A Tale of Forbidden Love at Christmastime

When Father Matthew and I  woke up again, at some unknown hour later in the evening, the wind had stopped. I turned my head towards the latticed window, buried deep within the thirteenth-century stone wall, and noted with an unbearable sadness that it had stopped snowing. Phantom hills were now visible, rolling and colliding into the winter’s sky, competing with spectral shapes that smudged the outline of the star-embroidered horizon.

As though reading my mind, Matthew’s eyes followed the direction of my gaze. ‘It’s stopped snowing,’ he said.  I didn’t reply. 

So he went straight on: ‘The snow ploughs should be out in the morning. Which means we should be able to uncover your car.’

‘Great. Thanks for mentioning it.’

He sighed so wearily, I could hardly bear to face him.

‘Come on, Leah. We have to face it sooner or later. Tomorrow they’ll be expecting you at the Gatehouse. You booked a room there for the weekend, do I need to remind you?’

‘Couldn’t you also come?’

‘No, I’m on duty here all weekend. You know the rule – someone has to be here to take care of things when the school is closed. I don’t return to Greystones Abbey till Monday.’

My throat tightened. He was going to be in our love-sanctuary – aka Castle Leeming Preparatory School – for the next forty-eight hours, all on his own amid the whitewashed fields and forested horizon, and here he was, pushing me away as though I was just an embarrassment to him.

‘So, I take it you won’t be visiting me at the Gatehouse, then?’

He shook his head.

‘Not even for a cup of coffee and one of Joelly’s rock cakes?’ I tried to laugh. Joelly. The cook at Greystones Abbey. Was it really seven years since I had last been here? Seven years since I had last seen Matthew? Until yesterday, that is, when I arrived here just as the school was closing for the Christmas holidays, leaving Father Matthew Haddon in charge. All on his own. Well…

‘Leah, I can’t,’ he said. ‘Last night should never have happened. This … this thing between us should never have happened.’ I could hear the catch in his throat. ‘Why did you have to come back?’

‘But it did happen,’ I said, deliberately not answering his other question. Wasn’t it obvious to him why I had to come back?

‘Yes, it did happen,’ he continued in that deep, sonorous voice I so loved. ‘And I’m sorry, even though part of me isn’t at all sorry. That’s the worst of it. That part of me isn’t sorry. But I can’t see you again, after – after this. I can’t come to the Gatehouse, not even for a cup of coffee and a rock bun, much as I’d love to. And believe me, I really would love to. But I can’t. This can never, ever happen again.’

I felt my entire body stiffen. He had reverted to Benedictine monk persona, despite both of us still lying in bed, tingling in post-coital contentment. But contentment was the very last thing on his mind now, I could clearly see. Part of me wanted to cry out, then why don’t you get out of bed this minute and just piss off!

But I didn’t. All I said was, ‘Well, you’ve no need to worry on my account. I won’t be going to the Gatehouse tomorrow. I’ve made up my mind. I’ve decided to go straight back home.’

He nodded, as though this was an obvious statement. A foolish part of me wanted him to protest, to look at me in despair, to beg me to stay, just so we could be together one more day, just till the end of the weekend, just till … But of course he didn’t beg.

‘Back to your family,’ is all that he said.

It was my turn to sigh. ‘Let’s not talk about that. Can’t we just make the most of this – this gift of a night that we have together?’

 ‘This gift of a night we have together,’ he repeated, and half smiled.

We looked at each other with eyes that said far more than words ever could. And then, knowing that we weren’t getting anywhere, that we’d never be able to get anywhere, and that this really was our one and only night together and so we should make the most of it, I pulled myself into a sitting position and said, ‘Let’s go into the sitting room and put the radio on. I need some music.’

At first he seemed a bit taken aback. But then his smile deepened. ‘Yes, why not? Our apartment could do with some warming up.’

Our apartment. At least that sounded lovely. At least I could cherish the short-lived reality of something that was completely ours, even if it wasn’t ours at all.

* * * * *

The crackling strains of Silent Night filled the room from the antiquated radio in Matthew’s equally antiquated castle-apartment. The version that the Radio 3 presenter had chosen was a German rendition of Silent Night, very close to the original score that had been composed by Franz Xavier Gruber in December 1818.

‘Could you turn it louder?’ I asked Matthew – my old-time friend, my Benedictine monk, my priest, and now, at last, my lover, if only for one stolen night.

