His voice sounded flat as he muttered, ‘And what d’you think would be best for her?’
‘That she should go home, of course! But she’s got a mother who, if I had my way, would be locked up for cruelty. Oh’—she tossed her head—‘it’s her business. Believe me, Mr McAlister, I’ve done my best.’
‘I haven’t the slightest doubt about that, Miss Foggerty, not the slightest.’ His face and tone were serious now. ‘And I can only repeat what I’ve already said: she’s lucky to have a friend such as you. I must go now, but who knows, we may be seeing each other again. Anyway, take care of the scarab.’
‘I will, and thank you. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The Brothers had closed the gates of the garden, for they had learned that as soon as night set in all the oil lanterns they could muster would not stop articles disappearing from the stalls. And having been fearful for the precious pieces remaining on the long table, these had been cleared a good hour previously. Today, three dealers had helped to thin out the stock, but there were quite a few pieces still to be packed away, and Don McAlister saw to this himself, for tomorrow he would have to unpack them again to join with some special pieces for a private showing.
The other articles not yet sold were being packed by the Brothers in the storeroom ready for the next day, when Paddy O’Connell would surely be round to offer them a pittance to take them off their hands.
One of the Brothers, passing Don, said, ‘Not a bad day, Don. Eight pounds tuppence ha’penny for books and rig-outs.’
‘Good. Good, Peter.’
‘Aye, it may be, Don; but I’d rather dig the plot or shovel coal any day in the week. Outside, people are odd you know, Don, very odd. Half of them frighten me to death.’
‘Go on with you.’ Don pushed the Brother in the shoulder. ‘You’re an old fraud; you like being with people,’ and bending towards him, he whispered, ‘and if the prior knew about the stuff you give away, he’d have you on the carpet. He already wonders why there’s not more coal roundies on his fire at night.’
The elderly monk’s face became full of concern, and his voice was very low as he said, ‘I only put a few bits in the lad’s bag when he leaves at night, and there’s a squad of them. I bet you got that from Brother David or Brother Malcolm, ’cos they’re up there in the schoolroom with the pampered children. Not that they do much teaching, for they’re forever looking out of the windows spying. Anyway, God knows what I do, and that’s all that matters.’ And at this the elderly man shuffled off, and Don shook his head. Dear Brother Peter. And if there was such a thing as a holy man, he was a holy man. He was the only one of the Brothers who could neither read nor write, yet he could count money up to a pound. He also took on the most menial and distasteful tasks that could befall a man, with never a murmur. But he could never accept he was being teased in all good faith about his cribbing of coal and any loose pieces he could lay his hands on in the kitchen, even from the food store, if he wasn’t watched, and all to give to some deserving child.
He called to him now, saying, ‘Peter, if anyone should ask for me I’ll be in the chapel.’
‘Oh, you’re going into the chapel?’ The old man’s face lit up: ‘Good. Good; I’ll tell them.’
As Don made his way to the private chapel, he told himself that hope never dies in a good heart, for he knew that Peter hoped, as they all did, that one day he would tire of his liberty and the wickedness of the outside world and return to the order and peace that lay within these old walls, this priory that had been conceived on a rise amid fields that stretched to the river, but which was now so surrounded by habitations of all kinds that the inhabitants wondered how it was that peace still reigned within its precincts.
The chapel was small, as was its altar. At one side there stood a statue of the Virgin with the child in her arms, and at the other, the statue of a robed youth, St Aloysius, the Italian Jesuit monk who, at the age of twenty-three, willed himself to die following a life of scourging, prayer, fasting, and self-denigration.
He himself always felt guilty about this statue because he found it impossible to honour this saint: to his mind he had wasted his young life. Also, he found it odd that the patron saint of the Jesuits should be standing on a Benedictine altar. The story went that, years ago a man of wealth entered the Brotherhood with one condition: that he could bring with him the family statue; and, as money always talks, his unusual demand was permitted.
After genuflecting towards the altar, Don McAlister entered the first pew. He did not kneel, but sat staring at the large wooden cross attached to the wall and from which limply hung the body of Christ, the head hanging well forward, the face grey.
After staring at it for a moment he closed his eyes, then muttered, ‘Tell me what I should do. It’s like this …’
After he had finished speaking he sat silent, waiting.
When the inner voice came to him, saying, ‘Why come to me when you’ve already made up your mind,’ he answered, ‘But I want to know if I’m right to interfere.’
‘Well, you know for a fact,’ said the voice, ‘if you don’t interfere you’ll go back there and your days will be plagued with the question of why you didn’t do something about it when you had the chance. And if I remember rightly, you are apt to use the phrase “Chance never repeats itself”; and also, “There’s no time like the present”.’
Don McAlister lifted his hand, opened his eyes and looked up into the face that seemed as if it were looking down into his, and he said low but audibly, ‘Father Prior won’t like it when I leave tomorrow; he’ll be disappointed.’
Did he hear the voice utter a laughing ‘Huh!’?
