Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  She bowed her head, glimpsed the shining pointed scissors in Reverend Mother’s hands, felt the sudden shock of steel against her skull, heard the scrunch of butchered hair. Fair curls falling, foaming, into the little wicker basket held out by Mother Mistress. The basket filing, overflowing, as the nuns sang the Magnificat; her mother’s anguished wails cutting through the hymn of thanks and praise. She stared into the steel-framed jeweller’s window, saw not rings and bracelets, but her ragged convict’s head, the hair hacked off anyhow, standing up in ugly stupid tufts. For a second, she felt outrage, disbelief; the same shocked incredulity as she had experienced at the ceremony itself. She had gone to all that trouble setting it in rollers in her cell, and without a mirror, which made it much more difficult. She had been a woman then, a woman with her accoutrements of hairnets, setting lotions; a pretty girl with thick blonde hair swinging round her shoulders. Now she had been neutered at a stroke. She checked herself in horror, guilty at such thoughts. She was a bride still, not a convict, a virgin dying to the world, who must make this gift with joy, a gift demanded by her Bridegroom who demanded everything, including her whole womanhood.

  She had tried to pray, beg pardon for her vanity, rebellion, as they led her to the robing-room just outside the chapel. She had stood motionless and contrite as Mother Mistress’s bony hands started tugging at her clothes; other hands reaching out to undo fiddly buttons, unpin her heavy wreath. A rustle of white silk, and she was blinded for a moment as the wedding dress was whisked above her head, replaced by heavy serge. She was no longer tall and wobbling on high heels, but small and safe and humble in bare feet. Drawstrings pulled tight, tight, around her head, to restrain her vain and worldly thoughts, keep her mind fixed on God alone. There seemed so many layers; layers of fabric muffling sounds, denying all her curves; layers of padding between her and other people, so they would never come too close. She was moving in a daze, blinking once again in the bright lights of the chapel; kneeling at the grille to receive the white veil of the novice, the girdle, cross and rosary, the Rule and breviary, but not the ring, not yet. That came four years later, when she made her final vows; slipped on her finger by her Bridegroom’s representative, never to come off.

  ‘Never?’ she whispered, as she pushed the plate glass door, walked into the shop. A young but shabby couple were choosing matching wedding rings, their two heads touching as they leant across the counter. She approached the other counter, spoke as low as possible.

  ‘Yes, no problem, Madam. You’re the one who phoned, aren’t you? I was expecting you today. Just relax. It’ll only take a moment.’

  She couldn’t watch as the vicious metal wheel cut into the silver with its sacrilegious teeth. ‘This won’t hurt,’ the man said, reaching for the pliers. She heard only the priest’s voice, deeper and more solemn. ‘Receive this ring, for you are betrothed to the eternal King. Keep faith with your Bridegroom so that you may come to the wedding feast of eternal joy and …’

  ‘Madam, madam!’ She felt someone tap her face, strong fingers grip her arm. ‘Are you all right? You’re not going to faint on me, I hope. It’s all finished now, all over.’

  She opened her eyes, stared down at her marked but naked finger; the desecrated ring hacked apart, so that it no longer formed a circle, symbol of eternity, of union.

  ‘You had me frightened for a moment. You went so pale, I thought you’d just keel over. I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  ‘No,’ she lied; wished she could remove the hurt as simply as the two small scraps of silver, which she wrapped in a Kleenex, transferred to her purse. The cross itself was whole still, but the ‘J’ had been severed from the ‘oy’, her always elusive happiness now reduced to gibberish.

  ‘What a darling little cake, Hil. Where ever did you get it?’

  ‘ “Mr Bun”.’

  ‘I’ve never seen them there.’ Liz smoothed out the ribbon from the box, tied it in a bow in Hilary’s hair. ‘You are a funny girl, you know. I’d have thought the last thing you wanted was to celebrate that gruesome anniversary.’

