After leaving the lady, Joseph untied the rabbit and, holding the lead in one hand and dragging the box with the other, stumbled crookedly down the Monks’ Walk. The box was awkward, made his fingers ache, and he was obliged to stop every now and again to change hands. All the time he mumbled to his pet, more to comfort himself than anything else, for he was filled with foreboding. ‘Tush, tush! All right, Francis. All right.’
Eventually he reached the part where he had to turn to the left and into the overgrown area where the newly renovated run stood.
He hesitated outside the shut gates and then put down the box in order to study the hook and couplet. As if anticipating freedom, the rabbit leapt forwards, taking him by surprise, but he grabbed at the lead, tripping over the box as he did so, and fell heavily onto his side, narrowly missing the rabbit who, jerking forward with fright, took up the slack of the lead and was jolted onto his back.
Joseph lay on the ground hurt and shaken, and, like the rabbit, his body convulsed once or twice as he exhaled. But he never took his eyes off his pet, who righted himself and sat quivering a few yards from him. Slowly, Joseph stretched out his arm along the grass and touched the rabbit on the back. He didn’t speak, just hummed in his throat.
Once he had enough breath, he rolled over onto his stomach and then onto his knees. It was difficult to get up from the ground, but, pushing himself up with his one free hand, he manged to wobble onto his feet and straighten slowly.
The box was on its side and the straw had spilled out but there was nothing he could do about that until he had the rabbit safely inside the run. It was a difficult and time-consuming operation undoing the gate with the rabbit in his arms, but eventually he managed to undo the lock and to pull open the gate, which dragged heavily along the thick clumps of grass. It took all the strength he had.
Once inside, he put the animal down and watched as it quivered and sniffed about the edges of the run. ‘Come here. Aren’t you the wicked one! You rascal, you.’
He leaned against the wire, all his strength gone. He couldn’t say how he felt, but he had the same kind of feeling after Billie had died – a kind of fear, a kind of agitation. He looked around at the wire walls, at the trampled grass and weeds. He saw, outside the run, the broken-down wooden kennels where Billie’s dogs had slept. Helpless little puppies, soft like Francis and warm. Would the rabbit be warm out here? He had never slept out before, not since he had had him. Would the box be enough? ‘Come here Francis! Tush! tush!’
He caught hold of the lead, pulling the rabbit to him. ‘Come on,’ he whispered, and they left the run and made their way to the graveyard.
The high yew hedge stood at the end of the Monks’ Walk, separated by a turnpike gate, which they pushed through and so entered the graveyard. There were the graves either side of a weedy path, at the end of which stood two wooden benches. Joseph sat down and studied the grassy mounds, clothed in tall, tangled grasses. Only Billie’s grave was different, for his was worn and flat with Joseph’s trimming. Beside the grave was an unused plot marked out with stones. ‘That’s mine,’ he said aloud.
He was perfectly at home, sitting there while flickering moments from the past brought him and Billie together again. All his happiness was linked with Billie. First at the home and then here.
Joseph only knew St Dominic’s; he had been there since he was born. He was six when Billie arrived. He was kicking a ball about with some of the others on the old tennis court when Brother James walked out with a new lad. He left him standing alone on the bank overlooking the old court.
Joseph was immediately struck by the boy’s white hair and the bruises on the side of his face. The boy did not move or speak, just stood there, and the other boys took no notice of him, but Joseph did. He deliberately kicked the ball up the bank in his direction, to catch his attention, but it rolled back down again without the blond boy understanding the offer of friendship. Joseph made several other attempts at bringing the boy into the game and finally succeeded when the ball hit him on the leg. Then the boy picked it up while all the boys below catcalled and jumped, pushing each other out of the way, each one demanding that the ball be thrown to him. The new boy took his time, as Joseph stood waiting and watching. At last he held the ball high above his head and, eyeing the raging boys below, slowly, thoughtfully tossed the ball to Joseph. The friendship was cemented.
For whatever reason, probably because the brothers recognised Joseph’s kind nature, his inability to bully, Billie’s bed was put next to his. From this close proximity, they shared secrets: Joseph’s beatings for being slow or stupid and his crying in his sleep; Billie’s terrors about being ‘chosen’, his nightmares and bedwetting and, of course, the mouse.
Billie caught a mouse and kept it in a drawer and although Joseph was a chatterbox, frequently speaking without thinking, his lips were firmly sealed when it came to any of Billie’s secrets. Billie, in turn, took on a protective role and helped Joseph with his schoolwork, for he was as clever as Joseph was rather dull.
‘You’re my brother,’ Billie said.
‘You’re mine, too,’ Joseph would return, grinning with unreserved delight.
Billie’s silence and isolation from all except Joseph contained the shame of an abused child. His mother had neglected him; his father beaten and abused him. It was only after he had been found in the coal-house, beaten and bruised, because a neighbour heard him crying, that he was finally taken into the care of St Dominic’s. He never saw his parents again. Joseph was all the family he had and he was all the family Joseph had. Joseph had no family except the brothers – and the boys. But they didn’t love him. Only Billie loved him like family.
They left St Dominic’s home for St Cuthbert’s Abbey together, where they made their vows and Billie took the name of John, although he was always Billie to Joseph.
After seven years, they moved together to Burnham Abbey. Forty-seven years they had together at the abbey before Billie became ill and distracted and fell into complete silence. Even the dogs and the puppies couldn’t make him better. He died.
Joseph waded through the fog of reality as he had always done. Accepting. He didn’t cry – only in his sleep – but the days were long and grey and he was nervous with emptiness, his energy gone. And then the cat brought in a baby rabbit.
Joseph shuffled down the path to the grave and stood looking down at it. ‘Go on, then. Go on then’ he mumbled to the rabbit. ‘You like it! Yes, you do. For sure, you know!’ and then, ‘Let’s get them, then.’
He pulled the rabbit back to the hedge and, rummaging near the gate, dragged out a pair of shears he’d hidden there. Back to the grave and bending stiffly, he clipped off some longer pieces of grass. It was difficult with the rabbit, but he worked at it for a moment or two and then straightened to look with satisfaction at his work. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’
But the feeling of agitation wouldn’t go away. He waited by the grave, hoping for the comfort it usually brought him, but the Angelus bell drifted across and he knew he had to leave.