Radical love, p.7
Radical Love, page 7
‘I have never known such fear, Johnny. Even when they started working me over, I think that first moment of seeing and hearing them was the worst – it was worse than even the pain. I felt their fists and feet hit my body, but it was nothing compared to the knowledge of what was ahead.’ My fears about what the girl on Bell Yard must have felt before she died returned to me. ‘I remember nothing else, not even being taken down from the pillory. They said later that the bailiff took me down because they were trying to cut my arm off with a knife, and he didn’t want no paperwork.’
Still sitting side by side, she asked: ‘Do you remember that day I saw you, Johnny boy, on Cornhill, after we had’ – she shrugged – ‘well, you know … Do you remember that day?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘You yelled at me in the street.’
Ha, she went. ‘You looked like you were going to shit your breeches.’ She laughed to herself again. ‘You were thinking, I hope this one doesn’t come over and talk to me, and give me all of her faggotry in the middle of the street.’
I laughed. ‘I’m not afraid of a bit of faggotry, Sal.’
Sally turned to look at me with a faint, humble blush, and then she lightly kissed my cheek. Just at that moment, Mrs Cook appeared in front of us. ‘Are you ready to do some marrying, Reverend?’
I think about that question now, given what was about to happen, in my life, in all the lives of the people who came to Vere Street. Are you ready to do some marrying, Reverend? My new friend asked it in the simplest way; no hidden meanings. But it was as if she had asked: Are you ready to take control of your own narrative, John Church? Are you ready to understand what your life has been for? Are you ready to know how history shall remember you, in times when your actions will bring universal acclaim, not universal condemnation?
The evening had begun in such horror – violence done to one of our number by people who denied it was violence at all, but rather God’s love, just a law of nature – and then we came to this place where we had created such a vulnerable community. In that moment, I understood that what this place had to be was a place of transformation, of the radical possibilities of love in practice, in which people like Katherine, Mary and Arabel were freed by simple statements of love from the judgement of the world, to be able to see that we were not just equal, or free, but actually worth something; that we believed that about ourselves.
Every Sunday, I preached about love. I gave sermons about how we should rethink it, reimagine it: yes, its inevitability; yes, its universality. Mrs Cook had asked me to come to Vere Street to perform weddings – joke weddings – for those who thought that all they had – all they were worth – was joke weddings. I thought lastly of Mr Linehan, seeing our sister gutted by some man, likely with a wife, and children, and a good seat in church each Sunday. Linehan took his hate and insisted it was love, and it sickened me. We were not the worst of men. We were not Mr Linehan’s disgusting rats.
I saw the truth. Our love was not a perversion. I saw that truth in Hepburn and White’s love for each other, and Black-Eyed Leonora’s happiness that evening. We deserved not just to love, but to be able to recognise the fact of our love before our friends. Everything here at Vere Street was said as a joke, but some things are not jokes. Some things are true. I saw that we were all worthy of love, and what we needed was someone to tell us that, for the first time. Suddenly, extraordinarily, I realised that person was me.
I knew what I must do. I got to my feet. Yes, it was my impulsiveness but it was also the moment that all my ideas came together. I had been asked how I could apply them in the real world. Well, here we were, in a world that was both play-acting and brutally, riskily real. I was facing the crowd in the main room. No one even noticed me standing up, except Sally and Mrs Cook, who were at my side.
‘Quiet!’ I cried at the crowd, but people kept chattering and laughing, all rolling in their cups, barely able to hear. ‘Quiet!’ I yelled again, and people began to turn. It was Sally who finished it: ‘Fucking shut up!’
All eyes turned to me. I knew I was going to speak. I knew what I was going to say. And yet I was afraid, and I felt like I was faltering. ‘We … we come here to perform joke weddings, but I want to ask you, is that all we are worth, men like us: jokes? Is that all we are: inversions of love? Do we think our love, our ability to love, is just a joke so all we deserve are joke weddings? But we are not a joke.’
Someone somewhere drunkenly called: ‘What’s he on about?’
