‘We’re here,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry.’
Ellen looks at me and then at Grace. We are not invisible any more. I wonder whether she can read the look on my face, feel the heat from my body.
‘You get some rest,’ I say. ‘We’ll be right here.’
Ellen closes her eyes. In this light she looks younger, her cheeks not quite so sunken, her skin not quite so pale.
‘We decided she’d be more comfortable up here,’ Grace says softly, busying herself at the fireplace behind me. ‘And it’s just as well. She could hardly stay awake.’ Her voice sounds thin and timid. She is avoiding my eyes. ‘Cocoa?’ she says, with a forced brightness.
‘Yes please.’ I sit on one of the two chairs she has pulled up to the fire, and look across at Ellen. ‘How did she seem, before she dropped off?’
‘Oh, a little anxious at first. I was here at about eleven o’clock and I could tell she was starting to worry when it got to midnight,’ she says, rubbing her knuckles with the tip of her thumb. ‘But in the end it was a bit like seeing in the New Year – all a bit of an anti-climax.’
‘All quiet so far?’ I ask. ‘No noise out on the street?’
‘Nothing. But it’s only just gone one o’clock now. There’s still time.’
I watch her pour cocoa from a pot that’s warming by the fire and when I take it our hands touch.
‘Dilys,’ she says, looking down. ‘Out there, on the landing … when you didn’t arrive I was worried … And then when I saw you in such a state … I was …’
‘It’s understandable on a night like this.’
With our words we pretend that nothing happened but something has passed between us. She knows. Perhaps she has known all along. Since that first day in the Garden. Since before I knew it myself.
When she looks up at me again, I tell her silently; I tell her everything. That when I am with her I am in the wilderness, tested like Jesus, hungry and desperate. Tempted by the Devil.
I stretch forth my hands unto thee: my soul thirsteth after thee, as a thirsty land.
(Psalm 143:6)
I feed her my thoughts, sending them across the space between us, letting them linger just before her lips. I look at her and in my mind I kiss her, and with her eyes she finds my mouth. She is the first to look away, shuffling in her chair, smoothing down her skirt and making that noise she makes. But this time I think I know what it means: it is longing, not contentment.
‘Dilys,’ she says. ‘We can’t …’
‘I know. Don’t worry,’ I whisper. And for the first time in my life I feel that I am in control. To crave each other is not a sin, as long as we don’t give in. Just knowing is enough. Just knowing that she is tempted by the Devil as I am. It is another pact that we make then and there, without saying a word.
‘It’s cold,’ I say.
She looks up.
‘The cocoa, Grace. I’m afraid it’s cold.’
I smile and she laughs with such relief, as though I have saved her from falling, pulled her back from the edge of a cliff.
‘Well, I’m sorry, Miss Dilys, but at midnight, when you were supposed to be here, it was piping hot. I can assure you.’ She pauses. ‘I’m glad we’re friends, Dilys.’
‘The best of friends.’
SUMMER
The matter of sex-relations or what is called the Purity Question must be dealt with. Write down in actual words any sins of impurity … Do not be afraid to use the words ‘adultery’, ‘self-abuse’, ‘unholy thoughts’. It will comfort you to know that no one is entirely free from sex-difficulties.
Octavia, A Reply to Those Sealed People Who Are Enquiring About Confession
The Vow
She is lying face down. Her arms are by her sides, her legs slightly apart, a halo of red hair fanning out around her head. Grace is not moving, except for a momentary twitch of her hand. She will soon be dead: her old life will be over.
‘May Almighty God grant you His grace to fulfil your resolutions,’ Octavia says, standing over her in front of the altar. Grace is a body wrapped in the shroud of her Sunday best, the white cotton of her blouse falling against the skin at the small of her back. Her navy skirt is trimmed with military braiding, small brass buttons marking each corner by the hem. It makes her look like she is back-to-front, a casualty of war who twisted as she fell.
‘In this you symbolise the death of all that is past and a commitment to serving Jesus as your husband,’ Octavia says.
