The Sixth Lamentation

Chapter Five

1

Lucy propped herself up in bed and laid the manila envelope carefully on her knees. Agnes had given it to her that afternoon and Lucy had nearly cried. The soft clunking of Grandpa Arthur’s wall clock grew louder, as if he were coming, as if he would take off his hat and coat and sit down.

In the three months that had passed since Agnes had told the family about her illness, the tight pattern of relating, built up over so many years, had begun to fall apart, threatening something more significant, like the one or two loose rocks that topple down a scree. Freddie came to visit his mother more frequently, tussling with the old awkwardness he preferred to avoid; Susan’s spirits rose as she saw the coming together of separate worlds — not just that of her husband and mother-in-law but also their daughter. As Lucy recognised, she had once been the small hub in a wheel where everyone else’s long spindles found a meeting place: that arrangement had splintered a while ago, but now, with the news that Agnes would soon die, a strange re-ordering of things was under way As with all great changes, there was a constant: Lucy came frequently with market vegetables in brown paper bags.

The subtle transformation was not restricted to the inner workings of Lucy and her parents. Agnes, too, was on the move. Arriving unannounced one afternoon, Lucy found a pile of newspapers in the hail. Surreptitiously she leafed through them: two or three bore the same date and cuttings had been taken. As she realigned the pile, puzzled, Lucy halted, suddenly identifying the subtle difference in ambiance that had struck her as soon as she opened the door, but which she had not been able to name: the radio was on. She crept into the kitchen. Grandpa Arthur’s Roberts had been retrieved from some forgotten place and now stood upon the windowsill by the sink. Agnes was twisting the dial, grumbling about modern music.

On another day Lucy rushed into the sitting room chasing a stray cat that had formed an unreciprocated attachment to Agnes but who, out of mercy had been granted a tenancy The beast escaped through the window Turning to go, Lucy caught the tiny twinkle of a red light. She scanned the familiar room as though she were a traveller in a foreign land: the record player was on; the piano lid was open … there was music on the rest. Lucy glanced at the title: ‘Romance sans parole, No. 2’ by Fauré, her grandmother’s favourite melody All at once Lucy saw Agnes, alone, when she knew no one would call, her long fingers finding their way across the keys.

As for Agnes, she was slower, more measured in her movements, and when she walked from one room to another she held out her slender arms like a ballet dancer, touching objects lightly as she passed — sometimes it was only the leaf of a plant — as if dispensing blessings.

‘I don’t need to, but I like to feel something on either side,’ explained Agnes.

She was losing her balance.

On a muggy afternoon in early July Lucy rang Cathy Glenton and arranged a night out. Then she went to Chiswick Mall, resolved to touch upon what her father called ‘the real issue’. She stood over the piano, playing ‘Chopsticks’ slowly, with two fingers, her heart in her mouth. ‘Gran, you’re going to need specialist help.’

‘Please, anything but that,’ Agnes pleaded.

‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. Someone has to tell you.’

‘I mean that tune. For God’s sake, stop it.’

‘I’ve played it every time I’ve- ‘

‘Believe me, I’ve listened!’ said Agnes impatiently There was an uneasy pause.

Lucy bit her lip. ‘I meant what I said, you— ‘Yes, yes, yes, I know Don’t worry. I’m all right for now And anyway, there’s always Wilma.’

Lucy gaped and almost exclaimed: a bag-lady … I thought you just met in the park …

Agnes swiftly shut down any objections. ‘Wilma’s a very interesting person. She used to be in the theatre. Did a lot of Rep. I’ll introduce you.’ She smoothed a pleat on her skirt. ‘She’s my friend, Lucy Don’t shut her out.’

‘Of course not,’ said Lucy uncertainly Before she could draw her thoughts together, Agnes continued, with assumed cheerfulness, ‘Anyway, enough of that. Let’s have a cup of tea. ‘

They moved awkwardly into the kitchen.

‘There’s always some rubbish on about now,’ said Agnes, moving towards the radio, touching a chair … and then a counter … and then the sink. She turned the control. Suddenly there was a sort of explosion. An orchestra was involved… and a jazz band. And someone, thought Lucy, listening carefully … is hitting a biscuit tin of broken glass.

