The Rapture

by Claire McGlasson

  Here in Ellen’s parlour it doesn’t matter, sitting on the wicker chairs in her drawing room with her knick-knacks all around. You couldn’t call it untidy. Octavia would never allow it to be that. But the Bible sampler on the wall is hanging slightly askew, the china dog on the mantelpiece looks like it has just returned from a walk and the cushions are in dire need of plumping, as if a breeze has pushed everything slightly out of its proper place. That could be me of course: I always let out a deep breath when I sit down in this room. My relief could be enough to lift the corner of the rug, or ruffle the blue damask curtains which Octavia picked out. Ellen has always hated those curtains but she would never say so. Not out loud.

  ‘So there is no doubt that the strike will go ahead?’ Ellen asks.

  ‘No, the negotiations have failed. The Government is already gathering troops in Hyde Park. We heard it on the wireless after chapel,’ I answer. Now that she is not venturing out, she can’t even listen to the news. I wonder if Octavia would buy a radio set for her. Ellen can’t buy her own: all her savings have been signed over to the society and, by now, I’m guessing the deeds to her house have too. ‘The unions have given their word that milk and food supplies will still get through,’ I say. ‘Though Octavia is not convinced – She says we may have to rely on the Water to sustain us if the strike goes on.’

  ‘If only the bishops would listen,’ Ellen says. ‘All this could have been avoided. First the war, now this! If only they would agree to come and open the box.’ I have never seen Ellen’s frustration spill over before, never heard her raise her voice. ‘More suffering! Because of them.’

  We sit in silence and I rub her hands to warm them; her fingers are as brittle as dry sticks. I must be careful or a spark could catch on her papery skin. There’s so little of her now. She’d go up in seconds. Ashes to ashes.

  ‘Will you come?’ she says, almost under her breath at first, and then again. ‘Will you come here when the strike is called? Will you come and sit with me?’

  I laugh. ‘But Ellen, you’ll be quite safe here. We have God’s protection.’

  ‘I know. But … all those angry men out on the streets. Octavia says there will be looting. All they’d have to do is break a window. There’s nothing I could do. I don’t like to ask Betty to sit up with me.’

  Tears are pooling in the corners of her eyes. This isn’t Ellen, she has always been the strong one, but she looks defeated.

  ‘Of course we’ll come,’ I say.

  We can worry about persuading Octavia later.

  Grace tries her best to cheer her. ‘We’ll keep the fire lit. A cup of cocoa and we’ll hunker down for the night. Lock the doors. We’ll be quite jolly.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ll be the one looking after us,’ I say, wanting to remind her who she is. Or who she was. ‘You can tell Grace about your days in Holloway while we are holed up. More stories about Mrs Pankhurst.’

  ‘I look back on those days with fondness but not with pride,’ Ellen says. ‘I was fighting for something that wasn’t worth having, Grace. None of it matters; whether women have the vote or not is immaterial.’

  ‘But that makes no sense,’ Grace says. ‘It is our time. Time for women to rise and make the world better. Isn’t that why we are here?’

  ‘We are here to do the Lord’s will,’ Ellen says. ‘It doesn’t matter who leads the government. We recognise no authority but the rule of God.’

  Those were Octavia’s words on polling day when She instructed us not to leave the Garden. It made no difference to me: I don’t have the years, or the wealth, to qualify. But I waited for Ellen to put on her coat and hat, to pin on her ribbon of purple and green, and to walk out of her front door and straight into the polling station. I wanted something to happen. Something to change. I wanted someone to do what I have never been able to do: I wanted someone to stand up to Octavia.

  The Protection

  The weather is perfect. A sign, says Octavia, that God is blessing our endeavours. There’s barely a cloud in the sky and the moon is full with borrowed light, so we’ll be able to see what we are doing. Clear skies mean it is cold, though. Emily has instructed us to wear extra layers underneath our coats. They’ll keep us warm and, if it comes to it, will make it more difficult for any men who might try to force themselves on us in the dark. Grace hands me a rolling pin from the drawer in the kitchen. Just in case. And we can always use our knees; Octavia says a knock in the groin is a very effective deterrent against lascivious men. Though I’m not sure She’s ever had cause to adminster one.

