by Tess Evans
‘What made you come here?’ Finn was puzzled. The man seemed to lack the spiritual dimension that was evident, to one degree or another, in all the other monks he had met.
‘Funny you should ask. I’m an electrician by trade. Had my own little business and everything. I went to church but was never particularly religious. In some ways I came here kicking and screaming, but he got me in the end.’
‘Father Jerome?’
‘No—God.’ Kevin was suddenly shy. ‘I had a calling, you see, and in the end I knew I had to come.’
‘I don’t think I believe in God.’
‘Doesn’t matter, mate. As long as He believes in you.’
Finn’s talks with Boniface were different, but imbued with the same strong faith. He spent an hour a day, four days a week, with the old man, usually sitting in the little summerhouse in the front garden. Boniface spoke slowly, as though weighing the value of each word.
‘God has already forgiven you,’ he said once. ‘Your task now is to learn to forgive yourself.’
‘That’s easier said than done.’
The monk remained silent.
‘I mean, how can I do that? Can’t you help me?’
‘I wish I could, Finbar, but we all have to find redemption in our own way. Sit with me a while. The answer is in your heart and you will only hear the voice of your heart when all other thoughts are silent.’
Finn had never met anyone like Boniface and tried to define his unique qualities. Was he an ascetic? Not really. Asceticism suggested a remoteness, a severity, that was the antithesis of the genuine human warmth complementing the spirituality that lit Boniface from within. On that first night, he had humbly served Finn soup and made up his bed before bestowing a blessing. He could sit with Finn in a silence that was more powerful than words, but when he spoke, his message was simple and compassionate. The more time he spent with Boniface, the more Finn sensed that his humanity and spirituality were one.
He offered these thoughts to Kevin one day when they were working in the garden. ‘Father Boniface is amazing. He hardly says anything when I meet with him, but I always come away—refreshed. What’s his secret, do you think?’
Kevin leaned on his shovel. ‘Boniface is unique,’ he said. ‘A saint, in his own way. He’s managed to cut through all the palaver, all the crap, and see things with the eyes of faith. Look here.’ Kevin indicated the garden. ‘What do you see here, Finn?’
‘A vegie patch.’
‘Yes?’
‘Beans, carrots, zucchini, tomatoes . . .’
‘Yes?’
Finn was at a loss. ‘An organic vegie patch?’
‘All that. But do you know what Boniface sees here?’
Finn shook his head.
‘He sees this garden as a little world with its insects, worms, plants, the earth itself—all part of God’s creation. I’ll never forget the first time we met. There he was, one of the most senior and learned priests in the Order and here was I, a nobody, with dirty hands and muddy boots, smelling of manure. Do you know what he said? How blessed you are to be young and strong, Brother Kevin, doing the work of God in your garden. How wonderful to be an instrument of His creation.’ Kevin thrust his spade into the earth once more. ‘What I’m trying to say, Finn, is that Boniface is the most Christ-like person I’ve ever met. Or am ever likely to meet.’
Finn looked at the garden again and continued to dig with a new reverence.
He had found some peace in his time at the monastery, but the silent reproach of Amber-Lee’s ghost still haunted Finn. Although it happened less often, there were still nights when he awoke with a vision of a single shoe or a bloody sheet, or the taste of damp earth filling his mouth and nose.
‘It’s called post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD,’ Father Jerome had told him. ‘You’re having what are known as “flashbacks”. It’s hard to control their frequency, and the triggers are often quite unpredictable. PTSD is common among soldiers who’ve seen action. After the First World War they called it “shell-shock”. No-one understood it then, but we’re making some progress. If it continues, you may be able to learn to control it, but there’s no cure as such.’
On the Feast of Saint Benedict, Finn went to the chapel for the first time. There had been no pressure to attend, but he felt that it was a mark of respect to honour the founder of the Order. It was also Open Day at the monastery, and his parents arrived after lunch. They were pleased to see him so much calmer. He was still thin and had become a little stooped from his work in the garden, but they saw there was a new, outdoors toughness in his body, and a healthy ruddiness in his cheeks.