‘Post-modern, you know,’ said Agnes, nodding gravely, ignoring the tension between them.

Lucy made the tea and they sat nursing their mugs, their eyes frequently meeting. Lucy was going to raise the subject of professional help again whether Agnes liked it or not. But the glances from her grandmother made it clear she would not budge, she would make her own arrangements. And, as if providing a soundtrack to a silent film, an out-of-tune jazz band fought with an orchestra while someone had a whale of a time with a hammer.

Lucy chose her moment when a languid, knowing voice ushered in the news at five o’clock. But Agnes outflanked her with a newfound passion for current affairs. She sat forward with a convincing display of concentration. The swift volley of headlines between broadcasters began but Agnes dismissed each new story with a pout before the introductions ended. After a few minutes, she signalled with her head to turn it off. A clatter of falling plates echoed from the dining room.

‘That blasted cat.’

‘Sounds post-modern to me,’ said Lucy, nodding gravely

Agnes rose to investigate, touching a lamp—stand, a chair and the door on her way She wasn’t going to discuss the need for help any more that day

Lucy was getting ready to leave when Agnes handed over the key to her Morris Minor, bought by Grandpa Arthur in 1963. She’d named it Duchess.

‘It’s no use to me any more.

‘But Gran—’

‘Take her. I’ve arranged the insurance. But treat her gently She’s a tired old bird.’

Before Lucy could find words of thanks, Agnes produced a manila envelope. She said, ‘There’s a notebook inside. I want you to read it. But say nothing of what you learn. Not to anyone.

‘What’s it about?’

‘You’ll find out.’

Lucy frowned.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Agnes. ‘I just want you to know more … about me’ — she hesitated, embarrassed — ‘before I die.’

These last words fell on Lucy like a sword. Her composure slumped and, with rising tears, she turned quickly to go. By the vestibule door she caught her foot on a pile of newspapers. Lucy stared at them, as if they might speak.

‘The answer’s in the notebook,’ said Agnes, looking aside. ‘Don’t cry for me, please don’t cry’

As Lucy turned the ignition she looked back to wave and saw Agnes with one hand on the doorframe. Her face was drawn and she looked terribly small and alone. Something had drained out of her.

Cathy opened the door to her flat in Pimlico later that evening before Lucy could even ring the bell.

‘I’m just getting ready,’ said Cathy ‘Fancy a meal out?’

‘No, thanks.’

They walked into a sitting room of astounding chaos, clothes thrown everywhere, junk mail scattered like discarded handouts after a demonstration. The walls were covered with posters from various exhibitions.

‘A drink?’

‘No…’

Cathy flopped on to a sofa and said: ‘What’s wrong?’

The fact that they rarely saw each other somehow set Lucy free to say what she had said to no one else: ‘My grandmother’s going to die from a disease I’d never heard of until now It attacks your body but leaves the mind alone. In full throttle you just lie there unable to move or talk, blinking at the ceiling. You feel as if you’re going to choke to death but it doesn’t happen. That’s where you stay, right on the edge of dying, but you remain alive.’

‘Motor neurone disease,’ said Cathy, sitting up.

‘Yes. How do you know?’

‘I read an article.’

Lucy sat on the edge of an armchair and shrugged. ‘It’s just ordinary life showing its colours.’ She didn’t want to talk about it any more, and said so.

Cathy thought for a moment and said, ‘I’ve a good idea.’ She left the room and came back with a pack of cards. ‘Let’s play Rummy’

‘I don’t know the rules.’

‘Any other game?’

‘No.’

Cathy pondered the scale of ignorance. ‘You must know Snap.’

They moved to the dining table and started laying down the cards, flip, flap, flip, flap, their concentration fixed on whatever turned up, waiting for a match.

‘Do you ever think about the past?’ asked Lucy Flip, flap.

‘Never.’

Flip, flap.

‘Why?’

Flip, flap.

‘It’s dead.’

Lucy paused, eyeing the Queen of Spades. ‘Do you really mean that?’

