Blood Ritual
Page 47
Hilary said, severely, ‘You’re very mercurial for somebody lying in a hospital bed.’
‘I’d be even more mercurial if you were lying in it with me,’ he said, and then, with barely the space of a heartbeat, ‘I don’t think Istvan’s been successful, Hilary.’
‘But that’s—’ Hilary stopped. ‘How do you know?’
‘A feeling up here.’ He touched his head. ‘No light.’
Hilary said, slowly, ‘You sound—’
‘Resigned?’
‘As if you might have come to terms with it.’
‘That’s putting it a bit strongly. If I could have you for the rest of my life I might accept it more easily.’ He paused and, as she remained silent, said, ‘All right, my love, I won’t argue it now. We’ll save it for the long winter nights. Snow piling up outside and a roaring fire. Good music on the stereo; even books. I shan’t be able to read them, but you will. You can read the classics of the world to me – Jane Austen, Trollope, even the Brontës, although they’re not really—’
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.’
‘—Dorothy L. Sayers, Clemence Dane, Victorian ghost stories— But you’ll come to visit me, won’t you? In Hampstead? Will you, Hilary? It’s a huge flat: what they call a lateral conversion – only one floor, but spread across two immense old town houses. Early Victorian or maybe even Regency. There’s a view over rooftops and gardens and you go up by a twisty old staircase with carved balustrades. And there’re great high-ceilinged rooms and inconvenient old-fashioned fireplaces and a ridiculous dining room that somebody papered in that absurd extravagant dark red Chinese paper that I could never bear to strip off. But the rooms are always filled with light and there’s more space than you can imagine. You can have twelve people sprawling about the sitting room and not be in the least crowded.’
It sounded like a poem Hilary had once had to learn as a child: something about a girl planning to live in a house of dreams and describing beamed high ceilings and an old-fashioned hall with light filtering in . . .
It was the kind of thing that caught in your throat without warning so that you wanted to cry and it was not at all the sort of thing to remember now, when the man you loved so much it hurt was raking at every vulnerable spot you possessed and was holding out to you everything you had ever wanted.
Only I didn’t know I wanted it, thought Hilary, staring at him. I didn’t even know it could be there for me.
A huge old house where there would be books and music and firelight and conversation . . . Friends visiting, because he would know so many people . . . He would find a way of continuing to work of course: there were Braille typewriters and probably Braille keyboards for computers and word processors, which Hilary thought was how most writers worked these days. What would it be like to live in the huge, light-filled house with its old-fashioned fireplaces and the beautiful dining room wallpaper? Living there with Michael. There might be children . . . The knowledge that she would live happily with him in a two-room cottage flooded her mind and pain sliced through her again and the words of the half-forgotten poem slid into place:
‘The house of dreams in which I live
Has beamed old ceilings high.’
And then something about the garden and a brook, and then,
‘A quaint old-fashioned hall where soft light filters through
Red roses on the newel post, And on the staircase, You . . .’
On the staircase, You . . .
It was ridiculous and far-fetched and drenched in sickly Victorian sentimentality. It was not something to be considered, even for a moment. Hilary pushed it out of her mind and began to talk about Turoczi’s monograph and the listing of the documents.
‘A very terrible story.’ Reverend Mother sat behind her desk in the small calm-feeling study, and tapped Father Turoczi’s manuscript. ‘A terrible creature, Elizabeth Bathory.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have prayed for her soul’s repose, of course,’ said Reverend Mother, as if this went without saying. ‘And we shall be offering Masses for Catherine as well. I could wish—’ She stopped, and Hilary waited. ‘I wish I could have helped Catherine more,’ she said, at length. ‘I thought that by letting her come here, she could expiate whatever evil she believed she harboured.’
‘Can one carry the evil of another?’
‘The Church would tell us not,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘Apart from original sin, that is, although I have always interpreted that as an allegory. But each soul is responsible for his or her own deeds.’ She frowned, and then in a different voice, said, ‘But it is not of that I am here to speak.’ She paused, and then said, ‘Well, my child, what are you going to do about Mr Devlin?’
Reverend Mother’s study was a good place for confidences and Reverend Mother was very easy to confide in.
Hilary said, carefully, ‘If I revoke my vows it means I’ve failed.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, but surely—’
‘The machinery is there for people to go out as well as come in. The Church does not wish you to live a pretence. Perhaps in the process building up resentment against it and against God.’
‘I can’t give in . . .’
