I set down my bucket beside the chest of drawers, plucked out a cluster and flicked at my face in the wardrobe mirrors. I folded the cluster into a pad and bullied the mottled glass to a shine. It was hard work. I pummelled until the wardrobe creaked and all the catches sprang open. There! I took a step back to allow the doors to swing on their hinges and stared towards forbidden country. A faint trace of sandalwood leaked from the darkness. The little colony of frocks and jackets swayed in surprise at my rough intrusion. In the far corner of the wardrobe a few empty coat hangers jangled together. Here before me dwelt Dorothy’s shadows, the soft, empty shells of my heart’s enchantment. How vulnerable they appeared, hanging there, secured by their shoulders! How delicate their pleats and buttons! My mouth was dry. I felt my legs tremble with my desire to fall to my knees, lift up her skirts and bury my face in her petticoats.
‘Take us,’ they whispered. ‘Take us, shake us and heal yourself in our soft embrace.’
For several moments I was conscious of nothing but the despicable urge I felt to clamber into the wardrobe and ravish its hapless inhabitants.
Ah, but doctor, I was too strong to be led astray by these wanton strumpets! I closed the doors and turned my face away from temptation. I slapped the cluster against my knuckles and settled down to concentrate again on my work.
But very soon the chest of drawers began to beg for my attention. It sighed and whispered and flexed its joints. I tried to resist but I couldn’t ignore it. So I went across and fondled its heavy, polished carcass.
It groaned and spoke in a husky tone. ‘Pull open my drawer,’ it murmured. ‘I’m suffocated. I feel so tight I can barely breathe.’
No. I shook my head. No.
I tried to harden my heart as I lingered to wipe the blue china vase and dust the little stack of books; but the chest of drawers continued to moan and I felt obliged to obey its instructions. I hooked my fingers into its handles and gradually guided the top drawer towards me. It opened with a reluctant shudder and there, neatly folded and interleaved with sheets of tissue paper, I found myself confronting Dorothy’s most intimate companions!
And now, having ventured so far on my voyage of discovery, tell me what should I have done? Doctor, don’t spare your advice. Was I to remain unmoved by the sight of this forbidden orchard? Was I to retreat from that place, if not in fear of my mortal soul then for risk of discovery? Believe me, I ignored the dangers and feasted my eyes on those fragile morsels!
There was white cotton, yes, and shades of white in ivory and pearl. But there was saffron, lavender, peppermint and cinnamon. And beyond the Christian comforts of cotton there was wickedness in slithers of silk and titters of lace and satin that shone like a silver frost. Here were the panties, scanties, slips and stockings that had played such a long game of hide-and-seek with my imagination. And who would have guessed at this hoard, with its wealth of colour and sweet variety! Never once, when anchored to Dorothy, had they ever betrayed a hint of themselves. They were so very secretive and I was a stranger to them. Yet how eagerly they beckoned to be caressed, to be lifted up and nursed for a moment in my hands.
I waited until I could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner sweeping a path across Mexico before I dared chance my arm. Then I closed my eyes, dipped between sheets of startled tissue paper and awoke to find myself, bleary as a drunkard, holding one of Dorothy’s bras in my hands.
It was larger and more majestic than anything I’d encountered cast upon Janet’s floor. It was made from some miraculous thread, smooth and translucent, embroidered with shimmering patterns of flowers. The straps were ruched and the cups, soft and seamless, trimmed with prickly toppings of lace, had been cunningly engineered with a pair of supporting, padded-wire crescents.
I fumbled to fit the hooks and eyes, one-two-three, and held it up by the shoulder straps. It dangled between my thumbs, empty yet fully-fashioned, a delicate, sculpted bust, strewn with flowers, inflated with sunlight: the living image of Dorothy. I staggered. I mewed. I was overwhelmed by the heat of my passions. Unable to restrain myself, I pressed myself to the chest of drawers, crushed her bosom pals to my mouth and collapsed the cups with kisses.
