The Sixth Lamentation Read online

  ‘What?’ said Father Andrew quietly

  ‘After Wilf left to find Anselm, he said he’d done it before, a long time ago.

  The Priory bell rang ponderously, slow, deep chimes echoing around Larkwood, calling the brothers to prayer. Sylvester turned obediently to get himself ready — ‘I’m off. Don’t want to be late.’ — and slipped out of the room, leaving the other monks to digest the implications of his words.

  ‘I’m glad he kept that to himself,’ said the Prior judiciously

  So was Anselm. He was thinking ahead, catching sight of a shifting shadow ‘Why here? Why come to us?’

  ‘Good question,’ said the Prior pensively The ringing had come to a close. A busy shuffling of feet came from the cloister. ‘Come on. Time for quiet.’

  Anselm entered the long dark nave and found his place in the choir. Sylvester’s space behind him was empty. He would, as usual, be late. Leaning against his stall and leafing through his Psalter, Anselm smiled to himself about the Prior — his sally about Clement III and the remand home remark. Father Andrew always listened carefully to everyone with whom he spoke, and used what he heard at some future point as if it was fresh to his mind. Like the Lord, he reaped a harvest from fields he had not sown. He mulled over how it was that the Prior was so sure the police had informed the Press, and had done so in order to force Larkwood to keep their guest. Someone, of course, must have told him.

  Chapter Four

  1

  It was the stone in his shoe, lodged inadvertently when Anselm visited Larkwood Priory on a school retreat at the age of eighteen. He only signed up to avoid yet another geography trip, plodding in the rain over that wretched limestone pavement near Malbam Tarn. But an extravagant claim on a vocations leaflet caught his eye (laid on a table by a monk who said he’d met Baden-Powell):

  ‘We can’t promise happiness, But if God has called you to be here

  You will taste a peace this world cannot give.’

  Throughout the years that followed, the words slunk into his mind and out again — not when he was restless but when he was content. The contingent pledge became a goad, an unwanted invitation that reminded him of what he most wanted to forget.

  The loss of peace — for that is what it was — had trodden an unknown path. When beset by the dogmatic turbulence of adolescence Anselm turned to Proust. Seeing his life in epic form, he subjected his past to a minute psychological investigation. He easily identified the events that had sent ripples into the present: the death of his mother whom he had hardly known; the nineteenth-century formality of his father; the paradoxical but defining insecurity that arises from being wedged between two older brothers and two younger sisters; the welcome nuance of banishment to a French boarding school for part of his secondary education. Anselm concluded that he, alone among men, was in grave need of internal repair.

  When he joined the chambers of Roderick Kemble QC, fondly known as Roddy, and had a few run-ins with some of the more difficult members of the profession, he learned that he wasn’t in that bad a shape after all. Roddy was a red, round and joyous man, loved and bled over profusely by all who knew him. While he was one of the most outstanding advocates of his generation it was compassion that truly set him apart. His one theme of consolation was habitually volunteered when drunk: ‘None of us get here without being broken to pieces along the way, old son. None of us know why So let’s just bear with one another.’ And, lunging for a bottle, he would say, ‘Now, bring on the fatted calf.’

  The dislocation that beset Anselm in his maturity, however, was of a wholly different order and could only be assuaged by long periods of solitude and … prayer: an activity that took him beyond himself, but which collapsed the moment he thought about what he was doing — like falling off a bicycle. And, picking himself up again, he remembered those frightful words on the leaflet. He began to wonder, on a purely theoretical basis, whether for some people (but not him) monastic life was the only way of finding contentment.

  He went back to Larkwood out of curiosity, attending an occasional Office and having tea in the village. He visited the Priory more often, dreading the return to London, but without wanting to stay in Suffolk. On the fateful day he met the tourist at the Court of Appeal, Anselm recognised that in brushing against this other life he had sustained a fine wound on the memory, causing a longing, a homesickness that would not let him settle in any place other than the source of injury. And so, Anselm began his return to Larkwood. After two years of visiting, and being politely discouraged (in accordance with The Rule), he became a postulant. He left behind a baffled family He was thirty-four.

