The Rapture

by Claire McGlasson

  ‘Yes. She is the reason all this is here.’ Outside the society we don’t advertise Her name or who She truly is. It might be dangerous. The church of men is not ready to hear the truth, but I’m starting to wonder if Miss Hardwick is.

  ‘And there’s our window,’ I say.

  She walks slowly to it, eyes fixed on the woman in the glass who stares straight back, ignoring the little girl depicted at her feet.

  ‘Emily designed it,’ I say. ‘Emily Goodwin. She lives with us at Number 12.’ I’m not sure Grace is listening any more. She doesn’t move her eyes from the window, she doesn’t speak. It is so quiet. The chapel is usually filled with the chatter of two dozen ladies, Octavia’s voice rising above them all.

  ‘She wanted a sort of Queen Mother,’ I say. ‘A combination of royalty and domesticity. Octavia chose the scripture. Jerusalem, the Mother of us all (Galatians 4:26).’

  I am talking, still talking. Because silence would be too loud.

  Finally, Grace turns towards me. ‘Beautiful,’ she says, faint smudges of orange and blue staining her pale face. Emily chose vivid colours to make the most of the south-facing window but today the light is weak, kindling them to a soft glow.

  ‘I feel …’ Grace says. ‘I don’t know what I feel … Strange, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you need to sit down?’

  ‘No. I’m not unwell. I’m just …’ She turns to me so quickly that I don’t have time to avoid her eyes. ‘I feel something here I can’t explain, as if there is a thinning, a thinning of the space between our world and the next.’ She studies my face, waiting for me to fill the silence that has fallen between us. ‘Gosh, now I have said it out loud, it sounds like madness.’

  But it doesn’t. I feel it too. In this chapel God gives the gift of the Holy Spirit to Octavia’s followers. But not to me. Never to me. Not until now. Light is flooding my body and washing away the doubts and darkness that the Devil has been planting there. And for a fleeting moment I feel the Lord is standing with us, in the chapel. So real I feel I could reach out and touch Him. Then just as quickly He is gone.

  ‘You think me foolish, don’t you?’ she says.

  No, Grace. You don’t understand. I am the fool. The truth was right here all along but I didn’t see it. I want to reassure her but I can’t find the words. Instead I say, ‘Let’s walk again, warm up a bit. I think the cold has got to me.’ I am shaking. I lead her outside towards the ash tree that stands in the centre of the Garden. Its thick branches curve against a stockinged sky, wearing the gauze of dusk like silk.

  ‘We call this tree Yggdrasil,’ I say. ‘In Norse mythology it was the tree that connected the worlds. Its branches reaching up to the heavens and its roots down to the underworld. Just as you describe, a thinning of the boundary.’

  I won’t tell her that this is the Tree of Life: the very spot where Eve sat with Adam. A taste, that’s all I’ll give her for now. A single bite of the Truth. Enough to keep her coming back for more; enough to keep her coming back to stroll around the Garden. If she wants to. If Octavia allows it.

  ‘This is a special place,’ I say. ‘God has made us a promise. That we shall have eternal life.’

  ‘He has,’ she says. ‘And we shall join Him in Heaven.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. Those of us who follow Octavia will never die. God has given Her His word. We will stay in the Garden until Jesus returns here. To us.’

  Eternal life, here in Bedford. Days without end.

  It is a thought we are supposed to find comforting.

  ‘So that’s what you believe?’ she says, as if she has been told the answer to a riddle. ‘Truly?’

  I nod. I wonder what she is thinking, and whether I have said too much, too soon. In time I will tell her about the box. That we have the means to make everything right: the answer, the promise, the end and the beginning. I will tell her about Joanna Southcott, who placed her prophecies inside and sealed it tight a hundred years ago, and how the bishops will come and open it and bring an end to suffering in the world. But not today. Today I shall stroll around the Garden beside her and enjoy the last of the weakening light.

  We sit on the bench that wraps itself around Yggdrasil’s trunk, a crowd of snowdrops by our feet. Octavia says they are an example to us all: pious and pretty because they bow their heads gently to the Lord. But today they are a regiment of fighters: Wordsworth’s lone warriors, Mary’s tapers. They spear the frozen earth and announce that spring is waging war on winter. And soon the Garden will be full of life again.

