Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘You, please. I’m sure I’m past the limit, and anyway, I almost killed you last time.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You’re doing very well. I knew you’d be a natural all along. Otherwise I’d never have let you touch my precious car.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’ She glanced across at his low-slung scarlet sports car. It still felt very strange for her to drive it. It was so much Robert’s toy – his aggressive shade of red, his powerful fine-tuned engine, his streamlined racy style. Yet she’d spent countless hours enthroned in that cramped driver’s seat. Robert came to fetch her every Friday evening, and she drove him back to Sussex; then practised her night driving on the return run, late on Sunday. She got tired of travelling sometimes, but had no wish to lose her job before she had to, or before Di sold the shop, and it was still three weeks to the wedding. They had settled on the first week of October, to give Liz time to prepare her little party before she moved herself, moved up North with Harry, later in the autumn.

  Robert helped her in, slammed his own door, then leaned across to kiss her. Her mouth felt slightly swollen. They’d made love all afternoon. He’d seemed voracious, almost violent, as if he couldn’t get enough of her; had used his teeth, as well as just his tongue.

  At last, he took the wheel, one hand on her thigh still, as he drove along the dark and narrow lane, humming his own slightly off-key rendering of the triumphal march from Aida.

  ‘Where we going?’ she asked, as he swung off to the left, instead of following their usual straight road home.

  ‘Wait and see!’

  The road began to climb, zigzagging through downland, a three-quarters moon bulging in the sky, showing up blurred trees and murky hedges. The swerving headlamps flushed out startled rabbits; a bird flapped up, a rush of wings, a cry. The countryside looked better in the darkness. The long relentless heatwave had sucked out all its green, parched and shrivelled it. It was only mid-September, but many leaves were already brittle brown; bracken fronds yellowing and tired; all nature limp and listless. Now it seemed revived. A lively southwest wind had started up that afternoon, heralding a change. Hilary could feel it gusty on her face as she wound the window down. It seemed to match Robert’s own excitement. There was a tension in the car, like a live electric current charging her, as well, sending the speedometer slowly up and up. She never dared to drive so fast herself; was often scared when he did, but tonight she didn’t care. Speed, champagne and shadows were flickering in her head, strobing her whole body, dissolving any fear. She shut her eyes. The motion felt like flying. She was soaring through the aether, an astronaut cut off from her spaceship, spinning into darkness, rotating with the earth.

  ‘Hey, wake up, darling. This is where we stop.’

  ‘I’m not asleep. I’m flying.’

  ‘Good. You’ll need to fly. It’s the highest point in the entire South Downs. The officials got it wrong. They say it’s Butser Hill, which must be forty miles away, across there to the west. They’ve set up a marker, with public loos and a kiosk selling ice lollies, turned it into a dreary tourist-spot. But this is my own private hill, and I’m pretty sure it’s higher. Okay, I haven’t actually measured it or done an ordnance survey. I just feel it in my gut. If you stand up on that knoll, your head knocks against the sky.’ He gestured through the window at a dark and lowering shape. ‘I wanted to bring you as close to heaven as I could. If we get out here and just walk up to the top …’

  She could hardly stand against the wind, which seemed to be blowing straight from the Atlantic, spray and salt and all; no trees to break its force, no buildings to deflect it. The hill was like the highest deck of a huge ocean-going liner, totally exposed. She could see the lights of other ships pinpricking the horizon twenty miles away; coastal roads like narrow golden streamers flung down from the deck and shining far below. At their height, all was shadowed; swollen clouds caging in the moon and stars, then releasing them again – moody gaolers, now angry, now relenting.

  ‘What a sky!’ said Robert, clutching back his hair from the fierce grip of the wind.

  ‘Yes, it’s so dramatic, isn’t it? The clouds look almost alive.’

  ‘What d’you mean, “almost”? Of course they’re alive. Everything’s alive. We’re part of it, all one.’

  They didn’t speak again till they reached the summit of the hill, needed all their energy to climb, all their concentration to see where they were going. The moon’s light was only grudging, the grass tussocky and rough. Hilary stopped a moment, gazed around at the sombre sweep of hill, aware of ghosts and presences. Neolithic man had farmed this land, mined its hills for flint. Bronze Age burial mounds still humped up from the ground, overgrown with brambles. Iron Age hill-forts had been set up on its heights, the dry chalk ridges offering sanctuary from the dense and humid forests which once threatened from below. If Robert were right and the past were still alive, then early man walked with them here; Roman traders were marching from the coast, unruly Saxons looting Roman settlements; the first Christians building churches in the foothills. Or was she being fanciful, merely reacting to an excess of champagne?

