Yet what had he said about pain? It was easy for him. I thought, Would they perhaps cease the crying I could hear so often at night if I was happier? Would that dreadful crying stop? Could they be happy if I was happy? Did I owe it to them? I could certainly try to be happy for them and enjoy things again for them, even to love for them. Fucking hell! I just didn’t know what to do with myself. This nervous agitation, like falling in love, was worse than the pain itself, because I thought to be happy again was a betrayal. As if they didn’t matter. And my frustration with myself, with everything and everybody, grew with the dusk.
I got off the bed and began wandering round the room, absurdly wishing I could be with Guy. I couldn’t keep still; my insides were fluttering and restless and the room became a prison. I had to get out. I had to do something.
I had no thought of where to go or what to do. Nothing seemed satisfactory and I was beginning to be increasingly angry. Angry with myself, angry that I didn’t know what to do, angry about Joseph and the rabbit business. It was then I decided to go and check on the rabbit. It was just something to do. I went to fetch a cardigan, because for some reason it felt chilly to me, and then I made my way up the path and towards the Monks’ Walk.
The avenue was longer than I remembered, and several times I turned to the left, expecting to find the path to the old dog run, but each time found my way blocked by hedges and bushes.
Despite a hazy moon, it was dark amongst the trees and I began to panic, thinking that I had gone too far and had somehow completely lost my sense of direction. Perhaps I would go around in circles until dawn. In my anxiety, I tripped on a fallen branch and cursed as the pain shot through my foot. I picked it up, intending to throw it to one side, but its thick solidity made me feel safer in the darkness, and I used it as a kind of walking stick.
Because I was nervous, I decided to turn back, thinking I would never find the run, when out of nowhere came a man’s voice, and I grabbed the branch tightly, as a weapon. I had forgotten the brothers of the night before, and hoped it was Joseph talking to his rabbit, although it didn’t sound like him.
I stood rigid and waited so I might hear for sure who it was. The voices again. Voices. Two men speaking. I heard the metallic twang of wire and knew they were by the run. Something wasn’t right. Something odd was going on. I knew it, just had the feeling something would happen to Joseph’s rabbit. God knows why.
Then all the fear went, all the uncertainty, and I moved towards the sounds, my branch at the ready for protection just in case, and I found myself in the clearing that preceded the run.
Who was there and what were they doing? If it was something to do with the rabbit, I was not going to stand by and do nothing this time. Not this time. I had failed to act before. Had just let things happen around me, but never again. Never would I just stand by. I could feel a kind of fury in me and kind of rage – for Joseph, for myself, a rage about life.
I hadn’t screamed for Fleur to come out of the tomb nor unplugged all the tubes and taken Dan to the river. I had done nothing, just stood by and let them go. But not this time. ‘Go on, Minch! Don’t just stand there. Do something.’
It was easy to be quiet through the thick grass, and they were talking anyway. And there they were in the dim light, a shining bald head, arms outstretched – crucifix like-hanging onto the open wire gate, the shorter one gazing up at him. The rabbit was surely lost, gone.
‘No, you don’t!’ I screamed. ‘You don’t. Not this time.’ And I ran towards the Christ figure on the cross and, lifting the branch, brought it down with one mighty blow. Blow after blow. And they fell.
I screamed out, ‘No you don’t. No you bloody well don’t. You bastards!’ as all my pent-up grief exploded, until the breath was gone from me, and I sank to the ground and lay beside the other figures in the damp grass.
They found me inside the run, leaning against the wire fence. And in my arms, the rabbit, stunned also into stillness. The branch, now in two pieces, lay on the ground outside the open gate.
Out of the darkness stumbled Bertram, his head bleeding badly, as Brother Oswald raised the alarm. Trembling and shaking, he banged on Godfrey’s door and, screeching, broke the news, before collapsing and weeping in his room.