  ‘This place,’ she says, at last. ‘There is a lot to take in.’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘But I like it very much.’

  ‘I am glad.’ I pause to choose my words. ‘Miss Hardwick—’

  ‘Please, call me Grace.’

  ‘Grace then – in here we are protected. Outside, the world is unravelling.’

  ‘The war …?’

  ‘Yes, but much more than that. Man has slipped too far from God, from truth, from hope. It is up to woman now.’

  We fall back into silence.

  ‘Did you lose anyone?’ she asks.

  ‘My brother Eric. His plane was shot down.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She drops her head and starts to fiddle with the loop on her cuff, the one that has lost its button. I should tell her that I picked it up. She could sew it back on. But I don’t.

  ‘I have two other brothers,’ I say. ‘They survived but they moved abroad. One to Canada, one to India. What about you? A brother …?’ I can’t help myself: ‘A sweetheart?’

  She pauses as if deciding how to answer. ‘There was someone,’ she says. ‘He said he was in love with me. He asked me to wait for him …’ She finds my eyes again. ‘He asked me to marry him. I didn’t feel the same but I went along with it.’

  Sometimes it is difficult to see a way out.

  ‘So what happened, did you break it off?’

  ‘No, he never came home. He was killed in the trenches. I wonder how far I would have let it go, whether I would have ended up his wife. I’m ashamed to say a part of me was relieved he didn’t make it … I’m … It was wicked.’

  I should be shocked by her confession, but instead I am delighted that she has chosen to confide in me. I feel giddy again, light-headed then full of anger at the young man, that he tried to claim her, tried to force her hand, and did he force his body on her too? Did he come to her door in his uniform and beg to know her as his wife before he faced death? I wonder if she let him. The thought appals and excites me. I will admit these sinful thoughts next time I am called to give my confession to Octavia. I will tell Her that the Devil tempted me with visions of a young man in uniform. It doesn’t pay to go in empty-handed.

  ‘What about your parents? Did they want you to marry?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. I mean, they would have done. But it’s just me now, they both died some years ago. I have no one to answer to.’

  ‘Except God.’

  ‘Except God.’ She smiles: a smile of warmth and sadness. ‘I never wanted all that,’ she says. ‘The things you are supposed to want, to be married, to be someone’s wife. Here you are free.’

  Free. Is that what she thinks I am?

  ‘What about you?’ she says. ‘Are your parents still alive?’

  ‘My father died seventeen years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s one of those things you are supposed to say, like ‘it is God’s will’. Nobody stops to think whether they really believe the words, they just speak them automatically. But Grace is different: when she says ‘I’m sorry’, I believe her.

  ‘What about your mother?’ she asks.

  ‘I lost her too.’ I pull the collar of my coat around my chin. ‘Shall we walk again? It’s getting cold.’

  We take the path that runs along the wall. ‘So Albany Road is on the other side of this?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. You’re getting your bearings now.’

  ‘I have to admit, I
was curious,’ she says. ‘The schoolboys sit on the top deck of the bus to try to get a glimpse over this wall. You’re quite the mystery. There is a lot of talk.’

  ‘There is a lot to understand,’ I say. ‘God has revealed many things.’

  Some of them wonderful, some terrible. Sometimes it is difficult to know the difference.

  The chapel clock begins to chime. ‘It must be four o’clock,’ I say. ‘Octavia wants to meet you. We mustn’t keep Her waiting.’

  *

  Stepping into the warmth of Number 12 makes me shiver more; the cold air of the Garden lingers on my breath. I arrange my face into a smile. ‘Ready?’ I ask her. Grace nods but I don’t suppose she is: you can never really be ready for Octavia.

  ‘I told Her we met by the river,’ I whisper as we cross the hall. ‘Best not to mention that we were in church.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She has rather strong opinions about the church of men.’

  I knock on the sitting room door and hear a ‘please come in’. Octavia is writing at Her bureau in the bay window. She doesn’t look up or acknowledge that we are behind Her.

