A Whispered Name (2 page)

Chapter Two

1

Anselm’s disturbance at
the meeting among the aspens did not abate as the day drew on. By early evening
he was restive, haunted by the old man’s weeping and the disillusionment of the
woman at Herbert’s graveside. Up until that moment no one had ever sought
Herbert’s company without looking up to him. No one had ever looked down,
detached from and unmoved by his reputation. Preoccupied, Anselm wandered into
the common room, not quite thinking where he was going. There, on the far side
of the room, occupying a niche built into the stone wall, sat Sylvester — the
monk Anselm most wanted to see. He’d been Herbert’s oldest and closest friend.
Together, with others, they had literally rebuilt Larkwood upon a heap of
thirteenth-century ruins.

Sylvester
was forever in his nineties, his cranium covered with a gossamer down clipped
so short that the shadows on his bones carried the stronger colour. A length of
orange plastic twine served as a belt around his thin waist. With the aid of a
large magnifying glass he was checking the football results in a newspaper.

‘Bristol
Rovers one, Burley nil … Chesterfield two, York City—’

‘You
knew Herbert better than anyone, didn’t you?’ said Anselm, brusquely He dropped
on to a footstool, arms resting on his knees.

Sylvester
lowered the paper to his lap and minutely examined his younger brother through
the glass. ‘We first met in the summer of nineteen twenty—five,’ he declared at
last, one large eye fixed upon Anselm. ‘I count it one of the greater blessings
of my life.’ He paused and lowered the lens, his memory wandering into the
past. ‘At the time I was a thatcher. I’d come to mend a roof … shortly after
meeting Baden-Powell in London. Shook his hand, you know We talked privately of
the South African war and the siege of—’

‘Sylvester,’
interrupted Anselm, snatching the newspaper and the glass and placing them on a
side table, ‘did Herbert serve on the Western Front?’

The
Gatekeeper tucked his thumbs into his string belt and said, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well,
I met a woman today … near the hives … she was standing over Herbert’s
grave. She looked upon him with such … I can’t quite put my finger on it, but
it was something like disillusionment … and blame.’ Anselm wanted the wisdom
and sense that only the aged can give; he wanted Larkwood’s night watchman to
tell him there were no wolves within the city walls to threaten his memory and
understanding. ‘She said he’d judged a man … for a capital offence … that
he knew the
meaning
of a trial.’

Sylvester’s
watery blue eyes studied Anselm with an old fondness. He smiled, gently and
winked. ‘I met her, too,’ he confided. ‘She’s made a mistake, that’s all.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes’
— Sylvester flapped a bony hand at something and nothing — ‘I met her at
reception. Full of questions. All about Herbert, before he came to Larkwood.
Had he left any letters, notes, sermons —Lord, you name it — anything at all to
do with a court martial. Had he said
this,
had he said
that?
We
had tea, you know. And I’ll tell
you
what I told
her.
I knew
Herbert for well over half a century He was my Prior. He was my friend. When
his mother died, he told me first. Same with his father. And may these
listening walls bear witness — and they’ve heard a lot over the years — I never
heard him mention the Great War once.’ He slapped Anselm’s knee. ‘It was a
long, long time ago. The young lass has made a mistake, trust me.

That
was typical of Sylvester. Anyone younger than seventy was a mere whippet. But Anselm
wasn’t altogether convinced. ‘She seemed pretty sure to me.

‘That’s
the nature of a mistake, my boy’

‘The
point is, she didn’t come alone.’

‘Really?’

‘No.
There was an old man … old by your standards … and he must have been sure
of something because he just stood beyond the trees, weeping. It was awful. I
felt helpless.’

The
disclosure landed heavily on Sylvester’s confidence. He wrapped a trailing end
of orange twine around one hand, as though he’d use it to climb up a wall. ‘Weeping?’

‘Yes.’

The
watchman coloured slightly Dropping the twine, his hands rummaged in his
pockets. Then his lips formed as though to whistle. To reach him, for he seemed
to be drifting away Anselm slapped the Gatekeeper’s knee. ‘But you should know,
Bearer of the Lantern. There must be some mistake. Has to be.’

