Father Godfrey, Abbot of Burnham Abbey, looked at his watch; nearly an hour to lunch and he was already peckish. ‘I’ll put on weight if I’m not careful. Not good. Not good at all,’ he said to himself. He returned to the letter he was writing to his friend, Father Julian, Abbot of Wiltdown, about their move there. Details of this and that to be settled.
He leaned back in his chair and stared out at the gardens, the cedar tree and yes, as usual the rabbit was tied to the rope there, and nibbling away. He knew something had to happen in that department but preferred just now to put it out of his mind. Too many other things going on. They had this woman to deal with. What was her name? He found a piece of paper on which he had written Mrs Rose Gregory, arriving Saturday 10th June. He thought, Must remember her name: never been good at names – and getting worse.
He had no idea what they should do with her. Their only visitor. Her doctor – what was his name? – happened to be a colleague of their Dr Guy and knew from him about Burnham Abbey, the fact that they took visitors, and had phoned himself, explaining everything he could and asking that they keep an eye on her, adding that all she wanted was peace and quiet. Well, she would certainly get that here! But a woman alone! That was most awkward, very awkward indeed. But poor woman. What must it have been like to stand helpless, as in a split second both children, young children, were knocked down by a car. He thought that’s what the doctor said. Was it possible to recover from something like that? And then her husband leaving. Probably to escape the grief. Men were never very good with grief. His mind turned to Brother Joseph’s grief after the death of Brother John. He sighed with weariness and, putting his elbows on the desk, held his head in his hands. ‘Oh yes! A dreadful situation,’ he said aloud, but probably it was best to leave her alone. We all have to find our own way in the end.
Now he felt helpless and lethargic. He had enough problems with all this moving business. Thirty-two years here; it was home. He looked back at the gardens, remembering the early days when there was a full complement of brothers, and money was not so tight. Then they kept the gardens in excellent shape and the vegetable gardens supplied the locals, who came regularly to buy fresh produce and eggs too. They had chickens where the dogs’ run is now, and bees. Their honey was well known in the area. But it was so different now; only eleven of them and no money, of course, to keep the place going, as they naturally had little support from the Church. And so, the amalgamation with Wiltdown. But it could be worse. Father Julian and he had trained together all those years ago, became friends and kept in touch. And in so many ways it would be a relief to have someone else in charge.
But what would happen to this place? Had been a grand – beautiful even – house. He supposed the builders would be all over it in five minutes. The house pulled down and the gardens probably covered in blocks of flats. Only the graveyard: that couldn’t be built on, for sure. Not hallowed ground. Oh well, it was not his problem and there was nothing he could do. But the graves must be left alone. Of course, it was possible someone might renovate the place and turn it into and old people’s home. He quite liked that idea. Perhaps one day he could move back himself!