  ‘Ready?’ I ask.

  Grace nods and ties my scarf more tightly around my neck. ‘Will you be warm enough?’ she says. ‘There’s nothing of you lately.’

  ‘In this? I’ll be fine.’ I am embraced by fur, the rabbit coat that Octavia bought for me when I turned eighteen. I thought it rather extravagant at the time but I suppose She saved plenty of money that would otherwise have been spent filling my bottom drawer for marriage.

  ‘Yes,’ Grace says. ‘Even you should be cosy in that.’ She brushes the fur on my shoulder. ‘Beautiful …’ She makes that noise again: something between a sigh and a laugh. Is it longing, or contentment?

  I want to tell her that she is exceptional, that I’ve been thinking about how to describe her and I keep coming back to that word. Instead I lift the collar of her coat. The dark blue one, I suppose it’s the only one she has, and for just a second, my finger is inside the fabric, brushing against the skin of her neck.

  Even the slightest touch could lead to sin.

  ‘Dilys? Grace? Are you two ready?’ Emily is calling us from the hallway, where a small group has gathered.

  ‘Time to go,’ I say, ‘this is it!’ Bravado again. This feels dangerous, perhaps because Octavia has told us that the country will soon be overrun with lawlessness. Or perhaps it’s the thought of being alone with Grace.

  ‘Stay close,’ Grace says. As if she has to ask. We leave the kitchen and walk past the clock in the hallway. 12.45 a.m. I should be tired, but I’m not.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Dilys, we need the linen,’ Emily says. I reach into my pocket and take out the six small bundles I cut this morning. Each contains eight squares to be buried around the perimeter of each civic building, all cut from cloth that Octavia has blessed with Her breath.

  ‘You all know what to do. At this time of night nobody should see you.’ Emily pushes open the sitting-room door to reveal Octavia. She is sitting in Her chair, waiting to deliver Her battle-cry: Henry V is one of Her favourites.

  ‘God has called upon us to perform this protection,’ She says. ‘This is a momentous time for one and all. Stand firm and see what the Lord will do to rescue His faithful children from what is coming upon the world.’

  We file past Her into the cold air: troops on parade, fanning out in pairs when we reach the pavement. Kate and Rachel go first, both wrapped in fur-trimmed coats. A passer-by might imagine they are strolling back from a concert or some other entertainment, the satin of Kate’s cloche and matching gloves shining in the glow of the streetlamp. The men wear an air of intrigue: Edgar dressed entirely in black, Donald’s face barely visible behind the college scarf which he has pulled up around his cheeks. They fall into perfect step with each other, glancing furtively along the empty street, evidently enjoying the cloak-and-dagger of the mission.

  Emily sends Grace and me on our way with a silent nod of her head. She and Peter have volunteered to stay behind with Octavia. Plenty of the members are turning out tonight, their departure staggered at different times from various houses. We mustn’t draw too much attention to ourselves. Even at this hour there’s a chance we could be spotted, and people would think we were up to no good.

  They always assume the worst.

  *

  ‘Can we just check all is well at Castleside?’ I whisper to Grace as we turn into Newnham Road.

  ‘Of course.’ Grace has no idea that I want to check whether there’s anyone lurking in
the front garden. Half of me is hoping there is, at least then I’d have an explanation for the face I saw at the window.

  ‘It all looks fine,’ she whispers as we walk up to the front door. I shake the handle just to check it is locked. There is no one here. No man. No devil. There’s no one in the street at all except Grace and me. Alone.

  ‘Yes, all secure.’ I turn to retrace our steps and she reaches out for my arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she says.

  How can I tell her I am not? That I am frightened of the dark and the things that could happen in it. Behind the tall trees that shield the house from the road we are completely cut off, and I hear a voice inside my head. It’s telling me to do the things I can’t stop imagining. Take her hand, it says, draw her close. But those are the Devil’s thoughts. Not mine. I would never have thoughts like that.

