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Listening for Angels - an out-take from MaryR's 'New Dreams'

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The CBB -> Ste Therese's House

#1: Listening for Angels - an out-take from MaryR's 'New Dreams' Author: dackel, Location: The Big Wide World (aka London)

Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2007 1:38 pm
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I am a great fan of MaryR's drabble 'New Dreams', and when I was reading it, several episodes struck me as particularly moving: the times when Hilda tells MA about her mother. And, more especially, I loved the part where she tells MA what her mother said about angles watching over all of us. It made me wonder when and in what situation Hilda's mother had told her of it, that she remembered it so clearly, so many years later. This is my interpretation of that situation.

Mary has kindly allowed me to post this drabble, which contains her ideas and even some direct quotations from ND. With Mary's permisssion, I have added the parts of ND that particularly inspired me after the actual drabble.

This for you, Mary: a small thank-you for all the hours of enjoyment (laughter and tears) that I have had from ND!

And here is my drabble, finally!

Listening for angels

Mary Annersley slowly drifted around the house as it became dark, going from room to room, pulling the curtains, and making sure that the fires and lamps in the children’s bedrooms were lit so that they would be warm when they went to bed. Or as warm as the Bishop’s draughty old house ever really became, she mused somewhat wryly.
She had tried her best with thick carpets and lined curtains; big fat draught excluders were positioned by almost every door, but it did not really help. The house was old, and its stone floors and mismatched, ill-fitting windows were not conducive to keeping the heat inside.

The Bishop barely noticed, for he was often away from home, and his study was the warmest room in the house, south-facing, its walls covered in tapestries and its fire-place full of blazing logs when he was home in the winter.

It was not, as she had often thought, a house that was very homely. Too large, too old, and built, as always, by a man. They had no idea how hard it was to make bare walls attractive, to keep out the smell and effect of the damp that always returned in winter, to ensure that the servants and children were well-looked after in a rabbit warren of mostly small and dark rooms. Still, she reflected, as she made her way back to the small parlour where she often sat with her children of an evening, she had done her best, with pictures, and tapestries, and dried lavender in every room, large sheaves of it in vases amongst other dried flowers, and embroidered sachets of it in every drawer, even in the servants’ quarters, so that the house smelled and looked pleasant and welcoming, as befitted the house of a bishop.

A smile crept across her face as she entered the parlour and found her little daughter sitting by the fire, legs curled underneath her, flannel petticoat showing under her skirts. She was engrossed in the large picture book, a present from the Christmas festival which had come to an end only days before, that was placed upon her knees, and did not hear her mother as she quietly entered the room and sat down in one of the large arm-chairs she had insisted on bringing from their last home. All the furniture in the parlour was loved and had a lived-upon look which could not be permitted in the more elegant rooms of the house, where appearance mattered more than comfort.

Suddenly, a log shifted on the fire, and the little girl looked up to see her mother watching her.

“Mother”, she cried, jumping up, and catching the book just as it was about to fall. “Look!” And she carried the book over to her mother and placed it on the arm of the chair. “Look at the picture of the princess and the swans!”

Mrs Annersley gazed down fondly at the smooth brown head bent over the book, the little fingers tracing the path of the swans across the sky as they carried their precious burden onwards.

“She is very beautiful, isn’t she, Hilda?” she queried gently. “Do you think she was afraid?”

The pretty six-year old, whose baby chubbiness still granted her the look of a small, slightly mischievous cherub, looked up at her, brow furrowed, as she thought about this important question.

All of a sudden, a shadow passed over the child’s face, and she looked down, hiding the clear grey eyes that were first thing many people noticed about her face, and that made them think of a sweet grey kitten ready to be cuddled and stroked. They never thought she might have claws.

“No”, she said, in slightly muffled tones. “I think she was sad because her father didn’t love her enough.”

“Do you think so?” asked her mother. “Do you think he didn’t love her? Maybe he loved her a lot, but he could not show it because of the wicked stepmother’s spells.”

“No.”, said the little girl. “He forgot about her and her brothers. If he had really loved them, he would not have forgotten about them. He didn’t love them enough.”

Mrs Annersley lifted the small child into her arms and placed her on her knee. With a true mothers’ instinct, she knew that something was upsetting Hilda that was more than just a story of a poor princess, abandoned to fate by a father who was bewitched by the girl’s evil stepmother.

“What’s wrong, Hilda?” she asked gently, tilting the little girl’s head so that she could see her face.

Sudden tears filled Hilda’s eyes, and she hid her face in her mother’s shoulder. “Why does Father love other people more than us?” came the unexpected reply, made indistinct by sobs.

“Your Father loves you very much, Hilda, and your brother and myself.” Her mother hastily reassured her. “What makes you think that he doesn’t?”

“Anne said…her father came home from Spain for Christmas...because he loved them so much. But Father isn’t here when it’s Christmas. He loves the poor people more than us…” Hilda cried.

