A Whispered Name

by William Brodrick

  2

  At the precise time of the meeting Anselm was wrestling with a problem which even to his own mind was of superficial importance. When not in court or wondering how to separate God’s voice from his own (in a forensic sort of way), Anselm’s passion was jazz. The earlier stuff, mainly: Louis, Bix, Bunny … Fats, Teddy Wilson, Earl Hines. Art Tatum. He’d been thinking (wrongly, as it turned out) that these wild cats would have to be caged if he became a monk. Troubled by the notion of no more foot tapping, he’d ambled without purpose to the limits of the enclosure where, to his complete astonishment, he saw a battered green Cortina stuck in a ditch. It had no number plates and the headlights had been smashed long ago. The stranded driver was very old and obviously a Gilbertine because he was dressed in the distinctive black habit and long white scapular. He was laughing to himself. Anselm tapped on the window.

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ said the monk, mischievously.

  Fifteen minutes later, after jamming a branch under the back wheels – a method he’d seen in a film about commandos in the Burmese jungle – Anselm was sprayed in mud, but the vehicle had been salvaged. He sat in the passenger seat and the monk started asking questions, as if he’d known Anselm since childhood but had a lot to catch up on. There they sat, not moving in the middle of the road, surrounded by oaks and chestnuts. It was November. Every now and then a copper leaf floated down, swooping right and left. The path ahead was covered in acorns and split conker shells. Everything fascinated the old man. It was as though the commonplace details of someone else’s life were further proof that existence was wonderful. When Anselm revealed his profession, however, he groaned.

  ‘Ah, the Lord wasn’t that fond of lawyers.’

  Anselm glanced sideways. The old monk’s hair was white and ruffled, and he grimaced. ‘Law and love, it’s not always a happy marriage.’

  Somewhat defensively, Anselm volunteered another analysis, that love without law would be licentious, and law without love would be ruthless. The monk liked that one. He thought it through, moving his mouth round the idea as if it were a gobstopper. Anselm was about to turn the tables and ask the old man what he had done before coming to Larkwood, when, to his own surprise, Anselm’s sights shifted target. ‘Father, what do you do here?’

  The question sprang from Anselm’s longing to understand. He didn’t really care about previous employment histories. He’d watched the monks shuffle to their stalls, their heads shaved and bowed, their robes long and slightly ill fitting; and he wanted to join them, though he didn’t fully know why.

  The old monk seemed to be watching a memory out of the car window. His face became quite serene, though his lips trembled. Suddenly wistful and frail, he said, ‘We tend a fire that won’t go out.’

  Anselm would have liked an extensive exegesis upon that remark, but he was already learning: Gilbertines often lapsed into silence. As if he’d left out something of importance, however, the monk added cheerily, ‘I’m Herbert by the way.’

  He turned on the engine and revved with such force that the car shook and birds fled from the neighbouring trees. He rattled the gear stick and they lurched forward with a terrifying bang. Herbert was enjoying himself immensely. The car swung off the track and bounced through a field. It slid and the wheels span, and Anselm at once understood how the car had ended up in a ditch in the first place. By the time they reached the Priory Anselm was rattled by fear. With forced calm he said, ‘I came across you by accident. What would you have done if I hadn’t turned up?’

  The monk thought for a moment and said, ‘Nothing happens by accident.’

  3

  In retrospect – though one can never be sure of these things – Anselm considered himself altered by that meeting with Herbert. The following morning he woke to a certain brightness in the room; on rising, he felt well-toned and athletic, though he was a man who looked darkly upon strenuous exercise; throughout the following months his mind seemed well aired and, for once, simply furnished. While cross-examining a belligerent policeman he realised that his own private questions no longer stood as riddles above the door to monastic life. Which is not to say that they’d been answered. In meeting Herbert Anselm now understood that it is faith which seeks to understand, not understanding that seeks faith.

  Confidently and freely, like a man leaving his house wide open, never intending to return, he decided to become a Gilbertine monk. As a first step towards asceticism he put all his jazz collection in a crate by the bin. There was no more serious gesture of which he was capable. He said goodbye to Bix and all the other tigers.

  Unfortunately the powers-that-be at Larkwood didn’t immediately share Anselm’s enthusiasm. The novice master suggested he dwell upon Isaiah, Chapter 11, verses one–ten, a passage which Anselm later read with horror, because it laid out the wondrous qualities of a good judge. The community was pushing him away, he thought, back to the law, to the misery that would desiccate the marrow in his bones. Of course it was wise counsel: they had to be sure; and he had to clearly appreciate what he might leave behind. But Anselm refused to be discouraged. For two years he knocked tenaciously upon a heavy door that only opened ever so slowly, ever so cautiously. He looked through the gap, seeing more and more; and the community looked back like puzzled badgers in their set. In fairness, each side blinked once or twice, wondering what they might be letting themselves in for, but each eventually formed the sort of merciful judgement described by Isaiah. Aged thirty-four, jazz records in his bag, Anselm’s feet finally crunched upon the gravel of a lane marked ‘Private’. The door was already open and he stepped into the silence he’d first discovered in the woods nearby, when he’d been lost to the world, when he’d not yet found himself.

  It is a monastic practice that a junior member of the community is given the task of helping an old monk – literally someone for the elder to lean on. The junior helps him manage the night stairs, brings him tea laced with illicit Scotch, steals the newspaper from the library, or takes him out for a breather when it’s not too cold. While these and other mundane tasks are carried out, the elder – in return – usually comes to share his understanding of the silent life. It is a kind of deep teaching by default.

  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 i
n 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. A
nd 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.