Days of Grace

by Catherine Hall

  She was still talking. ‘When you went off like that, we just sat there, wondering where you’d gone. And then we heard those gunshots. Nora, I was so frightened. I thought something terrible had happened. We both jumped up and came running to find you. Nothing happened before that, I promise. Please believe me. You’re my best friend. You’re my sister. I’d never do anything to hurt you.’

  I wanted to believe her, to pretend that the afternoon had never happened. I couldn’t refuse her, no more than I’d ever been able to. I reached out my hand and laid it on top of hers. She smiled, and turned over her hand so that our palms were touching. We interlinked our fingers like we had when we were little girls and the war was just beginning.

  The rain came in a noisy rush, a thousand fat raindrops slapping the surface of the lake. Thunder rumbled in the distance like a squadron of fighter planes. Rivulets of water ran along the cracked earth and the smell of warm mud filled the air.

  My first thought was to run for shelter but Grace had thrown her head back and was lifting her face to meet the rain. For a moment she stayed perfectly still, as if she wanted it to drench her completely, then in one quick movement she stood up and pulled her blouse over her head.

  ‘Come on, Nora!’ she shouted over the din.

  ‘What?’ I said, but she was already ripping off the rest of her clothes, not caring where they fell; her dress, her petticoat, the brassiere that she had stitched together from an old satin bedspread - and then, to my shock, her navy blue knickers, which she pushed down her legs to the ground. She stepped out of them and stood naked in front me, her hands on her hips.

  ‘Come on!’ she said.

  I stared at her. She had changed since that first summer when she had stood in her knickers and vest, her body like a boy’s. Now her breasts were bigger than mine, and very white, apart from her nipples, which had stiffened against the rain into two dark peaks. Her hips were a perfect balance, curving out from her waist. I drank it all in with silent fascination. I had never seen the whole of my body. I had stood on tiptoe in front of the mirror above the basin in the rectory bathroom but I could never see all of it. My notion of how I was shaped came from timid explorations of myself in bed at night, carried out discreetly in case Grace woke. But I couldn’t believe that I looked anything like she did. I wanted to touch her, to run my hands over her curves to prove to myself that they were real. I stood, frozen to the spot, unable to tear my eyes away from her.

  ‘Come on,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’m getting cold.’

  The raindrops were falling harder by the second, drumming on the ground and bouncing off the lake. I felt suddenly reckless and pulled my shirt over my head, slid off my skirt and kicked off my sandals. The sensation of the rain stabbing at my skin was exciting. Not letting myself stop to think, I peeled off my underclothes and stood facing Grace, my hands on my hips like her, breathing hard. The thunder came again, closer now and startling. As I stood there, strangely unashamed of my nakedness, feeling wonderfully awake and alive, I heard another sound, like someone clearing their throat. I looked about but could see nothing.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I shouted.

  ‘What?’ said Grace.

  ‘A noise, a sort of cough.’

  ‘I can’t hear a thing over this rain. I’m sure it’s nothing. Come on, run!’

  Catching hold of each other’s hands, we ran into the lake, slipping and sliding on the mud, then wading until the water was deep and our stumbles were transformed into sudden elegance as we began to swim. We dived down and as I watched her body, pale as moonlight, slip through the water, brushing against the plants that grew at the bottom of the lake, I felt utterly at peace. In this silent world I was calm, free of the shame that weaselled its way into my heart whenever I thought of her. I wished that I could stay in it forever. I held out until my lungs were about to burst and I was forced to come up for air.

  The rain soon passed. Grace and I walked back to the rectory through the fields, friends again, letting the evening sun dry out our clothes. We had a makeshift supper with Mrs Rivers, listening to the wireless as we ate. I went to bed happy and my dreams were filled with images of Grace in the water.

  I was woken by the wail of the air raid siren, a long, high note that rang in my ears. Grace and I dragged ourselves out of our beds and put on dressing gowns. Mrs Rivers was waiting at the back door, her hair loose, holding a candle and a thermos flask. She looked distraught.

  ‘Your father isn’t here,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where he is. He never came to bed. I thought he was still writing his sermon but he’s not in the study. He’s disappeared.’

  A fighter plane passed over the rectory, flying low. The ground shook.

  ‘We’ll have to go without him,’ shouted Grace.

  She ran outside and Mrs Rivers and I followed her, weaving in and out of the raspberry canes. I could see a faint orange glow on the horizon, proof that a bomb had met its target. I ran as fast as I could, making for the shelter in the corner of the vegetable patch. Grace got there first and threw open the door. We followed her inside, and the three of us sat on the bunks, panting, trying to catch our breath.

  After a minute, Mrs Rivers unscrewed the lid of the thermos and poured out tea. Her hands were shaking and she spilled some on the ground, which swallowed it up quickly as if it were thirsty too. The thunderstorm had made no difference to the temperature inside the shelter. It was stiflingly hot. We sat in silence, waiting for the next plane. It arrived soon enough, roaring like some hideous creature from a book in search of its prey. At the same moment, the door to the shelter began to rattle. Grace shrieked and grabbed my hand. Mrs Rivers turned pale. I swallowed hard. I could hear shouting, a man’s voice, but it was impossible to make out his words over the noise. The next moment, the door burst open to reveal neither the German soldier nor the British airman that I had imagined, but Reverend Rivers, looking exhausted.