  ‘It’s not for that. It’s … another celebration. One they didn’t have a cake for.’ Hilary rummaged in the cupboard, made a pretence of looking for a cake-stand, so she could hide her burning face, prepare that one brief line, which still seemed so difficult to phrase. She‘d been rehearsing it for days now, trying to break her news to Liz, yet somehow always hesitant, embarrassed. She’d kept hoping Liz would get in first, divulge her own proposal, discuss the move to Scarborough, the plan to live with Harry; couldn’t mention it herself without betraying Della. She had resented Liz’s silence, seen it as a barrier between them, the first failure of their friendship. Whatever Liz’s motives, her secrecy still hurt.

  She was also worried that Liz might think she’d agreed to marry Robert only because she’d lost her home and job and had nowhere else to go. That wasn’t true, in fact. Even in ten days, she had learned to love him more, come to see that his dominance, untidiness, had their positive and good sides. The untidiness meant he was relaxed, not fussy and uptight as she still was, alas. And his dominance made him confident, decisive; helped overcome her own constant dithering. It was Robert who had urged her to have her ring sawn off, so she’d be free to wear his own ring, break with her nun’s past. Life at Brignor had been totally unreal. Stupid, even selfish, to try to recreate it in the outside world, its rigid punctuality, its pettifogging rules. With Robert’s help, she could throw off those restrictions, learn to live more fully and more freely.

  She turned back to Liz, still without the cake plate, took a deep breath in. ‘Robert asked me to marry him,’ she said. ‘We … We’re officially engaged.’

  ‘What? Liz leapt up to her feet, her whole face and stance and body expressing amazement and delight. ‘You said “yes”, I hope, my love.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Hilary, that’s wonderful, fantastic. Hell! I wish we had champagne. Shall we drink a toast in sherry?’

  Hilary groped towards a chair, feeling shaky suddenly. ‘I’d rather have a nice hot cup of tea.’

  Liz laughed and filled the kettle. ‘You’re still the nun, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she said more sharply than she’d meant. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Christ! I’m so excited for you. When’s the wedding going to be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Robert said this month, but …’

  ‘This month? That’s far too soon! What about your dress and …?’

  ‘I want to keep it very simple, Liz, no fuss and frills at all.’

  ‘But you’ll have to have a party – just a little one, and a cake, of course, and … Look, ‘I’ll arrange it, love. You needn’t worry about a thing. If the weather holds, we could have it in the garden, maybe even hire a small marquee. Gosh! Wait till I tell Delia. I’m allowed to tell, am I? It’s not meant to be a secret?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, let’s cut this dinky cake and drink our Château-bottled Typhoo. Here’s to you and Bob. Long life and happiness.’

  Hilary cut the cake in two – half for each of them – felt fiercely disappointed to discover it was stale, the mixture dry, the icing hard and yellowing. Had it been there months – the baker’s customers more concerned with fighting for divorces than counting anniversaries? Liz hardly seemed to notice, ate her piece with relish, using the cardboard box as plate. Her relief was almost palpable, spreading through the kitchen like the glow from a log fire. She hadn’t said, ‘Thank God you’re off my hands, love,’ but surely she was thinking it, and must certainly be wondering how to break her own news, since there was no excuse to hide it any longer. Hilary felt embarrassed for her, in the sudden pause which followed, realised she was searching for the words, as she had done herself. She longed to say, ‘I know, Liz. You don’t have to spell it out’, instead of feigning ignorance, as Liz suddenly leaned forward and started pouring out her story, though a rather different version from Delia’s, just two weeks ago.

 
; ‘Congratulations, Liz!’ she said, at last, having forced her face into various expressions of surprise, delight and sympathy, yet despising her deception while she did so. ‘It sounds a marvellous plan. I mean, I presume you’re keen to go, are you, and don’t mind leaving London?’

