by Jemma Wayne
Until she opened them.
And was without Philip.
She glanced again at Luke, whose hand was still interlaced with Vera’s. Vera, who had made different choices. Lynn looked away. She was no longer needed by anyone. She was nothing, except for the mother of two sons, and the wife of a dead husband who’d earned all of their titles and left her nameless: Mrs Hunter, Mrs Late Barrister, Mrs Deceased Respected Pillar. Like the Wife of Potiphar whose story was not her own but a reflection only of her husband’s and Joseph’s, and was another example of how the bible was written by men and therefore left out half of the truth that her mother had known all along.
*****************
The priest finishes his list of community announcements and the congregation creaks up from the wooden pews to raise their voices for the selected hymn. Luke turns to help his mother stand and Vera glances quickly away. She hasn’t been able to look Lynn in the eye all morning. Despite the itchy mark on her neck, she is sure it was her own fault somehow. She intruded, she imposed. On a sick, vulnerable woman she was supposed to have been helping. To be better. Vera rubs her temple with her forefinger. Her head is still noisy. Rhymes and regrets are circling. Luke turns back towards her and raises an eyebrow in concern, but Vera shakes her head and smiles, it is nothing. She has told Luke nothing. Not about the way Lynn screamed at her, or grabbed her, or despises her. Or why. She plans to find a moment at church to talk to Lynn, to apologise and put things right; and if that fails, to trade the scarf around her neck for the secret Lynn could hang her with.
Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall. Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall. If one green bottle, should accidentally fall…
Vera squints her eyes together and opens the well-thumbed hymnbook. She studied her beautiful new bible again the previous night, searching in earnest for answers. But today, all the fanciful, ethereal passages about forgiveness, grace and renewal seemed to crumble to nothing when set against the solid, forceful words of the minister during his sermon - evil of fornication, sanctity of marriage, abomination of sodomy, sin of abortions, “Be sure of this, that no fornicator or impure person, or one who is greedy has any inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and of God.” Lynn had glanced accusingly at Vera as the priest had spoken, and she could feel her condemnation burning into her. “They’re ten a penny,” she had said. One a penny, two a penny - But of course, Vera now understands that Lynn hadn’t been negating the sin of abortion, merely pointing out the frequency of it. If only she knew the rest.
If only Vera could forget the rest. Now that she has begun she cannot stop playing it over in her mind again and again, like a home movie, or a lullaby. How could she have done it? How could she have told it? How could she have done it? Was it even her?
Her heart sobbed the whole way back from the children’s home. Her eyes made no tears but her heart sobbed. It had been sobbing for months. For herself, she knew that. For bad choices and unfulfilled ambitions and unfair situations. And it was still about herself because of course she would be a terrible mother, a drug-taking, irresponsible, sex-obsessed, jobless, too-young, awful, awful mother. But only now, too late, had she even considered that she might miss the baby, that she might want the baby, that The Baby was her son.
Her hand hovered over the stop button. Perhaps a tear would have moved her, unstuck her with warm, salty liquid. But she did not get off the bus. Unmoving, she let herself be moved.
The congregation begins to sing heartily.
Do they know the things she’s done? Do they sense how far from their pure path she’s strayed? Can they see it in her face? Is that why their smiles, just like Lynn’s, seem laced with disapproval and judgement? Sing a song of sixpence, pocket full of rye… Vera pulls her skirt lower over her knees and fidgets with her scarf, wishing she’d had breakfast. She feels in the wrong place. Church! How ridiculous for her to be at church! It is making her remember not forget. It is no longer papering over but pointing out every sin she has committed. Even the things she didn’t think were sinful. And there is enough real sin to do without mere mindlessness.
At least Luke loves her. Glancing up at him she studies his face until eventually he feels the weight of her gaze and looks at her, and smiles, smiles through his own growing sadness. He reaches for her hand again and anchors her. Reminding her why she is here. Then she notices Lynn watching their exchange, a frown spreading across her forehead, and at once Vera feels inadequacy and terror rise through her body again. To be worthy. Her hands shake as they try to hold the hymnbook.
Look unto him, ye nations, own
Your God, ye fallen race;
Look, and be saved through faith alone,
Be justified by grace.
Vera feels hot. She can feel her face flushing. Little Charlie’s face was flushed from crying. She reaches for the crook of Luke’s steady arm. He squeezes her hand. They sing on. Voices pushing through the scripture, sure, sonorous tones bouncing off stone walls and stained glass and the wrought iron cross that hangs over the pulpit.
Awake from guilty nature’s sleep,
And Christ shall give you light,
Cast all your sins into the deep,
And wash the Æthiop white.
Vera glances towards Lynn again and finds her still staring, the frown spreading as she directs the words carefully and deliberately at her. The heat spreads. There is a stabbing pain deep inside her. Vera puts down her hymnbook and, too loudly, clattering her bag against the pew, rushes out of the chancel.
And Jill came tumbling after. And Jill came tumbling after.
She has never met Sally-Ann before. A few of the faces at Luke’s church have begun to look familiar, part of their circle, but Vera doesn’t remember Sally-Ann’s when she nudges open the door to the cubicle.
