A Whispered Name (45 page)

Only a
dead man could ask to read the transcript of his life’s undoing, thought
Anselm, marvelling at the poise of the legal mind; thinking of the blocked road
left for those who’d loved a man found wanting.

On that
basis, resumed Kate, all capital court martial files were closed to public
inspection for seventy-five years. But then she came back from Bosnia and found
Seosamh’s Field, and the name of an uncle whose papers had just been released
at the Public Record Office in London.

‘And as
soon as I opened the file,’ said Kate — after her father had stepped outside,
wanting air. He’d sunk away into his beard, his clothes, the sea — ‘I realised
that this was no ordinary trial … that something had happened between Seosamh
and Owen Doyle. The situation was laughable. Here I was, a specialist in
reading bones, and I couldn’t understand the fragments left behind by my own
uncle —’she joined her hands earnestly, dishevelled by feeling — ‘we are so
very grateful to you. For finding Seosamh; and the
wonderful
meaning of
his life … it drove out whatever feeling we had against Father Moore.’

Brendan
was large against the misted window A gale was lifting against him, cleaning
out his mind. He was preparing for the Following, when darkness would give way
to light, when he could be released from the grip of demons.

3

Anselm struggled back
along the beach towards his hotel, hardly noticing the cold, colossal roar from
the sea. He was thinking of Brendan, who’d never told Kate about his brother,
who’d made a field to his memory; and of Kate who’d gone to the national
archives, unable to confide in Martin Reid.’ or, later, Sarah Osborne. Father
and daughter were tracked by the shadows of Muiris and Róisín. A deep privacy
covered them both like a shroud. Unable to make sense of the trial papers, they’d
gone on a pilgrimage to Étaples, Elverdinghe, Ypres and Oostbeke. A display on
the Gilbertines at Les Ramiers had caught Kate’s eye. She’d read the name of
Herbert Moore. And a brief reference to Larkwood had brought Brendan to the
edge of a copse of trees where, remembering the words of Francis P. Joyce, RSM,
he’d wept. Maybe Seosamh was laid in such a place, he’d thought. A beautiful
place untouched by war. He’d never know.

‘The
Following begins at nightfall, Father,’ Kate had repeated, having shown him the
chosen room, a parlour facing the sea. She’d given him the time, too, but had
then slipped back to the language of the island, where commitments were judged
by the placement of the sun. ‘At first light.’ we go to Inisdúr. Would you find
a reading, please? Something for this long-awaited moment?’

In the
peace of his room, to the rattle of windows, Anselm opened his pocket bible at
the Apocalypse, that book on the wrath of the lamb. He quickly turned the
pages, his eyes sharp for two words. Like a bird of prey he flew into an abysm
of thunder, over burning lakes of sulphur.’ beneath a moon red as blood.
Finally he found what he was looking for: the gifts bestowed on the Victor as
he enters the Kingdom of Heaven: manna and stone.

This
was the passage that Herbert would have chosen, Anselm was sure.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Nothing Happens by Accident

Herbert had been at
Larkwood over fifty years when he met a prowling lawyer called Anselm.

Years
previously in the sixties, a green Cortina had been found crashed into the
enclosure wall. The owner couldn’t be traced so the police gave it to Herbert
on the express understanding that he never drove it off the monastery grounds,
because he had no licence. In time it became a sort of wheelchair, and Herbert
enjoyed trundling here and there, whenever he wanted to be on his own.

On one
of those warm November days where summer and winter meet to confuse any sorting
of the seasons, Herbert drove to the very extent of Larkwood’s boundary. Taking
a lane too sharply. he skidded into a ditch. The instantaneous terror roused by
the scraping and final thud was altogether exhilarating. Herbert whistled and
tapped the steering wheel with satisfaction. He caught his breath and looked
out of the window. It was a lovely afternoon. Oaks and chestnuts were shedding
their modesty. You could almost hear them fall. Herbert started laughing,
because he was stuck: an old leaf among other old leaves. A knocking by his ear
made him turn towards an enquiring face. He had light brown hair, tired eyes.’
and he looked far too serious. Herbert wound down the window and quipped.’ ‘Do
you want a lift?’

