Book of Lost Threads

5
Finn and Saint Benedict

IN THE WEEKS PRIOR TO the inquest, Michael prayed that someone would come forward to claim the girl they called Amber-Lee. He was in a kind of fever of expectation and needed action to ward off the thoughts that jostled so urgently for his attention. He felt compelled to walk, and spent whole days roaming the streets around the area where the accident happened. He returned home each day exhausted but set off again the next morning. He searched the faces of passers-by 74 in the vain hope of finding a clue to Amber-Lee’s identity, and he finally took to accosting mortuary staff as they left at the end of their shift. That couple who just came out—were they there to see her? Has there been any response to the latest photo fit? Were they sure they had checked for any distinguishing marks? He lurked around the Fitzroy police station, offering suggestions to the officer in charge of the case. Have you thought of questioning prostitutes other than Brenda? What about her clients? There must be a clue somewhere. Her clothes, maybe.
‘We’ve done all that,’ Graham Patterson would reply wearily. ‘We do know our job, Mr Clancy. We’ll keep you informed, I promise. Go home. There’s nothing you can do here.’
Michael would go then, but return a day or two later and continue his harangue. ‘Don’t you see?’ he implored of any officer willing to listen. ‘It’s not right to let it go. We can’t just give up. We have to know her name.’
When the coroner’s office took out a restraining order, Michael’s father stepped in. ‘You’re not well, Michael. You need professional help. We’ll ask Dr Donahue to give you a referral to a psychiatrist.’
But Michael knew that a psychiatrist was not what he needed. It was not his mind but his spirit that was sick. Empathy was one of the qualities that had made him so well liked. It was this that had enabled him to see Amy and Linsey’s plight and act with humanity and integrity in their last desperate bid to conceive. But now empathy was his enemy.
He imagined the girl’s family: perhaps kind and loving, waiting for a postcard or a phone call. Or were they evil and abusive? Did the girl run from them only to find a life of further abuse and evil? In his worst nightmare, he saw the small, broken body crammed into a box, her cries for recognition smothered by the weight of the indifferent earth. He would wake from this dream gagging and then lie on his back, staring at the ceiling, which became gradually defined as the pre-dawn light turned the room from black to smudgy grey.
He was now afraid to walk in case he was tempted to breach the restraining order, and he became increasingly claustrophobic in the miasma of anxiety and concern that surrounded him in his parents’ house, to which he had been persuaded to return ‘for his own good’.
‘Just until you’re feeling a bit better,’ his mother promised. ‘It’s been a horrible experience. You need to rest.’
After two weeks of confinement he could take no more, and slipping away while his parents were out, he returned to his flat to pack a few clothes. Since the accident he had been unable to bring himself to drive his car, so he took a bus down to the coast.
‘It’s a Father Jerome, from the Benedictine monastery at Tunnawarra,’ Michael’s mother said that evening, her hand covering the receiver. ‘He says that Michael turned up on their doorstep and asked for sanctuary.’
‘God Almighty! Tell them we’ll be down in a couple of hours to pick him up.’ Already on his way out the door, Michael’s father wheeled sharply. ‘Did you say sanctuary? What on earth is the matter with him?’
‘It seems that he doesn’t want to come home. We can’t force him, Vic. They said he could stay in their retreat house for a while.’ She spoke into the phone again. ‘He’s very fragile at the moment, Father. Yes, I understand. Thank you. Call us any time—day or night.’ She replaced the receiver and sat down heavily. ‘He sounded very competent. And nice. Father Jerome, that is. He said he has a degree in clinical psychology, so that’s one blessing. I told him about the accident. I thought he needed to know.’
‘We can only hope it does Michael some good. At least he won’t be hanging around the coroner’s office. Who knows? Maybe he knew all along what he needed.’ Seeing tears in his wife’s eyes he put his arm around her. ‘Don’t worry, Paula. We’ll go down and see him in a few days. Did the priest say when we could visit?’
