‘You’re shivering, Luke. Why not hop back into bed?’
He didn’t answer, didn’t move.
She sat down on the child’s chair, a child herself in terms of her experience. Should she take a stricter line with him, or resort to bribes and blandishments, or soothe him with a story? Red Riding Hood? Hansel and Gretel? Wolves and witches weren’t exactly soothing. How about the story of St Agnes? No. A martyr’s death at twelve was even more unsuitable, would hardly help him sleep. She glanced around the room at the jumbled tide of toys, glimpsed a snakes and ladders board, trapped beneath a pile of other games. She had played that with her father when she was little more than Luke’s age. Her father liked to win, took the snakes too seriously, as he’d taken everything too seriously in his short and serious life.
‘Shall we play snakes and ladders, Luke?’
‘What, now, you mean?’
She nodded. He rushed to fetch the board, collect up dice and counters, find the shaker. ‘You’re red, I’m blue, okay? Same as our pyjamas.’
‘Okay.’
She threw a six almost first time off, went skimming up a ladder. Luke kept throwing ones.
‘It’s not fair.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Another six, another soaring ladder.
‘You’re cheating.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m lucky.’
Luke kissed the dice, whispered something private to it, then threw a two, grimaced. ‘Damn!’ he shouted, ramming down the shaker.
‘No, not “damn”,’ she told him. ‘You’re lucky now, as well. Two for joy.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘It’s just something people say. It comes from an old rhyme – about magpies, actually.’
‘What’s magpies?’
‘They’re birds,’ she said, surprised he didn’t know. ‘Very handsome birds – black and white, with long and glossy tails.’
‘And what’s the rhyme?’
She collected up the dice, stowed it safely in the shaker. They appeared to have moved from snakes to birds, at least temporarily.
‘ “One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a wedding, four for a boy.” ’
‘A boy?’ he interrupted.
‘Yes.’
‘What d’you mean, a boy?’
‘Well, a boy like you. If someone sees four magpies, all together, it means a boy baby will be born.’
‘Did my Mum see one, then?’
She laughed. ‘You’ll have to ask her. What’s her first name, by the way?’
‘Rita. Why?’
‘I thought it might be Margaret. That’s what country people call the magpies.’
‘What, Margarets? You’re kidding.’
‘No, I’m not. It got shortened into maggot-pie – then magpie.’
‘I ate maggot-pie, once. We had it at our school. The meat had all gone wormy.’
She grinned, felt easy with this child, more relaxed than she had done all day long. ‘It’s not that sort of pie, Luke. Pie means pied.’
‘What’s “pied”?’
‘Two colours – black and white.’
‘You do know funny words.’
‘So do you.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘What sort of funny words?’
‘Well, trainers. What are trainers?’
He shrugged. ‘Just shoes.’
‘Shoes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what’s a leotard?’
‘Oh, girls wear those, not boys. For P.E. and stuff like that. Della’s got one. It’s a bit like a swimsuit.’
‘And what’s a Filofax?’
He shook his head. ‘Dunno. Will you go on with that rhyme – the one about the maggot-pies?’
‘I’m not sure I can remember it all. Where did I get up to?’
‘Four for a boy.’
‘Let’s see. “Five for a christening. Six for a death.” ’
‘A death? You mean, if you see six magpies, someone’s going to die?’
‘No,’ she said quickly. Luke seemed too concerned with death. She tried to change the subject. ‘They’re dreadful thieves, magpies are. They love all bright and shiny things. In fact, they’d steal these counters if they ever caught a glimpse of them. Shall we get on with our game?’ She shook the dice out, threw a two. ‘Look, two for joy again.’
He watched her move her counter, scale another ladder. ‘Your ring’s got “Joy” on, hasn’t it?’
She nodded. So he’d noticed that as well.
‘Can I try it on?’
‘I’m afraid it won’t come off. It’s stuck.’
‘Let me see.’ He tugged it, seemed impressed. ‘Do they have rings with “Sorrow” on?’
