The old story teller made her way cautiously in the darkened crypt. There were only four other people present, a seated couple with a wheelchair and one other pair standing by the French Huguenot Chapel. There was a notice requesting no photos be taken and peace be respected for those in prayer. The old woman edged forward quietly, the only sound being the click of her walking stick on centuries-old paving stones. What stories these stones could tell! The couple by the French Huguenot Chapel left. She began to read the notice of the next service in French and wondered about the origins of this chapel. She felt a tap on her left elbow and turned around expecting to find one of her friends with whom she had travelled that day. She was alone. Strange! She looked around the crypt. Once more, she felt the pressure on her arm. Again, she turned. Nobody to be seen.
Ahead, she could see the lighted stairs leading to the level of the nave. She was in Canterbury Cathedral. It was not her first visit. That had been there several years earlier, as a tourist, marvelling at the centuries old building, its sometimes gruesome history balanced by tales of miracles and pilgrimages. On that first visit, she had picked up a small prayer card to send to a relative in Ireland. She seemed to remember she had chosen it in the crypt.
On this, her second visit years later, there was no sign of prayer cards. The storyteller had already lit a candle in the small chapel with its plaque listing the 105 archbishops who had presided over the Cathedral since 597. She had sat there for a long time, eyes closed, not thinking about clergy but her own family, past and present. She had felt at peace.
She left this quiet haven and wandered along the main nave, her gaze drawn to a memorial plaque with two threadbare flags. Before she could read about which military man was so honoured, she noticed the memorial next to it, that of one of the last Governors of Hong Kong, Sir Edward Youde. He had died in his sleep in Beijing following negotiations over the handover of Hong Kong. She remembered her own life there when her husband was alive. One of the volunteer guides approached her. They shared stories of living in the Far East, as his wife had been a child there. The old woman’s mind returned to the present, thanked the guide and tapped her way towards the spot where Thomas Becket met his end. There was a group of schoolchildren avidly lapping up the gruesome details. She hurried past and made her way to the peace of the Crypt.
And now, who was this touching her arm enough to make her arm jerk? Was it her husband’s spirit? The old lady in Ireland? Her mother? ……or a trapped nerve in her shoulder?
Her imagination settled as she reached the upper level and brighter light. Suddenly, Canterbury Cathedral’s great organ burst into full crescendo . She saw two wooden chairs by the small counter selling postcards and stained glass souvenirs. She was thrilled to hear the music and sat down. She was alone with only the man selling souvenirs in front of her. Once more, she felt the hand on her left elbow. She turned around. Nobody. The organ fell silent.
She gathered her walking stick and walked towards the sales counter by the Cathedral south exit. The stained glass windows in this area were magnificently lit by the bright November sun, so extraordinary after Storm Bert of two days before. She bought a replica of Christopher Whall’s stained glass Cherub. It was a simple Arts and Crafts interpretation, reminding her of a butterfly unfolding wings as it emerged from its chrysalis. She reflected there are cherubs in Christian, Jewish and Moslem faiths and wished there was more tolerance in human beliefs. She told the man at the counter about her elbow nudges. He did not sneer. She left the Cathedral and strolled round the stalls of the Christmas Market. She bought nothing. The cherub was more valuable than any shiny bauble probably made in China.
The old storyteller wondered how she could piece together what she and her granddaughter had seen two nights before she visited Canterbury on the Salisbury Plain, a phenomenal Green Flash lighting the sky in a rainstorm at 5.15 pm on Sunday 24th November; the elbow nudges by unseen forces in a cathedral; and on her return to her own home, a fallen silver frame holding a photo of her and her mother.
Maybe the Cherub had the answers. In the meantime the old woman might try chair yoga exercises, just in case her arthritic shoulders had caused that elbow tremor. The refugees from persecution in Hong Kong and elsewhere might find comfort in new homes. Remembering her lit candle, she would continue to believe in miracles. Surely that is the message of Christmas?
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