She glanced at a young couple who passed her on the path, envied them their closeness, shoulder touching shoulder, fingers linked through fingers. Ivan kept his distance – not literally, of course, since he had to touch her in the lessons, keep showing her body how it should stand or sit or lie, but he had never yet suggested that they take a walk together, or go out for a meal, although she had known him two whole months now. She suspected he was shy – like her – which increased her liking for him. Sometimes she felt jealous of all his other pupils, most of whom were female, several young and glamorous. She hoped, secretly, that he was shy with them, as well; found it quite intolerable to imagine him entangled with that sultry brunette she’d seen chatting in the garden with him, or the tall and stately redhead she had met once at his door.
She dismissed brunette and redhead, broke into a run again. It was exhilarating to feel her body moving, using all those joints and muscles which Ivan had reawakened after a hundred years of sleep; hear the sound of silly shoes skittering on the path, feel as free as those young children rolling down the slope. Today was her day off. Liz had said she was not to sew a stitch, and Di had excused her from attendance at the shop. She was glad of that. The customers still daunted her, imperious wealthy women who talked over her and through her, while she knelt to pin their hems, ignoring her completely, as if she wasn’t there. Yet they were delighted with her work – or so Di kept reporting – asking for her name, where she’d learnt her skills, learnt to sew so beautifully. She only did what she’d always done, made every stitch an act of love, a prayer; worked silently and swiftly with total concentration.
She had even made herself a dress – the one she had on now – feeling wickedly indulgent as she shirred the floral fabric with its vibrant blues and golds, hemmed the full and flouncy skirt. Nuns never made their own clothes. You could sew another Sister’s habit, take pains to make it neat and strong, but it was wrong to lavish time or care on something for yourself. Sister Anna had made her habit for her, and Sister Anna couldn’t sew. The seams were bulky, the cobbled hem uneven. She had rejoiced in that, in fact, used it as another way to conquer vanity. Now vanity seemed less heinous, even quite defensible. Ivan liked the dress, and it was a virtue to please Ivan, not a vice.
She checked her watch, a scarlet Mickey Mouse watch, which Stephen had rejected as too babyish. She felt important with a watch – someone with appointments, responsibilities, who belonged now in the world, which measured time by clocks, and not by bells. It was time to do her shopping, buy Liz’s fish and double cream, her own shampoo and tights. Liz was cooking bouillabaisse, which she had never even heard of, though it was Ivan’s favourite dish, which he’d chosen for this evening’s birthday dinner. He was thirty-three today. He looked much younger, though in some ways seemed as ancient as Methuselah, as wise. She had bought him a present, a Victorian puppet she’d found in an antique shop. Another first – the first time she’d bought a gift for anyone at all, since her mother’s fortieth birthday. In her postulant and novice years, she had longed to have money, not for herself, but to buy some little keepsake for her idol, Mother Benedict, or for an ill or aged Sister cooped in the Infirmary. It had been hard to learn she couldn’t, that a holy picture must suffice, or a small posy from the garden – perhaps in winter nothing more substantial than a crumbling fir cone or shivering skeleton leaf. She had money now – a fortune – could buy everyone a present, light everyone a candle. Yes, she’d do that first – slip into the church and light candles for the Kingsleys, for Luke and Di and Stephen, for Di’s assistants in the shop, and the biggest one for Ivan, since it was he who’d brought her God back.
She could hardly believe the difference that had made – to have her faith again, not as a mere formal word or concept, but imbuing her whole life, suffusing it with peace, bringing that same sense of joy and purpose she had felt in her late teens. No, not the same – not quite. Her new God was subtly different, no longer deaf, reproachful; but permitting her more freedom, more worldly pleasures, even. That, too, was due to Ivan, though she couldn’t quite explain it. They hadn’t discussed religion, not explicitly, but his own kindness and serenity had leavened her, inspired her, so that she had begun to see Christ in him, and then Christ in and for Himself. She had been reading Isaiah, surprised to find such comfort there, where before she’d seen stricture and admonishment. ‘I will console you then like a mother comforting her child.’ ‘It is I, the Lord thy God, who hold thee by the hand and whisper to thee, “Do not be afraid, I am here to help thee.” ’ God even seemed to speak with Ivan’s voice.