‘He suggested we give Michael some space for a week or two. He said when you hate yourself you can’t believe that anyone else could love you . . . Vic, Michael thinks we secretly despise him for what happened.’ She gave up the fight and began to cry in earnest. ‘He says we can’t help him. We’ve failed him, haven’t we?’
Vic’s shoulders sagged. ‘Jesus Christ! What a mess.’
Michael had left with no clear plan. He had set out for the coast on a whim, because he loved the sea and hoped to find solace there. But as he waited at the bus station, the fever that had driven him for the last weeks, and which had finally impelled him to act, suddenly dissipated, leaving him nerveless and despondent. In the end, he boarded the bus because it required too much effort of will to turn back. Slouching in his seat, he stared at the passing countryside with little interest.
The bus stopped at a few coastal towns and villages but at each stop Michael sat frozen in his seat. They were passing through farmland now, with fields on one side and on the other, scrubby sand dunes with thick ti-tree obscuring the view of the ocean. The light was fading and the bus terminated at the next town; when it stopped to let out a passenger, Michael grabbed his bag and jumped out too. He had no idea where he was and stood, forlorn, as the bus disappeared around the bend.
His fellow passenger had turned down a side road, and Michael followed. The man had a bag. Perhaps he was going to a motel. After about five minutes, the man stopped to open a gate and then vanished down a gravel drive. The gate clanged shut behind him. Michael read the words worked into the wrought iron: OUR LADY OF SORROWS BENEDICTINE MONASTERY. AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM. He pressed the bell. By the time the porter reached the gate, he was hunched on the ground, dreadful sobs shaking his body.
The abbot, Father Jerome, was a tall, square-faced man with serious grey eyes and wispy salt-and-pepper hair. He took control with quiet authority. Michael was to eat, shower and then go to bed. They would talk in the morning. All he need tell them for now was a number where his family could be contacted. The priest went off to make the call, and Michael was attended by Father Boniface, a small elderly man with fluffy white hair and a sweet smile. He said very little, and Michael obediently ate the bread and soup and allowed himself to be silently led to one of several small cottages behind the main building.
‘May God bless your sleep,’ said Boniface and signed a cross on the younger man’s forehead. He had to stand on tiptoe. ‘Father Jerome will speak with you in the morning.’
Michael showered and then climbed into bed where, for the first time since the accident, he fell into a dreamless sleep, unaware that Father Jerome had asked one of the younger monks, Father Ambrose, to keep watch over him.
‘I don’t think he’ll do anything foolish, Ambrose, but we’d best be sure.’
After breakfast the next morning, Michael met with Father Jerome again. Though his story was somewhat incoherent, the abbot listened without interrupting.
‘So you see,’ Michael concluded, ‘this girl is dead without even one person to care. She had no opportunity to find a home or love, or even a real friend as far as I can see—no opportunity to redeem herself, because I took that away.’ His voice rose in pitch. ‘Because I was angry and drunk and drug-affected, a girl died without a name.’
The abbot nodded and they sat in silence for some time. Michael began to feel the need to fill the silence and started to speak, but Jerome held up his hand.
‘Enough talk for today, Michael. I’d like you to rest a little more and then go to help Brother Kevin in the vegetable garden. It’s just behind your cottage.’ He stood up and walked with Michael to the door. ‘We go to prayer now. Meet Kevin in the garden in about forty minutes. He’ll tell you what to do. And you need to respect the fact that we have periods of silence here. Even at other times we speak quietly and only when necessary.’
Brother Kevin proved to be about Michael’s own age, a nuggetty little man who might once have been a jockey. He handed Michael a hoe. ‘Nice to have some help. Do the beds over there while I work on this.’
‘This’ was tying the beans onto a long trellis. The day was warm, and Michael sweated as they worked in silence until the chapel bell rang again.
‘That’s Sext. I’m off,’ said Kevin. ‘Take a break, if you like. Or you might like to wash up. Lunch is at one.’
