The Sixth Lamentation (6 page)

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 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 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.’

‘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 the subject of professional help again whether Agnes
liked it or not. But the glances from her grandmother made it clear she would
not budge, she would make her own arrangements. And, as if providing a
soundtrack to a silent film, an out-of-tune jazz band fought with an orchestra
while someone had a whale of a time with a hammer.

Lucy
chose her moment when a languid, knowing voice ushered in the news at five o’clock.
But Agnes outflanked her with a newfound passion for current affairs. She sat
forward with a convincing display of concentration. The swift volley of
headlines between broadcasters began but Agnes dismissed each new story with a
pout before the introductions ended. After a few minutes, she signalled with
her head to turn it off. A clatter of falling plates echoed from the dining
room.

‘That
blasted cat.’

‘Sounds
post-modern
to me,’ said Lucy, nodding gravely

Agnes
rose to investigate, touching a lamp—stand, a chair and the door on her way She
wasn’t going to discuss the need for help any more that day

Lucy was getting ready to
leave when Agnes handed over the key to her Morris Minor, bought by Grandpa
Arthur in 1963. She’d named it Duchess.

‘It’s
no use to me any more.

‘But
Gran—’

‘Take
her. I’ve arranged the insurance. But treat her gently She’s a tired old bird.’

Before
Lucy could find words of thanks, Agnes produced a manila envelope. She said, ‘There’s
a notebook inside. I want you to read it. But say nothing of what you learn.
Not to anyone.

‘What’s
it about?’

‘You’ll
find out.’

Lucy
frowned.

‘Don’t
worry,’ said Agnes. ‘I just want you to know more … about me’ — she
hesitated, embarrassed — ‘before I die.’

These
last words fell on Lucy like a sword. Her composure slumped and, with rising
tears, she turned quickly to go. By the vestibule door she caught her foot on a
pile of newspapers. Lucy stared at them, as if they might speak.

‘The answer’s
in the notebook,’ said Agnes, looking aside. ‘Don’t cry for me, please don’t
cry’

As Lucy
turned the ignition she looked back to wave and saw Agnes with one hand on the
doorframe. Her face was drawn and she looked terribly small and alone.
Something had drained out of her.

Cathy opened the door to
her flat in Pimlico later that evening before Lucy could even ring the bell.

‘I’m
just getting ready,’ said Cathy ‘Fancy a meal out?’

‘No,
thanks.’

They
walked into a sitting room of astounding chaos, clothes thrown everywhere, junk
mail scattered like discarded handouts after a demonstration. The walls were
covered with posters from various exhibitions.

‘A
drink?’

‘No…’

Cathy
flopped on to a sofa and said: ‘What’s wrong?’

The
fact that they rarely saw each other somehow set Lucy free to say what she had
said to no one else: ‘My grandmother’s going to die from a disease I’d never
heard of until now It attacks your body but leaves the mind alone. In full
throttle you just lie there unable to move or talk, blinking at the ceiling.
You feel as if you’re going to choke to death but it doesn’t happen. That’s
where you stay, right on the edge of dying, but you remain alive.’