‘No.’

Flip, flap.

‘Then why …’

‘Because it’s already won.

Flip, flap, flip, flap.

Lucy threw her hand across the table and said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Let’s have a meal … and a drink … what do you think?’

‘I’ll just put on a subtle, enhancing cream,’ said Cathy, reaching for a make-up bag. ‘You can help me think up a slogan to flog a critical illness insurance policy’

They had a good time talking about death and money parting in the knowledge it would be months before the phone next rang. Lucy went home clutching the envelope, thinking of her grandmother who seemed now to pervade each waking moment, each conversation. She climbed into bed with the distinctive loneliness that only arises between members of the same family Agnes was breaking away and there was no time to adjust. She had begun her departure and an awkward goodbye was under way She was like one of those rare desert plants, apparently lifeless but opening petals just before death under the heat of the sun. It was late, so late in the coming. Cathy was right. The past had won.

Lucy pressed the quilt into the folds of her body and pulled out a school notebook from the envelope. Grandpa Arthur’s old wall clock struck midnight.

2

Throughout the week following Larkwood’s four extraordinary visitors, Anselm lingered in the cloister after every Office on some unconvincing pretext, hoping the Prior would take him to one side — to confide or seek guidance. But he did not. On the sixth day the Prior informed the community of his decision at the usual morning Chapter, after the customary reading of an excerpt from The Rule.

‘As you know,’ he said, ‘I received a visit from the Papal Nuncio. It has been strongly suggested by Rome that I permit Schwermann to remain here while the police carry out their investigation.’ He glanced around the vaulted chamber. ‘Rome s suggestions are even more loaded than mine. The view I hold is that they wouldn’t take an interest unless it touched on wider implications — matters I may not fully appreciate. Accordingly I have decided he can stay’ With characteristic brevity he made the necessary appointments. ‘He will be housed in the Old Foundry. Security arrangements are in the hands of the police and the Home Office. Brother Wilfred will be the daily point of contact on all matters relating to Schwermann. Brother Edmund will handle all enquiries from the media. That’s it.

Anselm bridled. He had waited with the anticipation of certainty for his name to be mentioned. He thought, angrily: that’s it? I’m the lawyer … I know Milby… I speak bloody good French.

The Chapter moved swiftly on to deal with a dispute about the work rota.

Anselm continued to wrangle. Edmund? He doesn’t speak to anyone in the monastery, never mind the world … how can he handle an investigative journalist? Wilf? He’s timid to the point of paralysis …

The Chapter ended: the monks filed out to their cells for the time allotted to Lectio Divina; the Prior did the same; and Anselm stood in the cloister smarting at the rejection.

Over the next few weeks the lawyers came and the Press made their enquiries. Wilf apprehensively led the first group to the Old Foundry by the lake but never let his curiosity off the leash. Edmund gave interviews to the second lot but told them nothing of significance, not even about the monastic life. As a consequence, no one in the Priory or the outside world gleaned any information other than that which had already been released. In recognising this outcome, Anselm beheld the astuteness of his Prior.

Anselm only saw Schwermann once, while taking a walk by the lake after his afternoon session in the bottling plant. The elderly fugitive was sitting on a stool, painting. The brush flashed across the paper while he urbanely chatted to his personal protection officer. The weeks turned to months and still Schwermann did not leave. The investigation continued and the Prior became increasingly brittle. But he did not confide in Anselm about what the Priory should do if it transpired allowing Schwermann to stay had been a mistake. There were difficult issues to handle, involving Rome, the Home Office and the media. Anselm wanted to remonstrate. The Prior was deliberately wasting the skills he had to offer. Anselm’s mind teemed with exhortations from scripture and the Early Church Fathers (which he’d eventually read) to the effect that lights should not be put under bushels, talents shouldn’t be buried in fields, a monk should be given work suited to his powers and capabilities, and so on. However, Anselm was also obedient and said nothing to the Prior; and the Prior did what he knew was wise and said nothing to Anselm — until the day Anselm had a devastating encounter with a stranger by the lake; the day the fax came from Rome.