Angels in the Architecture (14 page)

Pete liked this thought immensely. ‘Oh, I think so,’ he agreed. ‘Yes, we should get it round the right way. Indeed.’

‘Ah, but which way round would your dear wife put it, I wonder?’ Maitland added.

‘Well, I couldn’t be sure actually,’ Pete said, wondering himself as
to Alicia’s place in all this. ‘I’m not sure she’d use these words herself, but I think she has a view of the physical world that has a powerful underpinning that she herself would like to understand. I don’t think she’d use the word
spiritual
, but I don’t know what she’d use instead either. I don’t think she knows herself.’

‘
Albert Einstein said that all religions, arts, and sciences are branches of the same tree,’ Maitland continued.

‘He also said he was a deeply religious
non-believer,’ added Loraine.

‘Oh, I like that
.’ Maitland smiled. ‘Now Pete, about your dear wife ...’

Maitland
engaged Pete in a side conversation as others similarly rose about the table.

Their
hosts, Rose and Loraine, had remained largely subdued, occasionally suggesting conversational direction or supplying some snippet of information from their own experience and in-between filling glasses, promoting the varying colour of the discussion. The idea that such an apparent free-for-all truly existed within the context of a Church-hosted evening seemed at least eccentric to Pete, if not entirely peculiar, but then these particular hosts were definitely unconventional, if not actually a little kooky – middle-aged, devoted to their Church, as well as apparently each other? Pete couldn’t quite figure that one out. Anyway, it was unimportant. Their goal seemed sincerely to create a forum, not to direct its agenda – an absence of structure within a larger context of laws and precepts, tenets and commandments. It occurred to Pete that this required a particular awareness and set of skills to be able to engineer so dichotomous an activity. Despite all this though, he remained in himself circumspect and non-committal, albeit that the discussion and the company was stimulating and certainly unexpected.

Loraine, sitting
between Pete and Maitland’s conversation, asked, ‘What are you searching for, Pete?’

‘Ah, well, I’m not sure I’m searching for anything,’ a little surprised, not for the first time, by the frankness of these two women.

‘I suppose I mean, what are you curious about? You’re here. I assume not simply because Rose invited you,’ Loraine continued.

Whoa.

‘Okay, fair enough. Well I guess I’m curious about my son.’ This was news to Pete even as the words came out. ‘He’s autistic. It’s been suggested to me by one or two of his therapists in particular that he’s very spiritual. I’ve heard this said about other autistic children ...’

‘Yes, so have I,’ Rose interrupted.

‘Well, it’s somewhat of an empty statement to me. What does it mean? I can see that he’s very sweet, that maybe –
maybe –
there’s more going on in his head than we give him credit for, albeit that that’s a bit of a mystery.’

‘What do you think?’ Rose asked.

‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘Are there things he does that make you wonder about him?’ Loraine asked.

‘Yes definitely, of course.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the way he seems to look at things that aren’t there. Well, at least not that we can see. As though he’s communicating.’

‘I und
erstand that autistic children ... Are they called autists?’ Loraine started on a theme.

‘Yes, I’ve heard that term used,’ Pete responded.

‘I’ve heard that they see a hundred times the detail in things that we do, and that simultaneously holds their fascination and then more or less spins them out from sensory overload.’ Rose pointed out.

‘Oh
, that’s it entirely,’ Pete responded. ‘And then the question is what is this thing ‘a-hundred-times-the-detail’? Is he seeing ... I don’t know ... wave forms? Sound? Light particles?’

‘My goodness, what an interesting thought,’
added Maitland.

‘And then
what does he make of whatever it is that he sees? Pete asked rhetorically. ‘I don’t know how to think about that or what to
do
about that.’

‘Well, probably you don’t have to
do
anything. Anyway, you’re here, you’re open ...’

‘Hmm, maybe.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘You know, we’ve been bombarded the last year with information about our son, what’s wrong with him, what his prognosis is, what’s the best way to teach him, to train him, to get him to speak, this new therapy here, that research there, and so on. I think we were very open, certainly to start with. But I think we’re a
bit bogged down with it all now to tell you the truth. There’s too much to take in and process and decide on. And when what you really want is to get your kid to just talk and go to the toilet and sleep and eat with a spoon, then comments about his spirituality are frankly a little beyond our capacity to deal with.’

‘But you’re curious about that in some way, nonetheless.’

Pete thought
I don’t want to say yes. I’m not saying no either. What am I saying?
He was momentarily exasperated. ‘I’m saying I don’t know where to start. And I’m saying I’m unconvinced of the value of any discussion around Tim’s spirituality. And I suppose I’m saying ... don’t push me.’ Pete looked Loraine square in the eye. She smiled.

‘Wouldn’t dream of
it, Pete,’ she said with a bigger grin.

‘Okay. Thanks. I do love my son, and I think there’s a way into his head
. I just don’t know whether that’s about psychosocial and speech therapy, or whether it’s maybe about force of character –
my
character – and the feelings I have for him, and when I’m with him.’

‘Here’s a thought for you. How about keeping a journal
about Tim? Note things down, anything at all. Perhaps it might help to make sense of things. I think journal writing can be quite a
zen
activity. Maybe it will help you get into the flow of what’s happening – Tim’s flow. Give it a try.’

‘Okay,’ Pete said slowly. ‘Sure, why not. I like to write. That’s a good idea.’

‘And bring Tim to the cathedral again – perhaps that’s a good place for him – who knows ...?’

