Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I wasn’t cadging sympathy, just trying to show you that my own life hasn’t exactly been plain sailing all the way. In fact, I messed up my career, as well, stopped working as an architect because I didn’t want to compromise. And actually’ – He laughed – ‘I lost my own religion, so I do know what a wrench it is. I was brought up C of E, but not the merely social sort who specialise in garden fetes. I took it very seriously, spent a whole ten years trying to replace it with some other faith. Any one would do, I felt – Eastern, Western, mongrel, even political or secular – so long as I had certainties and dogma, something to make sense of things, explain them. Then, one night, I was reading Thomas Carlyle – well, I was devouring books at that time, reading anything and everything from Marx and Confucius to Nietzsche, Jung and Zen – but there was just one sentence which stuck in my mind. Carlyle said: “I don’t pretend to understand the universe. It’s a great deal bigger than I am.” Okay, I admit that’s so damn obvious, it’s just a cliché really, but it seemed to shake me up, made me realise I was trying to make the universe much smaller than it was, a nice safe cosy world, where everything was neat and orderly, instead of huge and wild and random. All religions do that, limit truth, instead of widening it; hand out answers, rigid ready-made ones, which only blinker you.’

  He paused a moment, fished an ice cube from the jug of orange juice, sucked it like a gobstopper, went on talking with it still stowed in his mouth. ‘I began to see most faiths as merely props and crutches, or maybe cosmic sunglasses which screen out all the glare. But perhaps we need that glare, need to be almost blinded by the sheer maze and swarm of things. Okay, we lose our safety, lose our “Man-From-The-Pru”-God, with his life assurance policies and his comprehensive cover, but once we accept uncertainty, plunge headlong into doubt and risk, we’re somehow far less shackled.’

  Hilary glanced up at his eager face. She was still shocked by his losses – loss of wife and child, career and God – yet amazed that he could shrug them off so lightly. ‘But isn’t it rather frightening, not to have the answers? I mean, not to know why we’re here, or even who we are?’

  ‘Frankly, yes it is, but it’s also quite exhilarating. It depends on how you look at it. I got a bit depressed at first, like you – saw myself as just an ant, one of five billion people on a minor planet in the solar system, which is itself a minor system in an unremarkable galaxy in a whole vast collection of several billion galaxies …’ He removed the piece of ice, let it melt between his fingers, hardly seemed to notice it was dripping on his clothes.

  ‘Then I started reading scientific journals and they can really cut you down to size. I mean, half the boffins writing in them, ten years or so ago, believed that human life is just an accident and probably an irrelevance, and the whole damn universe is just a huge great random bubble, which popped into existence out of absolutely nothing, and will ultimately pop back into nothing. Yet the latest theories are much more optimistic, put man back in the centre. They seem to be saying that this universe couldn’t be there without us, that human life is the inevitable and almost pre-determined goal of evolution – I think that’s the phrase they use. In other words, we rational thinking beings are an essential part of the process, who keep the whole thing going, so to speak – so that it’s consciousness, in essence, which gives meaning to the universe.’ He paused, to take his jacket off, as if his ideas had made him hot. His face was flushed, eyes burning.

  ‘Oh, a lot of other experts disagree, and disagree quite violently; prefer the random view. In fact, I’ve heard it said that, far from being inevitable, the odds against man being here are something like one in ten to the six hundredth power – if you can grasp that, which I can’t. It’s all I can do to grasp the basic outlines of the arguments. But whoever’s right or wrong, here we actually are – a talking, thinking, writing, building animal, reflecting on itself. Amazing, isn’t it, all that sophisticated brainpower evolving out of nix, and even more so when Darwin’s crowd keep telling us there’s only a one per cent difference between ourselves and chimpanzees. Well, that one per cent is all the more astonishing when it has to account for the whole of civilisation – for art and literature, even science itself. That’s the line I take now; a sense of mainly wonder, mixed with a dash of residual fear, plus a strong dose of comedy at the absurdity of it all – the fact that no one really knows the answers anyway. Hell! We may not even know the questions, or be asking the wrong ones.’

