by Tess Evans
‘Where’s Boniface?’ he asked as he caught up with Kevin in the cloisters.
‘He’s not well, Finn. He’s nearly ninety, you know. You really need to speak to Father Jerome.’
So when Finn met with Jerome later that day, his first question was about Boniface.
‘He’s not himself, Finbar,’ Jerome replied, his eyes sombre.
‘Is he sick? Can I see him?’ Finn’s dread was manifested in the fast beating of his heart, the nausea that gripped his gut.
‘He’s not himself,’ Jerome repeated. ‘I can take you to him now, but be warned: he probably won’t know you.’
The abbot led Finn to the infirmary. Pallid sunlight filtered through the curtains to reveal an old man lying between snowy sheets. A nimbus of silver hair framed his face, where a scaffold of bones betrayed his mortality. He lay still, his milky blue eyes open but confused.
‘Is that John?’ he quavered. ‘I’ve lost John.’
Finn was puzzled. ‘Who’s John?’
‘He is,’ replied Jerome, stroking the frail old hand. ‘When he came here nearly seventy years ago, he was John. He’s been Boniface all these years, but now . . .’ The abbot shrugged helplessly. ‘He still prays. I pray with him when I can.’ Hiding his emotion in busyness, Jerome straightened the sheet around the old priest’s chin. ‘He was an eminent theologian, you know.’
Finn expressed surprise.
‘An eminent theologian,’ the priest reiterated. ‘His book On the Humanity of Christ is still used in theology courses. He was Abbot before me. I remember when I came here to take his place: he was so happy, Finbar—his face was truly alight with joy. He hated being Abbot, although he carried out his duties conscientiously, as you might imagine. He carried them humbly, as God’s burden. His burden is sweet and His yoke is light—that was what Boniface used to say.’
Jerome murmured a blessing and turned to go. ‘Finbar, Boniface was blessed with a fine intellect, but all he really wanted was a life of prayer. Less prestige, maybe, but a powerful example to us all.’
‘Do you mind if I stay with him for a while?’ Finn asked.
‘Of course. We can talk tonight.’
Finn looked down in pity as Boniface clawed at the sheets, calling again and again, ‘John? Is that you, John?’
‘It’s Finn, Father Boniface—Finbar Clancy. I guess you don’t remember me,’ he said wistfully. ‘You were my spiritual mentor many years ago. I worked with Kevin in the garden. Remember? I killed a girl with my car. You told me I’d find answers.’ Finn was floundering, trying to elicit some recognition of their former relationship. He sighed, and held the fragile old hand. It felt light and insubstantial, with fine, brittle bones bundled under tissue-paper skin. The hand was bruised, and he held it gently, fearing that further purple blooms would grow under the slightest pressure.
Boniface looked at Finn. ‘You’re not John. You’re too tall,’ he accused. ‘I have to find John before I go.’ He became confiding. ‘I think they’ve sent him to Rome. Can you check for me? They won’t tell me anything,’ he said, now aggrieved.
Finn was at a loss. ‘Let’s say a prayer,’ he suggested in desperation. ‘Hail Mary . . .’ A rosary was on the bedside table and he twined it around the old man’s fingers.
Boniface closed his eyes, and his face relaxed as he recited the familiar words. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee . . .’
Finn stayed until, soothed by prayer, his old friend drifted off to sleep.
‘He has lucid moments,’ Jerome told Finn as they walked through the cloisters that evening. ‘But you can never predict them.’ He studied Finn’s face. ‘I’m not sure what we can do for you, though, Finbar. You’re welcome to stay for a few days, but you may be putting off the inevitable.’
Finn shook his head. ‘I feel safe here. I ran away, I guess. Just like last time.’
‘Not just like last time,’ Jerome responded thoughtfully. ‘I can sense that you’re stronger now. How do you account for that?’
‘I’m not sure. I do keep the Silence after my own fashion. That helps.’ His eyes slid away. ‘I also found my daughter— actually, she found me.’
‘Daughter? You’ve never mentioned a daughter.’
Finn smiled wryly. ‘It’s a long story, Father. She turned up on my doorstep a few months ago.’ He chose his next words carefully. ‘I’m not sure I’m . . . father material, but she—she’s a good person.’