She left the park, Ivan still beside her, strolled up Atwood Avenue and into Bulmer Gardens; the red brick of St Agatha’s rising high above the skewbald plane trees. She had come to love the church, which no longer seemed anonymous, but a friendly welcoming place. She now knew both its priests – balding Father Hollings and boyish Father Frobisher – had been introduced to them by a girl called Susan Wallis, who had approached her after Sunday Mass, a good four weeks ago, was now a friend herself. Friends were still a rarity, and Liz the first and best; someone very special who had done much more for her than anyone, indulged her like a daughter, offered her a home. But Susan was important, too, as her only Catholic friend, and one she felt a bond with, since they were both convent girls and country girls, both serious, both single, and both roughly the same age.
She walked into the airy church, its wooden floor chequered with bright sunlight, stripy red-streaked tulips glowing on Our Lady’s altar, amidst a froth of white narcissi. She’d been astonished to see flowers in a Catholic church in Lent. At Brignor, they were totally forbidden from Ash Wednesday till Easter Sunday morning, and Lent meant daily fasting for the nuns, extra daily penances, bread and water only, twice a week. This church was more relaxed, more in tune with the new God she’d discovered, who stressed joy as well as penitence, who allowed a gleam of Easter into Lent, allowed a birthday dinner, with wine and friends and gifts.
She lit Ivan’s birthday candle, all the other candles, included one for Eva. She had been back to N14; this time found a neighbour who at least knew who Eva was; said he thought she’d moved away again, though he’d no idea where, or even why. She’d been enormously relieved to know Eva wasn’t dead, but still baffled by the problem of how to track her down. She had contacted the Post Office, who couldn’t help at all; even phoned the police. They had shrugged her call off, refused to share her worry. People often disappeared, they said, and in the absence of a body, there was nothing they could do. She had stopped worrying herself now; knew she had to trust instead – and pray. God would keep her aunt safe, give her news eventually, in His own good time.
She rummaged in her purse to find some coins for all the candles. That Woolworth’s plastic purse had been a crucial acquisition – another badge and symbol of her entry into the world, and important-looking, anyway, with all its different pockets for credit cards and season tickets, banknotes, stamps and photograph. She also had a bank account at a Trustee Savings bank, a cheque book and a savings book, both printed with her name. She would never forget her ridiculous excitement as she signed the first cheque of her life; felt the entire shop was watching her, mannequins included. That was at Laura Ashley’s, with Liz as chaperone. But two weeks later, she’d braved a different shop, gone all on her own; worked out what the sizes meant – ten, twelve, fourteen; even dared a communal changing room, with half-naked girls undressing all around her.
The purse was special for another reason – as a frame for Ivan’s photo. The tiny plastic-covered square had stayed empty for a month. She had no photographs of anyone, least of all of Ivan, though she longed to have his striking face smiling from her purse. She knew she couldn’t ask him, nor mention it to Liz, but just last week she had come across a brochure for an Alexander course, found Ivan, one inch small, tucked between two female teachers at the bottom of the page. The photo didn’t flatter him, was blurred and out of focus, but she’d snipped around it carefully, pasted i
t on cardboard to give it weight and strength, and now it accompanied her everywhere like a talisman, a life-support.
She stowed it in her bag again, knelt before the candle-stand, the flame from Ivan’s candle leaping higher than the rest. She clasped her hands, gave thanks to God for Ivan, for all her new and marvellous gift’s; gazed up at the icon, gilt-framed on the wall – a picture of Christ before His Passion. The beard was dark and springy, the eyes a gentle brown, the whole expression on his face compassionate and sensitive. The two images were fusing – the icon on the wall, the photo in her purse – as the eyes returned her scrutiny, keen yet loving eyes, which seemed to bore into her soul. Ivan was thirty-three today, the age that Christ had died – died that she might live.
She could smell the garlic as she stepped into the hall. Liz had started early, preparing vegetables and fish stock, as they both had hair appointments later on. Hilary burst into the kitchen, loaded down with a huge bouquet of flowers – all different dazzling yellows.
