The Gardens of the Dead

by William Brodrick

  After Roddy had tumbled into a taxi, Nick finally appreciated his father’s bullish resistance. Even after Elizabeth’s death, Charles had clung on to a slender hope: that Father Anselm would fail; that Mrs Dixon would enjoy a long and private retirement. The matter of Walter Steadman had been the issue upon which Nick’s parents had been most divided. And Nick wholly endorsed his father’s reading of the compass: what was the point in bringing it out into the open? Why had she set up this dreadful, public annihilation of the living? For whose benefit? Only that of the dead. Nick wanted to be protected, frankly and left unscathed. He had said all this to Father Anselm on the way to the bench of dressed stone. Worm out, he slumped down, arms on his thighs. He looked ahead at the river and the teetering plant pots.

  ‘Your mother ran away from a house in which her father had been murdered,’ said Father Anselm steadily ‘She didn’t admire the man, although he’d made a claim upon her affection. That must have been difficult for her: to see his brutality, and his gentleness; to wonder how both could rise from the same soil; to try and give credit for one while condemning the other. She was, of course, just a child. And it was as a child that she turned her back on the gravest offence known to the criminal law. She’d made an unspoken agreement with her mother to remain silent, as though it were a payment she owed to her abused sibling. Elizabeth could do this only by wiping out her past — every memory, every smell, every taste, every sound — and by creating a new history of imagined sensations. And she succeeded. She launched a career, she married and she had a child. But then the half-brother she’d protected appeared in this wonderful universe of her own making.’

  The monk reached down and picked up some twigs. He snapped them, while he thought himself into this other livid experience.

  ‘When Riley instructed your mother to represent him, he did so, in the first place, to silence George. But there was more to it than that. He wanted to destroy an achievement that, to him, must have been an unbearable sight. Since their last meeting, she had changed beyond recognition; while he, the other runaway could only look upon the same squalid reflection. So it’s worth pausing to consider what Riley now demanded from your mother. In the first place, he was holding up, like a mirror, her silence over Walter’s murder. He was saying, “Look well, look hard: your position as an officer of the court is a sham, it always has been; and your likeness is just as soiled as mine.” And nowhere could that have been acutely felt than when Elizabeth was obliged to cross-examine Anji, staring — as she must have been — at the unhappy face of her past.’

  Father Anselm looked to Nick, inviting him to speak, but his mind had drained of everything save what he now heard. It was of course a fancy but there was something in the monk’s manner, his choice of words, that seemed to speak truly of Elizabeth, a mother who’d wanted to speak to her son.

  ‘Now, what did Elizabeth do in that terrible situation?’ Father Anselm reached for more twigs. ‘She surrendered. But why? This woman had given her life to the law, she believed in due process. How could she suffer his winning, and the defeat of everything she had valued? That is the most taxing question. I think I know the answer.

  ‘Riley asked for your mother, believing this: She helped me once; she’ll help me again. That was a huge error of judgement. Elizabeth had changed in more ways than he could imagine. Her attachment to the law was so great that I think she would have seized the opportunity to expose the facts of her life, regardless of the personal cost. But she didn’t. What Riley didn’t know, and this is what saved him, was that Elizabeth now had a son. Nick, I think she cooperated with Riley for you. To protect you. To leave you unscathed. To keep intact the world she’d created for you with Charles.’

  Nick didn’t like Father Anselm using the words of his own complaint, but the monk did so kindly and tentatively as if he were passing them back across the counter. Nick looked to the river and a strange mist rising on the other side, stretched thin like a silver table. In a kind of daze, he listened to Father Anselm’s exposition.

  The price paid by Elizabeth was high, he said reluctantly By continuing the case, she broke the rules of her profession. By asking him to cross-examine George, she hoped, nonetheless, to lose the trial. Even that went awry because, unfortunately the stooge had been lucky. Throughout the following years, nothing unsettled Elizabeth’s resolve to remain silent — not the letter from Mrs Bradshaw, not the death of that poor woman’s son. The strong spirit of her childhood had returned. And being so resolved, she lost her faith in the law —just as long before she’d lost faith in her family.

