The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘He introduced you to the man you would later marry, a student of medicine?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He played Cupid?’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Grainger, it was a joint operation. We trapped him together.’

  Anselm smiled. She was delightful. An artist, according to her statement. She wore large jewellery and pastel shades of linen and silk. Her wrist bones were fine; the sort that break easily.

  ‘He married you in due course?’

  ‘Yes, and baptised our children.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Justin and Dominic Brandwell … we named Dominic after Father Tabley. He also married Dominic and Emily and baptised Harry.’

  ‘Your only grandchild?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve hinted we’d like more, Mr Grainger, but it doesn’t go down very well.’

  Anselm listened to the prosecutor at work with approval. With short questions prompting longer answers, he began painting a picture of a family and their friend.

  Father Tabley had been known as ‘the Chief’. And the Chief had been a part of the Brandwell family from the outset: as Maisie said, he’d been part of the sting that brought Martin to room 256 at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine for a talk on vector-borne diseases. Only Maisie turned up because the actual event had been organised for the following month. By then, Maisie and Martin had become an item. The significance of Father Tabley, who’d given Martin the wrong day, never diminished. After the marriage, when Martin’s research into malaria took him to Asia and Africa for months at a time, the Chief was on hand, like an uncle to the growing family; only he was more than an uncle. As a man of wise words, he was there – alongside Maisie and Martin – to help Justin and Dominic construct a moral framework for themselves and a conscience towards the world. He made the whole business of right and wrong accessible and real. Funny, too. They holidayed together in the summer. They shared the Christmas season. Then, twenty years after that first meeting, Father Tabley was transferred to Wallsend in Newcastle.

  ‘Justin was thirteen and Dominic was eleven,’ said Maisie. ‘It was a time of change for us all, really … Martin had just got a post at the Dreadnought Unit at St Thomas’s Hospital in Lambeth and I’d dropped the evening classes for a day job.’

  ‘You remained in close contact?’ asked Grainger.

  ‘Oh yes, but it was never quite the same as before. Father Tabley was far too busy.’

  Finding himself in the old docklands by the River Tyne, he’d come across old shipyard workers who’d never been members of a union. Some of them didn’t bother going to a doctor either, until they’d no choice. They’d been dying from asbestosis, lung cancer and mesothelioma, thinking they were on their own. He set up an advice centre, contacting solicitors to progress claims for damages. He went to the press with their stories. He helped them face a terrible death, making sure the families were supported day and night. In time, he opened a project to assist parents with disabled children, a home-help service with free meals for the elderly, an employment training scheme for youths released from young offender institutions.

  ‘He turned down an MBE,’ said Maisie. ‘Didn’t even want it mentioned that he’d been on the list. What mattered was the work, and he did it non-stop until he retired seven years ago. He’s a hermit now.’

  ‘You see him?’

  ‘Never. You know what a hermit is, Mr Grainger? He’s out of circulation. But we’ve kept the memories … along with the impact he had on our family.’

  Justin in particular was deeply influenced. On leaving school he worked with various voluntary organisations offering help to the homeless. After years of experience, he founded his own project … the Bowline. Mr Justice Keating nodded. He knew it well. And he’d seen the BBC documentary. Various members of the jury nodded too, smiling at Maisie’s evident pride.

  ‘And now I’d like to turn to Father Littlemore,’ said Grainger.

  Technically speaking, Anselm was impressed. By that one announcement, Grainger had compared light with dark. The jury seemed to have fallen under a shadow.

  ‘How did you come to meet him?’

  ‘He called us out of the blue, asking for an interview. He said he was an old friend of Father Tabley’s and a member of the same Order.’

  ‘He came at Father Tabley’s behest?’

  ‘No, quite the opposite. He said Father Tabley wasn’t to know. No one was to know. It was a secret.’

  Father Littlemore had said he was preparing a memoir about Father Tabley’s life and he wanted to gather stories and recollections from those who’d known him well. The idea was to give him the bound volume on the day of his Golden Jubilee.

  ‘How long did this interview last?’

  ‘Oh, an hour and half, maybe more.’

  ‘Did he listen carefully to what you said?’

  ‘Heavens, yes … he took lots of notes … checked the details … names, places, dates. The spelling. He seemed very thorough.’

  Mr Grainger paused. ‘Was there anything striking about his questions?’

  ‘Yes … he was very interested in our children … what they were like and so on. At the time I thought he was just being sociable but now … well, I see things very differently.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this is the information he used to make contact with my son Dominic and eventually Harry.’

  Grainger nodded as if the idea was new to him. ‘Have you been shown a draft of your account?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you contacted subsequently to confirm any details?’

  ‘No. He left saying this had to be kept absolutely secret and that he’d be in touch. I never saw him again.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Brandwell.’

  Grainger sat down and Anselm rose, recalling his visit to Dominic and Emily’s house near Clapham Common. Dominic’s regret was that he hadn’t listened to his fragile brother. They were separated by difference. And something far more nuanced. Justin had travelled a very particular voyage, from breakdown to recovery. Like the prodigal son, who’d then got the fatted calf of his father’s attention.

