Empty – that was it. Man’s emptiness had created all these gods; his need for love and power, his longing for certainty, for comfort, a hand to hold, a beacon in the dark. All the Popes and priests and pastors had been totally deluded; all the thousand members of this conference seeking the same thing: answers to questions which hadn’t any answers; love from a Lover who would never let you down, and whose love was higher, deeper, wider, than any mortal man’s; Eternity to save you from your coffin, reunite you with your daughters snatched away at three; your past forgiven, your future life assured. She had been fooled herself, fooled from early childhood, fooled from her late teens; had tried to clothe her puniness in long black robes; add rings and crosses, rosaries, to give her power, make her less a nothing.
Olive was still praying. ‘Hilary needs you, Jesus. Please help her. Hold her in your arms. Help our sister, Hilary.’
Sister Hilary. Sister Mary Hilary. All a lie, a lie. She sprang up from her chair. ‘I’m not Hilary. That’s not my name, so please stop using it.’
‘I’m so sorry, dear. They told me it was Hilary. I asked specifically. We always use first names, you see. It’s more friendly, isn’t it? Perhaps I heard it wrong, though. My hearing’s not so good these days. What is your name? We’ll start again.’
‘No, please. No, don’t. I’m sorry … I’m not feeling well at all.’
‘But that’s why you need the healing. That’s exactly what we’re here for. We’ll sort you out, don’t worry. Ted! Where’s Ted? I told him to go and ask for quiet, not disappear completely.’
The door swung open suddenly, and a screaming weeping woman flung herself face downwards on the floor. Then a group of men burst in, tried to seize the woman, as she writhed and struggled, spitting in their faces, punching with her fists. Her screams were so deafening they seemed to terrorise the room, every blockish piece of furniture petrified with horror, the walls themselves shrinking back in fear. Hilary knew they were her own screams, could feel them graze and bruise her throat, as she stood shivering in silence; screams for her lost childhood, her lost twenties, thirties; her frightening loss of purpose, her lost reason for existence, above all, her lost God. She clung on to the wall. Olive grabbed her, prevented her from falling, held her close against her bosom, as if to shield her from the terrifying howls.
‘Don’t worry, dear. It’s just the demons leaving her. They always put up quite a fight. We’ll go on with our own prayers. If you come into this corner, we’ll make our own quiet space.’
‘No, please. I’ve got to leave.’
‘I know it’s frightening, but at least it shows how powerful Satan is, how much we need God’s mercy.’
Satan – gone as well. The bogeyman who made little kids behave; little kids like the ageing nuns at Brignor, little kids like her. She was sitting at her child’s desk, as powerless as she’d been for twenty years, Nanny Olive standing over her.
‘Right, now let’s have your real name, dear.’
Real name. What was real? Bread and wine? Croziers and mitres? Her Rule and Constitutions? Advertisements, commercials? Fashion, beauty? Hell?
The woman on the floor was barking like a dog now, frothing at the mouth, four strong men all trying to hold her down, the others praying publicly; Ted amongst them, with his serpent’s hiss of ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus’. The rain had changed to sleet, sleet lashing on bare branches, weeping down the panes. Hilary peered out through the window, saw flowers and blossom guillotined, winter murdering spring. Yet she had to go out there, cool her burning head, escape the noise, the prayers. She pushed past Olive, dodged the group of healers, the foaming choking body on the floor; slammed the door on Olive’s cry: ‘Jesus loves you, Hilary. Don’t run away from the best friend you’ll ever have.’
Chapter Eighteen
Hilary dashed across the lawn, sleet stinging on her face, feet slipping on the soaked and slimy grass. A sudden strobe of lightning zigzagged laser-blue across the sky. She ran on, stumbling, blinded, frightened by the gloom. It was only four o’ clock, yet an eerie greenish light was spreading from the west, all natural daylight gone. Two thousand years ago, the whole sky had darkened, as Jesus died in anguish on the Cross. Was this some sign, some warning to her? Could she hear God’s anger in the cannonade of thunder now echoing and booming through the buildings, blasting the whole campus? She’d have to shelter somewhere, swung left towards the lake. There was a Grecian temple just behind it, a modem man-made ruin, where nobody would find her. She zigzagged down the path, dodging puddles, broken twigs, past a row of creaking larch trees swaying in the wind. The whole lake seemed alive, as sleet churned and threshed its surface, water slamming water in a sullen foaming swirl.
