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THE STATUE
A short story by Charlie Noble, November 1989
he busy motorist hurtling along the motorway could be forgiven for thinking that the murky hulk on the hill, silhouetted against the grey sky, was some defunct factory; its truncated tower a silent chimney. This superstructure was all that remained of a glorious spire that had once graced St Aldore's Abbey. a glistening on the cheek. 
The Abbey stands at the edge of Halliford, a small farming village you are hardly likely to be aware of. It is only half a mile away from the motorway exit but access is difficult through the muddy winding tracks. Not that anyone would want to go there anyway. It is rarely visited other than, perhaps, by someone interested in memorials or brasses, and he would depart in a hurry; it only houses an insignificant statue.
The archives of National Heritage reveal that the twelfth-century Benedictine retreat is early Gothic. Long ago, it had been endowed in gratitude to Providence by a war lord, Boniface the Valiant, who had survived certain defeat and death by the miraculous intervention of St Aldora who interceded on his behalf. Outnumbered by ten to one on the field of battle, the enemy fell, not by sword and arrow, but by water, drunk from a polluted well the day before the encounter.
It was built over the ashes of a humble church burnt down by a marauding band of robbers. St Aldora, a brave and goodly woman, had expired after having suffered harrowing torture and being subjected to unspeakable atrocities to her person because she refused to divulge the hiding place of the sacramental silverware.
The Abbey itself had little to commend it, architecturally speaking. It lost its sole redeeming feature - its elegant spire, erected by artisans - when it was struck by lightning in about 1270. A legend persisted throughout the ages that the monks harboured a coven in their midst, indulging in diabolical practices within the sanctuary involving orgies with naked nuns, and it was the hand of Divine wrath that brought the spire hurtling down. An exorcist had been summoned, the cavorting offenders banished and the house reconsecrated.
It was stripped in the Dissolution of the Monasteries, vandalized by Cromwellians in the seventeenth century and deprived of any remaining merit or grace by exposure to the hostile elements. Despite the thick walls and massive columns, the building was now in a sorry state of dilapidation. The small narrow windows had lost most of their coloured glass and were letting in wind, rain and the occasional frightened sparrow that had lost its way. The roof and vaulting never quite recovered from decapitation, and after the ravages and decay of centuries the structure was in imminent danger of collapse.
The monastery Brotherhood, exercising a degree of autonomy, allowed the community from the village to worship in the nave, provided the ladies did not venture beyond the screen to place flowers on the alter. The farmers expressed their thanks for this dispensation by providing some services to ensure the fabric did not fall down, while the brethren supplemented this support with the proceeds of vegetables they raised in the fields; but their aversion to chemical insecticides ecouraged larvae to disfigure the succulent produce and to reduce its profitability.
Sam Bottonley, headmaster of Halliford School and lay preacher, once said: "It is lichens and faith that keep the Abbey from falling down. We are the liches!"
In general, monastic institutions are individually poor but collectively rich. Not so with St Aldora's, which was as poor as the mouse that shared Father Thomas's midight vigil. It was all very
sad, although the diocese did what little it could to help, though it was whispered, cynically and without truth, that they were waiting for the day when it would fall and relieve them of their embarrassment.
But Father Thomas loved this old pile; he belonged to the Abbey and the Abbey belonged to him. He cherished every part of his abode; every stone carved out of the misty hills, every plank hewn from the forest of giant oaks that was no more, and each rusted iron door hasp wrought in a medieval forge.
Father Thomas presided over a fraternity of eleven monks; a semi-closed order devoted to good deeds, austere living, raising crops and to prayer. He was in his sixties, frail and stooped. In his youth he had suffered a breakdown after his betrothed ran away with a married man the day before the proposed wedding. When he recovered, he embraced Catholicism and took holy orders.
But this was in the past and all but forgotten. He was a scholar in Greek and Roman history. He had one obsession and one dream. He was immersed in the task of analysing pagan literature and Cabbala predating the Christian era which prophesied the coming of Christ. It was his passionate longing that his findings should one day be disseminated throughout Christendom.