  ‘Do you know which of your sons the defendant made contact with first?’

  ‘Yes. It was Justin.’

  ‘Who has no children?’

  ‘I’ve made heavy hints, Father. But he’s found his own place in life. His family are the people the rest of us forget.’

  Anselm stressed his point: ‘The defendant gave priority to someone who had no children as opposed to someone who had. Do you know why?’

  ‘I don’t … but forgive me, Father, I can’t see why it matters.’

  ‘Well, if your aim is to approach and befriend children, why get to know someone who hasn’t got any?’

  ‘Look, Father, if he’d left Justin out of his planning, Mr Grainger would’ve had a field day showing just that, wouldn’t he? And you’d’ve had nothing to say, would you?’

  ‘A lot less, certainly. But can you help me a little further? Did Justin and the defendant develop any kind of association? Something approaching friendship? One that might have soured?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Father.’

  ‘Haven’t you spoken about this terrible business as a family?’

  ‘Of course we have.’

  ‘Well, haven’t you discussed with Justin how and when he met the defendant?’

  ‘I know they met because of me, that’s all. You ought to ask Justin.’

  ‘I’d like to Mrs Brandwell, but he hasn’t provided a statement in this case. Like your husband.’

  Anselm began to sit down, his cross-examination finished, but then he stalled.

  ‘You said Father Tabley was known as “the Chief”?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s a real chief.’

  ‘Tribal?’ quipped Anselm.

  ‘Yes. You see, Father Tabley was a missi
onary once. The people wanted to thank him for all he’d done … so they made him a chief.’

  ‘Which country are we talking about?’

  ‘Sierra Leone.’

  ‘Intriguing. Where was he based?’

  ‘Freetown. A school. St Lambert’s Academy.’

  ‘The Chief was a teacher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Subject?’

  ‘Biology. He was absolutely fascinated by living things. Even mosquitoes.’

  ‘How long was he out there?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  Anselm noted the replies and then paused to join some mental dots. ‘So you first met Father Tabley after he came back from Freetown?’

  ‘That’s right, yes. The same year.’

  ‘Did he open any community projects in London or anywhere else during the two decades you knew him … before he went to Newcastle?’

  ‘No, all that came later. For those twenty years Father Tabley did his ordinary work in an extraordinary way, but he was changed dramatically by what happened when he got to the North-East. Can I tell everyone?’

  ‘Please do. But first could you tell us how long Father Tabley was in Newcastle.’

  ‘Another twenty years.’

  Anselm made a note and Maisie took a sip of water. Then she said:

  ‘It began with an old woman at the fish market in North Shields who kept coughing and no one knew why. Even the doctors.’ Maisie was addressing the judge; she wanted high authority to know the story. ‘But it was Father Tabley who found out that forty years earlier her husband had been a lagger on the docks and that he used to come home covered in white powder, and that she used to wash his overalls in the sink. She’d been contaminated by asbestos dust. After she died – and it was horrible and drawn out – Father Tabley set up an advice centre in her name. The Dorothy Newman Centre. In a way, he’d rescued her from a meaningless death. Everything he did flowed from that poor woman’s story.’ Maisie paused. It was as though she’d removed her blinkers and the wind had dropped. Raising her height, she turned towards the dock. ‘You don’t belong under the same roof as such a man. That you used his name to get to children he would have saved from harm is unforgivable.’

  Anselm seemed to ponder the remark. ‘Thank you, Mrs Brandwell.’

  After lunch, Grainger called two further witnesses, a representative sample of five couples with identical testimony. They’d all been close friends of Father Tabley. They’d all been contacted by the defendant in relation to the preparation of a jubilee memoir. They’d all told their personal stories. The defendant had made copious notes. He’d been interested in their children. He’d asked them to keep his visit and purpose a shared secret. They’d never seen him since.

  ‘The memoir itself has never materialised,’ said Grainger, replying to the judge’s query. ‘Despite a careful search of the defendant’s premises, no documentation of any kind was found – either the original notes or a composite text.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grainger.’

  Anselm accepted the evidence but clarified two points. First, that in each of the five families there were three generations: the grandparents who’d first met Father Tabley, their children, and finally the grandchildren. Second, in each case the defendant had made contact with every child mentioned, but in no case – save that of Harry Brandwell – had there been any contact with a grandchild. An unexpected picture was emerging in Anselm’s mind – drawn without intention by Grainger … a secondary image behind the representation of planned abuse. It was like a mirage. It mightn’t, in fact, be real. But one element had stopped shimmering. It had come into focus as Maisie left the witness stand: Anselm was sure that in those early years Martin had felt displaced by Father Tabley. While he’d been getting stung to death by mosquitoes in a swamp by the Mekong River, Father Tabley had been wiping the dishes. Martin had come home to hear Maisie applaud the man who’d held out a cure deeper than his for the sickness of this world. At the heart of this treasured friendship lay an understandable envy. Perhaps that’s why Martin had declined to provide a statement.