She sped towards the temple, slipped inside, shoes sodden wet and squelching, hair plastered to her face. Rain was drumming on the roof, bouncing back from the slabs of broken masonry littered round the ivy-strangled columns.
‘Out of the depths I have cried to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.’ Why did she keep praying, psalms from the Office, prayers for the dead? He wouldn’t hear – He wasn’t there. She had to grasp that, grasp it finally, realise exactly what it meant. No more prayers, no Office, no Holy Mass, no confession, absolution, no feasts and fasts, no resurrection of the dead. She would never see her parents, rush straight to them in heaven, as she had always hoped, expected, so she could make her peace with them. They would be simply bones by now, rotting in their coffins.
A last faint roll of thunder grumbled through the sky: not God’s Wrath, not Jove’s thunderbolts, just a meteorological phenomenon with scientific causes. She’d better learn some science, recite formulae, equations, instead of rosaries. The rain was easing now. She walked slowly to the lakeside, stood staring at the wreckage: reeds maimed and mangled, water muddied, debris from the bottom floating scum-like on the surface. She looked up at the sky, still bruised and swollen; grey and festering clouds lying lumpen on the soaring chapel roof.
The Lord is in His holy temple.
The Lord whose throne is in heaven.
No Lord, no heaven; His holy temple ruined like the Greek one. How long would it take her to remember not to pray; how long to see the sky as just cumulus or nimbus, and not the realm of Angels? ‘Have mercy,’ she begged no one. ‘Miserere nobis.’
‘Hilary!’
She jumped. They’d come to get her, come to lock her up for not believing, the gravest sin of all. She turned and ran, away from temple, chapel, trimmed and nannied lawns, towards the wilder grounds beyond.
‘Hilary, stop! Wait! What’s wrong?’
Simon’s voice, not Olive’s, or the Abbess’s. She slowed her pace, heard his footsteps drumming into hers, slumped against him, as he caught her in his arms. He, too, was drenched, without a coat, his light hair darkened by the rain, his khaki sweat-shirt clinging to his back.
‘I saw you from my window. You looked utterly distraught. What’s happened? What’s the matter?’
‘My … My father’s dead,’ she stuttered, startled at her words.
‘Oh, my God! When? How? What happened? An accident? Who told you?’
She shook her head, half-smiled. ‘He died years and years ago, but it’s only now I’ve realised.’
He was staring at her, aghast, uncomprehending, perhaps fearing she was mad. ‘Look, come inside. You need to take those clothes off, lie down for a while.’ He led her back across the lawn, paused a moment as they walked into the corridor. ‘We’d better go to my room. I’ve had the fire on quite some while, so at least it should be warm.’
She didn’t argue, felt too tired and dazed. He sat her by the gas fire, put the kettle on, fetched two of his old sweaters and a duffle coat. ‘I’m going to find some brandy. I think you need it. While I’m gone, dry yourself really well and change into these clothes.’
‘But you’re wringing wet yourself,’ she said, cold droplets from her hair trickling down her neck.
He smiled. ‘I’ll survive.’
She felt nervous undressing, even with him gone. This was a priest’s room and it seemed wrong to take her clothes off, wrong to wear a priest’s clothes, even casual ones like sweaters. She was aware of eyes upon her, invisible but hostile eyes, as she slipped out of her blouse. Her brassière was soaking wet beneath it. Should she take that off, as well? She unhooked it very quickly, tried to hide her breasts while pulling the two sweaters on, one above the other, to disguise any hint of curves. The wool felt rough against her skin, smelt of peppermints and woodsmoke, strangely mixed. Both the jerseys were very large and shapeless, came down to mid-thigh. Simon’s clothes all seemed far too big for him. Did he get them from the jumble-box, as she herself had done, or were they passed on by some larger sporty friend? She approved his lack of vanity, his lack of worldliness. Even Father Martin had fussed about his albs – their fit, the way they fell.
