The Rapture

by Claire McGlasson

‘You’ll see her back to—’

  ‘Yes. I’ll look after her. Goodnight.’

  The light floats in mid-air across the landing, then disappears.

  I’m not sure I can make it to the top. Sleep clutches at me. I want to lie here on the stairs. I want her to lie down beside me. I can hear my voice but it can’t be mine. It is too far away.

  ‘I know. Nearly there now. Then you can sleep.’

  *

  I am back on my bed and Grace is standing over me. She has taken a handkerchief from my drawer and is wiping my face, smoothing back the strands of hair that are stuck to my skin. In the lamplight I can see something on her face. I reach up to touch it but she steps back. Grace, what is that? There’s an angry red mark splashed across her cheek.

  ‘You were fighting in your dream. I got in the way,’ she says, holding my hand in her own. ‘You were asleep. You didn’t know …’ But now I do. And the truth makes her cheek burn redder in accusation. It tells me I am no good. That I don’t deserve her. I am whispering I’m sorry. Praying to her that she will forgive me. I try to stand up. I want to stay and tell her but sleep is dragging me away: back into oblivion.

  *

  I am dreaming that I am kissing her cheek, tracing the edge of the mark with my lips. I am dreaming that I’m lifting her arms above her head, that I’m reaching down and catching the hem of her nightdress between my fingers. I want to take it off her. I want to see her. All of her. But I can’t. My arms won’t move. They won’t do what I tell them to do.

  I am back in my bed and she is beside me, wiping the tears of longing from my face.

  ‘It is all right, Dilys. Everything is all right.’

  And as long as it is just a dream it can be.

  My bottom lip catches on the crest of her collarbone as if it wants to stay behind and kiss her there. But I can’t let it. And so I will it to move on, barely brushing her skin as it passes. It won’t linger until it gets to her nightdress; it is craving the taste of cotton and the safety of separation.

  Through the fabric we are Puritans. Not touching. Not really.

  It’s all right. As long as it is just a dream.

  She arches her back and my hands move underneath her. Now I am the one holding her; telling her that it is not a sin; telling her to be quiet. I can feel every nerve in my body, feel the tide of blood inside me. I feel wide awake. I am in control. Of everything. We don’t undress. I kiss her through her nightdress. Tender ferocity. My body shivering at the thought of what I know I will do: delicious anticipation of my transgression. My mouth climbs the inside of her thighs until I find the heat between them. The fabric is rough against me, against my lips. Through the scent of soap and starch I taste her skin.

  And the butterflies dance beneath my touch: a rush of beating wings.

  Awakening

  The chapel bell wakes me, the chimes sounding distant at first, but becoming louder, each strike awakening a memory from the night before; stretching out, yawning and uncurling itself from the pit of my stomach. My body is still asleep, still languishing in the thrill of last night’s imaginings. But my mind is waking. Nausea creeping its way under the twisted bedclothes.

  In my dream she begged me to kiss her.

  In my dream she begged me to stop.

  We can’t. We mustn’t. We are just friends, Dilys. The very best.

  A knock at my door. It will be Grace. I don’t want to see her, not after what I did; not after the thoughts I had. She will see it on my face, she’ll know what I have been dreaming. But she’s already turning the handle. She’s already opening the door.

  ‘Breakfast. I’m sorry it’s late. I overslept.’ Her voice is quiet. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She doesn’t look at me at all.

  ‘That’s all right. I’ve only just woken up myself.’ I pull the bedclothes up around me, feeling suddenly exposed, grotesque. My body feels lumpy and misshapen. I imagine my skin, blotchy beneath the white of my crumpled nightdress. I feel magnified. I can smell my own body, my own shame.

  ‘You had a restless night,’ she says, laying the tray on my bedside table, then sitting on the edge of my bed. ‘You were up half the night …’ I can feel her eyes on me now: willing me to say more; to admit what I did; what we did. But I can’t.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Was I sleepwalking again?’

  She stands up and steps away from the bed. Away from me.

  ‘You woke up, Dilys. You were awake.’ She brings her hand to her cheek and finds a memory there. The memory of a slap. Or of a kiss. In my mind I see both: a blur of bodies pressed together. Pushing each other away, grasping each other too tight. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stop. Fury and desperation; escape and surrender.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I can’t remember.’

