On a snowy February morning in 1978, eighteen-year-old Leah Cavanagh meets Brother Matthew Haddon while on a retreat with her Catholic school. The four days she spends at Greystones Abbey in the wilds of North Yorkshire will have a profound impact not only on her own life, but also on that of her single mother Molly, who never recovered from the murder of her fiancé in 1956.
Leah and Brother Matthew start writing to each other. Soon a tentative friendship develops, with a hint of more. The longing that Leah feels is shared vicariously by Molly, who sees something of her late fiancé in a photograph that Leah shows her of the handsome monk. When Leah leaves home to study at music college, her feelings for Matthew deepen and she has difficulty committing to other relationships.
Over the coming years Leah keeps returning to Greystones Abbey. The forbidden desire she and Matthew feel for each other grows in intensity, until it seems impossible that barriers will not be broken. Soon Leah finds herself unable to break free - neither from her controlling mother nor her enigmatic yet tortured monk - and realizes she will have to make a choice.
On a snowy February morning in 1978, eighteen-year-old Leah Cavanagh meets Brother Matthew Haddon while on a retreat with her Catholic school. The four days she spends at Greystones Abbey in the wilds of North Yorkshire will have a profound impact not only on her own life, but also on that of her single mother Molly, who never recovered from the murder of her fiancé in 1956.
Leah and Brother Matthew start writing to each other. Soon a tentative friendship develops, with a hint of more. The longing that Leah feels is shared vicariously by Molly, who sees something of her late fiancé in a photograph that Leah shows her of the handsome monk. When Leah leaves home to study at music college, her feelings for Matthew deepen and she has difficulty committing to other relationships.
Over the coming years Leah keeps returning to Greystones Abbey. The forbidden desire she and Matthew feel for each other grows in intensity, until it seems impossible that barriers will not be broken. Soon Leah finds herself unable to break free - neither from her controlling mother nor her enigmatic yet tortured monk - and realizes she will have to make a choice.
1
Lichfield, July 1983
Tomorrow is my wedding day.
Those words could be the lyrics to a song, don’t you think? A joyful song; one that injects your veins with a rush of adrenaline, giddiness, the narcotic urge to dance. I can feel a strong beat there. To-mor-row is my wed-ding day. Four-four time. Could be a tango, then. I can already picture myself on the dance floor: slow, thigh-clinging strides in sync with my partner’s, the occasional unexpected lurch as he tips me backwards – long hair tumbling away from my face, eyes shut in concentration as said partner holds me firmly round the waist to make sure I don’t topple over completely, hitting the parquet with a thump.
I meant to say groom, not partner. Because come tomorrow, that’s what he’ll be. And I his wife. Mr and Mrs. His and hers. Happily ever after.
The zone where fairy tales fear to tread.
So tomorrow I’m getting married and you should be here with me, Mother. You should be sitting by my side, in the living room of my tumbledown cottage in Lichfield, keeping me company on my last night as a single woman. Your feet should be propped up on the coffee table; mine tucked beneath me. You always liked stretching out your feet, because you said it was good for the circulation. Our hands should be cradling mugs of hot milky coffee, our lips blowing the steam away before taking that first sip. The TV should be on, tuned into an old black and white film – Bette Davis perhaps, or better still, Vivien Leigh, your favourite, because in your youth everyone said you had a Scarlett O’Hara smile. And later at night, before making our way up the staircase to our respective bedrooms, we could have a final peek at my wedding dress. There it’ll be, hanging outside the wardrobe in all its sequinned finery, catching the glow from the lightbulb as we step inside my room and flick the switch by the door, transposing drabness into magic: a shimmering satin splendour. In fact, rather like you.
You should be here on this special night, supporting me, calming my nerves, stroking my face, murmuring, It’ll be fine, darling. It’ll be fine.
But you’re not here. Instead of cradling a mug of coffee in my hands, I’m clutching a letter. A crumpled letter, with fine calligraphy that’s smudged with water stains. Tears, actually. A letter you never knew about, because I slipped it in my bag before you had the chance to spot it in the hall at Belle View on my last visit home. Good job I was standing there at the time, putting on my jacket and getting ready to leave at the very moment the postman pushed the envelope through the letter box. You were in the kitchen, clattering about by the sink, washing up mugs, delaying the bitter sorrow of parting. So I stole the letter - which was addressed to you but definitely from him, because I recognised his handwriting - and I read it on the inter-city train from Lyneham-on-Sea to Birmingham, then the local one to Lichfield. I read it multiple times, on both journeys. Every word of it. That’s when I knew there was no point in calling off the wedding. That’s when it finally hit home that there was no other way.