  One, two, three, four, five …

  I start to count. Grace looks to me for reassurance: no doubt wondering whether Octavia has realised we’re here. Just wait, I tell her in my head, don’t cough or try to attract Her attention. She won’t like that. There is so much I should have told her before we came in, so much that could go wrong. Octavia is sensitive, it is not Her fault. She carries a heavy burden.

  Six, seven, eight, nine …

  I see Grace’s eyes dart around the room. The walls are arsenic green. Beneath a black picture rail runs a painted paper border: a William Morris vine of leaves and fruit. Bookcases hold Octavia’s volumes, gold lettering on their spines. And in the centre of the room stands a clothed table surrounded by mismatched chairs, every one carefully chosen and deliberately placed. If anything is moved by even an inch – the black marble clock on the hearth, the brass lion on the sideboard – Octavia knows about it, and then the pain in Her head starts to come on again.

  Ten … Eleven …

  Very slowly Octavia screws the top onto Her pen, folds the letter She has been writing and places both into a drawer.

  ‘You must be Miss Hardwick.’ She still has not turned around.

  ‘That’s right. It is a pleasure to meet you,’ Grace says.

  Octavia stands and walks across to take the wing-backed chair at Her side of the table. She used to hold séances here and entertain departed relatives but she knows from bitter experience that demons can pose as loved ones to work their mischief.

  ‘Miss Barltrop has been kind enough to tell me a little about the society,’ Grace says.

  ‘Has she indeed? And what are your impressions of what you have heard?’

  ‘It has made me want to learn more.’

  Octavia smiles politely. ‘Please sit down. We must have some refreshment while we talk. Every good discussion deserves a good cup of tea.’

  Grace chooses a leather armchair and I take the embroidered pouffe next to her. I realise my mistake when Betty brings in the tea tray. I am going to be sitting too low at the table; Octavia is towering over me. I can’t face the thought of eating anyway and I don’t trust myself to lift a teacup to my lips without spilling it, or clattering it down too loudly on the saucer. But Grace stirs her tea (carefully), and sips it (quietly), takes a slice of cake (but not two), and glances at me (but only when Octavia isn’t looking). She is reverent but not fawning and answers all Her questions: Where do you work? You live by yourself in lodgings? One of the greatest threats to our great empire is Bolshevism, Miss Hardwick, don’t you agree? Oh, I can see that you have a bright mind. And what a pretty shade of blue you wear, the shade is most becoming on you.

  I’m not sure either of them would notice if I were not in the room. I have seen this happen so many times before. Now She can no longer step outside the Garden, Octavia craves new company to keep, new conversation to dominate, new minds to impress Herself upon. Faced with the challenge of an unsaved soul She is radiant, shining with the light of God, and when it comes to visitors She always gives them full beam. Grace is not the first to be dazzled.

  I memorise her answers to pore over later. She works as a secretary at a legal firm. She rents a room from a widow in Tavistock Street, not the nicest area but she appreciates the short stroll into work. She is twenty-three years old. Only two years younger than me. And I notice that when she talks she runs the tip of one thumb around the knuckle of the other.

  Tap, tap. What’s that? It’s a sound that could agitate Octavia, and that could spoil everything. I look around and try to find its source. Tap, tap. The window.

  ‘Ah, let him in, Dilys. I think our dear Sir Jack wants to meet our guest.’ I open the latch and in he hops; with a single flap of his wings he is perched on the arm of Octavia’s chair. Grace does well to disguise her amazement.

  ‘Now, Jack, you are just in time to enjoy the crumbs,’ Octavia says. ‘May I introduce you to Miss Hardwick?’ He tilts his head as if considering her question. There is something almost human about his eyes, rimmed by a mottled flash of silver blue, the dark pools of his pupils spilling wider in the low light of the room. She begins to apologise for his shyness; since he arrived a week ago he has been terrified of all except Octavia Herself. ‘He is a most sensitive soul …’ She says, but even as She starts to speak he jumps down and settles under the table by Grace’s feet. We peek under in time to see him take what appears to be a low bow. Then he sets to work trying to unpick the laces on the top of her black shoes with his beak.

  ‘Dilys, did you hear me?’ I’m suddenly aware Octavia is talking, with a tone that tells me I have done something wrong. I sit up too quickly and hit the top of my head under the table.

  ‘Yes, Octavia?’

