A Whispered Name (4 page)

Since
coming to Larkwood Anselm had had few dealings with Herbert. The old man was
just another shaved head on the far side of the chapel, where he often fell
asleep. When awake, he’d sometimes wink across the nave, as if to say that
mischief lay at the heart of mystery. So it came as a welcome surprise when, in
the sixth month of his postulancy the Prior appointed Anselm as Herbert’s
assistant. Of course there was no knowing at the time, but Herbert was to die
within a year. Fortunately Anselm had already concluded that the man he would
assist was of a rare order. He entered upon his duties with wide, attentive
eyes; with, as the Rule advised, the ear of his heart inclined to the Master.

Which
was all well and good. But Herbert wasn’t the kind of man to volunteer
guidance. His strength lay in
who
he was. Even his bending down to pick
up a dropped match had become a recollected activity. Simply to watch him move
was inspiring. As a result, Herbert didn’t really utter anything of
spellbinding consequence to Anselm. It was as though he’d said all he had to
say out there beneath the trees in the stranded Cortina. He talked, rather, of
his childhood, often touchingly His mother’s sandwiches had enjoyed a legendary
reputation … his father had loved the pebble beach by Derwent Water … these
were the kind of disclosures that punctuated a stroll by Our Lady’s Lake or
the grove of aspens that surrounded the hives. They were like small flowers
gathered from his infancy, their fragrance known only to him. To an extent he
was a secret man. He never once touched upon his role in the history of the
Priory Anselm learned that from the other monks.

Herbert
had joined a Gilbertine community in Belgium: Notre Dame des Ramiers (popularly
known as Les Ramiers). That in itself was not remarkable, since those called to
monastic life are always drawn to a specific
place.
Herbert, however,
was asked to help establish a new foundation in Suffolk, which duly brought him
and a number of others to a heap of dilapidated buildings by the Lark, which
they restored — apparently (and this taxed the imagination) with the help of
Sylvester. At the age of forty, Herbert was elected Prior, a remarkable event
because he’d only been professed for eight years. But such was the appeal of
the man. His reputation spread. People came from all over to seek his advice,
for he seemed to understand in advance any situation, however vexed, however
much blame and innocence were muddled into a crisis. His eyes revealed an
inexplicable fusion of joy and sorrow. He cried easily — happily, or in shared
sadness. By the time Anselm came upon the battered Cortina, Herbert had been at
Larkwood for fifty-six years. The car — a sort of motorised wheelchair —had
been the object with which he was universally and fondly identified.

This
was the community’s memory And it became Anselm’s experience.

Almost
every week someone arrived at reception asking to see Herbert. They were from all
walks of life and often complete strangers. By their manner and questions some
were evidently unfamiliar with, or unenthusiastic about, religious
institutions. Not a few were distressed. With his arm like a rail, Anselm would
lead Herbert to the parlour. On entering, the old man would sigh with delight
and raise his arms, his fingers characteristically spread out, as if his limbs
were straining to give effect to the warmth and extent of his welcome. Anselm
would withdraw, wanting desperately to stay and listen: he was quite sure that
Herbert said nothing about extravagant picnics or the fall of light upon
Derwent Water.

When
Herbert died, Anselm was all but overwhelmed with sadness. Despite the
privilege of his position, he’d never really got to know the man who’d drawn
him into Larkwood. Over the following years he listened attentively whenever
Herbert’s name was mentioned. Through passing, affectionate conversations he
learned more about the man who’d gone, what he’d said and what he’d done. It
took time for a peculiar truth to emerge in Anselm’s mind. But it dawned on him
nonetheless: to none of these others, Sylvester included, had Herbert ever
spoken of fidelity to a sacred fire or the want of accidents.

