‘I never knew you were interested in things Japanese,’ said Robert’s mother, smiling woodenly as she sat down. ‘You’re full of surprises.’
He had been philosophising between the Tube station and the restaurant – how food eaten in its most natural state wasn’t just a style of cuisine but an approach to life. No strong spices. No complex sauces. In a way it was simply honest.
‘And honesty is important, don’t you think?’
‘Of course I do, Robert. But you won’t stop me eating Indian.’
‘Or Italian?’
‘No … of course not.’
Robert’s dad’s favourite meal had been lamb chops scottadito. ‘Burned fingers’. You ate them with your hands just after they came sizzling out of the pan. Robert sighed, remembering his dad licking his wounds. ‘I don’t think he’d go for raw fish. What about you?’
‘I don’t know, darling. Like I said, I’ve never tried.’
‘Have you really never been inside a Japanese restaurant?’
‘Never.’
‘What, never?’
Robert’s mother smiled, again woodenly, but there was pain there now. ‘Hardly ever.’
Robert’s dad had loved that ‘What, never? No, never! What, never? Well, hardly ever!’ routine from H.M.S. Pinafore. He’d adopted it as a trademark question. The formula of reply and counter-reply had driven Robert round the bend, not least because his dad’s Australian accent had been utterly incongruous. Robert had stopped using the word never just to escape his dad’s maddening rejoinder. Now he wanted to murmur never again and again, if only it would bring back that sing-song voice from Down Under, with its appeal for a shared understanding.
‘I thought you’d have given sushi a try by now,’ he said, anger rising at the lie. ‘It’s pretty commonplace. What about Muriel? Has she taken the plunge?’
‘I don’t know, Robert, you’d have to ask her yourself. She’s always had a preference for vegetables.’
‘Yes. Dad’s.’
‘That’s right.’
‘From the allotment.’
Janet Sambourne was one of those envied women who looked forever young. At quite an early age, her hair had turned white which – to quote Muriel – had given her the sophistication of middle age without the spread. She’d kept it short, cut fashionably. Black eyeliner gave a striking contrast. Even now in her sixties she was – to quote Muriel – a dish. The only thing that gave her away was her hands, the blue knotted veins. She had old hands.
Robert said, ‘Japan is another world. Out there, the big thing is seaweed. Kids take it to school instead of a packet of crisps, can you imagine that?’
‘No.’
Robert’s dad – on the other hand – had seemed so much older than his years. There’d been deep lines on his face and – in a way that had touched Robert, even as a child – he’d always looked worried. He’d been anxious to please. Careful not to offend. Whether in a shop or a queue he’d been ready to bend to someone else’s convenience.
‘That’s why there’s hardly any heart disease,’ said Robert.
‘Really?’
‘So they say. We should have changed Dad’s diet years ago. Fed him kelp.’
If there was a single insight that wounded Robert the most, it was this: the appearance of Taylor was not really all that surprising. Relations between his parents had always been subtly strained. If his dad had been quietly worried, his mother had been quietly crisp. Somehow or other, Robert had sensed that his dad hadn’t quite lived up to expectations. Perhaps he’d aged too soon. He’d always been retiring and he’d finally retired to his allotment rather than … what? Go back to the Wimbledon Light Opera Society where they met? Go back to happier days? The days when the two exiles in the chorus found common ground admiring Crofty and Muriel? The stage lights had faded long before Robert was born. When he’d pored over the old programmes asking questions, it was the wistful principals who churned out the stories. His parents listened as if they hadn’t been there.
‘Kelp?’ said Robert’s mother. ‘He’d have used it for compost.’
‘He’d have wanted to, that’s for sure. He loved that heap. What do you do with the peelings now?’
‘I throw them out … I’m sorry.’
Throughout Robert’s youth, his parents had rarely done anything together. In retrospect, it had all been planned very skilfully, so that Robert wouldn’t quite notice, but there are some things that can’t be completely hidden. By running parallel lives, Robert had become the grass verge in-between. He’d had to look in different directions to find them; he’d felt their separation without teasing out the implications. On a sudden wave of anguish, Robert recognised that his dad had loved hopelessly. He’d always been looking at his wife when her back was turned; he’d tracked her movements, even as she left the room to answer the telephone; somehow – between a performance of The Sorcerer and the birth of a late son – he’d lost his wife, living like a man who’d mislaid the key to his own front door. He’d been an outsider, waiting for handouts of affection. He kept up the show, wanting to give Robert the happy home that had never been all that happy. And now he was dead.
‘I suppose the allotment will have to be handed back to the—’
‘Robert, there’s something I have to tell you. We have to talk.’
‘About?’
‘Me. My future. About what happens next.’
‘Fire away. I’m all ears.’
‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ Old fingers fiddled with a pearl necklace.
‘Just be honest.’
‘I’m always honest.’
‘Spit it out then.’ Robert’s impatience flashed from his mouth like a spark, surprising himself and burning his mother.
‘Don’t make things difficult, will you? I want to move on … but I need your help … your permission.’