  The temperature in the shelter seemed suddenly to drop. I felt an icy anger in the air, cold as the church on a winter morning. It was coming from Mrs Rivers.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

  ‘I was in church,’ he said.

  ‘At this time of night?’

  Reverend Rivers looked uneasy. ‘I was praying,’ he muttered.

  ‘Praying!’ Mrs Rivers’ voice was disbelieving. ‘You’re taking Matins in the morning. Couldn’t you have waited until then?’

  The expression on his face was a curious mix of excitement and guilt. I was puzzled, unable to understand why Reverend Rivers might look like that.

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘I’m here now. There’s nothing more to be said about it.’

  I fell asleep soon after, curled next to Grace on the bunk. It was a cramped space, too small for the two of us, which made my nights in the shelter a complicated pleasure. The only way to fit was to lie on our sides, one behind the other as close as a deck of cards. It took all my concentration to make sure that I kept my breathing steady and slow but inside my heart banged against my chest and I found it impossible to sleep for long. That night my dreams were full of her. I saw her at the lake again but now her movements were considered and deliberate. She exposed her body slowly, without speaking, challenging me with her eyes, no longer the Grace that I knew, who spoke her thoughts as soon as they came into her head and acted on her desires as soon as she felt them, impulsively, with no thought for the consequences. The Grace of my dreams knew exactly what she meant to do. When she was naked she stood for a moment, looking at me directly, then turned on her heel and waded into the lake, the water rising up her body as she went further in until at last it closed over her head and she was gone. As if I were with her, I began to choke and flail, feeling the pressure of the water push me down into depths from which I would never return.

  I woke suddenly, gasping for air and confused by the shadows that danced on the walls, thrown by the flame of the candle. As my eyes slowly focused I saw Reverend
Rivers with his back to me, kneeling by the door of the shelter. He was muttering to himself and I listened hard, trying to make out what he was saying. There was a rhythm to his words that I recognized and I listened harder, straining my ears until at last I understood. He was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, repeating it over and over, urgently, as if he were asking for God’s protection from something dangerous.

  Our Father, who art in heaven

  Hallowed be thy Name

  Thy kingdom come

  Thy will be done

  On earth as it is in heaven

  Give us this day our daily bread

  And forgive us our trespasses

  As we forgive those who trespass against us - And lead us not into temptation

  But deliver us from evil

  For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory

  For ever and ever

  Amen.

  I felt a strange sympathy for Reverend Rivers and his loneliness. I had felt it before, at the end of our lessons, when the light in his eyes faded and he became awkward again. But Reverend Rivers was a priest, someone with a position and a place in the world. I was just the evacuee, the girl from the city whom he had taken into his house. It seemed almost impertinent to pity him. I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep. When I woke again, he had gone.

  After that night, Reverend Rivers kept to himself even more, spending all his time in church or in his study. On the first of September, after breakfast, Grace and I knocked on his door. He seemed surprised to see us.

  ‘We’re here, Father,’ said Grace, without enthusiasm. ‘It’s September. That’s when you said we’d start again. Lessons, I mean.’

  A look of great unease spread across his face.

  ‘I cannot teach you any more,’ he said.

  I couldn’t tell whether he meant there was nothing left for him to teach or that he didn’t want to do it.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Grace, unable to believe her luck.

  ‘There won’t be any more lessons. I have other things to attend to. More important things.’ He looked down at his book, dismissing us.

  I was bitterly disappointed but I didn’t dare argue. After everything that had happened over the summer, I had been looking forward to the distraction of learning. I was determined not to stop. That winter I chose books at random from Reverend Rivers’ study and read them by the fire. The scent of bluebells and the sound of birdsong was replaced by the smell of burning wood and the hammering of the rain against the window. They were dull, drab days that seemed to go on forever. Mrs Rivers continued to play the piano, locking herself away as soon as breakfast was over. Reverend Rivers disappeared for whole afternoons at a time, slipping a Bible into the pocket of his overcoat and turning up his collar against the cold. When he returned, usually well after dark, his shoes were soaked through and spattered with mud. He ate very little, leftovers from our supper, taking a plate into his study and closing the door behind him. It was as if he were sickening for an illness or pining for something that he had lost. Like an animal, furtive and watchful, he scurried from his study to the church and then back again, his head down and his hands in his pockets, hunching up his shoulders against whatever it was he was trying to escape.

  Thirteen

  THE TRIP TO THE HEATH WAS MY LAST OUTING. I BEGAN TO feel much worse, as if by admitting my illness to Rose I had made it a reality. I was always tired and walking became difficult. My world shrank to the four walls of my bedroom, the bathroom and the corridor between them.

  I had never liked to lie about in bed. Mornings had been my favourite time of day. I had kept myself busy, always occupied. Now, as if to make up for my captivity, my mind roamed and roved, flitting to places that would have been better left unvisited. I began to remember things that I hadn’t let myself think about for years and my sleep was disturbed by horribly vivid dreams.