‘Yes,
of course …

‘Another
Herbert, that’s all.’

‘Aye.’

‘A
different Moore.’

Sylvester
groaned and reached for his paper and magnifying glass. He was not the same man
who’d been lodged contentedly in his niche. Another troubled fellow had slipped
into his skin. Moving the lens across the page, he said, uncertainly, ‘Now …
where was I?’

‘Burley
nil, I think,’ mumbled Anselm.

2

On waking the next day
Anselm’s first thought was upon the obvious:

Kate
Seymour had come to the reception alone; the old man had remained outside the
monastery, just as he’d kept back from the graveyard. It was a compelling image
of shame, remorse or respect — Anselm couldn’t tie it down, but its force sent
him to the Prior’s door.

‘I’m worried
about something,’ said Anselm, taking a seat by a window on to the cloister
garth.

‘Let’s
be quiet for a moment,’ the Prior replied, closing his eyes briefly.

Despite
living most of his life in a Suffolk monastery, the Prior’s Glaswegian accent
remained untarnished. His hair was very short, silvered and spiked. Thick
eyebrows, also silver and sharp, pressed against round, cheap spectacles. His
eyes were smouldering and dark, and so deep that they seemed to lack any
specific colour.

‘Now,
go to the end of your concerns,’ he said, intensely present to Anselm’s
disquiet.

Ordinarily
when listening, the Prior communicated very little save this defining
concentration that threatened to absorb the speaker. But no sooner had Anselm
mentioned the visitors to Herbert’s grave than his eyes moved with a kind of
fearful recognition.

‘Sylvester
believes they’ve made a monumental mistake,’ said Anselm, ‘but I’m not so sure.
I was present at a terribly private moment for that old man, whoever he might
be. It was as though something had happened in his life that reaches right into
Herbert’s … identity. The woman said as much.’

The
Prior nodded and then lapsed into thought, his eyes on the Garth.

‘There’s
no mistake,’ he said reluctantly after a while. ‘I know the name of the man who
kept his distance. Herbert longed to meet him. He lived much of his life hoping
and waiting that one day the man you saw might come to Larkwood.’ The Prior
went to a cupboard in the corner of the room and withdrew a cardboard box.
Placing it squarely on the table between them, he said, ceremonially ‘Anselm, I’m
going to tell you Herbert’s secret. Though he’s dead, he needs our help. And
so, it seems, does Joseph Flanagan.’

Outside
a light wind found the Lark’s valley and the old oaks lost their poise.
Listening to the Prior, Anselm placed himself in the common room, years and
years ago — long before he’d ever thought of a life as a monk — imagining he
was present when Herbert Moore had wrecked a bit of fun on Christmas Day.

The festivities were over
and evening had fallen. Everyone had gathered before a dangerously large fire.
Long flames licked the back wall of the hearth, devouring sweet wrappers and a
few stale cupcakes. Someone suggested a diversion whereby each monk would
reveal whom he’d like to meet most, and what he’d say if he got the chance.
Since Larkwood was a sort of upside-down place, another monk tipped the idea on
its head: you had to state
who
might want to see
you,
and
disclose what
he
or
she
might have to say The room for embarrassment
was colossal, so everyone eagerly approved the bespoke version. Lots of
outlandish encounters were duly revealed, until it came to Herbert’s turn.
Despite the laughter, his head had fallen on his chest, as though he were
asleep. After a nudge and some bawdy cheering, he looked up, his face drawn,
his mouth slightly open. Someone egged him on, repeating the rules. Herbert
scanned the community anxiously as though he were searching for a face in a
foreign crowd. With a wavering hand, he drew the Prior towards him and mumbled
that he was tired. An awkward silence extinguished the banter and the old man
shuffled between the chairs towards the arched door that led to the night
stairs. Fretting, the Prior followed his steps, for Herbert had also whispered,
‘I must speak to you …
now.’

