The Rapture

by Claire McGlasson

  Another knock.

  ‘I have your breakfast tray.’

  Grace again. Half an hour has passed.

  ‘May I come in, miss?’

  Sometimes when we are alone she calls me Dilys. It is our secret: an invisible thread that runs along the landing between our bedrooms. Past Octavia’s door, past Emily’s. I enjoy the thought of dear Emily tripping on it and falling down the stairs, hair streaming down behind her, the sharp knocks of bone against the walls, the stairs, the bannister.

  But that’s the Devil, he whispers still. I must not give him a foothold, or I shall be the one falling. Down to Hell.

  ‘Did you sleep?’ I ask. It has become a ritual. I greet her with the same question every morning, and she always gives the same answer in return.

  ‘Like a top!’

  It’s a saying that always seemed wrong to me. Spinning tops are frantic, they twirl, they turn. But Grace told me that’s the joke of it: look at them from above and they seem to be completely still. The faster they spin the more firmly they are pinned to the spot. It is when they lose momentum that they falter.

  ‘And how did you sleep, Dilys?’ she says.

  ‘Like the dead.’ I always say this too, though it is very rarely true. I try to sleep but thoughts knock me in too many directions, dreams veer too violently from one story to the next, until I topple back into consciousness.

  ‘Is Octavia unwell?’ I ask her. ‘One of Her headaches?’ I know there’s something wrong or She would be insisting that we gather at the dining table this morning as usual.

  ‘She couldn’t face breakfast,’ she says. ‘Emily came down early and asked to take hers in Her room so Peter is down there by himself.’ She places a tray onto my bedside table then looks up at me, mischievously. ‘Would you rather join him? I assumed you would prefer it up here but I can—’

  ‘No, no. I wouldn’t want to trouble you!’ I interrupt her with a grin. ‘Up here is fine. It looks delicious. Thank you.’

  Breakfast this morning is eggs. Octavia says there are fifty-two ways to prepare them – one of Her sermons in chapel, perhaps. Devilled eggs are one of Her favourites, despite their name, but this morning they are poached, sprouting pale roots where they swirled in the boiling water. I’ll cut them up and move them around my plate, I’ll eat the toast, but that’s the best I can do. When Betty was here I wouldn’t even bother to pretend, but when Grace prepares breakfast it feels like a gift and I don’t want to seem ungrateful; throw the present aside without even taking the paper off.

  I sit down on the bed and pat the space beside me.

  ‘I don’t have long,’ she says, taking a seat. ‘Before I forget, I found this. It’s for you.’ She reaches into the pocket of her apron, pulling out a letter, bringing it close to her chest to hide the writing from me. ‘Wait until you see the postmark. You’ll never guess …’

  I don’t need to guess. I know precisely where it has come from. And who.

  Grace holds the envelope in both hands, turning it as though she can see through the paper to what is written inside. I want to snatch it from her and hide it away in the box inside my wardrobe. Where I don’t have to think about it. Where I don’t have to think about him.

  ‘It’s from India,’ she says, as though she is sharing a joke. I can tell she is expecting surprise or delight, but I offer neither, extending only an open hand as a silent command: it is mine, give it to me.

  She obeys.

  ‘Dilys, what’s the matter?’

  As if I could tell her that. As if I could begin to explain.

  She stands, walks to the window and busies herself opening the curtains. ‘I wasn’t prying. I really did find it. At the foot of the stairs.’ She pauses but I say nothing to fill the silence. ‘Emily must have dropped it. She carried up the usual bundle of letters to go through while she took breakfast. Octavia receives an awful lot of mail, doesn’t She?’

  Octavia does. But there is only one person who writes to me.

  Grace is still talking; still arranging the folds of the drapes; still trying to get me to speak. ‘I suppose with two thousand followers she would …’

  I must say something in reply. Pretend that I am all right.

  ‘Not all of Octavia’s letters are sent by followers,’ I explain. ‘Half are from non-believers. They write to tell Her She is a wicked blasphemer, an affront to the Church. Octavia says they are crackpots. And as the Bible says: Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you.’