  Robert had come back for her, took her arm, helped her up the hill. Despite the wind, she could feel his body burning hot, as it pressed against her own. He seemed still fuelled by that impetuousness she had experienced in the car; his strides too long for her, his fingers almost hurting on her arm. They were nearly at the top now. Robert surged ahead, scrambled up to the summit, stood motionless a moment on the topmost spur, arms outstretched, as if he were a statue of some ancient stone-carved priest. She felt out of breath, light-headed, as she stumbled up the last few yards to join him. He took her in his arms, no longer priest or stone, but man and flesh – though his kiss was brief, this time, an impatient kiss, followed by a sudden nervous laugh.

  ‘I’m king of the castle. Will you be my queen?’

  She choked back her own laugh as she realised he was serious, that this was not a game, but a second proposal – one sanctioned by a ring. The clouds had swept apart again, allowed the moon to shine, its light glinting on the trophy he was holding out to her. Pearls. A swollen central pearl, framed by smaller seed-pearls in an elaborate wide gold setting. They had been discussing stones together, what they symbolised – diamonds for light, rubies for royalty. She hadn’t wanted either, felt both were far too grand for her. Pearls stood for innocence, purity, virginity. She closed her eyes a second, saw not Robert’s hand, but Reverend Mother Abbess’s closing over hers as she spoke her solemn vows.

  ‘I resolve with the help of God’s grace to undertake a life of perfect and perpetual chastity …’ She could feel her body hooked and trapped as Robert’s thrust above it. He was stuck to her with sweat, his rubber-covered penis pumping like a piston engine. She had to try to like it, had to make him happy, move as he was moving, up and back, up and back. Perspiration was sliding down her breasts, the heat of the four-poster intensified by the weight of Robert’s body crushing into hers. She rocked and tipped her pelvis, memories of Ivan increasing her confusion. She forced herself to concentrate. Her body was responding now, doing what it should, picking up the rhythm from Robert’s own wild thrusts. Only her mind refused to go along with it, distracted by the flood of words; Robert’s voice ramming her and ramming her, like a second violent organ. The act of sex was sacred – with my body I thee worship – should be silent, surely; dignified and silent. She tensed against him as he tried to play the game again, that game he liked so much, but which angered her, embarrassed her, made her almost hate him.

  ‘Is it good for you, Sister? Brother Robert’s not hurting, is he, naughty Sister Aries? You shouldn’t move like that. It’s disgraceful for a virgin. Reverend Father Abbot punished you last time. He whipped you, didn’t he? Took off your habit and spanked your bare white bottom. And this time he’ll …’

  She was now so tense, so furious, surely he must realise what she felt. Her whole body closed against him, though it kept moving, moving, as she t
ipped and rocked, tipped and rocked, obeying Ivart’s orders. Liz had paid for all those lessons, so she had to get some good from them, do as she was told.

  ‘Oh, wonderful, my darling! It’s quite fantastic when you push like that against me. Oh, I love you, Gloria. Oh, it’s absolutely …’

  She was being good, pleasing him, pleasing all of them, suppressing her own distaste and prudish fears; doing what the sex books said, what Ivan said, what Liz said. All the voices telling her: ‘Go for it,’ ‘Let go,’ ‘Relax,’ ‘Have a climax,’ ‘Have a baby,’ ‘Indulge your man and fantasise,’ ‘Eat these oysters,’ ‘Wear this dress,’ ‘Marry me,’ ‘Wear my ring.’

  ‘No,’ she said suddenly. ‘I won’t.’

  He couldn’t hear. She was speaking dumbly, as she had spoken in his bed, this afternoon; spoken to the pillows, to the sperm-stained sheets which he’d refused to let her change; crying out without a sound: ‘Not so roughly, Robert. You’re hurting. I don’t like it. And please don’t use those words. They upset me. They’re so crude. I love you, darling, honestly. Just hold me, will you, hold me in your arms. That’s wonderful, so peaceful. I love it when you kiss me really gently … No, Robert, please – not that game again. I loathe that game. Can’t you understand?’

