I See You

by Charlotte Armstrong

“To help us?” he said, with quick intuition of her meaning. He smiled at her. “That’s kind. Sit down. There must be something.…”

  Sonia said numbly, “Yes.” She moved into one of the wooden pews and sat down. She looked toward the pulpit and the choir stalls. Sonia thought of herself as a Christian, if only by inertia. Her parents had gone to church, sometimes. But for Sonia, since she had grown up, Sunday was a holiday, a day on which one didn’t have to go to work and could wash one’s hair.

  The young clergyman sat down quietly in the pew ahead of her. He seemed to assess her mood. He said, “This is supposed to be a dying church. This building, I mean.” He paused. “I was sent here to preside over its end.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Why?”

  He told her, in a quiet voice. “This neighborhood has changed. Once there were prosperous houses, and the people supported the church as a matter of course. But they grew older. The houses were too big. The people sold. The houses began to be converted into apartments, or else they gave way to little shops.” His voice was not bitter at all. “Many of the people moving in were—not of this persuasion. Many are of none. The church has lost its people, they say. My present congregation consists of a few faithful women. No men.” He looked at her and smiled. “Now, I have told you my troubles.”

  Sonia found her mind taking in what she had heard. “What will become of this building?” she asked. “Will the land be sold and the church pulled down?”

  “Unless,” he said, “I pull life into it.”

  “You are new?”

  “Yes, I’ve been here just over a month. I was just sitting here, wondering how I am going to do it.”

  Sonia was not afraid anymore, and the chill of the building had somehow disappeared. She felt warm suddenly. “Not if,” she asked teasingly, “but just how?”

  He laughed and leaned back. “What shall I do?” he asked. “Shall I preach such fiery and dramatic sermons as to become known far and wide? That would take some time. Besides,” he said, sobering, “I’m not one for antics—in the pulpit.”

  Sonia said, in a friendly way, “The men don’t come? Just women? What about the children?”

  He turned his head. “The old Sunday school gave up a year ago last autumn.”

  “Don’t these women have children?” Sonia asked.

  He bit his lips. He got up and said, “Come along. I’ll show you something.”

  He led her toward the back and then sharply left, to a flight of stairs. The treads were worn; the stairs creaked with age. He switched on lights and, preceding, led her down into the basement. “This was the Sunday school,” he said.

  Sonia looked around at desolation. It was a large room, deep into the ground, with rows of dirty windows, very high in the walls—hung with tattered filthy cotton curtains. At the far end of the room there were piles of wooden chairs, heaped upon wooden tables. The floor was covered with linoleum, its design so worn and dirty that it could barely be discerned. There was dust everywhere. The air itself was tired and dirty.

  But Sonia straightened up and took in a deep breath. “Well!” she said vigorously. “It’s pretty obvious what there is to do. This place has got to be cleaned.” She was taking off her coat. “Is there water? Is there a pail and a scrubbing brush?”

  “There is water, all right,” he told her. “Over there. It was a kitchen. I doubt if the water is hot. The caretaker has what weapons he uses in a cupboard, but I’m afraid he’s gone off somewhere with the key. He isn’t here on Mondays.”

  She looked at him. “Just the same, I must do it today!”

  “You are going to clean this place, today?”

  “Yes, I must,” she said recklessly, fiercely. “Where is the kitchen? The water? I’ll find some cleaning things.”

  Donald Biggin let her go across the basement room alone. He was thoughtful. He went up into the small room where the telephone was.

  “Mrs. Dodd? This is Donald Biggin, at the church.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “There is a young woman here,” he said slowly, “who says she is going to clean the Sunday school room today. But she has nothing to use. She needs brushes and mops and cleaning cloths and I don’t know what else. The caretaker isn’t here. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Cleaning things? Well, I suppose I could lend you some.”

  “Who else could?”

  “Well, I could pop into Mary Parr’s …”

  “Would you? I don’t know who this girl is, you see. She just walked in out of the blue. She says she must do it today.”

  “She does?” Curiosity is strong in human females. “I’ll bring the things over myself.”

  “Thank you.” He rang off and then dialed another number. He was smiling fondly, for love of the human race.

  By now Sonia had discovered the sink. The water was cold. She was still rummaging for something in the way of cleaning equipment when the women began to arrive.

  Sonia felt absolutely marvelous. This is crazy, she told herself, but I don’t care! Perhaps it isn’t very much to do, but it is something. And I am going to do it, darned if I’m not—I mean (excuse me, Lord) I really am!

  So she turned to the women in high spirits. “Oh, good! You’ve brought some stuff! How could we get some hot water?”

  Mrs. Dodd came over to where Sonia stood beside the ancient gas stove. Suspicion was slain in Mrs. Dodd at once. Sonia’s reckless dedication to a task was shining all round her. “They used to use this stove for church socials,” said Mrs. Dodd. “I don’t know whether it’s even safe—”

  The other woman said, “Listen, Joe knows all about these things. I’ll see if he could take a look at it on his lunch hour.”

  “There’s plenty to do before lunch,” said Sonia. “First, we’d better pull down those awful curtains, don’t you think?”

  “What a mess!” said one of the women furiously. Her eyes shone with the light of battle.

  “Miss … er …” said the other.

  “I’m Sonia Jones.”

  “Well look, you ought to have something over your nice clothes. I’ll run over home and get an apron for you.”

  “Let’s get this end clean, and then move all the furniture to the clean end.”

  “How can we move all that?”

  Donald Biggin appeared with a stepladder and two more women. A Mrs. Miller said her young son and his pals could just as well lift tables and chairs as do whatever they were doing.

  The project grew. Joe Parr was appealed to, as in an emergency, and he took time out to come and make the stove work.

  Meanwhile the rags on the windows came down with billows of dust and laughter. Donald Biggin got up on the ladder to wash the windows. He had put himself under Sonia’s direction. Somehow this made for ease between the young man and his parishioners. This plump, bustling young madwoman was a challenge to them all.

  Young girls came, bearing more and more equipment, as their mothers decreed, and boys came to lift and carry. One of the women washed the church’s supply of thick cups and put a coffeepot on the revived stove. The basement buzzed.

  “Who’s going to come to this Sunday school?” asked Joe Parr, who had somehow forgotten he should be back at work.

  Donald Biggin called down from the top of the ladder. “All the children we can catch.”

  Joe Parr grinned from ear to ear. “Well, I’m all for it!”

  Donald Biggin had to clutch at his ladder in his joyful surprise.

  By lunchtime the floors and the windows were clean. The walls were dusted down and the worst of the marks scrubbed off them. Two women appeared, bearing masses of sandwiches.

  The afternoon saw even more workers present than in the morning. The women (the faithful women, thought Donald Biggin) had the bit in their teeth now. This place was going to be clean, or else. Once it was clean and ready, it would have a power, a suction—and children would come. He knew this.

  “Who is going to teach in this Sunday school?” asked Jo
e Parr as he was leaving.

  “We’ll find some teachers,” said Donald Biggin cheerfully. “Miss Jones will take one class, I hope.”

  But Sonia looked up from where she was inspecting a stubborn stain on a table top. “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I couldn’t.”

  “We wish you would,” he said gently.

  The whole roomful of people had fallen silent.

  Sonia said, “How can I teach what I need to learn?”

  “Sometimes,” the minister said, “a very good way to learn is to try to teach.”

  People were nodding. All fell thoughtfully to their labors.

  “I’ll do all I can,” the minister said, “but we’ll need a superintendent for our Sunday school.”

  Joe Parr, at the foot of the stairs, burst out suddenly: “I’ve got some ideas.…”

  Donald Biggin went to him and, saying nothing, shook his hand.

  The day drew on. Some women, taking a child or two, reluctantly went away, when supper was looming over the kitchens at home. A last little knot of them gathered round Sonia. “We’ll have to wash and polish the rest of the tables tomorrow,” they said. “Will you be here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sonia. “I forgot, but I have a job.”

  Her back ached. Her face was dirty. The women spoke to her fondly. “Oh, you’ve got to come,” they said. “Please come. Please try. We’ll see you tomorrow, won’t we?”

  Sonia smiled at them, thanked them, said warm good nights to them. Then the big room—so scrubbed and changed—was silent and empty, except for Donald Biggin and Sonia Jones, who rubbed a rag rather futilely upon the grimy metal of the stove burners.

  His hands took hold of her shoulders gently, and turned her. “You have done enough. You must stop now.”

  “What is the time?”

  “It’s nearly six o’clock.”

  “No, I’ll keep on,” she said. “It’s not late.” Not late enough. Not eight o’clock yet. Sonia told herself this for an excuse. The truth was, she did not want to stop. But the minister insisted. He led her back up to the church. “Come, sit down. Rest a minute. Talk to me.”

  So she sat down and her aching hands fell idle in her lap. She said, “This part could stand some polishing, too.”

  “Enough! Enough!” he cried. “Haven’t you caused enough of a revolution in one day?”

  Sonia looked at the stained glass. “It wasn’t me.”

  “You’ll come back? If you can? Surely, Sunday?”

  She said, looking straight into his eyes, “You don’t need any more women in this church.”

  “I need one like you,” he said promptly. “With energy, and devotion, and such tremendous qualities …”

  “I?”

  “Well, of course, you,” he said heartily. “Don’t you know what your gifts are?”

  She looked so strangely startled and afraid that he put his hand on hers. Her hand turned and their fingers clasped together.

  “I’ll—probably come back,” said Sonia. “I—I think I’ll just have to.” Her eyes filled.

  He said, “Pray with me.”

  “I wish I could.…”

  She put her right forearm on the pew in front of her and put her face against it. Her left hand was held warmly, in a strong and steady hand. Sonia’s tears trickled into the fabric of her sleeve.

  The minister prayed, but not aloud. He spoke nothing aloud. So Sonia began to talk to herself. I don’t know how to pray. I thought I was doing all right. Me and my land heart—which it never was. Me and my being so amiable and so easygoing—and so lazy and so worthless. Doing nothing, being nothing, counting for nothing—and always trying to tell myself that this was being good. What if there is, somewhere inside this blob of lazy flesh, a skeleton, a brain, a backbone—a person who has gifts?

  I’ll lose my job, she thought—veering to practical thoughts for relief. And then she thought: It doesn’t matter. I can get another job. I can afford to do this. What do I mean—afford? I can’t afford not to!

  O Lord, she prayed at last, I’ve been afraid of You. But if there is in me a need for sacrifice and devotion, and if You have given me gifts to use, then help me.…

  Donald Biggin, as they came out of the door to the church steps, knew very well that she’d been crying her heart out. He knew very well that she’d gone through some crisis, and he knew that it was good. But he said, “Good night” and “See you tomorrow” in tones of easy, friendly confidence.

  Sonia said, almost in her normal voice, with a note of mischief, “Do you feel better?”

  He did not answer at once. Then he said, “Don’t you know? We’re going to have a Sunday school. We are going to have a congregation. It is alive.”

  Helen Fielding was in the habit of walking to work. She had once enjoyed the charm of the early light and morning stir, but now, usually, she walked trailing dreams. She had gone over the route so often that she was able to cross the streets and turn the corners and arrive, having never noticed the scenery at all.

  The bookshop would not yet be open for customers when Helen arrived. She would pass along the aisles between the tall embankments of books that had once seemed so glamorous to her. She would go up to the office overlooking the shop where she kept, not the books to read, but the business books and wrote down in them the tidy and implacable figures. Glamour had gone out of the place for Helen. She knew, only too well, that it was just another market where a commodity was bought and sold.

  Although she was this small, tense, efficient, not very good-looking girl, glamour appealed to her. She was a dreamer. These days she was dreaming a personal dream of romantic love. She called him Tony in the dream. Waking, she called him Mr. King and rarely called his name aloud, at all.

