After all the family had passed through to Agnes, Lucy stood alone by her grandmother’s bed, looking out through the open French windows. The thick, polished glass flashed in the sun, catching dark reflections of red brick; people, young and old, talked casually a hand in a pocket, a schooner twinkling; and tumbling upon the grass were the children, dressed in yellow and blue and green. Agnes gazed out upon them all. Lucy took in the drip and its serpentine tubing, sliding along the starched sheets to the back of a hand, its teeth hidden by cotton wool and a clean strip of antiseptic plaster. She ran her eye up her grandmother’s arm to her captivated face. Lucy tried to stamp down the heat of unassailable joy the wild fingers of fire: surely this was a time for kicking down the walls. But she couldn’t summon the rage: it lay dead in a yesterday..
Lucy kissed her grandmother’s forehead and then slipped outside towards the front garden, separated from the house by a quiet avenue. Crossing the road, she saw Father Anselm leaning on a wall, looking at the river. He must have nipped out the back way from the courtyard. Lucy thought she saw faint blue spirals of smoke rising by his head. But no, she concluded, a monk would never have a cigarette.
They both leaned on the wall, watching boys pull oars out of time.
Lucy said, ‘I’ve waited all my life for what’s happening now, although I never knew it.’
Father Anselm flicked something from his fingers.
‘I could never have planned it,’ she continued, ‘because so much was hidden… but even if I’d known all there was to know, there was still no thing I could do… nothing I could say. We’re all so helpless.’
They were both quiet, listening to the tidal lapping of the river. Lucy went on:
‘I’ve tried – several times – to talk through the mess I did know about, to unravel the misunderstandings, but that usually made things worse. And yet, now, the words work… as if they’ve come to life.’
The water rippled across the stones below, endlessly smoothing them.
Father Anselm said, ‘There is a kind of silence that always prevails, but we have to wait.’
They both turned and walked back to the house. Lucy said, ‘I’m going to introduce Max Nightingale to an old girlfriend of mine. I suspect they’ll get on.’
‘Someone did that to me once,’ said the monk, smiling, ‘and look what happened.’
Lucy laughed. ‘It can’t do any harm then.’
‘No,’ said the monk, ‘I get the feeling we’re all on the other side of harm.’
‘For now’
‘That’s good enough.’
By the front door they heard soft undulations with a gentle melody rising like a song.
‘That must be Robert,’ said Father Anselm, stopping. ‘Do you know what he’s playing?’
‘Yes, it’s my Gran’s favourite piece of Faure,’ replied Lucy deeply moved. “‘Romance sans parole”.’
“‘A love song without words”,’ said the monk.
‘Oh God,’ exclaimed Lucy, ‘every time I see you I cry.
And the reserved monk took her arm in his and held it tight.