Community

An Anglican upbringing in rural England was a sheltered affair. It presented a skewed interpretation of the brutal world around you. It taught you little about adversity, or diversity. Almost nothing about impermanence. Perhaps the only salient thing it offered was faith. It suggested that as long as you believed in an invisible guardian, and you followed a series of basic guidelines to please them, you needn’t fret over the dangers that kept most people up at night. Protected in this cheerful bubble it was easy to cling to a child-like level of innocence. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’ was a lovely rule to live by in a world of summer fetes and fully detached houses, where the only C-word was Christ. 

My younger sister never shared my innate subservience. Religion was a form of oppression in her eyes. She called me ‘Bible basher’ at home (the names she used outside still make me blush). You were made for that place, she mocked. She wasn’t wrong; If anywhere complemented my sensibilities, my mild and reverent nature, it was the church. As I grew older I only became more devout, and insults rolled off my shoulders like water. I responded with laughter—it was easy to laugh when your faith felt invulnerable.

I adored the bake sales. The morning hymns. The midnight masses. And when I started a family of my own, in a house on the same street where I grew up, I felt incredibly fortunate to have a wife and daughter who were keen to attend them with me.

When Cynthia turned twelve, it seemed like a pivotal moment (and of the most significance, I’d later discover). Based on experience, I was fully expecting her to have pulled away by then. In spite of my naivety, I do not lack self-awareness; I recognise that a dedication to Christianity is not cool by most people’s barometer. Max had been younger than his sister when he’d come to this realisation. He was especially bright, usually with his head in a book, and my initial thought was that he’d been brainwashed by literature. At eleven he’d started to recite the toxic rhetoric of Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens. It’s all a big hoax, dad, he’d often say, to my inward displeasure. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof, was another sentence he loved to throw around. I laughed off his criticism as I’d once laughed off my sister’s—what else could I do? But then the matters of social background and race were brought up. Having your adolescent son remind you that all of your friends were middle-class and white was a deeply unsettling truth.

By the time he was fifteen, he’d stopped voicing his opinion entirely. At this point he not only thought of my faith as silly; he also decided that an association with the Church of England was a form of social suicide. I made peace with his atheism, but his absence in our world was undeniable. At least I still have you two, I said on a memorable Sunday morning—a comment that still elicits a strong sense of guilt.

It wasn’t merely that I felt at home in the blessed congregation; my status there also had currency. I was Philip the jolly Verger. I shepherded the clergy through services. I designed the church’s website. People came to me with questions of the yearly schedule. I just couldn’t grasp that others would shun the kind of warmth that I experienced, walking into that little hall. Cheery faces greeting the three of us with such genuine delight. And for a devout Christian, there was no more exhilarating time than the festive period. Holly and tinsel enveloped every surface, joyful carolling filled the air, and the smell of nutmeg enchanted open nostrils. 

Margorie Parker beamed beside her husband as we entered the meeting room. “Good morning, Dantons.”

I chuckled at the recurring non-joke. “Good morning, Parkers.” 

This was the way it was; small—occasionally fractured—assortments of families assimilating a large likeminded flock. I stood at the back of the room, guiding them all through my aims for the year ahead, laughing loudly at my own jokes. They hung off my every word with unwavering attention—the only other person to achieve such obedience was our beloved Vicar. And still nagging thoughts re-emerged as I scanned the rows of white middle-class faces. Everyone finds their little alcove in the world. Perhaps mine had simply been forged for me since childhood.

This was the afternoon that it happened, returning home on a bright frosty day in late December. I trundled down a country road with my wife and daughter, the three of us belting out an inspirited rendition of We Three Kings. I was cautiously navigating a sharp bend—at least 15mph below the limit—when a stranger’s reckless actions changed my life forever. 

Cynthia was sitting in the back, behind her mother, and I was offered no time whatsoever to react. I barely even registered the Range Rover. Just a flash of squared blackness before all three tons of it caved the passenger side of my Toyota Prius like a wrecking ball. The crunch of metal was deafening. I felt my car spin and skid and struggle to keep all four wheels on the road. A high-pitch humming pierced the silence once we’d jolted to a halt. I was engulfed by my airbag and unable to move. 

As it transpired, my wife had at least been offered the mercy of an almost instant passing. But my daughter had not been so lucky. Cynthia clung on for four long days in hospital—an empty shell of flesh and shattered bones. God had seen fit to spare the driver of the other car, who had enough alcohol in his system to secure him a seven-year prison sentence. I walked away from the collision with a broken wrist, minor ligament damage to my knee, and the knowledge that I would have to return home alone and tell my teenage son the news. 

