I reached over the bed for my cigarettes and the cheap lighter I had bought from the newsagents the day before. Was it really only yesterday? I lit the cigarette and stared at the dark trees and wondered about going over to Father Godfrey, knocking on his door. ‘I’ve come for a chat. I’ve come to be put it right. There are a few questions I would like to ask you. Why am I having these strange mental blocks? Forgetting how to spell, forgetting my words, getting muddled with money? Can you help me, please? It’s like a kind of dementia. A nightmare, you see.’
Chapter 15
Brother Joseph hummed tunelessly as he poured milk into the rabbit’s blue and white bowl, which he kept under the sink amongst crumpled rags, a yellow plastic bucket and tin dustpan with balding brush. The rabbit was hopping about the kitchen, snuffling up crumbs and vegetable droppings left after the day’s cooking. Joseph eyed him and shook his head. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, you know. Brother Bertram will grumble again. Grumble, grumble, isn’t it?’ With his toe, he pushed a curling piece of cabbage towards him. ‘We’re not going to be in here any more, Francis. What do you think about that? In the kitchen.’
His watery eyes stared into space and he straightened himself slightly, as if preparing for battle, while tutting warningly to his pet. But his tone changed to the familiar singsong, ‘Here! Here! Here!’ as he placed the saucer of milk down, shaking white drops onto the floor, which he smudged away with his foot. Again, the rabbit nosed at the milk, stopping every now and again, ears softback and eyes goggling. Joseph grinned as he watched him. ‘You’ll not be doing any harm. No, you won’t. Look at you now!’ And nodding cheerfully, he picked up the milk bottle and returned it to the bulky, old-fashioned fridge, before shuffling across to the larder, from which he took two carrots that lay amongst potatoes and onions in a broken wicker basket.
‘Take them while I can,’ he mumbled, pushing the carrots into one of his pockets. The rabbit havd returned to his exploration of the kitchen dirt. Joseph, suddenly fearful that one of the brothers might come in and find him, although it was past lights out, put the saucer, unwashed, into the cupboard and, clucking quietly to the rabbit, crept towards him and put his foot on the red lead,which lay on the floor.
He groaned with the effort of lifting Francis and stopped for a moment, breathless, before nudging his nose into the rabbit’s fur. Then he tucked him under one arm and lifted his habit with his free hand so that he could climb the back stairs, which lead from the kitchen.
Sometimes, he tripped and it made a noise and he was always frightened that they would take the rabbit away. ‘Shsh!’ he whispered. ‘Bertram will hear. Be good now! Be still, will you! It’ll be outside with you. It will. It will.’ But the animal wriggled violently as Joseph, breathing heavily, struggled up the stairs.
At the top, he released his habit and, taking his pet in both arms, shushed him to be still. Someone coughed behind a closed door and Joseph stood for a moment, under the dim hanging light, listening and catching his breath. There was a single light showing under the door at the end of the corridor. Brother Bertram must be reading, he thought, but by the time he had reached his door, the second on the right, the light went out soundlessly.
His room was smoky blue, dim and shadowy but he didn’t switch on the light for he could see well enough to put the rabbit into the tall-sided cardboard box that stood at the foot of his bed. The rabbit twisted about in the flattened straw and an acrid smell of urine and dried droppings rose with the straw dust. Joseph closed his door quickly; the brothers were always complaining of the smell that emanated from his room. But to Joseph the smell was a comfort, reminding him of his childhood and St Dominic’s.
There had been a smell about that old house, damp and powdery, acidy and sour, sometimes smelling of rotten fruit. He had been quite content there, as long as they were kind, not too cross. As long as Billie was there, nothing else much mattered. The only thing was that Billie, who slept in the bed next to his, cried at night. It was always after Brother Paul came for him. Especially chosen by Brother Paul. Joseph never understood. But he lay in his bed listening to the sobbing and it made him cry, too. He could hardly bear it. One night he crept from his bed and went to comfort him.
Sometimes other boys were the chosen ones at night. Did they cry too? All he knew was that he, Joseph, was never one of the chosen ones. And he was sorry about that, because you must be very special to be chosen, especially by Brother Paul.
