THE MIDWEEK MASS at Buckfast Abbey becomes a habit. Tim drives Francis, manages his wheelchair, and sits through the service gazing at the amazing stained-glass window in the chapel. The liturgy is familiar and though he does not receive Communion he is given a blessing. He doesn’t know why the touch of the priest’s hands on his head and the murmured words are a solace, but they are and he looks forward to them.
Afterwards he wheels Francis out of the Abbey, across to the café, and they have an early lunch together. It’s the hottest June on record and they sit outside on the balcony, looking over the gardens and the lavender beds, enjoying this sharing. And indeed, thinks Tim, it is good to share with Francis. Other little jaunts occur. They drive across the moor to the Two Bridges Hotel and sit by the river in the sun; Francis enjoys a pint of Jail Ale and laughs at the strutting and hissing of the geese. He calls them ‘the Mafia’. Tim takes him to a concert at the Abbey, where William’s choir is singing with other choirs, and drives him to Torcross beach where they sit in the sun and eat ice cream.
Tim is constantly surprised at his affection for this elderly man who is old enough to be his grandfather. There is an agelessness about Francis. He doesn’t talk endlessly about his past nor does he have a fund of anecdotes culled from his political life. Instead he engages with Tim as if he were his contemporary: they discuss poetry, music, ideas. It’s as if that one revelatory discussion, where each told a crucial secret about themselves, has brought them closer than if they’d known each other for years.
One day, after Mass, Tim admits to Francis that he’s been trying his hand at poetry: ‘It’s rubbish, of course,’ he says defensively, ‘but it’s very therapeutic.’
Francis doesn’t immediately ask to read it or protest that he’s sure it’s very good.
‘Writing’s a gift I’ve always envied,’ he says reflectively, ‘or indeed any of the creative arts. Music or painting. Where on earth do you begin?’
‘I didn’t start until I moved here,’ Tim tells him. ‘When I’m walking on the cliffs or on the moors I find that I’m trying to find phrases that might describe them. It’s impossible really. I started by making lists of words that related to something I felt.’ He stops and bursts out laughing. ‘Does that really sound as pretentious as I think it does?’
Francis laughs, too. ‘It’s no more pretentious than me trying to write my memoirs. At least it’s not all about you. After all, why should anyone be interested in the political maunderings of an old buffer nobody’s heard about?’
‘I suppose it depends whether you know any scurrilous stories about those in power at the time?’ suggests Tim. ‘Or would that be libel?’
Francis shrugs. ‘I think that it’s more to do with trying to make sense of my life. To see some sort of pattern. There was never any serious thought of publication.’
He looks around the café, as he often does, almost as if he’s hoping to see someone he recognizes and, when Tim raises his eyebrows, Francis smiles at him.
‘I met an old priest here quite by chance once, years ago. I was at a very low ebb and he put me back on course. He pointed me towards the writings of St John of the Cross, which have come to mean a very great deal to me. It’s foolish but I always hope I might see him again, sitting at a table reading a sheet of paper with the “Prayer of a Soul in Love” printed on it. He left the paper on the table when he went and I still have it.’
‘Did he leave it on purpose?’
The old man shrugs. ‘Who can say? I like to think so. I think that’s what prayer is all about. That we’re taken care of in those dark moments. I was in a very bad place and I came here looking for help. Father Theo was my miracle.’
Tim smiles at him. Francis’ faith touches him; he envies him the simplicity and strength of his belief.
‘Shall we go and smell the lavender?’ he asks.
Francis nods and Tim gets up and wheels him outside into the sunshine.
William’s barbecues are also becoming a regular event – on Fridays now, to kick off the weekend. It’s fun, once a week, for everyone to gather outside in these warm evenings and have a little party. Each person contributes and he enjoys getting everything organized: he chooses the meat, Tim provides the wine, Charlotte brings a pudding.
‘I feel rather de trop,’ says Kat.
‘You can supply coffee,’ grins William. ‘You know. “From each according to their abilities; to each according to their needs” or whatever.’
‘I didn’t know you were a Marxist, darling,’ she says.
It’s a good way to catch up and, though it’s accepted that friends are welcome, it tends to remain a family affair. Francis usually manages to come down from his lair to join them and, one Friday evening, Mattie was there, celebrating getting the job at Exeter. That was a very special, celebratory barbecue and William drank too much and sang.
It was even better when Fiona was staying. She thoroughly entered into the spirit of the party and William rather basked in her approval whilst telling himself not to be a bloody fool. She and Kat seemed to be getting along very well these days, though he noticed that Kat never invited Jerry along again.
‘He’s very welcome,’ he said to her. ‘It doesn’t have to be just family.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t quite work. I don’t know why. And it’s fun when it’s just us, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it is,’ he agreed. ‘It’s very relaxed. Though it was lovely when Mattie came, wasn’t it? Maybe she’ll manage a few more when she’s moved down.’
‘She can stay overnight with Charlotte,’ Kat said. ‘Or with Tim.’
He looked at her. ‘Anything going on there, do you think?’
She frowned, looking puzzled. ‘I think so but I’m not quite sure how – or what? Perhaps this is how the young have love affairs in this modern age. Or perhaps they’re just good friends.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, but he was still puzzled.
Meanwhile his relationship with Fiona is easy again. She says no more about getting a bolt hole and William is beginning to wish that he hadn’t been quite so negative about it. He wonders whether it’s time to offer her the spare bedroom occasionally but needs to sound Kat out first. It’s such a volte-face that he’s embarrassed to mention it, though a little plan is forming in his mind. Andy is getting a week’s leave early in July and William wonders whether this would be the moment to broach the subject. It’s not that he wants to muscle in on Charlotte and Andy – they need privacy – but perhaps Fiona could stay over for just one night to see her son. He could organize a barbecue for that last Saturday night.
William feels rather excited at the prospect of them all being together but he knows that he needs to think about it very carefully. He’ll mention it to Kat and then talk to Charlotte before he even gives so much as a hint of it to Fiona.