You should be here tonight, fussing me, loving me like the true mother you once were. But ‘once’ is a sad word, locked in that unattainable land we call the past. ‘Once’ has all the longing of a Chopin nocturne. Perhaps his E minor Opus 72, your favourite. I could have played it for you tonight. I could have given you an entire private recital, far more intimate than the concert hallBut you refused to come, which is absolutely fine by me, because I didn’t want you here anyway.
‘How could you do it? I hate you!’
That was me two weeks ago, back home in Lyneham-on-Sea. You said nothing; just surveyed me with cold eyes. Where had all their warmth and sparkle gone? Where was the pert smile that had always won hearts?
‘I can never go back to Greystones now! You’ve fucked it up well and truly this time!’
I hardly recognised my own voice. Did I really say all that? It’s true that the random swear word has crept into my vocabulary these last few years, together with the odd cigarette and large glass of wine or two, but I never actually use the ‘f’ word. Just the occasional ‘bloody’ or ‘sodding’.
But I don’t want to think about any of that now. Not tonight, of all nights. I want to be filled with warm memories. I want us to share our longing for him one final time, before tomorrow’s wedding vows put a final stop to any such stupid flights of fancy.
So let’s go back. Let’s exercise a little suspension of disbelief. Then you and I can time-travel to the days when you were the most important person in my life, the best mother in the world. The days when we both believed in love and its illusory dream.
Greystones Abbey. Deep in the rolling hills of North Yorkshire. That’s as good a place as any to begin, because that’s where I first met him, during the Feruary half-term holiday of 1978.
2
North Yorkshire, February 1978
I’ll never forget the first time I saw Greystones Abbey. If ever there was a single word to describe such an impression, I’d love to know it. To phrase it in brochure terms, I could say that Greystones Abbey is set in over 2,000 acres of land on the edge of the North York Moors National Park, boasting an array of woodland, valleys and lakes in a tranquil and relaxed environment.
But words aren’t enough to cope with describing such a place. ‘Magical’ comes to mind, as does heavenly, celestial, otherworldly - yet none of these adjectives are any good, because, aside from being clichés, they only describe part of the picture. The other part was still unknown to me in that first glimpse I had of the Benedictine monastery through the snow-spattered windows of our school coach. Which is just as well. Had I known back then what awaited me over the coming years as a direct result of Greystones Abbey, things might have turned out quite differently. I might have made my way to the front of the coach and begged the dour-faced driver to take me straight back home to Lyneham-on-Sea in the neighbouring county of Lancashire.
‘Oh wow, it’s a real monastery!’ Francesca cried out in her breathless little voice. She leaned forward in her seat and wiped the condensation from the window. I still think of her as Nobbles, the skinny girl with long, plain brown hair that she wore like a nun’s veil, and wide eyes that always looked just a bit dismayed.
‘Well, what did you expect it to be? A bloody casino?’ Good old Jenny Swarbrick with her dry sense of humour. Best friend through thick and thin. Masses of curly black locks that I used to envy, as well as sparkly eyes, an ample bust, and a confidence-gene that the gods appeared to have missed out when forming my own DNA. She had a peculiar bent for swear words, despite her God-fearing upbringing, and a tendency to take the mickey out of religion. But she could also be a dreamer, like me, though with a cutting edge that I lacked. I was just a dreamer full stop.
The coach took a sharp turn to the right, swerving into the Abbey grounds and abandoning the steep bank of forest that had accompanied us on the last few minutes of the journey. We were all instantly silenced, as though God had raised his mighty baton upon our teenage chorus of irreverent natter and cried out: GIRLS! Our eyes widened at the sight of Greystones Abbey in its full monastic splendour, shivering in a wintry haze at the bottom of the long, snaking driveway. For a moment I thought I was in Shangri-La as I gazed out at all those turrets, towers and mullioned windows. This unearthly vision was set against a vast landscape of hills, valleys and distant forest, all coated in an undefiled layer of snow, as though reminding the monks of their vows of celibacy. How could such perfection have existed all the seventeen years of my as-yet tender life and I knew nothing about it?
