shoulder. I didn’t understand Ted’s anger, Ted’s sadness. One needs to read between the lines. I bottled up what I knew, twelve going on thirteen. Then I couldn’t any longer. They were such an exercise in euphemism, dear old Father Maurus mentioning his fainting. One must read between the lines. Was there a hint here, and a wink there? And Dom Placid’s letter, mentioning enthusiasm and friendship and need for counselling: there was nothing explicit. They all wanted so much for him; all so intimate and knowing at one level, and knowing nothing at the same time. He was himself so bland. And that letter written with Ted looking over his shoulder. No one knows. Well, some do know. Not even I know the truth, still. I know my own truth. I hadn’t always admitted it; tried to hide it away. I should’ve talked about it. He was too odd both times he returned, for the funerals of our mother and father. I think I knew what he was, but I didn’t want to admit it. Certainly, I didn’t want to talk about it. It made everything awkward. My truth, that’s what I have. That’s what I can go on.
There is the silence of directors, confessors, parents, lest they be scandalised.
I can only reconstruct, tell his story, use his words.
It was Joe’s letter which changed everything. It hurt me that it was Chantal that he wanted to write to.
19 St John’s Way
Bristol 8
Avon
England
15 March 1984
Dear Robert de la Borde
I have been a friend of your brother Jean Marc’s for years. I found your address among his things. I am sorry to be the bearer of sad news. Jean Marc died on 5th March in the early evening here at his flat in Bristol. He had been ill but said that it was not necessary to write to anyone in Les Deux Isles. He said he would if he felt up to it. I didn’t agree with him, but I respected his wishes. But now I think I must tell you of his death. He said that if he wrote he would write to your sister Chantal. I don’t have her address so I am writing to you. I have some things which belong to you. I was very fond of your brother. And please extend my sympathy to your sisters. I know that both your parents are dead. I enclose a phone number, 0179 412567, in case you want to call. Do get in touch one way or another. I will keep his things here for you. Please accept my sympathy and that of my sister Miriam, who also knew Jean Marc.
Best wishes,
Sincerely,
Joseph Gore
The Portrait
I am black but lovely…
Song of Songs
Once again, Brother Aelred was at his daily chores of housework between the hours of Prime and Terce. After he finished dusting the banisters on the first floor this morning, he paused to dust the frame of a painting which hung two or three steps down from the first floor to the mezzanine. The library was through the tall heavy doors off this landing. The painting was the portrait of a man dressed as an eighteenth-century gentleman of wealth, and presumably, as it occurred to Aelred, one of the early owners of Ashton Park before the monastery was built, and maybe, even the owner of the original house. There was gold lettering at the bottom. It was a name, but many of the letters had faded. He could decipher the word ‘Duke’.
But it was the small boy who knelt in a decorative manner at the duke’s feet who held Aelred’s attention as he wiped the glass and dusted the goldleaf of the frame. He was a black boy. As Aelred dusted and wiped the frame his mind wandered and his imagination mused as he stared into the wide open face of the black boy. He lost himself. He was Jean Marc again.
‘Jeansie, Jeansie, come boy, come nuh man, come and play cricket in the savannah, nuh man!’ It was Redhead from down in the village near Malgretoute. Ramnarine from the barracks was running behind him, pitching the cork ball into the air. He was bowling it up the gap to thebig estate house. ‘Throw it, Jeansie,’ Redhead called.
After play, he waved goodbye. They hung back to talk at the
There is the silence of directors, confessors, parents, lest they be scandalised.
I can only reconstruct, tell his story, use his words.
It was Joe’s letter which changed everything. It hurt me that it was Chantal that he wanted to write to.
19 St John’s Way
Bristol 8
Avon
England
15 March 1984
Dear Robert de la Borde
I have been a friend of your brother Jean Marc’s for years. I found your address among his things. I am sorry to be the bearer of sad news. Jean Marc died on 5th March in the early evening here at his flat in Bristol. He had been ill but said that it was not necessary to write to anyone in Les Deux Isles. He said he would if he felt up to it. I didn’t agree with him, but I respected his wishes. But now I think I must tell you of his death. He said that if he wrote he would write to your sister Chantal. I don’t have her address so I am writing to you. I have some things which belong to you. I was very fond of your brother. And please extend my sympathy to your sisters. I know that both your parents are dead. I enclose a phone number, 0179 412567, in case you want to call. Do get in touch one way or another. I will keep his things here for you. Please accept my sympathy and that of my sister Miriam, who also knew Jean Marc.
Best wishes,
Sincerely,
Joseph Gore
The Portrait
I am black but lovely…
Song of Songs
Once again, Brother Aelred was at his daily chores of housework between the hours of Prime and Terce. After he finished dusting the banisters on the first floor this morning, he paused to dust the frame of a painting which hung two or three steps down from the first floor to the mezzanine. The library was through the tall heavy doors off this landing. The painting was the portrait of a man dressed as an eighteenth-century gentleman of wealth, and presumably, as it occurred to Aelred, one of the early owners of Ashton Park before the monastery was built, and maybe, even the owner of the original house. There was gold lettering at the bottom. It was a name, but many of the letters had faded. He could decipher the word ‘Duke’.
But it was the small boy who knelt in a decorative manner at the duke’s feet who held Aelred’s attention as he wiped the glass and dusted the goldleaf of the frame. He was a black boy. As Aelred dusted and wiped the frame his mind wandered and his imagination mused as he stared into the wide open face of the black boy. He lost himself. He was Jean Marc again.
‘Jeansie, Jeansie, come boy, come nuh man, come and play cricket in the savannah, nuh man!’ It was Redhead from down in the village near Malgretoute. Ramnarine from the barracks was running behind him, pitching the cork ball into the air. He was bowling it up the gap to thebig estate house. ‘Throw it, Jeansie,’ Redhead called.
After play, he waved goodbye. They hung back to talk at the
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