‘Billie would have loved you,’ he muttered to the rabbit, then turned to the windows and drew the curtains halfway across. He took off his habit, pulling it awkwardly over his head, folded it, creased and grubby though it was, and placed it with utmost reverence over his chair, patting it and straightening it into position much as he would the altar cloth.
As usual, he kept on his slippers and grey socks while he said his prayers and now, still in his short-sleeved vest, which hung unbuttoned from his scraggy neck, and his long johns, he knelt by the bed like a child. He knew all the prayers by heart, just as he knew from memory the Gospels, the Prayer Book and any number of psalms. It was this uncanny ability to memorise that won him the attention of the father at St Dominic’s who one memorable day suggested that he, Joseph, might like to serve at the Holy Communion, which he took daily. It was the most glorious moment. He was chosen at last.
Now he bent over his crumpled bedclothes and said his prayers. He pressed his hands into his eyes and heard the rabbit restless in his box. ‘God, bless you, Francis.’ God, he knew, wouldn’t mind him being in the bedroom. He twisted his head and stared, through the gloom, at the box. The rabbit was still now and Joseph, feeling suddenly alone, gave way to his sorrow momentarily.
But not for long, for Joseph, as he often did at such times, screwed up his eyes and thought himself into the picture. He could see so clearly the Holy Mother standing beneath a great tree, and she was smiling. She was holding a baby in her arms and there was a pale, golden light shining through the trees onto the mother and child. Then he saw her standing at the high altar, dressed in black, her arms held up towards the stained-glass window where Jesus hung on the cross, his head lolling forward, his mouth screaming and the blood trickling down. And Mary wept. Finally, Joseph saw the engulfing white light, out of which walked the mother and son, and they were smiling. It was at this point that Joseph tried to go to them, tried to put himself into the picture, but he never could. He never could see the smile on his own face as he came to them. Joseph loved her smiling face, happy now, for he understood the pain she must have felt as she stood by the cross. He had felt like that when Billie died and he only began to feel the joy of Mary’s smile after Francis came.
Now he said the Gloria, crossed himself and pushed himself up off his knees. He took one last look at the rabbit, gently removing a stick of straw that was stuck on his back, before removing his slippers and socks. Once in bed he wriggled onto his side and, putting his arm round his pillow, pulled it down and over his head so that he was almost completely hidden. He thought happily of the morning, for he was looking forward to fetching the lady visitor to Holy Communion. He loved it when they had visitors and he was proud to be looking after this one.
Chapter 16
I had to lie as flat as possible in the bath in order to soak myself, because the slightly rusty geyser only dribbled a few inches of hot water. I lay with the warm flannel over my top half to keep me warm and stared at the brown stain above the taps made by the drops of water that leaked from the geyser. It reminded me of tree bark. I lifted my leg to touch its rough outline with my toe and remembered the cedar cone Seamus had sent me. He had polished it to a gleaming chestnut glow and said it was the colour of my eyes. Romance! I have it still, in the jewellery box. Seamus was one of those unexpected things.
I hadn’t wanted to go out for the day. My own holiday plans had collapsed without warning when my friend Mary phoned to say her father wouldn’t let her go with me to France as we had planned. He thought we were t
oo young, at eighteen, to go unaccompanied. I was so disappointed and fed-up; all I wanted was to be left alone. But for once Mother was really sympathetic, seemed to appreciate my disappointment and insisted that I went with her to take Duncan down to Bournemouth, where he was to stay with a school friend and his family. I really needed a lot of persuading, but I knew she was right. Hanging around at home on my own would have done nothing to improve my filthy mood.
The sight of the sea excited me, and I managed a cheerful face when introduced to the family. Seamus was not there, just his mother, father and sister, Molly. We sat in the faded lounge before lunch. His father, a vicar, was a surprisingly handsome man, his mother a tall, gawky, ungainly woman, whom I liked at once. Molly was relaxed and confident, gently browned by the sun and sea. They had already been there a week. She made me feel plain and dull, but I needn’t have done, for she was friendly and kind.