Today is Grace’s wedding day. I am one of the guests. Once the ceremony is over I’ll join the long line of well-wishers and congratulate her. I’ll take a piece of the cake she baked this morning. There will be no groom to hold the knife with, no bouquet to throw, no going-away outfit. And no need to bid an embarrassed farewell: there will be no marital bed to rush to. Or recoil from.
Grace kneels at Octavia’s feet and speaks: ‘I make to God, in Your hands, the simple vows of chastity and obedience.’ Octavia dispensed with the bit about poverty. She has always been drawn to the pomp and ceremony of the Catholic Church but when dogma compromises comfort, something’s got to give. She places Her hand on Grace’s head, touching her hair: ‘You are a bride of Christ, and soon you will look upon His face and call Him husband. Soon He will return.’ She signals to Emily, who steps forward with a glass of water on a tray. ‘And now you are reborn in Him, your new life will be eternal. Now I share with you the gift He hath bestowed on me.’
She takes a pair of tweezers, and fishes out a piece of linen that has sunk to the bottom of the glass. Just as my father used to administer the Eucharist, She holds the glass to Grace’s lips and lets her sip. ‘You are blessed,’ She says. And after she has swallowed, Grace replies as she has been instructed: ‘Blessed indeed.’ Only the two of us know that I gave her a square of linen all those weeks ago.
One of many secrets that bind us together.
Octavia will bestow one more gift on her this evening. Now that she has walked down the aisle and made her vows to Jesus, Grace is one of us. Octavia reaches into Her pocket and pulls out a small scarlet case. I know that it is held together with tiny stitches, each carefully sewn by hand. I know that a small bone button holds the flap down at the front, and inside is a disc of red wax and a handwritten card. I know it is identical to the one I carry with me always; the one I was given when I took the vow.
Within the wax enclosed is sealed up the LIVING BREATH. The seal of protection in the Coming Dangers is to be kept in a safe place easily got at and is to be worn on the person when travelling or when dangers begin to threaten. If opened or tampered with it will lose its virtue.
I know all this because Octavia asked me to sew it for Grace. ‘How neat your stitches are,’ She said when it was done. But She did not know the reason I had taken so much care. She didn’t know the thoughts I’d had when I sat with my needle and thread, stitching on the safety pin that will attach it to the inside of her camisole.
Grace stands and takes it from Her hand, bows her head and sits in the seat beside me. Today I am at the front. Today it is my day too. Octavia said it was only right that I should do it, since I am the one who brought Grace to the society.
‘On this joyous occasion we have another reason to celebrate,’ She says. ‘Good sense has prevailed. God’s sense has prevailed. He answered our prayers to protect England from the forces of darkness and after nine days the newspapers have reported that the strike has been brought to a peaceful conclusion.’ Emily starts to clap and, taking her lead, the congregation welcomes the news with applause. But the mood is subdued. Octavia’s prophecies of death and destruction have not been fulfilled. As though answering the question none of us is brave enough to ask, She says: ‘Are those looks of disappointment on your faces? It is true, we had hoped that this would be the beginning of the End. But have faith. The Bible speaks of the terror of men and perhaps the fear of what might have been will be enough to persuade the bishops to come. Take heart—’
She i
s interrupted by one of the ladies blowing their nose into a handkerchief. Noisily. Octavia’s eyes respond immediately, darting to find the perpetrator. ‘Thank you, Miss Tweedie,’ She says, ‘for choosing this moment to unblock your nasal passages so freely. I hope it has brought you some relief. But I must insist that you do not join us in chapel when you have a cold. The rest of us should not be subjected to the risk of infection, or forced to endure the sounds of the symptoms it induces.’
Miss Tweedie stands and leaves the room with a mumbled apology.
‘Now where was I?’ Octavia says, clasping Her hands together.
‘The time is near …’ Emily prompts Her.
‘Yes, yes. The time is near. In fact we have some news. I was horrified at first,’ Octavia says with exaggerated amusement. ‘But Emily saw it right away – a blessing in the most unlikely disguise!’
