‘It wasn’t quite like that, you know. Oh, I admit I had strong feelings, but I became a nun to use them, put them to some good. You see, all those convent rules are there for a reason, not to simply tie you down, but to make you free to …’ She stopped a moment, surprised by her own words. She was defending the whole system, as if she still believed in it. In one way, she still did, still missed it desperately, at least some aspects of it. ‘Gosh, it’s so hard to explain, but even the flagellation had a purpose, not just subduing the body for its own sake, but to allow the spirit to take over, so you could experience what the books called “spiritual adventures”. That’s what I really craved, I suppose – spiritual excitement.’
‘But did you find it, Hilary?
‘In the early days I did, yes. I mean, the whole idea of being married to the God who made the world is absolutely breathtaking. If you really think about it, that’s the greatest adventure possible to anyone, and any sacrifice is worth it, isn’t it?’ She nodded, as if to answer her own question, watched the sun add sparkle to her wine. ‘But then the excitement seemed to fade, and after all those years of sort of … numbness, it’s hard to quite remember what the early period felt like, or even believe it really happened. In fact, I’m beginning to realise that perhaps my entire life as a nun was something of a mirage – I mean even when I had a faith. The whole idea was to empty yourself for God, and I was pretty good at that, but I suspect I stayed empty, instead of going on to grow – you know, all outward rules and penances, but no inner development or spiritual maturity.’
‘How could you grow, though, Hilary, when your whole character and temperament had to be denied, and you were cut off from so much – new ideas, different sorts of people, the entire male sex, for God’s sake?’
‘Some nuns do, you’d be surprised. Yes’ – she laughed – ‘Even deprived of men, they still manage to turn out wise and really holy.’ She took a sip of wine, forgot to taste it, as she pondered. ‘What’s “holy”, though? The trouble is all the words which meant something, like grace or sacrament or vocation, revelation, sanctity itself, seem to shrink to nothing without a God to give them point. I just can’t get used to it.’
‘Give yourself a chance. You’ve had your faith for nearly forty years; been without it just three days. These things take months to really filter down and change your basic concepts.’
‘I’m so muddled though, I’m not sure what spiritual means, not even in a general sense. That’s partly your fault, Robert. You’re making me confused, teaching me to analyse too much.’
‘I don’t want to make you anything, except less violent with yourself. Promise me you’ll never ever thrash yourself again?’
She banged her glass down, spilling half its contents. Why should he interfere, keep returning to that shameful stupid subject, extract promises about things he saw only from the outside?
‘That’s right, be cross with me! Go on, really lose your temper, tell me to mind my own bloody business and shut up.’
She sat in rigid silence, experiencing fear as much as anger. Only now had she noticed Robert’s heavy belt – a brutal-looking leather belt, with a sharp-edged metal buckle. Violence was all around them – in nature, in herself. A lapwing flapped up suddenly, trying to frighten off a predator, startling both of them with its high-pitched squawking cries. She watched it dart against the crow, beak jabbing, wild wings threshing. The crow itself was strutting round in circles, then flailing up and back, a murderer-bird, thwarted in its urge to steal eggs, gobble young. She mopped the spill of wine, cuts burning and complaining as she leaned across the rug. They were worse because he’d mentioned them, stirred her up in general. He didn’t understand that it was best to keep control – safer altogether, however high the cost. She grabbed a fistful of tall grasses, started shredding them to bits. ‘I … I can’t say things like that, Robert. It feels wrong to lose my temper, and also very frightening.’
‘You were angry in your dream.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Not really. It was still part of you, and perhaps a vital part, though I’m not really into the whole Freudian dream-analysis thing. Freud made it far too rigid. I think dreams are more like poems, which work with images and symbols, as a sort of way of using what we know to catch a glimpse of what we don’t know. Hell! It’s clouding over. See that belt of rain? It’s heading south.’
Hilary looked up, surprised to see the difference in the sky. She hadn’t even felt the drop in temperature, or noticed that the sun had disappeared.