‘What am I on about?’ I asked rhetorically. ‘From next Sunday, for those who want it, I will not be performing joke weddings any more. I will be performing real weddings, marriages in the eyes of God. Any man who loves another man can come here, and I will marry them in the eyes of God, if that’s what they both want. We are worth more than violence. We are worth love, and from next Sunday, those that want it, we’ll mark your love. We’ll marry each other, if that’s what we want.’
The room remained pin-drop silent. Perhaps it was just shock. Perhaps it was the rustle of people thinking for the first time that this was even possible for them. The first time I came to Vere Street, Mrs Cook had said that she did not know if the girls wanted weddings any more. I hadn’t known either, but now I did. Now I knew what I had to do – for my own kind, and perhaps even for myself.
CHAPTER FIVE
or
The Truth Comes Out … But Not The One You’re Expecting
The Saturday following …
That week, Ned had dropped a note to the Obelisk saying he would meet me at the location of the talk: the Angel Tavern, Fleet Street. About seven o’clock in the evening, I left my rooms on The Cut. I did not know this tavern at all – London has so many, one on every street corner and three more in between. When I got to the corner of Farringdon Street, I asked passers-by if they knew the place. But no one even seemed to have heard of it. ‘Don’t know it, pal.’ ‘Don’t ask me, pal.’ ‘What, how should I know one of them places?’ Them places? I did not understand.
Presently I found it, almost at the Strand, near the narrow lane down to the old Temple Church. The Angel Tavern was a tiny, battered sort of place. Its windows were cloaked in thick curtains, and no light – only the sound of music – emitted from within. As I pushed the heavy door, I noticed the wood nailed over its window and the broken glass panes beneath. Tavern noise hit me: chatter, laughter, glasses chinking, a fiddle and several drums playing at once. Eyes glanced up at me but, if I caught them, looked away. An old lady in bonnet and shawl, sitting alone, stared me up and down, without satisfaction. I realised that every other person within the Angel Tavern was African. This was a Black tavern, of which there were several in the city. Was this why people did not seem to know one of ‘them places’, or at least affected not to? I looked around in hopes of seeing Ned, but he was not there.
The tavern-keep behind the counter nodded over at me. ‘You all right there, pal? Know where you’re going, do you?’
A second woman was standing at the bar, with a sack of onions slumped on top of it and a small beaker of stout at her lips. ‘You looking for your holy friends, is it?’ She arched an eyebrow then pointed at the ceiling. ‘They’re upstairs.’ She grinned at the tavern-keep. ‘Feeling the Lord move through them!’ She took a sip of her stout and then crackled out a ha!
The keep pointed me to the staircase beyond the bar. Climbing to the first floor, in near-total dark, I walked down a crooked corridor. At its end I saw the glow of a large, open room with its door pinned back; candlelight and chatter within. Entering the room, again those inside were all African. Every sort of person was there: old and young, men and women, those dressed expensively and those most simply, almost in rags. A sea of heads, perhaps forty in number, sat in rows, facing a stage on which Mrs Caesar was standing. But where was Ned? In a queer sort of panic, I felt foolish, as if I had come here on no account at all. I quickly scanned the room. People turned to look at me, but eyes did not linger. I supposed they had seen a White fellow at one of their meetings before. Even so, the reversal of the world was clear to me.
Then I saw him on the far end of one row. He turned and smiled at me, shyly raising a hand in greeting; I felt such relief and pleasure. I pushed my way through the row on which he sat; he had kept a seat for me. People moved their knees and smiled or tutted. Ned picked up the hat he had placed on the seat. I laughed. ‘Did you have to fight to keep a place for me?’
‘I thought perhaps you had changed your mind,’ he said then, gathering himself.
‘Not at all. I’ve been looking forward to it. I was just late.’
This amused him; I did not know why. There was movement at the front and he turned his face to the stage; I looked too. Mrs Caesar was clapping her hands briskly and calling for quiet. Only then did I see Lydia Caesar sitting in the front row, chatting brightly with someone who looked like a dignitary of some kind. She laughed with him, enjoying herself, all easy company.