  We mustn’t listen to those who refuse to see the Truth. Even those we love.

  They have made their choice.

  ‘Grace,’ I whisper.

  I want to tell her she has done nothing wrong. It is not her I am upset with. It is the letter.

  ‘Grace.’ For a moment she does not move, her fingers falling still on the pleats of the fabric, her eyes darting to the envelope, now curled and crushed inside my hand.

  ‘Thank you for finding it,’ I say, opening the drawer of my bedside cabinet and slipping it inside. ‘It is much appreciated. I’ll read it later.’ The drawer sticks as I push it shut, then suddenly slams, causing the cabinet to wobble, and a little water to splash out of a glass on top.

  ‘Careful, Dilys,’ says Grace, stepping forward with a cloth she conjures from another pocket in her apron.

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘I should think so. I’ve got enough to do today without you making extra work!’

  I think I hear a smile on her lips and when I look up I see it there, broadening into a grin. I let out a breath, realising I have been holding it. ‘What can I say? I don’t know my own strength,’ I shrug. ‘You’re right, though – you’ll be quite behind at the rate you’re going. Those curtains …’ I nod towards the window. ‘I’ve never known you to be so thorough! Has Emily been giving you instructions on the correct way to open them? Another of her tutorials perhaps?’

  ‘Now, Dilys,’ she says, with affected solemnity, ‘you know as well as I do that I have to learn the proper ways, and Emily is happy to teach me.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ I say, lifting my hands in surrender.

  ‘Yesterday I nearly served the baked potatoes cut in half instead of scoring them with crosses on the top. Goodness knows what Octavia would have said if Emily hadn’t stopped me in time.’ The frown she has been wearing to entertain me softens. She drops her gaze, her expression suddenly earnest. ‘I want to stay,’ she says softly. ‘There’s so much to do. It is exhausting.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Now I am the solemn one. ‘Forgive me?’

  Meeting my eyes again she starts to laugh. ‘Goodness, what has become of me, Dilys? I never used to worry about baked potatoes! I just want to get everything right, that’s all. Emily is helping.’

  Emily has what most people would call a kindly face, one might even imagine she was pretty once, in her youth, but not me. I can see through her act of cheerful concern. I am not fooled. Everything she does is for show; every word, every act, an attempt to win Octavia’s favour. I was here at the beginning, when Octavia was still called Mabel. Emily came later. She came with nothing and persuaded Her to take her in: into Her home and into Her confidence. And now, every time I walk into a room, she is there, whispering to Octavia, pouring spirits in Her ear like Lady Macbeth or poison like Claudius.

  ‘Well,’ Grace says, ‘I suppose I had better get on. Emily will have finished her breakfast by now. And poor old Peter is all by himself. I will go and ask him about his plans for the day. I keep trying but I get the impression he doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Surely that could never be. He’s rather suspicious of newcomers, that’s all. Protective of Octavia.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she says. ‘And now I shall be protective of you. Eat up. That’s an order. Your breakfast will be stone cold if you leave it much longer.’

  It is stone cold already. Once she has gone I take a few bites of toast but it’s all I can manage. All I really need is spiritual
sustenance. I take a square of linen from my bedside drawer and put it into a glass to soak. It takes a few minutes for the healing to infuse the water. I think of it like tea-leaves releasing clouds of amber into the pot, tendrils growing out towards the edges of the glass, but there’s nothing to see. Nothing but breath. At first Octavia had to work on each pint of water to transfer Her divinity, but now She’s found an ingenious method of storage and supply. She breathes on fabric so that the healing can be dispensed whenever and wherever it’s required: God’s grace in a glass. She’s nothing if not practical. That’s why it’s up to women to save mankind; men just can’t get themselves organised. Too busy waging war or trying to beat each other at cricket. I drink the Water twice a day, more if Octavia thinks I need it. It helps me to think less and believe more; it helps me to drown out the Devil when he whispers in my ear. And to drown out the words I know I will find in Adrian’s letter: This religion is all wrong. It will make you ill if you stay. Write back and let me know that you are safe.

