Remember Me

by Penelope Wilcock

  He wished Oswald would just say the words of absolution and it would be done. Instead, Oswald asked him, painstakingly framing the words, “Have you let this love go?”

  “What?” said William. It was completely incomprehensible. Oswald took his hand and asked the question again… and again… as he traced the letters of his words on William’s palm.

  “Oh,” said William, light dawning. “No. No, I have not. I could sooner let my soul go and watch it fall to hell.” He wondered with a sudden clutch of fright if that was in fact precisely what he’d done.

  “What would you have forgiven?” Oswald traced what forgive on William’s upheld palm.

  William swallowed. “I cannot renounce it, Father,” he said. “I cannot let it go. I am sorry that I had not the forbearance to hold it in my heart only. I’m sorry I went behind John’s back to give physical expression to something neither Madeleine nor I can have. I’m sorry I could not wait in patience for something that almost certainly will never have its day, never come to me. I’m sorry for the lies and that I have to keep the truth concealed from John. I’m sorry for having created the situation. But I’m not sorry for the love.”

  Oswald released William’s hand and groped for the beaker of drinking water that stood on the small table at his side. He dipped his fingers in it and shook the water in the general direction of his friend. “Asperges me, Domine…” He pronounced the absolution, and as he said the familiar if undistinguishable words, William’s mind raced, in turmoil. What had he done? How safe would this information be? This man was lonely, and bored, and not completely incapable of speech. He tried to pay attention to the spiritual depth of what was happening and failed completely. But he took it in all seriousness and knew enough about Oswald’s own history to be sure he would be neither shocked nor surprised.

  “Would you give me penance?” he asked.

  He could not understand Oswald’s reply at all, and after another unsuccessful attempt, Oswald reached for his hand again.

  William watched the finger of his brother trace the words on his palm: Go… on… living. Then Oswald folded William’s hand shut and returned it to his lap. Evidently he thought the situation itself provided penance enough.

  “Thank you, my brother,” said William quietly. He wanted to secure Oswald’s promise that he would keep this confidence, stress to him that not a hint of this must reach anyone, but he restrained himself. He would not stoop so low as to insult his brother, a priest of the church, with the suggestion that he might break the sacred silence of the confessional, even if he doubted his steadfastness as a friend. “Thank you. I must go now, but I’ll come back soon.” Even as he said the words he knew he’d added another lie to the ones from which Oswald had only just that minute absolved him. He would come back when he had to, when guilt pushed him to it, when he couldn’t put off a visit any longer. And it was past what he could imagine of himself that he would come back sooner. The familiarity of shame at who he was settled round him as he made his farewell and finally walked away.

  Anxiety fretted at him lest Oswald not keep his confidence. He knew Oswald well enough that it would not surprise him at all if he did not. He felt ashamed of his own insufficiency as a friend, his lack of charity as a monk, his cynicism as a man. He walked into the checker feeling thoroughly at odds with himself and the whole of the world.

  Brother Ambrose looked up from the table over which he was bent, making up bundles of garden twine. “Oh—there you are, Father. Our abbot was looking for you. I said I’d send you over when you got back. Been at the infirmary?”

  “Yes. What’s the matter with him? Father John I mean.”

  Brother Ambrose perceived that the brief glimpse of sunshine he’d seen this morning had clouded over again.

  “I think, Father—though I can’t swear to it—that he’s not as enamoured of your system of lists and checks as you might have been hoping.”

  A quick grimace of exasperation flashed before William suppressed it. He sighed.

  “Oh, all right—I’ll go and find out what’s wrong with him. Why not waste the tail end of the day? The rest of it’s gone.”

  Meanwhile, in the abbot’s house Brother Thomas had returned from his labours on the farm, pleasantly aching from hard work, tired and hungry enough to be looking forward to his supper and an evening with his feet up in conversation with his brothers.

  “Day go well?” his abbot inquired, barely waiting for a reply before continuing. “Oh, I have yet another of these confounded lists—can you help me with it, please? I must learn to be a bit more methodical myself. I’ve got notes here and there. If you could take the tablet and the stylus and write down the guests as I tell you their names, I’ll look through this pile of letters to check who’s coming and when—I mean, I did send word to the guesthouse as each letter came in (or you did, to be accurate)—I can’t see why Father William can’t simply check with Father Dominic. Anyway, are you ready?”

  Not without effort Tom resigned himself to a further demanding chore before the day could end. He obediently took the wax tablet and stood waiting with the stylus poised in his hand.

  “Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes d’Ebassier are coming to visit for just a few days on their way to Scotland toward the end of this month, with all their retinue, so that’s worth making a note of. Sometime during Advent there will be visits from the families of the lads in the novitiate—they’re bound to want to come. But between Michaelmas and All Hallows there is no one much expected except the prior and novice master from St Mary’s in York who want to see Father Theodore and—”

  “Hold on!” Tom interrupted him.

  “What?”

  “You’re going too fast. I’ve only got as far as ‘Sir Geoffrey.’ I haven’t even written down ‘and Lady Agnes d’Ebassier’ yet. By the time I get to the next one I’ll have forgotten what you said. And… well, to be honest, I’m not that grand at writing. How do you spell ‘Geoffrey’? I think it has more than one f, doesn’t it?”

