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 record 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 Faure, 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.’
‘Of course not,’ said Lucy uncertainly Before she could draw her thoughts together, Agnes continued, with assumed cheerfulness, ‘Anyway, enough of that. Let’s have a cup of tea. ‘
They moved awkwardly into the kitchen.
‘There’s always some rubbish on about now,’ said Agnes, moving towards the radio, touching a chair… and then a counter… and then the sink. She turned the control. Suddenly there was a sort of explosion. An orchestra was involved… and a jazz band. And someone, thought Lucy, listening carefully… is hitting a biscuit tin of broken glass.
‘Post-modern, you know,’ said Agnes, nodding gravely, ignoring the tension between them.
Lucy made the tea and they sat nursing their mugs, their eyes frequently meeting. Lucy was going to raise