This, then, is a summary up to the fateful event that changed the course of his life . . .
Late one evening, Father Thomas paid a chance visit to the darkening north aisle of the nave. In a niche along the gloomy wall stood the statue of St Andora and below, almost invisible, he detected the motionless figure of a man kneeling in prayer. This was most unusual and surprising. No one came at night even though the doors were never locked. Not wishing to disturb the visitor in his devotions, Father Thomas stood, hidden by a pillar, and watched.
The man presently rose and touched the cheek of the statue. Then he placed his forefinger to his tongue. He crossed himself, his head bowed; and walking slowly down the aisle, paused at the donations box, and left, silently closing the heavy door. Father Thomas waited awhile, then crossed over to the statue. The effigy of St Aldora stood on its pedestal in a pose of inanimate piety. The carved smooth sandstone revealed the saint in meditation, hands clasped on breast. Her bowed head was surmounted by a hoop of iron representing a halo. It was an undistinguished monument, as commonplace as the traditional font further down. And then, in the dim light, he noticed
St Aldora was weeping!
He reached up, touched a wet spot and put it to his tongue. It tasted salty. He reflected awhile, and then went to the donations box. This was routinely opened once a month and was not locked, having been empty for years. He was astonished to find that it was stuffed with paper money; much of high denomination. There were also some pieces of paper inscribed "Thank you, Lord."Returning to his sparsely furnished cell, he lay in his cot with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.he slept little that night.
Over the next few weeks he unobtrusively kept watch on the statue. The stranger came twice a week, acting in the same manner, and in the third week he was accompanied by a man and a woman who knelt with him.As time went by, more and more people came; not only in the evening but during the daytime. The donations became embarrassingly large. he was distressed by this enforced contact with the growing public and with the wealth that was pouring in. Handling of this accumulation of money did not accord with the vow of poverty to which the brethren were sworn. The retreat was meant to isolate them from temptations.
At first he was disinclined to consult his superior, the Abbot Primate. But events soon overtook him. The hagiography showed the saint's day of St Aldora fell on 27 November. When this day arrived, the Abbey was overwhelmingly inundated with visitors. At first, they formed a queue to touch the statue. Then they pressed forward, pushing and clamouring. Wreaths of flowers, strewn in the aisle, were trodden underfoot. The crisis came when a teenage boy with crutches was held aloft to touch the statue. He cried out exultantly, threw his crutches into the stalls and ran past the crowd out of the Abbey.
There was an awed silence followed by pandemonium. The screaming, the outbursts of hysterical weeping and regrettably indecorous behaviour could not be stemmed. He was immediately summoned to see the Abbot Primate at the county cathedral.
The Primate was a genial man, well-liked and a capable administrator. He was thought by some to have a too materialistic outlook and was suspoected of being inordinately fond of drinking port and smoking expensive cigars. However, these weaknesses of the flesh could not be proven.
Over coffee he discussed Father Thomas's magnum opus and finally came to the point.
"Now, what is all this I hear about a lachrimose effigy, and some unruly behaviour by the laity?"
With some relief, Father Thomas gave a frank account of all that had happened. The Primate listened attentively, mentally balancing the material benefits that might accrue, against the disadvantages that might result from public opinion against the unseemly demonstrations. With regard to the supernatural aspects, he dismissed these as manifestations of mass hysteria. He entertained the belief that no miracles had taken place since the Ascent from the Cross. But he was not disposed to make unconfortable trips in the wintertime to put his scepticism to the test. Finally he asked:
"Then what is your opinion about all this, Brother Thomas?"
"I am in two minds. There seems to be something in it, Father. Yesterday, there was another case of a deaf lady regaining her hearing. But I know that many of these so-called miracle cures don't last." The Primate reflected.
"Well, look, Father Thomas, suppose we allow it to rest for a while; it may soon blow over and be forgotten. In the mean time, are you having any problems with this money mounting up in your coffers?have you made any plans for its disposal?"
