The Gardens of the Dead (7 page)

‘What’s
for lunch, Dad?’

George
pulled a tin from the plastic bag prepared by Emily ‘Salmon.’

‘That’s
a treat, Dad.’

‘You’re
right there, son.

They
sat side by side, watched by the passers-by George kicked his shoes off and
wiggled his toes. John pedalled the air.

The
cold sun tilted towards the west. George checked his watch: it was time to get
back to the hotel. Emily was waiting. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said despondently He
didn’t want these moments of happiness to end.

John
refused to budge.

‘We
have to go.

John
leaned away arms entwining round part of the bench.

George
pulled him free and roughed his hair. The boy stomped ahead, along the silver
timbers. His voice flew on the wind, ‘I like Southport, Dad.’

‘We’ll
come again, son.

Blind
George rolled over onto his back and said, ‘But we didn’t, did we?’

A
passer-by knelt down and placed his hand under George’s head. It was a young
man. His hair was gelled and spiked like a sea urchin. He wore a T-shirt with
WINGS written on it. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,
thanks.’

‘You’ve
no shoes.’

 ‘I
must have left them at Southport.’

The
young man sat down and took off his trainers. ‘Put these on.

George
couldn’t speak or protest. He just watched this prickly helper struggle to fit
the shoes onto his feet. They were white with bright red stripes. Seconds later
the figure walked briskly away as if he were embarrassed. Written across the back
of his T-shirt were the words: WORLD TOUR.

I
wonder where he’s off to now, thought George. He jogged back to Trespass Place
— with sporty things like that on each hoof, he’d have looked stupid walking.

10

Nick drove to Larkwood
Priory in his mother’s lemon-yellow VW Beetle. Her red valise lay on the
passenger seat. By late afternoon, after several wrong turns, he came upon a
line of oak trees straggling towards a set of colossal gates. They were jammed
open. Above an incline topped by rhododendrons he saw a spire and patchwork
tiles.

The
reception desk was unoccupied, although a phone was off the hook. A tinny voice
came out of it yelling, ‘Hello?’ Nick peeked down a corridor but jumped when a
hand touched his shoulder.

‘Were
you ever in the scouts?’

The
monk was ageless and aged, dressed in a black habit and a white scapular. A
length of frayed plastic twine was tied with a bow round a thin waist. His
cranium, while angular, seemed soft as sponge, with a haze of shaved white
fluff.

‘I was
a Sixer,’ said Nick proudly.

‘When I
was a lad,’ said the monk, hooking his thumbs onto the belt, ‘Baden-Powell told
me a secret about the relief of Mafeking.’

‘Really?’

The
telephone shouted, ‘Hello?’

The
monk looked at the receiver as if it were an unusual fruit and put it back on
the console. ‘The Boers were at the gates, armed to the teeth.’

A
gentle cough robbed Nick of the disclosure. ‘Thank you, Sylvester.’

Father Anselm led Nick
outdoors. The monk seemed much younger than the barrister he remembered. As
with Baden-Powell’s confidant, a life of denial appeared to have disarranged
the normal ageing process. He was probably in his forties. They’d met a few
times in the corridors of his mother’s chambers. A slight hesitation in his
gait made him look shy and boyish, as if he were on his way to the podium to
pick up the diligence prize after all the clever children had returned to their
seats. Short, ruffled hair and round glasses magnified a look of permanent
surprise. His black habit was frayed; the white scapular flapped like a long
serviette.

‘My
mother kept a secret,’ said Nick. They faced each other across a table in a
herb garden. He placed his mother’s case between them. ‘She wanted to reveal it
to me. When I turned to listen it was too late.’

The
monk took off his glasses like some patients remove their trousers. He seemed
strangely vulnerable.

‘By
chance,’ said Nick, ‘I found a key hidden in this book.’

He
passed over
The Following of Christ.
‘I’m afraid the scrawl is mine.
Biro practice when I was five or so.’