Robert helped her to her feet. ‘Quick! Let’s get back before we’re drenched.’
She started packing up the picnic hamper, pouring dregs of wine onto the grass. ‘I ought to get back anyway – I mean to London, Cranleigh Gardens. Liz and co are arriving back tonight.’
‘That doesn’t mean that you must.’
‘Yes, it does. Di needs me in the shop. And, anyway, the conference ends today, so they’re expecting me.’
‘I may not have a cooker, woman, but I do have a phone.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t phone them, Robert. Whatever would I say? You don’t stay on at conferences.’
‘You tell the truth.’ Robert grabbed a last cheese biscuit before she stowed away the tin. ‘You need a holiday. You’re still absolutely knackered and barely recovered from all that dope and stuff the doc pumped into you. And you’re also sore and bruised, and in no fit state to sew. Damn! Here’s that dratted rain. We’ll argue in the kitchen.’
She won the argument, felt surprised to do so, and almost disappointed. These strange few days with Robert had been a holiday already, and it was a wrench to leave the country and the tower, return to dingy London streets. She was also worried that Liz might see her marks, or ask too many questions.
‘Look, don’t bother with the car, Robert. I’ll get the train – honestly, I’d rather. I bought a return ticket, so it’s stupid to waste money.’
He laughed. ‘You mean you don’t want Liz to see you turning up with me? Okay, I understand. But don’t deprive me of the pleasure of one last hour with you, or the chance to show you just how nippy my new car is. I’ll drive you to the bottom of her road, and you can walk the whole way up it, puffing and panting, as if you’ve lugged your suitcase from the station. Will that do?’
She nodded sheepishly. They were sitting in the kitchen, where an ancient wood-stove, salvaged from a demolished Edwardian house, was drying out their clothes. The kitchen, frankly, was a mess, and not much more than a shell yet. Robert cleared a space to put his cup down. They’d made tea, to warm them up.
‘I should have started on it first, I suppose, but I’ve still got to decide whether I’m staying here myself, or just doing up the place to sell. That’ll determine the sort of kitchen I put in. Mrs Public wants microwaves and dishwashers, and double sinks with those waste disposal whatnots, whereas I’m content with a cold tap and a gas ring. Both of which I’ve got.’
Hilary sipped her tea, surprised to hear he might not stay, when he was obviously so taken with the place. He seemed always on the move, as if scared to settle, make anywhere his home. ‘I suppose it’s just too big for you,’ she said.
‘Miles too big. Though one or two brave souls from the commune did express some interest in moving in as well. And once they see my wonderful conversion, they’ll be breaking down the doors to get a room.’
‘I thought you said the commune didn’t work.’
‘It did in some ways. Though this wouldn’t be a commune, just two or three of us. I don’t think lighthouse keepers ever live alone. They have to share duties, in case one of them pegs out. Hey, is that the phone? Excuse me just a tick.’
She cleared up while he answered it, marvelling at the mixture of precious and expendable – gold-rimmed plates, hand-painted with petunias, stacked with plastic cups; calf-bound first editions half-hidden under motor magazines; a huge framed painting of a ship, propped against the wall, and standing in a tide of greasy
rags. She started stuffing rubbish in the waste-bin, replacing precious books in boxes. He had tipped out the books that morning, to try to find the specific ones he wanted her to read, failed to put them back. Her hand struck something harder than a book – the corner of a metal photo frame. She drew it out, wiped a film of dust away. It was Robert – Robert black and white, and younger – lying face down on a bed, completely naked. Beside him lay a baby, also naked, their two sides joined, as if they had fused into one flesh, their skin the same light tone. She could tell it was his son, mainly from the eyes – expressive deep-set eyes, which, even in the infant, looked questing and intense. Yet the baby seemed so vulnerable, so tiny, as if its father’s broad strong back might casually roll over and crush it underneath. Both faces were in profile, both fair heads gleaming in some hidden light-source; both bodies deeply shadowed.
