Collecting Thoughts by Irene Davidson
Chapter twenty-four
The morning light filtering through those sixteenth century stained glass windows was quite breathtakingly beautiful, thought Darcy, peeking from under her half-closed eyelids and admiring the way the architect had seated gothic-inspired originals into an uncompromisingly contemporary setting; in doing so, creating a marriage of old and new so successfully and with such style and confidence.
Not that she’d been expecting to be sitting here looking at this view as anything other than a tourist, she thought a trifle irreverently.
But nevertheless, here she was, her bottom parked in church, on a perfectly nice Sunday morning, the likes of which she could have been sitting outside in the sunshine eating madeleines and drinking coffee. But no, instead of a comfortable bistro chair, she was seated on a hard timber pew, attending morning mass with what appeared to be legions of Gabriel’s immediate family. She didn’t need to glance backwards to know that if she did she would see an entire pew, packed full of brothers, sisters, associated-in laws and their offspring. It was off-putting, to say the least.
When Gabriel had issued the invite to Sunday lunch en famille, the week before –or had he in fact issued an invitation? -it had been more of an assumption that she would go along with a royal summons from his mother that everyone, herself included hadn’t questioned. Anyway, she thought sourly, the thing was, she hadn’t realised that Sunday lunch en famille would be preceded with Sunday mass accompanying masses of said family. More accurately, Sunday morning mass at L'église Sainte-Jeanne-d'Arc, Rouen, with lessons, hymns, sermon and prayers all delivered in incomprehensible French.
Darcy, not understanding the words of what sounded like a never-ending prayer had been taking the opportunity to peek at the sixteenth century stained glass windows; recovered ,she knew, from the ruins of a nearby church and saved from allied bombing runs in World War Two. Raising her head and looking at the panes more directly this time she decided that they were all the more striking and poignant in this modernist setting.
She sent a furtive glance along the pew to spy Connor, eyes wide open, staring back at her with a glazed look that spoke volumes of his undisguised boredom. She gave him a brief thumbs up, hoping he would see it as a supportive gesture of two comrades-in-arms doing their utmost to survive the rigors of battle but his response was to cross his eyes and give her the thumbs down, after which he went back to staring at the ceiling. Rosie, the lucky thing, had fallen asleep on Gabriel’s mother’s lap while reading a picture book earlier in the service.
Making the best of a tedious situation, Darcy continued her inspection of the church interior. Like Connor, her gaze was drawn upwards. Fortunately, the ceiling was totally stare-worthy; the dramatically sweeping curves of the timber detailing making her feel as if she were underneath the hull of some large upturned boat, or, maybe the ribs were those of Jonah’s whale? She glanced at her watch -an hour gone- she sighed. Confined as she was she felt a certain kindred spirit with poor Jonah, imprisoned inside the belly of the beast and not able to escape.
She returned to staring at the ceiling. She knew from the church’s name and location of its association with Joan of Arc;-she’d been burnt on a pyre only metres from the church,- and had read that there were elements of symbolism in the design that were intended to evoke the flames that had consumed the unfortunate girl all those centuries ago but to Darcy eyes, the timber and plasterwork spoke more references to a boat tossed by roiling ocean waves than flames or fire. She supposed it was an individual thing how people interpreted what they saw. Perhaps, she mused, she didn’t see the flames because she didn’t like to be reminded of the extent of cruelty that people could rain down on one-another.
By now her eyes were fully opened and, service forgotten, she had turned her head, craning her neck to follow the waves and undulations of the interconnecting beams, the designer in her interested to see how the architect had resolved the points where each separate section of ceiling connected.
“Almost finished,” Gabriel’s voice spoke at a level barely above a whisper in her ear, still causing Darcy to start and unintentionally reminding her of her lack of decorum. She swiftly returned her attention to the priest standing on the raised dais at the front, raising his hand to give the final benediction. If the small smile the robed cleric gave her was any indication, it seemed that her close inspection of the buildings’ upper reaches had not gone unnoticed from the front of the church either. Oops, she thought, smiling impishly back; my bad.
Mass finally over, the priest was stationed at the church doors, greeting parishioners as they exited into the morning sunshine. He shook Darcy’s hand briefly and in response to Gabriel’s introduction and Darcy’s slightly abashed “good morning” spoke to her in fluent English. “Delighted to meet you, Darcy,” he smiled broadly now, “the ceiling is quite spectacular, isn’t it?”
Darcy blushed becomingly and started to apologise for her wandering attention but he cut her off in mid-apology, saying that listening to others drone on in a language one did not understand was never an easy thing. Hearing she was American, he enquired which state she was from, saying that he’d lived in America for two years himself, and that he hoped her first experience of a French Catholic mass wouldn’t put her off from coming again. His pleasant manner put her at ease and made her think that perhaps she would give mass another go but that if she was going to stay for any length of time she really ought to start French language lessons to improve her listening skills.