Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  Hilary clutched her glass so tightly she was frightened it would break. Her cheeks were flaming as she realised what she’d done: shouted at a priest, accused a priest of sinning. She felt so ashamed, so horrified, she could hardly bear to look at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, voice barely audible.

  He smiled. ‘No sorrys. Didn’t we agree that? Except it’s me who should apologise. I’m sorry, too, Hilary. I didn’t mean to hurt you or upset you. I genuinely felt that you needed human warmth. You’ve been very hurt and damaged, and only love can heal that.’

  Love. She trapped the word, examined it. Did he mean he loved her, that there was some real bond between them? Certainly, they had a lot in common – the same faith and values once, the same doubts and struggles now; the same long and rigorous training to wean them from the world. How could she have repulsed him quite so violently? ‘Forgive me, I was rude,’ she said, still not daring to look up.

  ‘You weren’t rude, not at all. You’re never rude, Hilary. You’re a very gentle loving person, which is why I care about you.’

  So he did care. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the pressure of his fingers, as he laid them on her arm. A priest who loved her, longed to make her whole. She shrugged the coat off, pushed it to one side. Why shouldn’t she be healed, made adult and humane, instead of turning into one of Della’s loveless spinsters, or remaining a semi-nun for ever, like the ones Elaine had mentioned, terrified of any human contact? If her God had gone, there was nobody to stop her. In fact, she should feel better, with no judgement and damnation, no constant daily sin and guilt re-crucifying Christ, no Rule, no vow of chastity. But what about his chastity? She tried to put that question to him, struggling with embarrassment, stumbling on the words, washing down the hardest ones with brandy.

  He leant back against the wall, eased and stretched his legs. Colin’s smart blue trousers were much too long for him, and had been rolled up at the ends. He still had his wet shoes on, the pale suede black with rain. ‘No, Hilary, I don’t believe in celibacy, not now. I did, of course – right through my twenties and up to just three years ago. Well, I struggled with it, actually, and believe me, it was a struggle. But in the end, I came to see I was wasting too much energy on fighting something natural and perhaps not that important. It seemed all wrong. It was making me bad-tempered and far too self-absorbed, turned in on my petty sins and weaknesses, when there was so much major misery screaming out for help.’ He reached out for his glass, cupped it in both hands. ‘Perhaps you don’t realise, but parish priests are often very isolated, living on their own, or with just an ageing housekeeper, and if they let themselves get lonely or embittered, what use are they as caring human beings? I know in my own case that once I was less frustrated, less hung-up about what I’d come to see as basic human needs, I had so much more to give – more energy, more love, more sheer humanity.’

  He took a sip of brandy, frowned into his glass. ‘But it wasn’t simply personal, of course not. You can make quite a case against celibacy on theological grounds. The first priests weren’t celibate and there’s no scriptural justification for it anywhere. It came in very slowly, especially here in England, where it wasn’t fully recognised until as late as the twelfth century. And it’s bound to change again. The Church has to change, or die, Hilary. Do you know what Cardinal Newman said? “To live is to change, and to be perfect is to have changed often.” ’

  Hilary shifted on the rug, struggling with a sense of shock. She’d read a lot about the case for married clergy, but affairs for single priests were another thing entirely. Even more extraordinary was the fact he seemed to be admitting that he’d had affairs himself; seemed not ashamed, not worried that he might give scandal to her, or other people, be found out, removed from office. And even while he was talking about basic sexual urges, he did it with a sort of spiritual fervour; eyes blazing with conviction, voice solemn and intense. She found herself excited, excited by that fervour, excited by her very sense of shock. She glanced at him again – his pale hands locked together, the fall of hair hiding half his face; tried her best to concentrate; hear him as a priest, not fear him as a man.