Chapter Four

1

Kate Seymour’s business card
did not ‘turn up’, despite an extensive search of reception and each of
Sylvester’s many crammed pockets. That she was the daughter of the old man was
a fair assumption shared by the entire community; that he was Joseph Flanagan
and had made a first and last pilgrimage to Larkwood was virtually certain. For
once, the mislaying wasn’t only tiresome; it was serious, for nothing could be
done to effect Herbert’s wishes until it surfaced. In the meantime, Sylvester
condemned himself in silence, forgetting to shave for the first time in seventy
years. His stubble, in patches and rather like moulting fluff, aged him
dramatically In choir he padded to his stall, reminding Anselm of those forlorn
sheep with half their coat trailing on the ground. The community was again of
one mind: the Gatekeeper was distressed as much by what he’d done as the
discovery of Herbert’s selective trust.

Only
the Prior was untroubled, being content to let matters take their course. He
did, however, have several conferences with Brother Bede, who was responsible
for the archives. Bede was always red in the face as if he’d washed his loins
in liniment. It made him look awfully wounded and serious. With the Prior’s
attention resting on his expertise, he’d acquired a further rash of blistering
importance which Anselm found almost impossible to look upon. Anselm’s direct
engagement with recent events and the memory of Kate Seymour’s disappointment
in a man special to his memory had implicated Anselm in a personal way with the
resolution of the crisis — at least as far as he was concerned. But the Prior
had simply stepped around him … to raise the temperature on Bede’s
self—esteem.

It was
with a cluster of such prickling thoughts that Anselm went to his hives,
pausing among the aspens to ponder on Herbert’s role in Joseph’s ordeal.
Law
and love,
he’d said …
it’s not always a happy marriage
… was
that part of the meaning of the trial? Before Anselm could develop the thought
he heard footfalls behind him on the path. He turned to see the Prior.

‘Can
the bees spare you for a moment?’ he enquired, coming level.

Anselm
led him through the leaning crosses to the bench among saints.

‘Bede
has checked the archives,’ began the Prior, without preamble. ‘He found nothing
whatsoever of relevance. But while digging out the boxes he had an idea. A good
idea. He suggested contacting the Public Records Office — the PRO — at Kew
Gardens in London.’

‘To
what end?’

‘It
holds the national archives … and millions of documents from the old War
Office, including the transcripts of First World War courts martial.’

While
the Prior possessed Herbert’s message and the tags, what he did not have was an
understanding of
the trial.
And that was the central issue, he stressed,
even to Mr Flanagan himself. On this matter neither the Prior nor anyone else
could say anything — as Herbert would surely have wished — because Herbert had
never shared his thoughts on the matter. Not holding out much hope of success,
the Prior had rung the PRO and had eventually been referred to a Military
Specialist called Martin Reid. ‘A Scot,’ added the Prior with approval. ‘And he’s
familiar with “The Flanagan file”. So much so that he knew the names of the
court’s members.’ Herbert was indeed one of the three — a knowledge of detail
that struck Anselm as extraordinary — but the Prior had moved on, saying that
the trial was a complete anomaly.

‘Only
the papers relating to
executed
soldiers were kept by the War Office.
The rest were destroyed … which means that, in principle, Private Joseph Flanagan
was shot by a firing squad in September nineteen seventeen.

Anselm
looked towards the aspens, to a spot well beyond Herbert’s grave. The old man’s
shoulders had moved horribly like an injured child’s.

‘I said
nothing to Mr Reid about our visitors, or Herbert’s message, said the Prior.
He, like Anselm, had sensed a very private purpose in their coming to Larkwood.
‘And that makes his next remarks all the more fascinating. Joseph Flanagan’s
trial is anomalous in that no one knows what actually happened — either through
the court process or afterwards. There’s no record of the outcome; no record
that he returned to the ranks; no record of imprisonment; no record of death;
no record of burial; he was never discharged; his name does not occur upon a
single monument or memorial. It’s as though he vanished into thin air.’

And
vanished he did, thought Anselm, until last week. ‘What’s held at the national
archives?’

‘A
complete transcript of the evidence.’

‘Anything
else?’