‘No,’ she lied. ‘They don’t.’
She threw a four, shot up a long ladder, which took her almost to the last square on the board. She tried to suppress a surge of childish glee. She was winning, for a change. But it wasn’t only that. It was really rather fun to be sitting with a seven-year-old, in the middle of the night, playing a simple but most satisfying game – a definite improvement on lying in the dark, fighting guilts and terrors on her own.
Luke threw a six, at last, went careering up a ladder, and then a second one, did a triumphant little war dance before passing her the dice. ‘I’m really catching up now. You haven’t got a hope.’
‘Oh, yes I have! The game’s over, more or less. This one’s going to take me to the top.’
They both watched, breathless, as she threw a five, landed on a snake, a treacherous, scaly, slit-tongued snake, the longest on the board, which wound round and down, round and down, almost to the bottom.
Luke crowed with raucous laughter. ‘I’m winning now. I’m winning! You’re right back where you started.’
No, she thought, I’m not. The Thing had gone away, and both of them were very nearly happy.
Chapter Nine
At five a. m., Hilary crept out of Luke’s room. They had played eleven separate games of snakes and ladders. She’d won five, he six. He’d been asleep since half past three, but she’d sat there with him, on the child’s chair by his bed. He had begged her not to leave, asked her for more rhymes, then wanted rhymes in Latin; had finally closed his eyes to the Salve Regina.
It was now time for the Office, and later, Mass. Today was Sunday, so she couldn’t miss it. She had already missed Mass on far too many weekdays, knew Father Anstey noticed. Mass should be the centre of the day. A priest had once described it as the precious jewel shining in the setting of the Divine Office, which reflected and enhanced it. And on the one and only occasion when their Brignor Mass had been cancelled, because the chaplain was unwell and his substitute cut off by ten-foot snowdrifts, Sister Clare had said, poetically, that it was as if the soul had departed from the day and left it with a dead body of mere hours.
Yet she herself felt increasingly distressed at Mass, an alien who didn’t quite belong, who still couldn’t take Communion. Father Anstey had noticed that, as well. It was a relief to be away from him, though she’d have to find another priest, have to go to confession. Every time she went to church, the confessionals obsessed her. She had knelt outside them, many times, but not yet found the courage to go in. She was terrified of questions which perhaps she couldn’t answer. Was she truly sorry for having broken solemn vows? Was she planning to return? Was she doubting God still? Surely no priest could absolve her while she continued in her doubts.
Today she would be kneeling in a new and different church – St Agatha’s – the nearest one to Liz’s, which had a Sunday Mass at seven. At least that was a boon. She could be back by eight, ready to help with breakfast, be some use to Liz.
There were only fifteen people at the Mass, most on their own, and elderly, Hilary knelt, unnoticed, at the back, felt a strange relief in the gabbled hasty service; no sermon and no singing; the air of anonymity as people hurried out, set off home with no greetings or farewe
lls. The priest himself had vanished, after his final ‘Go in peace’. She’d hardly had a chance to see his face, try to judge how stern he was, how strict.
She was back in Cranleigh Gardens before the clock struck eight, found the house still deathly quiet; the kitchen empty, stacked with last night’s dishes, greasy and unwashed. She ran some soapy water, spent half an hour working through the pile, then laid the breakfast, put the kettle on. She was longing for a cup of tea, but there was still no sound from anyone and she didn’t like to make it for herself. Liz had urged her to treat the place as home, help herself to anything she fancied, but that wasn’t very easy after years of never eating outside formal meal times, never making snacks. Even at Miss Pullen’s, it had seemed strange and somehow greedy to eat all on her own. A meal was always shared – with God as well as Sisters – always an occasion, however meagre the fare. And the price of food appalled her. She had never even thought of it before, never had to worry about best buys or value for money. Food was God’s free gift to them, graciously accepted. But in the Kingsleys’ home, it was the fruit of Liz’s labour in the kitchen, Di’s slaving in the shop.