Hilary kept staring at the photo with a sense of almost guilt, as if she had stumbled on a scene in Robert’s private life and was peering through the keyhole back in time. She was also shocked to see him naked; that expanse of broad male body, which seemed more blatant even than Simon’s, despite the fact he was lying on his front revealing nothing. Nothing? Those buttocks curving down to strong and muscly thighs, that coarse hair beneath his underarm, showing on one side? She had hardly looked at Simon, had kept her eyes averted, or closed them tight to try to ward him off. Yet this photo seemed to mesmerise her, so that she couldn’t put it down; even touched Robert’s shoulder with one nervous guilty finger, which she ran right down his back; then touched the child, the baby – stroked its fuzz of hair, traced the outline of its open mouth.
She remembered Robert lying on the rug with Luke, so at ease with him, relaxed. He’d obviously had practice, playing father to a son. She could see the magpie family he had drawn with Luke’s crayons – the sleek and dazzling wife, the proud possessive male – his family, perhaps? She felt suddenly excluded, longed for her own family, or the nearest that she had to one, which meant Liz and Cranleigh Gardens. She’d been reluctant to return there; now she was impatient, anxious to be back in her small and sheltered room, with no males, save Luke next door. She rammed the photo back again, as she heard Robert’s footsteps just outside, busied herself washing up the teapot.
‘Leave that, Cinderella. We’ve just been invited to a ball – well, a bottle party, anyway. That was Hugh, a mate of mine, who’s decided to break the tedium of Bank Holiday with a little serious drinking. Shall we go, join the merry throng, drive back first thing in the morning?’
Hilary didn’t answer. How could he be so cheerful when he’d lost his son – that son who called someone else his father, who was maybe in his teens now, and had totally forgotten ever touching bones or sharing genes with Robert? Why were families so perilous, so fragile?
‘What’s the matter? You look quite shaken up.’
‘N … Nothing.’
‘You mustn’t cry, my love. Hugh’s not worth it. We don’t have to go – of course not. I’d no idea it would upset you, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.’
She clung on to the teapot, a plain stout brown one, chipped. ‘It’s not that. It’s …’
‘I know. You’re still feeling weak and weepy. That’s only natural, but I wish you’d stay here for a few more days, instead of rushing back to London.’
She could see the photo in her mind, Robert’s arm flung out, as if to protect his child from danger. She’d been murdering babies in her dreams, babies that she craved.
‘Please don’t cry. I feel it’s my fault, somehow, but I’m not sure what I’ve done.’
She used the tea towel to mop her face, her eyes. ‘You … You haven’t done anything. You wanted me to cry – said I had to, earlier – to let my emotions out.’
He grinned. ‘You’re right, I did. Okay, let me tuck you into bed, so you can cry more comfortably.’
‘No, I’ve got to go.’
‘You haven’t. There’s no fairy godmother warning you it’s midnight and your dress will change to rags. It’s not quite four o’clock, in fact, and you still look beautiful.’
She ignored the compliment. ‘Well, I want to go. I’d like to.’
‘Can’t wait to get away?’
‘Robert, no, it’s not that. In fact, I can’t thank you enough – for everything. You’ve been so kind and patient.’
‘Don’t thank me, Hilary. It makes it sound so formal, and I’m very fond of you. You know that, don’t you?’
Not too fond, she begged him, without answering aloud. It was too complicated, dangerous. Simon had said much the same, then turned fondness into lust. She wanted Robert as her brother, nothing else. So why did she feel jealous of his wife – the wife who’d borne his child, must have stretched beside him, naked, in the same way that he’d lain against his son? It was obsessing her, that photograph, so that, even now, she could see his naked body through his clothes; see those buttocks curving into thighs, the strong hair on his legs.
He took her hand a minute, trapped it in his own. ‘Just stay until tomorrow, one more night.’
‘No, really, I …’
‘Come on. It’s an order.’
‘No!’
Her own fierceness startled her. She knew she’d hurt his feelings, hardly understood why she’d shouted at him like that, yanked her hand away. There was silence for a moment, a heavy wounded silence. Robert tried to mend it, make his voice sound casual, half-amused. ‘Tell you what, we’ll compromise. I’ll drive you back immediately, but let’s fix another date to see each other. How about tomorrow?’