Mary Annersley smiled a little at the child’s logic, but she knew she had to reassure her quickly, or Hilda’s love for her father might become rebellion, and she did not want her daughter to be unhappy, or to cause ugly scenes the few times that the Bishop did have time to sit down with his family.

She hugged her daughter to her tightly as she wondered how to explain a bishop’s never-ending duties to his tiny daughter.

“Darling, you know I have told you that the angels watch over you always, and that God loves you?”

Hilda looked up at this, in her mind, abrupt change of subject. “Yes…” she ventured, finally.

“Well, there are lots of people who suffer so much, or are so poor that they cannot believe that God has not abandoned them, so your father goes to see them on Christmas Day to tell them that they are not alone, but that God cares for them. He doesn’t love them more than us, but they need him more than we do. Can you understand that, Hilda?” she asked, looking down into the small face gazing trustingly up at her, knowing without a doubt that Mother had the answer to every question. It made her eyes prickle with tears, that this trust would one day be lost, that the child’s trust in God might be lost in the same way, if enough came to challenge her in her life, and that she might one day doubt the essential goodness of shepherd who watched over them all, day and night.

Hilda considered this for a moment. “So they don’t know about God?” She sounded incredulous.

“They have heard about God, but don’t know God.” Then, as her daughter looked confused. “You know that I talk about Aunty May sometimes? She is my sister, and I have told you about her, so you know that she lives far away, but you have never met her, so you wouldn’t know to say ‘That’s Aunty May’ if you saw her in the park. Well, it’s like that.”

Silence.

“So how do we know that God is watching over us, and about the angels?”

“Well, for one, the Bible tells us so, and vicars and other men like your father try to spread that message. And we have stories, true stories, mind Hilda, not fairy-tales as in your book, of people who have seen angels, and have heard God speaking to them. So that’s how we know that it is true.”

Hilda considered this for a moment. “But He has never spoken to me.” she finally declared.

Mrs Annersley looked down at her, her mouth twitching at this certainty of Hilda’s that she was at the centre of the world, and that her experiences – all of six years’ worth of them – must be the definitive for everyone.

“Maybe you haven’t listened hard enough?” she suggested. “You must listen very, very hard, and believe that God really loves you and wants to send you messages. And then, if you are very lucky, you might hear his voice. Or the voice of one of His angels.”

Hilda gazed up at her mother. “So can you hear the angels?” she asked.

“Sometimes, when I try very hard.” Her mother answered. “My teacher, who was a nun, a lady who had decided to serve God all her life, told me once that if we listen hard enough we can hear the angels telling us that they love us, and through them, God’s love shines down on us like the sun.”

She paused, thinking of a suitable picture in which to present her belief to her daughter.

“It’s as if the angels were sending us little notes to tell us that they love us. Like a snowstorm of letters from the angels to all of God’s children here on earth. And at Christmas, they are especially busy, because people are more likely to listen out for their messages then. So they whisper to us, very gently: Merry Christmas, dear one…I love you with all my heart. “

Seeing that Hilda was quite captivated by this description – she loved receiving little letters, and had even begun to try and write her own to relatives this Christmas – she continued.

“And that is the message that your father is trying to give all the people that he goes to visit. He loves us very much, but we can spend time with him the rest of the year, and he knows that we know about God’s love for us, because he can tell us at any time, and know that we will listen. At Christmas, other people need him more than us, because they need to find out about the message that God is trying to send us. They don’t know about the angels sending us little notes of love.”

Hilda leant against the arm of the comfortable, rather battered chair, and looked up at her mother, an expression of thoughtfulness on her face that was quite at odds with her cherub-like countenance. “So…you can learn to hear the angels messages?”

Mary Annersley smiled down at her. “Yes, if you really want to. You must want it very hard, though, Hilda. The trick is to listen and believe.”

Then, knowing that she had given Hilda enough to think about, she stood, gathering the small child up in her arms. “Would you like me to read you another story when you are in bed?”

Hilda nodded enthusiastically. “Could you read Cinderella, please, Mother?” she asked, eyes shining at this unexpected treat.

After letting the maid undress Hilda and get her into her nightclothes, she sat on the low stool beside Hilda’s bed and read to her until she was asleep. Bending down, she kissed her, and made sure that she was tucked up firmly in her bed, before dimming the lamp and closing the door softly behind her.

She went back down to the parlour, and took up her sewing – not the fine embroidery that she kept in the formal drawing room, but a small flannel nightdress intended for the small daughter of one of the gardeners, whose meagre wages could hardly stretch to feed his large family.

In the following weeks, she watched, unnoticed, as Hilda sometimes sat quietly, her eyes shut, listening hard.

Quote:

Excerpts from New Dreams by MaryR

Hilda opened her hand and stared at the beautiful carving with its tender, tranquil face. She stroked the wings, the hair, and murmured almost to herself, “When I was very tiny, my mother used to tell me that we all have angels in Heaven who are constantly sending us messages, little love notes, and that if we listen carefully, especially at Christmas, we will hear them whispering to, Merry Christmas, dear one……I love you with all my heart. The trick, she said, is to listen and believe.”