  Hilary was twisting his handkerchief round and through her fingers. For her, the fear far outweighed the wonder. ‘But I hate the absurdity and I especially hate the random bit. I mean, take today. What’s the point of Easter if you don’t believe in Resurrection? It’s just a day, isn’t it, the same as any other?’

  ‘Of course it’s not! You don’t need Christianity to put triumph into Easter. It’s a pagan feast, anyway, from the Teutonic goddess Eastre. And you’ve only got to look out there to see things resurrecting – trees in leaf, birds nesting, light and warmth returning.’

  ‘But that’s just nature, Robert. I’m not talking about …’

  ‘What d’you mean “just nature”? It’s desperately important. Why d’you think we’re all so terrified of nuclear winter? Because there won’t be any spring then; no green, no life, no hope. But for centuries and centuries spring must have seemed a miracle– a sudden end to dark and cold, dead trees springing back to leaf, bare ground seeding crops again. Death and resurrection myths are two a penny, once you study ancient cults, but you don’t need any myths at all to rejoice in spring itself. Spring’s there, a simple fact you can’t refute.’ He pointed to the blossom in the bottle, the sun and birds and green beyond the window. ‘In fact, I’ve always thought the year should begin now – in spring, instead of winter. In most of medieval Europe they did just that, used to start their year in March – March 25th, to be precise – but April’s even better, don’t you think? I mean, look at the two names: March called after the god of war, and with French and Saxon names meaning “rough month”, “windy month”, which bracket it to winter; but April sacred to Aphrodite, goddess of love, and also meaning “opening month”, when everything is opening and unfolding. Hey, what’s the date today? April 5th. Perfect! Let’s make it New Year’s Day today, as well as Easter Sunday.’

  She stared at him, intrigued. To begin again, blank out the pain and loneliness of that New Year’s Eve cooped up with Miss Pullen; to celebrate a pagan spring and Easter. She glanced up at the blossom, saw the grapes instead, the curling sandwich crusts. Bread and wine. How could she exist in a world devoid of sacraments, where bread was Mother’s Pride, wine just Liz’s burgundy? She recalled Easter in the convent: all the leaping Alleluias in the Office; the solemn younger Sisters acting out the Resurrection, with an old tin bath as the empty tomb; the paschal candle lit at midnight on the Vigil. ‘This is the night on which heaven was wedded to earth. On this night, Christ broke the bonds of death. The night shall be as light as day.’ She had often sung those words with no sense of that light; the chapelful of candles mocking her own darkness, yet at least she’d had a structure built on hope; a belief– however desperate – in life and light beyond; rituals and symbols to cling on to. She tried to explain their aching loss to Robert.

  ‘You keep talking about losses, girl, but what about the gains? You’ve got a host of new religions to explore now, a score of different ways of relating to the world – new ways of even praying, if you like. I’m not trying to throw out soul. Far from it. We all try to be too rational and logical, and ignore the other side – the intuitive, the spiritual. It’s just that the Roman Catholic Church doesn’t have a monopoly in souls. Nor does any church. What I’m against is any kind of “ism” which tries to close our minds, tries to categorise or structure, so as to clear away loose ends, instead of leaving them open and mysterious.’

  Open. Ivan’s word. Open-minded, open-ended. Hilary picked a grape pip from the fuzzy tartan rug. A mere two weeks ago, sh
e had regarded the two men as completely different, different both in outlook and in temperament. Now she realised they had vital things in common.

  Robert was pacing up and down again, as if the energy in his words had poured out to his limbs and he had to work it off. ‘I mean, even in science there are no fixed and certain truths. The world may stay the same, but we keep modifying the way we see it and make sense of it, according to our knowledge or the culture that we live in. And whatever our advances – which is a dodgy word itself – we’re probably never really there. How can we be, for God’s sake, when we’re locked in space and time, yet trying to understand things outside them or beyond them? Sometimes I suspect that the laws of physics are like a never-ending set of Chinese boxes – each new box we open reveals yet another box, with even more complexities, and there’s never any “last” box. It may sound trite, but I’ve come to realise that life’s a mystery to be lived, rather than a problem to be solved.’

  She didn’t answer, felt too confused, too dazed. The whole universe was suddenly wide wide open, instead of closed off with a God, buttressed by theology, explained by laws and absolutes.