Max cycled through the stages of grief, settling on denial and anger for the longest of the five before finally reaching acceptance after no more than three months. The same could not be said for me. It’s now been five months, and I still rebound between bargaining and depression on an almost hourly basis. The bargaining is exercised in the form of prayer; I sit in church, or alone in my bedroom, pleading with my creator to amend their cruel and inscrutable decision. My prayers are never answered, and for the first time in my life, I consider that they’re not even heard. I was Philip the verger, married father of two, always laughing. As Philip the daughterless widower, the world is bereft of humour.

I stopped attending the parish meetings, only showing my face at Sunday service. Soon even this became intolerable. I despised the pitying looks I received from my former close friends, the hushed tones I discerned whenever I approached the Parkers or the Taylors, the Greens, Barbers, and Snaiths. This watered-down melodrama seemed pitiful now. A farce. A privileged caricature. Presently I’ve not been for two weeks, the longest time spent away from the building in my memory. 

“You need to go outside, dad.”

I was staring vacantly at the television. Some banal antiques programme was on. I wasn’t really watching. I’d elected to work from home again this week, but this involved little actual work. “Sorry, son?” I said, raising my head. “Miles away.”

Max yanked open the living room curtains. Fierce afternoon sunlight poured in and made me wince. “I said you should go out. Get some fresh air.”

“Oh, no. I still can’t face the parish right now,” I replied, still squinting.

“I’m not asking you to go to church. Just go for a walk. It’s not good for you to be cooped up like this.”

“Not right now.”

Max tutted, gathering the small arrangement of china and cutlery that had accumulated on the coffee table.

The next day the teenager returned home from school to a similar scene. He picked up the remote and switched off the TV. “I’ve been speaking to people. They said you should try a hobby. Anything that gets you out of the house.” My son was taller than me now, which seemed to add to the sense that I was no longer the responsible adult of the household.

“People? What people?”

“It doesn’t matter. Maybe you should try a sport or something?”

“I already have a sport—the parish badminton club. But I’ve told you, my knee is acting up.”

“There’s life outside the church, dad. Why don’t you join a normal one?”

“Now just isn’t a good time.”

Two days later, I was sat on my laptop at the dining room table when Max slapped a wad of leaflets next to me. 

“What’s this?” I said, frowning.

“Just some ideas of things you could be doing. Sports, mainly. You need to start exercising; you’re getting a bit of a gut.”

“Don’t be so rude,” I snapped.

“I’m being honest. Just take a look at them.”

I fanned out the pamphlets and paid them a fleeting glance. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Not with my knee—”

“Well, I want to join one,” Max interrupted. “The summer holidays are coming up and I’ll go crazy if I’m stuck in this house for six weeks.”

“O.K., I don’t mind driving you.” 

The following Saturday I awoke to knocking on my bedroom door. I sat up in my bed and rubbed my eyes. “Come in,” I said, mid-yawn.

Max entered holding a cup of tea and one of the leaflets that had been left neglected in the dining room. “I’ve decided which one I wanted to join.”

“Have you?” Max nodded, handing me the leaflet. “Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu,” I read aloud, grimacing slightly. “Sounds violent. Isn’t there a nicer one you could have chosen?”

“Nope, made up my mind. There’s a session this afternoon, can you drive me?” 

“I just don’t like the idea of you getting hit in the face. What about football?”

“There’s no hitting involved. It’s more like wrestling. Can you take me or not?”

I sighed. “Yes. I suppose so.”

“You should try it with me.”

“No. I’m far too old for that kind of stuff.” I gave a weak smile. “I’ll stay and watch though.”

“Fine, whatever. The session is at two.”

A striking red banner hung above a warehouse door. ‘Relentless BJJ’ it read, heading a silhouetted image of two men in a strange, contorted position. 

We were greeted by an olive-skinned gentleman, garbed in what looked like a rigid black dressing gown. 

“Hello. My son is here for a trial session.”  

“Very good,” the man replied, his accent thick and musical. “Francisco. I will be taking today’s session.” He was incredibly short, but stocky, and had the cauliflower ears of a rugby player. 

I shook his hand. His grip was firm. “I’m Philip. This is Max.”

“Will you be joining us?”

“Oh, no. Just watching.”

My son was handed the same kind of uniform Francisco was sporting, informed that it was called a ‘Gi’. “You are tall,” the instructor said to him. “Excelente. Long levers.” 

I watched the session with relative interest. Max spent most of it running through basic techniques with a girl in a white belt. I flinched slightly at the twisted, painful-looking holds the other participants forced one another into. They seemed to take it well though, laughing it off after someone tapped the mat in apparent submission. I was alarmed to hear a liberal use of the C-word—which did not refer to Christ. A barrel-chested man named Ondre uttered it with abandon.   