Mrs Caesar began to speak: ‘Brothers and sisters, I am so happy to see so many of you here, for it reminds me how we must rely on our own brotherhood to win our war.’ She spoke in a way I had not quite seen from her before; she spoke of war! ‘I speak first to my brothers and sisters who are still illegally in chains, those few of you able to come here tonight, slipping away from your bondage. I want you to know that we never forget you, we free and freed Africans of this city. You are our brethren, and we work tirelessly to free you. Our day is coming, and we shall prevail. Some of you will not be able to stay because your gaolers will be wondering where you are. You must leave whenever you need to go, and know that we admire your courage and pray for your manumission.’
There was earnest applause. She said she would lead the meeting in a recitation of the 23rd Psalm: ‘“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies …”’
I was listening to the words, being murmured en masse with such intensity, her strong, clear voice the lead. When the psalm was over, with her face so serene, she looked over the crowd, took a small breath and said, quite peacefully: ‘Death to the devil, King George!’
And all around came other voices: ‘Death to King George!’ ‘Death to the devil!’ ‘Death to King George!’ I knew that Africans despised the Royal Family, the heart of ‘The Interest’, but still it was quite bracing to hear such words said aloud, and by such a great number.
Mrs Caesar continued speaking: ‘Now, tonight, I am very pleased to invite you to listen to my own estimable daughter, Lydia.’ The mother applauded the daughter, who climbed up on to the stage; and all around us, others clapped too. It seemed as if she was well known in this political world.
‘My brothers and sisters, one day soon, as my mother says, the Englishman is going to free us all and Slavery will end. I am not so sure he will, given he has for some years offered the excuse of the war with France to evade doing so, when we all know it is the placation of the slave-owner class that is his true intention.’ There were murmurs of approval. ‘So tonight, I have come to talk to you about forgiveness. Often I have heard our brethren talk about how we should feel after we are free. We perpetually ask ourselves: how are we going to forgive the White man, for all that he has done to us, three centuries of our murder, our dispossession and rape. Let me tell you, friends, I think this is the wrong question.’ Folk watched her, and she let them. ‘My question, brothers and sisters, is not whether we can forgive White people for Slavery. It is whether they will forgive us for it.’
At once, there was bright shock and plentiful calls for apology and explanation. I turned to look at Ned – who was staring at her, I noticed, quite intently. His eyes were warm and attentive. He was listening to her surprising words and, I could tell, admiring them. But I felt some brittle jealousy, I’ll confess. I did not want him to admire Miss Lydia at all! She waved her hand to call the crowd to silence. ‘Friends, I want to tell you a story I heard lately. It’s about William Wilberforce, sainted White hero of our liberation. Now, Mr Wilberforce had a grand dinner at his house for all his friends in the House of Lords who voted for the passage of the Slave Trade Act, and many of the very sincere Church of England campaigners from all over the country. He even invited a number of Africans to come too, to prove his liberality. But do you know what happened next? The Africans arrived to sup at his house, dressed in their finest and ready to be part of a new world, but Mr Wilberforce made them sit behind a large curtain, so that White persons would not be offended by their presence.’
I noticed the entire room was silent; people seemed entirely unshocked and yet I was shocked! ‘One day, in the future, Mr Wilberforce – or his descendants – will invite us – or ours – to sit at dinner, and they will not even ask us to sit behind a curtain. We will sit with White people, and we will all drink the same drink and eat the same food. And if one of us, or our descendants, says to him, “Do you remember when there used to be a curtain behind which you made us sit?” the White man will look with shock and say, “Beg pardon?” We will say, “Yes, there used to be a curtain you made us sit behind,” and the White man will go, “No, I believe you are mistaken.” If we say it again, he will become enraged and tell us to stop lying. Then his pretence will drop and he will say: “You are free now, why can’t you be happy? You are free now, forget about the curtain! We freed you, so don’t mention the curtain again.” And we will say, “But you said you did not remember the curtain,” and it will be then that the White man will know he can never forgive us. He will say: “You’re lying. None of this happened. We did nothing to you.” Or he will say it was some other White fellow who did it, but not him, and what he has, what he owns, the property and the investments, are nothing to do with what he did to us. All I can say to you is this. If the condition for freedom is to forgive and to forget what was done to us, then it is not a freedom worth having. One day, if we speak the truth, the White man will say he can no longer forgive us for speaking the truth of our history. It is then we shall be at the greatest risk, and the true evil of White folk will be revealed to us, again and again and again.’
