By Paul Mirabile
Jonathan Harper was startled out of sleep by an impatient ringing at the door bell. He rolled out of bed, tip-toed to the sitting-room and peeked through the curtains covering the bay windows. In the dim, moonlit night he perceived a slender, young man dressed in some sort of long robe. He was completely bald. Again the bell rang and rang under the young man’s relentless ringing. Jonathan hastened to the hearth, picked up the poker out of its andiron then quietly moved towards the door. With a quick jerk he unlocked it so as to take the knocker by surprise. The knocker looked stonily at Jonathan’s sleepy, pale face and at the poker.
“Whatever are you doing with that mighty weapon, father?” was that knocker’s first remark. Jonathan stared in astonishment, mouth agape. “Yes, father it’s me, your son Francis. Have you forgotten me ?”
And that was how Francis Harper, the fugitive Buddhist monk, and his father Jonathan, completely thunderstruck, were reunited …
“Quick, come in … come in … At this hour of the night, Francis. And look at you, dressed like a beggar monk. So thin. I hardly recognised you.” Jonathan was in a state of great excitement. Francis sailed in, closed the door and settled on the familiar canopy. He scanned the sitting-room: Nothing had changed.
“You gave me a scare, Francis,” Jonathan resumed, still standing.
“Well, who would be ringing at this hour of the night?” Francis returned in a flat voice. His father hadn’t quite understood the question. He seemed half asleep. “Where’s mum?”
“Who?”
“Mummy … your beloved wife?” Francis pressed ironically. Jonathan stared emptily at him. “Well, is she here, or has she gone to see her boring sister Hazel ? Perhaps she’s out with her lover?” Jonathan winced.
“Don’t be vulgar, Francis, please.”
“Come on, I’m only having you on. Where is she?”
Jonathan stepped forward: “I thought she was with you! She went to find you in Laos a year ago, and I’ve never had any word from her since.”
Francis looked blankly at this father then jumped up. “She’s mad ! Why did you let her go, damn it?”
“I didn’t let her go, Francis; she woke up one morning and off she went leaving me a note.”
“What note? Do you still have it?”
“The note … Yes …” Jonathan shuffled to his bedroom to procure Heather’s note that she had left for him on the chimney-mantle. He handed it to his son. It seemed that it had been wrinkled up into a ball then roughly flattened out.
“Bloody hell! Why did she do that?” Francis gritted his teeth. “It’s such a dangerous place to be for mummy. She has no clue of the dangers : the jungles are infested with disease and wild animals. Food and water are dodgy. It’s another world.”
The son glared at his father then threw himself down onto the canopy, burying his face in his hands.
“I’ve put the police on to it but nothing has come up,” Jonathan defended himself, yet in a contrite tone of voice. “She believed that only she could bring you back to us. But … how did you come back here?”
The question struck Francis oddly. He looked at his father who still stood: “Do put down that poker, you cut such a ridiculous figure.” Indeed, Jonathan hadn’t noticed that he still clenched the poker tightly. He tossed it into the cold hearth. Francis sighed: “Me ? Do you really want to know, father?”
“Of course I want to know, then we can both set out to find mother.”
“No we cannot just set out to find mother. I am a wanted criminal in Thailand and in England. Have you forgotten?”
“Rubbish! How then did you manage to get home if you are wanted by the police?” Jonathan persisted, trotting back and forth from the sitting-room to the kitchen to make coffee and toast muffins.
“That’s a long story,” Francis lamented, crumbling up the letter and dropping it to the carpeted floor.
“Well, we have the whole night, so please, I must know the truth. It’s been a nightmare for me in this house all alone. You know that Andy pops in almost every day to rub salt into my wounds, drinking my brandy and wheeling that mordant wit of his.”
“You mean that you’ve been pissing it up with that halfwit?” Francis snapped.
“No … no, of course not. But he invites himself over and never knows when to leave. How many times have I put up with his drunken effrontery.”
“Well, if I ever see him here …”
“No ! He must not see you; if he does all Stevenage will know and that means the police, too. No. We must find a way to hide you, to keep you safe from the law until this rotty mess is straightened out.”
“Straightened out?” Francis sneered. He eyed his father coldly. ‘Forced’ solitude had wrinkled the old man’s ashen face, had given him the appearance of Gandalf straight out of The Hobbit, all he needed was a grey cloak, staff and floppy hat to complete the portrait instead of his thirty-year old pyjamas. The flesh on his neck had gone flabby and his eyes, colourless, like his thinning, flaky hair. Jonathan finished his coffee: “Please tell me how you left Laos and managed to reach England,” he said in a weak voice, practically beseeching his son.