Father
Anselm opened the cover and looked intently at the open space. Apparently deep
in thought, he closed the book and opened it again, looking at where the key
had been kept. Then he turned to the front and read out the dedication:

‘To
Elizabeth, from Sister Dorothy DC hoping that this small and great book will
always be a friend to her.’

‘Do you
know her?’ asked Nick. His mother’s faith had not been a shared field. It was
more of a parallel continent with strict border controls, imposed by both sides.

The
monk shook his head.

‘I
think that whatever my mother wanted to say is tied up with this case. So I
opened it, and I’m none the wiser.’

‘I’m
not surprised,’ replied Father Anselm. One arm rested on the table, reaching
towards his guest. ‘When your mother gave me the other key she asked me to help
you understand what she wasn’t able to explain.’

Nick
felt a surge of relief He waited for the account that would make sense of the
secrecy and the planning. But the monk just kept smiling benignly Then Nick
realised that he was waiting for the case. Surprised, Nick said, ‘Don’t you
know what’s in here?’

‘Not at
all.’

‘She
just gave you a key?’

‘Precisely’
said Father Anselm, quietly sagacious. Nick had cultivated a similar manner to
assure the terminally ill. He pushed, the case across the table. Father Anselm
placed the contents in an orderly line and then frowned. ‘Riley’ he muttered
with distaste. Then he started with the ring binder. Without his glasses, he
seemed to be wincing. Slowly he turned the pages. At one point he said, ‘Cartwright
… not Cartwheel.’ Then, with a shrug, he read the newspaper cutting, glancing
at the trial brief, making the connection. Finally he opened the letter,
saying, ‘I’ve never seen this before.’ Leaning his head back, he read out loud:

Dear Mrs
Glendinning QC and Mr Duffy,

I thought that if
I ever began writing to either of you, I might never stop. There’s no beginning
or end to what I want to say But then I thought, why don’t I just tell you what
happened when the trial was over, when we went home and you went to a
restaurant?

We lost our son. My husband fell to pieces. For what it is worth,
along the way I lost myself.

Mr Duffy asked, ‘What did David do that George wanted to forget.’ I
suppose you thought that was very clever. He had no right to ask that, no right
at all. Don’t think that wearing a wig means you had nothing to do with what
went wrong. You’re mistaken.

I don’t know what type of conscience you must have that lets you
walk out of doors. How can you sleep at night having stood up for a man like
Riley?

Yours sincerely,

Mrs Emily Bradshaw

Father
Anselm placed everything back in the case.

‘Well?’
asked Nick.

Father
Anselm put his glasses back on and said apologetically.

‘I    haven’t
the faintest idea what your mother wanted me to say ‘Then why did she give you
a key?’

‘I
assume because I was involved in the case. ‘But why hide it from me and my
father?’

‘I don’t
know’ Father Anselm tapped the lid of the case, perplexed but silent. Another
monk passed through the gate carrying a wicker basket. He waded into the tangle
of herbs and began cutting leaves with a pair of scissors.

‘Herbal
remedies,’ said Father Anselm weakly ‘I’m not sure they work.’

‘Who
was Riley?’

‘He was
a docker.’ He snatched at random details as if they were flies. ‘He was a crane
operator. A docker. An alleged pimp. Three witnesses said he worked for the
Pieman.’

‘Who
was he?’

‘Just a
name in the papers.’

Nick
glanced towards the other monk, who was humming and snipping. A confusion of
scents drifted over them. ‘Father, what was so special about this trial?’

‘Nothing.’
He frowned, showing that this was his own question. The monk smuggled each arm
into the sleeve of the other until he made a sort of sling across his chest. He
looked away towards a wilderness of healing plants. ‘The only memorable aspect
of the trial was how it ended.’ He fell silent.

‘What
happened?’ prompted Nick.

‘I
cross-examined the main witness, a man called Bradshaw He used his second name,
George, rather than David, which was his first. In a rather elaborate way I
asked him why and the case collapsed.’

‘How?’

‘He
just walked out of the court.’

‘Because
you asked him about his name?’