‘Permission?’ Robert pondered the word. It wasn’t one of his mother’s. She must have got it from some self-help book … or maybe Taylor. Quite apart from managing the disclosure of a secret relationship, she had to legitimise her association with a man nearly twenty years younger. Robert didn’t know which was the stronger reaction, dismay or embarrassment.
‘I know you’re going to be upset and I don’t want that,’ she said, reaching over to touch her son’s hand. ‘But you’ve guessed, haven’t you? You don’t want me to sell the house?’
As their skin touched, an unbearable insight came to Robert like a splash of ink on a white shirt. His dad, spring-cleaned out of his own home, had known about Taylor. There’d been no secret between husband and wife. Robert’s dad had accepted the existence of this other, younger man. He’d looked the other way.
‘It’s a big house and I want something smaller,’ continued his mother, pleading for understanding. ‘I’m not as young as I was, and I need a place I can manage.’
Robert opened the menu as if the subject was closed. ‘It’s your house. You can do what you like.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘Really?’ Robert raised his eyes in a challenge. He hated himself. He was enjoying this. Grief without an outlet was turning bitter and he liked the taste. It was simple and clean.
‘The decision affects you, Robert.’
‘Does it? How?’
‘Your things,’ said his mother as if she was peering through smoke. ‘You’ve left lots of things in your old room. They’ll have to go.’
Robert’s eyes flickered. He hadn’t quite seen what his mother was getting at, but now he did. His dad’s death had been such an immense event that Robert hadn’t seen beyond the empty bedroom in Raynes Park. With the sale of the house, his own past would be sold off. His memories would be handled by the Halifax. He’d never see his dad’s workshop at the end of the garden. He’d never smell the wood or handle the tools. He’d never feel the rush of a train as it shook the timber walls, scaring a boy into those strong, tweedy arms. There were so many ‘nevers’. What, never?<
br />
‘I’m thinking of your boat, for example,’ she said, opening her own menu. She looked totally lost. Her idea of daring was vegetarian. ‘Do you still want it?’
Robert seemed to feel that thumb on his throat. He couldn’t swallow without pain. The geisha from Manchester had fluttered across the matting, alighting by their table.
‘I want everything,’ said Robert, loosening his collar. ‘Including the boat.’
He meant especially the boat.
‘There’s no rush, darling,’ said his mother. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you … the end of the month will do.’
‘Is that all you wanted to say?’ he asked, longing for her to turn round from the dishwasher or the ironing board or the cooker; to turn round and face him simply and without that crucifying hesitation. In a flash of despair he wanted to salvage something from this sinking relationship. ‘Is this the only permission you need?’
‘Yes. What else could there be?’
The geisha turned to Robert, sensing his authority. ‘Shall I come back later?’
23
Anselm went for long walks in the woods. He ambled through fields. He sat by the Lark. He thought deeply about Bede’s assessment that he was vain and Dunstan’s that he was naive. But try as he might, he couldn’t accept that either characteristic was at play in the present circumstances. On a level deeper than any flaw, he’d been roused by Littlemore’s appeal to help make up for the history of abuse and silence. But he feared making a catastrophic mistake. And so Anselm couldn’t decide what to do. He was paralysed. On the evening of the third day he returned to Larkwood unable to channel the mounting desperation. He tried to slip past Sylvester but the old man hollered:
‘You’re late, you goose.’ He was pointing at the parlour. ‘They’ve been waiting half an hour.’
Puzzled, Anselm opened the door and there, seated at the table, was Kester Newman, his expression as reproving as it was cold. But the person who seized Anselm’s attention was an elderly man dressed in tired black trousers and a white Aran jumper, the sleeves hanging loose after years of wear. His round cheeks were covered in pure white stubble. By his side was an oxygen bottle with a mask sitting on the valves.
‘I’m sorry not to have called first,’ he wheezed, rising with some difficulty, ‘but I have to speak to you. I have to know the truth.’
Dominic Tabley had been a Lambertine for the greater part of his life. His golden jubilee was coming up. At eighty-three he thought his quiet retirement would continue without much worry. How wrong he’d been. The greatest crisis of his life had unfolded and all he could do was watch from an armchair in horror. He was stooped, like a man folding up his tent. His arms were tired and his handshake had been weak. From a lowered and shining head, troubled eyes sought Anselm’s understanding.
‘I must ask you directly and I’ll take you at your word,’ he said. ‘Did you hide Edmund?’
‘No.’
‘Did you try and stop Harry talking?’
‘No.’
Anselm gave a brief explanation while the old man, trusting absolutely, looked at Kester as if to say, ‘I told you so.’ Turning back to Anselm, he said, pulling for air: ‘I married the Littlemores and baptised Edmund. I know him as a man and he would never harm a child. But I’ve married and baptised three generations of the Brandwell family and I’ve known Harry since he was born and I can’t believe he’d ever lie … so I don’t know what to think. One of them has done something terribly wrong. That’s why I’ve come to you. I have to know, you have to tell me … did Edmund do this thing? He must have spoken to you while he was here.’
‘He tells me he is innocent,’ said Anselm. ‘Did you believe him?’