Francis took a gulp of coffee, he made a wry face: “I haven’t drunk coffee for over twelve years.” Setting the cup down on the settee, he began his tale. And as Francis fumbled to find his words Jonathan observed the metamorphosis of his appearance.
Francis’ face, laboured by years of privations, illness and fasts, had the appearance of rough, sandy stone. His eyes were set deep in their orbits whilst the furrows of his crow’s eyes twitched at every slight movement or sound in the sitting-room. The callousness of his face darkened all its former freshness of youth – that youth he had abandoned in southeast Asia. He swayed slightly in the canopy, nibbling at his muffin, apathetically. Jonathan made some more coffee and toasted more muffins for his enfeebled son. He opened slightly the bay window curtains then finally settled down in his wicker chair.
Francis began lethargically, rubbing his hairless head: “I had been living from monastery to monastery in northern Laos, constantly ill because of the food and water until one day I decided that I had no future in those remote places of worship. Mind you, the religious services captivated me as did the jungle and the snaking, mystical Mekong. The monks were jovial chaps, very respectful and reserved. They offered a soothing solace to my inner and outer sufferings. But I had to leave and return to England. My mind and body ached for familiarity… for mother and for the English language …”
“And your father?” interposed Jonathan, biting his quavering lower lip. Francis looked sadly at his aging father. “I know I haven’t been the best of fathers to you, Francis,” Jonathan conceded, his cheeks flushing red with shame. “But you will acknowledge that I did encourage you to travel to Asia to earn your livelihood. You know, I did not choose my solitude. It was imposed on me.”
“Did we then impose it, me and mummy?” came Francis’ laconic retort.
Jonathan looked dismal, a bit jarred by the remark. He stared at his son through sleepy, spent eyes. Francis laughed: “Of course I’ve returned for you too!” He pursued: “Thanks to my Lao passport procured for me by the Venerable Father, I travelled to visa-free countries. First, I boated it down to Vientiane, then took a cheap flight to Moscow. From there to Cairo, where I renewed my British passport at the embassy wihout any questions asked, although it had expired over six years. Anyway, with my British passport I entered Italy by boat, and from there on used my British passport since European border officials hardly looked at it. To avoid the usual big entries into England I hitched up to the Hook of Holland and took the ferry to Harwich.”
“But hadn’t the border officials suspected anything … your dress?”
“I changed dress in Italy but wore my robe when crossing into England.”
“But your photo?”
“My face has undergone a drastic change, father — haven’t you noticed?” Jonathan had but said nothing. “Anyway, what could they say to a tonsured-headed Englishman who had become a Buddhist?” Jonathan paused, as if reflecting.
“And the money to pay for all these flights, boats and trains?”
“I had my Cook’s travellers’ cheques safely in my money belt.”
Jonathan sighed. “Look Francis, we must not dilly-dally, Interpol may be on your trail at this very moment. No dawdling about, I have to find a place to hide you.”
“Don’t exaggerate, father, please.”
Jonathan sized up his gaunt, emaciated son: “I hope you’re not thinking of turning yourself over to the police.” Jonathan wrung his hands fearfully.
“No, no, I’ve paid for my selfishness and stupidity. Every day and night for twelve years that horrible scene still floods my mind.”
Here it seemed to Jonathan that Francis began to weep quietly. What to do ? What to do ? Comfort him with a fatherly hand on the shoulder ? A paternal embrace ? Or simply a kind, appeasing word ? Jonathan, whilst he observed his son, realised that he had never been a fatherly towards his son. Heather had been right — he thought as he looked on helplessly at his son’s bony, trembling shoulders.
The grandfather clock struck six.
“My God, it’s morning!” Jonathan cried, going to the bay window. “People will be milling about.”
“So what, people always mill about in the morning,” came Francis’ sardonic reply.
“Someone may see you.”
“Through the window? Who will see me father if I stay in the house?”
“Right you are, Francis.”
“And mother?” Francis retorted, a glare of reproach in his cloudy eyes.
“Mother? Why hasn’t she ever written to me? Did you not have any news of her in Laos?”
“Some monks did speak about an old lady with grey hair seen in different boats on the Mekong. That’s about all. It could have been anyone … “
“Anyone? An old, grey-haired lady traipsing up and down the Mekong,” Jonathan cut in savagely. He fell back into his wicker chair. “I have to get you out of England before I tend to your mother. I will act quickly and decisively for you and her.”
