The Rapture

by Claire McGlasson

  ‘Absolutely,’ she says. ‘It’s a pleasure to get out for a while, just let me get my coat.’

  Last year Octavia decided The Haven was far too big for a widow to be rattling around in by herself. Far better that Kate has some company. So She asked her to take in new members while they sought more permanent lodgings in Bedford.

  ‘How many are staying at the moment?’ I say, when Kate returns wearing a black velvet cape with a dusting of tiny glass beads on the collar.

  ‘Eight. It’s a pity we can’t move a few into Castleside.’ But we both know Octavia would never allow it. We may need to receive the bishops at a minute’s notice; it would be no good if they arrived to find they were sharing with a houseful of women.

  I look past her, down the hallway towards the source of muddled sounds I can’t quite decipher. ‘They are busy rehearsing,’ she says. ‘The Blue Room has been taken over for practice. Octavia has asked them to put on a musical evening and they are keen to make sure they are pitch perfect. Mrs Ashcroft is a rather talented pianist so my services won’t be required.’ She turns to the mirror in the hallway, using her fingertips to comb the wave of greying hair that sweeps up into a soft pile on top. ‘Do you play, Dilys? I can’t remember ever seeing you perform.’

  That is because I am never asked to.

  ‘I play a little,’ I say. ‘Very poorly.’

  ‘Well, we can’t all be good at everything,’ she says kindly. ‘Here, you’ll need these.’ She takes a large bunch of keys from the console table below the mirror and places them in my hand, pausing before her fingers part with them.

  ‘They are yours now,’ she says. We walk down the path from The Haven and up the next to Castleside, which looms ahead of us. It looks like it has grown up from the ground in red brick. A jumble of different styles of windows on three storeys: some are bay, some hooded; some clustered in pairs or threes; large rectangular panes and small square grids of glass. The lack of symmetry only serves to emphasise the building’s size, dwarfing a small white wooden porch which sits atop the front door.

  ‘The big one – that’s the front key,’ Kate says. ‘But you’ll be able to come through the back now the hoarding’s coming down. Peter’s been asked to do it tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say. But I’m disappointed that I’ll no longer have an excuse to walk the streets outside the Garden.

  *

  Castleside is even bigger than it looks from the outside, a hallway twice as wide as that of Number 12, with large rooms leading off both sides. ‘Let’s start in here,’ Kate says. ‘The dining room. We decided it best to serve meals in two sittings. Twenty-four would be too crowded, even in a room this size.’ A large mahogany table runs down the centre of the room, surrounded by twelve chairs. There’s an assortment of crockery on the top.

  ‘Members have started to bring donations already,’ Kate says. ‘But odds and ends are no good. You’ll need matching sets. Octavia was very firm on that point.’

  I walk across and pick up a side plate which is stacked on top of a dozen or so more. Garlands of green leaves and white flowers decorate the edges.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Dilys. There’s a full inventory of what we’ll need in there,’ Kate says, pointing at a desk in the bay window at the front of the room. ‘Oh, and while I think of it, the keys are in the top drawer. The only other set, so keep them safe.’

  Back out in the hallway she points out the encaustic floor tiles, matched with such precision that it is impossible to tell which are new and which were there all along. She explains how the plasterer made a mould of the egg and dart cornice to repair the damage in the corner. ‘The wallpaper here was unsalvageable, I’m afraid. A pity – it was a beautiful print. Exotic birds. Reminded me of a paper we had back in York, before the war.’

  She points to a door on the other side of the hallway.

  ‘That will be a sitting room,’ she says, ‘same size as the dining room. And if you follow me I’ll show you the scullery and kitchen.’ I’m starting to panic now, there’s an awful lot of space to fill. Why has Octavia trusted me with this? It all looks so empty. No pots or pans. No lingering smell of warm bread or old grease.

  We pass a door to the garden and carry on to a room at the very back of the house.

  ‘And this is it!’ she says. ‘The Opening Room where the bishops will gather to open the box. May I?’

  Taking back the bunch of keys, she finds the right one instantly: a single flash of golden brass among the tarnished iron. Behind the door is a small room, no bigger than Grace’s bedroom at Number 12.