She tugged the sweaters down as far as they would go. Her skirt and tights were drenched, but she could hardly take them off and sit there naked-legged. She towelled her hair, stuffed Kleenex in her shoes, wished she had a comb, or Della’s hair dryer.
‘Yes, come in.’ Simon was knocking, entered rather cautiously, with a bottle in his hands and a whole clutch of other things, including his wet clothes. He had changed into dry ones – smarter altogether: well-cut trousers, an expensive-looking sweater, with a jaunty matching scarf.
‘Colin’s a marvel! Who else would come to a Charismatic conference with brandy, aspirin, Lemsip, and a whole cupboardful of clothes? I’m afraid I brought just those two spare sweaters.’ He glanced down at her sodden skirt and tights. ‘You’ve still got those wet things on. You’d better slip them off and wear my coat. That’ll keep you warm and decent both at once. I’ll wait outside. Call me when you’re ready.’
Hilary watched him close the door, touched by his thoughtfulness, his tact. He was so concerned about her, yet sensitively aware that she wouldn’t want him there while she struggled out of a tight and dripping skirt. She eased her tights off next, fastened the last toggle on the coat, which only reached her knees. Did she look decent with those pale and naked legs? She wrapped the towel around them like another dampish skirt, before calling softly, ‘Simon!’ It still felt odd to be using a priest’s Christian name, odder still to be sipping brandy with him. He poured her half a tumblerful, started making a hot drink, set the steaming mug beside the glass.
‘Both strictly medicinal,’ he assured her with a smile.
‘So why aren’t you having some as well?’
‘I’m not ill.’
‘They said you were.’
‘Who said?’
‘Well, Ted and Olive. They …’ She broke off, had no wish to mink of them, relive that whole experience. It was better just to sit, let the warmth of fire and brandy thaw and comfort her. ‘I wish you’d have a drink, Simon. I feel sort of … wicked drinking on my own.’
He shook his head, mock-angry. ‘You’re still so full of guilts. Of course I’ll drink, if it makes you happier.’ He went to fetch the bottle, sat beside her on the floor. There was not much room on the skimpy little rug, and his knee was touching hers. She was somehow too aware of it, tried to edge away.
He leaned forward, put his glass down. ‘What was that you said about your father, about not realising he was dead?’
‘Oh, nothing. It was stupid.’
‘It wasn’t stupid, Hilary. I realise how upset you are. Can’t you try and talk about it?’
She gulped her brandy, needing instant courage to spell out her loss of faith. ‘I’ve just realised that I don’t believe in God,’ she said, speaking very slowly, and almost shrinking from the words, as if they had the power and force to damn her. ‘He’s gone, completely gone. I mean, I know as certainly as I’ve ever known anything in my entire existence, that there’s no Creator, no First Cause, no Heavenly F … Father.’ She heard her voice break on the Father, and suddenly Simon had both his arms around her. She clung to him, felt his lambswool sweater soft against her eyes, his arms very strong and safe across her back. No one had held her since she was a tiny baby, and she couldn’t remember that. She tried to imagine her own father’s arms around her, to turn Simon into him. The arms immediately felt wrong – colder, more reluctant, with a hint of real impatience. She pulled away.
‘What’s wrong?’
She didn’t answer, just hugged her knees up to her chest, then linked her arms around them; shoulders hunched, head down, blocking off everything and everyone.
‘Don’t shut me out, Hilary. I can feel your pain, so let me try to share it with you. You’re very low today, need someone else’s strength. I’ve got that strength, so just accept it. Please.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘What?’
‘You’re a … priest.’
‘Of course I am.’ He smiled. ‘That’s all the more reason why I should try to help. You mustn’t be so scared, scared of contact, simple human warmth. There’s nothing wrong with an arm around your shoulders.’