“Are you okay?”
Vera accepts the dampened tissue and leans her head against the tiled wall of the antiquated bathroom. Flattened bars of soap languish on the sides of sinks where liquid dispensers should be, and the hand towels are made from thick, blue, almost cardboard textured paper like the ones they had at school. The coolness of the tiles quietens her head a little.
“I’m fine. Thank you. I just got a bit hot. Must’ve been the holy spirit!”
Sally-Ann doesn’t laugh at the joke and Luke isn’t there to tell Vera whether or not it is funny. Instead Sally-Ann moves closer. “Are you pregnant?” she whispers.
Vera isn’t usually the kind of person to laugh nervously, but she does so now, a rough, stuttering chortle that lands in silence. “What? No I’m not, I’m just… I mean, God no! Pregnant? No, I’m not.” Has she managed to answer like a good, Christian virgin? “Who are you?”
“Sorry. I’m Sally-Ann,” the girl laughs, then pauses. “It’s okay if you are.” She shakes her tousled hair, balancing a hair band in her teeth as she casually pulls the unruly mop on top of her head and waits for Vera to answer. Now Vera notices the girl’s short denim skirt, her electric blue tights, and suddenly, she lets out a loud, incongruous laugh.
“Don’t tell me I’ve actually found an actual Christian who’s actually had sex!”
“Um, actually, no.” Sally-Ann passes her another tissue awkwardly. “I mean, obviously I don’t agree with sex before marriage, but if it’s happened, it’s okay is what I mean, your community will still be there for you.”
“Oh.” Vera accepts the tissue with a grimace. She doesn’t look at Sally-Ann but dabs at her flushed face. Finally she paints on a smile and with faux cheer spins back around towards her. “Are you serious? This lot?”
“Okay, maybe they wouldn’t,” the girl concedes. “In fact, they’d probably be after you with torches and pitchforks, but there’re lots of communities that would be fine. Like my church, St George’s in Marylebone. I don’t usually come here. But it’s Mum’s birthday. Anyway, what I’m saying is lots of people make mistakes. What’s important is facing them, and not turning away from Jesus because of it. He’ll forgive you and
so should everyone else.”
Vera stands up. “I’m not pregnant.” She throws the wet tissues into the bin. Her face is regaining its colour but the scarf still itches. She would like to take it off. Off again. Sukey take it off again.
“Oh. Okay. Good. Sorry,” Sally-Ann hurries. She eyes Vera curiously and Vera wonders if she is mouthing the nursery rhymes clattering about in her head. Is she saying them aloud? Did Luke hear them? “I just thought... You know, you should come to St George’s sometime.”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“I didn’t mean that. Just, most people there are very, questioning, so there’re loads of extra study groups and seminars about relevant issues, and lots of activity. You should come.” Her face has come alive now, almost as vivid as her tights, too intense for the dreary walls of the toilets at St Anne’s, and Vera cannot help but be a little enchanted.
“It sounds lovely,” she says, turning towards the door. “But Luke’s been coming here all his life.”
“But you feel judged here.”
Mid-step, Vera freezes. “That’s ridiculous,” she manages to retort finally. “How can you know how I feel?”
“I know about your abortion.”
Now Vera’s hands move unconsciously but directly to her stomach as though pulled there by a latent, placental magnetism. Sally-Ann has caught her off guard, without armour in a place that already feels dangerous. She tries to laugh, but can say nothing. She can hear an infant crying.
“My mum whispered it to me as soon as the minister announced your engagement,” Sally-Ann confesses softly. “Mrs Hunter told her before the service this morning.”
“Mrs Hunter?”
“It shouldn’t be like that Vera. I’m just saying try St George’s. Grace is a gift for everyone, you don’t want to miss it. You have to be careful; church can crush as well as liberate.”
“Mrs Hunter told her?”
From outside there is a knock on the door.
“Think about it,” Sally-Ann says.
Moments later, Vera and Luke are sitting on a bench outside and without being asked, Luke takes off his jacket to wrap around her shoulders, leaving him shivering in shirtsleeves in the winter sun. It is still morning but already it feels as though the sun is sinking. Row row row your boat. And time is ticking. Tick tock. Hickory Dock. Lynn has already spilled Vera’s secret, it is only a matter of time before she tells it to Luke. Luke rubs her cold hands between his. Vera hesitates. It is difficult to chip away at such a perfect thing.
“Luke, there’s something I have to tell you,” she begins finally.
“It’s okay,” he says instantly, brushing an escaped wisp of hair behind her ear. “I know you find this tough. Don’t be embarrassed. I love that you’re trying, that you want it for yourself.”
Vera stops.
“Shall I tell you something true?” he continues, prying open her hand to hold it. “I’m proud of you Vera.”
Weakly, Vera smiles. Across the courtyard she can make out Lynn talking to a group of women, every now and then pointing at her and Luke. Vera feels herself filling with fury. And shame. After a moment, Lynn catches her gaze and this time Vera looks her straight in the eye and raises one hand to her scarf, but the older woman only holds her stare defiantly. Daring her.
“You remind me of her a bit, if that’s not too weird,” Luke smiles, noticing the direction of her eyes.