Michael chose to work on. In the weeks when he had tried to walk out his fever, he had instinctively understood that physical activity relieves stress, but his mind still stubbornly churned over the same bitter thoughts. Here in the garden, though, his activity was purposeful and his thoughts less insistent. His body and mind were taken over by the rhythm of the hoe, and the silence, awkward at first, held some sort of promise that seemed to hover around the periphery of his consciousness. His palms quickly developed blisters, but he worked on despite the pain because he didn’t know what else he could do. He had put himself solely in the hands of these monks and felt incapable of decision.
In the end, physical exhaustion forced him to stop. He’d eaten very little for weeks and his clothes hung loosely on his tall frame. He returned to his cottage, washed and changed, and followed the monks who were leaving chapel for the refectory. They ate without speaking while another monk read from The Imitation of Christ in a dusty monotone.
The outdoor activity had made him hungry, but Michael found that he could eat only half his modest portion. He felt guilty, like a child, and waited to be admonished, but his plate was collected without comment. As he left the table he was summoned once more to Father Jerome’s office.
‘How are your hands?’ the abbot asked as they sat down. Michael showed his red, swollen palms. ‘After this, go and see Father Timothy at the infirmary. Some of those blisters are broken and we don’t want them to become infected.’
Michael didn’t care, but he nodded.
The priest went on: ‘I’ve spoken to your mother and told her you want to stay with us for a while. That is what you want, isn’t it?’
Michael nodded again.
‘We’re happy for you to stay, but we need to set the ground rules.’
Michael wasn’t going to argue. Rules were good. Rules meant you didn’t have to make decisions. ‘Firstly, Michael, you are free to go whenever you want, and we are also free to ask you to leave.’ Michael’s eyes widened in panic, and Jerome was quick to reassure him. ‘Don’t worry. We aren’t going to do that for a while yet. But I must ask what you expect of us.’
Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Absolution, maybe? Aren’t priests supposed to have the power to forgive?’
‘Would our forgiveness help?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so. Not really.’
‘Stay a while. Work with Brother Kevin. Pray if you can. And keep our rule of silence. At first you’ll want to talk, to fill the silence, but if you pay attention, eventually the silence will fill you. That’s all we can offer you. But it’s a powerful thing.’
‘Thank you, Father. I’d like to stay, if that’s okay.’
Jerome became businesslike. ‘I’m pleased. But we do have another problem: we already have a Michael in the monastery. It’s not uncommon to choose a new name here. Do you have another name we can use for your stay?’
Michael thought for a moment. ‘What about Finbar? That’s my second name.’
‘Finbar it is, then. Saint Finbar was Bishop of Cork, you know. But he spent most of his life as a monk. Off you go, Finbar, and let Father Timothy deal with those hands.’
Finn spent nearly four months at the monastery. The days unfolded quietly and rhythmically as the monks went about their liturgical tasks at the appointed hours. The days were measured in units of prayer: Matins, Lauds, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline.
In awe of Jerome, Finn came to love Kevin and Boniface. Boniface said very little, even at the times appointed for social intercourse, but his faded blue eyes looked out on the world, and on the damaged Finn, with a candour, a beneficence, a simple goodness that was innate. Finn wanted to be like Boniface more than anyone he had ever met.
Jerome was Finn’s counsellor and Boniface his spiritual mentor, but Kevin was his friend. Kevin was different from the other monks. An irascible fellow, he spent much of his time trying to atone for his impatience. Jerome had given the garden to his keeping to help him find the tranquillity that so often eluded him, but it didn’t always work.
‘I don’t know why they keep me here,’ he would say ruefully, after another outburst directed at the recalcitrant tractor.
Finn would grin. ‘Neither do I, old mate. Perhaps it’s the vegies. Or maybe the wine.’
In the tradition of Saint Benedict, the monastery had a vineyard and produced its own boutique wines; Kevin also worked in the vineyard. On Sundays, the monks were allowed social conversation from lunchtime to Compline and could enjoy a glass of wine or beer with their meals. Finn was surprised to find himself listening more than talking.