  ‘Well, it’s a big upheaval, obviously, and I’ll miss this house, in some ways, and things like shops and theatres, and all my friends, of course. But my immediate gut reaction was to get the hell up there, as fast as I could make it. The only thing which stopped me was you, my love. I’ve been half-paralysed not knowing how to tell you, and feeling such a heel at the thought of leaving you alone down here in London, without a room or job.’ She licked her finger, scooped some cake crumbs up with it, retrieved a last raisin from her lap. ‘Then Di got all upset, accused me of caring more for your concerns than hers. She’s so worried about the shop, you see, not just that damned “Mam’zelle”, but the fact they’ve put the rates up for the second year running. Wimbledon’s impossible – expensive, snobby, fickle. She can start again in Scarborough. It’s a much more friendly place, and with Harry there to smooth the way … God! I’m so excited. I feel a new-born woman, now I can enjoy it, and make proper plans and everything, instead of fretting all the time about how it would affect you. It’ll be a new start for us all – you and Robert, me and Harry. You must both come up and visit, come to one of Harry’s “dos”. Bob would love that, swanking in his tails and …’

  Hilary put her piece of cake down, feeling still a little hurt that Liz should be so patently relieved; express no regret at all at their imminent separation, the two hundred and fifty miles which would divide them from now on. She understood the attractions from Liz’s point of view – a smaller and more modern house, some help with all the bills, a man to share her life again – but all the same, she’d like to feel she mattered more to the first friend she’d ever had.

  She touched her ringless finger, its narrow band of pale white skin a strange contrast to the deep tan of the rest. That finger was still branded, felt not light, but heavy, without its silver shackle, as if it weighed her down. The whole of Wandsworth seemed to have been staring at her hand as she walked back from the jeweller’s; the hand itself swelling and distending with every step she took. Yet Liz hadn’t appeared to notice it at all.

  She kept rubbing at the mark, as if to add some colour to it, make it less conspicuous; wished she had Robert’s ring already, to conceal that shaming symbol of the failure of her first life. She longed to start her second life – to experience success, and even joy – not joy in cold dead silver, but in a warm and living bond. Had he bought the ring, she wondered, and what would it be like? Unusual and expensive, almost certainly, since he was a generous and unusual man himself – two other things she loved him for, in fact.

  Liz reached out for the sugar, seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I must tell Harry your big news. It may spark the darling boy to propose himself.’

  She looked up in surprise. ‘I thought he had proposed.’

  ‘Well, not officially. He’s a real romantic underneath, but when it comes to things like property or houses, the businessman takes over, I’m afraid. And of course we’ve had so many problems as a family – Di’s shop and my insurance and the mortgage on this place.’ Liz stirred her tepid tea, now stewed, with scum on top. ‘The poor lamb’s been a brick, sorting out anything and everything. But give him time and he’ll probably pop the question in his usual ardent style. In fact, he’ll have to, won’t he? I mean, as a councillor and a pillar of the community, he’s in the public eye a lot, and I can see that public eye narrowing in horror if he sets up home with a woman not his wife. I’m sure he’ll have to regularise our union, to use a phrase his prissy fellow councillors are probably tossing round themselves. Mind you, I’m not so sure I want to change my name again. You’ll be doing the same, of course. Mrs Hilary Harrington.’ She frowned. ‘Two H’s. Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t let it worry you. Robert calls me Gloria all the time now. I told you, didn’t I? I wasn’t keen at first, but I do think Gloria Harrington sounds better.’

  Liz nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. It must be rather muddling, though, to change both names at once.’

  ‘I’m muddled up to here.’ Hilary grinned, gestured to her forehead. ‘There’s so much to get used to.’

  ‘You’ll manage. Robert’s worked wonders already. You’re so much more relaxed now, different altogether.’ Liz gave a sly collusive wink. ‘Amazing what a bit of sex does, isn’t it?’

  Hilary tensed, got up to wash the teapot. There were certain subjects she had no wish to discuss; subjects best avoided even in her inmost private thoughts. Okay, so there were problems, but time would sort them out.

  Liz joined her at the sink, reached out a friendly hand. ‘Look, forgive me prying, love, but once you’re married, are you going to … you know, think about a little Harrington Junior? I mean, is that the whole idea – marriage and a baby?’