Vera drops Lynn’s stare and snaps back into focus. Luke seems so happy sitting there in the churchyard, between his two women, so much happier than he has been of late. If you’re happy and you know it - Luke claps his hands together to warm up.
“Did you want to tell me something else?” he asks, studying her. “Is something wrong?”
Vera looks up at him. His two-tone eyes are full of concern and responsibility; they seem so easy to hurt. In the distance Lynn laughs with her gaggle of women. Goosey goosey gander -
“Mother’s had years to get to know everybody,” Luke offers, misinterpreting her gaze. “Don’t worry, it will come. She didn’t know anybody when she first joined here either, but look how loved she is now.”
Luke smiles in the direction of his mother, Old Mother Hubbard… And nervously Vera watches the man she adores. She glances again at Lynn, the bastion of his childhood, the manipulative snake, whom he loves unconditionally. Who reminds him of her. Mirror mirror on the wall… Who will soon be gone. Mirror mirror -
“Luke,” she says finally, shaking her head to rid it of the noise and tapping him lightly on the leg. “There is something I have to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve tried, but I can’t do it. I miss my work too much. I can’t look after your mother.”
Chapter
Ten
Emily’s headaches were getting worse. Dizzying. Nauseating. But she forced herself out of bed, up and inwards, towards the city. To Euston, or Kings Cross, or Victoria. She had three cleaning jobs now. But the destination she travelled to most often was Kentish Town. She had seen the advertisement for the charity on a desk at one of the offices she cleaned, and she had picked it up, plastered with yellow stickers, and stared for long minutes at the photographs of happy, elderly faces, frail but slipping slowly into incapacity. A gentle demise. The carers with them looked strong and confident, and capable, almost like doctors. If you’re building a house and a nail breaks, do you stop building, or do you change the nail? she’d heard, in her mother’s voice, in her head. So after five days of hesitation and procrastination, she had finally made a nervous phone call to a person to whom she’d never spoken, and had supplied her name, and the following morning begun a training course to become a carer.
During the first class – learning Health and Safety, and how to use a fire extinguisher, and how to wash her hands – Emily had found herself drifting off, dreaming of days in which her ambitions had amounted to far more. But after that they got on to the moving and handling of the sick and elderly, and medication, and catheter care, and there were talks about the ethics and principles of health care. And now they were doing emergency aid, which felt like a real skill, and soon she would be assigned a Buddy and begin her stint of shadowing. And so far nobody had asked her about her childhood.
The course distracted her from it. It filled the too-bright days. And when she allowed herself to consider it, fleetingly, she found it was good to be learning something again. Still, time persisted and there remained long stretches of daylight when things felt uncontained and uncontrollable. And so she took the bus and clung to the crowded, protective, urban sprawl.
No longer limited to places one could stand for free, with her new wages from her cleaning jobs, Emily bought herself soup or a sandwich and sometimes a sweet piece of cake, eating it alone at the windows of different cafés. There, with glass between them, she watched real people strolling by, oblivious to her, oblivious to the others like her who existed now only inside her head.
Like Cassien.
She tried not to think of her youngest brother. But in and out of the cafés came friends swathed in greetings and goodbyes, and Emily could still feel the warmth of his arm when he placed it casually around her shoulders.
So she stood. And she sat.
She imagined reinforced glass.
She walked. She walked.
Clicking her tongue, her mother said: You can outdistance that which is running after you, but not that which is running inside you.
And inside her, both she and Cassien were running fast.
Once, Before, about two years before the violence began in earnest, they had found themselves caught in a riot. It was difficult now to imagine that they had ever been so naïve, but they didn’t believe anything would happen then, not to them, not really. It was true that things were changing – the adults said nothing though all the children could feel it – but at the beginning it was still like one of Cassien’s stories, the kind that hovered tauntingly on the brim of their consciousnesses but the
y would never truly see: like monsters, or landing on the moon, or America.
They were on their way to school when they saw them. Cassien had been carrying a football – new, bought for his birthday, prized – intermittently dropping it on the floor and dribbling it through yellow-flowered bushes. She had a satchel slung over her shoulder on top of the neat, cream school uniform of which, having only just been admitted into senior school, she was excessively proud. There was a pale blue trim around the edge of the sleeves, and as Emily swung her arms she liked to catch flashes of it, like a promise just to the side of her of calmness and cool.
The men in the street were uniformed too but in louder, hotter colours. Flashes of green and yellow were emblazoned across their chests, tied around their heads, and raised on flags that flapped atop spears and masus and machetes. Hutu Power, they chanted. Hutu Power, followed by more words that were angry and aggressive and aimed, suddenly, at them. Emily had seen these men before in smaller groups or from a distance, but never with such empty space between them. Putting his arm around her shoulder, Cassien moved them carefully into the void. He was a year older than she and a foot taller. The football was now tucked securely under his arm. His jokes had been replaced by an unnerving silence. Emily knotted her hand into his shirt and pulled back slightly, but without conferring they both knew they had no choice other than to move towards the road upon which the sweaty, raucous men were assembled. It was their only path to school and Mama and Papa reminded them daily how fortunate an education made them.