Mother Abbess was moved beyond measure. This revelation came from a deeply hidden inner sanctum. Never before had Hilda volunteered anything, anything at all, about her mother. It was all held within, treasured, too precious to be shown the light of day.

*****

“Searching for her father’s love?” asked Hilda softly. “Or her mother’s?”

“Would she remember her mother?” asked Mother Abbess in surprise. “She was only four, after all. And she never mentions her.”

“A gentle voice singing lullabies – soft arms cuddling her – a sweet fragrance in the air…..” breathed Hilda, her eyes faraway. “Who’s to say, Mother? Somewhere hidden inside her there are wisps of memories….they never go away.”

Mother Abbess sat quietly, allowing Hilda the chance to indulge in her own memories, thinking of the one she had revealed the night before. “I’m sorry, Mother,” Hilda sighed, returning to reality. “That was unforgivable of me.”

“Hilda, don’t ever apologise for remembering your mother,” said the nun quietly. “I would love to have met her. She must have been a wonderful woman, for she has a magical daughter.”

*****

There was nothing Hilda could say. She had heard it all before, too many times. She remembered how good her mother had been to the poor and needy in their parish – good she had done secretly, sometimes with the help of her young daughter. But good that had been a mere drop in the ocean, when there was no Health Service and no Welfare State, and a war being fought.

*****

Hilda felt the nausea recede and her body relax a little at the welcome coolness and the faint smell of lavender, a smell that always took her straight back to her childhood, which was the reason she carried the little bags of it around with her.

Last edited by dackel on Tue Feb 06, 2007 4:52 pm; edited 1 time in total

#2: Author: Squirrel, Location: St-Andrews or Dunfermline

Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2007 4:36 pm
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What a wonderful 'thank you' Dackel.

I was almost there, in the room with Hilda and her mother as that chat took place.

It is understandable that a young Hilda would hear what her friends had to say about what their fathers do at Christmas time, and compare it to her own father's behaviour.

And how sensitively her mother responded to her concerns. The love shared between mother and daughter is palable - as if I can almost reach out, touch it, and be included in it as well.

Thanks for a lovely insight into the relationship between this young Hilda and her mother.

#3: Author: Elder in Ontario, Location: Ontario, Canada

Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2007 6:34 pm
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This is indeed a very moving conversation between Hilda and her mother. I really liked her honest and caring response to her daughter's question - not simply trying to 'fob off' a six-year old with a banal set of reasons designed to appease a child, but treating her as if she was capable of understanding the real truth behind her father's absences and the nature of his work.

It's easy to see that Hilda learned well from the understanding which she enjoyed from her mother - she certainly carried it over into her own life and work.

I also really enjoyed seeing the contrast between the 'official' part of the Bishop's residence and the 'homely' parlour and the contrast between the embroidery his wife undertakes when she is 'on show' and the sewing of garments she does when she is in the parlour - and I think I know which of the two activities she prefers, too.

Thanks, Dackel for a lovely 'out-take' from New Dreams, and for giving us this very revealing glimpse into the relationship between Hilda and her mother, something which we know she missed so much after her mother's untimely death.

#4: Author: MaryR, Location: Cheshire

Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2007 7:19 pm
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Dackel, I am deeply honoured and moved that it was my drabble - and in particular that very personal little memory Hilda had of her mother - which moved you to write this evocative scene. Thank you so much.

#5: Author: Lesley, Location: Allhallows, Kent

Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2007 7:52 pm
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That was lovely Dackel.

Thank you.

#6: Author: Cath V-P, Location: Newcastle NSW

Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2007 10:35 pm
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That was very moving Dackel. One can see where Hilda gained so much of her understanding from - her mother was so thoughtful and caring and tried so hard both to understand her daughter and to give her reassurance and an explanation that would satisfy her and allow her to understand why her father is so busy.
And I loved six year old Hilda's assumption that her experiences defined everyone else's!

And the description of the limitations of the Bishop's house - damp draughty and cold - was splendid!

#7: Author: Tara, Location: Malvern, Worcestershire

Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2007 11:25 pm
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You've created a most striking sense of place there, Dackel. The Bishop's Palace with all its inconveniences is very real, as are the efforts of Hilda's mother to make it into a home for her family.

Yes, that's certainly where Hilda has got her empathy and sensitivity from, isn't it. And her literary gifts, too, to judge by the way in which Mrs A. can put difficult concepts into a concrete form a child can understand.

Thank you.

#8: Author: dackel, Location: The Big Wide World (aka London)

Posted: Wed Feb 07, 2007 10:04 am
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Thank you for all your lovely comments, everyone! I always like knowing that people enjoy what I've written!

I've put the quotations at the end of the drabble, now (Mary told me to! Wink

) - I suppose it is a bit much to ask people to read all that before they even get to the drabble itself!

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