  ‘Dilys?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. My voice sounds strange; my breathing too loud. ‘Just cold.’

  She puts her arm around me and rubs my side to warm me up. I should tell her to stop. Octavia told us it is forbidden.

  But that didn’t stop Her and Peter …

  ‘Come on then,’ Grace says. ‘We’d better get on. The mound or the flour mill?’ There are two ways to get to St Peter’s Church. I don’t fancy the castle mound; the ground is uneven and Octavia says it’s where the undesirables gather on benches to drink alcohol. Vagrants, that’s what She calls them. There are those who came back from the war in limbo, no longer in this world but not quite in the next. Parts of them were sent off to Heaven, an advance party of lost limbs and lost hope. And so they sit and drink and wonder whether they will be made whole again when they make it to God’s table. They sit and they stare, grieving for their friends and resenting them for making it out of this life in one piece. A clean break.

  ‘Do you really think it is haunted?’ Grace whispers. She is smiling, I can tell.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The castle mound. I thought it was supposed to be haunted. Wasn’t there a siege there? The king’s men surrounded it.’

  ‘That’s the story. Tried to starve them out, break their spirit, leave them too weak to fight.’

  I hear from her breath that she is going to say something. But she stops. She has changed her mind.

  ‘What is it?’

  We keep walking.

  ‘You should know about starving,’ she says. ‘Dilys, I worry about you. Like you said, it leaves you too weak to fight.’

  I could tell her the usual things: I have a small appetite or I’ve been off my food. But what would be the point? She knows something is wrong with me. They all know it. The difference is she has said it out loud.

  I’m always fighting, I say. It’s all I seem to do. Fighting with myself, with my feelings. And when it comes to eating, I just can’t face it. I could do as I’m told and eat it all up nicely like a good girl, but I’m not a girl any more. And I’ve never been good either. Not good enough. Not for Octavia. Did I say that out loud or in my head? Could she hear my silent words seeping out into the darkness between us?

  We walk back onto Castle Street, around the back of the Bunyan Meeting Church, and as we pass it she touches my arm, and turns to me and smiles, just like she did when she sat beside me on the pew.

  ‘Are you glad I invited you that day?’ I ask her.

  ‘Of course. Are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. But I don’t say how much. How I’ve never been more glad of anything.

  *

  There is no one in the street, just the occasional light shining from an upstairs window. It’s all quiet at the Higgins Brewery, no gangs of workers in the yard, no foremen shouting instructions or drivers to wolf-whistle as we pass. And it’s all dark in the lane which leads through to the High Street; no streetlights back here, just cramped little doorways that lead into pubs. Octavia says working men disappear inside with their pay-packets on a Friday and aren’t seen again until Monday morning. Sometimes their wives wait outside, hoping that the hungry cries of their children will persuade them to come out, or at least send out a coin or two. But the women make the mistake of trying to appeal to their husbands’ better judgement. They should know by now, men have no judgement after five pints of ale, better or otherwise.

  The lane narrows into an alleyway, moonlight shining in the gullies between the cobbles and catching on shards of broken glass in a doorway. It hasn’t been raining so I’m guessing the puddles we are stepping over must be man-made. I don’t want to touch anything, but I’m forced to feel my way along the walls of the alleyway towards the rectangle of light that marks the other end. Staying close behind me, Grace keeps her hand on my back and we edge along; the blind leading the blind. I stumble and feel myself falling, but the alley is narrow enough to keep me on my feet. Grace steps forward and knocks into me, her cheek pressing against my coat. I feel her moving her face against the fur, breathing in its scent. Her arms are around my waist.

  She is holding me. I am being held.

  She must have reached out to steady herself. Nothing more than impulse. But now she is completely still. She is not moving. And neither am I.

  ‘All right back there?’ I say softly.

  ‘Yes, you? Did you stub your toe?’

  ‘I’ll live! There must be a loose cobble.’