The
young man smiled woodenly and disappeared into the woods. He came back with a
large branch. After jamming it under the back wheels he issued authoritative
instructions on what Herbert had to do. ‘Father, accelerate gently, and I will
push.’

Maybe
part of becoming old is that you don’t listen very well.

For
whatever reason, out of excitement or playful desperation, Herbert pressed the
pedal to the floor. Mud sprayed high and the car swivelled as if it wanted to
get deeper into the ditch. With some jolting and jamming, more instructions,
and some gentleness this time, the car slid back on to the lane. When Herbert
turned in gratitude to the voice at the window, he almost cried out. The young
man’s face was splattered … and for an horrific instant Herbert saw Quarters
looking back, desperate and terrified, out of the swamp at Ypres … the banks
of the Zenderbeek had collapsed.’ shells soared and crashed on Passchendaele,
the mule sank, its mouth open, the tongue hideously long and blue. ‘Hop in,’ Herbert
chimed, to bluff his panic. ‘I’ll take you back..’

But
Herbert couldn’t stop his hands shaking. He locked them tight on to the
steering wheel, while the old Cortina just stayed put in the middle of the
lane. To calm himself he asked endless questions.’ while the young man wiped
clean his face and hands on a handkerchief Gradually Herbert found his footing
in the present, and he began to hear the answers. ‘Bix Beiderbecke … it’s
hard to say, Teddy Wilson or Art Tatum … the incomparable Maxine Sullivan …
London … Gray’s Inn … Criminal Law …

Herbert’s
saviour was a barrister, dear God.

‘The
Lord wasn’t that fond of lawyers,’ he said with a groan. ‘Law and love … it’s
not always a happy marriage.’

Herbert
couldn’t think of what to say next; and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut, for
while it reflected his own experience the remark was, if anything, a touch
rude. But he was a tough nut, this prowler, and he fought his corner.

‘Might
I suggest something?’ he began, all lawyerly. ‘Love without the law would be
licentious and the law without love would be ruthless.’

Herbert
could almost hear the fellow sit down in court with a flourish and a bang, and
for a moment Herbert was left blinking at the trees, unable to reply. He couldn’t
quite keep pace with his breath. He snatched for air … and his eyes smarted:
in the darkest place of his memory his old mind discerned a strange light.

Herbert
had been the ruthless hand of the law, he’d always known that; but he saw
something else.’ now: of all the lives Herbert’s hand might have touched out
there on the Western Front, of all the many broken men who’d been condemned by
the savagery of a wartime dispensation, Herbert had touched … love. Rough
justice had met a saving mercy. Herbert’s participation in a monstrous crime
had been part of that mystery. In Joseph Flanagan, Herbert’s ruthlessness had
been purified.

He
glanced sideways at the young man, whose name he did not know, grateful for
this precious, accidental gift given in the autumn of his life … while copper
leaves fell from the oaks and chestnuts he’d planted in 1925. He’d received a
word of mercy, from a man who looked so terribly like Quarters.

‘What
do you do here?’ asked the prowler, suddenly. ‘At the monastery, I mean.’

Herbert
gave a slight start. He’d asked the same question, in much the same way. He.’
too, had crept around an enclosure. With an old longing.’ he said, ‘We tend a
fire that won’t go out.’

The
young man frowned.’ not satisfied by half, but inside Herbert smiled. This
fellow wasn’t simply curious. He’d spoken out of a longing, a homesickness …
a kind of hidden misery. The answer he sought would only come to him in the
living: he would, one day, knock on Larchwood’s door.

‘I’m
Herbert,’ he said, to celebrate the moment.

‘And I’m
Anselm.’