Jerome nodded. ‘You’re lucky to have found family, Finn. It must make your life less lonely.’
‘Yes. I guess it does. And I do have a couple of friends in Opportunity.’ Good friends, he thought, surprised. ‘They sort of fill out my life a bit.’
‘What do you expect your friends might do now they know all about your past?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will they turn their backs on you?’
Finn remembered the concerned faces as he stood paralysed in Mrs Pargetter’s front room. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No. They wouldn’t do that.’
‘So why did you leave?’
‘I don’t feel worthy of love or friendship. I don’t want to taint them with my troubles.’
Jerome stopped and turned to him, signalling the end of the conversation. ‘I’d like you to go away and think about what you just said, Finbar. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’
‘Do you mind if I sit in the chapel for a while?’
‘You’re always welcome in God’s house.’
Finn made his way to the chapel and paused to savour the quiet interior. Two monks were kneeling in prayer, and another was sweeping the aisle, his broom whispering rhythmically on the polished floor. Coloured light filtered through the arched windows and gathered in pools on the marble steps of the altar. Carved wooden figures looked out at the worshippers: Saint Benedict on one side, holding his book and crozier, the Virgin Mother on the other, holding the Christ child.
Slipping into a pew, Finn sat, head bowed, hands dangling between his knees. He needed to think things through. He knew that his friends would stand by him. They had already demonstrated that. He had told Jerome that he felt unworthy of love. Was he being disingenuous? He was loved. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but he was loved. His daughter had loved him enough to try to help him come to terms with his past. That it had gone disastrously wrong was not her fault. Mrs Pargetter and Sandy were fiercely loyal friends. More than that, he knew they loved him. They all shared a circle of dependence and support; each of them a little broken, but brave. Not fearless, he thought, but brave.
So why would he want to fend for himself? Why would he want to leave his friends to fend for themselves? Finn knew that he’d become a loner. The charming, sociable Michael had been left far behind, and the Finn he’d become was insular and obsessive. When he looked honestly into his heart, he saw that his greatest fear was of commitment. He saw now, with sudden clarity, that he was not just running from the press and from his own shame; he was running from the obligations of love and friendship.
These thoughts led back to his parents, who also loved him. After the accident, he had refused their love and all but disappeared from their lives, returning only for rare visits, when he sat at the dinner table chafing to be gone. His father had died three years ago, and his mother was in a retirement village now, frail but still alert. How long would it be before she, like Boniface, failed to recognise him? He looked up at the statues and then lowered his eyes. Was there accusation on the face of Mary, patron of mothers? He felt like a guilty child as his eyes slid back to the carved face. No accusation there. Just sorrow. Our Lady of Sorrows.
He was suddenly aware that the monks were filing in for Vespers. Keeping his eyes averted, he slipped out the side door and made his way to the infirmary. He stopped short when he saw Kevin reading the evening prayers at the old man’s bedside. Boniface was smiling and nodding, his troubled mind clearly soothed by the long, familiar cadences. Kevin’s voice was low, his eyes aligh
t with faith. Finn lingered and saw Kevin rise from his knees and, like a parent, tuck in the bedclothes and gently kiss the now sleeping face. Afraid of being seen, Finn turned and walked swiftly back to his cottage. He had intruded upon a private moment, but rather than embarrassment, all he could feel was humility.
He put on the kettle and made some tea, moving aside the tea cosies that still lay on the bench. Tomorrow was Sunday, and conversation was allowed—a good time to give the tea cosies to their intended recipients.
Finn gave one each to Jerome and Kevin at breakfast the next morning. They accepted their gifts with pleasure and listened with genuine interest as Finn told Mrs Pargetter’s story.
‘We’ll pray that she finds peace,’ Jerome said.
‘We’ll pray that she finds her child,’ Kevin promised.
Finn was once again touched by the kindness of these men. It would be so easy to again immerse himself in the tranquil rhythm of their days. In reality, he had to be resolute. Without belief, he’d be living a lie. ‘I think it’s time to go back,’ he said to Jerome. ‘I’ll take the bus tomorrow. I can’t say how grateful I am for all you’ve done.’ He hesitated. ‘Can I ask one more thing of you? Can I see Boniface again before I go?’