Godfrey, still in his dressing gown, woke Guy and together they crossed the lawn into the Monks’ Walk, taking great strides, hurrying without running, Guy carrying a medical bag. Towards them out of the dark, Bertram, groaning, lurched towards them, pushing Guy out of the way.
‘Where is she?’
Bertram pointed towads the run.
‘Can you manage to get back to the house?’
He nodded through his groans, his head hanging from his shoulders. He had lifted his habit against his head to stem the bleeding.
Chapter 39
Godfrey was overwhelmed. He sat in his chair, first rubbing his face in his hands and then closing his eyes with a sigh that became a low moan. ‘Good God! What can have possessed the woman? Never in my entire…’
He looked at his watch: ten to three. Again, he exhaled a breath of exhaustion and his eyes lifted to the sherry cupboard.
He pulled himself up, robotically, and reached for the bottle and a glass. The opened bottle he left standing on his desk. Frightened himself, he downed the drink standing up. He knew he couldn’t wait until morning to see Bertram again. He had to know if he intended pressing charges or not. At least he was alive! Oh God! The place would be overrun, what with the Philips man and now the police. He shuddered visibly. Whatever had come over her? Something possessed her. The last person in the world—Damn the woman! He should feel sorry for her, concerned – she was obviously deranged – but he was furious and panicking.
He turned towards the door, hitting his leg on the corner of the desk. He wasn’t in control any more. No, everything was a shambles. If Wiltshire heard—He brushed his hair violently with his hand and left the room.
All the lights were on in the corridors and he ignored the mutterings behind the closed doors.
The light showed under Bertram’s door and Godfrey knocked. His irritation was growing by the minute; he should feel sorry for him, but he did not.
Bertram was propped up in bed, a large plaster over his head, through which blood had seeped.
Godfrey remained standing at the end of the bed, challenging Bertram to look at him for, unusually, he was now avoiding Godfrey’s eyes, while Godfrey could not disguise his contempt and some pleasure at Bertram’s descent.
He studied the podgy figure, pale and ill-at-ease as he lay against his pillows.
‘Are you going to bring charges or not?’ Godfrey had no time, nor the will for niceties.
Bertram shook his head.
Relieved beyond words, Godfrey had difficulty in maintaining his severity, yet he desired to prolong Bertram’s discomfiture.
‘Why not? You are entitled to, I should suppose.’
Bertram’s hand found the glass of water on the table beside him. It shook and some water spilled on the covers as he lifted it to his thick, flabby lips.
‘What were you doing out, anyway? Rather late, wasn’t it? Lights out and all that?’
Bertram replaced the glass, looked at Godfrey with some of the old defiance and shrugged. Godfrey made himself hold his eyes; never again would he allow Bertram to drive him onto the defensive.
‘I can guess,’ he sneered, and turned towards the door. But he hesitated for a moment before leaving. ‘Good job the foxes didn’t get that rabbit.’
Joseph was still on his knees, praying, when he heard the hurrying of feet, the talking, never allowed, the opening and shutting of doors, lights switched on. He peered into the corridor. Someone was in Brother Oswald’s room. And was that crying? He wanted to help. Then he heard the word rabbit. Quite distinctly. ‘Rabbit.’
‘Francis!’ he choked aloud. ‘The foxes have got Francis.’
He pulled his habit over his vest and, still in his slippers, ran, already bre
athless, down the stairs and out into the night, across the lawn and up the avenue towards the kennels. All the time uttering breathlessly, ‘Francis! Francis.’
He tripped and crashed down and, unsteady as he tried to get up, his legs giving way, he fell again and now he began to cry, the tears from his red eyes dripping down his roughly shaven face.
‘Francis, Francis. Holy Mother of God.’
With all his strength and willpower, he got up a second time, steadied himself as hastily as he could, and then half ran, half stumbled onwards, too breathless now to utter anything.
When, finally, he arrived at Billie’s kennels, he saw a group of brothers. That’s all he saw. He pushed past, gasping, choking, holding his chest as if to stop it from bursting open.