She finished just like that. Usually, in such meetings, there is a prayer or at least a statement of faith in God that there might be change, but Lydia did none of that. Immediately there was great applause for her; she stood on the stage, basking in it. A preacher or proselytiser must enjoy acclaim, or else you are just an idiot dancing on a dais, making proclamations. Afterwards, there was much shaking of hands, in all directions. A collection plate was passed around, and new, still-inky pamphlets were sold at a brisk rate. Whilst Ned was in deep conversation with an older, clerical-looking fellow, Mrs Caesar came up to me and we chatted. She seemed very pleased that I had come, and I said I was full of admiration for her daughter. Presently, Lydia came and joined us. ‘Miss Lydia,’ I began enthusiastically, ‘I can only congratulate you on your speech. I am not sure what I was anticipating, but it was not such a talk of fire and accomplishment.’
I expected her to be full of thanks, but she regarded me coolly. ‘Why did you not expect it of me, Reverend? Did you think I have insufficient intelligence for such a thing?’
Her chilliness should not have surprised me, but it did. ‘O, not at all, but you are a young woman—’
Now she laughed satirically. ‘It is only making speeches, Reverend Church. Where is the achievement in making pretty speeches?’ Her eyes fixed on me very hard, as if to say: You do it all the time! ‘Surely achievement lies in action.’ She paused magisterially. ‘Even “young women” can understand that.’
I gave her compliments and she gave me only insults back. I felt such anger towards her then; in another situation, I might have lashed out. Just then a fellow of some African heritage appeared at her side, a tall, rather handsome man, in a fitted jacket. It was the dignitary to whom Lydia had been speaking earlier. He bowed to us all, saying how much he had enjoyed her speech and how insightful he had found it. She greeted him effusively. Mrs Caesar introduced me to the fellow. ‘Reverend Church, do you know Mr Robert Wedderburn?’ I did not. Ned appeared at our side too, perhaps summoned by the man. ‘And, Ned, you must surely know Mr Wedderburn.’
Ned’s hand shot forwards and he was grinning broadly, obviously thrilled. ‘Mr Wedderburn, what an honour!’
I understood then this man was notable in African circles. Suddenly Lydia was indicating towards me, though speaking to this Mr Wedderburn. ‘Reverend Church was just stating his surprise that a young woman such as I might be a good preacher.’ The Wedderburn fellow looked at me with searching, amused eyes. Did he know Miss Lydia’s sharp teeth well? But that was not what I had meant at all. I faltered somewhat.
‘Miss Caesar, you misrepresent me. You are a young woman, yes, in a world not filled with young women preaching, but my surprise was that your preaching was political in nature, not religious.’
‘Is the radical in religion not the radical in politics?’ Wedderburn asked.
Lydia’s eyes were all harsh, bright amusement: ‘Reverend Church preaches a form of worship in which he states all human beings are natively good and will accept tolerance and love in the end.’ Her eyes held mine briefly, hot with contempt, flickering, jumping with her desire to harm me. ‘What say you to that, Mr Wedderburn?’
I felt my annoyance; I did not let the man speak. ‘No, what do you say, Miss Lydia? You seem to be full of meanings unexpressed!’
Her amusement was not abated by my obvious irritation; it was fed by it. ‘O, Reverend, I am just a young woman at a political meeting, what know I of theology?’ The other people were looking at me. The truth was I had no response to her. She was cleverer than me, and nothing is more threatening than that. I felt Ned’s eyes on me. Part of me wanted to react, wanted to lash my words against her, but in that moment, I knew that her words would be sharper than mine. A silence opened before us, with Lydia the cat who’d got the cream. It was this Mr Wedderburn who spoke instead, doing so kindly, yet dispassionately.