  Hilary swirled tea leaves down the sink. She could smell the dirty nappy which Rita Craddock had pushed into her hands, all those months ago, could still recall its repellent heavy sogginess. She had seen the baby since, on a visit to the Craddocks, way back in July, listened to it wailing the whole time she was there. ‘Teething,’ Rita said, as she got up for the umpteenth time to soothe it. Babies were so basic, so demanding. Could she really cope with dribble, vomit, faeces; he invariably supportive through teething, broken nights? If she had a baby in a year or two, she would be nearly the age that Rita was herself when she’d given birth to Luke – too old and tired for babies, and without Rita’s simple capacity for love.

  Liz was still waiting for her answer. ‘Well, Robert’s keen,’ she forced herself to say, as she cleared the last clogged tea leaves from the plughole. Even with the condoms – which she loathed – she always felt frightened of conceiving, totally unsafe. The very possibility of creating a new life seemed overwhelming, arrogant. It was awesome enough to be co-creator with God, but to cobble up a baby with a mere mortal man who had his mind on other things, was surely irresponsible.

  Liz shook out a tea-towel, dried the heavy pot. ‘You and Bob are bound to have a super kid – all blond and beautiful. His first son’s quite a stunner, or he was when I last saw him, which was years and years ago. He can hardly be a child now, I suppose.’

  Hilary rubbed tea-stains off a cup. Robert never appeared to phone his son, or write; had no recent photos of him, rarely mentioned him at all. He might be just as casual with a second child; crave it now, ignore it later on. If they had a child together, could either of them love and give enough? They were both divorced now – she from God, he from his first wife – and divorcés could be selfish and unstable.

  ‘I’d be thrilled to bits to be Grandma Liz again. Or maybe I’ll be unofficial godmother. A bit long-distance, though – that’s the only problem. Can’t you talk Robert into buying a new lighthouse on the north-east coast, or a Martello tower at Scarborough?’

  ‘He may well do just that. He’s involved with this new Trust, which saves threatened historic buildings. He got such a kick from doing up the Sussex place, he’s keen to do some more. And he says it’s a pretty painless way of making money.’ Not completely painless, she reflected silently, as she rinsed the last odd teaspoon – at least not for her. She’d prefer to be more settled, to live in a conventional house, rather than a folly. Strange how other people were always sure you wanted things they wanted for themselves – lighthouses or five-star grand hotels, sexual games and fantasies, champagne, even babies. Or was she just a coward, scared of giving birth? She glanced across at Liz, could still recall that Caesarian scar, running down her stomach from her navel to her groin. Thirteen stitches, Liz had said. She shivered, changed the subject.

  ‘When will you be moving, Liz?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ll have to sell this house first – though that shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve already seen a couple of e
state agents – one just down the road – and they both assured me that a family home in quite good nick in this particular part of Wandsworth won’t be on my hands long. And Harry said the same.’

  Hilary wrung out the dishcloth, started swabbing down the table. Again, she felt betrayed, as she realised Liz had been planning her new future, despite the paralysis of guilt she’d claimed; creeping off to house-agents, having secret talks with Harry, Ivan, Di – involving everyone but her. She flexed her ringless finger, still irrationally upset that Liz had failed to mention it. Thank God for Robert. He had saved her, in a way, saved her from herself, saved her from a bedsit in a strange and hostile house, spared her from returning to the Job Centre. How could she criticise him, when she owed him such a lot; when he’d offered her the chance to be a normal married woman, not a freak or outcast? His local pub in Sussex was called the Hope and Anchor. Wasn’t that symbolical? He would be her security, her future; anchor her to this world, show her all its wonders, so she’d stop continually pining for another non-existent world, or a different sort of Saviour.

  ‘Liz,’ she said suddenly, abandoning the dishcloth and reaching for her bag. ‘You know you said you wished we had champagne. Well, let’s go out and buy some, the best bottle in the shop.’

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  ‘Drink up your champagne. It’s only five minutes to closing time and it seems a shame to waste best bubbly.’

  Hilary took her glass from Robert, drained it in one draught. She’d had too much already, felt strangely light and weightless, cut off from her body. Robert helped her up, said goodbye to Tony at the bar, strode out of the Hope and Anchor, sniffing the night air. ‘Stale beer and honeysuckle. What a mixture! D’you want to drive, darling, or shall I?’