  She opened her eyes, saw the ring moving towards her finger, an expensive antique ring, pearls shining in the stippled silver light. Pearls for fertility, fecundity, rebirth. Lightning piercing through the oyster shell and seeding a white gem. Robert’s sperm seeding a fair child. White for immortality. A union for ever, till death do us part. Robert’s for ever, his worldly goods, his body; for richer for poorer, for better, for ever. His voice dinning on for ever, his penis thrusting, ramming in for ever; she his nun for ever, part of his collection, a strange unusual object for his shelves; an object still too artless, which must be planed and sanded, polished, buffed, till it was worthy of him, glamorous, matched his expectations and his style.

  She felt the ring graze against her fingertip. He was about to slip it down, bind them both inexorably. With this ring I thee wed … Her finger had been free for just five days. She didn’t want it shackled once again, fettered with an eighteen carat manacle. Yet she couldn’t move her hand. It felt rigid, paralysed, stretched out towards his own hand.

  ‘Gloria, my darling, will you marry me?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’

  This time, she heard the sound. The three brief syllables seemed to boom and rumble in her head, re-echo through the entire South Downs. She was breaking a contract; had said ‘yes’ before, two weeks ago; was engaged already, bound to him already. She took a step away, broke the contact of their fingers.

  ‘Gloria?’ His own voice was stunned and shaken, the ring still held out to her, symbol of their union. Pearls for wisdom, for enlightenment.

  ‘I’m not Gloria,’ she said, her voice lower, but more confident. ‘And neither am I naughty Sister Aries.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you talking about? Of course you’re Gloria and of course you can’t say no. It’s all arranged. We’re getting married in exactly twenty days. You know we’ve booked the registry office, and invited all our …’

  ‘No,’ she said, third time. He had proposed three times, so she must match him each for each. She shook her head, squeezed his hand a second, fighting back tears of loss, regret, then turned her back, stumbled down the hill.

  FALL

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  ‘And this is the utility room. It’s quite handy, really, for the washing machine and tumble drier. And there’s another toilet just through here. Yes, that leads into the garden. Careful! The steps are rather dark.’ Hilary shivered in the draught from the back door. Autumn had been mild so far, but now they were a week into November, and the nights were turning cold.

  ‘We must come back in the light, Tom, see the garden properly.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come any day you like. I’m always here. Just phone, or get the agent to arrange it.’

  Hilary smiled, showed the couple out, then sank down in a chair and put her feet up. There’d been twelve prospective buyers this weekend, and that last unwelcome pair had turned up at half past ten, breezed in off the, street as they were passing the ‘For Sale’ boards. It wasn’t just her feet which ached – her face ached, too; ached from smiling, ached from talking, pointing out amenities, playing down the problems. Just a week ago, a new board – ‘Under Offer’ – had replaced the three ‘For Sale’ boards, but the buyer had withdrawn when his surveyor found dry rot. Liz had been appalled, had assumed her house was in very good condition, expected a quick sale, a hefty profit. It was she who’d had to soothe her, long-distance, on the phone; she who’d seen the agents once again, negotiated a lower price, approved the new euphemistic wording on the handouts.

  ‘Exceptionally well-appointed character residence in sought-after position. Immaculate decorative condition, excellently presented throughout, though in need of minor repairs.’

  She phoned Liz every day, sometimes twice a day, to report on any developments, advise on any problems.

  ‘You’re a wonder, Hil, honestly. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

  She had glowed at Liz’s praises, secretly agreed with her that she had made some genuine progress in the last two months; was far less frightened of meeting total strangers, less hesitant and ignorant in discussing business matters. She had learnt a lot about property and prices – not to mention human nature – had steeled herself to live alone in a large and lonely house. Even Di had gone now, sold the dress-shop to her rivals in one of the quickest deals on record, was already setting up a new boutique in Scarborough. She herself had been invited up to join them, as soon as Liz’s house was sold: help with Stephen, help Di in the shop, find a room nearby. She had turned the offer down, even when Liz pleaded. She suspected Liz was acting out of pity, and she had no desire to accept favours based on pity, not from anyone. It was time to strike out on her own, without help from Auntie Liz or jobs from Auntie Di.