  ‘What do you think?’ she says, evidently enjoying my bewilderment.

  ‘It’s smaller than I imagined.’

  ‘Yes, this is the ante-chamber,’ she says, amused by her own joke. ‘The box room if you like! The opening will take place in here …’

  She opens another door. The sight of the second room is made even more dramatic by its contrast with the first. It must be four times the size of our dining room at Number 12, with a high ceiling and oak panels lining every wall.

  ‘I’m rather proud of it,’ Kate says. And she is right to be; it creates a sense of occasion. Important things happen in oak-panelled rooms: the Houses of Parliament, church vestries, gentlemen’s clubs. Places where promises are made and deals struck. Places for men.

  ‘So here is where it will happen,’ I say, more to myself than to Kate. When the lid is lifted, will light pour out and fill the room or music fill our ears like a heavenly choir? Will the earth shake or the heavens tear apart? None of us knows, not even Octavia. But in that moment everything will change. All suffering will end.

  ‘I’m told the box is the size of a large boarder’s trunk,’ Kate says, ‘which is rather apt considering that it will be opened here.’ Here where the schoolboys ate and slept, studied and played. We make our way upstairs and, buried beneath the scent of fresh paint, lies the faint memory of another: a mixture of unwashed laundry and expectation.

  ‘After you,’ Kate says. ‘There are twenty bedrooms, so the majority of the bishops will have their own. Eight of them will have to double up, but we shan’t risk them fighting it out among themselves. Octavia will draw up a list of who goes where. And there’s a bathroom and lavatory on every floor.’

  ‘I see,’ I say. But I don’t see. Not really. I don’t see how I am going to fill all these rooms with ornaments and furnishings.

  ‘It’s all been planned out,’ Kate says kindly. ‘It’s just a question of adding the finishing touches, making it look homely – just like you would a home of your own.’ But as soon as the words leave her lips she regrets them. We both know I’ll never have my own home to decorate.

  Kate turns towards the door. ‘I’ll leave you now to get your bearings,’ she says.

  I wait until I hear the front door behind her, then I move across the room, walking slowly at first, then stretching my legs to a stride. With each step, I place my foot down harder, louder, enjoying the click of my heels against floorboards. I clap my hands together, I whistle, I feel myself growing into this space, echoes filling every corner. There is nobody watching me here.

  How did this room look when it was a dormitory? Full of books, blazers hanging on the hooks behind the doors. I open the cupboards, hoping to find an artefact left behind but all that remains is a crude picture scratched into the wood: a body part, a male organ. Detached, dismembered. It looks so small and so childish; a schoolboy’s defiance; a risk taken; a rule broken. I shut the door again, and hide it away. I shall leave it in the dark. I like the thought of it, the thought that only I will know it’s there.

  Exploring each room in turn, I find every one identical: bare walls and floorboards, curtainless windows and undressed beds. And a thought scuttles across my skin: they look like cells for lunatics, the whole place a madhouse from which the patients have fled. There’s a heaviness in the air. At the very top of the house I step into a room with the feeling that someone else has
just left it. Unlike the rest, its door has been left ajar. And it looks as though the mattress has been slept on: it is dipping in the middle, holding the imprint of a body that it has cradled. I touch it, half expecting to find it still warm, but it isn’t. Of course it isn’t.

  Pull yourself together, Dilys.

  My mind is running wild with childish stories. As if I am Goldilocks and will be faced, at any moment, with a family of angry bears. But the only thing to fear is Octavia’s poor opinion. I really need to concentrate on the job at hand, but starting back down the stairs, I pick up my pace to a run. I can feel my fears lingering in the room behind me. I trip on my own feet. I must take care. Slow down. At the sight of the red carpet on the treads I picture myself lying at the bottom.

  Just as I have imagined Emily.

  Relief comes swiftly when my feet reach the tiles of the hallway. Back on solid ground. The same giddy joy I used to feel when I played chase with my brothers in Bedford Park. Tiggy tiggy touch wood! I squeeze the bannister beneath my hand and remember the terror and the thrill, the dash across the open grass, the exhilaration when I made it to a fence post or a bench and I was safe. Untouchable.