She ran half a glass of water from the tap, sipped it very slowly, then went back to her room, passing all the other rooms with their closed doors, silent occupants. On Sundays, they slept late at Brignor – got up at six instead of half past five – spent Saturday preparing for the Lord’s Day – cleaning the whole convent, baking bread, re-doing altar flowers. ‘This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and exult in it.’
By eleven-thirty, it was harder to rejoice. She felt weak and faint with hunger, yet no one had got up yet. She crept into the kitchen once again. The cereals looked wrong, lined up on the table when it was nearly time for lunch. She shook out a tablespoon of cornflakes, ate them dry, yet still felt guilty, as if she’d stolen them. She almost choked on the scratchy flakes, as the phone shrilled out, alarming her, as usual. She could never quite get used to that imperious ringing sound, kept expecting Reverend Mother, her cold contemptuous tones. She’d have to pick it up herself, since there was no one else around.
‘Hallo,’ she said, uncertainly. The voice was male – a confident and friendly voice, and one she recognised. ‘No, this isn’t Liz. She’s still asleep. Yes, I met you just last week. Yes, Hilary.’
Ridiculous to feel so scared and threatened. It wasn’t Father Anstey, or the Brignor chaplain demanding her return. Just that impetuous man she’d met at Liz’s supper party – the one called Robert, who remembered her, surprisingly; seemed actually quite pleased to hear her voice.
‘I’d love to chat, Hilary, but my damn car’s broken down, so I’m phoning from a call box. Perhaps I’ll see you later? Liz is expecting me for lunch, though I’m not sure if I’ll make it now. I’m still forty miles from London, stuck in some God-forsaken village. Look, could you be an angel and go and shout for Liz, and could you make it speedy, because I’m running out of coins?’
She ran – forbidden – knocked on Liz’s door. No answer. Knocked again.
‘Who the hell is it? I was hoping for a lie-in. Okay, okay, come in.’
Liz was sprawled diagonally across her kingsize bed, half the covers off it, three cups and a wine bottle empty on the floor, clothes piled on two arm-chairs.
‘Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry. I’m so used to being jumped on by stray guests or nomad kids. If you’ve come to get me up for Mass, no thanks! Any religion mad enough to make claims on a woman’s one free day won’t get me as a convert.’
Hilary explained about the call, already fearing that Robert had been cut off. Liz sat up and groaned. ‘Wretched Bob! I’d forgotten he was coming. I asked him weeks ago, and was really hoping he’d forget, as well.’ She reached out for the phone extension. ‘Bob, how rotten for you. Have you phoned for the AA? Yeah, I know they keep you waiting hours, but don’t worry on my account. Make it supper, if you like. It doesn’t matter, honestly. We haven’t had our breakfast yet. Just relax and enjoy the view, until they come and bail you out. See you when you get here. ’Bye.’
She put the phone down, stretched and yawned. Hilary hovered at the door, uneasy at the thought of another rowdy supper, another encounter with a man who made her nervous, yet intrigued by Liz’s room. That mixture of luxury and squalor was completely new to her: the smart white bedside television, the padded velvet chair, the pile of glossy magazines, the plants; yet everything messy and untidy – dirty clothes strewn across the floor, make-up jars without their lids, jumbled on the dressing table.
Liz switched on the television, shouted over it. ‘Are you all right – found yourself some breakfast?’
‘Er … yes.’
‘If there’s a cup of tea left in the pot, could you be an angel and bring it up? I’m useless in the mornings, and my tongue’s just hanging out.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Hilary made the tray as pretty as she could, used coloured paper napkins as a tray-cloth, cut the toast in quarters, chose a pink-flowered egg cup; flushed at Liz’s pleasure as she laid it on her knees.
‘Breakfast in bed? Fantastic! I haven’t had that since Neville left. And you’ve remembered every tiny thing. Poor Neville always got it wrong. No salt for the egg, or a teapot full of water with no tea bags in. No, don’t slink off like that. Have a cup of tea and stay and chat. There’s a spare cup on the floor.’ She scrabbled for it, scoured it with a Kleenex. ‘Shut the door, can you, there’s a draught.’