  ‘I also feel it’s wrong that celibates with no experience of life or love or sex should make the rules for married people. That seems to me plain arrogant, as well as psychologically wrong. And anyway, it doesn’t work in practice. I mean, the present system’s crazy. At least eighty per cent of Catholics in America are using contraceptives, despite the Church’s ban, and in Ireland there’s enormous opposition to official Catholic teaching on divorce and sex and so on. That all results in a lot of guilt and conflict, a lot more wasted energy, and resentment on both sides. And the Church is losing clergy. Thousands every year are leaving to get married, or because they simply can’t accept these …’

  Hilary clung on to her glass. She’d missed his last few words, had been seeing him with women – naked women, Catholic women, women she both envied and abhorred. She ought to argue with him, challenge his loose statements, his too permissive views, but she could hardly think at all. What he was really saying, beneath the arguments, the rhetoric, was that he was free to touch her, free to go to bed with her. She swallowed brandy, tasted only fear. Her head was throbbing, her heart pounding in her chest. Was she ill, as he’d suggested, or simply terrified? She could feel the tension building in the room, the choking shouting silence closing in on her. Why had he stopped speaking? Was he expecting some reply – or worse – some move from her, some encouragement, caress?

  ‘Your … Your shoes are wet,’ she stuttered.

  His burst of laughter startled her. ‘That’ll teach me not to lecture. I try to expound my deepest and most heartfelt views, and you fuss about my footwear! Though you’re absolutely right. My shoes are soaking wet. In fact, I’d better take them off.’ He started tugging at the laces. ‘I think you’ll have to help me. You’ve got longer nails to deal with all these knots.’

  As she struggled with the tangled laces, he reached forward, stroked her hair, kept stroking as she eased the muddy trainers off.

  ‘Your socks are wet, as well.’

  He grinned. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  She shrank back from the damp and matted wool. It seemed wrong to take his socks off, far too intimate. She glanced up for a moment, saw the three blondes on the wall mocking her rigidity, her inexperience. She turned her back on them, tugged his socks off almost angrily. She’d seen his feet already, at the Maundy Thursday Mass, but then they had looked holy, a humble servant’s feet. Now they looked obscene – small and white and plump, with dark hairs on the toes. He looked different altogether in Colin’s stylish clothes, the knife-crease in his trousers, the blue scarf at his neck. She had felt more at ease with shabby Father Tovey.

  His hands were still stroking down her hair. He moved her closer, began taking off her sweaters. She didn’t help him, stayed rigid, unco-operative, as he tried to coax her stiff arms through the armholes. He had turned her round, so she could see the blondes again, all three posing, pouting, begging to be touched. Suddenly, she pushed his hands away, dragged the sweaters off herself, flung them in a corner. What was stopping her, for God’s sake, when those stupid blondes had done it, and all the women in her mind, women from his parish – perhaps devout and Catholic women, like devout and Catholic Bridget creaking on the next-door bed; and when Elaine herself had done it, even coarse and shrill Elaine, and Della, seventeen, and all those women in the survey, and those ripe young girls in Soho. Why should she be the only one left out, the only one bodiless and loveless?

  She tried to strike a pose like the most blatant of the blondes; one hand on her hip, naked breasts stuck up and out, the other hand across her open lips – felt utterly ridiculous – absurd and shameless both at once; subsided instantly, used her hands instead to try to hide her breasts. Simon was on his knees in front of her, as if worshipping her body. Gently, he prised her hands away, replaced them with his own, started us
ing just his thumbs to rub across her nipples, up and down, up and down. She tried to like it, tried to get out of her head, stop worrying and fretting that someone might disturb them, which had happened twice already, when she’d been with him after lunch. That pigtailed girl had just barged in, said she’d come back later. Supposing she came now, found her naked on the rug? Had Simon locked the door? Did he even have a key? Her room didn’t have one. And even if it were locked, someone could still knock, or call out through the door; somebody in trouble who was seeking help or guidance, or another priest or pastor come to fetch him for a service. What time was it? What session were they missing?

  He had edged closer to her now, and had one nipple in his mouth, tonguing it and sucking it. She had never heard of that, felt sure it was all wrong. Babies suckled breasts, not grown-up men. From what she’d seen on television, he should have kissed her first, then taken off his clothes. He’d done neither yet, was still fully dressed, apart from socks and shoes, and still sucking at her nipple, so hard it almost hurt. His eyes were shut, his face screwed up like a pale and greedy baby. He’d confessed to greed in public at that Mass. He wouldn’t get much nourishment from her. She could see her breasts dribbling out a trickle of the tepid water they sipped at Brignor for their morning drink, brownish water with a bitter brackish taste. Her long stint as a nun had made her mean and grudging, dried her up, as Della said. And yet Reverend Mother Molly had stressed giving, not just taking, offering one’s body as a means of love, support.