  ‘Given the time, I don’t propose to call any further witnesses, your lordship,’ said Grainger. ‘Tomorrow I’ll move onto the substantive issues in the case: the defendant’s dealings with Harry Brandwell.’

  ‘Very well. Ten o’clock, ladies and gentlemen.’

  31

  ‘The defendant contacted you?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dominic Brandwell, the next morning, after he’d been summoned and sworn.

  ‘The object of his call?’

  ‘He was preparing a memoir.’

  An arrangement had been made for Sunday lunch. He’d brought flowers. A box of Thorntons. They’d discussed childhood memories about the Chief until late evening. Other invitations followed.

  ‘And gifts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Grainger looked up. ‘For you and your wife alone?’

  ‘No, he brought a ship-in-a-bottle for Harry.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A pencil case.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  The adults had gradually become friends, the attachment woven from similar interests. Father Littlemore had been fascinated by Dominic’s collection of antique maps, showing an impressive knowledge of seventeenth-century Dutch cartography. He’d shared his wife’s enthusiasm for West End musicals, knowing most of the words to most of the songs.

  ‘Could I now take you towards the end of the same year. What came to pass?’

  ‘We’d been on holiday in Ireland for three weeks. The whole family. Cycling round the Ring of Kerry. We’d rented these bikes—’

  ‘A little later, please.’

  ‘You mean September? The beginning of term?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. Just tell the jury what happened.’

  On the first day a tragedy occurred. A boy went running out of the school gates into the path of a car. His body had been dragged down the street, where he died. The boy – Neil Harding – was in Harry’s class. They’d known each other since nursery. They’d literally learned to talk together.

  ‘What was Harry’s reaction?’

  ‘He folded up.’

  ‘Could you elaborate, please?’

  ‘He vanished inwards and wouldn’t come out. The school provided counselling but he wouldn’t talk to anyone … not to me, not to his mum and not to any of the professionals.’

  He stopped working or playing and couldn’t sleep at night. He’d lie between his parents, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. And then, one morning, he just stopped talking. Wouldn’t utter a word. And then Emily, Dominic’s wife, thought of Father Littlemore. She’d seen Harry looking unhappily at the ship-in-a-bottle as if he wanted to sail far away from his childhood. It was devastating. She called Father Littlemore and he came round the same day.

  ‘He crouched down in front of Harry and asked him if he knew how to play chess.’

  ‘Chess?’

  ‘That’s right. He asked him if he knew the rules and Harry just looked at the carpet, and then Father Littlemore asked if he’d like to learn some secret moves known only to Bobby Fischer. Harry had never heard of Bobby Fischer and Father Littlemore said he’d have to come along to find out … but that he wouldn’t have to say anything … Father Littlemore would do all the talking. And then Harry spoke. He just said, “Yes.” It was the first time he’d opened his mouth in three weeks.’

  A meeting was arranged at the defendant’s premises in Mitcham. Two further meetings took place, making three in all.

  ‘Could you describe Harry’s demeanour after each encounter?’

  ‘He was progressively … agitated. But after the third, it was obvious something had happened.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He came barging into the house and ran upstairs. He was sick … locked the bathroom door and wouldn’t open it. He had a show
er … which he’s never done before, not in the middle of the day … and he’s not been the same since.’

  Grainger waited while Dominic composed himself. Then he said: ‘Did he speak about what had taken place?’

  ‘No. He’s never spoken about it.’

  ‘Did he do anything?’

  ‘Yes. Later that evening he came downstairs carrying the ship-ina-bottle … he looked sort of ill with anger … and he threw it against the wall … right over our heads.’

  Since that day, Harry had displayed numerous signs of profound psychological disturbance. Apart from rarely speaking, he’d begun to bed-wet. His behaviour deteriorated … swearing, lying, smoking. There were burns on his skin consistent with non-accidental injury. No one could reach him.

  ‘It’s as though we’ve lost our son,’ said Dominic. ‘We’re hoping this trial will help bring him back home.’

  Grainger sat down and Anselm slowly came to his feet. For a long while he stared at his own hurried notes and the lines he’d drawn in the margin. He was deeply conscious that Dominic had turned to him as a measure of last resort and that he now felt betrayed. And now he wouldn’t understand the point of Anselm’s questions any more than he’d understood why he came to Clapham. Anselm was destined to disappoint him.

  ‘How long did you know the defendant?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘During that time did he ever show an interest in Dixieland Jazz?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Dixieland. Hot Jazz. Early Jazz. Did the defendant ever show a liking for the style?’

  Dominic turned involuntarily towards Anselm. He was angry and confused. ‘No.’

  ‘Did he ever mention Bobby Hackett?’

  ‘No … never. He said his thing was West End shows – Les Misérables, Billy Elliot, Blood Brothers. That sort of thing.’

  Matters would have to be left there. The jury was bemused and Anselm could feel the cold stare of Mr Justice Keating. He turned back a page in his notes. Harry’s school reports had furnished Anselm with a glimpse into Harry’s world and apart from the recent history of fibbing he’d found something else that was potentially significant. The headteacher Mr Whitefield had come to a similar conclusion, though for his own reasons. Anselm advanced, feeling his way: