by Jill Childs
Fourteen
Ella
She has no idea how lucky she is.
I am sorry she and Richard weren’t right together. Heaven knows, he tried. It was painful to watch. He contorted every bone in his body in the effort to change shape and fit into that marriage and be happy with her and he just couldn’t do it.
And I never tried to prise him away. She needs to think that. I understand. But it’s simply not true. I lost count of the number of times we made ourselves miserable by breaking up. We could never stay apart for long. He adores Gracie but suffocating in an unhappy marriage was never going to work. He’s a better father for being happy with me.
She has Gracie. That’s the point. She’s the mother of a gorgeous, funny, bright, kind little girl. And if that isn’t enough, heaven help her. However much I love Richard, and I do, I’d swap places in a heartbeat.
Hurt isn’t clean. It’s putrid. It makes strangers out of everyone you ever thought loved you. Once it touches you, you’re on your own.
All that stuff about emotional damage bringing people together? Forget it. Hurt surrounds you with such a powerful force field of misery that no one else can enter. I know. I’ve been there.
All those so-called friends? Nowhere. They came the first time with their solemn faces and shuffled on their seats, trying not to look at the clock, while I cried. They didn’t come back. And I don’t blame them. Who would?
I’ve been there too. It took a while but I got it into my thick skull in the end. No one else was going to help me. No one else wanted to know. So I learned to shut up and paint a face on and say I was fine and where’s the party? Stupid loud music. Stupid loud clothes. Stupid loud men. And pretty soon, rooms stopped falling silent when I walked into them. People stopped ducking into shops to avoid me on the street. Thank God, they thought. She’s over it.
You don’t get over it. If you’re doing well, you get used to it. You save it for silence. For darkness. For three o’clock in the morning. For the nights you’re alone.
So that’s the state I was in when I met Richard, with all his gentleness and kindness and decency. I lay next to him in bed as he slept, his arms wrapped round me, his breath warm and steady on my skin, and absorbed love from him like a dried-up sponge sucking in water.
I couldn’t talk to him about what had happened to me. I didn’t know how to put it into words. And I was frightened to try. In the early days, when I first realised I was falling in love with him, I was scared of spoiling it, of contaminating what we had and driving him away. He was sad enough. He didn’t need more pain in his life.
And then the moment passed. It started to feel too late. So I just walled it off and lied when I had to and, right or wrong, it seemed best.
It’s my hurt. Maybe it’s better it stays secret, even from him.
Fifteen
Jennifer
We were coming back from the shops that afternoon when you pulled free from me and ran.
‘Gracie!’
You caught me by surprise. You never ran off. You were an obedient child but also you had more sense than most children your age about traffic and waiting for the green man and the danger of getting lost in crowds.
‘Gracie! Stop!’
You weaved through the shoppers like a weasel. I felt a lumbering fool, chasing after you, laden with carrier bags. My handbag, strapped over my chest, banged on my ribs. You were wearing your mauve padded anorak, a hand-me-down from the family across the road, and by the time I got clear of a broad elderly woman with a shopping trolley on wheels and round the front of an on-coming buggy, it was rapidly disappearing round the corner, turning off the high street and down a small side road.
I ran after you, cursing under my breath. The side road was less crowded and I saw you clearly as you made a sharp left and disappeared just past the music shop. It was a road that was only ten minutes from home but one I had no reason, in normal circumstances, to go down.
There was a pub across the road with a hedged garden. You couldn’t have gone that far, I’d have seen you cross the road. A car park attached to a housing block. On this side, a café with chairs and tables outside, an overpriced delicatessen and the dingy music shop that had been there for as long as I could remember. I scanned both as I ran by. No sign of you.
I pressed on. Here, I thought, just here. This must be where you’d disappeared. I found myself at the entrance to a small parish church. I must have passed it a hundred times over the years and never really noticed.
It was a Victorian building, set back from the road. The metal gate and railings looked as if they’d seen better days. The front lawn was in the building’s shadow and the bushes planted round its edge needed a trim. A noticeboard read: Parish Church of Saint Michael, Anglican. All Welcome. Underneath, a modern printed notice said: Café and listed the opening hours.
“Gracie!” I stood at the gate, heavy with bags, and looked in. No sign of you. Standing still, away from the distant rumble of traffic on the high street, all I could hear was the thump of blood in my ears. Panic made me shake. The gate stood open. I set off down the path and ran round the side of the church, looking for the entrance.
The plot extended much further than it looked from the road. It opened out into a narrow graveyard, set about with mature trees and bounded by a stone wall. We were so close to the modern rush of the high street and yet here I felt at once the sense of timelessness, of the passing of ages, of the unknown dead lying under the feet of the living.
‘Gracie!’
Sunlight straggled through the foliage and made shifting patterns on the grass and its unkempt path and it stirred a memory of early childhood in me, some day when I must have played in such a place, in and out of shadows. I scanned the graveyard. No sign of you. Had you taken a different turning after all? My stomach clenched.
A modern, glass-walled annex rose along the far end of the church, invisible from the road. Inside, I could see the café and, through it, the entrance to the church. A movement drew my eye. A small figure in mauve, disappearing into the interior. I broke into a run again, frightened in case I was wrong, in case I was chasing a different child, pushed open the glass door with my shoulder and fell into the café.
Faces looked up. A cluster of elderly women, drinking tea together at a wooden table. A smartly dressed young man, sitting alone with a plate of bacon and eggs, his laptop open at one side. A care-worn couple, retired perhaps, sitting in silence, shoulders slumped. A young woman with swept-back hair stood behind a counter with a magazine open in front of her and, to her side, a display cabinet full of cakes and puddings and pots of salad.
I ran across. ‘Did a little girl just come running in? She’s three.’
My voice was loud and breathless in the quietness. Unlike every other café in town, there seemed to be no background music to hide behind. A display of cheaply printed leaflets about the history of the church, postcards and a stack of video cassettes in cellophane stood on the counter by the cash register.
The young woman lifted her eyes reluctantly from the magazine. She pointed towards the large wooden doors of the church, opened up to the public.
‘She ran in there.’
I rushed after you into the dim interior of the church.
‘Gracie!’
You were standing at the side of the altar, gazing up at the stained-glass windows. A matter of feet away, several votive candles burned on a metal stand. The building had the hushed dim mustiness of thick stone walls, high-leaded windows and centuries of prayer. The pews were solid wood and worn smooth by generations of worshippers. I crossed to you, conscious of the click of my heels on the stone flags and the rustle of the shopping bags against my legs.
‘What on earth—’
You looked up, smiling, pleased with yourself. I wanted to grab you by the arm and give you a lecture about the perils of running off but the silence of the building pressed in on me and its sense of holiness too and, besides, you seemed so delighted with
what you’d found and I was weak with relief. Sanctuary, I thought. You’d picked the right place to hide.
You pointed up at the windows, craning your neck back to see.
‘You know what this is?’ I said. ‘It’s a church. It’s a quiet place where people come to think. And it’s very, very old.’
‘I think that’s him.’
‘Who?’
I looked up at the section of stained glass. It gleamed red, blue and yellow with sunshine. The picture, high above us, showed a man with a beard and flowing white robes. His foot was on the head of a writhing serpent and he held a staff high above his head as he prepared to strike. He had large, bird-like wings and a halo. Straight out of an Old Testament picture book.
‘That man.’ You looked at me with joy. ‘In the funny clothes.’
‘What man?’
‘When I was in the accident.’ Your face was radiant, expectant, as if you’d proved your point. ‘That must be why I wanted to come here. To find him again.’
I took a deep breath. ‘It was just a dream, Gracie.’
Your face clouded. ‘You don’t believe me, do you, Mummy?’
I hesitated. ‘I believe you think you saw him, my love. But that doesn’t make it real. You see? You were asleep.’
You looked wounded. I set down my shopping bags and opened my arms to you but you turned away. I had disappointed you and it was unbearable but what else could I say?
‘That isn’t a real man.’ I spoke in a whisper. ‘Angels are—’ I hesitated ‘—they’re an idea. A lovely idea about goodness and the fact kind people are always more powerful than bad ones.’
You frowned. ‘But I saw him.’
‘I know.’ It was cowardly of me but this wasn’t the time. You were starting to get upset. ‘I know you did.’
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I do.’
You gave me a sceptical look, clearly not convinced, and ran away into the deep shadows along the wall, touching your face and hands to the cool stone. I lowered myself onto a pew and sat too, shopping around my feet. It was a peaceful place. A place of prayer.
I sat quietly, thinking. The pews were worn and I imagined the grief, the despair, the loneliness people must have brought here over the years. It gave me a strange sense of connection, not with God but with all those other unknown women who had been before. Mothers who had lost daughters. Daughters who had lost mothers. I sighed. Even the stone flags under my feet were monuments to the dead and I turned my head to read the engraving nearest me.
Anne Elizabeth McIntyre, Beloved wife and mother, Gone to Join Our Lord, May 12, 1831. Aged 54. Death thou art but another birth.
‘There are several McIntyres. Anne’s daughters, Beatrice and Mary, are both buried in the churchyard. And there’s a memorial stone over there to her son, James. He was lost at sea.’
I jumped. A woman of perhaps sixty had appeared beside me. She wore low-heeled soft shoes, shapeless black trousers and a baggy black top with a clerical collar. A large wooden cross hung round her neck. She smiled.
‘Sorry, did I startle you?’
I reached towards my bags. Vicars make me nervous. I had refused point blank to go to church as soon as I became a teenager. I don’t see the point in discussing religion, especially with people who think they have all the answers, answers to unanswerable questions. It’s never an honest conversation. All they want to do is prove that they’re right and you, if you dare to disagree, are wrong.
She was still smiling. ‘I’ve disturbed you.’
‘Not at all. I just came in to get my daughter.’ I looked over to see what you were doing. You had settled quietly on the end of a pew, your legs swinging, humming to yourself. The vicar lifted her eyes to watch you for a moment, her face serene.
I pointed up at the multi-coloured angel. ‘May I ask you something? Who is that?’
She lowered herself heavily into the pew beside me. It creaked under her weight. ‘That’s Saint Michael, the archangel.’
I hesitated. I wanted to ask more but I didn’t want to look ignorant.
‘Is he slaying a snake?’
‘The Devil himself.’ She smiled. ‘The Victorians were very literal. They liked drama. A different age.’
‘And what are we now?’
‘Now? Ah.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Sceptical, certainly. And very metaphorical. Not many people nowadays believe in a Devil with a forked tail and horns. Do you?’
I shook my head.
‘Exactly. Neither do I. We’re generally a more—’ she paused ‘—conceptual age.’ She pointed back to the window. ‘The striking part is the raised lance, isn’t it? The eye is drawn to it. But look at his other hand. See what he’s holding?’
I narrowed my eyes. She was right; I hadn’t noticed his left hand before. Old-fashioned weighing scales on chains hung from it.
‘For weighing sin?’
‘Good and evil. A symbol of justice. It’s the other side of power. Something we’re still apt to forget even today, I fear.’
I smiled. Her manner put me at ease.
She held out her hand. ‘Angela Barker.’
‘Jennifer.’ Her grasp was firm. ‘And that’s Gracie. My daughter.’
‘Ah. God’s favour.’
‘Indeed.’ I’d read up on your name once we finally chose it, although Richard seemed more inspired by Grace Kelly than by anything spiritual.
You came running over and stood beside me, looking into the vicar’s face with open interest.
‘This is Angela,’ I said. ‘She works here, in this church.’
You considered her. ‘I like the windows.’
‘They’re special, aren’t they?’ Angela spoke to you evenly, as if to an equal. ‘They’re very old.’
‘What’s that?’ You pointed to the cross round the vicar’s neck.
‘It’s a cross. I always wear it.’
‘Why?’
‘Come on now, Gracie.’ I reached for the shopping, embarrassed. ‘Let’s go home.’
Angela raised her hand. ‘That’s OK.’ She leaned forward to you and spoke quietly. ‘It reminds me of something important that happened many years ago, before any of us were born. Of a very special man with amazing powers.’
Your eyes gleamed. ‘The angel?’ You twisted round and pointed back at Saint Michael. ‘I’ve met him. When I had my accident.’
‘That’s enough, Gracie.’ My voice was sharp, eager to get you out of there. ‘Come on.’ I held out my hand for you to take and said to Angela: ‘I am sorry. We’d better head home.’
She looked intrigued, her eyes on your face as I steered you away. She heaved herself to her feet and walked with us to the great stone archway separating the entrance to the church from the modern café beyond.
‘Lovely to meet you, Gracie. God bless you.’ She raised her eyes to me. ‘Come and see us again soon.’
In the café, the young man was powering down his laptop and reaching for his coat. I crossed to the counter and picked up one of the leaflets about the church.
‘How much are these?’
The young woman shrugged. ‘They’re free.’
I dug in my pocket, found a pound coin and dropped it into the tip pot.
As we left, the elderly ladies lifted their heads again and their eyes followed you out. I suspected you were the liveliest person to visit Saint Michael’s for some time.
Sixteen
‘Do you know what we’re going to do now, Gracie?’
I settled you down at the kitchen table with felt-tip pens and paper and a packet of multi-coloured tissue paper.
‘You remember those coloured windows you saw in the church? Let’s make our own.’
You set about working with me, watching as I drew a simple flower for you. I planned to cut the petals out of the paper and stick pieces of tissue paper across the holes. I’d done something similar one Christmas, years ago, when I was at primary school. It wasn’t hard.
You cray
oned with care the centre of the flower, the leaves and the stem, your brow puckered and the end of your tongue sticking out between your lips.
I opened the leaflet up on the table. ‘That’s the window, isn’t it?’
You paused to look, considered. ‘He has a beard. But it still looks like him. My angel.’
‘He’s called Saint Michael.’ I tried to remember what I’d learned from my halting search on the Internet while you were eating your snack. ‘People have been drawing pictures of him for hundreds of years. He was probably based on a real man but he lived so long ago, no one really knows what’s true and what’s just made up, just stories.’
You were crayoning again. ‘I know. He’s my friend.’
I didn’t answer. I was trying hard to be patient but it was a growing struggle. I didn’t know why the idea of an angel was tangled up in your head with the trauma you’d suffered. You were an intelligent child. Perhaps you’d heard people talking about her death and were trying, in your own way, to get the measure of that?
But Saint Michael? A gaunt, bearded man in ancient robes, slaying the Devil? He had no place in your subconscious. None at all.
I looked at your head, bent forward over your picture. I was cutting green and red and blue tissue paper into petal shapes for you to stick on, once the colouring was finished. It was easier to talk when your hands were busy. That’s why Richard and I had some of our most difficult conversations in the car when he was driving and neither of us could escape.
‘It’s not your fault, you know, Gracie. The accident. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Red tissue paper, snip, snip. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you look up, guarded, then turn back to your crayoning.
‘Daddy and I were so worried about you, when you were in hospital.’
The crayoning slowed. A pause. ‘Is that why Daddy cried?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Of course.’
I picked up a sheet of blue tissue paper and started to cut that. You sounded worried but your face was low over your drawing and I couldn’t see your expression.