  Anselm’s first surprise on entering religious life was to discover the monastery contained ordinary human beings alarmingly similar to one or two villains he had represented at the criminal Bar. He had thought only the prison system could withstand the outrageous behaviour of its members. But the same was true of Larkwood, where, unlike enforced incarceration, each individual had promised to live a life of ongoing conversion. Thankfully, Brother Bruno performed an important act of mercy on the day of Anselm’s arrival. He briskly punctured whatever reasonable expectations Anselm might have entertained about a life of wholesome tranquillity.

  Bruno had been a Tyneside docker for thirty years and brought to monastic life a playful candour that generated various maxims — most of which were only quoted to be discounted. ‘I think there’s something you ought to know,’ he confided, having been introduced to Anselm five minutes earlier. ‘You’ll find out as you go along, the good guys always leave and only the so and sos remain.’

  Time passed with a peculiar swiftness known only to those who live subject to the rhythm of monastic life. The chant, the ancient regularity and the silence mysteriously brought together the fragments of Anselm’s past and gave him a sense of completeness — but only for the first few months. That turned out to be a glimpse of who he might become, rather than who he was. Within a year the pieces shattered again, falling back to where they had been before he’d become a postulant. He understood what agnostic Roddy had told him when he’d left the Bar: that being a monk had nothing to do with putting the bits back together. And he learned the meaning of another Bruno aphorism: ‘Nobody stays for the reasons they came: The liturgical cycle rolled up the years. Some very pleasant chaps returned to the world. But Anselm stayed put, abandoning any pretence of being one of the good guys, or of searching for peace through internal reconstruction. And sometimes, in that half-sleep savoured last thing at night and first thing in the morning, Anselm began to wonder how much of it had been choice, and how much unwitting cooperation.

  Larkwood’s life became Anselm’s. The Priory supported itself through bookbinding, ceramics and the production of apple juice — along with a now legendary cider of a particularly vigorous character. Anselm learned the balanced crafts of labour, rest and prayer. After twelve years of monastic life the elements of living a fulfilled life were broadly in position. A planetary motion of doubt, certainty, joy, anguish, loneliness and boredom, each on their own trajectory, encircled an evolving contentment. And very, very occasionally, when he wasn’t looking, the Lord of the Dance brushed past.

  2

  The man from the Home Office turned up the day after Milby’s visit and before the community meeting. Fortunate timing that, thought Anselm. He didn’t get the chance to share this reflection with Authority, however, because Father Andrew, in the days following the arrival of Schwermann, had withdrawn from corridor and cloister and only emerged to growl his way through Office and tell the morning Chapter who was coming.

  His name was Wilson, apparently Peering through a window in the bursar’s office, Anselm saw the black Jaguar creep across the Priory forecourt. The mandarin emerged in a chalk pin-stripe of the deepest blue, his hair a laundry white, each strand obedient to its place in life. He extended a pale hand graciously to Father Andrew, as if it was a Royal visit, his faint smile conveying shyness, a remote fragility masked by exquisite
courtesy

  Precisely what Mr Wilson said was revealed that evening. Community meetings, like gatherings in Chambers, were notorious for bringing out everyone’s worst qualities. For a group of men capable of savage argument over nothing in particular, the prospects of a sensible discussion on modified asylum for a war criminal were not promising. But on this occasion there was a surprising display of common sense.

  The monks silently took their seats in Chapter, side by side around the circling wall. All eyes fell on Father Andrew’s stern face. A single candle burned brightly on a plinth beside him. From where Anselm sat, the tiny flickering danced upon the Prior’s narrow glasses, lighting his eyes with fire.