‘I don’t know what to believe.’
The old man’s voice trembled. ‘Why will no one trust Edmund? Why am I alone?’
Father Tabley had hoped to find an ally. He’d made a mad dash into the countryside, twisting the arm of a novice to do the driving because no one else would listen. There’d been no point. Resigned, he said to Kester what he’d been saying since Littlemore’s arrest. ‘I can’t accept he’s guilty. But I don’t know why Harry would make such an accusation.’ He leaned his elbow on the table, his hand on his brow as if to shield himself from the sun. ‘I never thought I’d live to see this day.’
Anselm left the parlour to make coffee. While in a side-room, waiting for the kettle to boil, he realised that a visit from someone who knew both the accused and his alleged victim was fortuitous to say the least. On returning to the parlour, he seized his opportunity:
‘I have to make an important decision that will affect both Edmund and Harry,’ he said, while pouring. ‘I need your help … yours more than anyone else’s.’
Father Tabley was nodding with the artless surrender of a boy. Kester had taken a seat by the wall as if to watch from afar … just as, in another life, he’d watched fools try to hide the numbers.
Anselm went straight to the point: ‘Why did Edmund leave Boston?’
‘Hasn’t he told you? Can’t you guess?’ Father Tabley’s breathing was painful to watch. His whole upper body was involved in the operation, one bony arm locked against the edge of the table. ‘He left because of the crisis … I would have thought that was obvious.’
The old man explained, telling Anselm what Littlemore had kept to himself. In part, he was already familiar with the context. Edmund was ordained in 2002 just before the child abuse scandal erupted in the archdiocese of Boston. A number of priests were brought to trial. People he’d met, if hardly known. The crimes were inconceivable. But they were real. Children had been exposed repeatedly to known offenders who’d been moved around like pieces on a chessboard. Secrecy had taken precedence over transparency … and justice and compassion. But once the secret was out, others found their voice. The problem hadn’t been local; and it hadn’t been national … it had been international. There’d been some lone voices, but it had taken the press and the courts to flush out the poison.
‘The whole God-awful business had been covered up,’ said Father Tabley, hoarsely. Small wonder then, that Edmund lost confidence in the leadership … and colleagues who’d known and said nothing. The decisions made without his knowledge. Friends who admitted afterwards they’d heard rumours. He’d felt like a party to the crime. He’d been ashamed to walk down the street … seeing himself as others might see him.
‘He wanted to escape … get away from the shame about things he hadn’t done. He wanted a new start. So he wrote to me.’
Father Tabley paused to catch his breath. Talking was an uphill affair. He waved at Anselm from the incline, telling him not to worry. He managed a troubled wink. Stopping and starting he moved on again, talking of Edmund’s mother, a commercial lawyer with an American firm based in London. Skyler had married Jonathon, her manager, and Father Tabley had been a regular in their Islington home, going so far as to warm a bottle when both of them were on the phone dealing with international clients who – sadly – had to be more important than the family; than their son.
‘They wanted to cut back on their work, but it’s almost impossible in a big firm like that,’ said Father Tabley, wondering if Anselm had known the same pressures. ‘The partners want your soul. In return, Edmund got three nannies in eighteen months and his parents got a divorce. Which is sad, don’t you think?’
Father Tabley did his best to help and he’d have done more, in time, but then Skyler went home to Boston, taking Edmund with her. Fairly shortly afterwards she remarried. An ad man. John Joe Collins. Second-generation Irish. Hadn’t taken to the boy who’d found rebel songs vaguely embarrassing.
‘I kept in touch with Skyler through letters and calls. We managed to stay friends, and I watched Edmund grow … from afar.’ He became wistful. ‘I’m afraid I never took to the accent … it really is something else.’
And so, the absence of Rs notwithstanding, it was to Father Tabley that Edmund had turned when he found himself adrift. He call
ed all choked up, wondering what he might do in a situation where nothing could be done.
‘I spoke to Owen Murphy, the Provincial, and he agreed to open our doors. We kept the reason quiet to smooth Edmund’s way. The last thing he wanted was to be quizzed about his past. To be asked if he’d known anything. He began a probationary year in Newcastle and that was that … So you see’ – Father Tabley heaved more air – ‘Edmund could never have touched Harry. It wouldn’t make sense
… would it?’
Anselm agreed. ‘But why did he come back from Sierra Leone?’
‘The real question is why send him there at all?’ snapped the old man, with a rasp of protest. ‘I have to tell you … George Carrington is a very different man to Owen Murphy. Owen was old school, flexible, trusting … a man who believed in giving someone a second chance. But not George. No … I’m afraid George belongs to the new breed … the sort who want subcommittees for this and subcommittees for that. George was elected after Owen died, and the first thing he did was to write a mission statement. A mission statement. Frightful thing.’ Father Tabley reached for his coffee and sipped it using two hands, the sleeves of his Aran jumper falling down to his elbows. He was thoughtful, frowning to himself. ‘George doesn’t always see the human situation … that’s why he wants guidelines to tell him what to do. Manuals of Best Practice.’
The Silent Ones Page 11