‘I didn’t
ask. He suggested I come and read the file for myself. It’s a public document.’
The Prior’s eyes wandered over the hives, a slow swing from right to left,
squinting at the names of saints and sinners. ‘Even if I had Kate Seymour’s
business card, I wouldn’t call her, not just yet. As I say it’s always good to
wait. Especially when there’s something else to be done.’ He waved away a bee,
his prickly concentration falling at last upon Anselm. ‘I’d like you to study
this file. Read it warily See if you can feel the heat of
meaning.
Something
that even now might bring life to Joseph Flanagan.’

Anselm
nodded, humbled, for the Prior was far more capable of carrying out that
particular task than himself. He made a text live. On occasion, his sermons
could be exhilarating, something to make you run outside and drag people in
from the byways.

‘There
seems little doubt that Herbert’s hope has not been fulfilled.’ The Prior’s
voice had changed, the warmth of tone revealing his own attachment to Herbert;
and at that moment Anselm noticed that at no point in their discussions had the
Prior rehearsed a single private, memory of Herbert in relation to
himself
…
which at once outlined their depth and significance. ‘We can’t simply give the
man you saw some tags and a message, as if Herbert had left a scrap of paper
with Sylvester. First and foremost, we need to understand what happened between
these two men in nineteen seventeen. One found peace, the other did not. And if
things follow their usual course, Kate Seymour’s address will turn up just when
we need it most.’

‘But
why me?’

Of
course Anselm recognised his own qualifications: as a lawyer he’d had
appropriate training and he understood French, which might assist with any
ancillary documents. But he was quite sure these were not the Prior’s reasons.

‘Long
before you revealed your desire to be a monk, Herbert said that one day you’d
come to Larkwood.’

‘Really?’
Anselm recalled again their long conversation in the battered Cortina. He’d
said nothing of his intentions.

‘He
also said that you reminded him of himself, from the days when he’d been lost.’
The Prior put a hand on Anselm’s shoulder. ‘That’s why I want you to go and
find him.’

2

It was thus with a sense
of Herbert’s deep imprint on his own history, and that of Larkwood, that Anselm
prepared for his trip to London. Increasingly he was struck that while old
soldiers might keep quiet about their experiences, it was nonetheless
extraordinary that Herbert had said nothing to Sylvester about his time in the
army They’d met when memories were fresh and raw; it would have been difficult
if not impossible to avoid reference to the war and how it might have touched
them. But then a cog clicked in Anselm’s mind:
Sylvester
never spoke
about it either. He’d lived through the trauma and its aftermath, and yet he
was permanently locked into the Boer conflict of the previous century After
that, it was as though the world had been saved by Baden-Powell and boy scouts
armed with sheath knives and balls of string. He’d leapfrogged one of the
defining catastrophes of the twentieth century With this incongruity scratching
at his mind, Anselm rang Martin Reid at the national archives to arrange a
meeting.

The
Military Specialist was a natural conversationalist, the sort of man you’d
invite to animate a potentially subdued dinner party. Quite how they got on to
the subject of personal histories passed Anselm by, but he learned that Martin
had been in the ‘Silent Service’ of the Royal Navy (submarines) until a degree
in war studies brought him out of uniform and into the service of the national
archive. His primary academic field was First World War Naval Operations, but
an interest in military discipline had led him to other troubled waters. His
voice was wonderfully smooth, leading Anselm to suspect that the Scots accent
had been pressed through a sieve at Dartmouth.

‘The
Flanagan file stands out in several respects,’ said Martin. ‘But the first clue
to its significance is the timing.’

The
court martial took place during a lull in the battle for Passchendaele, the
name of a village that would henceforth be associated with carnage and
unimaginable suffering. Herbert’s unit had just carried out a costly attack
east of Langemarck. His regiment, and several others, had withdrawn to
Oostbeke, near Poperinghe. For the next two weeks — between 2 and 17 September
1917 — they prepared intensively for an engagement on the Menin Road.