  ‘I’ll be brief. The Home Office has asked us to provide this man with a short-term refuge. You already know what he was, and what he’s alleged to have done. He must be accommodated away from the public eye, and be protected. He can’t go home. Transfer to prison is considered inappropriate.’ Father Andrew had anticipated most of the questions and answered them mechanically in brief succession. ‘An expedited investigation has already commenced. No charges were brought after the war and it’s thought unlikely any could be brought now.

  He’s never been in hiding from the British authorities. Our involvement is nothing more than a matter of convenience. Costs sustained by the Priory will be met, and the police will deal with any protesters. A personal protection officer will stay with the man himself. He should be off our hands in three months. That’s it. The question is this: does he stay or go?’ He surveyed the room gravely waiting for a response, and then dutifully checked himself. ‘Oh yes, Lord Thingummy-Other, a Catholic peer, humbly endorses the government’s request:

  ‘Do you mean Lord Crompton?’ purred Father Michael with deferential enthusiasm.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t note the name,’ said Father Andrew brusquely

  ‘What do the sisters think?’ asked Anselm, realigning the debate but relishing the way Father Andrew had batted down Michael’s impulse for social climbing.

  ‘That he should leave.’

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  Father Jerome, a muscular chap troubled by occasional asthma and the only member of the community ever to have been imprisoned, named the problem. ‘Leaving aside any assurances, he’s come here for protection. Claiming sanctuary’s all about holy innocence, an appeal to God for higher justice. We can’t give that. And if he doesn’t deserve it we’re in for big trouble. In this world and the next.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ snapped Father Michael. ‘If he’s rejected this way and that because of a false accusation, then he should stay His own appeal is backed by the Establishment. How the world chooses to interpret our cooperation is neither here nor there. Appearances count for nothing.’ And by way of retort he added, ‘I know exactly what the Trotskyites among you think, but I happen to know Lord Crompton has a distinguished war record. He knew Mother Teresa. An assurance from him can be trusted.’

  And so it went on. Only two monks kept silent: Father Anselm, who was biding his time, and a recently professed Brother, the youngest member of the community.

  ‘Benedict, what do you think?’ asked the Prior warmly

  The young monk stood, as was the custom, and looked uncertainly around him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have an opinion. Just questions,’ he faltered.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If he’s innocent, why the false name?’

  ‘A good question.’

  ‘Why come here?’

  ‘Another good question.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he indicted after the war?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Against expectation, if there is a trial, what happens then?’

  ‘As Father Jerome has rightly pointed out, we’re in trouble, especially if he’s convicted.’

  Brother Benedict scratched the shaved hair behind his ear. ‘That’s all I can think of for the time being.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Father Andrew, leaning back. ‘Jerome and Benedict have kindly demonstrated the nature of the problem facing the community.’ A reflective silence spread across the gathered monks. Now, thought Anselm, was the time for his planned contribution. He coughed, and stood. The Prior nodded.

  Anselm held back from advocating any one course of action. Instead he donned the mantle of impartial adviser, reaming off an impressive summary of issues, neatly numbered, with recommendations depending on the view taken of other points raised.

  It was all very professional and implicitly based on lofty experience of these difficult matters: sound advice from a man who knew the ropes. To the trained eye, Anselm feared he would be found out by his brothers — that he was angling to be involved in the handling of the Schwermann case.

  ‘Thank you, Anselm,’ said the Prior. ‘And thanks to you all. Now, time for quiet.’

  Father Andrew said a brief prayer and extinguished the candle between his fingers. The meeting was over. And, having listened to all, the outcome was for the Prior alone to decide.

  The Papal Nuncio came to Larkwood the following day — yet another unexpected visitor demanding to see Father Andrew Not some hobbledehoy, exclaimed Father Michael, but the top brass, you know. Precisely what the Nuncio had to say was not disclosed but word went round that Rome must have leaned on the Prior to throw Schwermann out.