Someone caught hold of his shoulder, but he pushed away. Where did the strength come from? He cried out for Billie. Then someone took his arm and led him through the closed gate into the run and he saw the lady. She was sitting down and she had hold of Francis.
He fell to his knees with exhaustion and with relief. His nose was running now, as well as his eyes, his breath rasping. He couldn’t speak.
No one spoke that he could hear.
‘Francis!’ When he had breath, he got hold of the rabbit and someone helped him to his feet, but still he couldn’t speak, nor smile. Nor anything. He would carry Francis away.
They brought the box and walked with him. Was it Brother David?
Chapter 40
I can’t remember exactly who helped me back to my room, but two people did. ‘Get into bed,’ one said as we reached my door. Then they left me.
At that moment, I wanted to die. Couldn’t face what I had done. On the bed I curled up like a foetus, my head on my knees, my hands pulling my head down. I curled up so tightly, eyes shut, and kept repeating,’ Oh! God. Oh! My God. Someone save me.’
I would come up for air, realise again the horror of what I had done and, knowing there was no going back, curled up again, back into the womb. Escaping.
I knew the police would come and I would have to go with them to answer questions. And then the court case would follow some time, and then prison. The fear was so bad, the shaking so uncontrollable, that, suddenly like some kind of self-defence, it turned to anger. Did I care? Was I sorry? I had to stand up for myself. It wasn’t premeditated, I would tell them. But no! I was empowered, despite the fear. Bloody well served them right. Trying to let out the rabbit. Cruel beyond words. No, they had it coming to them. But not that way, not that way. Christ!
Guy did come briefly, looking pretty shaken himself, and gave me a sedative, simply saying he would see me in the morning.
The sunlight woke me because the curtains had not been drawn and when I realised that I was still dressed, I remembered. You know people talk about their stomach falling? Believe me, I felt I was falling through the bed. Terrified into rigidity. I cut myself off from it. I was a murderer. Please let me die. Scared to death but not sorry. At least I’d made a stand, just as I had when I threw my breakfast on the dining-room floor as a child, and when I chucked the pack of cards around my room because Mother was so unfair. I was afraid of what would happen, but not afraid of life any more.
The bells rang for morning prayer. I timed it, and then knew they were having breakfast. And I waited for Guy, who I knew would come, for he would have understood, not condoned, I’m sure, but understood that I needed him, so when at last I heard the knock on the door, I breathed, ‘Oh, thank God.’ But it was Father Godfrey standing just inside, looking awkward, his fingers rolling round and round.
I was waiting for him to tell me to prepare myself for the police.
‘We won’t go into it now,’ he said, ‘but Brother Bertram doesn’t want any fuss, in any case. I know you—’
‘He’s not dead? You’re not going to do anything? You’re not going to call the police?’
He shook his head and I burst into tears, saying irrationally, ‘Oh, please, please…’
‘I know you were concerned about—It’s lucky the stick was so brittle.’ He appeared to be speaking to someone else. Not me.
He swung his arms back and forth, his long fingers, opening and closing into his palms . He looked thoroughly weary, and I was sorry.
‘What can I say? Thank you. I don’t know what to say. I’m not really like that.’
I was ashamed of my uncontrollable sobbing.
‘So sorry for the trouble; I don’t know what came over me. It was just—’ I was going to go on about the rabbit and Joseph, but he held up his hand.
‘I’m afraid we have been of little help to you. I’m sorry for that. But…’ And he didn’t finish his sentence. ‘While I think of it, I’ve asked Brother David to bring you over some sort of breakfast. Mrs Gregory, as you know, we are leaving here in less than three weeks.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well as you can imagine we have more than … we have much to do.’
‘I’ll go home today if nothing is going to happen to me. Can I go? Can you let me go?’ I saw him visibly relax.
‘Do you feel up to driving? We could always—’
‘No! No! Really, I’m fine.’ But I was absolutely exhausted. ‘Please say sorry to … sorry, I don’t know his name.’