  Her eyes are trained on me but Her words are directed to Grace. ‘You must excuse her, Miss Hardwick, she is rather too often in a world of her own. Dilys, leave us please. I wish to speak to Miss Hardwick alone.’

  A look from Grace reassures me she will be fine, and I pull the door shut behind me, slowly. I want to catch a little of what Octavia wants to keep private.

  ‘When Dilys told me she had met you I wasn’t sure,’ She says. ‘But Sir Jack … You have made quite an impression. It’s extraordinary … already one of his favourites!’

  *

  In the dining room a pair of wooden doors is all that separates me from their conversation. I could put my ear to the gap but it would not do for Octavia to find me eavesdropping, so instead I sit by the window. I open a Bible and let my eyes skitter across the page, but I am not reading, not really. I am thinking about my brother Adrian and what he would say to all this, if he knew. He won’t get to hear about it; I stopped replying to his correspondence weeks ago because it was doing me no good. His letters from India are always the same: he tells me why he left the society, why he couldn’t stay, why I shouldn’t stay. At first I would write back and beg him to return to ask Octavia for forgiveness, but he has made up his mind. I have never told him there’s a part of me that envies his certainty. He is convinced all this is wrong, but all I have ever had are half-formed fears. They barge into my head and take a seat, and I’m left wondering whether I invited them in or not. But all that is going to change. Grace has come. Today I felt the Holy Spirit move in me. It is the start of something. For once I have no doubt.

  Octavia shouts from the hallway. ‘Miss Hardwick is leaving now,’ She says. ‘Dilys?’

  I pop my head out of the dining room. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Miss Hardwick is going. She will join us for chapel next Sunday.’

  ‘Then I shall see her then,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady, trying not to show my delight. But I was right. This is the start of something. I can feel God’s hand at work.

  Grace turns to look at me as Octavia opens the front door. ‘I look forward to it,’ she says. �
�Goodbye, Miss Barltrop. And thank you, again.’

  *

  As I pass the door to the sitting room I see Emily at the table, pouring herself a cup of tea. She must have gone in after I left them. She has to involve herself in everything.

  ‘Don’t you have things to be getting on with, Dilys?’ she says.

  She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t invite me to sit down. She doesn’t offer me tea.

  ‘Run along,’ she says. Octavia and I have matters to discuss.’

  The Yellow Wallpaper

  In light of the fact we have been expecting Christ to return for eight years you would imagine I would be used to waiting, but Sunday feels a long way off. Every time I look out of my window the hands of the chapel clock barely seem to have moved, and the interval between each hourly chime takes longer. Inside the clock tower, Octavia’s bell, Little Ben, is inscribed with the prayer: Holiness unto the Lord. Thy Kingdom come on Earth. Amen. It rings out a reminder to overcome our sins before it’s too late. It is counting down to the time that He will come; I’m counting down to the time Grace will.

  Every day Octavia takes a broom and sweeps the demons out of the dining room, scooping them up with the crumbs and dead flies, and depositing them on the back step. The wind stirs up the dust and dances it away but the demons stay and watch through the glass. They must wait for their moment and steal back in, because every morning She is there again with Her brush. I have been busy tidying and polishing my little room to wipe away the thoughts that linger in the corners: visions that rise in my breath while I sleep, then settle on the surfaces, dreams trapped in the fringing on the pink lampshade or clinging to the mirror like a smear of grease.

  My room is right at the back of the house, at the end of a landing which is painted green, sage green apparently and, according to Octavia, a completely different shade to the colour in the sitting room, though I have never been able to discern a difference. If I listen carefully I can hear when someone is coming; hear when they reach the top of the stairs. The creaks of the doors tell me whether they are going into Octavia’s room, or Emily’s, or the box room where Betty sleeps. If I hear shoes on the bare wood of a ladder I know it is Peter, climbing up to his windowless room in the attic. Jingling crockery always signals Betty’s approach with some refreshment on a tray. I hear her pass the water closet and the bathroom in which the coffin-shaped tub sits, on past the doorway next to mine where Octavia’s Chosen are invited to meet after chapel. And by the time she knocks I am always ready. Ready with a smile and a thank you. Ready to behave just as I am expected to.