightly clumsy in size. There are a couple of other people moving around inside the hush and peace of the space, but it feels like walking in on something holy, slightly mysterious and precious. At the altar, under glowing stained glass is a delicately carved altarpiece centred with a palm sized jesus on the cross. In the adjacent chapel a nativity is laid out in straw a picture frame balanced around the scene. Mary is dewy skinned and though I have to lean in, really peer I look into the little manger and there is a small, beautiful chubby baby smiling in delight.
The review of the building written by a reporter for the Morning Post 1849 when it was completed describes what I see perfectly, better than I could manage, for the language is so transparent and modern:
'The church is of the decorated English style of architecture and reminds one of some of the earlier English churches....You enter at the very end of the church, and at once appreciate the merit of the design. The whole building is taken in at a glance; nothing distracts the eye or breaks the effect. You have the organ loft immediately overhead on entering. In front blazes the high altar under the great arched window, which is a masterpiece of stained and figured glass...There is no rood-screen. Nothing separates the eyes of the people from the solemnities of the sanctuary which they desire to behold. Turning from the 'dim religious light' of the church and the shadowy recesses of the aisles, the eye seeks the roof which is painted in blue and gold, and has the effect as it were of stars. Tracing ones way back the glance rests absorbed on the beautiful, flamboyant window above the organ-loft. On the right and left of the high altar, and in either side is a chapel - the one of the Blessed Sacrament, the other of St Ignatius ( the founder of the Order)...The sanctuary itself is a marvel of decoration, both graphic and coloured. The altar and attached brass work is by Pugin.'
Built in 1844 as a Jesuit church after Catholic freedom was granted in 1829. Jesuits had come to London as early as 1580, initially in disguise, but later more openly, practising with relative freedom - though with the 1688 Revolution toleration ended and the custom of referring to Catholic Churches in London by their street names grew as public places of worship were not allowed for 'dissenters'.
Chapels like pockets, glass domed cupoles letting in dull light, a book of prayers to be offered - the last entry in neat biro says
'For the courage to respond appropriately to every situation' Aha! I think. I am looking for omens. There is also a box with slots for money, each designated for different things in engraved script - candles, guide books, poor. I put a pound for the guide book and a pound for the poor.
I had felt on this quiet, questioning day that I needed to find something. That I needed to find wonder. That I needed wonder confirmed. Surprisingly here in this 'dim religious light' it is just there. But no more than the crepuscular vibration of beautiful things and a feeling of peace and warmth.
I walk and walk and walk. The children went on boxing day to exexdh's brothers and there has been a row about how long they are going for, and I lost. I feel tricked and angry and lonely, and redundant without them at christmas time. Though christmas was brilliant. Exexdh, my mum and dad and the boys on christmas day - everyone behaving beautifully, the food delicious, everyone happy and grateful with their gifts. I went the night before this day again to Winter Wonderland with U,OL and his velvet drape ex housemate, and we sat in the Spiegel bar laughing, all pleased to see each other again.
Exexdh walking past glancing at the screen has grumbled that he doesn't like his moniker. That it lacks respect. I will try exh if it seems better, if it seems like enough time has past. U,OL has got a new title too. And hold onto your hats it seems, amazingly, rather fabulously just to be L. Wish us well. There is a long way to go. But no rush. A lot to cover, a lot of people to consider. Happy New Year. Happy 2011 to all.
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