  Ashamed, she drew him closer, let him lie across her lap. He’d been giving to her since the moment they’d first met; washing her feet, comforting and counselling, boosting her, supporting her. But what about his own needs? She knew nothing of his background, yet suspected he had suffered, since he spoke so much of suffering; had mentioned doubts and struggles, sleepless nights, loneliness.

  She tried to make her arms more welcoming, smooth his fine fair hair, only wished she felt less awkward. Her back was aching, with nothing to support it; one foot scorching from the fire, the other jammed against the skirting. In the few sex scenes she’d watched guiltily on television, the couples seemed to melt and float together, whereas Simon’s bony shoulder was pressing into hers, his legs cramped and probably hurting. And those TV settings were always very gracious, either large and stylish hotel suites, or lush and sheltered gardens; romantic music playing, even in the shrubberies. This room was small and basic, with a smell of damp and steaming clothes, no music save the rain. And shouldn’t she be feeling something more, some pleasure or excitement, as he nuzzled at her breasts, instead of wrestling with inadequacies and worries?

  At last, he pulled away, and she was shocked and disconcerted to see the same expression on his face as at the consecration at the Maundy Thursday Mass – a look of solemn bliss, which she’d regarded then as holy. She watched him tug his jersey off, astonished by the coarse hair on his chest, much darker than his mousy-coloured scalp-hair. Never in her life had she seen a naked male, just assumed unconsciously they would all more or less resemble the stripped and dying Christ – be passive, pale and hairless.

  Simon was yanking at his belt now, anything but passive. She felt a sudden terror, as if Christ Himself were tearing off His draperies. She struggled to her feet, tried to back away from him. ‘Sh … Shall we draw the curtains, shut the rain out?’

  ‘I think it’s stopped now, actually.’ He drew them, all the same, roughly and impatiently, then took her hand, steered her to the bed. ‘That floor’s a bit uncomfortable.’

  She mumbled some reply, stared down at the bedspread while he removed his vest and jeans, turned her back abruptly as he bent to take his pants off. If she had imagined nuns with wombs and breasts cut out or simply missing, then priests, too, were always doctored, had nothing but air between their legs. She didn’t want it otherwise, didn’t want a priest to be a man; a completely naked man now, reaching out towards her, trying to slip her own pants down. She snatched them off herself, dived between the covers on the bed.

  ‘On, not in – otherwise I can’t admire your body.’ Gently, he uncovered her, hands straying down her breasts. She kept her eyes tight shut, as if that way he couldn’t see her; lay heavy like a corpse. Their Brignor Rule had urged them to yield themselves to their superiors, as if they were dead bodies with no needs nor minds nor wishes of their own. She barely stirred as he kissed her neck and shoulders. ‘Let Him kiss me with the kisses of His Divine mouth.’

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered, his mouth going lower to her breasts. He had said that twice already, as they also said it twice at her Profession. ‘Come, my chosen one, the King hath greatly desired your beauty.’ ‘Forget your people and your Father’s house, for the King has greatly desired your beauty.’

  ‘Happy?’ Simon smiled.

  She nodded, could think of nothing except that any moment she would be no longer a virgin, would have broken lifelong vows. Vows don’t matter, she kept repeating to herself, as he used his teeth very gently to graze across her belly. Unless I’m wrong, she thought, half-sitting up in horror; unless there is a God.

  ‘What’s wrong? I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  She shook her head, hardly heard him; was more concerned with her other former Lover. ‘Christ hath put a mark upon my head that I should admit no other Lover but Him.’ Why not test her Spouse? If He really did exist, then He could punish her immediately, show His anger in some way, maybe send the storm back – thunder, lightning, pelting sleet again.

