Father Godfrey put his signature to the letter and leaned back in his chair. He pushed the strand of hair out of his eyes, took off his glasses, rubbed his hands over his forehead and yawned. He was always tired after lunch. Lunch had been a disappointment today; he really would have to speak to Brother Joseph about his work in the kitchen. But it was difficult to know how to deal with the man, for he was quite incapable of doing anything properly except looking after that darned rabbit. Yet he must have something to do; it was bad for him to do nothing; it was bad for anyone. Everyone should feel worthy at doing something.
Annoyingly, Brother Joseph was disarmingly content with himself, had no conception of his – dare Godfrey think it? – simple-mindedness. He had always been a problem, of course; all right if there was a definite set of rules to follow, but change the routine – well, then there was a to-do. Brother Joseph plodded through the routine he was used to, unaware of the others around him, peeling potatoes even if they were not required, warming plates even if it was salad. And the other brothers didn’t help, mind you; they ganged up, whispering to each other, watching his mistakes and then laughing amongst themselves. Oh yes, he’d seen. But Joseph appeared oblivious to it all and that somehow made it all the more irritating.
Something had to be done: he would have to find him some other task. And one where hygiene didn’t matter either! My goodness, what a state his clothes were in. He couldn’t have someone in the community looking like that, especially now they were joining the brethren at Wiltdown. And, come to that, something had to be done about that rabbit. Why oh why had he allowed him to keep it? But he knew why. At the time, he had thought it fortuitous, with Joseph so distraught at Brother John’s death. The rabbit filled the gap. Brought in by a cat, wasn’t it? Anything to help him. He didn’t enjoy the suffering of his fellow men and too often he felt helpless in the face of it. Joseph had been quite broken by his friend’s death; they’d been together since they were boys; it had been pitiful to see. What did he call him? Billie? Yes, he called him Billie, but here it had been Brother John. Only the rabbit brought him comfort, it seemed.
At least, Godfrey thought, he will never suffer as Brother John did: he became so filled with a sense of his own futility, with a sense of a completely wasted life, that he had gone quite mad. Although they had let him breed spaniels, turned the chicken run into special kennels for the dogs, it only helped for a time. No, he had died the worst death of all; died in utter hopelessness, believing that God was a terrible hoax, some ghastly trick played on man by man. One could only hope that he had found peace at last.
He sighed, pushed back his chair and went to sit in the armchair by the window, hitching up his black robes to make himself more comfortable and revealing grey socks, with garters strapped to his white legs. He picked up a book from the table beside him and began to read, but as usual his eyes closed, the book fell into his lap and he dozed.
Once more he was walking through the garden in India. The air was close and still, brown air. Everything was brown and dust rose from his feet. Someone was singing. He kept muttering a text over and over again, but the words made no sense and he saw one of the servants grinning at him from behind the shrubbery. But when he looked again, the servant had gone. And then he saw the woman waiting at the end of the path; her chestnut hair shone rich in the sunlight, but her complexion was pale and, as he approached, he noticed how tired she looked. She stared at him with hollow eyes, but he walked past and when he turned around she had gone too. And he was sad, for she had seemed lonely and vulnerable standing there.
He woke suddenly and looked at his watch; it was ten to three. He knew he’d been dreaming about India again. He never used to. Never had dreamed about that part of this life before. Perhaps it was because he was old now. Perhaps one’s mind pulled together all of one’s life through dreams. On the other hand, perhaps it was because of the move. He was dreading it; he was to be as uprooted as, in a sense, he had uprooted himself from his family and India. Yes, that must be the reason he kept dreaming in this way.
It was nearly time to take the woman round the gardens. He didn’t really know what else he could do. There was something about the woman in his dream that edged his mind and made him uncomfortable. Yet what could he do? And then he remembered the leaflet they always left in the apartments. Had she got one, he wondered. He moved back to his desk and, pulling open the long, central drawer, found a rather creased and battered pamphlet, which he tried to iron out on the sides of his robes. It would have to do. At least it told her the times of the services and meals as well as a few necessary dos and don’ts. Now it was time to go. Well, at least he would have done something.