Eventually, we went into lunch without Seamus, but he soon arrived, lean and tanned, and wearing a lugubrious expression. I had expected him to announce some dreadful news, but his face broke into the most radiant smile when he was introduced to me and he was transformed, all trace of his melancholy gone.
All through the meal, much to my shame, Mother recounted the woeful story of my failed holiday plans. It was almost as if she wanted everyone to feel sorry for me, but not in a nice way. She managed to make me feel pathetic.
Then from nowhere, Seamus’s deep voice said, ‘Well, stay with us.’
It took time for me to believe they really wanted me to stay and were not just sorry for me, and it was so uplifting when Molly, good-naturedly, argued that a female ally would be very welcome. They were, I knew at once, thoroughly nice people. So, that was it – I was to have a holiday after all.
We rushed to the shops, Mother and I, to buy the bare essentials: pyjamas, toothbrush, a change of pants and another top to go with the skirt I was wearing, another skirt and a bathing costume. Mother had never felt it necessary to spend much money on either me or Duncan, and so I was thrilled and excited by all this and grateful for what I saw then as her generosity.
Once alone with the family, Mother having returned home and Duncan no support to me, I know I was quiet and on my best behaviour, as all their attention was focused on me. Endless questions. Duncan was left to his own devices, having spent holidays with them before. He was perfectly at home. It never occurred to me then that me being there might spoil his holiday, and he never said. Seamus talked to me endlessly. He seemed to know so much, seemed clever and wise. His long, serious face would light up as he spoke and he laughed softly, darkly.
Sometimes Molly and I would be left alone on the beach while Seamus and Duncan did their own thing and then I lay in the heat, eyes closed and thinking all the time about Seamus. I didn’t know what to do when Seamus teased me about my freckles or touched my back with wet seaweed.
Seamus managed things so well, allocating time carefully between Duncan and me; if anything, it was Molly who was left out, but she was several years older and happy to sunbathe and read and spend time with her parents, who never came down to the beach. To tell the truth, I’m not sure what they did all day long. I was only aware of Seamus. If Duncan was a bit fed up having to share his friend, he didn’t show it, but then he often preferred to be alone, devising some complicated castle maze with sand or inventing crab traps.
On the last evening, we all went to the ‘flicks’, and not long into the film Seamus began tapping my hand and so, shy and unsure, I touched his fingertips. He took my hand, holding it firmly and quietly between both of his, as if to stop me from running away. His cool dry hands calmed my hot sticky ones.
On the way home, he sauntered with me more and more slowly so that Duncan and Molly were forced to go ahead without us and, halting in the shadows, he kissed me so seriously, so deliberately. ‘I’ll write, ‘he said.
It was my first kiss. We were eighteen with all of life before us, and someone found me lovable. I was so happy. We wrote back and forth, newsy, loving letters. But then I made a huge mistake. I had an invitation to go up to Staffordshire to stay with the family. I hadn’t seen Seamus since our week’s holiday and was nervous. Would he still like me? Would he still find me attractive? I forgot that on holiday I had no make-up or fancy clothes. I was just me. I should have thought, had the confidence. Instead I bought new clothes and even wore a hat to arrive in. My freckles were hidden by layers of make-up. He was there to meet me at the station and I knew at once that this me was not what he remembered or wanted. I knew at once. He was kind, as were all the family, but the spark had gone.
We have remained in touch by letter and the occasional phone call, but because life took us in different directions, to universities where we made new friends, the relationship never flourished. Yet I still feel a deep fondness for him, even after all these years. He liked me as I was: no make-up, no smart clothes. No showing off. No class clown. Just ordinary me. It was a tender, thoughtful friendship, which has lasted, not like the destructive passion I experienced with Matthew a few years later.
The bath water was cold. I lay still, fixed on the brown mark on the wall. Why was I remembering so much? I longed for Seamus. I longed for someone who had known and loved me when I was young and untouched. When I was alive. Would Father? No! Seamus was gentler and more fun. It hurts me to say so. I’ve never thought this way before. Perhaps that’s what retreats to monasteries do for you. But just then, all because of that brown stain on the bathroom wall, I felt a yearning in the pit of my stomach.
