At the mention of going home, George whispered, ‘Can I?’ Are you ready?’ asked Anselm.
‘Yes.’ His features showed both desire and dread. He shifted in his seat.
‘If you forget my going,’ said Anselm confidently ‘I’ll surprise you when I get back.’ No truer words, he thought, had ever passed his lips. He was sure that Emily Bradshaw would be with him.
More out of excitement than impatience, Anselm banged the knocker to the terraced house in Mitcham. A figure came to the door, fragmenting in a globe of dimpled glass.
Emily Bradshaw stood at the bay window while Anselm, by the arm of a settee, felt the rigour of hesitation. She’d walked to her post without a word, without offering a seat. When the past comes to an end, thought Anselm, you panic. He knew exactly what he was going to say He’d chosen his words carefully on the Underground. ‘You told me last time that nothing comes of nothing.’
Emily moved a net curtain with the back of one hand -just an inch. ‘I got it from The Sound of Music.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The Sound of Music. The Captain and Maria sing it in the garden when everything falls into place.’ Emily spoke with immeasurable sadness. The hand fell to her side.
Anselm became strong; these moments could be overcome. He sat down and spoke towards a happy ending. ‘I have seen George. He’s ready to come home.’
‘Yes, I know’
‘Pardon?’
‘He came back.’ She raised a net curtain once more, looking out hopelessly.
And he left?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
The gate tapped shut and the front door opened. Anselm’s empathies dropped. They’d been tailored for a happy ending in Salzburg. He felt the coldness of real compassion. In the hallway feet stamped, shaking off the week. ‘Bloody hell, it’s cold. But it’s Frida-a-ay’ It was a reassuring sound, kindly and rooted. A zip hummed down its line.
Emily moved to the middle of the room. She did not sit, so Anselm remained standing. She said, ‘George’s place isn’t filled. Don’t think that, please. I can’t understand our life together, that’s all. And if you can’t understand something, it’s…’
A round freckled face, smudged with grease and surprise, appraised Anselm. ‘Oh, hullo, sorry about the swearing, like -’
‘Don’t worry. It is cold, I entirely agree.’
‘Peter, this is Father Anselm. He knows George.’
The man’s hand was large, stamped with work and decency Anselm reached over. It had looked like an anvil, but when touched it became a fat sponge.
Emily said, ‘Father Anselm was just about to go.
Peter stood in the doorway like a roadblock. His blue overalls were parted, revealing the V-neck jumper, the shirt and tie. A slight paunch stretched the patterned wool. He took a shallow breath while practical, no-nonsense eyes seemed to weigh up a fractured joint, something basic that couldn’t be fixed. Peering through a sort of spray he said, ‘How is he?’
‘Fine. Not so bad,’ said Anselm, trapped between honesty to Peter and sensitivity to Emily.
‘Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Anselm pictured the arrival of the big man, his ordered life folded up in cardboard boxes: a few pictures, his dad’s tin mug, some Corgi cars, mountains of underpants, a shoe-cleaning box. Anselm said, ‘George makes no claims.’ It was a strange announcement. He didn’t know why he’d said it.
Peter rested blue arms on each pillar, his head aslant. He was balding. The remaining hair had been creased by a regulation hard hat. ‘Emily let him in. Take him back.’ He drew up the zip of his overalls, as if he’d just emerged from the locker room. ‘It’s his home.’
Emily was crying. She pushed past Anselm and said, ‘Peter, would you make some tea?’
‘You’ll have one, Father?’
‘No, he won’t,’ sobbed Emily.
At the door, one foot on the flags, Anselm said, ‘Is there anything you’d like me to say?’
‘Yes.’ Emily searched her pockets nervously.
Anselm said, ‘I think I’ll be able to explain without saying anything.’ He was looking at Peter, out of earshot.
Emily said, ‘Tell him…’ Her face crumpled. She fetched out a biro that had leaked and a receipt. With a slap at the air, she threw them against the wall and slammed the door.
Anselm entered the ward. George was dressed, his knees crossed, one leg bobbing. He was like a granddad in a waiting room, ears cocked for an announcement. He’d been smartened up. The hair hadn’t quite taken to the parting, but the comb lines stood out. Someone had found an old blazer. It had a crest over the breast pocket with a motto: ‘Legis Plenitudo Caritas’. Love fulfils the law.
Before Anselm could move, George swung him a quick look and grimaced. His feet slipped, despite the shoes, and he locked his wrists on the armrests. Bony shoulders took the strain of standing. Before Anselm could stop him, George was upright, a hand outstretched. ‘Elizabeth said you’d come,’ he exclaimed.
Anselm felt the grip. It was reassuring; it was strong. He looked aside from cloudless eyes that revealed nothing but the sky.
‘Funny thing is’ – George laughed gently at the coming joke -’I’m not quite sure why’