  Touch wood, Dilys. Touch wood and hope for the best.

  There is still the sitting room to see. I push the door gently and peek inside. There is nothing more than an empty sideboard, dark wood against walls freshly painted in a deep maroon. This is where the bishops will sit after their evening meal. We’ll need chairs. Lots of them. Twelve at least so they can use the room in turns. I’ll arrange them in small groups around the fire and in the corners. I’ll find side-tables and place piles of books on top; perhaps a vase or two, though I’m not sure men care for cut flowers. With a roaring fire it will be quite cosy.

  Off the hallway, past the kitchen, I find another door, which Kate did not pause to show me before. When I open it I’m greeted with a cold blast of air and a darkness that my eyes were not prepared for. It’s a pantry, long and thin; the light from a single window like the mouth of a tunnel. I walk along the empty shelves on either side, listing in my head the foods we’ll need to store: tinned meats and peaches, canisters of flour and sugar; enough to feed the bishops for as long as they decide to stay.

  There’s a crunch beneath my shoes. Flashes of brilliant light dancing at my feet. I reach down to catch them and something bites me. There’s blood on my hand. Glass. Shattered glass. Wide blades and needle-thin shards glinting up from the floor. That’s why it is so cold: a small pane in the window has been smashed. And the catch is open. Someone could have reached in and opened it, climbed through.

  Too many thoughts crowd at once: the whens and wheres and whos. Why would they break in? There’s nothing to steal here, nothing to take; except what they could take from me. Octavia has told me what men can do, what the wall protects me from. She has never shied away from the facts of life or the Sex Question and why the answer must always be ‘no’. Someone could have broken in; someone could be here still. Hiding behind a door or beneath a bed.

  Pull yourself together, Dilys.

  Those childish thoughts again. The window may have been broken weeks ago. Yes, there’s no one here but me. Just me. And nothing will hurt me. Octavia blessed this house Herself, before the hoarding went up. She crossed the lawn and sprinkled the Water on the boundary of every room; breathed Her divine protection into every corner.

  Nothing can hurt me here.

  I’ve done all I can today. Seen all I came to see. I run for the front door and lock it behind me, my right hand still bleeding, my left pitted with marks where I’ve been gripping the keys too tightly.

  Healing by Post

  I want to head straight up to my bedroom, but as soon as I step into Number 12 Grace appears in the hallway. ‘You’re bleeding,’ she says, rushing forward to inspect my fingers.

  ‘It’s nothing really. I cut it on some glass.’

  Despite my protests, she insists that I take a seat in the kitchen. ‘What happened?’ she says, placing a bowl of warm water on the table beside me.

  ‘There was a smashed window at Castleside, in the pantry.’

  ‘Dilys, your hands are shaking—’

  ‘It gave me quite a fright,’ I say, more defensively than I mean to.

  ‘I’ll bet. Perhaps one of the workmen knocked the glass.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  She frowns as she leans in to inspect the cut more closely. ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘I did wonder if someone had broken in.’

  ‘A burglar?’

  ‘I suppose so. But there’s nothing to steal. Not yet.’

  ‘I wonder what Octavia will make of it …’

  There’s a moment of silence and then I say it: ‘I don’t plan to mention it to Her.’

  I don’t want to go running for help on my first day at Castleside. I can already hear Emily: I knew she wasn’t up to it. Would you like me to take over, Octavia? No, I won’t give her the satisfaction. Octavia put me in charge, I won’t let Her down.

  ‘But aren’t we supposed to tell everything?’ Grace asks.