  Simon was kneeling now above her, one leg on either side. Slowly, very carefully, he lowered himself down, until his hair was dangling in her face, tickling on her skin. She heard the bed creak, froze in embarrassment as she remembered Bridget and the man next door. Was someone listening on the other side to her – perhaps people on both sides – pious Catholics, maybe, who knew Simon was a priest and were now registering every incriminating sound, every slightest whimper of the bed springs? She prayed he wouldn’t move, lay motionless herself, until a sudden stabbing pain made her almost cry aloud. He was hurting, probing, hurting, as he tried to slide inside her. She tensed everything against him, sick with fear as she heard Bridget’s cries resounding in her head; cries of pain, not pleasure, as he seemed to meet some barrier, some block. If she couldn’t fit a tampon, then how could she expect to fit a man? A tampon! She’d quite forgotten periods, the whole business of fertility; started counting in her head, counting frantically, as Simon still inched in, hurting with each thrust, however slow and gentle. Her period must have started about twelve or thirteen days ago, which meant she could conceive; her most fertile time, in fact – a time any Catholic woman would most definitely avoid, if she didn’t want a baby.

  ‘I’m hurting, aren’t I, Hilary? Shall we wait a while, cuddle a bit longer?’

  ‘No, don’t stop, please don’t!’ She heard her voice frantic, almost desperate. She craved to have a child – his child – a consecrated priest’s child, whose father was God’s representative; ached to be a co-creator with him. She could bear the pain, however bad, could view it as a penance. She shut her eyes again, tried to make herself relax, as Simon lowered himself once more. There must be something wrong with her that it should hurt so much, yet still seem not to fit, as if she were made differently, or smaller, than most normal women were. She tried to think of babies, distract herself with good things, but she could only see the Christ-child in the crib, a wooden child, a dead child. Simon felt like wood himself – hard and rigid, stabbing, far too big. Both their bodies seemed feverishly hot, Simon’s sweating into hers, sticking to it almost. Was it sweat, that slimy, tacky film? She could see Christ’s body in her mind again, not the infant Christ-child, but Christ dead and crucified: nail-holes in His hands and feet, blood trickling down His side. She could feel that blood coating her own body, see Christ’s contorted face in Simon’s – eyes shut, mouth hanging open, lines of anguish etched along his brow. ‘Your sins have nailed Him to the Cross, your
lusts have …’

  ‘Get out,’ she cried. ‘Get off!’

  ‘Hilary, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you’re very tense and tight, you see, so it’s hard to …’

  ‘I said get out, didn’t I? Please leave me. Go away.’

  ‘All right, relax. Don’t worry. I’ll fetch your brandy glass.’

  ‘I don’t want brandy. I don’t want anything. Just leave me on my own.’ She slumped back against the pillows, watched him fumbling for his clothes, straighten out his underpants. How could it have hurt so much, that small and rather stupid-looking thing, barely showing now between his legs? She’d been too scared even to look at it, that bobble of pale flesh, which seemed now so insubstantial, unimportant. Yet so much fear and sin and guilt, so much ecstasy and passion, had been built around male genitals. ‘The greatest pleasure known to human beings.’ She shuddered, hid her eyes.

  ‘Hilary …’ He was dressed now, looked quite different, more dignified, less puny, as he came towards her, smiling and solicitous. She could see the whole ghastly thing restarting – the straying hands, the sympathy, the fervent explanations and excuses. He sat down on the bed, held her tumbler out to her. She didn’t want his brandy, which he’d only used to knock her off her guard, soften her up, seduce her. She flung the covers off, heard the glass smash against the radiator, as she pushed him off, struggled from his bed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hilary slunk along the corridor, keeping to the sides, terrified she’d meet someone before she reached the safety of her room. Her shoes, were muddy, wet still; her skirt had shrunk, clung damply to her legs – cold and naked legs. She’d left her tights behind, left her pants and bra behind, just snatched up the first clothes she could find. Thank God the place seemed empty. All the conference members must be at some event. She ran up the last flight of stairs, relief replacing panic, as she darted down the passage, escaped into her room.