Francis stared at his wizen-faced father, and for the first time in his life the young man felt a pang of pride towards him. Yes, a pang of pride because Francis had always believed his father to be a moral coward, a skulker who purposely disavowed, even mocked all his childhood projects, which had gradually raised an emotional tension between them. The clock struck half-past six. The first rosy rays of the sun trickled into the sitting-room with the warm, gay light. At that stroke of the clock Francis truly felt that their generational tension had been somehow lightened.
Francis stood. Jonathan stood. They gazed at each other and an instant later broke out into howls of laughter, laughing like two little boys. They laughed and laughed as they had never laughed before.
Jonathan strode over to Francis and slapped him paternally on the back: “Let’s have a real British breakfast.” Which they did — bacon and eggs, kipper and fresh orange juice which Jonathan squeezed himself.
The doorbell rang. Jonathan jumped out of his chair. Francis hastened to the bay window. It was Andy. “Blast! Into your room Francis and don’t make a sound. I’ll send that bugger packing. How dare he come bothering me at this hour of the morning.”
As Jonathan shuffled to the door, Francis made a bee-line for his bedroom. Jonathan threw it open.
“Well old man, up bright and early, hey?” began Andy in his usual strident, exasperating tone. “How about a little excursion to St Albans this morning ? They have an excellent pub where the food is the best in Hertfordshire.” Andy struck his customary ill-bred pose.
“No thanks, not today Andy, I’m terribly busy …”
“You, busy, Johnny old boy? Come on, mate, we’ll take your car.”
“That goes without saying since you haven’t one,” Jonathan rejoined peevishly. “No, today I must finish some work. You go and tell me how the food is. We’ll see about tomorrow.” He corrected himself. “No … next week ; I shall be popping over to visit my cousin-in-law.”
Andy sensed that Jonathan was lying.
“I see,” and a grotesque smile stretched over his red-spotted, pasty face. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, hey?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Oh nothing … nothing, old boy. Have a good time and let me know how things work out.” He gave Jonathan an equivocal wink. Jonathan slammed the door in his face.
“Bloody idiot!” he growled. Jonathan stopped in his tracks. “My cousin-in-law … that’s it ! I’ll send Francis to Mary in Ireland. No one will ever think of searching for him in Ireland.”
Jonathan was all agog. He had found a solution to Francis’ dilemma thanks to Andy’s unexpected visit. He called to Francis who opened the door of his room carefully.
“No bother, the blighter’s gone, and I have a smashing idea, Francis. I have half a mind to drive you to Ireland where the British police will never hunt you down. My cousin-in-law, Mary O’Casey, lives in Waterville. Once we’re there and you’ve met her, I’ll drive back to England, get a flight to Laos and bring mother back home.”
Francis had never seen his father so animated. His shrivelled features seemed to rejuvenate, new blood infuse that puffy, pasty, unshaven Gandalf face. Francis, however, stood at the door of his room, a strange, alien gleam in his eyes. He turned to his father: “You’ve left everything as it was,” he pronounced softly. “Malraux’s La Voie Royale, Maugham’s The Gentleman in the Parlour. My desk … Everything as it was … exactly … “
“Yes, your mother wished it so. Nothing has been touched. The room has been waiting for your return. Unfortunately the circumstances require desperate action that I would never have imagined. We must buckle up, my boy.”
“Ireland?” wondered Francis sceptically.
“Ireland,” Jonathan echoed. “I shall get you there tonight and we’ll be on the Birkenhead ferry for Dublin tomorrow morning. Dress like an average Englishman and use your British passport.”
“What do you mean by an average Englishman, father?” Francis enquired.
“Well … Put a cap on your bald head and dress in English clothes. You’re not thinking of getting into Ireland with your monk’s robe, are you?”
Francis chuckled: “Don’t worry, my days of impersonating a Buddhist monk are over.”
“Were you then not sincere about your conversion?” his father asked rather puzzled.
Francis shrugged his shoulders: “I don’t know. I don’t know who I really am. I seem to have lost all identity of myself by impersonating or embracing so many identities. Now I’m off to Ireland. Will I become an Irishman?” A melancholic smile stretched his bloodless lips.
“Whatever you become Francis you will always be my son.” Francis nodded, albeit the resigned gesture seemed to embarrass his father who eyed his son with genuine sympathy.
