‘You’re very quiet today.’
Brother Stephen passed Brother Tom the stone jar of ale as they sat leaning against the hay rick, sheltering in its shadow from the midday sun.
‘I’m supposed to be quiet. I’m a monk.’
Brother Stephen looked at him sideways.
‘What are you looking at me like that for? You know, we really should have some mugs up here for this ale. Drinking it straight from the jar, all of us, and eating bread at the same time, it’s like porridge before we’re halfway down the jar.’
‘Got something on your mind, have you?’
‘Me? What makes you think so?’
‘You’re very quiet today.’
Tom rubbed his hand over his chin reflectively. ‘I’ve been thinking about Father.’
‘Peregrine?’
‘Yes. Do you know, for all he can’t converse, when Theodore came in to say Mass with him the other day—’
‘Theodore?’ interrupted Brother Stephen. ‘Oh yes, Father Theodore! Sorry, go on.’
Theodore had been priested in the spring, and made Master of Novices when Father Matthew died, but it took the brethren a while to adjust to his new status. The notion of Father Theodore saying Mass and hearing confessions still had an aura of comical novelty about it.
Tom smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Father Theodore. As soon as he said, “Dominus vobiscum,” Father responded, “Et cum Spirito tuo,” as smoothly and easily as can be; never faltered. He said it without thinking, just automatically; “Et cum spirito tuo.” I’m sure, you know, that all his speech is there locked away still… dammed up somehow.’ Tom looked at Brother Stephen with a grin. ‘Another thing, he swears faultlessly! Again, Brother John says that’s because a man swears before he thinks, not afterwards.
‘The words are there still, and the physical possibility of saying them. What’s gone is the carry over from an idea to a sentence.
‘I think… maybe it’s a question of re-establishing a flow; you know, like a melody—so he can get the thoughts through to words again….’
‘Can he not use the sign language of the Silence?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Not really. He was never that good with it, because his hands are so inflexible. Before all this, he used to speak to me rather than sign if he had to tell me something in the night. But anyway, now, even when he tries to indicate something with his hand… it’s funny, that comes out garbled too. He points to the wrong thing. Points to his mouth when he means his eye… it’s as though—well, the problem is not speech, just. It’s communication altogether. And yet…’ Tom paused, frowning.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know how to say it. He can’t say anything much. He can’t share his thoughts. Half a face and one mangled hand isn’t much to communicate with, especially when what you want to put across comes out all muddled anyway, but… it’s like a light shining in darkness instead of daylight… the light is all the brighter for the depth of the night. Himself. He can share himself—with absolute honesty and clarity too. Stephen, he’s shown me—it’s possible to have communion even without communication. If you don’t hold back; if you don’t withhold yourself.’
‘Is that so?’ Brother Stephen yawned and stretched his arms over his head. ‘It’s all a bit deep for me, I’m afraid. Time to stop withholding ourselves from that strip of rye, I should say. Brother Germanus will be thinking we’ve fallen asleep. You’ve answered my question, though: I can certainly see why you’ve been so quiet!’ He got slowly to his feet. ‘Ooh, my back! All this bending will kill me yet.’ He rubbed his hands on the small of his back and stretched, to ease it. ‘Come on, then; one last push.’ He reached his hand down to Tom and pulled him to his feet. ‘If we don’t slack this afternoon, we’ll have the whole field done, and tomorrow we can begin carting the oats home.’
The feeling at the end of the day, looking back along the strip they had cut, the golden stubble shining in the afternoon sun, the neat stooks of corn, was beyond words. Brother Tom put his arm good-naturedly across Brother Germanus’ shoulders, and waved his other hand expansively, taking in the broad sweep of the fields.
‘Does your heart good, eh? The wind and the sun, and the good earth, and all that lot, bread and cattle fodder… beautiful.’
He clapped Brother Germanus on his aching back. ‘How do you feel now?’
Brother Germanus smiled. ‘Like you said,’ he replied. ‘Grand.’
‘And tomorrow we can start bringing it in,’ said Brother Stephen as they walked down the farm track to the abbey, the Vespers bell tolling across the fields, calling the brothers in at the end of the day. ‘This makes up for the ruined hay.’
As he stood in his stall singing the responses at Vespers, Tom’s mind wandered back to Father Peregrine. He shouldn’t be in that stuffy room all day long, he thought. It isn’t healthy for any man to be shut away from the fresh air and the sunshine. Not to see the grass on the hill blowing back in the breeze, and the lark tossing against a blue heaven, and the sun going down at evening; or the mist lying in the ditches of a morning, and the first sweet light of the day. I’ve got to get him out.
He sat when the others sat, stood when they stood, but his mind was on other things. If I could get his interest in something outside himself again… the farm maybe….
When Vespers had finished, Tom followed Father Chad along the cloister. ‘Father Chad! Can you spare me a minute after supper?’
‘Most certainly.’ Father Chad was surprised, and pleased. It was the first time since Father Peregrine’s illness that Brother Thomas had shown any inclination to talk to him at all. He received him with some curiosity in the abbot’s house when the evening meal was over.
‘Father Chad, can I borrow the maps of the farm that Father was using to plan the building work? I thought I might look at them with him in the morning; thought it might lift him out of himself a little, encourage him to go outside, take an interest.’
Father Chad smiled at him kindly. ‘What a good idea! Yes, by all means take them. I have been more sorry than I can tell you that he had not the opportunity to let us know his scheme for the financing of the things we need to do. I’m no good at that sort of thing at all, I regret to say. Maybe it will come back to him. I haven’t liked to trouble him about it, poor man.’
As he spoke, he got up to search in the heavy chest of documents that stood against the wall. Tom waited, looking round the familiar room. His heart was tugged with sadness for times irrecoverably gone. He put his hand out and stroked the surface of the great oak table. His eyes wandered over the ink, the seal, the box of sealing waxes, all of them clearly visible beside Father Chad’s neat pile of letters waiting his attention.
Tom remembered with a smile Father Peregrine searching irritably for his seal underneath a spilling riot of letters, accounts and books, accusing Tom of having lost it, and then snapping a rebuke at him for his indignant reply.
The scribe’s table, under the window to catch the best light… Theodore had sat there so often, peaceful in Father Peregrine’s company. The fireplace, not used since last winter: Tom had himself swept it clean and furnished it with a little pile of kindling: pine cones, dried rosemary and sage, knotted twists of dried grass. The times he had come into this room in the depths of winter, and Father Peregrine, embarrassed at the luxury, had asked him to light a fire; ‘For my hands, Brother Thomas. They’re so stiff in this cold.’