  “What? Not ‘Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes d’Ebassier’ for mercy’s sake!”

  “But—that’s who you said.”

  “Oh, God in heaven grant me patience! Look—Tom, you just write ‘d’Ebassier’, Who else is it likely to be? Holy saints, this is going to take up the whole of the rest of the day! Never mind—just give it to me; I’ll do it myself. Give it to me! No, truly!”

  Looking more than a little hurt, Brother Thomas surrendered the tablet to his superior, then he heard a quick, sharp knock on the door from the abbey court, and he knew who that was.

  William did him the courtesy of a quick glance and a nod as he came into the room and gave his attention to the abbot.

  “You asked to see me?” His tone was brusque.

  Here we go, thought Brother Thomas, flint on flint.

  “I am cumbered about by your confounded lists!” John stood with the tablet in his hands, wishing the only thing written on it was not a misspelling of Sir Geoffrey. “I got rid of the last blasted list to the checker this morning, only to find myself saddled with the task of making another one—of every guest I can think of who’s ever likely to visit me between now until I die or Christ comes again.”

  “Oh. How far have you got?”

  He held out his hand for the tablet. John moved his thumb to cover the name and pressed it down hard and kept it there.

  “I haven’t got anywhere with it. I’ve only just started. It may amaze you to know this, but I do have some other things to do. Brother Thomas tells them at the guesthouse every time we hear someone will be coming. Can’t you go and infest them with your infernal plague of lists?”

  William’s eyes flickered as he regarded his abbot in silence, and that annoyed John even more.

  “Well?”

  “But you agreed—” William tried to sound more patient than he felt.

  “I know I did!” John snapped back. “And I can’t have been thinking straight! You can take your wax tablets and shove ’
em up—” He stopped abruptly.

  Brother Tom turned away from this conversation and occupied himself with some pointless activity that required him to bend down to the hearth. If either of them saw his amusement, he thought the consequences could be dire.

  “Oh, dear, I’m sorry, brother.” John made himself speak more calmly. “It just makes so much more work out of every blessed thing.”

  A thunderous knocking at the cloister door made all three of them jump.

  “Mater Dei! For heaven’s sake! What now?”

  Before Brother Tom could rise to answer it, Abbot John was across the room and had the door yanked open. “Whatever do you think you’re doing, brother? Does ‘quiet’ mean anything to you? What are you trying to do? Knock the door down or raise the blessed dead?”

  Chastened, Brother Benedict, who stood on the step, smote his breast. “Mea culpa. But Father, please—can you come—I can’t find Brother Michael and I think Father Oswald is dead.”

  It took only a split second for his abbot to gather his wits, in which time Brother Thomas had taken the tablet and stylus out of his unresisting hands.

  Abbot John had worked in the infirmary all his adult life. When a matter of life and death was brought before him, he did not delay to discuss it or ask any questions. Lifting his hand to the novice’s shoulder to turn him round, he set him off along the cloister as he stepped forward to accompany him.

  “Father William,” he said as an afterthought, looking back, “do you want to come with us?”

  William did not. The thought of it made him feel queasy, but he followed them nevertheless.

  “I’m so sorry,” John said as he strode along beside the novice. “Forgive my impatience, Brother Benedict—I was rude to you. You can tell me what’s happened as we go.”

  By the time they reached the infirmary, Brother Michael was already kneeling by Father Oswald’s body on the floor where it had fallen. What had happened was simple and not unexpected. The men in the infirmary took their supper before the rest of the community, to allow the brothers who worked there the opportunity to eat with the others in the frater later on. Brother Michael had gone outside in haste to get their washing in before the damps of the evening undid the good work of the afternoon sunshine. This left Brother Benedict and Martin, their assistant from the village, to serve the suppers. Three of the old men in the infirmary needed spoon-feeding and could not drink without help. Father Oswald could look after himself, though supervision was advisable. He had mastered the art of eating remarkably well, but the danger of choking remained an everpresent threat.

  And this time he had lost the battle—in the few minutes that Michael attended to the washing and Benedict and Martin fed mashed beans and gravy and rich red wine, with gentle patience, to the frail and ancient inhabitants under their care.

  It would have taken only a few short minutes. Martin heard him choking and thought little of it; Father Oswald needed to hawk and cough his way through every meal. Then he heard the crash of him falling and the chair and table falling, too, and the bowl and beaker smashing as they hit the ground. He left what he was doing, put his head round the door, panicked, and called out for Brother Benedict, who had come at a run but didn’t know what to do. The sight of Father Oswald, his hands to his throat as he fought ineffectually for breath, his face contused purple and his body thrashing on the ground, frightened them both.