Hilary shut it, feeling guilty as she did so. As nuns, they’d been forbidden to sit in twosomes with the door closed. Twos were always dangerous. ‘The devil makes a third,’ her old Mother Mistress always said. Walks in twos were equally forbidden, or even sitting next to the same Sister at recreation twice running. Occasionally, she’d seen two nuns get close, despite the prohibitions, but they were always punished, separated.
Liz lounged back on the pillows, smoothed a stretch of counterpane beside her. ‘Come and sit here on the bed. I’ll have to shout if you skulk there by the door.’
Hilary tried to keep her eyes down, as she perched stiffly on the bed. Liz’s ample breasts were spilling from her nightdress; the soft hair beneath her underarms also on display, as she reached back to plump the pillows. The only naked flesh she ever saw at Brignor was hands and feet, and faces – and even faces were always half-concealed. She felt her gaze drawn back. Now she’d seen her own body, she somehow needed to look at someone else’s – compare the two – make sure she hadn‘t lost some vital organ or appendage which other women had. Liz’s body was fuller altogether, the breasts heavy, unsupported, in the skimpy black lace nightie; the bare arms chubbier.
Liz poured tea for both of them, handed her the cleaner cup. ‘You look a bit washed out, love. Did you sleep all right?’
Hilary suppressed a smile, remembering Luke’s great whoop of triumph as he won the final game. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied. She had learnt already that social lies were kinder than the truth, even half-expected in the world.
‘Good. I was worried you’d be feeling rather low. It must be bloody painful leaving a convent after twenty years.’
Hilary nodded, tried to edge away. She still found those ‘bloodys’ worrying, and was far too close to Liz; could see the outline of her nipples beneath the flimsy fabric, smell hot body and stale scent. Liz seemed strangely different without her clothes and make-up – more vulnerable, yet larger, as if she’d spread and sagged. Her face looked paler, slacker, a private face, off duty.
Liz rapped her egg, unpeeled the shreds of broken shell. ‘I suppose it’s a bit like a divorce – something breaking up when you thought it was for life, and losing your routine, or even your reason for living. When Neville left, I really went to pieces, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Hilary sipped her tea, longed to sound less distant, longed for Liz’s gift of being instantly warm, immediately sympathetic. She was touched that Liz should talk to her, confide. She had never re
ally thought about divorce, except as a general evil which needed constant prayer. Yet Liz, like her, would have broken solemn vows, vows made for life, sanctioned at a ceremony.
‘When did Neville leave?’ she asked, though the question sounded gossipy, intrusive, when she’d been trained so long not to indulge in personal conversation. But she’d never make a friend if she didn’t open up and take some risks.
‘Six years ago – though it seems more than double that. I kept delaying the divorce – just couldn’t bear the thought of having two bust marriages. It felt like total failure.’
Hilary put her cup down. If Liz was a failure, what did that make her? Liz could drive and cook, ran this whole big household, coped with all the crises and the bills, had brought up two daughters largely on her own. Gloria Swanson had been married and divorced five times. As a prig of seventeen, she had been shocked by that, disgusted. Now she began to see the pain in it.
Liz dipped her toast in egg yolk, sucked it like a child. ‘Once the divorce was final, I went back to my maiden name. I suspect it was a fear thing, really – wanting to be a little girl again. The problem is, Kingsley doesn’t feel like me – not any more. I outgrew my parents long ago, all their petty values, all they stood for. But then I couldn’t be Buchanan, either. That was Neville’s name and Neville had pissed off. I’ve had too many names, I suppose. I was Mrs Carr to start with. Yet Mrs Carr’s been dead and gone for years. Then Mrs Buchanan died, as well. Now I’m Mrs Kingsley, which is crazy – Daddy’s wife, instead of Daddy’s little girl.’
Devils, for a change Page 15