‘You can keep watch a while this evening,’ said Jerome. ‘He’s dying, Finn, and will soon see Our Blessed Lord face to face.’
Finn spent the rest of the day in the garden with Kevin, but his thoughts were of Boniface. After the last Office of the day, Jerome indicated that the time had come, and Finn almost ran through the cloisters to the infirmary. He nodded to the monk who was sitting by the bed, and slipped into the chair he vacated. Boniface was sleeping, his breathing shallow and harsh. Taking his hand, Finn looked down at the dying man’s face.
‘I’ve decided to go back, Father Boniface,’ he whispered. ‘You told me once that I would know what to do when the time came. I don’t know. It might be now . . . Could it be now?’ He searched the old face for answers, but it remained shut. ‘I’ll go back, but then what? I still want forgiveness. I wish I had your faith—redemption is easier with faith. But people like me . . . we have to make reparation in whatever way we can. The Holy Spirit . . . he doesn’t speak to people like me.’
Boniface stirred and opened his eyes. ‘Finbar,’ he said. ‘Could you open the curtains, please?’
Startled, Finn did as he was asked and looked out at the sharp sickle that sliced the clear night sky. The stars, framed by the window, pierced the surrounding blackness with cold needles of light.
‘There’ll be a frost tomorrow; the sky is so clear,’ remarked Boniface in a conversational tone.
He has lucid moments, remembered Finn, and swiftly crossed the room to sit beside the old man. ‘Father Boniface. It’s me— Finbar Clancy. I . . .’
‘Silence allows us to look into our hearts,’ murmured Boniface, as though they were continuing a conversation begun only a minute before. But Finn was acutely aware that this was a conversation started over ten years ago.
The monk continued. ‘If your heart is open, silence leaves space for the voice of God.’ The old priest’s voice was faint and his breathing laboured. ‘Look into your heart, Finn. That’s all the help I can offer.’
‘It’s not easy, Father Boniface. I’m not sure I know how.’
‘Your Silence. How do you spend your Silence?’
‘I fear I may have squandered my Silence, Father.’
‘Squandered?’
‘I used the time to relive my guilt.’
‘Wiser to seek beyond your guilt. Listen to your heart.’
Finn nodded slowly. ‘I spent so many years not listening, Father. But in this last year, I believe I have listened—just a little.’
‘Then follow your wisdom. You mustn’t allow your past to consume you, Finbar. That’s a sin. It’s a good heart, Finbar. A good heart.’ His eyes, which seconds before had looked at Finn with intelligence and compassion, slid away to the window and the moment was gone.
‘Did they tell you where John is?’ he asked again, plucking fretfully at the sheet. ‘He should be here by now.’
‘You’ll see him soon,’ said Finn, and held the frail hand until Boniface fell once again into a shallow sleep. Finn took the tea cosy from his pocket and placed the cold hands inside. Boniface stirred but didn’t waken.
‘A gift from a good old lady.’
As the soft wool warmed his hands, the old man’s body visibly relaxed. Finn was not to know, but the Kenyan Ambassador himself could not have thought of a better use for Mrs Pargetter’s gift.
21
Jilly Baker and Mr Pie
SENIOR SERGEANT GRAHAM PATTERSON WAS annoyed, uncharacteristically slamming his office door behind him as he left at the end of his shift. The commissioner hated bad publicity, and here he was, accused of missing vital evidence in a case in which he knew he’d followed every lead and obeyed every protocol. The file had been sent upstairs and now the system was going into damage control. Patterson was mortified to be second-guessed by his fellow officers. However, beyond his mortification, he felt some excitement. Amber-Lee’s death had been the first case of its type he’d investigated as the officer in charge. He’d given the girl—Fern, was it? No, Moss. He’d given Moss as much help as he could because he wanted the case closed, and this new piece of evidence could well provide the key. So he was waiting impatiently for Forensics to report on their findings. Meanwhile he had to deal with the fall-out from the press.
As he pulled out of the car park, he turned on the radio. The deputy commissioner would be interviewed in a few minutes. She was the consummate political animal, and Senior Sergeant Patterson had no great hopes of support from that direction.