‘My name wasn’t always Kevin, of course,’ said the monk. ‘I was baptised Matthew, but when I came here there was already a Matthew, so they told me to pick a saint. I wasn’t too good on the old saints, but I said, What about Kevin? I didn’t tell Father Jerome, but it was for Kevin Sheedy. You know, the footballer? He wasn’t the best player ever, but he was a determined bugger. A good role model for me. I haven’t found it easy, being a monk.’ He took a large gulp of beer. ‘Good old Sheeds. I remember one game against Collingwood—we were three points down. There were seconds left on the clock. Well, Sheeds had been winded only minutes before, but he just snatches the ball out of the air and wham! Straight through the goalposts just as the siren goes.’ Kevin’s eyes shone with admiration. ‘Lucky for me,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘it turned out there really was a Saint Kevin.’
‘What made you come here?’ Finn was puzzled. The man seemed to lack the spiritual dimension that was evident, to one degree or another, in all the other monks he had met.
‘Funny you should ask. I’m an electrician by trade. Had my own little business and everything. I went to church but was never particularly religious. In some ways I came here kicking and screaming, but he got me in the end.’
‘Father Jerome?’
‘No—God.’ Kevin was suddenly shy. ‘I had a calling, you see, and in the end I knew I had to come.’
‘I don’t think I believe in God.’
‘Doesn’t matter, mate. As long as He believes in you.’
Finn’s talks with Boniface were different, but imbued with the same strong faith. He spent an hour a day, four days a week, with the old man, usually sitting in the little summerhouse in the front garden. Boniface spoke slowly, as though weighing the value of each word.
‘God has already forgiven you,’ he said once. ‘Your task now is to learn to forgive yourself.’
‘That’s easier said than done.’
The monk remained silent.
‘I mean, how can I do that? Can’t you help me?’
‘I wish I could, Finbar, but we all have to find redemption in our own way. Sit with me a while. The answer is in your heart and you will only hear the voice of your heart when all other thoughts are silent.’
Finn had never met anyone like Boniface and tried to define his unique qualities. Was he an ascetic? Not really. Asceticism suggested a remoteness, a severity, that was the antithesis of the genuine human warmth complementing the spirituality that lit Boniface from within. On that first night, he had humbly served Finn soup and made up his bed before bestowing a blessing. He could sit with Finn in a silence that was more powerful than words, but when he spoke, his message was simple and compassionate. The more time he spent with Boniface, the more Finn sensed that his humanity and spirituality were one.
He offered these thoughts to Kevin one day when they were working in the garden. ‘Father Boniface is amazing. He hardly says anything when I meet with him, but I always come away—refreshed. What’s his secret, do you think?’
Kevin leaned on his shovel. ‘Boniface is unique,’ he said. ‘A saint, in his own way. He’s managed to cut through all the palaver, all the crap, and see things with the eyes of faith. Look here.’ Kevin indicated the garden. ‘What do you see here, Finn?’
‘A vegie patch.’
‘Yes?’
‘Beans, carrots, zucchini, tomatoes . . .’
‘Yes?’
Finn was at a loss. ‘An organic vegie patch?’
‘All that. But do you know what Boniface sees here?’
Finn shook his head.
‘He sees this garden as a little world with its insects, worms, plants, the earth itself—all part of God’s creation. I’ll never forget the first time we met. There he was, one of the most senior and learned priests in the Order and here was I, a nobody, with dirty hands and muddy boots, smelling of manure. Do you know what he said? How blessed you are to be young and strong, Brother Kevin, doing the work of God in your garden. How wonderful to be an instrument of His creation.’ Kevin thrust his spade into the earth once more. ‘What I’m trying to say, Finn, is that Boniface is the most Christ-like person I’ve ever met. Or am ever likely to meet.’
Finn looked at the garden again and continued to dig with a new reverence.
He had found some peace in his time at the monastery, but the silent reproach of Amber-Lee’s ghost still haunted Finn. Although it happened less often, there were still nights when he awoke with a vision of a single shoe or a bloody sheet, or the taste of damp earth filling his mouth and nose.
