My name is (fmr) Sister Eileen Kirkup, I am 76 years old and I am a lapsed nun. I enjoy sounding and baking.
This weeks question comes from Meredith in Aberdeen, she asks: Dear Eileen, there's a bald man in a white gown playing a tiny guitar on my front lawn, what does this mean?
My Child,
Oh my, what a peculiar surprise this must be! Now, the important thing here is not to panic, my child. Strangers pass through our lives for many different reasons, if one is spiritual, like me, one might be inclined to ask oneself, what did God intend to communicate by sending this gentleman? Or if one is an atheist, one might ask oneself, what did science intend to communicate by sending this gentleman? I believe that is what an atheist would ask, but, my child, as you are probably aware, atheism is frowned upon in Catholic schools and, in some cases, actively discouraged, so I wasn't aware it existed till a very mature age.
Now, before I examine why this particular gentleman is on your front lawn, I must regale you with a story of a stranger from my youth. As I have probably mentioned in a previous column, I had a very successful career as a nurse after my de-nunnification. It was whilst working in a sleepy little village in Norfolk called Bondsbury that I met a country gentleman named Willoughby. Now, how best to describe Willoughby? Rotund, eccentric, sentimental... a fruitcake blowing in the wind, rootless and without an abode, tiresome, petulant, bloody-minded, but fair, opinionated, but with a strong Catholic sense of right and wrong, fiery and bashful in his approach to the day but brittle and weak in the evening hours and prone to intense spells of deep blue morosity, insulated from worldly troubles but well-travelled and well-read with an ear for accents, elegant and pleasant when a pretty lady was in town but soup-stained and without manners in masculine company. Hateful of small birds, but generous in his distribution of bird feed, a grammar-Nazi, yet an innovative wordsmith able to create words out of thin air. A ruminative, soulful flaneur of life, capable of conjuring a bone-deep existential rage one minute, then a calm, melancholic silence the next. But, my child, I don't really remember the gentlemen very well.
Well, one day, my front doorbell rang and I was knee deep in historical culinary experimentation (a guilty pastime of mine!), Medieval pottage was my challenge, so you can imagine my cottage was rich with the smell of steaming veg and various herbs, such a smell I still associate with a certain wholesomeness and homeliness in life. I opened the door to see Willoughby wearing his best yellow and indigo vertical pin-striped suit, smoking an ornate-looking wooden pipe and looking very fine indeed. I asked him if he wished to come in, and he replied "No madam, I do not wish to keep you long. I just came to inform you of a certain peepin' tom I discovered looking through your window the other night. You should know I gave him a thick ear and let him know if I e'er saw him a' lingerin' in that spot again, I shall invite on him such a devilish brutality as no man, woman nor urchin e'er knew."
I was, understandably, quite aghast at the forcefulness of Willoughby's pronouncement. I thanked him and again invited him in. This time he accepted and we spent a wonderful afternoon trying to decipher medieval cookery books. Willoughby was somehow perfectly skilled at transcribing old English lexicography, claiming he learnt from a medieval Florentine time-traveler named Lorenzo. I dared not question the gentlemen as to the encounter, as it was clearly a real, lucid experience to him and we all need our own little novelties, my child. Though, it must be said, Willoughby had several thousand. We supped that evening and I can honestly say my appetite has never felt more sated, it felt like my taste buds were being molly-coddled and pampered by an endless flow of flavoursome plunder sent down from the highest heavens by a divine gourmet pirate chef. Everything in God's universe seemed perfectly aligned and blissfully tranquil. Willoughby also enjoyed the meal, though when he finished, he sat back on his chair, patted his belly, then looked out of the window wistfully saying, "Lorenzo could have done that better. Lorenzo. Oh, Lorenzo. How far you have fallen, my friend! My old friend!"
I comforted Willoughby the best I could. But he left in haste, thanking me for an enjoyable meal and excellent company. As he left he reminded me to be on the look out for the peeping tom as I undressed in my private quarters that evening. I did just that when evening came, making sure to close all my curtains, lock all the doors and windows, and I kept the outside light on in my garden to deter any trespassers. I also stationed a small wooden cross on my kitchen window, so as to let the would-be intruder know a woman of faith lived here, because, my child, at that age I still believed no harm would come to me as a result of my piousness, I still believed there was a line no criminal or ne'er-do-well would cross, especially when it came to the Catholic faith. I was infinitely trusting, a blessing and a curse.
I slept soundly that night, my child, and for the next several nights, I might add. I was starting to have doubts about the veracity of Willoughby's version of events. Why was he even near my back garden in the first place? I didn't think ill of the gent at first, that would've been ungodly of me, though I must admit I did try to avoid Willoughby for the time being, any interaction we did have on the village green was short, polite and terse. I resolved to make him a stranger without his consent. I feigned interest and felt a gut-wrenching guilt for the whole sorry state of things. These days, my child, it wouldn't bother me as much, but, at that young, tender age, I felt a responsibility to play my part in everyone else's symphony whilst letting my own clarinets, violins, cymbals and assorted orchestral ephemera gather dust and lay forgotten.