‘It has been reported in the press,’ says Emily, rising from her chair to stand beside Her, ‘that a Mr Harry Price believes he has something of ours in his possession. He has written to inform us that he intends to open Joanna Southcott’s box.’
A murmur ripples through the congregation. The air hums with energy. Emily pauses to enjoy the shocked glances; the unspoken questions that are filling the room. She has a new dress for the occasion: Eton blue with a Peter Pan collar. Perhaps she thought it would make her look younger, but it has precisely the opposite effect. ‘For those of you who are not familiar with his name, I should explain that he is a psychical researcher, a ghost-hunter—’
‘A charlatan!’ Octavia cuts in.
‘Indeed. A man who, unfortunately, has been able to charm the ignorant public with his parlour-tricks. You may remember he came to prominence during his investigation into the hauntings at Borley Rectory in Essex, for which he was given far too much attention in the newspapers, in my opinion.’ Emily is allowed an opinion now; it’s a luxury not afforded to the rest of us. Peter sits forward in his chair as though willing her to go on.
‘He has told members of the press that he has been given Joanna’s box,’ she says, ‘and that he intends to open it in front of an audience—’
‘Without the bishops,’ Octavia states. ‘Disregarding any of the instructions Joanna left.’
Emily nods sagely; it’s one of the faces she’s been perfecting recently: wise but suitably deferential. ‘But of course this box he has is not Joanna Southcott’s at all,’ she says. ‘Octavia knows the true prophecies are still safe, still sealed, still secret. Quite simply, the whole thing is a scam.’
‘Mr Price has ambitions to discredit us,’ Octavia says, ‘but as the Bible tells us: In the last days mockers will come—’
She is interrupted by another voice from the back of the room. ‘Then what do you intend we do to stop him?’ Edgar leaps up from his seat, fists clenched by his sides. ‘What I mean is that we cannot stand idly by. Someone needs to act.’
‘And we shall,’ says Emily firmly, taking a very small step in front of Octavia to shield Her from his interruption. ‘You would be wise to have a little more trust, and practise a little more patience, Edgar. If Mr Price intends to court publicity then we shall take the opportunity to exploit it. We shall spread the Truth.’
Edgar stands for another moment, then sits back down, cowed into silence by the many rows of faces that have turned to look at him. Peter rolls his eyes before swinging back to face the front.
‘Do not forget,’ says Emily, stepping aside to reveal Octavia. ‘We have God on our side.’
*
‘Did I look nervous?’ Grace asks me.
‘No, not at all. You were marvellous.’ I have stayed behind in chapel to help her tidy away the last of the cake and the napkins. She called them serviettes but Octavia didn’t hear her, so no harm done.
‘I remembered all my lines. That’s something, I suppose.’
She kneels down to sweep up the crumbs that have fallen to the floor. I want to touch the top of her head like Octavia did. ‘I’m afraid your moment was rather overshadowed by Her news,’ I say.
‘Yes, the famous ghost-hunter. I’d never heard of him. Had you?’
‘Yes. Years ago Octavia began to take a keen interest in the paranormal. She was quite a fan of his for a time. He exposed a few spiritualists who were conning the vulnerable. One medium swore she was spouting ectoplasm. Turns out she had filled her mouth with bandages soaked in egg white.’ I look at her and shrug. ‘Gives the same effect apparently.’
She sweeps the last of the crumbs and gets back to her feet. ‘But Octavia believes in ghosts, doesn’t She?’
‘In the spirits of Heaven and Hell,’ I say. ‘Because they are real. But there are plenty of crooks who will prey on grief with lies. And plenty of widows and mothers only too ready to believe them.’
‘The war has provided a plentiful supply,’ she says.
‘Precisely. But Octavia admired the fact that Harry Price seemed to know the difference.’
She steps out of the chapel door and shakes the crumbs away into the breeze.
‘So,’ I say, when she returns, ‘you are officially a Panacean now. How do you intend to spend your wedding night?’
She looks up and meets my eyes. I think I have made her blush. ‘I have no plans. Why?’