  And so it was the week drew to a close. Anselm stayed up late, waiting for Sailing By on Radio 4, and mused lightly on the curious sequence of events. In four days, four driven horsemen from different quarters had galloped across the hearth: the fugitive, the sheriff, the Queen’s good servant and, last of all, a Prince of the Church. But as he drifted off to sleep to the consolation of the shipping forecast with warnings of gales at Tyne and Dogger, he was gripped by a darker thought, and suddenly woke. Their coming had the mark of a grand reunion.

  Chapter Five

  1

  Lucy propped herself up in bed and laid the manila envelope carefully on her knees. Agnes had given it to her that afternoon and Lucy had nearly cried. The soft clunking of Grandpa Arthur’s wall clock grew louder, as if he were coming, as if he would take off his hat and coat and sit down.

  In the three months that had passed since Agnes had told the family about her illness, the tight pattern of relating, built up over so many years, had begun to fall apart, threatening something more significant, like the one or two loose rocks that topple down a scree. Freddie came to visit his mother more frequently, tussling with the old awkwardness he preferred to avoid; Susan’s spirits rose as she saw the coming together of separate worlds — not just that of her husband and mother-in-law but also their daughter. As Lucy recognised, she had once been the small hub in a wheel where everyone else’s long spindles found a meeting place: that arrangement had splintered a while ago, but now, with the news that Agnes would soon die, a strange re-ordering of things was under way As with all great changes, there was a constant: Lucy came frequently with market vegetables in brown paper bags.

  The subtle transformation was not restricted to the inner workings of Lucy and her parents. Agnes, too, was on the move. Arriving unannounced one afternoon, Lucy found a pile of newspapers in the hail. Surreptitiously she leafed through them: two or three bore the same date and cuttings had been taken. As she realigned the pile, puzzled, Lucy halted, suddenly identifying the subtle difference in ambiance that had struck her as soon as she opened the door, but which she had not been able to name: the radio was on. She crept into the kitchen. Grandpa Arthur’s Roberts had been retrieved from some forgotten place and now stood upon the windowsill by the sink. Agnes was twisting the dial, grumbling about modern music.

  On another day Lucy rushed into the sitting room chasing a stray cat that had formed an unreciprocated attachment to Agnes but who, out of mercy had been granted a tenancy The beast escaped through the window Turning to go, Lucy caught the tiny twinkle of a red light. She scanned the familiar room as though she were a traveller in a foreign land: the rec
ord player was on; the piano lid was open … there was music on the rest. Lucy glanced at the title: ‘Romance sans parole, No. 2’ by Fauré, her grandmother’s favourite melody All at once Lucy saw Agnes, alone, when she knew no one would call, her long fingers finding their way across the keys.

  As for Agnes, she was slower, more measured in her movements, and when she walked from one room to another she held out her slender arms like a ballet dancer, touching objects lightly as she passed — sometimes it was only the leaf of a plant — as if dispensing blessings.

  ‘I don’t need to, but I like to feel something on either side,’ explained Agnes.

  She was losing her balance.

  On a muggy afternoon in early July Lucy rang Cathy Glenton and arranged a night out. Then she went to Chiswick Mall, resolved to touch upon what her father called ‘the real issue’. She stood over the piano, playing ‘Chopsticks’ slowly, with two fingers, her heart in her mouth. ‘Gran, you’re going to need specialist help.’

  ‘Please, anything but that,’ Agnes pleaded.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. Someone has to tell you.’

  ‘I mean that tune. For God’s sake, stop it.’

  ‘I’ve played it every time I’ve- ‘

  ‘Believe me, I’ve listened!’ said Agnes impatiently There was an uneasy pause.

  Lucy bit her lip. ‘I meant what I said, you— ‘Yes, yes, yes, I know Don’t worry. I’m all right for now And anyway, there’s always Wilma.’

  Lucy gaped and almost exclaimed: a bag-lady … I thought you just met in the park …

  Agnes swiftly shut down any objections. ‘Wilma’s a very interesting person. She used to be in the theatre. Did a lot of Rep. I’ll introduce you.’ She smoothed a pleat on her skirt. ‘She’s my friend, Lucy Don’t shut her out.’