  I need to concentrate on what we’ve come to do, but my mind is moving too quickly. Running away with itself. Running away from Grace. But it keeps turning back, looking over its shoulder. Perhaps that’s why I feel I’m going round in circles.

  *

  ‘We look like gravediggers,’ I say as we walk through the gate into the churchyard of St Peter’s.

  ‘Or body-snatchers,’ she says. ‘Mind you, we’ve hardly come well prepared for that.’ She produces a trowel from her pocket with a flourish.

  ‘We’ve got a rolling pin,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget the rolling pin.’

  We start to laugh and she puts her finger to her lips. ‘Shhhhhh. You’ll wake the dead.’ Now she’s said it I can’t help thinking of the bodies lying just beneath the grass, of the day my father’s coffin was lowered into the ground, when I threw a handful of earth on top. I wonder what is left of him now, whether the skin and flesh has all rotted away, or whether it hangs off his bones like strips of ribbon. The Bible says the dead will rise again, but I hope God restores them first.

  I’m still laughing. I don’t think I can stop but it is making me feel nauseous. It’s getting hot inside this coat, I can feel a prickly heat rising up my body, like fingers walking up my leg.

  ‘You’re stepping on their graves,’ she says.

  ‘Stop it. You’re unnerving me.’ I nudge into her and we start to walk again.

  ‘Unnerving you?’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Now you know how I feel. You could have warned me you were a sleepwalker.’

  ‘I’m not. Well, I was … when I was a child. How did you know?’

  ‘Because last week you frightened the life out of me.’

  I pause to take this in. If it has started again, what have I been doing? Was I talking about her, walking into her bedroom? I try to remember the dreams I’ve had, the ones where I untie her hair and brush it down her back. The ones where she lifts my arms above my head and slides off my nightdress. What secrets have I told her in my sleep?

  ‘I heard footsteps on the landing,’ she says, ‘and when I looked out I saw you standing, quite still, at the top of the stairs. Just looking down to the bottom.’

  I feel sick.

  ‘I thought you were awake. I tried to talk to you, your eyes were open but you had no idea I was there.’

  Did I speak? That’s what I need to know but I daren’t ask.

  ‘We took you back to bed and—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Emily. She heard us and got up. She was actually very kind about it.’

  ‘I bet she was.’

  ‘She was. She said we mustn’t wake
you in case it gave you a shock. I’d never seen anyone sleepwalking before.’

  I wonder why Grace didn’t say anything, why she didn’t tell me the next day. But I don’t ask. I want to know if she tucked me into bed and lifted the sheets back over me. But I don’t ask that either.

  ‘We’d better dig this side, near the path,’ I say. ‘Away from the graves.’

  ‘Near the foundations,’ she says. ‘Makes sense. Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She bends down in front of me, one knee on the grass, and starts to dig with the trowel. She’s almost invisible in the dark; the white skin on the back of her neck is all I can see of her.

  ‘There. Is that deep enough?’

  ‘I can’t see. Let me come down and—’

  ‘No use in getting your clothes dirty. The grass is damp.’ She looks up and her pale face emerges from the shadows.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Let’s have a look.’ I bend down beside her, feeling my way across the grass to the hole she has dug. In it I find her hand still gripping the trowel. She doesn’t jump when my skin meets hers. Nothing. No movement. No words. I hold my breath.

  The slightest touch could lead to sin. Just imagine what it could lead to.

  ‘You are shivering,’ she says. ‘Are you all right?’

  She can’t hear the voice I do. Calling from among the graves. Is it just an echo inside my head? The slightest touch could lead to—

  ‘Dilys, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Let’s get on, get this done,’ I say, determinedly.

  We can’t stay here, we have to go. Because the voice is urging me to reach out to her in the dark.

  I take the trowel and stab it into the ground, leaning it against the side of the hole to gauge how deeply she has dug. ‘A good couple of inches. That should do it.’ Then I reach into my pocket and place the first square of linen in the hole. Grace covers it with soil again.