"Nothing definite." He hesitated.In a momentary flash of his imagination he saw his writings placed alongside the great philosophical works in the Vatican library. But it would need money to pursue his objective. He could utter no word. It was an act of vanity even to give it thought. He suppressed his urge to voice it.
The Primate decided. "Father Thomas, this is a gift from Heaven, sent to save our Blessed Abbey from disaster. The time has come when it should be restored to its original state of magnificence. Do you not agree?"
Father Thomas realized that this was not a question but a command. Obedience, in addition to poverty and chastity, was a sacred vow he must obey. The Primate continued.
"Now, I know of an excellent firm of church renovators on whom you can rely with confidence. Regarding the money, I know of a young novice, recently retired from a bank, who can help you with financial matters."
When Father Thomas returned to the Abbey it was with a feeling of unease. The precincts were a seething mass of pilgrims and sightseers. The ubiquitous cameras were clicking and flashing. He found his way barred by a thrusting young man with a notebook.
"Father Thomas, it is Father Thomas, isn't it? What about an exclusive for the Record? We could give you five thousand?" The Abbot angrily brushed him aside. " I am authorized to push it to ten . . ."
The following morning, after the Divine Order service of prayers, he informed the brothers of the proposals. There would be changes, upheavals. In mitigation he also pointed out that there would be improvements in the living quarters.
His news had a mixed reception. Spirituality did not accord with material comforts. But the introversion of the brothers from long sessions of prayer removed a sense of reality when dealing with mundane matters.
Brother Paul, ascetic and conservative, was averse to change whereas Brother William, elderly and rheumatic, did welcome the prospect of some material comfort. He had difficulty in kneeling and suffered from the cold.
But, in the event the Brothers really had little say in the matter. The changes were to take place immediately. A table from the refectory was placed near the statue and covered with the tattered prayer books from the vestry. Later, printed guide books and brochures concerning the sainted celebrity were piled high. Adjacent stalls were removed to allow more room; two of the recluses, with reluctance, agreed to a tour of duty to maintain some semblance of decorum and respect among the growing queues - and also, to keep watch on the large glass receptacle that had replaced the donations box. Rope barriers were installed.
The monastery was no longer isolated. Father Thomas's placid existence, his peace of mind and spirit, were invaded by the harsh realities of the world without. Gone was the tranquillity which was the prerequisite to prayer; the ordered, if monotonous, schedule of daily routines, that he shared with the brothers he so dearly loved. Now, in his few remaining years, everything was bewilderingly being torn apart. He was ill equipped by nature and calling to cope with this new regime so remorselessly thrust upon him. More than anything, he dreaded his encounters with Mr Parkin.
Mr Parkin was the construction manager of the firm of Messrs Gower & Smith, Ecclesiastical Renovators, of Bath. He was an aggressive young man who should, according to informed opinion, have sold timeshare apartments in Sp[ain. He was dominating and opinionated; lacking in the spiritual sensitivity that Father Thomas would have desired in their discussions.
From their first meeting the Abbot felt that he was being manipulated. Contrary to his convictions, against his will and better judgement, he was forced to depart from the standards of austerity implied by his vows. Everything was changing; a spectacular and too rapid change; a change Father Thomas could not assimilate. He was deluged with workmen in caps and aprons, surrounding him and taking command.
In the quiet graveyard, the rustic yeomen slumbering beneath the crumbling stones stirred uneasily in their graves. Shrieking noises issued from the mason's yard, saws biting into stone, and clanking chains of lifting gear assaulting the peaceful countryside. Scaffolding, ladders, mountains of cement and sand, and everywhere, everywhere, clouds of dust and pools of slurry.