I started to resent Willoughby and this caused me great distress. I lay awake at night trying to decipher my place in the universe. If I wasn't put on this Earth to be of service to others, why was I here? Why had I turned my back on being a nun and what did that say about me? I felt selfish, petulant, self-absorbed. Why had I let myself hate this man who's done me no wrong? A man who seemingly just wanted to protect me? I felt I should return to the convent and repent, I even packed a bag ready to leave. I wasn't able to meet Willoughby's eyes again, not without it awakening a dread inside of my stomach that throbbed viciously till it brought me to despair. My thoughts were black with sin. 'This man is a liar!', 'this man wants to destroy me!', 'this man is Lucifer in a yellow and indigo pin-striped suit!' These thoughts were followed by waves of guilt, battering my stomach like a horned animal. I'd never felt so strongly nor devoted so much agonizing thought to a person as I had this man whom, a few weeks earlier, had been a mere stranger. It was only when I reached a mature age that I could finally give shape to what I was feeling at the time. I resented him for introducing to me his own private dread, his bleak, cynical, paranoid outlook on the world. At that young age I would've listened to anybody and let myself be caught in their tumult. Willoughby had no qualms about relieving unto me his entire tortured, damaged, labyrinthine soul. I could've told you anything about him at the time, his views on the universe, his attitude to love, his observations on the mating rituals of flamingos, and yet, he wouldn't of been able to tell you one thing about me. But, at the time, this did not matter to me. I thought it would've been self-indulgent of me to want to be seen and heard. So I repressed it with all my might, and loathed myself till any inward thought wilted and died.
But, as I spent my final night in Bondsbury before planning to return to the convent I'd left in such a hurry just a few years before, I heard a quiet rustling sound emanating from the garden. I ignored it at first, but after a few minutes, I started to hear a voice. I felt numb with fear, Willoughby was right! There was an intruder in my back garden! How could I ever have doubted him? The man who knew everything, had felt everything, had acquainted himself with every creature on God's Earth, who had accrued wisdom in his lifetime most men accrue in seventy. How could I have doubted this prophet? This sage? This cosmic traveler?
I meekly made my way to the window and gently pulled back the curtain. I needed to get a peak of who this intruder was, I was expecting to see an unsavoury looking gentleman with a camera. Those days, my child, cameras were big, cumbersome things, so it would've been difficult for this intruder to remain incognito.
I poked my head around the curtain, adrenaline surging, hands sweating with fright, I looked out the window to see... Willoughby.
The man who had tormented me so stood there, his back to me, I couldn't see his face, yet I knew full well it was Willoughby. He then slowly turned around, it was a windy February night so his hair and suit were blowing about his person, making his silhouette rather Gothic and terrifying, his outline was illuminated by a street lamp in the church yard across the road directly behind him, giving him an ethereal, ghostly visage. He turned and looked directly at me, I was frozen with fear, he fixed a stare on me for what seemed like an eternity. I could not run, I was rooted to the spot, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
He then shouted to me at the top of his voice, "Save yourself, principessa! Saaaaaave yourself! Then just as he was about to walk towards the window, a gentleman encroached on him from behind and plunged a dagger into his back. Willoughby reacted as if it were a mere slap, turning around to jostle with his attacker. The two wrestled each other to the ground ferociously, I stood there, my heart beating frantically, all I could do was watch this terrible situation unfold from my bedroom window. The shrouded figure again went to plunge his knife into Willoughby's back, but this time Willoughby caught it.. turned his opponents hand around and plunged the knife into his heart. They both collapsed to the floor, and Willoughby looked down on his fallen foe, his head in his lap, and said "back to Florence with you, my dearest Lorenzo, "Arabella e i figli aspettano, ti chiamano per nome, va', confessa i tuoi peccati a padre Giacomo e purifica la tua anima dal peccato!"
Willoughby then looked up at me and said "you're safe now, little one". They then vanished into thin air, never to be seen again.
What happened that day will stay with me forever, my child. I emerged from it a wiser being, able to weather any tumultuous storm that came my way. I knew Willoughby possessed a sort of cosmic grudge and that's what brought him to Bondsbury, where he happened to meet me, his purpose was not just to save me, he had his own motives, yet, perhaps he did save me, in a confusing, nebulous sort of way. All I really know is I loved him, I think. I loved him as a stranger, and we should love strangers, my child. Strangers usually don't come too near us, though perhaps this is a blessing. To know a stranger without ever entering their tumult, or to never heap your own private tumult unto them, to help them more fully realise themselves and vice versa, is the most selfless, joyful thing one could possibly do as a human being, as a social creature. The world is richly-peopled, my child! Go forth and meet a kindred spirit!
So, your situation with this bald fellow in a white gown playing a tiny guitar on your front lawn. Goodness, what a predicament! Well, oh, Good heavens, no! I was listening to the radio recently and heard incidents like this are happening all over Scotland! People are being enslaved in a gruesome blood cult. That gentleman is going to come into your house! Run, my child, run! Oh dear, well, in the time it took for you to send your letter, then read my response, you're probably already on your way to the re-education farm. I'm ever so sorry, my child. But, look on the bright side, you'll have the opportunity to meet many wonderful strangers!
Yours,
Eileen