‘Good God!’ said Liz, looking up from her pile of glistening onion rings. ‘You look like Callas at La Scala, on her final curtain call. Who sent those?’
‘No one. They’re for you. Just a little present.’
‘Little!’ Liz rushed across to hug her, flowers and all. Hilary made an effort not to pull away. Hugging was still difficult, kissing even worse. Stalks were sticking in her stomach, blooms crushed against her chest.
‘And here’s your fish.’ At last, she put the flowers down, extracted a damp package from her bag; the smell of fish competing now with the almost rancid sweetness of narcissi, the cloying scent of freesias. At Brignor, it had been forbidden to smell flowers, since all sensuous experiences were wrong, and anyway, the scent belonged to God, but in the exotic Wandsworth florist’s she had breathed the blaze of different scents right down to her diaphragm.
‘Yuk!’ said Luke, from his dugout under the table. ‘I hate fish. They’ve got eyes.’
‘So have you.’
‘Not fish eyes. Or a tail. Or all those nasty little bones.’
Hilary tended to agree with him. She had always thought of fish as penitential. She glanced down at the bodies which Liz was now unwrapping; not their greyish Brignor coley, but more outlandish breeds: long and slimy eel things, spiny monsters complete with tasselled beards, pretty rose-pink flat fish, a huge crab, barely dead.
‘Hey, guess who’s just phoned up?’ Liz was groping for a tea towel, mopping onion tears.
‘Who?’ Hilary immediately felt nervous. Even now, she still thought in terms of Reverend Mother, insisting she return, or Father Martin phoning to rebuke her, his thin voice cold, accusing. She was still absent without leave, shrugging off her vows, yet too cowardly to beg release from them; answering Reverend Mother’s letters with lame excuses, or scribbled hasty notes begging for more time.
‘Robert!’
‘Robert?’
‘You know, Bob. Bob Harrington.’
‘But I thought he was abroad.’
‘He was. He got back yesterday – invited himself to dinner.’
‘But you said you’d never have him here again.’ Hilary broke off, realised Liz had flushed, probably had no wish to recall that painful Sunday, way back in January, when Robert’s car had broken down, the whole evening broken down. The row had terrified her, though she’d only heard one side of it – Liz’s, on the phone – at half past ten. They had waited dinner all that time, and still Robert hadn’t rung. They even feared he’d had a crash, perhaps had tried to drive his faulty car and landed in the ditch. She remembered Liz’s growing agitation, her almost tearful fury when she spoke to Bob, at last; found him full not of remorse, but of some fantastic place he’d stumbled on, while waiting for the AA to come back with his fan belt; how he’d spent two hours exploring it, planned to make a bid for it, renovate it, sell it, or maybe move in there himself and …
‘Congratulations, Bob! It sounds amazing. Though it may have slipped your mind you were expected here for dinner – well, actually for lunch, but let that pass. I’ve ruined my digestion, as well as an expensive roast, worrying about your safety and whether we’d meet next in a mortuary, rather than round my kitchen table.’
They hadn’t seen Bob since, and Liz had barely mentioned him, save one brief remark about him going to Kuwait as a consultant on some project.
‘It’s time we made it up.’ Liz decapitated a fish, ripped out its slimy innards. ‘It’s crazy for two adults to keep up a sort of feud like this. And it was my fault as much as his. I mean, I know I over-reacted, and then he took offence, and the whole thing just went sour. To tell the truth, I’ve missed him, so I’m glad he’s got in touch, and, anyway, if I’m cooking for eleven, why not a round dozen?’
Hilary could think of several reasons. She didn’t want the evening spoilt, more arguments or upsets; Robert hogging all the limelight when it was Ivan’s birthday dinner, or maybe arriving late again and ruining the meal. She went to fetch some vases for the flowers, started arranging them in silence, as she used to for the altar, reverently, devotionally, and using all her skills. If today was Ivan’s birthday, then that must be the equivalent of a first class feast with octave, so she had to make them look especially beautiful.
‘Gosh! You really are artistic.’ Liz paused in gutting fish, admired the marshalled tulips, layered with fern and freesias, which formed a horseshoe shape. ‘If it was left to me, I’d bung ’em in just anyhow.’