After the second Saturday meeting, Max asked if he could go more regularly, and I decided to buy him a year’s membership. Twice weekly sessions soon became four, and by the final week of the summer holidays, both of us had developed a friendly relationship with most of the members and instructors—colourful characters I’d never normally encounter. I was a perpetual voyeur in the small coffee area. I sometimes occupied myself with a newspaper, but mostly I watched. The activity was nothing like I’d imagined: There seemed to be a delightful comradery between the students, despite their coarse language and desire to strangle each other in the moment. The advanced group were especially captivating. It almost appeared farcical, but Francisco manipulated men almost twice his size. He nimbly transitioned into endless expositions of dominance, some clearly compromising, others not so easy to recognise, but all resulting in a frantic patting on the mat, evidencing that his student had been bested. Rolling with their teacher, the blackbelts’ expressions were sometimes reminiscent of a non-swimmer dragged into deep water. 

While Max was changing out of his Gi at the end of a Monday evening session, Francisco caught my attention. “Your boy is very smart, Philip. Fast learner. If he puts in the work, he will earn his grey belt within a year.”

“Wonderful. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear that.”

“You should join in with us some time.”

“Oh.” I hesitated. “I don’t think so.” I pointed at my knee. “I was in a car crash, you see.”

Francisco guffawed. “You are injured? Welcome to the club. I have dislocated my left knee more times than I can count on both hands!”

I smirked. “You’re not selling it to me, Fran.”

“Just try. One session.”

“Um,” I faltered. “I don’t know—I’ll think about it.”

“Beginners class, Wednesday,” Francisco said with a grin. “See you then.”

Perhaps it was because I felt oddly at ease with the diminutive instructor, but I made a last-minute decision on Wednesday evening, mummifying my knee in athletic tape before driving to the gym with Max. 

As I warmed up I felt hideously self-conscious, aware of how slow and clumsy I was. Fran was a kind and patient teacher, however, and by time I’d learned about ‘passing the guard’, and the two hours were up, I couldn’t understand where the time had gone. My son smiled at me from across the gym floor.

It soon became apparent that Max and I were speaking more at the dinner table. Six months after his first session, I was participating in three of the four I drove us to. I’d ask for pointers on specific moves, and he usually offered insight. Our conversations were not limited to the martial art itself, but usually involved the gym. We’d sometimes discuss our new mutual friends; my son was incredibly popular with the members. I took a little longer to ingratiate myself, and I was not such a fast learner. Although, I could not deny my progress when Francisco awarded me with my first belt. And no one teased me for shedding a tear.

I came to learn that the gym provided community outreach. There were no bake sales, no board game evenings, or treasure hunts. But every Saturday night, Francisco, Ondre, and two others volunteered at a homeless shelter. On attending this for the first time, the instructor praised me for my work rate and initiative, convincing me to join the group afterwards for drinks. The pub was bustling and loud—a grim place that I’d ordinarily give a wide berth. Fortunately I seemed in safe hands amongst my party of assassins.

I’d never been a drinker, and the system of rounds was daunting. I’m not sure how Philip the Verger would have reacted, witnessing my attempts to fit in with this small and diverse social group, knocking back pints of lager so no one would think me a killjoy. I expect he would have been most astonished by how much I was enjoying myself; I’d not smiled this much since… well, the December before last. The more pints I consumed, the looser I felt, and soon it was only Fran and me left in the emptying bar. 

“Max told me,” the instructor slurred after a spell of silence, “about what happened last year.” I gave no response to this. It was still not a topic I felt keen to discuss. “I don’t know what it is like to lose a child, Philip. But my wife, she pass. Four years ago.”

There was a lump in my throat. “How?”

“Cancer,” he said solemnly. “You never get over it. But each day it get a little easier to breathe.”

“Were you angry?” I asked, immediately wondering why this was where my mind went.

“Yes,” he responded with little hesitation. “Brazil is a very Christian country.” He slammed his palm on the table. “I was furious at God. Maybe he punish me, but why steal a mother from three small children?” I could distinguish the pain still present in his eyes—he still sought an answer.

“I see you laughing so often, Fran. In the gym, you always seem in such high-spirits.” I lowered my head. “The world is changed for me.” 

He shrugged. “The world is no different. It is you that has changed.”

It seemed a passing comment, but I reflected on this for a moment. “Perhaps.” 

I looked around, taking heed of my surroundings, as if for the first time. The bar was filthy. People shouted and swore. There was a feeling of unpredictability in the air. Danger. Impermanence. 

“A few months after she passed, I started to save, to build my own gym here in England.”

“You’ve done an excellent job.” 

"It doesn’t matter who you are out there in the world. Everyone's status is equalised on the mats.”

"I hadn't thought of that."

“I know this sound silly. And I am no priest. But I consider you all like my flock."

I felt a smile spread across my face. “No. That doesn’t sound silly.”

“The gym,” he said. “This is my church now.”