‘Finn. It’s good to see you,’ the abbot said, raising his hand in blessing. ‘I’m glad to be able to thank you personally for your generosity over the years. You’re always in our prayers, you know.’ He looked at the other man expectantly. ‘So what brings you back to us?’
‘It’s a long story, Father, but the main reason I’m here is that the press found out my story and I can’t face them. Not yet. It was all too sudden.’
Jerome, composed, as always, nodded as Finn went on. ‘I know Moss-the person who tried to help-did what she thought was best, but I was dealing with things in my own way. I was happy-or at least contented-in Opportunity. Now I have the press scrabbling over my life. It’s too much. I’ll have to move on.’
‘What do you want from us?’
‘A few days. A few days to get my head together.’
‘I’ve asked Kevin to make up your old cottage. You know the way. We’ll talk this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, Father Jerome. I can’t tell you how grateful…’
Jerome raised his hand and shook his head, smiling faintly. ‘Remember the virtue of silence,’ he said. And ushered Finn out into the brightness of the new day.
Kevin had left sheets and towels on the bed and some teabags and milk on the bench. Finn smiled to think of the outrage the teabags would beget in Mrs Pargetter’s tea-loving heart. He’d come to like the ritual of making tea in a pot, and he hoped that the three cosies he had in his bag would find homes on a real teapot. He was sure that Boniface, at least, wouldn’t countenance teabags.
He showered and lay on top of the bed, willing sleep. Although he hadn’t slept much the night before, his eyes remained wide open and gritty. Sighing, he got up and decided to take a walk in the grounds.
Matins was finished, and the monastery’s workday had begun. He wandered over to the vegie patch, noticing the large water tanks that had been installed. He ran his hands over one smooth wall. Water was a problem all over the country.
There were a few weeds in the garden, and despite the fact that he was dressed in a good shirt and jeans, he knelt down and began to pull them out. He was so absorbed in the task that he didn’t hear Kevin’s approaching footsteps.
‘Nice to have you back, Finn,’ the monk said, and they worked in silence until the next bell called Kevin to prayer.
Finn sat back on his heels and looked at his hands. They were a good deal tougher than the first time he’d worked in this garden. He began to miss his own little vegie patch back in Opportunity, and the thought that he would have to start all over again somewhere else depressed him. He felt petulant and resentful. Hadn’t he given up enough? How long would it be before his dues would be considered paid? But he wasn’t thinking of leaving Opportunity because of the press. He knew that in a few days some new titillation would send them baying after another victim and all he needed to do was stick it out. What he couldn’t bear to think about was the contempt in the eyes of his friends and neighbours now that his culpability had been exposed. He shook himself and reached for a dandelion. He liked the satisfaction of pulling out the long taproots. But he stopped mid-motion, and his hand fell onto his knee. He was so weary; too weary to bother. Stretching his back, he stood up and returned to his cottage where he fell into a troubled sleep.
He awoke in time for lunch and ate in silence as the reader intoned the Acts of the Apostles. They certainly don’t try to entertain, Finn thought as he fought off the soporific effects of the droning voice. He looked around the table. All but two of the faces were familiar, but there were several missing. Where was Boniface? Not seeing him in his usual place, Finn looked around with increasing concern. Perhaps he was working in the kitchen today? Kevin said that they all needed to multi-task, but surely a man of that age wouldn’t be made to peel potatoes? Perhaps he was… Finn wouldn’t allow himself to finish this thought and tried to speak to Father Timothy, who frowned and shook his head. The Rule demands silence, his look said, and Finn lowered his eyes to his soup.
‘Where’s Boniface?’ he asked as he caught up with Kevin in the cloisters.
‘He’s not well, Finn. He’s nearly ninety, you know. You really need to speak to Father Jerome.’
So when Finn met with Jerome later that day, his first question was about Boniface.
‘He’s not himself, Finbar,’ Jerome replied, his eyes sombre.
‘Is he sick? Can I see him?’ Finn’s dread was manifested in the fast beating of his heart, the nausea that gripped his gut.
‘He’s not himself,’ Jerome repeated. ‘I can take you to him now, but be warned: he probably won’t know you.’
The abbot led Finn to the infirmary. Pallid sunlight filtered through the curtains to reveal an old man lying between snowy sheets. A nimbus of silver hair framed his face, where a scaffold of bones betrayed his mortality. He lay still, his milky blue eyes open but confused.
‘Is that John?’ he quavered. ‘I’ve lost John.’
Finn was puzzled. ‘Who’s John?’
‘He is,’ replied Jerome, stroking the frail old hand. ‘When he came here nearly seventy years ago, he was John. He’s been Boniface all these years, but now…’ The abbot shrugged helplessly. ‘He still prays. I pray with him when I can.’ Hiding his emotion in busyness, Jerome straightened the sheet around the old priest’s chin. ‘He was an eminent theologian, you know.’
Finn expressed surprise.
‘An eminent theologian,’ the priest reiterated. ‘His book On the Humanity of Christ is still used in theology courses. He was Abbot before me. I remember when I came here to take his place: he was so happy, Finbar-his face was truly alight with joy. He hated being Abbot, although he carried out his duties conscientiously, as you might imagine. He carried them humbly, as God’s burden. His burden is sweet and His yoke is light-that was what Boniface used to say.’
Jerome murmured a blessing and turned to go. ‘Finbar, Boniface was blessed with a fine intellect, but all he really wanted was a life of prayer. Less prestige, maybe, but a powerful example to us all.’
‘Do you mind if I stay with him for a while?’ Finn asked.
‘Of course. We can talk tonight.’
Finn looked down in pity as Boniface clawed at the sheets, calling again and again, ‘John? Is that you, John?’
‘It’s Finn, Father Boniface-Finbar Clancy. I guess you don’t remember me,’ he said wistfully. ‘You were my spiritual mentor many years ago. I worked with Kevin in the garden. Remember? I killed a girl with my car. You told me I’d find answers.’ Finn was floundering, trying to elicit some recognition of their former relationship. He sighed, and held the fragile old hand. It felt light and insubstantial, with fine, brittle bones bundled under tissue-paper skin. The hand was bruised, and he held it gently, fearing that further purple blooms would grow under the slightest pressure.
Boniface looked at Finn. ‘You’re not John. You’re too tall,’ he accused. ‘I have to find John before I go.’ He became confiding. ‘I think they’ve sent him to Rome. Can you check for me? They won’t tell me anything,’ he said, now aggrieved.
Finn was at a loss. ‘Let’s say a prayer,’ he suggested in desperation. ‘Hail Mary…’ A rosary was on the bedside table and he twined it around the old man’s fingers.
Boniface closed his eyes, and his face relaxed as he recited the familiar words. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee…’
Finn stayed until, soothed by prayer, his old friend drifted off to sleep.
‘He has lucid moments,’ Jerome told Finn as they walked through the cloisters that evening. ‘But you can never predict them.’ He studied Finn’s face. ‘I’m not sure what we can do for you, though, Finbar. You’re welcome to stay for a few days, but you may be putting off the inevitable.’