Pete wasn’t feeling at all sure whether he wanted to go within a mile of
the Cathedral ever again, or not.

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Coffee?’ asked Rose, rising from the table.

‘Ah
...’

‘Oh no you don’t, you two,’
called Maitland from the other end of the table. ‘You’re not getting your clutches into this poor man. Come on, Pete.
The Wig & Mitre
awaits our benefaction. My round.’

Pete wasn’t sure a jaunt to the pub
with Maitland was his best choice either, but it seemed a done deal.

‘Ah
, looks like I’m being dragged away,’ he said.

‘I can see you kicking and screaming
.’ Loraine laughed, not at all put out, which made Pete think perhaps he’d rather stay.

Pete laughed too. ‘You know, you have made me think about a couple of things. And thanks for the suggestion about the journal. I’ll probably do that.’

‘Good. Well, I’ll be interested in your observations. And I hope you’ll come again, although I’ve no doubt Maitland is about to fill you with enormous doses of cynicism. Heaven knows why he comes here. Clearly, he’s not right in the head,’ Loraine finished off, to gales of laughter.

‘I’ll see you both out,’
said Rose, as the two men donned jackets and nodded their goodbyes around the table, Maitland managing to look smug yet again.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Sally said. ‘Maitland might think he’s rescuing you from this
lot, Pete, but who’s going to rescue you from him? And it’s
Thirstday
and I could seriously do a pint!’ Sally stood, grabbed a coat and scarf, and did a round of goodbyes and a few cheek kisses. She followed Pete, Maitland, and Rose into the hallway.

‘
Bye, Loraine,’ she called back.

‘Here you are youngsters. Careful driving home,’ Maitland cheekily lowered three pints to the table.

‘Why on earth
do
you go to these evenings, Maitland?’ Sally asked.

‘Well, I do
believe
, you know.’

‘In
what, for heaven’s sake?’

‘
In God, of course!’

‘Well
, why all the argy-bargy all the time? All the cynicism.’

‘Well
, I just don’t believe there are proofs. I told you. I don’t believe we can
know
God. It’s a simple matter of Faith, pure and simple. And I choose to believe. But I’ll argue to the bitter end anyone who wants to belittle an omnipresent, omnipotent God with their meagre proofs of divine existence.’

‘So what about prayer then? Do you believe in it or not?’

‘Of course I believe in it. But it’s about Faith, nothing else.’

‘Well
, what’s Faith then?’ Sally persisted.

‘The extent to which I believe.’ Maitland’s responses were curt, but not unkind or rude.

‘That feels like cheating.’

‘Why?’

              ‘Science exists. God exists. Surely the two can coexist.’

‘How do you
know God exists?’

‘I’m not talking about me right now – I’m trying to get to the heart of where you’re at.
You
just said God exists ...’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did!’

‘No. I said I
believe
in God.’

‘So what in hell is the difference?’

‘There’s a world of difference. For example, I choose to believe in my wayward son’s ability to secure a solid income for himself and stop sponging off his father, despite that there is absolutely no objective evidence of this likelihood at all. In other words, that he might create this future for himself does not exist, but I believe in it just the same.’

‘Al
l right then. Using that ridiculous example,
why
do you believe in it?’

‘Because, my dear, I
choose
it.’

Silence.

Sally’s eyes narrowed in mock evil at Maitland. ‘You’re toying with me.’

‘Absolutely not. Wouldn’t dream of it. How’s your glass?’

‘Another thank you. You semanticist, you.’

‘I assure you I am not playing word games. Not my style. Pete, another?’

‘Thank you. Let me get them.’

‘No. Sit yourself down. Back in a jiffy.’ Maitland headed for the bar, amid a reasonable bustle and the hum of a stereo mounted behind the bar
.

Most patrons were locals but a good smattering of tourists as well, the one group quite distinguishable from the other.
The Wig
was a fairly typical old English pub, although it wasn’t the business that had always been housed there, within the stone walls and low-beamed ceilings. Several hundred years old now, it was at least known to have housed a mortuary in one past life, and probably many more besides.

‘What do you
think, Pete? Do you think God exists, is provable, what ...?’ Sally turned to Pete after losing herself for a few minutes in the hubbub about the bar.

‘I don’t think I’ve thought through it
enough, Sally. It’s never been a focus in my life, but I must say I enjoyed listening tonight to the different views. It’s very interesting. And I like Maitland’s contributions a lot. It’s all making me think, that’s for sure. What about you?’

‘Oh, I’m a believer for sure, but I also believe science and religion must be able to be unified. What does give me pause is whether
I
need to have proofs to bolster my belief, and that’s where I do really respect Maitland’s stance. He
chooses
to believe, and he doesn’t require proof. And the notion that scientific proof is an insult anyway to the idea of an omnipotent God, that’s got some synergy for me – interesting, as you say. So you’re not sure what to believe in?’

‘I don’t know. And I don’t want anyone telling me either.’

‘Well said, Pete!’ Maitland returned, placing two pints onto their table with one hand and then giving a mock salute with the third.

‘So why did you come tonight?’ Sally resumed, lifting one of the pints in return salute
to Maitland.

‘Because I was invited and because I was curious.’

‘So are you going to come back again?’ Sally pressed on.

‘Don’t know,’ Pete responded.

Sally rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve caught his bug already! Look what you’ve done, you grumpy old sod – turned another innocent into a doubting Thomas.’