‘Well, I think that we should mark the occasion. How about a cigarette?’ I can tell she wasn’t expecting that. It’s what I wanted. To surprise her. To have the power to do it. To have the strength. ‘Consider these a wedding gift,’ I say, peeking a pack out of the pocket in my skirt. Before Grace came, everything was black and white, there was only what Octavia approved of, and what She didn’t. But now the boundary has been blurred, smudged like red lipstick. As soon as you cross the line you’ve got your back to it and you cannot see how far you’ve gone.
‘Dilys!’ She tries to purse her lips in affected disapproval, but her impersonation of Emily is sabotaged by a broad smile.
‘Octavia asked me to post out the letters for the healing so I ran a little errand of my own.’ I have been hiding the packet in the box at the back of my wardrobe, taking it out, slipping a single cigarette from the rest, holding it between my fingers, bringing it to my lips.
‘Come on.’ I take her hand and lead her to the room at the back of the chapel, and as I hold back the curtain I think of the night of the strike. I still wonder if Octavia knew that I was there.
‘How are you with heights, Grace?’
‘I’ll be brave,’ she says. It’s no more than ten steps up the ladder to the clock tower, but when I get to the top I have to push the trapdoor open with my head. I’m aware that she is standing underneath me, underneath my skirts. I feel exposed. I don’t seem to mind.
‘Pass me that dust sheet,’ I say and she takes a cover off a row of chairs and throws it to me in a bundle. I have to lean away from the ladder to catch it one-handed and I’m close to falling. It’s dusty up here and there’s barely room for two of us. ‘Are you coming?’
She passes a lamp, then climbs up. At the top we have to hold each other and balance on the ledge to lower the trapdoor. And when we sit, our knees touch, our legs are tucked to opposite sides: a mirror image.
‘Well, this is cosy,’ she says. ‘As long as you don’t mind spiders.’
I do. I do mind spiders. But right now I couldn’t care that there are cobwebs crowding the dark corners. I take the cigarettes and matches out of my pocket and hand them to her.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Shall I do the honours?’
‘I think you’d better. I’m still a novice.’
A match bursts into life and the smell takes me back to the churchyard and her lips glowing red in the darkness. This time I’m closer, close enough that I can breathe the smoke when she exhales; close enough to taste the tobacco and feel my head start to swim. She takes the cigarette, swaps it to her left hand, then brings it to my mouth. Her fingers are almost touching my lips. The air is getting thicker, smoke gathering in the dim glow of the lamp.
‘Thank you, Dilys,’ she says. ‘It was very kind of you to buy these. And brave. Are you sure that no one saw you?’
‘I was careful.’ I saw Ethel and Mildred on my way into town but they were heading home.
‘That’s good,’ she says, but there’s something in her voice that leaves me unconvinced.
‘Are you all right?’ I say. ‘You seem quiet.’
‘This is my wedding day, I am deliriously happy,’ she says, flatly.
‘But you’re not.’
‘I’m fine. Just ignore me.’
‘You know that’s the one thing I could never do.’ As I say it I hear a smile on her breath, then just as quickly it is gone.
‘It’s just, I was so desperate to be a part of this. I thought any doubts I had would get swept away, but now I’m more confused than ever. There is so much that I don’t understand, that doesn’t make sense … Last week we thought the world was coming to an end, everyone was so frightened. But nothing happened.’
‘We live in fear. That’s what we do. It’s how the Lord keeps us on a righteous path.’ I say it with a smile, to try to rally her mood, but she is not laughing. This is not a joke. The air is so murky with swirling smoke that I can’t see the edges of the room. She puts the cigarette to her lips, then passes it back to me, our hands touching as I take it from her fingers.
‘I have been called for my first confession,’ she says. ‘Now that I am sealed, Octavia says I must begin Overcoming. I keep thinking about it, wondering what I should say and …’ She stops and looks down at her lap.
‘And what you shouldn’t?’
‘Yes.’
Octavia says a guilty conscience is a blessing. It reminds us to repent and ask forgiveness. But I’ve grown so used to feeling shame that I don’t know which thoughts I should be feeling guilty for.
‘You’ll be fine,’ I reassure her.
The Rapture Page 15