The Sixth Lamentation
A Novel by
William Brodrick
For my mother
Acknowledgements
Generally speaking, debts are disagreeable things, especially those that endure. One kind, however, is a pleasant exception. I extend my warm gratitude to Ursula Mackenzie who helped me to produce the book I wanted to write as opposed to the one I had written; to Pamela Dorman for insightful analysis and championing this novel in the United States; to Araminta Whitley and Celia Hayley, both of whom have brought me to where I now am; to Nicki Kennedy and Sam Edenborough for ploughing foreign fields on my behalf. I’m grateful to Joanne Coen for her patience and scrupulous attention to detail in preparing the text for publication. While I dislike general expressions of thanks, that is the only way I can encompass the many individuals at Time Warner Books and Penguin Putnam who have worked on this novel with unstinting dedication: I’m grateful to you all.
I reserve a particular word of thanks for Sarah Hannigan who encouraged me to write and helped me discover the way I wanted to do it. I also thank: Penny Moreland (who pushed me from doubt to confidence), Austin Donohoe (who urged me to take the risk), Paulinus Barnes (for sound advice), James Hawks (who told me to get on with it); Damien Charnock (who politely remarked upon the prevalence of sentences without verbs); Nick Rowe (who suggested including a list of principal characters); my family (for their part in shaping who I am, and for always smiling upon my endeavours); and my Chambers (for accommodating the peculiarities of someone who is writing a novel). I am grateful to the following for help with specific enquiries: William Clegg QC; Michael Walsh (Archivist, Heythrop College, University of London); Dr E. Rozanne Elder (Director, Institute of Cistercian Studies, Western Michigan University); Inspector Barbara Thompson (Suffolk Constabulary); Ian Fry and John ‘Archie’ Weeks (Old Bailey). I am responsible for any errors of interpretation that may arise from what I was told.
I reserve a special paragraph for Anne. Constant selfless support (all manner, in all weather) and solitary childcare (three of them) combined to mark out the space that made the writing of this book possible. No formal words of thanks can do her justice or reflect what I would like to say
We both thank the community whose quiet presence graces the valley where this novel was begun and completed.
Principal Characters
This novel deals with three generations: those living in Paris during the Occupation, their children, and their offspring: old age, middle age and youth. Each is a bearer of memory, actual or transmitted. It is hoped the following table will furnish some assistance in holding in mind a number of characters and their place in the narrative.
The family of Agnes Embleton (née Aubret)
Freddie (father of Lucy)
Lucy
Characters mentioned in Agnes’ journal recounting the resistance activity of The Round Table:
Father Rochet (parish priest, co-founder of The Round Table with Madame Klein)
Madam Klein (a Jewish widow, guardian of Agnes)
Jacques Fougères (operational leader of The Round Table)
Victor Brionne (childhood friend of Agnes and Jacques)
Franz Snyman (a Jewish refugee)
Eduard Schwermann (a Nazi Officer)
Monks at Notre Dame des Moineaux:
Father Morel (the Prior)
Father Pleyon (a member of The Round Table; successor to Father Morel)
Father Chambray (librarian who leaves the monastery after the war)
The family of Victor Brionne:
Robert
Other characters:
Father Anslem (a monk of Larkwood Priory)
Salomon Lachaise (a Jewish survivor, saved by The Round Table)
Max Schwermann (grandson of Eduard Schwermann)
Pascal Fougères (descendant of Jacques Fougères)
‘L’Occupation’
April’s tiny hands once captured Paris,
As you once captured me: infant Trojan
Fingers gently peeled away my resistance
To your charms. It was an epiphany;
I saw waving palms, rising dust, and yes,
I even heard the stones cry out your name,
Agnes.
And then the light fell short.
I made a pact with the Devil when the
‘Spring Wind’ came, when Priam’s son lay bleeding
On the ground. As morning broke the scattered
Stones whispered ‘God, what have you done?’ and yes,
I betrayed you both. Can you forgive me,
Agnes?
(August, 1942)
Translated from the French by Father Anselm Duffy
Feast of Saint Agnes
Larkwood Priory, 21st January 1998
Part One
‘Now is the time for the burning of the leaves’
(Laurence Binyon, The Burning of the Leaves’, 1942)
First Prologue
1
April 1995.
“‘Night and day I’ve lived among the tombs, cutting myself on stones”,’ replied Agnes quietly, searching her memory.
Doctor Scott’s eyes narrowed slightly. His East Lothian vowels had lilted over diagnosis and prognosis, gently breaking the news while Agnes gazed at a gleaming spring daffodil behind his head, rising alone from a rogue plant pot balanced on a shelf — a present from a patient, perhaps, or free with lots of petrol. Soon it would topple and fall.
She forgot the flower when those old words, unbidden, rumbled from her mouth. Agnes couldn’t place where they came from. Was it something Father Rochet had said, worse for wear, back in the forties? Something she’d read? It didn’t matter. They were hers now, coming like a gift to name the past: an autobiography.
Agnes glanced at her doctor. He was a nice fellow, at home with neurological catastrophe but less sure of himself with mangled quotation. He looked over-troubled on her account and she was touched by his confusion.
‘Do you mean to tell me that, after all I’ve been through, I’m going to die from a disease whose patron is the Duchess of York?’
‘I’m afraid so.
‘That’s not fair, Doctor.’ Agnes rose from her seat, still wearing her coat and holding her handbag.
‘Let me get you a taxi.’
‘No, no, I’d rather walk, thank you. While I can.’
‘Of course.’
He followed Agnes to the door and, turning, she said, ‘I’m not ready yet, Doctor.’
‘No, I’m sure you’re not. But who ever is?’
Agnes breathed in deeply A sudden unexpected relief turned her stomach, rising then sinking away She closed her eyes. Now she could go home, for good, to Arthur — and, funnily enough, to the knights of The Round Table. She’d never noticed that before.
Agnes had known there was something wrong when her speech became trapped in a slow drawl as if she’d had too much gin. She let it be. And then she started tripping in the street. She let that be. Like so many times before, Agnes only acted when pushed. She’d made an appointment to see a doctor only after Freddie had snapped.
They were walking through Cavendish Square towards the Wigmore Hall. A fine spray of March rain floated out of the night, softly lit from high windows and streetlamps. Freddie was a few impatient steps ahead and Agnes, trying to keep up, stumbled and fell, cutting her nose and splintering her glasses. Tears welled as she reached for her frames, not from pain, but because she knew Freddie’s embarrassment was greater than hers.
‘Mother, get up, please. Are you all right?’