  ‘But then,’ said Father Anselm, ‘something of capital importance happened. Your mother learned that her days were counted — a moment which, I am sure, has a stillness all of its own. And in that quiet she recognised that a great lie had been allowed to take root, and that unless she acted, it would define her life. The problem, of course, was that it was too late. Your mother had already made her choice. She’d done Riley’s bidding. And it is at this stage, I think, that Elizabeth’s story becomes what my father used to call a corker. She decided to alter the past by changing how everything would end.’

  The monk was smiling encouragement. He stood up and with a tilt of the head suggested a walk. They quietly followed the Lark and crossed a small footbridge. On the other side, they entered a field that was hard underfoot. Without a path, they tracked a furrow towards the table of mist.

  As you know,’ said Father Anselm, ‘your mother devised two schemes. The first was for George: to let him take away the good character of the man responsible for the death of his son. She went to extraordinary lengths to succeed because she hoped to restore his self-worth. But a great part of her energy, I am sure, arose from a blinding desire to see Riley convicted of any offence of this kind, however trivial in the eyes of the courts; to have him proved a pimp. That outcome was denied her. She failed.

  ‘The second scheme was for herself: to bring Riley to court for a murder whose evidence she had helped to suppress. To succeed, Elizabeth had to convince her mother to reveal what she knew to the police. She failed again.’

  They had reached the centre of the field and stopped. The mist was just above head height, rolling within itself.

  ‘It might reasonably be said,’ observed Father Anselm wryly ‘that I was the contingency plan. And I too failed, comprehensively’ He fixed Nick with an enquiring, kindly gaze.

  ‘Who persuaded my grandmother to speak?’ asked Nick. Whether he liked it or not, he felt himself a part of the narrative; as if it were his proper concern.

  ‘You did,’ said Father Anselm, quietly fervent. ‘She didn’t want you to live a lie — as she had done; as her children had. For no one knew better than your grandmother the cost of a lie.’

  The monk started walking aimlessly his hands moving with suppressed animation.

  ‘It was only when I met Mrs Dixon that I understood the importance of what Elizabeth had set out to do,’ he said. ‘Once she’d decided to reclaim her past, the only available means was the legal system that she’d abandoned. So through each of these schemes, she was hoping to restore justice itself. She saw afresh — I’m sure of it — that the rule of law matters, that our attempts to punish matter, that to show mercy however clumsily matters.’ Father Anselm turned to Nick, wrapping his cloak around his body A man had been killed — your grandfather. Brute or not, his life had been taken from him. The irony is that he was a man ready to die at the drop of a hat. But that’s of no consequence: a murder is a murder — be it Walter’s or John’s. To bring this truth to light was your mother’s endeavour. She succeeded — but not through her own efforts.’ He paused to reflect. ‘Nick, if I can say anything to you that I’m sure I’ll stand by tomorrow morning, it’s this: isn’t it fitting that you have achieved this on her behalf … and not some bumbling oaf like me?’

  Nick agreed, reluctantly smiling.

  And who better to help your father understand,’ continued the monk, ‘than the son he
sought to protect?’

  The table of mist had spread across the valley It caught the sunlight, bringing it within arm’s reach. Walking beneath it, they passed the bench where Elizabeth had given Father Anselm the key. Slowly they followed the track to the plum trees and her yellow car.

  ‘Can I ask a favour?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s the secret of the relief of Mafeking?’

  ‘After “the Boers were at the gates”,’ said the monk, ‘the story changes all the time. I’m not sure even Sylvester knows, not any more. He makes it up as he goes along’

  When Nick was in the car and the engine was running, Father Anselm knocked on the window Diffidently he said, ‘Did you ever look inside the hole where your mother kept the key?’

  Nick had only ever examined the outer cut pages.