Reverend Mother Molly’s words. She yearned to be like Molly, to be able to give and receive affection without always feeling guilty or alarmed. Molly had deplored the fact that so many people were frightened of their bodies, especially priests and nuns; had tried to make them see that ‘body and soul’ was a phrase with real significance; that bodies must be used to express love of God, love of fellow creatures. She uncrossed her legs, uncrossed her arms, let Simon take her hand in his, allowed herself to sink back against his chest. She shut her eyes. His navy V-neck sweater was changing into Molly’s scarlet blouse, a blouse open at the front. She was a tiny baby, with Molly as her mother, Molly’s nipple in her mouth, Molly’s gold-top flowing through her body, transforming her from a cold and puny starveling to a warm and loving woman. Molly held her firmly. She couldn’t fall, seemed to fit into her arms, as if the two of them had been sculpted from one piece. She felt very warm, very still and peaceful; the faint hum of the gas fire fusing with the rhythm of the rain.
‘You’d better take that coat off. It’s getting really hot in here.’
She jumped at Simon’s voice, had been hearing Molly’s softer one whispering against her face, as she suckled her full breasts. She sat up, half-confused, started tugging at the coat.
‘It won’t come off if you don’t undo the toggles.’ He was laughing at her now, helped her with the fastenings, his hand brushing her bare legs. Quickly, she rearranged the towel, feeling vulnerable, exposed, with the heavy tent-like coat gone.
‘You haven’t had your drink.’
‘Nor have you.’
‘I meant your hot one. Don’t let it get cold.’
She sipped it while he refilled her brandy glass. She had never drunk brandy in her life before, wasn’t sure she liked it. He took a long draught from his own glass, then put it down, touched her forehead, frowning. ‘You’re still very hot, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got a temperature. Why don’t you lie down – just stretch out on this rug and try to doze a bit?’
‘No, really, Simon. I’m quite all right, honestly. I feel much better now.’
He seemed not to hear her, stretched out on the rug himself, drew her down beside him. ‘You’re obviously dead tired. Your body needs to rest. Why deny what it tries to tell you, Hilary? You’re always doing that.’
Rebuked, she lay in silence, aware the towel had shifted, one leg bare almost to the thigh. He placed his hand across it, as if to fill the gap, smiled again. ‘Mustn’t let you get too cold.’
She tensed. No fear of that. The hand felt burning hot. Heat everywhere – in her throat and stomach where the warm drink and the brandy had scalded their way down; in the prickle of his sweaters on her skin; in the panting of the gas fire, the strange disturbing tingle on her thigh. His hand was stroking slowly up and down it. Was this simply comfort, or something much more intimate? She didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Her brain was fazed by brandy, fugged by too much warmth. The hand moved upwards to her br
easts, strayed above the left one, stroking the rough wool.
‘N … No,’ she said, uncertainly.
He appeared not to have heard, slipped his hand beneath both the baggy sweaters, found her breast again, cupped his hand around it, naked hand on naked breast.
She jerked up suddenly, almost threw him off. ‘You don’t believe, do you – in God, I mean? You’ve lost your faith as well. Is that the reason you no longer hear confessions – because you’re in sin yourself? It is a sin for a priest to touch a woman – touch her there and …’ She blushed, draped the coat around her, so it covered everything. ‘And it’s worse to call it simple human contact, try to put me off my guard by pretending it’s just therapy or something; say you want to share my pain when all you’re really after is …’ She took a gulp of brandy, coughed and choked it down. ‘I confessed to you I’d lost my faith and you didn’t say a thing. You didn’t try to show me I was wrong, or find me some new arguments, or pray with me or … That’s what priests should do, not … not …’ She forced her voice to right itself, went on. ‘I’m sure you don’t believe, and I want you to, I want you to. I know it sounds irrational, if I don’t believe myself, but I can’t bear it if you said that Mass, and washed those people’s feet, and it was all a sham or …’
His own voice was very steady, his face calm, expressionless. ‘I do believe, Hilary. My faith is very strong, in fact – strong enough to know what Christ wants of His disciples. I love my God and I try to serve Him in the way that I think best. But some things I’ve rejected, maybe can’t believe in – so you’re right in that respect. Though, even now, it’s not easy to acknowledge it. It took me many years of soul-searching, many sleepless nights, before I could admit it, even to myself. I could have left the Church, or at least have left the priesthood. Some would say I should have done, or that I’ll be turfed out anyway, once my superiors get wind of what I think. Maybe. I hope and pray not.’
Devils, for a change Page 32