  Brother Benedict told Martin to find Brother Michael at once, and he was glad to leave in obedience to this instruction. The novice had found the courage to pick his way through the wreckage and kneel by the choking, writhing body, trying (without success) to tip him forward. He gave him an experimental thump on the back, which made no difference at all. He hit him again, harder, and harder again, and Father Oswald fell limp. Relieved, Brother Benedict thought he had solved the problem at first. But when he spoke Oswald’s name, no response came. Terrified then, he turned the man’s head so he could see his face. Purple still, it sagged unresponsive. It was hard to tell, partly because he had never seen a dead man before and partly because Father Oswald had no eyes, but Brother Benedict thought he might be dead. Without waiting to see if Martin had found Brother Michael, he scrambled to his feet and did the only thing he could think of. He ran for Father John.

  Abbot John did not run, but he put on a fair turn of speed as he walked along the path to the infirmary. William kept his pace with ease, but Brother Benedict had to trot.

  They arrived at the doorway of Oswald’s room to find Michael kneeling at Oswald’s side checking for signs of life, but it was evident that help had come too late. John stopped in the doorway, the other two men behind him. He turned to the novice. Benedict’s face looked pale and pinched with fear. He felt responsible.

  “Brother Benedict,” John said kindly and calmly, “please go and satisfy yourself that Martin has the other men’s suppers in hand and all the feeders have been cared for. Then get a brush, rags, and a pail of soapy water to clean up in here. There’s no call for you to reproach yourself about this. It was waiting to happen. Truly, it could only be a matter of time. We gave Father Oswald some months of peace and dignity here, but there were some things we could not do. Please don’t blame yourself. It was not your fault.”

  The novice nodded gratefully and hurried to make amends for his ineptitude by supervising whatever of supper still waited to be done. John looked at William, appraising his state of mind.

  “You don’t have to come in,” he said. “There is nothing but a body in here.”

  “Thanks!” said Brother Michael over his shoulder.

  That made them both smile, and William felt an obligation to face this moment. He followed John into the room.

  Brother Michael, having assured himself there were no vital signs and death was certain, now got to his feet and picked up the table. Abbot John lifted up the chair. Its cushion was in among the debris of broken crockery and splashed food and drink, so for the moment he let it lie.

  As the two of them set the room to rights, William knelt down beside his friend. With the side of his thumb he signed Oswald’s forehead with the cross of Jesus. He murmured a prayer of blessing, commending his soul to God, and a Pater Noster, an Ave Maria, and a Gloria. Brother Michael and Abbot John stopped what they were doing and stood in the silent reverence of this farewell as he made his prayer. “God bless you, Oswald,” whispered William finally. “May Christ receive you in heaven, and may God have mercy on your soul. May your soul be held safe this day in the hands of God, and there may no torment touch you ever again.”

  He sat back on his heels and stared soberly down at Oswald’s dead face. As he looked at its purple contusion, it occurred to him that without Brother Tom’s swift and clearheaded action earlier in the year, the fallen body of death on the floor might have been himself. In this moment he had no idea at all what he thought about that. He reflected that whatever else an end may be, it offers a solution.

  “Let’s lift him onto the bed.” Abbot John’s quiet voice recalled him. William got to his feet, out of their way, watching his abbot and Brother Michael lift the corpse with practiced ease onto the bed they had just stripped of blankets to receive it.

  “Shall we do it together?” asked Abbot John. Michael smiled at him, nodding his assent. It felt good to work as a team again on this sacred task of washing and laying out the blessed dead.

  Brother Benedict returned with his bucket and rags and brush. William saw that at this point he became nothing more than part of the clutter. He thanked John for letting him come and make his farewell, then slipped away.

  He had lost track of the time, and he didn’t want to go back to the checker. He walked back along the path for the second time that day, reminded himself to speak to someone about fixing those cobbles, went into the church through the Lady Chapel and then to the choir. It surprised him to find men gathering quietly for Vespers. He had not grasped that he’d missed supper, and he didn’t feel hungry. He wondered how long he�
��d knelt by Oswald’s body. Such a curious thing, so uneven—the passing of time.

  Seeing Father Chad in his stall, William crossed the chapel to speak to him. The prior sat in silent meditation, his eyes closed in prayer.

  “Father Chad.”

  The prior’s eyes snapped open as William spoke his name in the softest undertone.

  “Yes? Is something amiss?”

  “Father Abbot is detained. Father Oswald has died—very suddenly. Father John is with Brother Michael in the infirmary now. It may be that you will have to stand in for him for Vespers. Or he may come. I don’t know.”

  As the prior got to his feet with an air of importance, William thought that few things irritated him as much as Father Chad rising to the occasion. He bent his head in a small bow of submission and went back to his own seat.

  Around the chapel, he saw men taking note with the slightest lifting of the head or movement of the eyes that Father Chad sat in the abbot’s place, which signalled some event must have disrupted the routine.

  William sat in his stall, finding the place in the breviary. The silence of the church was more underlined than disturbed by the quiet sound of individuals making their way into the choir. He lifted his cowl over his head and folded his hands inside his sleeves. He felt a momentary impulse of gratitude that Brother Robert had not yet arrived. That novice seemed to find him irresistibly intriguing and watched him most of the time. The only refuge of privacy lay in closing his eyes. For now he let his gaze wander, loving the holiness and austerity of this place of prayer.