  ‘Have a peep when you get home,’ said the monk. ‘It tells you the route your mother tried to follow’

  When Nick got back to St John’s Wood he went to the Green Room and opened The Following of Christ. He hadn’t noticed before, but the incisions had created a window around a quotation:

  The humble knowledge of thyself is a surer way to God, than the deepest searches after science.

  Nick closed the book. He didn’t know about God — or science any more — but he was convinced, with gratitude and joy that his mother had known herself intimately that she must have found her heart’s desire.

  8

  It was completely by chance that Nancy spotted the monk’s entry in the notebook. They were in the Snug Room at the end of a busy day. Having put the remaining five thousand pounds into ten envelopes, she glanced at George, who, true to his routine, was refreshing his memory. Nancy picked out: ‘If you meet this gentleman, please contact …’ It was like one of those tags put on a family pet. Nancy smarted at the condescension, but quickly discovered that she couldn’t come up with a better alternative. When George excused himself to answer a call of nature, Nancy noted the number. And when he came back, she retired to her room, ostensibly worn out by the rigours of the day Apprehensively Nancy rang the monastery and a sort of hell broke loose. The monk on the switchboard lost his marbles, another one said, ‘Hang on,’ and then a fellow called Father Anselm turned up panting. He took Nancy’s number, saying he’d contact Mrs Bradshaw, but rang back in a tizzy saying there was no answer. He said he’d go here, there and everywhere, on a train or in a car, and Nancy being a decisive woman, told him to calm down and stay put. ‘We have our own steam,’ she said. ‘When we’ve completed our business, I shall bring him to your premises.’

  Nancy went to bed quite sure that something good was about to happen. At breakfast, she had another kipper, but said nothing of her intimations. Her time, and that of George, was given over to hearty meals, long walks and senseless giving.

  On the morning of the seventh day using funds set aside for the purpose, Nancy paid the bill. She rang Inspector Cartwright for a chat, and then, by train and cab, and with George at her side, she went deep into the Suffolk fields.

  The monastery was like something from a fairy tale. The roofs were higgledy-piggledy with russet tiles and slate tiles. There were pink walls, stone walls and brick walls. It seemed as if the ancient builders had made it up as they went along. Nancy was overwhelmed by the sight of the place … because it was holy. So she asked the driver to pull over. ‘Let’s say goodbye here, George,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to go any closer.’

  They stood awkwardly on the path, and she appraised her friend, with his coat over one arm, and his small blazer all buttoned up. The blue and yellow tie — and she’d told him — was too bold.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said cheerily ‘for a wonderful week by the seaside.’

  He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I shall never forget it.’

  Uncle Bertie had always said, don’t hang around saying ta-ta. Get it over and done with. So Nancy urged him on, with a shove. It was a painful sight, looking at his back, and those white cuffs peeping out of the sleeves, for Nancy knew that this would be the last she’d ever see of George Bradshaw.

  Nancy asked the man in the taxi to cut the engine, just for a moment. She’d seen a wooden sign for the information of visitors.

  Following the arrow took her closer to the monastery, but the temptation was too strong. Behind a broken gate Nancy saw the wildest herb garden she’d ever seen. She was so entranced by the mess, by its abundance, that she didn’t hear the monk’s approach. She only heard his voice.

  ‘Hello, Nancy’ he said. ‘We’ve met once before, many years ago — in my old calling. I represented your husband.’

  Nancy wasn’t quite sure what to say. But you have to be honest with a monk, so she said, ‘Well … no offence, but you didn’t do him any favours.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ he replied, moving beside her. He, too, looked at the tangled herbs. ‘But this time — if he wants — I will.’ He became shy but forceful. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  Glancing at the taxi, and getting itchy feet, Nancy said, ‘When it’s all over’ — her heart began to run, and her face became warm; she’d turned all serious — ‘if I stick by my man … will God turn him away?’

  The monk seemed mildly stunned, like Uncle Bertie when he checked the final results against his betting card. He reached for a pair of glasses and, thinking better of it, put them back.