Apple logs; he had always asked for apple logs. Everyone else chose ash for firewood if they could get it, but Peregrine loved the smell of the applewood burning. There were one or two apple logs still, lying in the box at the side of the hearth.
Father Chad had the accounts and plans relating to the farm, and leaned on the open chest as he got up from his knees on the stone flags of the floor. ‘Eh, it’s a long way up! I must be growing old. Yes; here they are. I think you’ll find they’re all here in this bundle, though I must admit, his documents were not very orderly, especially the things he was working on. Let me know if there’s anything else you need—and how you get on. No hurry to have them back; I shan’t need them for a week or two.
‘How about you, Brother? The harvest is coming in well ahead of time with your help, I hear.’
‘Yes. Yes, we’ve done well. We start bringing it in to the barns tomorrow.’
‘They’ve been glad to have you on the farm. How does it feel to be back in this room again?’ He smiled, friendly.
Tom looked at him. ‘Oh… well….’ he said, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Thank you for the plans. I’ll take them to him tomorrow.’
Tom was milking in the morning, and then busy with the preparations for carting home the corn. The first they had cut had stood more than two weeks in the fields now, with never a break in the weather. In the pouring heat of the afternoons and the breezes of the evening it had dried well, and needed to be in. Brother Stephen received Tom’s request for time off to go down to the infirmary after Chapter with less than enthusiasm.
‘Brother, you are needed here, you know. You have been going in to see him after Vespers. What’s wrong with that?’
‘I wanted him to get a look at the plans in daylight. I’m hoping I might persuade him out of doors. I—oh, please, Stephen.’
‘You’ll be back here after the midday break?’
‘Yes; I promise.’
‘You can tell Brother John I’ll be needing another pair of hands for the farm if he’s filching my men for the infirmary. No, go on, I’m pulling your leg. We’ll manage. It’s good to see you looking a bit less like a thundercloud than you have been. Greet Father for me.’
Brother Tom came down from the hill and collected the documents, taking them along to the infirmary. He paused and snapped off a sprig of rosemary, rubbing it between his fingers to release its fragrance as he strolled through the physic garden and into the low infirmary building. Peregrine raised his head and greeted him with a smile of surprised pleasure as he came through the door of the room with his bundle of plans, the smells of earth and air and herbs clinging about him. He had not expected to see Tom until evening.
‘I’ve brought the farm plans. I thought I’d show you which bits we’ve been able to repair. Want to see them?’
‘Y-es, s’il te plaît.’
‘What? Oh, right.’
Peregrine looked up at him amiably, seemingly unaware he had said anything unusual. Tom suppressed a smile, and laid the plans on the table. Does he know, he wondered; does he know when he speaks French? Sometimes, maybe. Brother John had said Father was taken aback by saying, ‘Merci, chéri.’ But even then, had he known it was in French, or had he simply been embarrassed because he thought he’d said, ‘Thank you, darling’?
Tom glanced down at the table which stood beside Peregrine’s chair. Two books lay there already, a copy of John’s Gospel, and a breviary.
‘Brother John been saying the Office with you?’ Tom asked, as he smoothed the plan on top of the books.
‘N-o. B-Br-B… oh! … F-Fr… n….’
‘Francis?’
‘Y-es.’
‘D’you know, I haven’t spoken to him in an age. Dawn to dusk I’ve been up on the farm. And he’s going away to be priested soon.’
‘Y-es.’
‘And Brother James off to Oxford.’
Peregrine reacted to this piece of news with an explosion of consternation, ending in an incomprehensible question.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Tom looked at him blankly. ‘I didn’t get any of that. Do you object to Brother James going to Oxford?’
‘Y-es.’
‘Why? I thought you set up for him to go to university.’
‘Y-es.’
Tom frowned at him, puzzled, then his face cleared. ‘Oh! Cambridge, wasn’t it—for the cheaper accommodation? I suppose Father Chad forgot. Anyway, he’s going to Oxford now.’
There followed a long muttered grumbling from Father Peregrine, which required all Tom’s self-discipline to keep a straight face, then Peregrine sighed and dismissed it. ‘Ainsi soit-il,’ he said, and turned his attention resolutely to the farm plan.
Looking at the plans was not a success. Peregrine leaned over the map with interest at first, but his initial eagerness faltered as Tom pointed out to him the field shelter they had been working on, the harvest fields and the mill. He shifted restlessly, shadows of bafflement and unease gathering in his face as he studied the plan. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and looked at the map again, struggling to make sense of it. Tom, absorbed in his favourite object of thought, did not notice his disquiet at once.
‘We’ve built the ricks here… and here. Brother Stephen wants to build a new shelter up here because of the stream; then we could pen the ewes in at lambing, and there’d be water on hand. It seems the ideal place to me; what do you think?’
Peregrine licked his lips. He was trembling. ‘Y-es.’
‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’ Tom looked at him, concerned. ‘Haven’t you understood what I was saying?’ he asked gently.
‘Y-es,’ said Peregrine hastily, frowning at the plan.
‘Are you sure? You can remember when we looked at these to decide on the repairs and rebuilding?’
‘Y-y-es.’
‘Start here, then. This is the abbey. The chapel, look, and the cloister. Can you see the infirmary?’
The uneasiness was turning into outright fear in Peregrine’s face. However hard he looked at the plan, it would not unlock its mysteries to him. Stalling for time, he rested his head on his hand, obscuring his face from Tom’s gaze.
‘Here’s the infirmary. Look, trace your finger with mine. The infirmary here… and the path up to the farm. Do you remember?’
‘Y-es,’ Peregrine lied.
‘All right. So this is the orchard where the pigs are, and beyond that, the field of oats and rye. Now then… up here the pastures… Yes? You remember?’
‘Y-es.’
‘And the outlying buildings to the west, where the aisled barn is and the field shelter with a foldyard. Yes?’
‘Y-es.’
‘So then. You’ve got that?’
‘Y-es.’
Tom looked at him, not at all sure he was telling the truth.
‘Can you show me then, on the map, the place by the spinney, where Brother Stephen wants to build the new shelter? No, not there, it’s north-east of that, above the long meadow. Do you see?’
‘N-o,’ Peregrine whispered hopelessly, his face shocked and ashen pale.