‘Oh, Robert, no, I can’t. There’ll be so much to do and Liz will think it very odd and …’
‘Okay, next weekend.’ He was hunting for his diary, found it on the floor. ‘No, I can’t manage that. The weekend after, then. Hell! I’m up in Sheffield. I know – St George’s Day. That’s perfect. The patron saints of soldiers and boy scouts, and I was both of those a hundred years ago. And probably the patron saint of dragons, knowing how perverse the Church is. There, I’ve put it in my diary: “Rescue maiden.” ’
Except I’m not a maiden, Hilary thought bitterly, all her anger suddenly resurging, and now directed against Simon. She had chucked away her maidenhead on a man she didn’t like and couldn’t trust; had hoped to have his child – a child whose father would be God’s representative, when there wasn’t any God. She pressed her stomach, hard. Could she actually be pregnant? She’d read frantic letters in women’s magazines from girls who claimed they hadn’t gone that far, yet had still somehow conceived. She’d murder Simon, lynch him, march into his presbytery and …
Her hands were throttling Simon, aborting their gross child, pressing on her stomach, tearing at her grazes. She was wincing with the pain, frightened now by her turmoil of emotions, which seemed just as raw and shocking as the weals – vindictiveness and fury, aggression, even lust – emotions she had never owned, never dared to recognise. Yet Robert would accept them, probably call them natural, even urge her to express them, as healthy and more human. If she took that view herself, she could start her second-chance New Year as a new and different person – a wild explosive one.
She grinned at Robert suddenly, dared to touch his shoulder. ‘Right, April 23. But don’t be too surprised if you discover I’m the dragon, not the maiden.’
Chapter Twenty Two
Hilary poured the top of the milk onto her cornflakes, added a sliced nectarine, swallowed the first spoonful very slowly, so she could relish all the different tastes and textures – crunchy flakes, cool and sharpish fruit, bland and creamy milk. She could still taste guilt, as usual, but it was far less all-pervading now. She was doing very well. Breakfast at eleven was almost decadent, yet here she was enjoying it. She had slept till almost ten, hadn’t heard Liz get up, or Delia leave for college. Those few days with Robert seemed to have taught her how to sleep, and also how to dream. She had moved from ships to horses; kept dreaming about horses with blue wings.
�
��Sure they’re not dragons?’ Robert had asked her on the phone.
‘Oh, no. They’re very cool, not breathing fire.’
‘Well, you’d better have a dragon dream tonight. I’m planning a Mystery Day tomorrow, for St George’s, but it will feature dragons definitely. You’ve got the day off, haven’t you? I want as long with you as possible. I’ll be there by noon, okay, and we’ll stay out till the early hours.’
She felt excited and yet nervous. Although she hadn’t seen him since the Easter Monday, he had phoned her every day, Liz growing more and more intrigued.
‘What’s up between you two? Bob keeps making out he’s phoning me, to ask my advice about microwaves or fridges. Then, when we’re through with the charade of comparing Zanussi with Iced Diamond, he adds – sort of casual and dead innocent – “Oh, by the way, if Hilary’s there, I’ll just have a brief word with her, okay?” And forty minutes later, he’s still wooing you, care of British Telecom.’
Hilary put her spoon down, feeling real guilt now, and not about an out-of-season nectarine. She had found it quite impossible to confide in Liz, tell her about Simon and what had happened afterwards; had fobbed her off instead with some vague story about how Robert had dropped in at the conference and found her in her room, so they’d gone out for a drive together. All quite true, in fact, yet she knew she was deceiving Liz; felt worse when Liz regaled her with her own holiday romance. Liz had gone up to Scarborough, to stay with an old schoolfriend and her husband, who were hosting a silver wedding party, a grand one with a disco and champagne. She’d met Harry at the party, sixty, but well-heeled; a local councillor who owned a chain of estate agents and was a big noise in the town.
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