On the ground. As morning broke the scattered
Stones whispered ‘God, what have you done?’ and yes,
I betrayed you both. Can you forgive me,
Agnes?’
At the words of confession she opened her eyes. Inflections of shadow seemed to move beneath her skin like passing cloud. Agnes lifted her hand to one side, exposing the white, soft palm. She turned to Anselm, who understood. He placed the letter on the bed and her hand lay tenderly upon it as though it were flesh.
After a long moment Agnes looked to Lucy who walked around Anselm to pick up the second school notebook from the bedside table; then she reached for the alphabet card and placed it in position. Agnes said:
F-A-T-H-E-R
Pause.
P-L-E-A-S-E
Pause.
W-I–L-L
Pause.
Y-O-U
Pause.
G-I–V-E
Pause.
T-H-I-S
Pause.
T-O
Pause.
M-R
Pause.
S-N-Y-M-A-N
Anselm took the notebook offered to him by Lucy.
Agnes continued:
W-I–L-L
Pause.
Y-O-U
Pause.
B-U-R-Y
Pause.
M-E
Pause.
A-F-T-E-R
Pause.
I-M
Pause.
D-E-A-D
Through his teeth, Anselm said, ‘Of course.’
A-N-D
Pause.
N-O-T
Pause.
B-E-F-O-R-E
There was something about the fall of light upon her lips that suggested a smile: with joy sorrow, acquiescence, loss, gratitude and farewell: each transparent inflection inhabiting the other. Anselm moved to the French windows and stepped outside, all but overcome by a stifled impulse to shout. He faced a small lawn in a courtyard garden that trapped sunlight between high, brick-red walls. On the far side, like someone lost, stood Salomon Lachaise, distraught.
4
Lucy left Father Anselm and returned to the living room; then Robert and Victor followed her down the short, narrow passage back to the half-open door. She stood aside to let them pass. Victor walked closely behind Robert, one arm round his waist, a hand upon his shoulder: a faithful mentor guiding a nervous protege on to the stage at prize-giving — a boy frightened of applause, its roar, its power to dismantle what had been built in secret.
The door swung open at Robert’s touch. On entering, Victor covered his mouth, defeated, and said, ‘Agnes, je te present… ton fils…’
Lucy stood transfixed by a miracle greater than any of the old school stories — manna in the desert, water from a rock or the parting of any waves — Agnes slowly raised her head and neck fully off the pillow In answer to the call, her face turned towards her son. As Lucy backed away astounded, she heard what to many might have been a sigh, a sudden loud breathing, at most a gathering of soft. vowels, but to her it carried the unmistakable shape of a name not uttered in fifty years: ‘Robert!’
5
After all the family had passed through to Agnes, Lucy stood alone by her grandmother’s bed, looking out through the open French windows. The thick, polished glass flashed in the sun, catching dark reflections of red brick; people, young and old, talked casually a hand in a pocket, a schooner twinkling; and tumbling upon the grass were the children, dressed in yellow and blue and green. Agnes gazed out upon them all. Lucy took in the drip and its serpentine tubing, sliding along the starched sheets to the back of a hand, its teeth hidden by cotton wool and a clean strip of antiseptic plaster. She ran her eye up her grandmother’s arm to her captivated face. Lucy tried to stamp down the heat of unassailable joy the wild fingers of fire: surely this was a time for kicking down the walls. But she couldn’t summon the rage: it lay dead in a yesterday..
Lucy kissed her grandmother’s forehead and then slipped outside towards the front garden, separated from the house by a quiet avenue. Crossing the road, she saw Father Anselm leaning on a wall, looking at the river. He must have nipped out the back way from the courtyard. Lucy thought she saw faint blue spirals of smoke rising by his head. But no, she concluded, a monk would never have a cigarette.
They both leaned on the wall, watching boys pull oars out of time.
Lucy said, ‘I’ve waited all my life for what’s happening now, although I never knew it.’
Father Anselm flicked something from his fingers.
‘I could never have planned it,’ she continued, ‘because so much was hidden… but even if I’d known all there was to know, there was still no thing I could do… nothing I could say. We’re all so helpless.’
They were both quiet, listening to the tidal lapping of the river. Lucy went on:
‘I’ve tried — several times — to talk through the mess I did know about, to unravel the misunderstandings, but that usually made things worse. And yet, now, the words work… as if they’ve come to life.’
The water rippled across the stones below, endlessly smoothing them.
Father Anselm said, ‘There is a kind of silence that always prevails, but we have to wait.’
They both turned and walked back to the house. Lucy said, ‘I’m going to introduce Max Nightingale to an old girlfriend of mine. I suspect they’ll get on.’
‘Someone did that to me once,’ said the monk, smiling, ‘and look what happened.’
Lucy laughed. ‘It can’t do any harm then.’