Reverend Mother said, thoughtfully, ‘I think you have a warped vision of this, because of Michael Devlin. But you have to question very closely your original motives, Hilary. You must look to see if you entered St Luke’s for the right reasons eight years ago. If those reasons were good then, they will be good now, and you must ask God’s help to fight your feelings for Michael. But if the foundation was spurious then . . .’
Sarah’s death. Of course it had been guilt, and of course the whole thing had been wrong. Hilary said, ‘If I had had someone like you to talk to at the time—’
‘You cannot blame your advisers.’ She stood up. ‘And although I am not your superior in the Order, I have lived for very many years and I have seen many novices and nuns come and go. It has pleased God to let me learn a very little of human nature.’ The thoughtful eyes rested on Hilary. ‘If I were in a position to advise you, I should tell you to be on your own for a time – perhaps six months or so, if that is possible.’
‘Without Michael?’
‘Yes. Yes, you must not permit him to blur your judgement. If you leave the Order it must be because you can no longer serve God honestly in that way. It must not be because of Michael.’
‘I know,’ said Hilary in a low voice.
‘Has he offered marriage?’
Hilary said, helplessly, ‘Truly, I don’t know. He said something – when we were fighting to get across the hall at Csejthe and rescue Catherine— And then again when I visited him this morning—’ She broke off, and Reverend Mother smiled.
‘I should not expect him to be precisely conventional, Hilary. Not even when proposing marriage. Perhaps especially not when proposing marriage. He is waging his own fight against the world and if he does not regain his sight he may put up a very flippant front.’ One of her Gallic gestures. ‘There will be people in your own House in England that you can talk to about this. But if you wish for my counsel, dear child, it is at your disposal.’
‘Thank you.’ Hilary thought this might be very helpful indeed.
Reverend Mother was clear-sighted and deeply devout, but she had also a remarkable understanding and a tolerance of ordinary people’s needs and weaknesses. Hilary thought this was a very unusual blend, but she knew better than to say so.
‘If,’ said Reverend Mother, ‘you decide to leave the Order, you must not look on it as a failure. You should think, instead, that you have given eight years of your life to God and that He will not disdain to accept those years at their fullest value. It may be that your life has moved into another phase, and you can continue God’s work in another way.’
‘I – could I?’
‘Turning your back on the convent does not mean turning your back on God. Or does it?’ said Reverend Mother suddenly.
‘No! Oh no—’
‘Your training would still be valuable. People still need help to come to terms with blindness, to learn Braille and all the skills necessary to cope. I should judge you to be a gifted teacher, and you would surely be very acceptable to one of the many medical establishments.’ She touched Hilary’s hand in a rare caress. ‘You do not need to live in a convent to serve God,’ she said. ‘Nor do you need, necessarily, to live the life of a celibate. But you must make the decision unclouded by Michael Devlin.’ She stood up. ‘Is it tomorrow he will know if the operation was successful?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then,’ said Reverend Mother, ‘I shall go along to the chapel and offer up a Novena for him.’
Michael sat in Istvan’s consulting room, and thought how he had imagined this moment for a long time: the small consulting room where he had sat for the initial discussions, Catherine Bathory with him. He found himself wishing that he could have seen Catherine. He wished he could have seen them all. Catherine and Pietro and Franz-Josef. And Bianca. And then, with sudden fierce longing: I should like to see Hilary!
He managed to remain calm as Istvan began the removal of the dressings over his eyes.
‘A little soreness,’ Istvan said. ‘A small discomfort.’
‘I don’t care if you tear off skin.’
But Istvan’s touch was deft, and there was hardly any more pain than from removing a bandage from a flesh wound. How long would it take? There was a clock somewhere in the room; he could hear its steady tick. Ticking away the minutes until I shall see again? Or the path into permanent blindness? He felt the lifting of the layers of surgical dressings, and cool air against his eyelids.
Istvan was saying, ‘A small solution to help your eyes to open,’ and there was the feel of lukewarm liquid being applied.
‘And now you will open your eyes,’ said Istvan, and Michael’s mind spun into ridiculous panic. This was how music hall hypnotists talked. ‘You will open your eyes and you will remember nothing—’
Istvan seemed to understand about the panic. He said, ‘Slowly, as slowly as you wish. Take all the time you need. The room is in shadow, at present. Blinds are down, you understand. A very gentle ingress of light is important at this stage.’
An ingress of light . . .
Michael said in a flat voice. ‘There’s nothing.’
‘Ah. Perhaps if you turn your head— Now?’