Chapter 17
Brother Bertram stood by his door and listened. He was a flabby, bald-headed man with small eyes and thick lips. His pallid skin shone in the light and his podgy white hands fidgeted. He turned off his light quickly and quietly so that Joseph shouldn’t know he was still up. But then Joseph was so stupid, seemed unaware of most things, most of the time. Bertram waited until he heard Joseph’s door shut and then opened his just a fraction. He sniffed the air. And yes! The truth was that he could most definitely smell that disgusting rabbit smell coming from Joseph’s room. Good, He could complain with impunity and he determined to go immediately to discuss the matter with the father abbot. As a senior member of the community it was permissible to go now, and in any case Godfrey wouldn’t have the guts to refuse to see him. Bertram scoffed inwardly. How he despised the man! He would go now on the pretext that the abbot would be far too busy in the next few days. He had thought of a perfect reason for getting that stinking rabbit out of Joseph’s room. He pulled on his habit over his pyjamas and quietly left his room, making his way in the opposite direction towards the main staircase, which led into the central lobby. He had told Oswald what he had planned to do, so they had cancelled their usual get-together.
Bertram had a smouldering grudge against Godfrey. Envy. Anger that Godfrey had been preferred as abbot before him, that he had not been appointed following Father Patrick’s death, gnawed at him continuously. Bertram had worked so hard to be indispensable to Patrick and had felt sure that he would be the next in line, that Patrick would put his name forward as his successor. But no, Godfrey had been preferred, and Bertram thought Godfrey a weak, indecisive man.,Bertram saw his manner of conciliation and quiet patience as feeble incompetence, and was continually irritated by him. How often he had had to point out slackness and dereliction of duties to Godfrey. Nowadays the place was becoming more like a holiday camp than a religious institution. Brothers were slack in all sorts of ways. They talked in their rooms, were often late for prayers and he knew only too well the number of times they made little snacks for themselves in the kitchen. Quite against the rules. They lacked dedication to prayer and study. And now this ridiculous business of the rabbit. This slackness came down from the top, of course. As far as he was concerned, standards were going to the dogs. He would have taken the matter further if he thought it would do him any good. But he realised that no one was to be trusted, could be relied upon, except his Oswald, of cours
e.
Brother Bertram was probably the only member of the community who was looking forward to the move, for he secretly hoped that there, in the new place and amongst new brethren, he could make a good impression and further his status at the same time. It was not impossible, even now, that he might be appointed abbot before he died. The fact was, he got things done. No one else, for example, could have managed to get Joseph removed from the kitchen; Godfrey would never have done so without being pushed. But Bertram had had the perfect argument: simply that Joseph’s lack of hygiene was likely to cause illness sooner or later. That had been a clever move and Bertram was pleased with himself. Himself! It was a joke how easily he coud manipulate the Father.
What really angered Bertram was Joseph’s manner, his irritatingly cheerful manner, quite inappropriate most of the time, and his utter refusal to recognise his own incompetence. He just went on through life undisturbed by anything. He was stupid, always smiling. Worst of all, though, was his lack of respect. That was insulting. The first time Bertram had tried to have Joseph removed from the kitchen Godfrey had argued strongly that Joseph needed something to be proud of, that he had always worked in the kitchen and loved so much to be in charge of the younger brothers, to know in advance what the menus were; the obvious pleasure it gave him to see them all ‘tucking into the food’. That the kitchen was his world, his sole topic of conversation.
But Bertram had been clever; he was learning to handle – manipulate – the abbot rather well. So, he had nodded in agreement as the abbot spoke, shook his head with apparent sympathy, and appeared so concerned for the welfare of the obviously simple man who unfortunately couldn’t be relied upon. It was he who had suggested that Mrs Gregory might need some ‘looking after’. It was amusing how Godfrey listened to him. They didn’t like each other, but Godfrey always listened.
Ask Me to Dance Page 7