  She had found herself a job, in fact – and quite a decent job, one with board and lodging; had bypassed the job Centre, found it on her own. Everyone had told her that would be impossible; bored and snooty girls at employment agencies shaking their heads, always saying ‘no’, rubbing in her lack of qualifications, reiterating the scarcity of residential posts, especially when she’d had no real experience. Then, one morning, when she’d been looking through Appointments Vacant, finding nothing, trying to quash her growing sense of panic, her eye had strayed to the Educational column. An American college for international students was advertising courses – everything from Fine Art to Computer Studies: mature students especially welcome, and those from overseas. The college was in Oxfordshire, described itself as friendly, small, and set in glorious countryside. How nice, she’d thought, to have the time and money to do a course in literature or art, get out of grimy London, meet people from a host of different cultures, five amongst trees and fields again. On impulse, she had phoned them, not as a prospective student, but to ask them if there were any chance of working there, as receptionist or housekeeper, even a gardener or a kitchen hand. An American had answered. No, he’d said, no way – though he said it not unkindly, seemed surprised she’d phoned at all. Why was she so desperate, why so keen on Roosevelt College?

  In the end, she told him far more than she meant to, including the fact she’d been a cloistered nun for twenty years. He began to ask her questions, obviously intrigued. The questions were embarrassing, began to get too intimate. She returned the conversation strictly to employment. Could he possibly advise her where else she might apply to get a job? He’d laughed, seemed more relaxed and even jokey. Yes, maybe he just could. It wasn’t every morning he got ex-nuns calling up, especially not the sort who wore medieval robes and shut themselves away for half a lifetime. And he’d always heard that nuns were real good workers, never slacked or went off sick. They owned a sister college, a larger one in
Hertfordshire, and if he had a word with Andy, there was just a chance he’d find her something, though it might be pretty lowly. ‘That’s all right,’ she’d murmured, with the first stirrings of excitement and relief. ‘I’ll take anything at all.’

  The position Andy offered was less humble than she’d feared, even had a tide – assistant domestic bursar – though the title sounded grander than the job. All she really had to do was help out in the kitchen, do the washing up and cleaning, then once she’d mastered that, graduate to waitress work. In return, she’d receive room and board and a low but adequate wage. Andy also promised that if she proved reliable, she might increase her pay and status by taking on the extra job as warden to the girls; on call at nights to deal with any problems which arose among the female students. She was to start in early January, when their new college term began and one of their key kitchen staff was leaving to get married. The timing, too, was perfect, gave her two whole months to sell the house, wind up Liz’s affairs; and if the sale went through much sooner, well – she could always spend a few odd weeks in Scarborough. At least she’d be a guest there, a temporary visitor, not a permanent drag.

  She eased up from her chair, moved into the kitchen to make herself a drink. She’d indulge herself this evening, had worked hard all day, tidying and cleaning, showing people round. She sat at the table sipping her hot chocolate, made with full-cream milk and frothy on the top; smiled as she remembered the bitter Brignor cocoa, always made with water, always sugarless. ‘Congratulations, Hilary,’ she murmured to herself, as she spooned half-melted sugar from the almost empty cup. ‘You’ve got your job. You’re coping.’

  She washed the saucepan, put everything away, wiped down all the surfaces, removed the soggy tea towels. Liz would hardly recognise her house – no coats flung on the banisters or books left in the lavatory, no cluttered shelves or messy bulging cupboards. The huge fridge held just two small eggs, a paltry cube of cheese. All the rooms seemed larger with their furniture removed. Liz had moved out half her things, sold the rest, or passed them on to friends. Her plants had gone, her ornaments; all the family flotsam which had surged or drifted in through thirteen years. The piano was still there, though that, too, was up for sale, and at least a dozen different people had already called to try it. She found it almost painful to hear their rough and ready music, or – worse – their skilful playing. She herself had still not played a note. Just to touch the keys might undam a whole wild flood of raw emotion, prove too overwhelming. Music was something she had renounced completely, save as a rapt but passive listener. Liz had left her half her records and an ancient stereo, insisted that she keep them, since Harry had progressed to compact discs and owned a far superior system. Dear Harry had his uses, she thought, grinning to herself.