‘Time to come home?’ enquired his mother hopefully.
Finn was evasive. He had a plan, and needed to discuss it with Father Jerome. ‘I’ll stay a while yet,’ he replied. ‘I have to help Kevin prepare the winter garden.’
‘Whatever you think best, darling.’ His mother was in her mid-seventies and the events of the last six months had sapped her strength. ‘Just ring us when you’re ready.’
His father clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you so much better, son.’
Finn made an appointment to see Father Jerome the next day. He dressed carefully, and felt a churning in his gut as he entered the abbot’s room.
Father Jerome put down his pen and looked up as Finn, red-faced and a little flustered, took his customary seat facing the painting of Saint Benedict that hung behind the abbot’s desk.
‘Good morning, Finbar.’
Finn had rehearsed the moment and finally decided that it was best to just say what he wanted without preamble. After briefly returning the greeting, he plunged in: ‘Father Jerome, I’d like to become a Benedictine.’ He beamed. ‘Like you,’ he added, unnecessarily.
Jerome sighed. He’d been afraid of this: Finbar’s mother had warned him that her son was inclined to exaggerated gestures, so he proceeded warily. He didn’t want the work of the last months undone. ‘Now, why do you say that, my son?’
‘Because I want to be like you. And Father Boniface. Or even Brother Kevin.’
‘Why do you think we’re here, Finbar?’
‘Because . . . because, you know . . . like Kevin says, you’ve been called.’
‘Have you been called, Finbar?’
‘I think so—how can I tell?’
‘You know, all right.’ Jerome returned to the original question. ‘You haven’t really answered me, Finbar. Why do you think we’re here? What is our purpose?’
‘You help people like me?’
‘Not as many as you might imagine.’
‘You live a good life.’
‘That’s possible anywhere.’
‘You work. Kevin has his garden. Timothy has his infirmary. Ambrose has his wine-making. Boniface has . . .’ What did Boniface have? Finn felt he was on shifting ground. ‘Well. Boniface is Boniface.’
‘Boniface is a rarity—a truly holy man. The rest of us, Finbar, are trying. Our main work here is our relationship with God. You’ve seen the Latin inscription at the entrance to the chapel? Orare est laborare, laborare est orare. It means: To pray is to work and to work is to pray. Prayer is the centre of our lives. That’s what it’s all about. Prayer. Do you pray, Finbar? You rarely come to the chapel.’
Finn hung his head miserably. ‘I’m not a believer, Father. You know that.’
Jerome smiled. ‘Then there’d be many times during the day when you’d have real trouble being a Benedictine.’ His voice sobered. ‘Look, when you came here, your condition was acute; now you’re in the chronic phase, and you have to learn to cope with life again. You won’t recover yourself here, Finbar. This isn’t a place to hide from life. We’ve done as much as we can. You’re strong enough now. It’s time you thought of leaving.’
Stricken, Finn returned to his cottage and looked around at the sparse furniture, his blue coffee mug, his few books, and the plain white bedspread visible through the open door of the bedroom. Out o
f the window, he could see a honeyeater perched on the bottlebrush and, in the near paddock, Kevin berating the hapless tractor. Walking away from the main cloister, Finn had felt angry and abandoned. So that’s it. They pick you up and throw you out like so much garbage. Now, in this little place where he had lain each night with his brokenness, the anger turned to sadness. Not grief, he thought, surprised. Just a deep sadness and sense of loss.
Weariness suddenly turned his limbs to liquid, and he went into his bedroom to lie down. It seemed like hours before his head finally rested on the pillow and the viscous substance that was his body found the hollows and contours of his bed. Jerome didn’t find him worthy. He turned onto his side and looked at the simple crucifix on the wall. He willed himself to believe. He prayed: If you are there, make me believe. But the plaster face, glazed with pain, was turned away. It was then that Finn accepted what he’d known in his heart all along. This was a monastery of Catholic monks whose lives were dedicated to serving a god he couldn’t acknowledge. Father Jerome was right. It was time to go.