  ‘I’ll mention it to Kate. I’m sure it was an accident. She can ask the workmen to pop back and replace the pane.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she says, but now she’s the one that doesn’t sound convinced. She has wrapped her fingers around mine, cradling them, and I am watching the bowl of water turn pink, clouds of blood spiralling like paint from an artist’s brush. I always think of Grace in colours: the purest white to paint her skin, fine brushes dipped into every shade of gold, brown and red for every strand of hair. I imagine God squeezing a line of emerald paste onto His palette, then changing His mind. Green eyes would be too obvious, and so He chooses chestnut brown instead, dark enough to make her skin look even paler and ignite her hair to flames.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ I say. ‘Octavia doesn’t need to be bothered with every detail.’ She looks up and smiles at me. It’s a smile that says, I won’t tell, a smile that shows me we have crossed a line, made a pact.

  ‘So, what shall I do with this?’ she says, holding out a square of the healing linen, which Octavia has breathed Her blessing on. She insisted on going to fetch it from my bedroom.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. The bleeding’s nearly stopped.’

  ‘Dilys – for goodness’ sake!’ she says, rolling her eyes playfully. ‘You are not very good at letting people look after you.’

  I could tell her it is because I haven’t had much practice. But I don’t.

  ‘Soak the linen first and you can apply it directly to the cut,’ I say. She hasn’t received her daily ration of the healing water yet. Octavia will present her with a square of linen and a wax seal of protection when she takes her vows to Christ. She likes to keep something back: a wedding present I suppose.

  Grace fills a second bowl of water and dips the linen in. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Leave it a little longer. It takes time.’

  ‘It’s just it looks so … ordinary.’ For a fleeting moment I see her eyes widen, as though surprised that she has said the words out loud. ‘Does it really work?’ she says, lowering her voice. We both know that it is blasphemous to question it. And saying something in a whisper does not make it any less dangerous; if anything it’s more, because the other person has to lean in close to hear it.

  ‘Dilys …?’

  I realise I haven’t answered her. I cannot tell her that the Water is my salvation, that it is the only thing that keeps me sane; allows me to think straight; quietens the Devil’s words. So instead I say, ‘I find it calms my spirits. We know it is a cure-all, a panacea.’

  ‘The Panacea Society!’ she says. ‘To cure all ills.’

  ‘Have you only just realised?’ I say, with a laugh.

  She stands up and takes the bowl of ruddy water to the sink. Just when I feel close to Grace I spoil it. I say the wrong thing or in the wrong way.

  ‘I thought the name came from the box �
�� the prophecies to heal all suffering …’ she says. ‘I know I have a lot to learn.’

  I can feel distance opening up between us.

  ‘Then that’s my fault,’ I say. ‘I should be teaching you about the ministry. How about tomorrow morning? Octavia has asked me to cut the linen. You could bring me some lunch in the Cutting Room … If that’s all right. If you want to … If you are not too busy.’

  She holds my gaze and I know she has come back to me.

  ‘I’ll have to get permission from Octavia,’ I say.

  ‘Of course.’ And then she takes my hand and pats it dry again.

  *

  Spring is on its way. The Garden is full of new life and optimism, nature nourished by the decay of last year’s blooms and rising again, reborn; a botanical interpretation of the Bible. How different it must look since God first created it; since Adam stood and named all the living creatures. I imagine the verdant ferns, the scent of warm rain and teeming life, vines twisting beneath a canopy of leaves in every shade of green, animals with sharp teeth and poisoned fangs. Paradise was dangerous: a place with too many dark corners for the guilty to hide. But it’s much more practical as it is today, with open lawns and manicured flowerbeds. Here we shall walk alongside Christ when He returns to us. Though I’m not sure what I’ll say to Him. I expect Octavia will do the talking.

  It feels good to be outside. Emily is always telling me what will do me good: a good walk, a good meal. She never says a good hiding but I expect that’s what she is thinking. Pain is a good teacher. That’s why God punished us with the horrors of childbirth, though old maids are spared that torture. Or is it joy?

  Yggdrasil wears the delicate lace of new leaves; narcissi and crocus crowd into the empty spaces between box hedges. I almost imagine I hear the green shoots tearing up through the soil by my feet, but it is Peter: he is using a clawhammer to tease out nails from the wooden hoarding at the back of Castleside. Edgar and Donald are standing, watching him work.

  ‘Well, the offer stands,’ I hear Edgar say as I approach. ‘Many hands make light work and all that.’