The first warning of my imminent arrest was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It would have to be Dorothy! I was trapped. The stolen article promptly turned nasty, melted against my wrists, tangled itself in my fingers, quick as cobweb, stubborn as glue, refused to be shaken from my embrace. I struggled and sweated. I managed to fight myself free, stuff the wretched object into a nest of torn tissue paper, slam shut the drawer and turn myself on my heels at the same moment as the owner walked briskly through the door.
‘Skipper!’ She looked surprised. She hesitated. She stepped into the room and dropped her satchel onto the bed.
‘I’m sorry!’ I shouted, crazy with fright, catapulting around the walls. ‘I was looking for something!’
‘What?’
What? Love letters. A bottle of gin. What else could I hope to find hidden away in her underwear drawer?
‘Why don’t you sit down, Skipper?’ she suggested gently. She had left the bedroom door open a fraction but now moved across the room to close it. Click. Caught. There was no escape.
I was still bandy with fright but I managed somehow to guide myself into a chair and fall among the cushions.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ I stammered. ‘I came up to tidy your room and then something seemed to come over me.’ Guilty! Yes. Guilty. I plead insanity. I’m ready to confess my sins. It’s the pillory for you, my lad. Take him away. Shave his head. Bind him with bodice and panty girdle. Drag the dirty dog in chains. Parade him for public ridicule.
‘You mustn’t feel ashamed,’ she said, kneeling before me on the carpet. I was cornered. She had settled so close I could smell the peppermint on her breath. ‘Why, look, you’re trembling!’
‘You startled me,’ I said, grasping at my knees in a desperate bid to control the chorea. When my legs were quiet my teeth would chatter.
‘Skipper, calm down,’ she said urgently, taking my hot and heavy hand and pressing it between her palms. ‘I think I understand what’s been happening here.’ Her touch was cool and deliberate.
‘You do?’ I whispered.
‘Certainly,’ she smiled.
‘I couldn’t help myself!’ I bleated. Liar! The drawers protest. He was helping himself to your fancies.
‘You must never forget that the Lord can look into our hearts and already knows our most intimate secrets. You’ve grown into quite a young man and you have a healthy young appetite. The Lord has been watching you, Skipper. You are never alone in the Lord. And He understands that you’ve reached an age when sometimes you’re overwhelmed by certain strong feelings, powerful emotions, a driving force you don’t understand. There’s nothing wrong in that. It’s perfectly natural.’
‘It is?’
‘Certainly,’ she said again, giving my hand an encouraging squeeze. ‘The world is beautiful. We are beautiful. We are the intricate works of creation. And now you’re preparing yourself to explore that glorious mystery.’
‘I am?’
She nodded and gave a little toss of her head to flick the hair away from her eyes.
Oh, but she looked handsome! Her face was flushed and her mouth, no longer painted pink, was a full-blown scarlet pout. If you hadn’t known the circumstance, you’d have sworn she was trying to flirt with me.
‘You’re not angry?’ I ventured. Good grief! This woman was a saint. An angel. She was so understanding it scared me.
‘Angry? Skipper, I’m flattered!’ she laughed.
‘You are?’
‘Yes! When you love someone, you want them to share all the joy that you feel in your heart. When they reach out their hand, you want to stretch forth and embrace them.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, entirely baffled. By this time I had managed, more or less, to recover my wits and was giving myself to the conversation. But it didn’t help. I c
ouldn’t believe my ears.
‘I think the Lord has thrown us together, Skipper,’ she continued. ‘Everything has a particular purpose. But you must give me time. There are many obstacles to be confronted. There may be ridicule and rejection. Have you thought about these things?’
I couldn’t get my mouth working so I frowned and wobbled my head in a pantomime of indecision.
‘Take your time. Listen to your heart. I’ll wait for you,’ she promised, releasing me at last by leaning away from the chair. ‘You know that my door is never locked,’ she added confidentially. She stayed on the floor with her legs folded neatly beneath her skirt and propped her hands on her hips. Elbows sharpened. Spine erect. She was looking very pleased with herself.
