LATER, WHEN HE drives back into the courtyard, Tim is struck by the air of silence. There are no cars in the barn, all the doors and windows of the cottages are closed. No sign of Oliver’s buggy, or a book lying on the bench, or mugs on the table. It looks deserted, and so it is.
Charlotte and Oliver have set out for Tavistock, Kat has driven off to Bristol with Jerry to see a performance by a modern dance company at the Hippodrome, William is singing in a choral concert at Exeter Cathedral and then staying with friends.
‘It’s just you and me tonight, mate,’ Tim mutters to Wooster as he unlocks his front door.
Wooster sniffs around the courtyard as if seeking his little family, but he is quite content to follow Tim inside. His basket is tucked in a corner of the kitchen, just as it is in Charlotte’s, and he clambers into it and settles down. Tim opens the back door and wanders into the small paved garden. William’s garden is the biggest: two gardens made into one when the two cottages were knocked together. He has made raised beds at the end of the patch in which to grow vegetables, and the borders are full of flowers and shrubs. There is a bird table and feeders, which William has left fully charged: he loves to see the birds feeding.
Tim watches them across the fence. Slowly he is beginning to recognize some of them and William is encouraging him. There is a very small greenhouse in one corner and some chairs and a table under a little pergola. It is ordered and tidy, rather like William himself, and Tim glances rather guiltily at his own little patch.
Charlotte has helped him fill the three wooden tubs with bedding plants but there is very little else. He isn’t very imaginative when it comes to gardens. He said as much to Aunt Kat.
‘Me neither, darling,’ she said. ‘Gardeners like to be in control, you see. They like to bring order out of chaos. Give me chaos every time.’
Remembering, he laughs – and then he sighs. How difficult it will be to leave these people. His day with Mattie is like a glow in his heart: it was utterly magical. Yet he knows he must be truthful with her and still he does not quite know how to frame the words.
Instinctively he glances past the cottages and up at the big house. Immediately after the barbecue, nearly three weeks ago, Francis had a fall. There is the suspicion that it was another stroke and he’s been in hospital but now he is home again, and soon, so William says, will be ready for visitors.
Tim thinks about the old man, wonders if he gets lonely up there, although he knows his little team of helpers are regularly in and out. But he wonders how much Francis must miss his wife, and his sons, who rarely visit – so William says – and whom he is now too ill to visit. When William gets back, Tim thinks, he will ask if he can go up to see him. The old man’s perspicacity has made him cautious; anxious that he’ll blurt out the truth to that compassionate gaze. Now, suddenly, he’d like to talk to him.
He hears the familiar ping of a text arriving and takes out his phone. It’s from Mattie.
Perfect day. Are you both back at B? All good here xx
He thinks about all the things he would like to say in reply, but he decides to keep it simple.
Thank you for making it perfect. W and I are safe home xx
He goes back inside, glad of Wooster’s company. He thinks of Mattie saying, ‘I love you . . . You’re still young . . . You’ve got your whole life to explore it . . .’ and he sits down at the kitchen table, buries his face in his hands. He feels vulnerable, frightened at the prospect of dying, of non-being . . .
Wooster heaves himself out of his basket and comes to sit beside him, leaning against his legs. His bulk and warmth are so comforting, so reassuring, that Tim bends down to hug him and draw courage from him. There is none of the familiar sounds: William arriving home from the office, Aunt Kat calling to Charlotte as she takes the washing off the line, Oliver crying. It’s not just the silence, however, it’s the sense of emptiness; of desertion.
As he gratefully strokes Wooster’s heavy head, Tim thinks again of Francis alone in the house and wonders how he copes with such isolation.
Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow I’ll go to see him.
Francis glimpses Tim from his window but before he can catch his attention the boy has gone inside. He moves slowly, pushing the Zimmer frame before him, avoiding the pile of books Maxie has left on the floor. He hates the Zimmer frame but he isn’t taking any chances, old fool that he is. The fall was his own fault, sheer clumsiness, and now he’s even more of a nuisance to those who care for him. He must be more careful. There is still much to do for those whom he loves – and he includes Tim, now, in that small group.