‘Let me tell you about it then,’ said Tom gently. He was not sure what had gone wrong, but judged this not the moment to ask, and tried to speak tactfully, wondering how to abandon the project without the total humiliation of conceding defeat.
‘There’s a spinney up there on the hill; lovely in the spring. The primroses grow there, and the bluebells. Violets too. It rings with birdsong on a May morning. Behind the wood is the source of the stream which runs down through the spinney, coming out beside the pasture. This is the lower pasture here, where we bring the ewes down when their time is coming in March. Up till now, we’ve brought them into the foldyard and the byre for lambing, because the cows are out to grass by then, but Brother Stephen wants to build a new shelter there, so we shall be able to take in the ewes that are about to give birth, without disturbing them too much. What do you think?’
Peregrine pondered the question. It was a relief to be released from the map, but he felt shaken still, his confidence undermined.
‘Y-es, b-b-b… m… wh-wh… oh….’ He sighed wearily.
‘A good idea, but some reservations; yes?’
‘Y-es.’
‘What are the reservations? Too cold for the sheep?’
‘N-o.’
‘Unnecessary?’
Peregrine smiled. ‘Y-es… N-o.’
‘You mean yes, but that isn’t what you meant?’
‘Y-es.’
‘What then? The expense?’
‘N-o.’
‘What then? It’s a lovely sheltered spot. Perfect I would have thought.’
‘Th-th… m… S-s-s… G… m… Sj… oh!’ He strove desperately to shape the words, but the attempt was utterly futile, and Tom had run out of ideas to help him. Peregrine explained again, but Tom shook his head, helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I’m stumped. I just can’t make out what you’re saying.’
Peregrine glared, exasperated at him, redoubled his efforts to make himself understood.
‘I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry. I can’t make out head or tail of that. Try again.’
Peregrine waved his hand impatiently. ‘Oh, n-o,’ he said.
‘Please. We’ll get there in the end.’
‘N-o.’ His mouth was a grim line and his eyes were glowering as he looked at Tom.
‘Come on, you’ll never get anywhere if you don’t try. Start again, slowly.’
‘N-o.’
‘Oh, you obstinate old man! Will you not just try?’
‘N-o! N-o! N-o!’ Peregrine lost his temper, shouted the words at him, beside himself with fury born of frustration and fear. He stopped himself, still breathing heavily, but the turmoil was too much to bear. He would not look at Tom and sat shaking his head from side to side like a wounded animal, then with a roar of anger and frustration he swept the plans and books from the table beside him with a violence that sent even the heavy Gospel flying. They crashed to the floor, scattering everywhere, and the binding of the Gospel split as it fell open and hit the wall. One or two of the pages were torn loose. Peregrine sat, trembling, his head bowed, refusing to look at Brother Tom.
Tom looked round as the latch clicked, and Martin Jonson appeared through the door. Martin viewed the scattered books and documents on the floor with alarm.
‘Dear, dear me!’ he said. ‘What’s been going on here? Are you all right, Father? I thought I heard some kind of a commotion. What happened? Has he been taken bad again, Brother? He looks bad.’
‘He’s all right,’ said Brother Tom. ‘I’ll pick these things up. Don’t worry yourself.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, Brother. Call me if you need help.’ He looked apprehensively at Peregrine, who did not lift his head, did not move.
‘N-o!’ he ground out through clenched teeth, as Martin left the room.
‘No what?’
‘N-o! N-o!’
‘Do you mean you don’t want me to pick the things up?’
‘N-o!’
‘You do want me to pick them up?’
‘Y-es.’
‘No what then? What else did I say? Do you mean you’re not all right?’
‘Y-es! N-o!’
‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Tom ran his fingers wearily through his hair and across his tonsured scalp.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t understand you. I can’t promise to understand you. I’m sorry. Does it make me entirely a failure?’
‘Y-es!’
‘Thank you. So you hate me, yes?’
‘Y-es!’
‘Drop dead, Brother Thomas, is that it?’
‘Y-es.’
‘Get out of here, and never come back?’
‘Y-es.’
‘Would you do me the courtesy of looking me in the face when you say that?’
Peregrine didn’t move for a moment. Then he lifted his hand and pressed it to his mouth; and Tom sat there an intolerable, harrowing eternity, listening to him trying to stifle the shuddering of his breath, watching the tears trickle down the back of his twisted hand; a painful, scalding grief of inadequacy and defeat, sparing nothing.
Eventually, Peregrine stole a glance across the room at the mess of plans and parchments, and raised a stricken face to Brother Tom.
‘M… b-b… n-b-b… oh! Merde!!… B-b-ook.’ And he smote his breast in the ritual gesture of penance, mea culpa. Tom looked at him, torn between pity and exasperation.
‘Yes. As you say; book. Your nose is running and your face is a river of tears. Have you a handkerchief?’
‘Y-es.’
‘Use it then, while I gather up this shambles.’
He gave Peregrine enough time to recover some measure of composure, busying himself with the reassembling of the plans and letters. The intact Office book he placed with them on the table, and he took the torn Gospel onto his knee as he sat down again on the low stool.
‘What did you say this was? Can you say it again?’
‘N-o.’
‘Try.’
‘N-o.’
Tom sat with his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, regarding Father Peregrine in amused vexation. Peregrine blew his nose and looked back at him, shamefaced, but not giving an inch. Tom shook his head, and took the Gospel into his hands.
‘You said that. You said “book”. If you will at least try to say it again, I will take this Gospel most discreetly to Brother—oh, I beg his pardon, Father Theodore, and get him to mend it, no questions asked. If you will not even try, then I swear by this book I will tie it round your neck, and I will stack you on a barrow and take you to Chapter in the morning for you to make your confession there of your destructive tantrum; so help me, I will. Now then!’
Peregrine stared at him, incredulous, furious, horrified. ‘Y… Y-y-ou… y-ou… b-astard.’
Brother Tom dissolved into helpless laughter. ‘Abbot Peregrine du Fayel, you are the most obstinate mule of a man God ever created. If you can say that, surely to goodness you can say “book”. Say it! Try! Please.’
‘Mm-b… b… b-ook! B-ook.’
‘Yea!’ Tom waved his fists in triumph, Peregrine watching him in an attempt at dignity which cracked up into a grin.
‘Can you say it again? Book.’
‘Book. Boo-k.’ He tried to look nonchalant, casual, but his eyes laughed at Tom in excitement.