  But I won’t.

  I will sit and drink the Water instead.

  *

  I can hear Grace back in the kitchen below me. Today is Monday: washday. It means she’ll be gathering the soap and soda, scrubbing my sheets against the ridges of the washboard. Sometimes I stand and watch her from the kitchen doorway, sleeves pushed up her arms, muscle and sinew moving beneath her skin. She shows me how she prepares the starch for the tablecloths. The recipe has to be followed exactly, grains added first to cold water then to hot. She must stir thoroughly and keep constant watch, otherwise it will thicken and go lumpy. But I won’t visit her in the kitchen this morning. I have work to do, Octavia’s words to type. So I will sit here at my little desk by the window and watch the sheets blowing on the washing line: puppets with invisible strings. Leaping and dancing before the Lord (2 Samuel 6:16). If only our souls could be cleansed so easily.

  The Lord will not come to us until we are pure. That is why Grace is here. That is why God sent her to me. To keep constant watch on my soul.

  Later, when I return from chapel, I will find a clean nightdress under my pillow. I will take off these clothes, savour a moment of anticipation, before I slip it on and feel it brush against my skin: a shroud of purity, spotless and clean. And by then I will have left a gift under her pillow in return. The Lord’s words:

  Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

  (Psalm 51:7)

  Castleside

  Grace hands me an apple for my first morning at Castleside as I pass the kitchen door. When she calls me Miss it is no longer a sign of distance, it feels like she is drawing me closer, like she is whispering a joke. I know my lines and the part I must play.

  ‘Now, Grace. What did I tell you? You needn’t call me Miss. After all, we are friends, aren’t we?’

  ‘We are, Miss Dilys.’ And I realise this is what friendship feels like: knowing what to say, or being happy to say nothing at all.

  Her eyes dart to something behind me. ‘Good morning, Mrs Goodwin.’

  I turn to see Emily approaching. ‘What are you two whispering about?’ she says. ‘Dilys, I hope you are not distracting Grace. So much to do. And shouldn’t you be at Castleside by now?’

  I choose not to answer. I carry on speaking as if she is not there. ‘Thank you for my apple, Grace. I’ll enjoy that.’ Emily gives a strange little laugh, which ends abruptly: snatched by the silence that sweeps the room. It makes me feel exposed. No one speaks, but in the blazing silence I can hear their thoughts about me. They know the apple won’t get eaten.

  ‘I had better be getting on,’ I say, stepping past Emily into the corridor. Emily always says it will do me good to keep busy, that it will take my mind off things. It might be better if I could take my mind away completely, separate brain from body. Dawdling Dilys, you’d forget your own head if it wasn’t screwed on. But I’m not as useless as they thought. I’ve brought Grace to the society, and Octavia has put Her trust in me. She really does want me to prepare Castleside for the bishops.

  ‘Just the finishing touches now,’ Emily says. ‘Remember, the hard work has already been done.’ Kate Firth has seen to that. Twenty-eight rooms, cleaned and decorated; floors varnished, walls painted, furniture moved in. She was given two tasks: to co-ordinate the renovation, and to sign all the cheques to pay for the work.

  But as Octavia said, she could afford it.

  And as Emily said, she couldn’t afford not to.

  The Lord won’t look kindly on those who are not willing to share their blessings, and when it came to raising the funds to buy the property, every member played their part and paid their dues. All were compelled to donate a proportion of their savings. And God was grateful for it. He told Octavia so Himself. ‘Finally we’ll have a place to accommodate the bishops in comfort,’ She said. ‘They can have no excuse to stay away now.’