Father
Anselm nudged his glasses. ‘It looked like he was refusing to answer for his
past. David’s past, if you like.’

‘What
was it?’

‘I don’t
know’

‘Then
why did you ask?’

‘I
couldn’t think of anything better.’ As though he’d won an unwanted prize, he
added, ‘It’s what’s called a good performance.’

Father
Anselm’s attention shifted to the quiet work of his brother monk. The herb
garden was extraordinarily still. It seemed to give emphasis to speech, as if
the land and its many plants were listening.

Nick left the case on the
table and followed Father Anselm to a path of mulch between a stream and an
ancient abbey wall. At precise intervals slender pillars climbed from the
stone, but most had been smashed at head height. By a pile of black railway
sleepers, the monk halted. The creosote was sharp like smelling salts. He
breathed deeply and exhaled. ‘Something is missing,’ he pronounced.

‘Like
what?’

‘Instructions.’

‘If
that were the case,’ replied Nick, ‘she’d have given you a letter and not a key’

And
that,’ replied the monk, ‘is a rather good point.’ His eyes blinked at a mark
on the ground, as if Andre Agassi had walloped something from behind an arch.

Nick
felt sorry for this puzzled man with tousled hair and flashing glasses. His
life among the ruins appeared to have blunted what was once a sharp mind — how
else did you win a case by quizzing a witness on nothing more than his choice
of name? That was impressive. But now, he felt sure, he needed a little help.
Nick said, ‘Father, it’s a strange story Of all the trials my mother ever
conducted, she kept this one. It just so happens that five years later the son
of a witness drowns. My mother finds the grieving father, and it seems they
both connect the death to the trial, apparently not accepting the coroner’s
verdict. Two questions follow: did they suspect foul play? And what did they do
next? But I’ve another: why keep the papers of this particular case? What was
so special about Mr Riley?’

Father
Anselm’s head was angled. Perhaps he looked like that when he listened to sins,
or whatever people usually told him. The monk discreetly produced a packet and
began to roll a cigarette. He removed a shred of tobacco from his mouth and
said, ‘She told me she’d been tidying up her life.’ The match sputtered like a
damp flare.

They retraced their steps
past the great wall with the shattered columns.

‘Father,
when I was diving on the Barrier Reef,’ said Nick, ‘I watched fish getting
washed by a plant. It was wonderful. They lined up and took it in turns.
Somehow, they just knew what to do. There was no need for any instructions.’ He
looked aside at the troubled monk. ‘Maybe my mother thought you were in the
same queue, that you’d understand without thinking. Don’t worry if you can’t
help in the way she wanted.’

When
they reached the table in the herb garden Father Anselm picked up the case;
from there they walked to the car park where the yellow Beetle seemed to quiver
against the purple canopy of plum trees. Fruit lay splattered on the windscreen.

A mad
Gilbertine idea,’ said Father Anselm awkwardly. ‘We forgot that fruit falls
when it’s ripe.’ It sounded like a warning. He asked for time to understand the
contents of the case and for Nick’s telephone number; and he concluded, ‘Don’t
turn over old stones. Let them lie where they were placed.’

Nick drove down the lane
of loitering oak trees, away from Larkwood and the smell of aromatic plants.
And as he did so, he reflected, painfully, that he’d never been able to share
his mother’s deep faith. He leaned more towards his father, who, while
adherent, was passive, his true fervour lying in the open fields. When cross,
Elizabeth had called him a heretic; in better tempers, she settled for
pantheist. Nick had grown up beneath the quirky arch formed where these two
types of belief met. He eventually crept away, not quite making sense of the
open sky At university he saw the chaplains and the students, half resenting
the consequences of his own choice (if that is what it was), for he would have
liked to belong. He eventually found a working credo in science — the purity
of facts and verification. His mother had quietly grieved. They’d argued —
hopelessly, because he didn’t ask her questions, and she didn’t want his
answers. He could follow loose talk about God, but not to the point where all
that type of thing
mattered—
at the meshing of life and ideas.