He left a few days later, again on a bus. Despite his professed love for the sea, he perversely turned inland, partly as a self-imposed penance and partly because he was attracted by a name attached to a tiny speck on the map. He had studied the towns along the bus route, looking for something small. Passing on the provincial city of Cradletown and the prominent town of Mystic, he found what he was seeking halfway between the two larger centres. Opportunity. That would be his destination.
Before he left, Kevin shook his hand.
‘I’ll miss you, old mate. Just like you to go off when there’s work to be done.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘You look after yourself now, and don’t forget all I taught you about vegies.’
Boniface traced a cross on Finn’s forehead and murmured a blessing. ‘You’ll know what to do when the time is right, Finbar. Remember, the Silence isn’t designed to let you brood. It’s to give you space to listen. Look into your heart and listen, my friend. Go with God’s blessing.’
Jerome walked him to the gate. ‘Go in peace, Michael.’
‘Thank you, Father. For everything. But from now on my name is Finbar.’
‘Go in peace, Finbar.’
It was a long trip from the coast, and when Finn reached his destination and alighted from the bus it was mid-afternoon. He headed for the inevitable corner pub which was circled on both levels with a classic iron-lace verandah. He kept his eyes lowered, but was forced to nod to an old codger who was carefully negotiating the bar door. Finn felt his appraising gaze.
‘Jes’ steppin’ out to check on old Blue here,’ the man said, indicating a stringy cattle dog snoring peacefully in a patch of sunlight. ‘Blue’s me dog,’ he added helpfully. ‘I’m Clive— Cocky to me mates.’ His face widened in a toothless grin.
‘Nice to meet you, Cocky—Clive. I’m Finbar,’ he said, as he bolted for safety through the door marked ACCOMMODATION.
The old man scratched his chest. ‘See ya later, Finn.’ By the time Cocky had swilled a few more beers, everyone spoke of the newcomer as Finn. It was a christening of sorts.
Finn had rung ahead and booked a room but it soon became obvious that booking was unnecessary.
The landlady said her name was Marlene. ‘Don’t get many strangers here,’ she said as he filled in the required details. ‘We get a few sales reps, of course . . .’
Finn chose to ignore the query in her voice and went up to his room, which was clean if sparsely furnished. Not so different from his little room at the monastery, when he came to think of it. His appointment with the real estate agent was not until five, so he had a quick shower and then went over to the window. In the hour he sat there he saw Cocky and his dog; two women, one with a shopping jeep; and a man who got out of a ute and unloaded some pipes. No more than half a dozen cars drove down the street in that time. When the school bus came in there was a little flurry of activity as three women arrived to collect the eight children who spilled out, one waving a painting, another clutching a drink bottle.
The signs were good, thought Finn. Opportunity appeared to be a very quiet town. All that remained was to find some permanent accommodation.
The agent had five vacancies. Three were too large for his needs and the fourth was in Main Street. The fifth, a forlorn little weatherboard cottage on the far side of the football ground, had only one neighbour.
‘She’s a funny old bird,’ said the smartly dressed agent, indicating an elderly woman who, upon seeing them, tucked down her head and scuttled back into her house. ‘You’re lucky if she gives you the time of day.’
‘I’ll take the house,’ said Finn. ‘I want a long-term lease.’
6
Finn, Moss and Mrs Pargetter
ON THE SECOND MORNING OF Moss’s stay, she and Finn were sitting down to breakfast. Relating the story of Amber-Lee’s death had clearly been painful for him, and she wanted to return their conversation to something more general.
‘How did you come to live here?’ Moss asked.
Finn, happy enough to be diverted, responded with a much-abridged version of his life in the monastery. ‘After the accident, I had a bit of a breakdown and some Benedictine monks took me in. Taught me a few things. That was ten years ago now. I still practise the Silence twice a day from six to eight, morning and evening. I try to avoid unnecessary conversation at other times. People used to be one of my strong points, but now . . . You know, it was lucky the bus was late the night you came. It usually gets in at seven fifteen.’