‘I’d better be going,’ I said. I glanced quickly at the bucket, half afraid that my dusters had been transformed by magic into a big bouquet of panties. Stop thief! They cry out in shame and humiliation. He’s trying to steal us away for his dark and devilish purposes.
‘We’ll talk again.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t be ashamed of your feelings.’
‘No.’
‘By the way, did you find them?’ she asked. She seemed suddenly bashful, head cast down, combing the carpet with her fingers.
‘What?’
‘I think you know what I mean. Whatever you were searching for when I came into the room.’
The fear seized me again. I tried to rise but I couldn’t move. I stared at my feet and shook my head until my brains rattled.
‘Why don’t you look in the bottom of the chest of drawers?’
‘The chest of drawers?’ I said, with innocent surprise, turning around to look at that broad-shouldered brute as if I’d never seen it before.
She nodded and waited. ‘Aren’t you going to fetch them?’
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’
I prised myself from the chair and shuffled miserably to the chest of drawers, source of all my humiliation. And there — you’ll have guessed — I found her secret stash of Jesus comic books. There were dozens of them, Jesus Abroad, Jesus Returns, Jesus Rebukes the Pharisees.
‘Take one,’ she said. ‘And God bless you.’
23
‘What have you got there?’ Marvel inquired as I passed him on the stairs. He was dressed for the street in his best suit and waistcoat. He nodded at the comic book, poking through the dusters in my cleaning bucket.
‘Jesus Returns,’ I said.
‘I thought as much,’ he said, pushing his hands in his trouser pockets. He nodded and sucked on his teeth.
‘How did you know?’
‘I’ve got Jesus & the Scarlet Women,’ he said gloomily. ‘That woman pushes them under my door.’
‘I’ve read it,’ I said. Despite its promising title, the comic was identical to all the others in the collection. Cary Grant in sandals. Blue eyes and proverbs.
‘Is it good?’ he inquired, rocking gently on his heels.
‘Give your money away to strangers.’
‘Fat chance.’
24
Dorothy, sensing an opportunity to lead a sinner towards salvation, was soon in full pursuit. I managed to evade capture throughout the afternoon but after supper that evening she trapped me in the kitchen.
‘Do you have a few minutes, Skipper?’ she called through the smoke and the steam. She wore a pale, loose, cotton frock and stood timidly at the door like an angel peeking into the furnace.
‘I’m working!’ I shouted, banging a pair of saucepans together. I raised a fat rubber fist and waved my scouring brush like a hammer.
‘I’ll finish here,’ mother said helpfully.
‘But it’s going to take you hours,’ I protested.
‘I’ll fetch your father,’ she said to me, beaming, pushing me away from the sink.
‘He’s working in the cellar,’ I said stubbornly.
‘I’ll call him. You go and keep Dorothy amused.’
So I peeled the rubber gloves from my hands, surrendered my apron and let Dorothy take me from the kitchen.
‘What is it?’ I said, when we reached the hall.
‘There’s something I want to discuss with you,’ she whispered, leaning so close that she accidentally kissed my ear. ‘Can we go up to my room? It will only take a few minutes.’
I nodded. Yes. And meekly followed her up the stairs. Had she discovered the burglary? My thumbprints scorched on the wardrobe door! Guilty. A duster embroidered with my initials buried beneath her plundered panties! Guilty. I stumbled and slithered, clumsy with fright, as I clambered up in the draught of her skirt.
‘Can you smell anything peculiar in here?’ she asked, as soon as we’d reached the scene of the crime and she’d settled me down in a chair.
‘No!’ I squawked. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’ She seemed puzzled. She wrinkled her nose and glanced around the room. ‘It’s a strange smell. Almost like onions.’ And she licked her mouth with the tip of her tongue as if she could taste it.