A gentle smile came on his lips, because he knew exactly what Father Prior would say. Don McAlister now did a strange thing: he got to his feet, put both hands together as in prayer, then pressed them against the face of Christ before bringing them to his own bandaged cheek, murmuring reverently, ‘Thy will be done. I believe; help Thou my unbelief.’
Father Prior said, ‘Oh no! Don; not tomorrow. It’s the day before Christmas Eve. You know how the Brothers love you here at this time. And Christmas Day, so full of jollity, is the only time in the year I can listen to Brother John playing that dreadful mouth organ of his, and then only because your voice guides him. And don’t forget there’s a special showing of the pieces. But tomorrow, why tomorrow? You always stay till the New Year.’
‘Well, Father Prior, suddenly I have some business I must attend to.’
‘Suddenly?’
‘Yes, Father Prior, suddenly. So suddenly that I…I went in’—he jerked his head towards the chapel—‘and asked His advice.’
Father Prior looked down at his hands resting on his desk and thought, Dear! Dear. That again! He recalled the fuss there had been about it when the three-year-old Don said that Jesus had spoken to him and told him why his face was stained. Dear! Dear! That had been a time. He himself had still been only a Brother then, and he had been put in charge of the maimed child. He had done his best to rid the boy of the idea that Christ was able to talk to him from the Cross; but he had succeeded only by keeping him out of the chapel. Unfortunately this had brought on nightmares, bedwetting, and bouts when he was so defiant that nothing could be done with him. And so, eventually, he had been allowed to go his own way, which was towards Brother Percival and sculpting. From then on he developed into a normal boy, then a normal young man, except that an obstinate nature developed with him, which was to manifest itself when Father Broadside requested—no not requested but demanded—that he be sent to a famous Catholic Seminary to be trained as a priest. It would be enough, the Father Prior of that time had decided, if he became a Brother, for he considered Don to be a Brother in all but name. But here they ran into another obstacle, for Donald McAlister, the child they had reared and who should, through gratitude alone, have pleased them by joining their Benedictine Community, had told them flatly that he d
id not consider himself to be a Brother or cut out to continue that form of life.
When asked if he was aware that he could not go out and face the world in his condition, he answered plainly that he was well aware of the drawback, and so he would work for them with Brother Percival and in this way repay them for their kindness.
Finally, Father Prior remembered the day the Abbot had called and asked Don why he was so obstinate, and he had replied that he didn’t know; and that he had asked the Lord about it but hadn’t received a straight answer from Him, but just the words ‘wait and see.’
The Abbot and Father Prior had talked late into the night about this statement and both agreed that it was just as well that the young man remained under the care of the Brothers, because, let it get about that Jesus was speaking from the Cross to one of them, then half the population would be outside the gates wanting another miracle. No; the best thing was to keep him, as it were, under guard. They would know where they had him then.
Jesus talking from the Cross. Dear! Dear! What next?
Then came the day the solicitor arrived and informed Don of his inheritance. Was that only eight years ago? And what a difference it had made in him. He had gone out into the world and accepted it gladly, as if he had been waiting for it to happen. Of course, he had had to find out that the world did not always accept oddities gladly. But he knew that, in spite of this, he had left them for good.
Father Prior now looked up at the tall figure of a man who would have been very handsome had he been able to reveal a normal face, and he said, ‘You know, Don, you are always disappointing people. When I had the care of you as a boy you were forever disappointing me. Then you disappointed our good’—it seemed he was having difficulty in controlling his features as he said—‘Father Broadside, when all he wanted to do was to put you into the hands of God. And then there was that do with our dear Abbot. Oh, you are a disappointment to so many people, Don. Do you know that?’
‘Yes, Father Prior; and I’ve heard it all before: He said your very words to me not five minutes gone.’
Father Prior swiftly raised his hands from his desk and rose to his feet, and his voice took on a stern tone as he said, ‘You’re not still keeping up that game, are you, Don?’
Don McAlister, his face straight and his voice as serious as the Prior’s, said, ‘It is His game, Father; it has never stopped. And while we’re on the subject, Father Prior, and I have never brought this up before, I ask you: haven’t we all got a small, still voice inside us that keeps telling us what is right and what is wrong?’
The Prior’s head moved from side to side before he agreed, ‘Yes; yes, I suppose so, Don.’
‘Well, I don’t know how others react to their small, still voice, but mine has never been still. Small, yes; when I was young it spoke to me as one child speaks to another, but as I grew, it grew with me. There was only one difference: as a child we seemed to agree about most things, but in my youth it acted as a parent might; then when I became a man it left the decisions to me, the while being critical of them. I suppose one of your modernwriters on psychology who deal with the duality in human nature would say I was just talking to myself, asking questions and giving myself the answers I had already prepared. Of late, I’ve read quite a bit about that kind of thing. Still, what d’you say, Father Prior?’
The Prior cleared his throat, then coughed before he said, ‘What can I say that you don’t already know, Don? I have never liked this attitude of yours; it…it is not natural.’
‘Talking to God is not natural, Father Prior? May I ask how you talk to God?’
‘You know quite well, Don, how we talk to God. God the omnipotent has to be approached with reverence, as has his only begotten son, Jesus Christ.’ He bowed his head as he spoke the name.