‘Brother Bertram. And I suppose Brother Oswald as well; he’s still in shock.’ he muttered. ‘Yes, well…’
He turned as if to leave, and then stopped. ‘I think perhaps a short prayer is in order,’ he said. ‘Help to calm you.’
He stood by the door, arms by his side, head lowered. I hung mine and waited.
‘May the peace of the Lord be always with you. And the blessing of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit be upon you, now and for ever more. Amen.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He raised his hand and left.
He shut the door quietly, somehow obliterating his presence there. He was miserable. It was the sight of her. Pale, vulnerable. And as he walked down the path away from her, he was transported back to his dream and the garden in India and Padma. Pale and vulnerable.
I dressed quickly, waiting for Guy. It was Guy I needed then. Absolutely.
But Brother David arrived with a marmalade sandwich and a glass of milk. He stood in the doorway and I took the tray from him. I smiled; he nodded and then, pointing to the envelopes on the tray, said that Dr Guy had asked him to bring the letters.
‘Can you ask him to come over to see me, please? I’m not feeling very well.’
‘I think he’s gone out.’
‘Gone out?’
‘I believe so. It’s his day off.’
‘Fine! Thanks for letting me know.’ And I shut the door behind him.
One letter was addressed to my doctor and the other to me.
He’d just written.
Dear Rose
The other letter is for Jonathan, as you can see. Go to see him as soon as you can, and good luck with everything. It’s been difficult for you, but I’m sure everything will be fine in the end. Be patient! And do as you are told. Enclosed is a photocopy of those lines from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.
Guy
I screwed up the note and threw it in the wastepaper basket, but unfolded the piece with the words he had recited to me. I read them and knew then that all I wanted was to go home.
But Joseph and the rabbit delayed me. He arrived with his pet on the lead, grinning. He pulled the rabbit into to my room.
‘Say thank you, Francis. Say thank you to the lady. He wants to say thank you,’ he said. ‘Don’t you? Don’t you?’
‘It was my pleasure, tell him. Not long now, Joseph, and you will both be off on another adventure.’ His face fell.
‘I don’t want to go. Not to leave Billie.’
It was quite spontaneous. I emptied out the jar of painkillers Guy had given me when I hurt my foot. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘I’ve got an idea. Come on with Francis and show me where Billie is.’
‘In the “grav
es” garden.’ He giggled nervously.
I knew exactly what I was going to do.
He half ran, as usual, in front of me, dragging the rabbit behind him, and led me to an area on the right of the Monks’ Walk that was like an overgrown garden surrounded by trees and with a dozen or so mounds headed by small gravestones. He stopped by one of these, which lay to the edge near the trees. ‘Here,’ he called.
I read the words: Here lies Brother John, 1900–1978. May his soul rest in peace.
The rabbit was nibbling the grass on the mound as Joseph stood watching me.
I took his arm. ‘You know your friend, Billie, isn’t really here, Joseph, don’t you? He’s where we all go when we die. And where they go when they die means I think that they can still be with friends and loved ones, in a different sort of way. And in a different way, we can be with them. They – you know the ones we don’t have with us here on earth any more – only want us to be happy. I’m sure of that. He’ll be with you, Joseph, wherever you are. That’s good, isn’t it?’
He was staring from me to the rabbit, from me to the rabbit. Then he nodded.
I showed him the empty jar. ‘This may seem bonkers, but look, Joseph, you put a little bit of the grave into this.’
I held the bottle out for him and took the lead from his hand.
He hesitated. ‘Take some with me?’ And then he fell on his knees and began to scrabble at the earth with his long yellow fingernails, much like the rabbit’s claws, to loosen the earth.
‘Push some of that in,’ I said.
He sprinkled the earth into the palms of his hands and held them over the bottle. The earth dropped in and around, but he continued until the jar was full.
Ask Me to Dance Page 17