A Whispered Name

by William Brodrick

  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?’

  ‘Burnley 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 th
is: 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.

  ‘However, it’s what I found on the body that surprised me most.’

  All Gilbertine Priors prepare their dead for burial. It was a Larkwood custom that the local undertakers couldn’t quite comprehend. During the washing down, Father Andrew had lifted Herbert’s right arm and found traces of a most peculiar wound. A scar ran from the elbow, round on to the forearm, across the wrist, bending into the flat of the hand. ‘As far as I know Herbert had never hurt himself like that in all his years at Larkwood.’

  ‘A war injury, then?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  The Prior nudged his glasses high on to his nose. ‘Of course I kept the tags. Here, take a look.’

  They were round and well worn, like game tokens. Anselm made a start: he’d expected to read a name he recognised. Instead, each tag had been stamped 6890 Private Owen Doyle. ‘Who the hell is Doyle?’

  ‘God knows,’ replied the Prior.

  A letter, a book, a scar, and some tags. Anselm’s mind began to float away once more. These relics didn’t really belong to the prayerful man who’d slept during Compline. What did they all mean? Part of his intelligence set to work without him, for he heard himself say, ‘You can still fulfil Herbert’s request. Kate Seymour must have given her address to Sylvester.’

  The Prior promptly left the room and returned ten minutes later, carefully snipping the door into place.

  ‘She left a business card,’ began the Prior, back by the Garth. With a fingernail he tightened the paperclip repair on his glasses. ‘Unfortunately, our man at the Gate can’t find it.’

  Anselm closed his eyes. There was always a risk with Sylvester. His memory was half shot, finding greatest accuracy in his youth, when the horse had given way to the engine. His dislike of all contraptions without cogs or springs – especially the telephone – meant that reported conversations were often garbled; and written messages frequently vanished, though they usually turned up after a while. This lapse, then, was no real surprise. And, in a way, it was the Prior’s fault for having kept him at reception. But he would have none other in his place. Sylvester, he frequently argued, was the face of the Gilbertines. He carried the community with him. He was the right monk to first meet any traveller.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘What we always do,’ replied the Prior, supremely undisturbed. ‘We wait. It is always good to wait.’

  Anselm began his descent from the Prior’s study, negotiating the narrow spiral stairs. He had a strange feeling of interlude, as before a great awakening; as when the sky is bruised before dawn. All will be laid bare, he thought, seeing again that old man in tears by the aspens. The fields will lose their shadows. It was a matter of necessity. Anselm’s thoughts, however, soon turned in the opposite direction, away from what must come to pass, towards the contingent; to the small accidents that had helped change the direction of his life.

  Chapter Three

  1

  It was chance that first brought Anselm to Larkwood Priory. Aged eighteen he signed up for a school retreat in order to avoid an otherwise compulsory geography trip. However a glance at a vocations leaflet on the last day left him subtly changed, for the words slipped deep into the housing of his mind and heart. In the years to come they rattled the bolts between the two and tapped insistently upon the more obscurely located windows. He learned in due course that Herbert had written them:

  We can’t promise happiness,

  but if God has called you to be here

  you will taste a peace this world cannot give.

  This pledge tracked Anselm from schools in England and France to university at Durham and a career at the London Bar. And so did its geography: Larkwood itself had touched his life, leaving a sort of wound that would not heal. While progressing in the law from hit and miss performances in the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court to the occasional scintillating triumph at the Old Bailey, his inner eye remained upon a folding of low hills, thick trees and a mishmash of pink and russet tiles. The clumsy chimes from the bell tower floated over the Suffolk dales, the M11, and a maze of London’s streets, to reach a spacious flat in Finsbury Park, where they reminded Anselm that peace might yet be his. A special kind of peace. The words on the leaflet were like a voice by his ear.

  Being a lawyer, Anselm examined the main clause. Peace was on offer ‘if God has called you to be here’. There was, unfortunately, no room for argument. The
re could be no wrangling towards an acceptable compromise. It was only when a tourist from a distant land snapped his photograph outside the Royal Courts of Justice that Anselm recognised the enormity of the problem: the fellow had gone away with the wrong picture; the man in wig and gown was not truly Anselm. Defeated but profoundly unsure, Anselm decided to return to the place of his undoing. He was thirty. It had taken him twelve years to act on what he’d read.

  At first he kept his distance. There was a charming B&B in the village and from there Anselm made discreet excursions into the monastic enclosure. But once upon its tangle of aimless lanes his longing grew intense, even painful. This place was home, though he didn’t know anyone who lived there, though he’d never been inside the cloister. Weakened and miserable, he’d drive back to his flat and untie the red tape on the papers of another trial. This is real life, he’d say: defending the possibly innocent or the probably guilty. But he didn’t believe his own rhetoric. After a few weeks of terrible homesickness he reserved the same room in the same B&B. The owners thought he just loved the homemade Suffolk dumplings (known as ‘swimmers’ because they floated).

  At length Anselm left the lanes and bushes behind and entered the chapel. He sat at the back, eyes on a glimmer in the sanctuary, stunned by the silent celebration within himself. Distantly and calmly he recognised that there were questions to be answered at some point, but that there was no urgency, no haste in finding the answers: Why does my restlessness speak of God? What are these cowled men doing here? How can a chance reading of a promise so dismantle one’s life? These mind-benders, and more, were all rather remote, because for that one brief moment he felt he was dancing in the waters of life. Thereafter Anselm abandoned the ‘swimmers’ and always stayed in the guesthouse. To no one did he confide his growing desire to cross the gravelled lane marked ‘Private’, the narrow lane that led to the monastery door.

  It was at this moment in his life, when the questions were well formed – ripe, one might say – that Anselm came across an old monk called Herbert.