They stared at each other until Don said, ‘I know that, Father Prior, and I’m never irreverent, but the difference between us is that I cannot see Him away up there in the never-ending sky. I suppose a part of the child is still in me. Remember that awful hymn, Father Prior, that the nuns used to make the little ones sing? There was one line in it that stuck with me, “Christ is nearer than my skin; I make him cry when I sin,” and that’s how I feel, Father Prior, when I get in touch with Him.’
At this, the Prior smiled knowingly, saying, ‘Well, your psychologist could be right after all; it’s a developed childish imagination, a fantasy. No matter; but you’d better go now and tell the Brothers that you mean to leave us tomorrow, otherwise there’ll be questions thrown at me from all sides to which I cannot give any answers, can I, Don?’
‘No, Father, not yet. But I promise I will explain everything to you when I return, and that will be as soon as possible.’
‘Well,’ said the Prior, practically now, ‘don’t come back empty-handed; bring a few more pieces with you.’
‘I’ll do that, I’ll do that, Father Prior; and thank you.’
After Don had gone, the Prior sat back in his chair and stared towards the closed door for some minutes, his thoughts a mixture of sadness and impatience. He and that voice. In some ways he was so ordinary and in others so complex, even worldly. He must admit that, when he’d had charge of him, he often looked upon him as a son. At such times he would quote to himself the words of God that he read every day: ‘Thou art my beloved son in whom I am well pleased.’ And again he recalled the day the little boy came to him and placed his hands in prayer but in a strange manner, for he put them against his maimed cheek as he said, ‘Why is God vexed with me? Sister Matilda says he has made me different because of the sins of my father.’ And he himself had groaned. Sister Matilda and her theories: ‘For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, and visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.’ It had taken Brother Percival a long time to remedy that, by suggesting to the child that he was meant for great things and that he had to forget about his face and concentrate on his hands, because the Lord had blessed him with wonderful hands.
The Prior sighed again, for he didn’t think Don had ever and would ever come to believe that he had been a difficult boy and that he was still a difficult man.
Eight
It had been a long and tiresome journey. Being Christmas Eve it seemed that all London was moving north, for the Scottish Express was packed to capacity.
When travelling, he usually gave himself the privilege of booking a window seat in a first-class compartment, and often he would have the carriage to himself for the whole journey. On these trips he had become well-known to the porters and it was wonderful what a silver sixpence could do to secure privacy. But should there be passengers in the compartment who seemingly became put off by the odd man who kept his hat on, and it such an unusual shape, too, once he spoke they would be reassured, and probably accepted that the man had had a facial accident.
On this particular journey, however, the compartment had been packed, so that he felt relief when he alighted at Durham and took the local train to Chester-le-Street.
It was dark now and Don, after walking some way along the main road, turned into a bridle path that ran quite steeply downhill, before turning to the left to zigzag its way towards the river; but at this point he diverted into a field that sloped gently towards the drystone wall that bordered the back garden of his cottage. In the darkness he couldn’t actually see it, but when his hand touched it, it seemed to linger lovingly on the stone. He walked by the side of it until the wall turned, to stop abruptly by the side of the cottage; or, to be more accurate, the studio he’d had built at the side. Here, it was pitch dark, made so by the fringe of a wood not two yards away and which ran down to the river. Beyond the cottage was a similar wood separated from this one by a wide green sward, which also ran down to the river.
Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the door to the cottage and paused for a moment within its threshold, and as he stood there he drew two long breaths into his lungs. The smell that he breathed in had never faded during all the eight
years he had lived here. He had first smelt it on the day the solicitor had opened the door for him. It was like no other smell he could imagine. It wasn’t of roses, which at that time half-filled the back garden; nor of the lavender walk that led to the little rill; nor of the herbs in their patch: mint, rosemary, thyme, wild garlic or the rest. He could think of it only as coming from a wholesome human being. And it wasn’t fanciful that he should think it was from her, the aunt he had never seen but the one who had given him freedom to live a life as other men or as near as he would ever get to that state.
The first thing he did now, and in the dark, was to whip off his hat and coat, before groping along the wall to the left of the door to a table on which stood a lamp and a box of matches.
Once the light flared up he let out a long slow breath and looked about the room and saw it afresh, as he always did on his return from a journey. There, at the end of the twenty-foot room, in the open fireplace, lay a mush of silver ashes and half-burnt logs. In front of it was the old couch with its patched chintz cover. There was a deep armchair to the side of the fireplace. This was covered in hide, but the sheen of the skin had disappeared from part of the arms and the seat.
But in contrast to the wear and tear of these two pieces of furniture, an oblong trestle table stood against one wall, a carved-back wooden chair at each end of it and two at one side. The set appeared to be so new one couldn’t imagine it had ever been used over the years, yet through the inventory of the house, Don knew that the pieces had been carved almost a hundred years before.
At the centre of the table stood another lamp. This one had a rose coloured glass shade, and when he lit it the room took on a warmth, as did the threadbare carpet that covered the whole room and the faded tapestry curtains hanging at the long windows.
The Branded Man Page 18