‘You can! If you can say that, you can say anything. Says it in the Scriptures, doesn’t it? In the beginning; one word. I’ll wager God’s word cost him as much struggle and tantrums as yours did, too. Can you still say it? Book.’
‘M… b-ook. Boo-k.’
‘Ah, you’re wonderful. I knew you could do it. Now I don’t know how long I’ve been here, and I’ve promised Brother Stephen I’ll be back up at the farm by midday, but I’ve been wondering, won’t you come outside with me one of these mornings? It’s beautiful out there, Father. You can smell the year turning, the ripening, joyful smell of the autumn, and the hills are just breathtaking in the morning light.’
Some of the laughter died out of Peregrine’s eyes; he withdrew a little into himself again.
‘N-o.’
‘Don’t you miss the trees, the dew… the sky?’
‘Y-es. M… s-s-st—oh!’ He shook his head irritably.
‘The sunshine?’
‘N-o.’
‘What then? Won’t you come outside, just for a while? It’s a lovely morning!’
‘N-o.’
‘Why is it? Don’t you want people to see you?’
‘Y-es.’
‘Who’s to see? Old men in their second childhood—they can hardly see anyway, most of this lot.’ Tom looked at him, encouraging, but Peregrine appeared quite adamant.
‘You don’t want to go out then?’
‘Y-es.’
‘You do?’
‘Y-es. M… b… s-s-st—Ah!’ He thumped the arm of the chair, angrily.
‘All right, don’t lose your temper again. There’s something you want to do?’
‘Y-es.’
‘Something you want to see?’
‘Y-es.’
‘Outside?’
‘Y-es. Y-es.’
‘Shall I take you out now, then?’
‘N-o.’
‘Well….’ Tom was perplexed. ‘This afternoon?’
‘N-o. N-o! N… n… s-s-st—oh, merde! s….’ He waved his hand at the ceiling, gesturing all around.
‘The sky?’
‘Y-es. Y-es.’
‘You want to see the sky?’
‘Y-es.’
‘So let’s go out and see it then.’
‘N-O!!’ Peregrine screwed his eyes up, furious, grinding his teeth in helpless rage.
‘Father, stop it! I can’t help it. Don’t be so impatient. You make me feel all harassed. You want to go out. Yes?’
‘Y-es.’
‘But not now.’
‘Y-es. N-o.’ Peregrine sat looking at him, his face twitching with impatience, the dark grey eyes burning with the words he couldn’t say. Tom looked back, utterly baffled.
‘Not this afternoon.’
‘N-o.
‘Later?’
‘Y-es. Y-es. Y-es! S-s-st….’
‘You… oh, sweet heaven, you want to see the stars!’
Peregrine closed his eyes and relaxed in relief, nodding.
‘Y-es. Y-es. Y-es!’
‘Stars.’
‘S-s-st-ars.’
Tom smiled at him. ‘I’ll take you. Tonight, I’ll take you outside to see the stars.’
The infirmary had two contraptions, designed and built by Brother Peter, for moving its patients who could sit up but not walk. The design was a mutation of a barrow and a chair; either a barrow with no front and an upright back, the wheels being at the back and two legs at the front, like the opposite of a wheelbarrow: or a low chair with wheels instead of back legs—it depended how you looked at it.
Into one of these singular creations Brother Michael and Brother Tom lifted Father Peregrine after Compline had ended, and dusk descended into darkness. Brother Tom had begged permission of Father Chad to be late from his bed, and Brother Michael was up anyway, because the infirmary was never left unsupervised.
They padded the barrow with pillows, and lifted Peregrine into it, their hushed voices and the low-burning night-lights of the sleeping infirmary adding to the sense of adventure that attended the occasion. Brother Tom pushed the chair along the passage, carefully over the low sill of the threshold; Brother Michael closed the door behind them, and they were out in the aromatic darkness of the physic garden.
It was a fine night, the moon reigning proud and fair in the heavens, bathing the gardens in an unearthly beauty of light. A breeze freshened in the night air, but scarcely enough to stir the leaves of the herbs or the laburnham tree that grew beside the path. Peregrine gazed ravenously at the high, immense expanses of the moonlit sky and the silent brilliance of the stars.
What a relief it must be, Tom reflected, to be away from the geometry of man-made things, feeling the wild, anarchic beauty of the night wind’s caress and seeing the random flung scattering of the stars, to a man who has lost the ability to interpret patterns, who has been baffled and defeated by codes and schemes these long, dismal weeks. It must have been like putting down a great burden to come out here where there was no pattern, no code, only the wordless immediacy of life. Tom thought on the times in his own life when everything had seemed to be disintegrating. There had been such a healing reassurance in the rhythm of natural things. Maybe, he pondered, maybe it was not that it had no pattern, but that human beings were part of the design, and couldn’t look at it because it didn’t exclude them, only restored them to themselves.
Day and night, the dance of the stars, the cool fingers of the breeze… it wove men into its purpose like single threads. Even the broken ones could be woven together with the others to make the whole thing beautiful. There had to be a pattern, surely, because it was not empty of meaning, all this. It made more sense than anything. It was just that the pattern was not so much of a code… more like a dear, familiar face.
‘Are you all right?’ Tom asked quietly, releasing his hold on the handles of the barrow and resting his hands lightly on Peregrine’s shoulders.
‘Y-es. Oh… T-om… th-th-th… s-s-stars.’ His voice was filled with the sweet agony of his yearning delight. ‘I l-l-lo… m….’
‘Yes. I know. You love the stars.’
In silent consummation Peregrine drank in the beauty of the night; the wide enchanting wilderness of stars, the close enfolding of the secret dark, losing himself in the music of loveliness. He closed his eyes and lifted his face hungrily against the exquisite kiss of the night air. ‘Oh, le bien,’ he sighed. ‘Oh mon Dieu, comme c’est bien…’
Tom stood a long while, perfectly still, unwilling to intrude upon this silent communion. Then he took the handles of the chair again, and pushed it along the path, slowly, among the scented plants. He stopped beside a rosemary bush that had grown out across the path so that it brushed against them. Peregrine leaned over and buried his face among the thrusting young shoots.
‘Oh, mon Dieu…’ He breathed in the heady, resinous aroma; ‘Oh le bien!’ He reached out his hand and rubbed the fragrant leaves against his face until the air was suffused with the scent.
‘Smells so clean and good, doesn’t it?’ said Brother Tom. ‘It makes you feel more alive.’
‘M… y-es. Oh y-es.’ He righted himself in the chair, and they continued slowly through the fragrant paths of the physic garden.