Hilary tweaked a wayward tulip into line, tried to hide her pleasure at the compliment. In the past few weeks, she’d received more praise than in all her life to date, and for things she’d done at Brignor without a single word of acknowledgement. Why be scared of Robert, when she’d made so much real progress since she’d met him that first evening? She was a different person now; had learnt to talk at meals, learnt to eat with relish, to answer to her name, even just to ‘Hil’; learnt to look at people instead of staring at her plate; to drink a glass or two of wine without giggling like a booby. She had other skills, as well. She could walk in heels, make a decent omelette, stay in bed as late as seven without suffering pangs of guilt, knew where Nicaragua was, had even learnt to slouch and sprawl, though Ivan disapproved of that.
Ivan! She owed so much to Ivan, so much of her progress and her happiness; planned to look her best for him tonight. It was only in his honour she was going to the hairdresser; had been reluctant up to now, despite Della’s constant urging to let her do the highlights. But when he’d mentioned, last weekend, how much he liked fair hair, and what a pretty colour hers was, she’d changed her mind immediately, fixed a time with Della, who had a Saturday job in a salon up the road. If Ivan liked fair hair, then she must make hers fairer still, get it cut and shaped, at last, be worthy of his compliment. Though she was a little apprehensive now that perhaps he’d disapprove, accuse her of submitting to the tyranny of fashion. She’d tried to make a joke about it on the special card she’d chosen for him, which she was saving for this evening, together with his puppet.
She checked her watch. Eight hours till dinner still. She was like a stupid child these days, counting hours, dreaming dreams. She removed a pouting iris, which was too tall for the vase, snipped it down to size. Robert couldn’t spoil the birthday dinner – she simply wouldn’t let him.
Hilary gazed at her reflection in the ranks of salon mirrors. That couldn’t be her, surely – that sophisticated woman with her dazzling two-tone hair, still short, but now designer-short, not simply hacked and cropped, and cut in layers to give it bulk and body? Her hair had been dead before, raggedy and dry from twenty years of harsh carbolic soap. Now it was alive – sheeny, glinting, polished; reflecting all the salon lights in its bold and brilliant blonde streaks. The resurrection had taken several hours, and Della hadn’t finished yet, was using heated tongs now, to give what she called a ‘lift’ to the curved sweep of the sides.
She’d felt increasingly uneasy as the salon clock ticked on. To spend that
much time on primping, on herself … Her old nun’s conscience had returned, as she had offered up the pain – yes, pain. She had always assumed that hairdressers meant pleasure, the sort of sensual experience forbidden to all nuns. Now she realised it was penance – the confining rubber cap, the tugging at her hair roots as Della yanked the strands of hair through tiny holes; the stinging in her eyes as she brushed on the thick bleach; the long wait in public with her hair swathed in towels and plastic, when she felt everybody’s curious eyes turned in her direction. A second wait, when they’d hosed away the bleach, applied conditioner, left it for what seemed like half a day; then hauled the rubber cap off and washed the hair again, slapped on something else which smelt of peardrops. Still a third delay, while Della worked on Liz, and a young girl brought her coffee, which she didn’t dare to drink, since she’d no idea if hairdressers had toilets.
At last, Della had slouched over to do what she called a blow-dry, which pulled again and burnt her ears. She hadn’t realised, when she’d leafed through Liz’s magazines, trying to choose a style, admired a model’s curly-cat or blonde streaks, how much sheer time and suffering were involved. And it had been impossible to read or think, or pray – not with that loud music booming from the amplifiers. She had become more used to music now, the fact that it was quite normal in restaurants, pubs and shops; that people seemed to need it as a comfort or a background, perhaps to fill the void because they didn’t have a God – or have an Ivan. The nonstop chatter of the girls had proved still more distracting; gossip about their boyfriends, their diets, spots or flaking nails; the discos they had been to, the clothes they planned to buy. At least four or five assistants had been working on her hair – not just Della, who was officially the manicurist, and only allowed to help out with the hairdressing because she had an obvious, flair, and was friendly with the manager. All five seemed so confident; so worldly-wise, so au fait with the jargon – that riot of new words: neutraliser, scrunch-dried, balsam, body-wave.
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