“Mary will have you working in the gardens, and you know she has lodgers there all year round. You could help her out in her home. She lost her husband many years ago. A fine woman, she is.”
Francis nodded again and stepped back into his room. He closed the door silently and lay on his bed, his blood-shot eyes fixed on all his books nicely arranged on the shelves. He smiled. Then those sleepless eyes fell on a photo of his beloved Irish setter, Patty. He closed them and thought of nothing … nothing at all. He began to murmur a prayer of contrition in the name of the Enlightened One …
Meanwhile in the sitting-room Jonathan set to work without delay. He had already contacted his cousin-in-law by phone, explaining Francis’ predicament. He related everything to her without any feelings of guilt or mawkish sentimentality. Mary despised sentimentality. She would welcome Francis like her own child — a child she had never herself had.
Francis had fallen asleep. His father woke him at five in the afternoon. They had a large dinner, after which, under the cover of darkness, Jonathan packed Francis’ belongings in the boot — two shirts and trousers, a pair of walking boots and woollen socks, and his favourite books, Malraux’s La Voie Royale, Maugham’s Collected Short Stories, three of Richard Burton’s travel books and T.E. Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
They reached Birkenhead in the morning two hours before the first ferry to Ireland. The bored border official hardly looked at their passports. An hour and a half later they were in Dublin. There the Irish waved them through after having taken a cursory glance at their passports. Two hours later they arrived at Mary O’Casey’s homestead near Hog’s Head. They were both exhausted but relieved to have accomplished their mission.
Mary welcomed them with a hearty lunch. She hadn’t seen Jonathan for over twenty-five years. As to Francis, she had seen him once at the age of five or six. Jonathan stayed on several nights. Mary had no lodgers at that time so she was happy to sit at the welcoming hearth, drink her evening brandy and chat with her distant family-in-law. She read about Heather in the tabloids and wished Jonathan all the luck to bring her back home. If the British bobbies couldn’t do it, well, Jonathan would! He nodded, weakly. Francis remained silent.
Three days later Jonathan bid farewell to Mary and his son. It was time to put into action his plan to retrieve Heather from the jungles of Laos. He would obtain his visa for Laos in London, then buy his flight ticket. He promised to keep Francis informed of any developments.
“Good or bad!” said Francis, with a serious face. Jonathan’s cheeks reddened. He didn’t answer, casting a covert glance at Mary. Instead he strode over to his son, kissed him on both cheeks, something he had not done since he was a baby, kissed Mary on the forehead and hastened out to the car. He was gone in a few minutes.
“I hope you’ll tell me some good stories of your travels, Francis,” Mary chirped cheerfully, taking Francis by the arm. “You know, I like a good story round the hearth. I’ll have you know that you’re in the land of leprechauns, banshees and sidhes.” Her greenish eyes twinkled with impishness.
“What are banshees and sidhes?” Francis asked sheepishly.
“Ah! The spirits of the dead, lad. The unquiet dead. But you needn’t bother about them, I chase minions away with my broom.” And Mary broke into peels of good-natured laughter.
Francis worked daily in Mary’s lovely flower and vegetable gardens, and when lodgers arrived he cooked them breakfast and dinner whenever she was at Waterville on an errand. Oftentimes, he accompanied the guests on the loop road where he could again and again admire the blanket bogs. Mary warned him on several occasions, waving a minatory finger at him, never to step foot in the lime-covered homestead. He never did, not because he was afraid of ghosts — his upriver experiences in Laos had hardened him on all fear of supernatural beings — but because he hadn’t the heart to disobey his father’s cousin-in-law, a cousin-in-law, by the way, that he never quite came to comprehend the genealogical connexion. No matter. He felt at home with this charming woman and with her lively lodgers.
Four quiet months elapsed. One late misty Autumn morning Mary handed Francis a letter from his father. It was posted from Luang Prabang, Laos. Francis quickly opened it. As he scanned the almost unreadable scribble of his father’s handwriting his now bearded face contracted and hardened into a stony expression of restrained grief.
“What is it, my lad?” Mary strolled over to him, frightened.
The young man set the letter down gently on the table: “Mummy’s dead, Mary. She died of illness in northern Laos six months ago. Father is bringing her back home for burial.” Mary placed a motherly hand on Francis’ shoulder and spoke a few words of real warmth. Francis stared vacantly through the open front door into the greyish autumn sky.
The first lodger of the morning thumped slowly down the wooden stairway for breakfast.
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Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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