  Our conversation on the Heath marked the beginning of a new intimacy between Rose and me. When I took to my bed, she assumed charge, looking after the child and myself with gentle competence. She was no longer the sullen, grieving girl that I had watched at the window. I saw how she must have been before the disappointment of her love affair. She seemed to know when I needed company, bringing Grace to gurgle and kick on the bed. I liked to hold her, hugging her close and inhaling her sweet, powdery smell. Rose knew as well when I’d had enough, seeming to sense the sudden tiredness that came over me like a cloud. Quietly sympathetic, she would close the curtains and take Grace away, leaving me to sleep.

  She took to bringing me little surprises, things to tempt my taste buds or make me smile. One morning I woke to find myself in a magical world of stars and twinkling lights. I looked in wonder at them, utterly captivated.

  Rose was sitting in the chair next to the bed. ‘What do you think of my Christmas decorations?’ she said. ‘I put them up last night when you were asleep. Aren’t they pretty?’

  I had lost all sense of time since I had been confined to bed. I was astonished to hear that it was December.

  ‘Here’s something else,’ she said, pulling a package out of a shopping bag.

  I peered at it, trying to guess what it was.

  ‘It’s an advent calendar. Look, there’s a door for every day and behind each one there’s a chocolate. I’ll leave it here by the bed so we can count down to Christmas.’

  She opened a door each morning as we drank our coffee together. I played along, joining in, exclaiming over the picture behind the little flap of cardboard and sharing the chocolates. On the front of the calendar was a winter scene, people ice-skating on a village pond. Children wove in and out of couples who held hands as they skated, looking into each other’s eyes. An old man roasted chestnuts on a brazier. Dogs skidded on the ice and birds observed it all, perched on branches that were heavy with snow. In the background was a church, which held the last door, the twenty-fifth, in one of its stained glass windows.

  But when I was alone, I was afraid. It was as if the calendar marked out the time that I had left to live. Every door we opened brought me one day closer to the end. I began to dream of the village in the picture, terrible dreams that left me shaking and drenched in sweat. On Christmas Eve I willed myself to stay awake, staring at the twinkling lights, certain that if I closed my eyes, I would never open them again. When I finally fell into an uneasy sleep, unable to fight it any longer, I dreamed of skating on the ice with Grace, holding hands and gliding fast. We skated as if no-one else were there, faultlessly, laughing as we went, exhilarated by our speed, going faster and faster until the church bells began to chime, bringing us to a standstill. The ice cracked and we fell together, into the freezing water, which closed over our heads like a grave. The weeds wound about our legs, pulling us apart, down into nothingness.

  For a long time I stayed perfectly still, feeling what it was like to be dead. Then I heard Rose’s voice. ‘Happy Christmas, Nora!’

  I opened my eyes. Rose was standing next to the bed, holding the baby. She smiled and bent to kiss my cheek, her lips soft against my skin.

  It was as if I’d been given a second chance. ‘Happy Christmas,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a lovely day.’ She went over to the window and opened the curtains. ‘There’s a carol service on the radio. Shall we have it on?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That would be nice.’

  The sound of children singing filled the room. It was instantly uplifting. We sat, playing with Grace, who yelped with pleasure as she grabbed hold of our fingers, trying to keep herself upright.

  When the service was over, Rose stood up.

  ‘I’m going to see to lunch. Can I leave her with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  When Grace noticed that Rose was gone she roared with grief.

  Good for you, I thought. Things might have turned out differently if I’d made a bit more noise.

  But after a while I couldn’t bear to see her so distraught. I pushed back the sheets, swung my legs over th
e side of the bed and, gathering my strength, stood up. I took her into my arms and held her close, rocking her gently. As I paced about the room, her sobbing was gradually replaced by deep, shuddering breaths. I stood at the window, feeling the heat from her small body. Soft flakes of snow were starting to fall, quietly efficient, making everything clean.

  ‘That’s what we need,’ I whispered. ‘A nice, fresh start.’

  She fell asleep, nestling against me. I came away from the window and climbed back into bed, pulling the blankets around us.

  When Rose came back she was carrying a tray with bowls, a plate of bread and butter and a piece of cheese. She had tucked sprigs of holly in amongst the crockery and folded the napkins into peaks. She smiled when she saw us.

  ‘Thanks for looking after her. I heard her making all that noise.’

  ‘We were all right,’ I said. ‘Weren’t we, Grace?’

  ‘I’m afraid lunch is only soup. I thought it would be easy to swallow.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to roast a turkey!’

  After lunch I felt rather jolly.

  ‘Let’s have a drink,’ I suggested. ‘To celebrate.’

  Rose looked at me as if I had lost my mind. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, we’re all still here,’ I said. ‘All three of us. I think that’s worth a toast, don’t you? There’s a bottle of port in the kitchen cupboard. Can you get it?’

  She wasn’t convinced. ‘You’re ill,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’re not supposed to drink.’

  I winked at her. ‘Think of it as medicine.’