  He was the nephew of the man who owned the bookshop and had newly come to work into the business. Nobody doubted that he would some day take it over. So as heir, he received deference and some envy here. He seemed (she dreamed) lonely. He did not, of course, know that from her, humblest of the humble, keeping the figures so neatly in the ledgers, he was receiving the yearning homage of her secretly suffering heart.

  She was able to make every day a day of drama because of him. Would he walk past her desk? Would he speak? If he spoke, what would he say, and what would she answer? For her, all this was loaded with undeniable significance. For him (she knew very well), it did not even exist.

  Helen had learned better than to try to flirt. She had found out, long ago, that if she tried she only made herself ridiculous. A plain girl is deprived of the dragging of the lashes, the provocative side-glance, the quirking of the lips. They are no weapons in her arsenal. These little tricks announce “Look, I am desirable.” So they do not belong to her. For her they are presumptuous and they turn men away. The trouble is, what is there to bring men toward her? Helen did not know.

  This Monday morning she looked at the motto that Kevin MacCleery had given her and read “Now is the time.”

  It fell pat into her mood. It felt reckless. Nothing to lose, she thought. Yes, she would throw herself, heart and soul, into living by this motto. She was pleased with it. She caught herself praying, at once, to a guardian angel, or the laws of chance, or whatsoever star, Let it be now. Let what be? Why, let Tony King notice her, today. That was a way to put it baldly. Notice her favorably was perhaps too much to ask.

  Wait. Helen was walking along her normal route, pondering her slogan, praying, dreaming—but Helen was conscientious and efficient. So as she repeated it—“Now is the time”—she realized that now did not mean half an hour from now or when she got to the office. She wrenched herself out of the prayer and the dream and now, walking to work, she forced her eyes to see the pavement before her, the shopwindows, the red lights and the green, and she forced her mind to dwell upon the scenery. She found it difficult. This walk had been routine for so long that to look in the present tense seemed unnecessary and boring.

  Yet Helen conscientiously did it, the best she cou
ld. In consequence, when she came to the bookshop and went in, it looked, by virtue of the quality of her attention, different on this Monday morning. She realized that she had dismissed this place as it really was, long ago, and substituted for it an image in her mind. Normally she walked through a shaft of air labeled NOVELS and beyond that through the idea of HISTORY and then BIOGRAPHY.

  This morning she walked on a brown wooden floor between wooden tables upon which were piled sheets of paper, cut to size, bound together, with printing on them. She walked through a dance of dust motes. She saw shabbiness in the corners. She knew these were signs, not of failure, but of success. It was a busy bookshop. There was never time to worry about new paint or rearrangements. The trappings of success are not what people think. Helen brought her mind back to the present tense in which she was bound by her vow to live, today. She went up the stairs and settled herself in her own cubbyhole, feeling the strangeness of her impressions.

  When Mrs. Peaseley came in, Helen saw her to be a woman of uncertain age whose hair was most certainly dyed that jet black. Helen heard her make the usual bossy remarks and knew (with surprise) that she made them in order to shake off some domestic self and its anxieties, to establish Mrs. Peaseley’s own image firmly in her mind for the day. She was a woman who needed this job and who dyed her hair in the belief that it made her look younger and more capable. Helen had never before noticed that Mrs. Peaseley felt insecure.

  Seated in her cubbyhole, Helen could see nothing, but if she stood she could overlook the deep narrow place below. And she knew his hours. She used to find an excuse to stand up so that she could watch him come in. She would usually fumble with the pencils at the pencil-sharpener and meanwhile look slyly over her shoulder downward to see his tall figure, his gleaming cap of red-brown hair—to watch his progress, his pause for a few words with the head salesman, Mr. Copely.

  This morning she did the same thing but in her mind her motto echoed. So, first, she saw herself—here, now—standing up, sending her adoring gaze downward, and she became aware of the fact that Mrs. Peaseley was aware, and no doubt had been for weeks, of Helen’s motive, of Helen’s dream.