‘D’you think you can face the cobbles?’ Tom asked him, as they came to the end of the flagged path that wound among the herb beds, and looked along the cobbled path that skirted the vegetable gardens and led to the cloister buildings.
‘Y-es.’
‘Here goes then, but it’ll shake you up a bit. I’ll go onto the grass where I can.’
The barrow, with its narrow metal-rimmed wooden wheels, clattered and bounced along the path, and it was a relief to reach the flagged pathway skirting the Chapter House and leading into the cloister as it ran along the way of the church. Tom pushed the chair through the passage, and they stopped and looked at the deserted cloister garth lit with white moonbeams. Nothing stirred there, sheltered as it was from the wind. Brother Fidelis’ rose bushes stood in immortal stillness, bathed in the silver light.
Tom hesitated. He wondered whether to walk round the cloister, past the abbot’s house. Deciding that the pain of that might spoil the delight of the excursion, he turned the chair round, and pushed it back into the passageway towards the small door in the south wall of the church.
‘I think this is not too wide to go through the Lady Chapel door. Let’s see.
‘Oh, somebody’s oiled the hinges. Wonders will never cease. Now… yes, we can do it.’
He pushed the barrow past the vestry and sacristy door, through the Lady Chapel and into the empty choir, straining his eyes to see by the faint gleam of moonlight that filtered through the windows.
Beside the altar, the perpetual light glowed in its lantern of ruby glass. Peregrine looked up, but it was too dark to see the cross above the rood screen.
‘He’s hidden in the darkness,’ Tom whispered, ‘but he’s there.’
‘Y-es. L-l-lum…’
‘Lumen Christi?’
‘Y-es.’
‘Deo Gratias.’ He pushed the chair up to the sanctuary steps, the altar dimly discovered in the shadows by the moonbeams and the warm, patient shining of the perpetual light. They rested without speaking in the holy presence of the dark that bent over them and wrapped them round.
‘Have you missed being here?’ whispered Brother Tom. Then, when Peregrine did not reply he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. That was thoughtless and stupid. Your absence has ached among us, too.’ He paused. ‘One day… one day, when you feel ready, I’ll bring you to Mass. When you’re ready.’
Peregrine said nothing, gazing at the dear familiarity of the altar, the silver cross, the rood screen, sick with loss.
‘Come on then. I must take you back.’
And Tom wheeled the chair round, and found his way carefully through the Lady Chapel and out into the cloister passage.
‘If we go by the kitchen, we can come round by the orchard and the vegetable gardens, and avoid the cobbles. What do you think?’
‘Y-es.’
This proved less simple than it had sounded. Tom had forgotten the cobbles in the kitchen yard, and the chair nearly overturned in the uneven ground of the orchard, but he returned Peregrine in one piece to the infirmary, and with Brother Michael’s help undressed him and got him back to bed.
‘Goodnight, Father. I’ll come tomorrow, after Vespers. Sleep well.’
‘Y-es.’
Brother Michael went with Tom to the door.
‘Was that a success?’
‘Yes. Yes it was. We went into the chapel, and I think that made him feel a bit sad… but to be outside and see the stars, smell the herbs, yes, that was good. I’d like him to come out in the sunshine though.’
‘So would we all. It’ll come, now he’s ventured out. Don’t rush him. Thank you, Tom. Goodnight.’
Brother Michael closed the door, and Tom walked back through the herb garden, along the cobbled path into the section of the cloister near the church, where the day stairs climbed up to the dorter. Brother Peter, carrying the lantern round, nodded to him in greeting as he passed. Tom went into the little wooden cubicle where he slept, and sat on his bed to take off his sandals, his belt and knife.
‘Father God….’ he whispered, as he sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the coolness of the stone under his bare feet; ‘just his speech. We can carry him, nurse him, dress him, but we can’t speak for him. Because of your loving kindness, give him back his speech. And make him be able to hold his water long enough to get through Chapter. We can do the rest.’
He pulled back the covers on his bed and climbed in. He lay with his hands behind his head, gazing into the dark.
‘Please,’ he added, before he fell asleep.
Throughout the next day, Tom’s mind teemed with the possibilities for developing Peregrine’s speech, helping him to come out of his reclusive existence in the sanctuary of his infirmary room.
‘How can I persuade him to really try?’ he asked Brother Stephen, as they trudged up the hill after Chapter.
Stephen pondered a while. ‘With animals,’ he said at last, ‘if you want to train them or persuade them to do something, you offer a reward—rattle a bucket of cereal, or tempt them with some corn. Maybe it’s the same with people? Teachers sometimes reward children with sweetmeats for a lesson well done, don’t they?’
Brother Tom turned over this idea in his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said finally; ‘I think that might work. I’ve waited on his table long enough. I know better than the infirmary brothers what his likes are. I’ll try a visit to the kitchen before Vespers and see what that turns up.’
He appeared in Father Peregrine’s room after Vespers, carrying a tray with a bowl and spoon and a little jar. He had a very purposeful expression on his face.
Father Peregrine, sitting in the last warm light of the afternoon sun, absently stroking the tabby kitten that lay curled asleep on his lap, looked with interest at the tray; then the interest in his face gave way to misgiving as he saw Tom’s determined expression.
‘Now I’ve some beautiful, sweet blackberries here for you, and I’ve wheedled my way round Brother Cormac to spare me a little pot of cream so thick you could stand the spoon up in it. You’ve got to earn them though. Brother John thinks that if we really work at it, you might get most of your speech back; all of it even.
‘You said “book” yesterday, beautifully, and “stars”; you can say “yes” and “no” well enough, and the odd word here and there, and you can swear with great fluency in two languages; methinks it’s time we developed your vocabulary. I want you to try repeating some words after me. Yes?’
Peregrine’s eyes wandered to the fruit Tom had put on the table. He swallowed. His mouth was watering for it. He sighed. ‘Y-es,’ he said resignedly.
Let’s try something you know really well; maybe the flow of it will help you remember: “Pater noster qui es in caelis.” Try “Pater”. P-P…. Go on: P….’
‘P-P-P-shlastr—oh, merde!’
‘Try! P-P-P-Pater n-n-n-noster.’
‘P-ater n-n-n-n NO!’
The kitten leapt down from his lap in alarm at his raised voice, its ears flattened back, scampering for safe shelter under the bed.
‘Try. You did it. Just this one sentence. Try. Pater noster….’