‘What would you have done if I’d arrived on time?’
‘I never make exceptions to the Silence. I wouldn’t have answered the door. I was in that night because it was too wet to go outside, where I prefer to be.’
They both pondered this fortunate confluence of events.
‘What do you do when you’re not . . . being silent?’ Moss 93 asked.
‘I work, and I try to do a little good here and there. I still haven’t quite got the hang of that.’
‘What kind of work do you do?’
‘Bits and pieces. I do some hack work for the Bureau of Statistics and some interesting number-crunching for the Commission for the Future. Most of our communication is online. I have to go to Melbourne a couple of times a year for meetings, but I get back here as quickly as I can. It’s a living, as they say. And there’s my vegie patch, although the drought has pretty much buggered that up.’
‘You wouldn’t go back to your research?’
‘You wouldn’t go back to your singing?’
‘Touché.’
Finn said he had to go out, and Moss decided to walk along the river.
‘There’s a path that goes about five kilometres,’ he told her. ‘Starts near the bridge.’
That night at dinner, Finn seemed distracted and not inclined to talk. Finally, he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
‘How long do you plan to stay? Not that I want to get rid of you,’ he assured her, remembering his panic when Jerome had asked a similar question.
‘Not sure, really. I need some time to think things out. And—and I’d also like to get to know you better?’ The upward inflection betrayed her uncertainty.
‘I’d like you to stay a while.’ Finn’s tone also betrayed doubt.
‘But we can’t have you sleeping on the floor and I don’t have a spare room so I . . . sort of took the, you know, liberty of speaking to old Mrs Pargetter. She lives next door, in the house with the blue verandah. She said you can stay with her.’
When he took the house, Finn was pleased that his elderly neighbour was a recluse. After a brief introduction, they had merely nodded politely whenever they happened to pass. One evening, a few weeks after he moved in, he answered a knock at the door to find her standing on his verandah, twisting her apron apologetically.
‘Mr Clancy,’ she began, ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, but my door is stuck and I can’t close it properly. I won’t sleep unless I can lock
it, you see. Normally my nephew would . . .’
‘Of course I’ll help, Mrs Pargetter. Just let me get my tools.’ Noting for the first time how frail she was, he took her arm as they went down his path and up to her house. ‘Now, let’s see what I can do.’ He planed a little off the door and, disarmed by her old-fashioned courtesy, accepted the proffered cup of tea. As he left, he was surprised to hear himself promising to dig over her vegetable garden.
After that, Finn found it pleasant to do little jobs for her— taking her dog for a walk, pruning her roses, replacing a tap washer, changing a light bulb. In turn, she would call him in when she’d made scones or biscuits or a teacake. Once she presented him with a tea cosy. But she never asked personal questions, nor did she tell him anything of herself. They suited each other very nicely.
So for want of another solution, he turned to Mrs Pargetter for help with the problem of Moss’s incursion into his life.
As he saw it, he had no choice. He didn’t want to send her to the pub, so where else could she go? Besides, he often worried about his neighbour living alone. She was so frail. What if she had a fall or became ill? Here was a perfect solution—at least in the short term.
The old lady stared in dismay when Finn proposed that she take his daughter in for a few days. ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter, Finn. Not that it’s any of my business,’ she added hastily. ‘I mean, a young girl! What would she want staying with an old woman like me?’
Despite his rationalisations, Finn already felt guilty for trying to pass his problem on to his elderly friend. He stepped back a pace. ‘That’s alright, Mrs Pargetter. I’m sorry I asked. I had no right to expect . . .’
Mrs Pargetter saw in Finn’s face a montage of embarrassment, confusion and . . . something else. Something familiar. She swallowed hard. ‘You’ve been good to me, Finn. I’d like to help. Just for a few days, you say? Bring her round tomorrow afternoon.’ She said this rapidly, as though she had to get the words out before she regretted them. She even allowed Finn to leave without offering him a cup of tea. They were both aware that they had crossed some unspoken boundary.