  The Garden was ours at last. For years Castleside cast a hulking shadow over the society. Octavia told us its bricks and mortar were imbued with a malevolent spirit, a devil blighting God’s Paradise. She would hear its voice tormenting Her over the wall, but all I heard was joy, and freedom: schoolboys studying the skills that are required of them as men, swearing and wicket-keeping, fist-fights and cruelty. I doubt that any consideration was given to matters of religion at all. We had ceased to be a source of curiosity. There was a time when they would dare each other to jump the wall that lay between the back of the school and our Garden, pretending they sought to retrieve a ball that had strayed over, but Octavia put a stop to that. A note sent to the master of the boarders nipped it in the bud. The cane makes a persuasive case and, when it comes to it, a good thrashing is too high a price to pay for a glimpse of most of us. Too old. Too plain. Except Grace. They’d probably have risked it for Grace.

  The day came when we gathered to knock down the wall. Peter lifted the bricks out one by one; he’d given up with the sledgehammer. Despite the considerable effort it took him to swing it, he achieved little more than a glancing blow; enough to knock him backwards but insufficient to loosen even the smallest piece of mortar. Octavia dressed up for the occasion in Her veiled hat and fox stole. Since She has been confined to the Garden, She has few opportunities to dust off Her finest clothes. Quoting from Ephesians: ‘For he is our peace, who hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us,’ I think she envisioned the whole lot would come tumbling down like the walls of Jericho. Perhaps if Peter had been given a trumpet, we could have charged through like the Israelites. As it was, he was chipping away with a chisel, refusing Edgar’s offers to help. It was Emily who rescued him from the embarrassment of an audience. ‘Thank you, Peter,’ she said, stepping forward after several minutes had passed. ‘You have removed that first brick with such great care. It will be wrapped and kept in the archive as an artefact of this great day. Now, you’ll excuse us if we head inside and leave you to your work. I’ll send out some refreshments presently.’

  He ended up taking lunch and dinner outside. It took all day but the wall came down and the Garden was doubled in size. Octavia insisted, before the workmen were sent into Castleside, that Peter should fence off the very back of the building with a hoarding of high wooden sheets. She said it was necessary to protect our modesty: She didn’t want them to be able to see us, or perhaps She didn’t want us to see them. Temptation would come once more to the Garden of Eden and lead to a surge of sinful thoughts. They might unbutton the tops of their shirts, cotton clinging to the sweat on their chests and backs. They would dig the earth and carry piles of bricks as if they weighed nothing at all. Men can do that. They could carry any one of us away to a secluded spot, and we’d be powerless to resist. Besides, the language of men like that would be coarser than the schoolboys’. Coarse like their skin; fingertips rough and unyielding.

  All these are thoughts that I can talk about in my next confession.

  *

  The hallway of Number 12 is dark. Two shafts of sunl
ight skulk through glass panels in the front door, but seem to lose their nerve in the gloom, disappearing into the folds of coats that hang on hooks behind the door. Even when I open the door, the light trespasses no further than the doormat, but I feel its warmth on my face as I take a breath. The air tastes golden.

  At the bottom of the path I turn left past Rachel Fox’s front door, then left again into Castle Road, tracing the boundary of the Garden in the streets that surround it. On this side there are very few windows. Walking tucked in beside the wall, I am hidden from their prying eyes and pocketbooks. I count my steps as I always do. When I get to seventy-seven I know I am beyond Octavia’s reach. It’s eighty-one to the driveway of Castleside but once the renovations are finished She’ll be able to come and go as She pleases through the Garden. It’s just as well because when the time comes, She’ll have to be here to direct the bishops. She’s already picked out a hat and which Bible She will read from, and She’s got a beautiful shawl that Ellen made for Her with lilies and a cross on the back. She has rehearsed every detail in Her head: who will stand where, what She will say, exactly where the box will be positioned. She speaks about little else these days.

  *

  I turn left again into Newnham Road and immediately through the gate of The Haven to knock for Kate Firth. She said she would show me around Castleside herself. I like the way she says it: castle with a ‘ca’ not a ‘car’. But Octavia thinks a northern accent sounds common, no matter how wealthy the speaker is.

  ‘Kate, are you sure you’ve got time?’ I ask her as she opens her front door.