Herbert
propped his sticks against the table in his cell and began talking immediately ‘I’ve
always wondered where he might be now, and what he’d made of his life, but I
had no way of finding him, not after I became a monk:

‘Who?’
asked the Prior, pulling over a stool.

Herbert
slumped in a chair. ‘There is so much I’d like to say to him … but it never
occurred to me, not until tonight, that one day
he
might want to see
me.
There’s a chance … a slim chance.’ As always, Herbert’s large eyes swam
with affection, amusement, tragedy and hope — everyone commented on them; and
now they were bright with a plea. ‘Can I take over reception?’

‘Yes,’
replied the Prior gently appreciating that the Gatekeeper was the first point
of contact with any visitor.

‘Should
he turn up after I’m dead,’ pursued Herbert, ‘tell him this: he must banish any
remorse, There’s no room for guilt. He must lead a full and happy life. Have
you got that? Full and happy’

The
Prior patted Herbert’s arm, assuring him that he’d do as he was asked.

‘And
give him these …’ Fumbling with animation, Herbert reached behind his collar
and tugged on a leather string. Shortly he pulled free two circular bits of
metal, one red, one green. ‘They’re army tags. They represent the two of us,
him and me.’

‘Of
course.

Herbert
smuggled the discs back against his skin. ‘Thank you, Andrew You’re not that
bad as a Prior.’ He closed his eyes and he seemed to have slipped off, though
his lips were moving, as they often did in prayer.

The
Prior coughed. ‘Who is it?’

Slowly
Herbert opened his eyes. His features were fixed, the expression filled with
emotion. ‘Joseph Flanagan.’

In this
way Herbert became Gatekeeper at seventy-five. For fifteen years he sat in
reception, greeting all and sundry, waiting with his message and his two gifts.
Towards the end of his life he yielded the front door to Sylvester, his
understudy Unambiguous instructions came with the responsibility: that contact
details were to be recorded of anyone making a substantive enquiry about any
member of the community. No one ever came for Herbert, not until Kate Seymour
arrived too late with her many questions.

‘He died without that last
wish being fulfilled,’ said the Prior.

Anselm
had slipped into a trance. As a postulant he’d seen Herbert at close quarters
every day often guiding him to the parlour for yet another impromptu
consultation with a stranger who’d sought his guidance. The elder had never
once mentioned the army a trial, or the man who might have finally come to see
him: the one person for whom he was waiting. Anselm remembered the low ringing
of the bell after Herbert had died, that distinctive toll that told everyone to
down tools and assemble in the Chapter Room. Dropping a garden rake, he’d
joined the hushed crowd. The Prior had been unable to speak through his tears.
He’d used the old sign language instead.

‘As
usual, I collected together Herbert’s belongings,’ sighed the Prior, reaching
into the box. ‘This is what I found in his left breast pocket.’

The
Prior passed an envelope to Anselm. The writing on the front was large and
slanted, addressed to Private Harold Shaw of The Lambeth Rifles, British
Expeditionary Force, France. Anselm took out the letter. A glance told him of a
life left behind: of Uncle George’s pigeons, family bowling on a Sunday and a
proud mother whose prayers for her son were constant. It was dated May 1916.

‘I’ve
no idea who Harold Shaw might be,’ volunteered the Prior, ‘or why the letter
was so important to Herbert that he wore it by his heart.’

Anselm
put the note to one side, for the Prior had produced a thick red tome with
several coffee or tea rings on the cover. ‘This book was in his cell.’

The
flysheet announced the
Manual of Military Law,
published by the War
Office in 1914. In the top right-hand corner was a signature in faded blue ink:
H. J. Moore. Anselm read the title and autograph several times, unable to
picture the book in Herbert’s hands, still abstracted by those Christmas Day
revelations. He flicked through the pages, squinting at the tiny print. His
attention fell upon the International Declaration Prohibiting the Discharge of
Projectiles and Explosives from Balloons, signed at The Hague on 18th October
1907. The Hague, he mused, anchoring himself to the present moment. So much was
sorted out at The Hague … even the misuse of a balloon. Cautiously and
mindful of the subsequent ingenuity for killing, he placed the book beside the
letter.