I shrugged. ‘It must be coming up from the kitchen,’ I said miserably. ‘It’s an old house. The smells travel.’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’ She smiled and seemed entirely satisfied with this explanation, strolled to the chest of drawers and began to finger her stack of books. She looked very calm and concentrated.
I sat and watched the back of her head, waiting for something to happen. Her long hair had been tied in a knot that exposed her ears and the nape of her neck. A gold necklace, thin as a thread, gleamed as it caught the light.
‘Is that it?’ I said, after a long time. This silence frightened me. There was something wrong. The guilt began to gnaw at my stomach.
‘No. There’s something I have to ask you…’
‘Yes?’
‘Where do you think we come from?’
I knew the answer to this conundrum. ‘From the stars!’ I said brightly. ‘Stardust. We’re made entirely from stardust.’
‘And who made the stars?’
My heart sank. ‘God made the stars,’ I said obediently.
‘God made the stars,’ she repeated.
I was tempted to ask her who had made God but I didn’t want to give her the pleasure of telling me that God had made God in that breathtaking leap of faith that only the innocent understand.
‘Do you have a bible?’
‘A bible?’ My head was spinning. I had grown exhausted waiting for this interrogation. ‘I had a bible. But I must have mislaid it.’ A popular pocket edition with black, mock leather cover and pages as thin as butterfly wings. And Whodat begat Doodat and Doodat begat Whatdat. It was long lost and little lamented.
She turned towards me again and now she had a book in her hand.
‘Here! I want you to take this,’ she said, smiling the radiant smile that made her face seem to shine with pleasure.
‘No!’
‘Yes! I want it to be a friend to you. I want you to study it carefully. I want you to spend some time reflecting upon its meaning and purpose.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, receiving the unwanted gift with both hands. It was a modern, illustrated edition by the Glad Tidings Bible Tract Company of New York, featuring Cary Grant as Jesus and a Hollywood cast of thousands. It was large and heavy and wrapped in a bright, plastic jacket.
Dorothy moved to the opposite chair, sweeping her hands behind her legs to avoid crushing and spoiling her skirt. She sat down and promptly crossed her ankles. ‘Did you ever feel that you were put on this earth for a purpose?’ she said, confidentially, watching me flick through the illustrations. Garden. Flood. Sodom. Salt. Jacob. Joseph. Pharaoh. Moses.
‘Housework!’ I said breezily, glancing up and quickly looking away from the dark intensity in her eyes. That ancient battle. That noble pursuit. Man’s eternal struggle to raise himself from the dust. I enjoyed the absurdity of the work. In our daily sweeping and polishing I could sense the perpetual fight against change, the doomed de
sire for the world to be constant, the struggle we make against death and decay. There is something powerful and primitive in this urge to establish order. We are always repairing our fragile world, sweeping the paths and restoring the fences, filling the cracks in the walls that we raise against the terror of life. When we stop chasing dust, when we stop washing windows, even for a moment, then the dust settles, the glass grows quickly dark again, and we are confronted with the folly of our endeavours. There is no reward in the labour of housework but for the certain knowledge that tomorrow the enemy will briefly take flight as we engage in vainglorious battle with broom-handle lances and dusters. And when we cast down our weapons and fall away exhausted, we sleep secure in the certainty that our familiar enemy creeps back under cover of darkness.
Dorothy wasn’t impressed. ‘But you have a much greater purpose in life, Skipper. Housework is fine, of course, but God also has work for you,’ she said, tilting towards me. The gold thread dangled away from her throat.
‘What is it?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘He wants you to praise Him and walk in His ways.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I promised. I smiled and closed the book and waited for permission to leave.
‘That’s not enough. You can’t be expected to struggle alone. Jesus is waiting to save us from ourselves but to find Him we must open our hearts and become as small children. We’re asked to confess our sins in order to wash away the past and gain the forgiveness we need to proceed towards the light of salvation…’
This declaration left her flushed and slightly breathless. She looked delicious. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ she said, raising a finger to tap at the bridge of her spectacles.
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