Half a minute later the coach parked up outside a large villa in prime position at the top of the driveway. Mother Bernadette drew herself up from her front seat and stood in the middle of the aisle. Buttoning up her black coat to the top of her chicken-like neck, she raised her face and announced in her distinctive Irish accent, ‘Right then, girls, quiet, if you please!’
As though on cue, the bus engine switched off and twenty-four restless sixth formers began to rummage for coats, scarves, bags and whatever other paraphernalia we were lumbered with. A guitar, in my case.
‘I said quiet now, all of you!’ The headmistress-nun cast her famous glare left and right, her eagle eyes catching the tail-end of my giggle. ‘Leah Cavanagh, if you have something amusing to say, you will either share it with all of us or remain silent. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Mother Bernadette,’ I said, eyes lowered, giggle duly purged. We all used to call her Bernie behind her back, and wondered if the rest of her hair was the same ginger colour as the few wisps that escaped from the front of her veil.
She clapped her hands, bringing all nattering and sniggers to a swift cadence. ‘We shall be staying at the Gatehouse, which is the villa you can see over there. When you enter the hallway – in a quiet and orderly manner, if you please – you will see a list on the noticeboard with all of your names and the rooms to which you have been ascribed. Please find your room quickly and quietly, unpack your bags, and assemble in the common room on the ground floor in ten minutes’ time.’
‘Can’t we have a wander round first?’ someone from the back of the coach called out.
These Catholic girls might have been proficient in their Hail Mary’s and Communion rites, but they certainly weren’t shy and retiring, that’s for sure. I learned this fact soon after enrolling at Lark Mount upon my piano teacher’s recommendation. He was convinced that a sensitive soul like me would fare much better doing my A-levels in the calm atmosphere of a Catholic girls’ school run by nuns, rather than being swallowed up by the local co-educational sixth form college. It all seemed so different in those first few weeks: the nuns in their flowing black habits, the well-spoken girls in their neat uniforms of brown and blue, the chapel, the lunchtime Masses where I was cajoled into playing guitar, the beautiful grounds that protected the school from the outside world. Oh, and that narrow lake at the bottom of the hill, surrounded by sycamores and low-hanging willows that provided shade on those long summer days when me and my friends would take our packed lunches down to the waterside. I can still see us there, lying on the grass, staring up at the huge sky and emptying our deepest yearnings to one another. No wonder the lot of us were always late for the first lesson after lunch on those balmy afternoons.
Mother Bernadette drew her thin ginger eyebrows together. ‘All right then, girls,’ she said in that broad accent, so easy to mimic behind her back. ‘You can have twenty minutes to wander round the monastery grounds to find your bearings. But it’ll be dark soon, so no more than that.’
‘Why, will the bogeyman jump out at us from the shadows?’
This time it was Sister Miriam’s turn to intervene. ‘That’s enough, Jenny,’ she gently chided, turning round in her coach seat and raising her attractive young face just high enough to aim a reproachful look at my friend. If anyone harboured teenage fantasies about becoming a nun, Sister Miriam was their role model.
Mother Bernadette scowled at Jenny. ‘The bogeyman won’t get you, but Father Sebastian might.’ Turning to the rest of us, she expanded, ‘Father Sebastian is Warden of the Gatehouse, and I trust you will all show him due respect, girls. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Mother Bernadette,’ we all chanted in unison.
Wetting her colourless lips, Bernie proceeded, ‘We shall meet together at five o’clock in the common room for prayers and Mass practice, and at six we shall go down to Vespers in the Abbey Church. Supper is served at seven o’clock sharp in the Gatehouse refectory, and I don’t expect any of you to be late. Afterwards, Father Sebastian will say Mass for us in the small chapel next to the refectory, and at nine we shall go down to the monastery for Compline, which is the last Office of the day. Now then, girls, which one of you can remember what the Offices are, hmm?’
Nobble’s hand shot up. She was practically a nun herself.
‘Yes, Francesca dear?’
‘It’s the chanting of prayers at fixed hours of the day, like Matins, Lauds, Vespers and Compline, according to the liturgy of the Church.’
Jenny rolled her eyes at me and hissed, ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Yes, well done, Francesca. Good to know that at least some of you pay attention during your RE lessons. Now then, after Compline we shall re-assemble in the common room for a short talk given by Brother Matthew, who is a specialist on the power of prayer.’