‘No.’ He felt Istvan withdraw and sit opposite to him. There was the soft creak of good leather. ‘It’s failed,’ said Michael, and the old bitterness was strongly in his voice. ‘Hasn’t it?’
‘You knew the chances of success were very small.’ There was the feeling of Istvan bending over him, and the click of a small instrument – a light? – being moved close. Istvan’s hand came out to clasp Michael’s, and Michael took it gratefully. He had thought he would want Hilary with him for this, but he had discovered that he wanted to be on his own. Because he had known what the results would be and distrusted his emotions? Or because he had known that only with his sight would he have anything worthwhile for her to revoke her vows for?
Arrogance and rank pride! he thought now, bitterly. And here is my reward for it! Blind. Sightless for ever.
But he thought he had known, deep down at some primordial level, that the operation had failed. He had known. But there had still been a faint hope. Perhaps I am wrong.
Istvan was seated quietly at his side, and when at last Michael lifted his head, he said, softly, ‘Mr Devlin, I am so very sorry.’
With an effort, Michael said, ‘Well it was always a gamble. And the odds were not good.’
‘Nevertheless, it is a hard blow to bear.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have had to share this moment many times, of course,’ said Istvan. ‘And I have tried to find words of comfort to give when – as in your case – the outcome is the worst.’ The grip tightened for a moment. ‘You have perhaps heard of Helen Keller?’ A pause. ‘You may be a little too young—’
Michael said, ‘Wasn’t she the American girl who became blind and deaf very early in her life?’
‘Yes. A severe fever, as I recall. She died – oh, perhaps it was twenty or so years ago.’ Michael could feel Istvan’s will imposing itself on him, forcing him out of the deep terrible despair. ‘Blind and deaf,’ said Istvan. ‘She could neither see nor hear. But she had an indomitable will, and she achieved very great literary heights, including a university degree. Her books can still be obtained, and I believe you would find her Journal of great comfort.’ He paused. ‘But there is a thing she once said, which I have always tried to convey to people in your situation now.’
Michael heard him frown and after a moment, Istvan said, ‘Helen Keller had known sight – only briefly, but for a few years in very early childhood she had seen the world. As you have seen it. And she believed that once sight had been there: that once you had seen the world, you were armoured. She said, “When once we have seen the day, the day is forever ours”.’
The day is forever ours . . .
Epilogue
Hilary dismissed the taxi at the end of the street because she wanted to walk the last part of the way on her own. There was still a cautious joy in walking through London, in seeing places she had never seen, in exploring the world.
A year had wheeled past since Michael had described his home, but it was exactly as she had visualised it. A wide road with trees filtering the early evening light, and old houses on each side: many of them with the distinctive white stucco of the early eighteenth century; all of them at least three storeys high. Not all were split into flats, but those that were looked to have been converted with care. There were no offices because this would be a severely residential neighbourhood. The houses had only small gardens, but some had plane trees at the front, and at the far end was what must have been one of the very few private gardens left in London: the kind that had high iron railings, and where you locked yourself in and out with your own key. Children could play there with absolute safety. There were one or two basement flats in the larger houses – Hilary thought these were called garden flats, which was rather nice.
And then it was there; precisely as he had described it. A tall house with lovely long windows at which you could hang William Morris-type curtains and behind which would be high-ceilinged rooms with old-fashioned fireplaces. You would have huge roaring fires in winter, and in summer you would fill the empty hearths with huge jugs of lavender and lilac to scent the rooms. There was a date carved into the stucco – 1800 – and one of the oval blue plaques which you sometimes saw in London, telling you that somebody of note had once lived here. Hilary squinted at it, but the sun was in her eyes and she could not read who it had been.
Inside there was a large communal hall, carpeted in dark blue. Somebody had placed huge old-fashioned jardinières of aspidistras and shiny-leaved fig plants to catch the light that spilled in through the fanlight of the main door.
The stair to the first floor was wide and the banisters were polished and carved and there was a scent of beeswax and pot-pourri.
As Hilary climbed the two flights, she heard him open the door above her, and she felt him stand waiting to welcome her.
As she went forward, the lines of the old poem were singing through her mind:
The house of dreams in which I live
Has beamed old ceilings high.
It sits far back amid the trees
And a brook runs laughing by;
It has a quaint old-fashioned hall,
Where soft light filters through,
Red roses on the newel-post
And on the staircase, You.
Mellow evening light slanted across the upper landing, and Hilary, tears pouring unashamedly down her cheeks, her heart filled with light and joy, ran up the last few stairs and went into Michael’s arms.