‘N… b… b….’
‘P-P-P-’
‘P … P….’
‘P-a. P-a. P-ater’
‘P-ater n… n… n….’
‘Pater n-n-n-noster. Try.’
‘N-os… n-os… oh! P-ater n-os-n-oster!’
‘Very good. Try “qui”; qu-qu….’
‘N-o.’
‘Try. Just this one short sentence.’
‘N-o. N-o. N-o-o.’
Peregrine glared at him defiantly, but Tom held the winning card. ‘Don’t then. But I’ll take this fruit away and tell them not to bother, you didn’t want it. Well?’
‘N-o.’
Tom shrugged indifferently, and took the bowl of blackberries and the little pot of cream. As he reached the door, he couldn’t resist a glance back to see Peregrine’s reaction. He sat, the bitter disappointment and humiliation written plain on his face, his lips pressed tightly together to counter the treacherous trembling.
It was a moment not like any other in Tom’s life. Without warning he was in the howling place of storm, the fearful meeting ground of the tortured and the torturer, the betrayer and the betrayed, the powerful and the powerless, those who have and those who have nothing; the still place of knowledge in the eye of the storm. The look on Peregrine’s face filled that hateful, howling desert, assaulted Tom with the violence of a blow. In unendurable, stabbing accusation, Peregrine’s eyes helplessly filled with tears. He bent his head, in a futile effort to hide his face, dismayed that Tom should see him so childishly upset over such a little thing.
But Tom was across the room in two quick strides, and dumping the fruit and cream on the table he fell on his knees by the chair and hugged Peregrine to him, his heart torn open in an agony of pity and shame.
‘No, no, no,’ he moaned. ‘What was I thinking of? Oh, what was I thinking of? Father, forgive my cruelty….’
In that moment, Tom detested himself beyond bearing. He had never dreamed that he might play a part in driving home the nails, hoisting the cross, in this particular crucifixion.
He pressed his lips against Peregrine’s face, tasting the salt of his tears as he drew back to look at him, his hands holding his shoulders, his eyes beseeching his forgiveness. ‘Oh, my God, I’m sorry.’
Tom had known the blissful security of a mother’s arms and the intoxication of being in love; but here, in the anguish of wounding and forgiveness, was a steep, austere intimacy; knowledge beyond ordinary loves. Such an unconditional encounter demanded no lesser honesty than the humble, painful disclosure of his naked soul. He bent his head and closed his eyes, suffering the pain of it to sear through him and through him, a merciless, costly compassion.
‘I haven’t been much of a friend to you, have I?’ he mumbled.
In the tenderest gentleness, he felt Peregrine’s finger trace lightly across his cheek.
‘Y-es. Oh y-es. Thank you, T-om.’
Tom lifted his head and looked at him in amazement. ‘What did you say?’
‘Th-ank you, T-om.’
The scarred, tear-stained, crooked face lit up suddenly in a most mischievous grin: ‘Th-ank you, T-om.’
‘You… terror! You can say that perfectly! Since when have you been able to say that? Ah well, it’s a nicer thing than “Pater noster qui es in caelis”. Come on then; are you going to eat these blackberries?’
‘Y-es.’
‘I’ll put the cream on. Can you manage the spoon if I hold the dish?’
‘Th-ank you, T-om.’
‘What is this? Have you been practising saying that?’
‘Y-es.’
‘You crazy fool! You let me go through all that Pater noster rigmarole and you never told me you’d been working on something else!’
‘Y-ou d-did-d… n… m….’
‘I didn’t ask?’
‘Y-es.’
‘No. I didn’t, did I? Well there you are. That’s one more homily on courtesy you’ve notched up to your credit.’
Tom knelt beside him, holding the bowl. He watched Peregrine’s awkward progress, carefully scraping with the spoon the dribbles of blackberry juice that escaped from his mouth, painfully anxious not to let the spoon twist in his clumsy hand.
Tom made no comment. Questions ached in his silence: why does it have to be him? God in heaven, couldn’t you have found some slob who couldn’t care less to strike down? Or would that have been less fun?
He smiled at Peregrine as the last scraping of blackberries disappeared. ‘You’ve made a neat job of those. Good, aren’t they? You know, blackberries make a beautiful sauce for roast pheasant. There should be some pheasants worth eating any time now—grouse too. Yes, my mother used to roast them with honey, and serve them in gravy and blackberry sauce, with parsnips and turnips… it was good, that. We used to eat two each.’
Peregrine lifted his hand and wiped away a dribble of saliva from the side of his mouth that still drooped in paralysis. Tom grinned at him. ‘I’m sorry. Am I setting your digestive juices flowing? Is that what you’d like, some roast pheasant in blackberry sauce?’
‘Oh, mon Dieu… y-es.’
Tom laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll talk to Brother Cormac. He’d do anything for you anyway. Now then, I’m sorry to go so soon, but I need to have a word with Brother John before Compline, so I’d better be moving. I’ll leave this bowl here if you don’t mind it. It can go back to the kitchen with the things from here in the morning.’
He stood up to go. ‘Goodnight, Father. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Y-es. Th-ank y-ou, T-om. G-G-G… m… G-o… m… b-ble… Oh!’
‘God bless you too. Goodnight.’
Tom closed the door behind him, but did not walk away at once. He felt upset and ashamed still, that he should have pushed Peregrine to the point of tears. Two months ago, if he had hurt someone that much, he would have gone to Peregrine and knelt before him, and confessed it; but now… who? He had no intention of telling Father Chad about the incident. Brother John, then. Tom walked slowly down the passage. So much turmoil, he thought. I get so exasperated with him, and I feel so sorry for him, and I need him still; his faith and wisdom. I’m so angry with him for being ill and needing me, when I still need him.
Brother John would likely be setting out the medication for the night at this time of day, while Martin and Brother Michael made the old men comfortable in their beds. Tom walked along to the little room where the medicines were kept, a small room full of the fragrance of aromatic oils and herbs, furnished with a stout workbench and two stools, and lined with shelves full of innumerable jars and pots and phials.
Tom stood hesitantly in the doorway.
‘Have you a moment to spare, Brother?’
Brother John was preparing the evening medicines; sedatives, sleeping draughts and pain relief. He had several bottles of physic on the workbench in front of him, and three pots of liquid heating slowly on a tiny brazier raised on wooden feet on a block of stone. He looked round at Brother Tom standing in the doorway holding the door handle.