He listened grimly as the interviewer began. ‘Good morning, Deputy Commissioner. You’re a busy person so we’ll cut to the chase. I presume you’re aware of the new evidence in the case of the accident victim known as Amber-Lee. What action are you taking now the photograph has come to light?’
‘Good morning, Peter. I’m sure your listeners will be pleased to know that Forensics is working on the photograph now in an attempt to identify when and where it was taken. You must remember, though, we only have Brenda Lefroy’s word that it did belong to Amber-Lee and that it was, in fact, a photo of her family.’
‘Of course, time will tell. But what about Graham Patterson, the officer in charge of the case—has he been reprimanded?’
‘Hold on, Peter. We’re looking at the files and in due course we’ll make a decision regarding the thoroughness of the original investigation. Senior Sergeant Patterson is a respected officer and must be given the benefit of the doubt until we learn otherwise.’
Graham Patterson was surprised by but grateful for this qualified support, and as the interview moved on to budget allocation for new police vehicles he switched over to a music station. He was heading for home, but on a sudden whim he pulled into the car park of the forensics laboratory. He went to reception, showed his ID, and followed directions to Lab 4 where he found his friend, Clara Thomasetti, hard at work.
‘The photo?’ she said. ‘That was easy. I’ve already sent out the report. You know how they’re hurried through when the press get their teeth into a story.’
‘So what did you find?’
‘It was common photographic paper for the time. Used all over by Kodak. The photo was developed around ’83, ’84, we reckon, which would fit with her estimated age. So would the clothes and hairstyles, according to our expert.’ She looked at him with sympathy. ‘Anyway, how are you? It must be a tough time right now.’
He shrugged. ‘Comes with the territory. I heard the deputy commissioner on the radio. She was okay. But to be honest, I’m just interested in what else you found out from the photo.’
‘There are two young girls in the photo. That Brenda person didn’t know which one was Amber-Lee, 282 but one of them is looking at the dog as though she owns it. Only a guess, but I reckon the other one’s our gi
rl. She told Brenda that the dog was her cousin’s, remember?’
‘Yes, Mr Pie. Brenda said she thought the snapshot was taken somewhere in England . . .’
‘Easy, that one. Blackpool Pier. She either lived nearby or was there on holiday.’
‘If only I’d had that photo ten years ago.’
Clara squeezed his arm. ‘If Brenda didn’t want to give it to you, what could you have done?’
‘I could’ve leaned on her more, maybe. But she was a terrible mess after the beating. Not very professional, but I felt sorry for her.’
‘You did what you could with what you had. The word is they’re handing this new investigation back to you. Someone up there likes you, mate.’ She stood up and gestured at the bench in front of her. ‘I’d better get back to work. We’ll have to catch up for a drink. It’s been too long.’
Graham thanked her and left. If only it were true that he was to be given a fresh opportunity with this case . . . He found himself humming as he backed out of the car park, negotiating the peak-hour traffic with a lighter heart.
A few nights later, he received a phone call from Blackpool, England.
‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Are you the person I have to speak to about a girl who was killed in a car accident? Amber-Lee? There was a photo shown on TV here yesterday. I’ve got one just the same.’
Finn boarded the bus and sat gazing out the window at the ti-tree that hid the sea from view. Its dull grey-green was soothing in a way; he’d left the monastery knowing that it was the last time he’d see Father Boniface, and the colour matched his sombre mood. He pushed away thoughts of what might be waiting for him in Opportunity, and concentrated on the countryside and small towns as they flashed by. He realised that he could have ended up in any one of these towns: Sickle Bay, Seal Point where the surfers hung out, or, as the bus turned inland, Tarneesh, Currawong or even Mystic. But he’d chosen Opportunity, for better or for worse. Recalling his house, the sleepy main street, the old pub, and his friends, Mrs Pargetter and Sandy, he was inclined to think it was for the better. Would Moss have found him in another town? Probably, but he liked to think of the town’s name as a talisman. He’d chosen it for its name; he liked to think that names have power, and whatever had befallen Opportunity in recent years, it was still battling along somehow. The motion of the bus and the monotony of the countryside finally sent him into a half-slumber, and his mind rambled through forests of ti-tree until he finally fell into a dreamless sleep.