  ‘Surely I can’t be less constant than God?’ she persisted.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ he said. He was staring at her, thinking through his own answer.

  Nancy was surprised: she hadn’t expected to give a monk some guidance on his own turf. I mean, she thought, it’s all fairly obvious, isn’t it? But then again … Babycham had said, ‘He’s not worth it,’ and her dad had said, ‘There has to be give and take, and he doesn’t give.’ They were both right. But no one seemed to understand. It wasn’t about her gaining or him deserving.

  Nancy wished the monk a very merry Christmas and clambered into the taxi.

  ‘Wormwood Scrubs,’ she said, leaning forward.

  The driver frowned his disbelief. ‘The prison … in London?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nancy gaily ‘my husband’s a guest on D-wing.’

  ‘It’ll cost you a bomb … it’s hours away.

  ‘I’ve got my problems,’ said Nancy with a sigh, ‘but money isn’t one of them.’

  They pulled out of the monastery and Nancy’s chauffeur began to chat, just like Cindy at the hairdresser’s. Nancy was a ‘somebody’, of course. She was the wife of a villain. He wanted to know what he’d done, but was too scared to ask outright. But he’d get there, like Cindy long before they got to London.

  According to Inspector Cartwright, Riley had already received one visitor: a lieutenant-colonel in the Salvation Army.

  9

  George didn’t look back after leaving Nancy He followed the path towards Larkwood with a growing sense of loneliness and loss. It was blinding, for he trudged on, losing sight of his surroundings, save for the small stones underfoot. Birds whistled in the trees that were banked tight against the verge.

  When George looked up, he saw a woman coming towards him. At first he didn’t recognise her because she was out of place. A monastery was not her normal stamping ground, although, that said, The Sound of Music was her favourite film. He became confused in a terrible way a way that had come with the beating to his head. For there were times, now, when he doubted what he experienced, when he tramped through a world that he didn’t fully understand. Such is the importance of memory, and the things it saves; for, as George well knew, it’s only by remembering the lot that we can hope to grasp the lot. And when you cannot grasp the lot, you become very circumspect indeed. But Emily was there, right in front of him, advancing along the same imaginary line as if they were on the top corridor of the Bonnington. Father Anselm appeared behind her … he ran past him, asking of Nancy and George mumbled something, keeping his eyes on this apparition from h
is past that was crying.

  In the same drunken spirit of doubting — and of terror that someone would shortly explain what was really happening — he said goodbye to a parade of monks as if he were the Pope. The boot of Emily’s car was open … robed figures carried a crate of apples, two bottles of plum brandy and some preserved pears. He was mumbling to himself while someone took his arm by the elbow The passenger door banged shut. He opened the window as if he needed the air to breathe. A small crowd smiled and waved and Emily was at his side unable to get the key into the ignition. Someone did it for her, and she laughed into a handkerchief. A long corridor of oak trees passed slowly as if the car were standing still. The lane opened out onto gentle hills with a scattering of houses, and the place that had given him shelter was gone.

  ‘Emily’ said George, very sure of himself now, ‘are we going home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at the hedgerows, thinking of the other man he’d seen in Mitcham. ‘I tried to come back, once.

  ‘I know,’ said Emily She understood. ‘No one has ever taken your place. Peter was nothing more than a friend. He was to me what Nancy was to you. And God knows, George, we have needed friends, if only to bring us back together.’

  Emily explained that the house would look very different, that it was new and clean. The neighbours hadn’t changed but someone round the corner had bought a dog that they let loose at night.

  ‘Why do you want me back?’ asked George, pulling at the sleeves of his blazer.

  ‘Because I found you again, in your notebooks,’ she replied, reaching for the gear stick, but not changing gear. ‘I don’t know how I could have ever let you go. Maybe I lost sight of the right and left of things, the front and back, the top and bottom … everything that brought us together. I didn’t only find you, George. I found myself.’