William Brodrick: The Gardens of the Dead

The monk was smiling encouragement. He stood up and with a tilt of the head suggested a walk. They quietly followed the Lark and crossed a small footbridge. On the other side, they entered a field that was hard underfoot. Without a path, they tracked a furrow towards the table of mist.

As you know,’ said Father Anselm, ‘your mother devised two schemes. The first was for George: to let him take away the good character of the man responsible for the death of his son. She went to extraordinary lengths to succeed because she hoped to restore his self-worth. But a great part of her energy, I am sure, arose from a blinding desire to see Riley convicted of any offence of this kind, however trivial in the eyes of the courts; to have him proved a pimp. That outcome was denied her. She failed.

‘The second scheme was for herself: to bring Riley to court for a murder whose evidence she had helped to suppress. To succeed, Elizabeth had to convince her mother to reveal what she knew to the police. She failed again.’

They had reached the centre of the field and stopped. The mist was just above head height, rolling within itself.

‘It might reasonably be said,’ observed Father Anselm wryly ‘that I was the contingency plan. And I too failed, comprehensively’ He fixed Nick with an enquiring, kindly gaze.

‘Who persuaded my grandmother to speak?’ asked Nick. Whether he liked it or not, he felt himself a part of the narrative; as if it were his proper concern.

‘You did,’ said Father Anselm, quietly fervent. ‘She didn’t want you to live a lie – as she had done; as her children had. For no one knew better than your grandmother the cost of a lie.’

The monk started walking aimlessly his hands moving with suppressed animation.

‘It was only when I met Mrs Dixon that I understood the importance of what Elizabeth had set out to do,’ he said. ‘Once she’d decided to reclaim her past, the only available means was the legal system that she’d abandoned. So through each of these schemes, she was hoping to restore justice itself. She saw afresh – I’m sure of it – that the rule of law matters, that our attempts to punish matter, that to show mercy however clumsily matters.’ Father Anselm turned to Nick, wrapping his cloak around his body A man had been killed – your grandfather. Brute or not, his life had been taken from him. The irony is that he was a man ready to die at the drop of a hat. But that’s of no consequence: a murder is a murder – be it Walter’s or John’s. To bring this truth to light was your mother’s endeavour. She succeeded – but not through her own efforts.’ He paused to reflect. ‘Nick, if I can say anything to you that I’m sure I’ll stand by tomorrow morning, it’s this: isn’t it fitting that you have achieved this on her behalf

… and not some bumbling oaf like me?’

Nick agreed, reluctantly smiling.

And who better to help your father understand,’ continued the monk, ‘than the son he sought to protect?’

The table of mist had spread across the valley It caught the sunlight, bringing it within arm’s reach. Walking beneath it, they passed the bench where Elizabeth had given Father Anselm the key. Slowly they followed the track to the plum trees and her yellow car.

‘Can I ask a favour?’ asked Nick.

‘Of course.’

‘What’s the secret of the relief of Mafeking?’

‘After “the Boers were at the gates”,’ said the monk, ‘the story changes all the time. I’m not sure even Sylvester knows, not any more. He makes it up as he goes along’

When Nick was in the car and the engine was running, Father Anselm knocked on the window Diffidently he said, ‘Did you ever look inside the hole where your mother kept the key?’

Nick had only ever examined the outer cut pages.

‘Have a peep when you get home,’ said the monk. ‘It tells you the route your mother tried to follow’

When Nick got back to St John’s Wood he went to the Green Room and opened The Following of Christ. He hadn’t noticed before, but the incisions had created a window around a quotation:

The humble knowledge of thyself is a surer way to God, than the deepest searches after science.

Nick closed the book. He didn’t know about God – or science any more – but he was convinced, with gratitude and joy that his mother had known herself intimately that she must have found her heart’s desire.

It was completely by chance that Nancy spotted the monk’s entry in the notebook. They were in the Snug Room at the end of a busy day. Having put the remaining five thousand pounds into ten envelopes, she glanced at George, who, true to his routine, was refreshing his memory. Nancy picked out: ‘If you meet this gentleman, please contact

…’ It was like one of those tags put on a family pet. Nancy smarted at the condescension, but quickly discovered that she couldn’t come up with a better alternative. When George excused himself to answer a call of nature, Nancy noted the number. And when he came back, she retired to her room, ostensibly worn out by the rigours of the day Apprehensively Nancy rang the monastery and a sort of hell broke loose. The monk on the switchboard lost his marbles, another one said, ‘Hang on,’ and then a fellow called Father Anselm turned up panting. He took Nancy’s number, saying he’d contact Mrs Bradshaw, but rang back in a tizzy saying there was no answer. He said he’d go here, there and everywhere, on a train or in a car, and Nancy being a decisive woman, told him to calm down and stay put. ‘We have our own steam,’ she said. ‘When we’ve completed our business, I shall bring him to your premises.’

Nancy went to bed quite sure that something good was about to happen. At breakfast, she had another kipper, but said nothing of her intimations. Her time, and that of George, was given over to hearty meals, long walks and senseless giving.

On the morning of the seventh day using funds set aside for the purpose, Nancy paid the bill. She rang Inspector Cartwright for a chat, and then, by train and cab, and with George at her side, she went deep into the Suffolk fields.

The monastery was like something from a fairy tale. The roofs were higgledy-piggledy with russet tiles and slate tiles. There were pink walls, stone walls and brick walls. It seemed as if the ancient builders had made it up as they went along. Nancy was overwhelmed by the sight of the place… because it was holy. So she asked the driver to pull over. ‘Let’s say goodbye here, George,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to go any closer.’

They stood awkwardly on the path, and she appraised her friend, with his coat over one arm, and his small blazer all buttoned up. The blue and yellow tie – and she’d told him – was too bold.

‘Thank you,’ she said cheerily ‘for a wonderful week by the seaside.’

He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I shall never forget it.’

Uncle Bertie had always said, don’t hang around saying ta-ta. Get it over and done with. So Nancy urged him on, with a shove. It was a painful sight, looking at his back, and those white cuffs peeping out of the sleeves, for Nancy knew that this would be the last she’d ever see of George Bradshaw.

Nancy asked the man in the taxi to cut the engine, just for a moment. She’d seen a wooden sign for the information of visitors.

Following the arrow took her closer to the monastery, but the temptation was too strong. Behind a broken gate Nancy saw the wildest herb garden she’d ever seen. She was so entranced by the mess, by its abundance, that she didn’t hear the monk’s approach. She only heard his voice.

‘Hello, Nancy’ he said. ‘We’ve met once before, many years ago – in my old calling. I represented your husband.’