‘No, not really. Not if I’m to get done in time for Compline. I’ve skipped Chapel so many times this week I shall be earning a scolding if I’m not careful.
‘However,’ he added, looking again at Tom’s face, ‘I might make a free minute, provided you can help me give out these doses?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Sit down then. Excuse me if I carry on with this. What’s troubling you?’
Brother Tom sat on the stool without speaking. Brother John finished his medicines in silence. He was familiar with this kind of communication. It came with the infirmary work. He had learned by now to understand as much from men’s silences as he did from their words. It was time-consuming though; he privately resigned himself to missing Compline for the third time that week. He swivelled round on his stool and sat opposite Brother Tom, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. He waited until Tom was ready to speak, and in the end Tom asked him, ‘You taught Father Peregrine to say, “Thank you, Tom”?’
‘Almost. I taught him to say “thank you”. He could already say “Tom”.’
‘Why did you teach him to say that? How did you go about it? Was it a struggle to get him to do it?’
Brother John smiled. ‘Been arguing with him, have you?’
‘Not exactly.’ Tom hesitated. ‘I think it would be fairer to say I’ve been bullying him. I didn’t intend to… at least… oh, I don’t know. I thought I’d try and build on his speech, teach him some words. Brother Michael said you told him that could be done. I tried him with “Pater noster qui es in caelis”, because of it being so familiar. He managed “Pater noster” and point-blank refused even to try further than that. I’d brought him some blackberries. I told him I’d take them away if he wouldn’t try. I made to take them away, but… his face—he looked so… reduced. Degraded, stripped—I can’t put it into words. He looked like a child. As though I’d robbed him of his adulthood. Such power, such abuse of power. I’m afraid to have such power. He wept, John. For blackberries and cream. Wept.’
Brother John looked down at his hands, sensitive to the uncertainty and dismay in Tom’s voice.
‘Not quite for blackberries and cream, I would think,’ he said, speaking with the same reasonable calmness he used on his patients when they were anxious or distressed. ‘The humiliation of powerlessness like that is very hard to bear.
‘It is not easy for us who can choose and determine so many basic things—feeding ourselves, relieving ourselves, talking, walking freely—to appreciate at all what it must be like, such broad deprivation. His emotional balance seems, to us, rather precarious, until you remind yourself of how the world looks from where he is. Blackberries and cream—well, you were able to go and get them, weren’t you? And you could just as easily go and get some more. Him, he might as well long for the moon. Unless someone takes the trouble to decipher what he wants, and bring it, he has to do without. Don’t be too hard on yourself, though. Be content to learn from it.
‘As to the speech, I think no one could teach him better than you, but a few tips might help you do it better. “Thank you” is two words of one syllable each; an easy and rewarding target. Also, it’s something he desperately wanted to say to you. He wanted me to say it actually, but I said no. It’s taken him two days to learn to say, “Thank you, Tom,” reliably. Two days. Pater noster qui es in caelis is a bit of a mouthful, and it may not be something he really wants to say himself. If he does, he’d probably sing it more easily than say it, incidentally.’
‘I thought—Brother Stephen suggested it—I thought it might be possible to teach him by rewarding him; like you do with children and animals.’
Brother John could not help the broad grin that spread across his face, in spite of the crestfallen tone of Tom’s confession.
‘You didn’t tell him that? No, I should think not. Sancta Maria, that would have made him spit!
‘You have to bear in mind, Tom, he’s very afraid of failure, of making a fool of himself. His sense of humour only takes him so far. He needs to feel that he’s being treated with respect, courtesy—his watchword! Did you say sorry to him?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘I’m glad you did that. That goes a long way. Is that all, then?’
‘Yes. Thank you. It’s a relief you don’t think what I did was too cruel.’
‘Did I say that? It was cruel indeed. I think it would have reduced me to tears if I’d been in his place. The look you saw on his face was your best guide to how cruel it was. The degradation of punishment, you know. Brother, I’m not blaming you, because I’ve done the same kind of thing myself, too often. There is the most terrible power attached to this job, and I don’t always use it wisely myself on days when I’m tired or distracted. A sharp word, a hasty rebuke from me sears them to the soul. I’ve learned to say sorry, and say it humbly. It helps to rebuild some of the fragile structures I so thoughtlessly destroy.
‘Now Tom, I really must get these medicines out.’ He strained some of the steaming liquid infusing in the pots into small beakers as he spoke. ‘Can you take this for Brother Denis, and this for Brother Cyprian—there’s hyssop, coltsfoot and honeysuckle in it for his wheezy chest.’
‘What’s in Brother Denis’?’
‘Sleeping draught. Chamomile and limeblossom. Take Brother Cyprian’s first—he ought to have it hot. When you’ve done that, would you come and help me turn Father Aelred, please?’
Tom took the two beakers and went into the dorter. The rooms were smaller here than in the main body of the abbey, to allow for a man to be isolated in cases of infection or insanity, or if it seemed better for any reason that he should be alone.
Brother Cyprian and Brother Denis shared a room, and there was also one empty bed in with them. When Brother Tom came into the room, he found them both neatly tucked into their beds, ready for the night. He set down Brother Denis’ beaker by his bed, and moved round to Brother Cyprian, who was already asleep. Tom stood looking down at him. ‘Brother Cyprian,’ he said, quietly.
Brother Cyprian’s eyes opened instantly, and Tom found himself met by a gaze of the most piercing wisdom. They looked at each other for a moment.
‘Have they mended it yet?’ asked Brother Cyprian irritably in his broad Yorkshire accent. Tom blinked at him, taken aback. ‘Mended it?’ he echoed. The shrewd old eyes continued to watch him. Clearly an answer was required. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘They’re terribly behind with the repairs.’
Brother Cyprian clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘Aye well, that’s nowt fresh, is it? Where are we off then? Into town?’
‘Um… no, it’s bedtime, Brother. I’ve brought you your medicine.’
‘Bed? Have I to stay in bed? I don’t want to go to bed. I have to stay here hours and hours and hours. Don’t be like that, lad. Let me get up.’
‘But Brother, it’s night-time.’
‘Nay, don’t say that to me. What’s that you’ve got there?’
‘It’s your medicine.’
‘Oh, I can’t have that, lad.’
‘But, Brother John said….’
‘Nay, nay… I should never have done it. I let them poison me, and I died last Monday, and I’ve to do it all backwards now, if you catch my drift; to get back again. Why are you looking like that at me? Is it some kind of wizard or necromancer you are?’