‘It’s called post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD,’ Father Jerome had told him. ‘You’re having what are known as “flashbacks”. It’s hard to control their frequency, and the triggers are often quite unpredictable. PTSD is common among soldiers who’ve seen action. After the First World War they called it “shell-shock”. No-one understood it then, but we’re making some progress. If it continues, you may be able to learn to control it, but there’s no cure as such.’
On the Feast of Saint Benedict, Finn went to the chapel for the first time. There had been no pressure to attend, but he felt that it was a mark of respect to honour the founder of the Order. It was also Open Day at the monastery, and his parents arrived after lunch. They were pleased to see him so much calmer. He was still thin and had become a little stooped from his work in the garden, but they saw there was a new, outdoors toughness in his body, and a healthy ruddiness in his cheeks.
‘Time to come home?’ enquired his mother hopefully.
Finn was evasive. He had a plan, and needed to discuss it with Father Jerome. ‘I’ll stay a while yet,’ he replied. ‘I have to help Kevin prepare the winter garden.’
‘Whatever you think best, darling.’ His mother was in her mid-seventies and the events of the last six months had sapped her strength. ‘Just ring us when you’re ready.’
His father clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you so much better, son.’
Finn made an appointment to see Father Jerome the next day. He dressed carefully, and felt a churning in his gut as he entered the abbot’s room.
Father Jerome put down his pen and looked up as Finn, red-faced and a little flustered, took his customary seat facing the painting of Saint Benedict that hung behind the abbot’s desk.
‘Good morning, Finbar.’
Finn had rehearsed the moment and finally decided that it was best to just say what he wanted without preamble. After briefly returning the greeting, he plunged in: ‘Father Jerome, I’d like to become a Benedictine.’ He beamed. ‘Like you,’ he added, unnecessarily.
Jerome sighed. He’d been afraid of this: Finbar’s mother had warned him that her son was inclined to exaggerated gestures, so he proceeded warily. He didn’t want the work of the last months undone. ‘Now, why do you say that, my son?’
‘Because I want to be like you. And Father Boniface. Or even Brother Kevin.’
‘Why do you think we’re here, Finbar?’
‘Because . . . because, you know . . . like Kevin says, you’ve been called.’
‘Have you been called, Finbar?’
‘I think so—how can I tell?’
‘You know, all right.’ Jerome returned to the original question. ‘You haven’t really answered me, Finbar. Why do you think we’re here? What is our purpose?’
‘You help people like me?’
‘Not as many as you might imagine.’
‘You live a good life.’
‘That’s possible anywhere.’
‘You work. Kevin has his garden. Timothy has his infirmary. Ambrose has his wine-making. Boniface has . . .’ What did Boniface have? Finn felt he was on shifting ground. ‘Well. Boniface is Boniface.’
‘Boniface is a rarity—a truly holy man. The rest of us, Finbar, are trying. Our main work here is our relationship with God. You’ve seen the Latin inscription at the entrance to the chapel? Orare est laborare, laborare est orare. It means: To pray is to work and to work is to pray. Prayer is the centre of our lives. That’s what it’s all about. Prayer. Do you pray, Finbar? You rarely come to the chapel.’
Finn hung his head miserably. ‘I’m not a believer, Father. You know that.’
Jerome smiled. ‘Then there’d be many times during the day when you’d have real trouble being a Benedictine.’ His voice sobered. ‘Look, when you came here, your condition was acute; now you’re in the chronic phase, and you have to learn to cope with life again. You won’t recover yourself here, Finbar. This isn’t a place to hide from life. We’ve done as much as we can. You’re strong enough now. It’s time you thought of leaving.’
Stricken, Finn returned to his cottage and looked around at the sparse furniture, his blue coffee mug, his few books, and the plain white bedspread visible through the open door of the bedroom. Out of the window, he could see a honeyeater perched on the bottlebrush and, in the near paddock, Kevin berating the hapless tractor. Walking away from the main cloister, Finn had felt angry and abandoned. So that’s it. They pick you up and throw you out like so much garbage. Now, in this little place where he had lain each night with his brokenness, the anger turned to sadness. Not grief, he thought, surprised. Just a deep sadness and sense of loss.
