The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [77]
“This is part of your heritage,” he said to her as he opened the door. “Your grandfather was christened here and your grandparents were married here. I want you to draw a picture of the inside. Several if you like.”
“What’s christened?” said Nell.
“Miss Hardy?”
“When a baby is christened she’s given her name as a Christian and welcomed into the church. Sometimes she has godparents, parents in God, who promise to help her be good.”
“Was I christened? Do I have godparents?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Sinclair. “And I doubt it.”
“So does that mean”—Nell stood completely still—“that I’m not welcome in the church?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Everyone is welcome in the church, especially children. Godparents are just an extra. I don’t have any either.”
Inside the air smelled of cold stone, and, faintly, of snuffed candles. Sunlight shone through the many windows. “It’s amazing,” I said, gesturing down the aisle to the rose window at the far end, and up to the vaulted ceiling.
“It is,” said Mr. Sinclair. Like many houses of worship, he explained, St. Magnus had begun in bad behaviour. Earl Rognvald of Norway had thought a cathedral would secure his claim to the Orkneys and get rid of the current earl. Since the twelfth century the building had been used as a prison, a market, a court, a seat of government, and a place to dry sails. “I can’t help noticing,” he added, “that scripture doesn’t appear on your timetable. Are you neglecting Nell’s moral education?”
Not waiting for an answer, he suggested to Nell that she sit down to draw her picture. Once she was settled on a chair, with her sketchbook, he said, “Come with me.” We set off down the south nave. I could feel my muscles flexing in my calves and thighs, my lungs filling and emptying, my hand, still hot from the sting, throbbing quietly. Beside me Mr. Sinclair measured his step to mine. He was eight inches taller than me; the ceiling was many feet—fifty, a hundred—taller than either of us.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said as we stopped beside a gravestone on the wall. “ ‘August 1750,’ ” he read. “ ‘Here was interred the corps of Mary Young . . . She lived regarded and dyed regretted.’ I’ve always liked that.”
“If you want me to teach scripture, I will.”
“Actually,” he said, still studying the stone, “I asked if you were neglecting Nell’s moral education.”
Scarcely knowing how to explain myself, I said that I didn’t teach scripture because I didn’t feel qualified, but I hoped Nell would go to Sunday school and that, as her reading improved, we could read the Gospels together.
“Let me ask another impertinent question,” said Mr. Sinclair. “Do you believe in God?”
In Latin a question was phrased differently according to whether the answer yes or no was expected, but Mr. Sinclair’s tone gave no clue to his expectations. “I don’t know,” I said. “I used to because of my uncle, but since he died I’ve met plenty of people who claim to be good Christians and wouldn’t cross the road to help a starving child. If that’s what it means to believe in God, then I’d rather not. What about you?”
“I’m afraid”—we started walking again—“I’d give the same answer, but I’m sorry to hear those words from you. When I was your age I would have answered yes and it made everything easier.”
“Of course it’s easier,” I said, “if you have parents and plenty of money. God’s in His heaven and all’s right with the world.”
“The war started when I was fourteen,” he said quietly.
Before I could apologise we stopped at another stone. This one was to the memory of Thomas Smith, who had died on 12 September 1811. “ ‘He lived beloved and died regretted,’ ” I read. “Being beloved is better than being regarded.”
“That just shows how young you are,” said Mr. Sinclair. “Regard lasts longer than love and can lead to it, but love—”
Whatever pronouncement he was about to make was lost as Nell appeared around a pillar. We both admired her drawings. Then the three of us went to see the statue of Earl Rognvald holding a model of the cathedral; his tunic was shorter than my most daring skirt.