‘Kuh Pow!’
‘Jenny, that’s enough,’ Sister Miriam said. A shower of snickers ricocheted round the coach.
‘Quiet, girls!’ Bernie’s sharp eyes picked out random victims down the length of the aisle. ‘After that final talk it’ll be bed for all of you, because some of us have opted to go to Matins at five in the morning. Any questions?’
There weren’t any, all of us being desperate to get off the coach after our three-hour journey across the Pennines. So we clambered out and trudged across the driveway to the Gatehouse, stamping the snow off our feet before piling up the stairs to find our rooms. I was delighted to discover that my own room was one of the singles, with a neat little desk ideal for writing my diary, and a casement window offering the most divine view imaginable. I could already see myself sitting there in the evenings, gazing out at the shimmering lights from the monastery at the bottom of the hill, with the surrounding valley and milky-white forest providing the perfect backdrop, like something out of an impressionist painting.
After unpacking my travel bag, I was ready to venture out with Jenny and Nobbles to explore the territory that I was rapidly falling in love with.
Pity I couldn’t have restricted the ‘falling in love’ bit just to the territory.
3
By the end of my first day at Greystones I’d developed a grinding headache, so was unable to attend Compline down in the monastery. Instead, I escaped to the seclusion of my snug room at the Gatehouse. I took a painkiller, got undressed and slipped into my pyjamas. I considered spending a few peaceful minutes writing my diary, but decided against it in view of the dull throbbing in my temples.
Switching off my bedside lamp, I opened the window and levered myself up onto the sill, where I sat huddled for some time, allowing the frosty air to tickle my face and ease the rhythmic pulsing in my head. It had stopped snowing by now and the heavy clouds from earlier in the day had dispersed, giving way to an almost garishly bright moon.
After a few minutes, my eyes focused on a distant form that was making its way up the long driveway from the monastery. The hooded figure gradually increased in size as it approached the Gatehouse, its snow-crunching footsteps getting louder. When it was just several feet away from my window, I felt compelled to move aside, not wanting to disturb the monk’s nocturnal contemplation. But before I had the chance to shift position, he suddenly looked up, perhaps drawn by the unusual sight of a wide-open window on a cold winter’s night. Seeing my startled face, he smiled at me.
I caught my breath, flustered, realising that this must be the monk who was due to give us a talk after Compline on the Power of Prayer. I felt my face flushing. It was as if he’d caught me out in an act of truancy. The schoolgirl in me almost blurted out, ‘Please, Sir – I’m not doing anything wrong, honest!’ – or however one was supposed to address a monk. But I didn’t need to. There was no chastisement in his eyes as they crinkled up at mine, only warmth and good humour, as though whispering: Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me!
Little did I know, as I watched him disappear into the shadowed entrance to the Gatehouse, that this day would change my life forever.
Infinite Stranger is a captivating coming-of-age saga focusing on a tumultuous mother-daughter relationship. The story spans several decades, from the 1950s to the 1980s, with two main characters, Molly, the narcissistic mother, and Leah, the love-starved daughter.
As the daughter Leah comes of age, several male characters are introduced, and Leah uses her sexual prowess to gain independence from her controlling mother and to increase her self-worth. However, this is not an explicit book.
Unrequited and toxic love is a big theme throughout the novel as Leah falls into an infatuation-type love with a Monk she meets on a school trip in her youth. Brother Matthew is devoted to his faith, so the relationship that Leah wants is impossible. However, her mother, Molly, encourages her to continue correspondence with the monk under the guise of fulfilling and healing her trauma of losing her fiance several decades prior.
This book will make you want to cheer for Leah as she embarks on a journey to find herself and separate herself from an antagonistic and manipulative relationship with her mother.
One thing that would improve the readability is to add in character titles when the time period and main character shifts from Molly in the 1950s to Leah in the 1970s and 80s. There were a few times when I needed to figure out who was narrating; however, this is my preference as it can be helpful, especially in a time-driven novel, where the decade is as much a character as Leah, Molly, and Brother Matthew.
Overall I recommend this book, with its eloquent cadence and engaging writing style. There was slight stagnation in a few chapters, but nothing significant. The author did an excellent job with the length and Leah's character progression.
Ultimately this book paints a picture of healing toxic family dynamics and Leah's pursuit of peace and fulfillment.