The first stages of a new spire were beginning to take shape behind the network of scaffolding; a harsh yellow intrusion against the dark moss-covered edifice that had blended immemorially into the landscape. The workmen were admitted into the Monk'sliving quarters, the familiar medieval gloom of the cells dispelled and the walls decorated in light colour schemes. A disused wine cellar in the crypt was to be restored and replenished with stocks from a distant monastery, despite the abstinence of the Brothers. An amplifier and spotlights were trained on the pulpit, which was being treated for woodworm. A clock with cut-out saints that revolved when the hour was struck, was installed, and a new pipe organ replaced the harmonium. A bell, long cracked, and sounded many centuries ago to warn of attacks by invaders, was replaced with one to summon the faithful to evensong.
Outside the Abbey, a motoring organization posted signs along the route from the motorway. An enterprising landowner opened up a field nearby for parking cars; near the tollgate, a snack stall was extended and spread with souvenir plastic statuettes and bottles labelled "Lacrimae Sanctas", with dubious claims of miraculous cures.
At last, the work was nearing its conclusion. The Abbot and the builder were conferring.
"Father Thomas, I think we'd better get rid of those bats in the roof. They could interfere with the wiring, and also they do make a terrible mess."
Father Thomas's tolerance was nearing breaking point.
"Those creatures will stay," he insisted. "They occupied this dwelling long before we did." The logic of this was lost on Mr Parkin, but he was persuaded when he was told that it was against the law to remove them because they were a protected species.
"Well, let us finalize the spire," said Mr Parkin and moved on to discuss the interior. The lighting was completed.
"Also," he said, "I'm pleased to say that the heating and ventilation are very successful. I don't think you'll have any further bother with the precipitation of moisture on the north wall."
There was a note of malice in his voice. he paused, overlong, to let the full implication of his statement sink in.
"The statue!" cried Father Thomas. "Do you mean there's no tears on the statue?&qout;
"That's right," replied Mr Parkin, smirking.
"But they are real tears. they are salty."
"Well, I can explain that. There are alkaline deposits in sandstone; that's what you can taste. Alkaline."
And with this devastating statement, he turned away.
He shrank back in horror and with an effort wrenched himself away and fled to his cell.
Father Thomas went to the statue. It was late and the brightly lit aisle was deserted. he looked up and saw the cheeks were dry. And then he saw something else; something else for the first time . . .
The figure was bathed in a glow of unnatural light; a light that seemed to come from within. He sensed beneath the gauzy wrap that she was beautiful, with an earthly beauty that transmuted the chiselled stone into a living being; a voluptuous image of loveliness. She was smiling, a smile of erotic enticement, an invitation to sexual pleasure. the idol seemed to move towards him, to take possession of his body, of his soul. She was beckoning to him. It was an obscene vision of lust.
He flung himself to the floor, screaming soundlessly, his palms to his ears. He tried in vain to expel the evil images that assailed him. Those next few hours were spent in torment, his mind filled with demoniacal fantasies.
Towards midnight he went to the altar in the sanctuary. The newly installed metal grill in the floor gently emitted warm air, but from force of habit he clutched his fustian robe closer to him. He recalled, with bitter regret, the icy coldness that had accompanied his penitential prayes in the past; the familiar musty smell of mouldering stone, the palpable silence. Anguish contorted his lined features; his chest bursting with distress he could not contain.
A subdued squeak and gentle flapping of wings came from the black vaults overhead; protest from a nocturnal creature disturbed by the light. He blew out the flickering candle and knelt in the dark.
He had difficulty in vocalizing his words. He whispered:
"Oh Lord, must I, your servant, choose between Thyself and Mammon?"
But the words sounded false, insincere. Deep in the recesses of his heart he knew that this was not the question to which he sought answer. He prayed throughout the long night, purging himself of images he was not aware were contained within him.
Towards dawn, the harsh blue light of a new day filtered through the brilliant glass of the new east window. He rose, painfully stretching himself; his knees were sore and back was aching, but he felt refreshed, purified in mind and spirit.
He now knew what he must do.
He made his way outside, oblivious to the penetrating cold wind and the sharp gravel lacerating the soles of his feet. He brought back a heavy axe from the toolshed and, averting his eyes, hacked the statue to pieces.
Charles Noble,
London, November 1989
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