While he obliged by fiddling about with the volume control on the radio, I walked over to the partially snowed-up window and levered myself onto the cushioned seat, carved deep into the ancient wall. Resting my back against the chilly stone, I gazed at the stars that were blinking in Morse Code upon the milky tapestry of hills and forests that surrounded our cocooned citadel. I kept my eyes fixed to the interstellar dance, allowing my ears to feast on the glory of the simple waltz-like melody written for soprano and alto voice accompanied by French horn, with violins and choir joining in the chorus.

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, alles schlaft, einsam wacht,

Nur das Traute hochheilige Paar, holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,

Schlaft im himmlischer Ruh, Schlaf im himmlischer Ruh!

It was sung at a slightly quicker pace than one normally hears it, making me yearn to sway to the rhythmic melody that had been written to celebrate the joy of Christ’s birth. Didn’t mankind always feel the need to dance when there was a celebration?

I looked round at Matthew. He had sat down on one of the armchairs in front of the antediluvian electric fire and was leafing through a hard-backed copy of The Rule of St Benedict. We were finding it very hard to talk to one another. I turned back to the stars and re-tuned my ears to the hypnotic call of Franz Xaver Gruber’s divine little waltz.

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, hirten erst kundgemacht.

Durch der Engel Halleluja, tönt es laut von fern und nah:

Christ, der Retter ist da! Christ, der Retter ist da!

Humming along to the famous tune that had charmed generations, young and old, on both sides of the planet these past two centuries, I again looked round at Matthew. His book was now resting on his lap and his eyes were on me, haunted by that same pensive, half-yearning expression I had caught on his face so many times over the escalating years – as though he were fondly recollecting a past that we’d never had.

Our eyes met.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ I asked. ‘Doesn’t it want to make you dance to it?’

‘Dance?’ He raised a rebuking eyebrow. ‘Leah, it’s a Christmas carol. About the birth of Jesus. It’s not meant to be danced to.’ At least his voice sounded a little less constricted.

‘Oh, yes it is. It was originally written as a waltz, and was danced to by the young resident priest of the Salzburg congregation where it was first performed. I believe that the person he waltzed with was his sister-in-law.’

‘Really? I never knew that.’

Sliding off my window seat, I walked over to him and said, ‘That’s because you’re a Philistine, Father Matthew Haddon. So come on. Let’s dance.’

He laughed uncertainly, but nonetheless put his book on the floor and stood up. Taking my outstretched hand in his, I wrapped his free arm round my waist and pressed myself to his body as we started moving to the beat of the timeless carol. One to three, one to three … it was so natural, I couldn’t understand why congregations over the centuries hadn’t spontaneously risen to their feet every time it was sung, converting the church aisle into a joyful dance floor.

As we swayed round the dimly lit room in rhythm to the music, Matthew asked, ‘Is it really true, the story you just told me?’

‘What story?’

 ‘About Silent Night being originally written as a waltz?’

 ‘No, of course not. I made it all up.’

He stopped dead in his tracks. Holding me at arms’ length, he stared at me with the disapproval of a public school house master. ‘You can’t make jokes about things like that!’

 ‘I wasn’t joking. I was just telling you a story that I wish were true.’

‘Oh, Leah …’

‘Okay then, so if you don’t want to dance, let’s look at the stars instead.’

I guided him back to my window seat. Together we levered ourselves onto the richly brocaded cushion: Matthew at one side and me at the other. I smiled at him, then returned my eyes towards the night sky. A particularly bright star twinkled in synchronised timing to the ternary beat of the carol.

It was perfect. The music, the stars, the hills, the forests, and the castle, which sheltered us from the world. I didn’t want the music to come to an end. While the strains of the soprano and alto voices lasted, with the muted French horn accompanying them, I didn’t have to think about imperfection, or endings, or life beyond tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I had to go back to my home, and Matthew back to his monastery. Tomorrow, responsibilities and duties resumed their relentless tick. But tonight … tonight was now, in between yesterday and tomorrow.

My entire life was now, trapped in time, with Matthew, the stars and the music, all locked together in a seamless winter’s tale.

* * * * *

The characters and setting of the above short story below are taken from my novel, INFINITE STRANGER, seven years after Leah and Brother Matthew last saw each other.