Wipe your feet

Ok. God. We were unusual among our London friends in that we went to mass. Being a "believer" has no novelty value here at all. My "belief" is a pretty ropy affair of feminist hesitation, personal doubts, general embarrassment and a cultural legacy from my mother. I am a catholic; that is my get out of jail free card. I do not have to talk about God. I hardly have to talk to God. The priests and my mother can do that for me. I have issues with God. I have certainly got issues with the Pope and frankly, I would be much happier if I could have back the childhood, gilded glory of a robed and guardian angel. Did he leave my side? What I thought was a breeze, was that the moment that he left me for another soul to keep? Or, did I just stop believing he was there and "Phut" he was gone? Feathery and glorious. Is that the moment, the loneliness began? I admire sheer conviction but I cannot lose myself in "Jesus". I cannot think myself saved and another damned to fall and burn. I can flirt; I cannot bring myself to surrender. I have tried, watched myself, the thought comes unbidden: "Ye gods." I am facinated though by others' faith, struggling as I do in all my uncertainties.

At the weekend, we had to go to a border town to pick up large numbers of cardboard boxes from the removers. It began to rain and we stumbled into a cafe. I tell a lie we stumbled into a church that was pretending to be a cafe. No not true either we stumbled into a cafe that has a sideline as a shop and which turns into a church on a Sunday. We sat down, all unwitting. My eyes fixed on a photo frame for sale. It said: " "For I know the plans I have for you," declared the Lord, "Plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)" I thought: "Golly." I looked around. Sure enough there was stuff like that all over. One thing struck me. How often in the merchandising, the Christian believer or customer asks or expects something of his God. " I have paid £4.99 for this mouse mat, I expect happiness for the rest of my life and my child to get into the university of his choice." I particularly liked a frame with three photographs in it. The first, a bakerlite phone "Ask and it shall be given you"; above and below the pair of binoculars were the words "Seek and ye shall find" while the door knocker was "Knock and it shall be opened unto you." (Matthew 7:7). My least favorite was a watercolour of a plant in a pot: "Without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him. (Hebrews 11:6)

The merchandising went on and on. A soft and cuddly praying frog who sang "Now I lay me down to sleep..." ; blank paper which they made sure you knew was "compatible with printers and computers" with the heading "God's best to you! Christ's blessings on you! (Philemon 1:3)The Message" and I liked a purple coffee mug emblazoned with "...handle with prayer." I thought: "Who buys this stuff?" Then I thought: "Me." There was a pair of holy novelty socks with a design of the burning bush and two pairs of feet. One of them Moses and the other Joshua. Apparently, there are more than 600 references to feet and walking in the Bible. I never knew that. The packaging instructs you: " "Put off the shoes from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground." Exodus 3:5." The packaging says: "Displaying our faith in a non-threatening and humorous way, our original designs are interesting and amusing and can be conversation stoppers ..." I personally do not think the "non-threatening" bit is true. I would assume, anyone who wore socks like these was a complete lunatic and immediately feel very threatened. Naturally, I bought a pair and plan to wear them tomorrow. I also bought a book about starting a house church, that is to say, people coming together to worship in someone's home rather than feeling they have to attend a "real" church. I am thinking: "New kitchen, coffee, all these people up here who believe in God." I said to my husband: "Look, I could start a church." He said: "Yes. The church of the cappuccino. Your kind of place."

Future tense

My builder has taken to breaking off large pieces of plaster board and writing messages in pencil on them. They say things like: "2 18" X 16" 4 M L" and "End bathroom right". Little arrows slide up and down and, alongside, numbers carrying fractions on their hips. It is all very Old Testament. I am daily expecting to read a larger chunk along the lines: "Thou shalt honour thy builder and his building mates. Thou shalt pay thy builder on time. Thou shalt hold thy builder above thine architect and shalt not take the name of thy builder in vain. Thou shalt not question thy builder about tea breaks. Thou shalt not covet thy builder's Saturdays and Sundays for in a number of months thy builder shalt make thy kitchen and thy bathroom and any number of other rooms for thee and thine and he hast need of the odd day off to resteth and to watcheth sport on TV. Thou shalt admire thy builder's craftsmanship and speak highly of him to all comers. Thou shalt abjure temples like B&Q and the false gods of DIY. Thou shalt appreciate thy builder is passing on his discount from his trade suppliers."

Even without a holy diktat, I am impressed by the skill I see around me in the cottage. I enjoy seeing the evidence of craftsmanship. There are things I have spent years learning how to do. Listening, for instance. When I talk to someone, I am all attention. I want to hear what they say, how they feel, what they think, what they do not realise they are feeling or thinking. I want to know. Not just for the sake of it but to understand their sorrow or their joy, to know them better. To make a friend. To keep a friend. To be a friend. To know, you have to listen. In the same way, I can appreciate the skill in a plaster perfect wall; the subtle, creamy finish of a painted room; a red clay flattened brick rescued from underneath the kitchen floor, cleaned and proud in a newly opened up hearth; a landing floor, quilt patched with wood rescued from that kitchen floor, each piece eased in and nailed down by a craftsman. It is not just a matter of a job and a bill. I can appreciate the efforts of a man trying to steam, sand, scrape and burn whitewash and distemper, clinging tight to the ceiling beams it has loved for years. I know his arms ache and his breath catches in the dust as he helps to build an idea of a house.

A friend told me that I am in a conversation with the house. True. My house speaks to me of the past, the present and the future. In that corner of what will be my living room, a pantry stood; that windowsill by a greasy wall was where the woman made her cream and butter; the hearth we have uncovered, once held a kitchen range. I have listened and learnt something of the house and those who lived here, in the rewriting of its rooms and passages. The present, of course, is around in all its brick dusted glory, patterns keyed in the render, electric cables hanging from the walls, strangers who have become friends marking the rooms with their skills. But I can see the future better than the present. As I stood on the landing looking down the painted corridor through the house, I saw soft painted walls and light from mended windows. The walls pushed back to open up the route between what were two houses, knitting the divide with space. I thought: "Perhaps this could be my home. Perhaps I could hang pictures along these walls."