‘I’m a monk, Brother Cyprian.’
‘A what?’
‘Oh, glory be to God—a monk! Same as you. Please drink this medicine, or I shall catch it from Brother John. You’ve to have it while it’s hot. Let me help you sit up.’
Brother John came into the room. ‘Aren’t you done yet? Being awkward, is he? All right I’ll do it. Give Brother Denis his. Come on, Brother Cyprian, sit up.’ He slipped his arm under the old man’s shoulders and raised him up to a semi-sitting position, holding the cup to his lips.
‘Nay! Nay, Cedric, I don’t want that, it tastes nasty!’ the old man protested.
‘Behave yourself, Brother! Get this down you!’ retorted Brother John sharply. ‘There, that’s right. All of it now. That’s better. You’ll breathe easier now. Go to sleep.’
‘You’ll not put the light out, will you, Cedric? Leave me a light—please. I hate the dark.’
‘Ssh, go to sleep. When have I ever left you in the dark? The night light is burning here. Hush now.’ Brother John stood with the beaker in one hand, smoothing the old man’s brow with his other hand. ‘Ssh, ssh… go to sleep. Be at peace. Ssh.’
Then he turned quietly away from the bed and joined Brother Tom who was waiting for him at the door. He glanced back across the room, which was darkening now, the small flame of the night light beginning to glow in the shadows. He held out the empty beaker to Tom, tiptoed back to Brother Denis, and tucked his blankets in firmly.
‘God give you goodnight,’ he whispered. Then, satisfied that his charges were comfortable, he was content to leave them.
‘How came it Brother Cyprian drank that stuff for you when he wouldn’t for me?’ said Tom as they left the room, leaving the door ajar.
‘Ssh, don’t disturb them now, for mercy’s sake. He’s a naughty old man, that’s why. Half his mind doesn’t work, and the other half works all too well, the old devil.’
In the next room four men were settled in their beds. Brother John put his head round the door to see that all was well with them, then Tom followed him along the passage past the linen room to the little room where Father Aelred slept.
‘Why is he all alone here?’ asked Tom.
‘You’ll see. Light the candles from the night light, will you, so we can see what we’re doing. That’s right. You go that side of the bed. We have to turn him so he doesn’t get bed sores. We’ll check if he’s wet, and if not it’s just a matter of turning him onto his other side.’
The old man was sound asleep, his face peaceful with the rapt innocence of a child. John looked at him, smiling. ‘’Tis pity to disturb him,’ he said softly, ‘but it has to be done.’ As Brother John lifted back the blanket and sheet, Tom was assaulted by a nauseating, overpowering reek of sweat; the sickly stench of a body that was old and unwell and needing a wash. He grimaced, revolted. Brother John glanced at his face.
‘We’ll bathe him tomorrow,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s not well. It’s a job to keep him fresh. He’s wet, look. On the chest over there are some pads of sheeting and a pillowcase stuffed with sphagnum moss. Two pads please, and the pillowcase. That’s right. Put them ready here. Now, roll him over to you.’
As Tom took hold of the shrunken, bony old body clothed in the standard infirmary issue of an undershirt and grey woollen socks, Father Aelred let out a high, wavering shriek of pain or distress so wild and piercing it made Tom’s flesh crawl. ‘Aaagh! No! No! No!’ he cried. ‘Oh please, no! Oh leave me alone! Please, please! Aaaagh! No! Aaaaagh!’
‘Hush, Father Aelred,’ said John soothingly. ‘We won’t take long.’ He looked up at Tom’s appalled face with a grin. ‘That’s why he sleeps on his own.’
The loud quavering protest continued unceasingly as they changed his bed and turned him and repositioned his pillows. It only diminished as Brother John rubbed his hip and shoulder with ointment to guard against sores, talking to him gently for a while.
Then John tucked the blanket in firmly, whispering, ‘Goodnight, Father Aelred.’
‘Goodnight,’ replied the high, loud voice with startling, hysterical clarity. They gathered up the wet sheets, blew out the candles and left him. He had not once opened his eyes in all the time they were in the room.
‘I’ll wager you thought we were negligent not bathing him oftener until you heard that,’ said Brother John as he pulled the door to behind him. ‘We’ll take those along to soak until the morning; there’s a tub out at the back. I’ll show you.’
Outside the building in the yard, where the washing hung drying in the dusk, a thrush was singing, the outpouring glory of sound filling the twilight. Tom paused to look for the bird while Brother John took the sheets from him and pushed them with a stick into a vat of soaking sheets waiting to be washed in the morning.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Will you take the pad with the moss, and empty the moss out on the heap yonder for burning? Thank you. The pillowcase can go soak. There. We can wash our hands here—we’ve our own lavatorium.
‘Brother….’ John hesitated, rubbing his hands dry on the linen towel. Tom looked at him enquiringly, shaking the drips from his hands.
‘Brother, you should never look at a sick man with disgust on your face. Even someone like Father Aelred whose stink makes your gorge rise, and whose mind is gone. You can’t be sure how much they know, how much they understand. Never let them see if the care of them revolts you. It fills them with shame, confirms their worst fears, seals them into their distress. It’s important to look at a sick man with love in your eyes. Always.
‘There’s the Compline bell now, and I thought we’d miss chapel. Brother Michael will be on his way over. I’ll walk along with you.’
He laid the damp towel over a bush of lavender that grew in the bed bordering the yard.
‘It dries smelling of lavender there if the dew falls on it and then the heat from the sun dries it out.’
Tom spread his towel on the next bush in the border, sweet-smelling southernwood, and the two of them went round the back of the infirmary building to the cobbled path.
‘I’d like to get Father out into the sunshine before the days turn chill,’ Tom said to Brother John as they walked along the path.
‘You will. Now he’s begun to master his speech, he’ll get it back quickly. That’s what’ll give him the confidence to go out. It won’t be long now. Ah—there’s Brother Michael. God give you good evening, Brother. All’s well. I’ll be in after the morrow Mass, so you can go to Office and Chapter Mass as soon as we’ve got them up.’
Michael smiled, and nodded a greeting to Brother Tom.
‘Thank you. Father Theodore said to tell you he will be coming after Chapter to say Mass with Father Peregrine and bring the others the sacrament. Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight.’
The bell ceased tolling as they took their leave of Brother Michael, and they quickened their footsteps, hastening into the choir just before Father Chad gave the knock and the men rose to begin the last Office of the day.