  ‘Hell, I’m sorry, Hilary. You look quite washed out, and you’re meant to be resting, not listening to me rant. It’s just that this is something I care so passionately about, I feel I want to share it with you, let you see how strange and rich the world is. But I’ll shut up now, I promise, leave you here in peace.’

  ‘No, please don’t go,’ she said, jerking up and deranging all the rugs. She was worried he might disappear, the nightmares start again.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get on with my shelves then. That way, I can keep an eye on you, stop you galloping round the place, or trying to break your neck. I’m building shelves in here, to go all round the room. It’s quite a challenge, really. The curved walls make extra work and waste a lot of wood. Though I was lucky with my wood. I found this superb oak panelling in an old Victorian house they were pulling down to build a block of flats. I bought it for a song, plus a lot of other bits and pieces I salvaged from the wreckage. I need shelves badly, so I can unpack all this clutter.’ He gestured to the crates. ‘I’m a bit of a collector – not the sort who hoards, because I sell a lot of stuff I buy, or get rid of it again, but all the same, it seems to overflow or just pile up.’

  ‘What do you collect?’

  ‘Oh, anything and everything – nineteenth-century gardening books, English sporting pictures, wood-carvings from Fiji, medals from the First World War, even dragons.’ He grinned. ‘I used to own a good five hundred dragons – painted ones and carved ones, dragon bookends, dragon plates and vases, heraldic dragons on coats of arms, dragon everything.’

  ‘What happened to them all?’

  ‘I’d like to say I slew them, so you’d toast me as St George, but I’m afraid the truth’s more boring. I was very pushed for cash about seven years ago, and lucky enough to meet up with a fellow dracontophile – d’you think that’s the word, or did I just invent it? Anyway, Mr Elmer Waldo Wallace – American, of course – was really into dragons, bought the lot, lock, stock and barrel.’

  ‘Except for these,’ said Hilary, stroking one of the wooden sofa arms.

  ‘Well, Wallace wanted those, in fact, but that sofa’s rather special. It was the first thing I ever bought, when I was still wet behind the ears, and it’s something I cling on to now, even when the rest goes. I suppose it’s become a sort of security blanket.’

  She touched the rich red velvet – at least five foot of it. ‘Rather a big one.’

  ‘That’s the trouble. We’ve had a few sad separations, when I’ve been gadding round the world. I especially used to miss it when I was living in the bush, squatting on a chair made out of fuel cans. Mind you, I was still collecting even there – not exactly dragons, but not far off. I had a sort of zoo – rounded up rare animals threatened with extinction. I even owned a scimitar-horned oryx, if you know what that is. Not many people do.’

  Hilary smiled and shook her head. There was so much she didn’t know, not just about the oryx, but its owner – this new complex Robert Harrington, who had such exotic tastes, yet still mourned a wife and son, still needed a security blanket; so different from the simpler Robert she’d met – misjudged – at Wandsworth. Even Liz seemed to have told his story wrong, left out the important bits. Her hand strayed back to the dragon, traced its bulbous tongue, its carved and fretted wings. ‘You ought to start a zoo here, or at least buy a dog or something. It must be rather lonely, so far from any neighbours – especially after living in a commune. Don’t you miss the company?’

  He shrugged. ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Liz said you’d been there quite a while.’

  ‘Nearly eighteen months. But I wasn’t all that sorry to have an excuse to up and leave. It didn’t really work that well. Too many rampant egos all fighting for supremacy.’ He stripped a few grapes from the bunch, offered her a cluster. ‘What else did dear Liz tell you – all my secrets?’

  She flushed. ‘Well, no, she only …’

  ‘I should have phoned you, talked to you myself. I kept wanting to and meaning to, but I always felt too shy.’

  ‘Shy?’

  ‘’Fraid so. I know I don’t exactly look the modest shrinking violet type, but underneath I am shy, and used to be far worse. I learnt to disguise it pretty well through putting on an act – life-and-soul-of-the-party sort of thing – talking too much, hogging the limelight, sitting up on my hind legs and begging for the titbits. It worked so well, I think I’ve even fooled myself now.’