After a
shaking of hands, neither one truly understanding the other, Herbert gave the
ignition a savage turn, randomly pressed the pedals with his dancing feet. With
a bang they were off, birds leaping deranged from the trees. He cut through a
field to the Priory, sliding like he used to as a boy, feet in socks along a corridor.
The wheels span frantically but the old Cortina levelled out on a gentle slope,
and it easily made the road.’ finding traction on a collapsed fence. Herbert
drove slowly to the car park, quietly exultant.

‘What
would you have done if I hadn’t turned up?’ asked Anselm, again lawyerly.

Herbert
sensed the eyes of a jury upon him, and a reproving, worldly judge. But he
looked.’ instead, to his puzzled interrogator, the prowler who’d unwittingly
brought the light with him.

‘Nothing
happens by accident,’ he replied, rattling free the keys.

Herbert stayed in his
Cortina, watching Anselm walk away with his hands behind his back, a young man
slightly lost, though not as lost as he imagined. As the unhappy lawyer stepped
through the guest-house door, Herbert felt a completely new type of fear,
alluring in a way, possibly exciting, but frightening all the same.

He
realised that he’d just given to that young man all the wisdom he possessed: it
wasn’t much but it was all Herbert had to give: on an understanding of
accidents and faithfulness. And, speaking for himself, after today there was
nothing left to receive.

Yes.’
thought Herbert.’ I’m frightened because soon I will die.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

1

Anselm lifted the latch on
to the Following of Seosamh Ó Flannagáin. He gently opened the door and
stepped inside. When his eyes had become accustomed to the obscurity he saw six
chairs arranged within arm’s length around a long table. At one end sat
Brendan, a hand spread upon each knee. At the other, facing him, sat John
Lindsay, head bowed. Kate and Sabine were side by side along one length. Anselm
joined Myriam on the other. The circle was complete. Three men and three women.
Three blood relatives mingled with three strangers.

Myriam
struck a match and lit two candles, one at either end of the table. Flickering
light fell upon a wonderful covering, a fabric of purple and orange and blue
and gold. A Joseph’s cloak of many impossible colours, woven, Anselm was sure,
by Róisín. The space between the two flames was agonisingly bare. It was the
length of a man. In the centre.’ upon the vibrant cloth, very small and just
catching the light, were two discs, one red, one green.

‘Now is
the time of memory,’ announced Brendan with a gruff whisper. He’d trimmed his
beard, giving it shape and a kind of bristling softness. His short white hair
was thin, parted cleanly.’ like a boy’s. ‘Speak if moved.’

The
darkness was strong and bore down from the rafters. Outside, the wind had drawn
back. Soft exhalations upon the harbour made the pennants lightly flap and the
main lines clink. The smell of oil and salt filled the room.

‘I was
for ever following you.” began Brendan after an age, his voice both strong and
weak. ‘Did you know, brother?.’

All
eyes rested on the long, burdened table.

‘Of a
night time I followed you.’ often enough, to the teacher’s door, and listened
to that other learning. Of the pink lands and another tongue. Did you know,
Seosamh?’

Brendan
paused, swelling his chest.

‘I
heard my mother’s voice that night, when she gave you her secret blessing. When
she told you to fly, boy, and bring back wonderful tales from far away places.’

Anselm
shrank into the folds of his habit.

‘I
stood at the door when my father begged you to stay, when he said there was one
more field to be made. I heard that, Seosamh, did you know? Well, I made it,
brother … in your name, with these hands.’

Anselm’s
prickling eyes found the two stamped tags, the remains of an executed man on a
robe for an island king: name, number and religion.

‘I
followed you to the slip. I rowed you away from the crowd. Did you think of me
afterwards, as I thought of you?.’

Brendan
stared ahead, as he might have done when the boat pulled away from Inisdúr. It
was a hungry stare, and helpless. And unbearable to witness, because there was
nothing else to be said. This was the moment when friends and neighbours should
have raised their own voices of remembrance — old people who’d once been young
in that crowd. But they’d passed on themselves. Myriam had never met Seosamh. Neither
had Kate. There was no one left. Anselm closed his eyes, reaching wildly for
prayers or hymns, anything at all to drive back this encroaching emptiness …
but then John Lindsay’s voice broke the silence.