Weariness suddenly turned his limbs to liquid, and he went into his bedroom to lie down. It seemed like hours before his head finally rested on the pillow and the viscous substance that was his body found the hollows and contours of his bed. Jerome didn’t find him worthy. He turned onto his side and looked at the simple crucifix on the wall. He willed himself to believe. He prayed: If you are there, make me believe. But the plaster face, glazed with pain, was turned away. It was then that Finn accepted what he’d known in his heart all along. This was a monastery of Catholic monks whose lives were dedicated to serving a god he couldn’t acknowledge. Father Jerome was right. It was time to go.
He left a few days later, again on a bus. Despite his professed love for the sea, he perversely turned inland, partly as a self-imposed penance and partly because he was attracted by a name attached to a tiny speck on the map. He had studied the towns along the bus route, looking for something small. Passing on the provincial city of Cradletown and the prominent town of Mystic, he found what he was seeking halfway between the two larger centres. Opportunity. That would be his destination.
Before he left, Kevin shook his hand.
‘I’ll miss you, old mate. Just like you to go off when there’s work to be done.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘You look after yourself now, and don’t forget all I taught you about vegies.’
Boniface traced a cross on Finn’s forehead and murmured a blessing. ‘You’ll know what to do when the time is right, Finbar. Remember, the Silence isn’t designed to let you brood. It’s to give you space to listen. Look into your heart and listen, my friend. Go with God’s blessing.’
Jerome walked him to the gate. ‘Go in peace, Michael.’
‘Thank you, Father. For everything. But from now on my name is Finbar.’
‘Go in peace, Finbar.’


It was a long trip from the coast, and when Finn reached his destination and alighted from the bus it was mid-afternoon. He headed for the inevitable corner pub which was circled on both levels with a classic iron-lace verandah. He kept his eyes lowered, but was forced to nod to an old codger who was carefully negotiating the bar door. Finn felt his appraising gaze.
‘Jes’ steppin’ out to check on old Blue here,’ the man said, indicating a stringy cattle dog snoring peacefully in a patch of sunlight. ‘Blue’s me dog,’ he added helpfully. ‘I’m Clive— Cocky to me mates.’ His face widened in a toothless grin.
‘Nice to meet you, Cocky—Clive. I’m Finbar,’ he said, as he bolted for safety through the door marked ACCOMMODATION.
The old man scratched his chest. ‘See ya later, Finn.’ By the time Cocky had swilled a few more beers, everyone spoke of the newcomer as Finn. It was a christening of sorts.
Finn had rung ahead and booked a room but it soon became obvious that booking was unnecessary.
The landlady said her name was Marlene. ‘Don’t get many strangers here,’ she said as he filled in the required details. ‘We get a few sales reps, of course . . .’
Finn chose to ignore the query in her voice and went up to his room, which was clean if sparsely furnished. Not so different from his little room at the monastery, when he came to think of it. His appointment with the real estate agent was not until five, so he had a quick shower and then went over to the window. In the hour he sat there he saw Cocky and his dog; two women, one with a shopping jeep; and a man who got out of a ute and unloaded some pipes. No more than half a dozen cars drove down the street in that time. When the school bus came in there was a little flurry of activity as three women arrived to collect the eight children who spilled out, one waving a painting, another clutching a drink bottle.
The signs were good, thought Finn. Opportunity appeared to be a very quiet town. All that remained was to find some permanent accommodation.
The agent had five vacancies. Three were too large for his needs and the fourth was in Main Street. The fifth, a forlorn little weatherboard cottage on the far side of the football ground, had only one neighbour.
‘She’s a funny old bird,’ said the smartly dressed agent, indicating an elderly woman who, upon seeing them, tucked down her head and scuttled back into her house. ‘You’re lucky if she gives you the time of day.’
‘I’ll take the house,’ said Finn. ‘I want a long-term lease.’