  ‘Well, you certainly fooled me. I can’t think of anyone less shy.’ She remembered Reverend Mother Molly, dancing like a dervish in the exercise called ‘Loosening’, then still insisting she was shy. The word was too elastic.

  Robert returned to the sofa, crouched down at her feet. ‘D’you realise, Hilary, I’ve never really had the chance to talk to you before – I mean real talk, one to one, not just social chitchat? Even the last time we met, on Ivan’s birthday, I seemed to louse things up. I was furious with myself. I wanted to be serious, impress you, or at least make you notice I was there, and all I did was play the fool, impress you in the worst sense. I could see you disapproving, but I couldn’t seem to stop.’

  Hilary removed her hand from the dragon’s trap of teeth. How could she tell Robert that she’d hardly been aware of him, that her whole mind had been on Ivan?

  ‘The trouble was I knew about your background, knew you’d been a nun. It was the first time I’d seen you since Liz told me, and it seemed to make a difference, screw me up still more. I just felt so in awe of you – your courage and …’

  ‘Courage?’ Hilary stared. ‘What courage? What d’ you mean? I’m the biggest coward going.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not! It’s heroic, what you did, leaving that convent after all those years and years. A coward would have stayed there, not just for the safety, but because it takes a special strength to admit you’ve been wrong, that your original ideals have come unstuck. It happened with me when I gave up architecture – far less dramatically, of course, but it was still an awful wrench. I mean, I lost my whole status and profession, my colleagues, my ideals, or at least the chance to put them into practice. Well, there wasn’t much chance, actually – that’s the reason why I left. I started off wanting to change the world, play God, if you like, rethink our whole society, reorganise our cities and our living-space. But I was forced to drop all that, start cutting corners and licking boots, or keep talking sordid money, instead of space and scale and light. Then, once my partners began wooing those damn Arabs, architecture just went out of the window. Oh, it solved our money problem, but – Christ! – at what a cost. We had to hitch twentieth-century modernism to ancient Islamic tradition.’ He grinned. ‘Imagine Corbusier smothered with mosaics. No – don’t! It’s quite grotesque. Don’t get me wrong, Hilary. I’ve nothing against the Arabs. They’re just not my favourite clients.’

  He paused a m
oment, swallowed two grapes whole. ‘Still, I don’t regret my training. I wouldn’t be tackling this conversion quite so confidently if I hadn’t been through all that slog. I’m sure that’s the secret, actually, to value what you had, see the good in it, then try to take it with you, use it in your new. life. I know when I was trying to run my potty little Noah’s Ark in the outback of Australia, I still needed courage and ideals. Robert, stop!’ He rapped his own wrists, knelt back on his heels. ‘I’m jawing on and on, and I promised half an hour ago that I wouldn’t say another word.’

  ‘I like you talking.’

  ‘Do you?’

  She wished she hadn’t spoken, when it seemed to stop him dead. He was shy; he was right. She was suddenly aware of it as he caught her eye, looked down; pretended to be fiddling with the comer of a rug. He needed help. She gave it. ‘What about your shelves?’

  ‘You’re right! My shelves. This stuff will still be sitting in its crates on Christmas Day 2000, if I don’t get a move on. Are you sure you’ll be all right, though, just lying there while I leap around a bit? Actually, I don’t think I’ll disturb you. I’ve finished all the sawing and the sanding down, so the noisy bits are done. I’ve got two last shelves to finish off, then I’m going to polish the whole lot, just a gentle rub with beeswax. No noise, no smell, as they say in the commercials. All the same, if you’d rather escape into another room, or go back upstairs to read, or …’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m fine. This is really rather new for me, just lying doing nothing.’

  ‘Yes, and vitally important, woman. You’ve got to practise every day. And also practise enjoying life a bit. In fact, let’s shift the sofa, so you’re closer to the window and can feel the sun and start basking in the spring. And how about some music? There’s a Schubert concert starting any minute. And food – you must have food. I’ve got some duck terrine. It’s only in a tin, but the picture looks quite fancy. I’ll bring it in. Don’t say no. That word’s on the Index from now on. Pope’s orders. Pope Robert. Was there ever a Pope Robert?’