He’s not sure what he can do for Tim. It’s hubristic to think that he might be able to help him, yet he can’t quite get him out of his mind. Ever since he spoke of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poetry at the barbecue Francis has been anxious that Tim has far more on his mind than a sabbatical.
Afterwards he wondered if he’d been imagining things but an instinctive fear keeps him drawn towards the boy. Then he had that stupid fall and was put out of action. It would be terrible if an opportunity was lost through his own stupidity.
Francis moves slowly across the room, sits down at his desk and opens his drawer. At his lowest ebb someone was vouchsafed to him; a stranger offered him comfort. He sits in silence, listening to the thrush singing in the ash tree, remembering. Nell wrote to him, telling him that she was expecting Bill’s child, and he knew then that he’d lost her, that there would never be a future for them together. He told himself there never had been: that he had forfeited his right to be with her and Maxie when he’d sacrificed them to his career and to his marriage. He stood at his study window staring out, full of guilt and the sense of loss. Liz and the boys were visiting friends and, on a sudden impulse, he drove to Buckfast Abbey to go to a midweek Mass. Afterwards he went into the restaurant for coffee. It was nearly lunchtime, and very busy, but there was a space at a table where one man was sitting alone reading something printed on a sheet of paper. Carrying his tray, Francis gestured hopefully towards the empty seat and the stranger smiled and nodded.
It was only as he sat down opposite the old fellow that Francis saw he was wearing a clerical collar. Well, that wasn’t very surprising here at the Abbey. He was thin, angular, with a thatch of white hair, dark brown eyes and a singularly sweet smile. It was odd but he seemed familiar, although Francis couldn’t remember seeing him at any of the services.
‘Thank you, Father,’ Francis murmured.
The priest looked at him intently, an unexpected expression of compassion and understanding, as if he knew everything about him.
Francis said: ‘I think I’ve met you before but I don’t know where. My name is Francis Courtney.’
The priest smiled his warm, inclusive smile and gave a little shrug. ‘Maybe you have but it doesn’t really matter, does it?’
Francis sipped his coffee, pondering that odd reply. Suddenly he longed to pour out his problems to this man, to seek some kind of absolution. He glanced at him again and was struck by the knowledge that the priest already knew his troubles, his wickedness, his failures, and had already forgiven him. He wanted to tell him about Nell, and how he’d been unfaithful to Liz; about Maxie and the cowardly need for silence.
The other man folded the paper, pushed his cup aside and stood up. Francis felt a sense of loss; he wanted to ask him to stay with him. The priest paused beside him and for a brief moment he gripped Francis’ shoulder. ‘My name is Theo,’ he said. As he walked away Francis sat quite still, feeling even now the imprint of his fingers and the pressure of that strong grasp. It was a few moments before he noticed that the priest had left the piece of paper on the table. He picked it up and glanced quickly round but the man had disappeared.
Francis sat, undecided what he should do, and then unfolded the paper and read the words typed on it.
Who can free himself from his meanness and limitations,
if you do not lift him to yourself, my God, in purity of love?
How will a person
brought to birth and nurtured in a world of small horizons,
rise up to you, Lord,
if you do not raise him by your hand that made him?
You will not take from me, my God,
what you once gave me
in your only son, Jesus Christ,
in whom you gave me all I desire;
so I shall rejoice:
you will not delay, if I do not fail to hope.
Francis read the prayer twice and gradually a great sense of peace descended upon his heart. The priest was nowhere to be seen. Francis made his way outside, still looking for him, still clutching the paper, and then drove home to Brockscombe.
Now, Francis takes an envelope from his drawer, draws out the much-creased and folded paper and rereads the words printed on it. The prayer has sustained him and encouraged him all these years. He remembers Father Theo’s smile and the grip of his hand. He feels inadequate to help Tim, being so damaged himself, but he knows he must make the gesture.