  What happened. What I did. And whether she wanted me to.

  But perhaps I do. Perhaps I just don’t want to say it out loud. Give something a name and that’s what it becomes; words bestow truth upon it; make it real.

  Grace walks back to the tray, dropping a square of linen into a glass of water. ‘Your daily dose,’ she says. ‘That will make everything better, wash everything away. That’s the way with you, with this place. Stay silent. Say nothing. Just pretend it didn’t happen.’ Her voice is cold, weary. I want the other Grace, the one who was in my bed last night, the one who pulled at her nightdress to try to free herself. In my dream she whispered, ‘Please,’ she said my name and made that noise she always does. Somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. She wanted my mouth on her. On every part of her.

  She walks to the door, then stops, standing with her back to me. ‘You can lie to them, Dilys, you can even lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. I know. After last night we can’t pretend any more. I know how you feel.’

  ‘Do you feel the same?’ I whisper. But only after she has closed the door behind her and I hear her steps reach the top of the stairs.

  *

  The water is cold by the time I get out of bed but I enjoy its sting. I can’t think of anything but its burn on my skin. I fish the linen square out of my glass and drop it into my washbowl, stirring the water to make it spin around and release its power. Then I take a brush and scrub myself: the Water cleansing the stains that soap could not, pain sterilising me like fire.

  As I start to dress, the thoughts creep in again. Sharp stabs in the pit of my stomach, heat between my legs. As I slip on my stockings I imagine her hands running up them. I lift my nightdress over my head and breathe in the smell of the cotton, taking the fabric between my lips. And I can taste last night. Under here I’m lost. I’m caught. A butterfly in a net. And I want to stay here, inhaling memories of her.

  If she walked in now she would see me: exposed and ridiculous. I need to get dressed. I need to be contained. I choose a coat dress with a Medici collar that stands up like wings. Octavia calls it taupe; Emily insisted it was camel, but she soon gave in to Octavia’s better judgement. But why am I thinking of them now? I can’t let them into my mind when Grace is in there. They might eavesdrop on the things I’m trying not to say out loud. They might find out. No, I need to get to work.

  I walk downstairs quickly, ready to turn the corner and rush out past the kitchen. But I needn’t have worried, Grace is not waiting in the doorway. The kitchen door is pushed shut, a margin of light marking the edge of the frame, and through the gap I hear raised voices. ‘No,’ I hear her say, ‘there’s nothing to tell.’

  I try to nudge the door open a little more, but the creak of its hinges gives me away. ‘Good morning,’ says Emily, turning abruptly towards me. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Stepping into the room I try to look as though I had intended to enter all along.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say the same myself. You were up again, Dilys.’

  I remember the light of a lamp at the top of the stairs. It must have been Emily out of bed. I must have woken her. But she doesn’t know what happened when Grace took me
back to my room. She couldn’t.

  Even I don’t know that.

  The thought grabs me like a hand closing around my throat. And I can feel my body betray me: traitorous marks rising up on my skin, blotches the size of fingertips branded onto my neck. When I was a child, Mother used to say that she could tell when I was up to something because I’d break out in a rash.

  ‘Poor Dilys …’ Emily looks me over like a surveyor might appraise a derelict building. Damaged, defective. Unsound. Her head is tilted slightly, anyone who didn’t know her might almost believe she was concerned. But she is startled into a straighter posture by something in the hallway: the sound of post being pushed through the letterbox. I hear the thud of paper falling onto tiles. And so does Emily. Her eyes go first, darting to the doorway, then her head jerks in the same direction, rousing her body to lurch after it. She is rushing past me, which is not like her: she’s been working hard to perfect a glide, because Octavia can’t bear the sound of heavy footsteps. The letterbox snaps shut and she bends down, with some difficulty, behind the front door, one hand picking up the letters, the other pressing against her lower back.

  ‘Let me help you, Emily,’ I say, but she has managed to straighten up. She is already shuffling through the envelopes.

  ‘No need,’ she insists, tucking them into the front of her cardigan. ‘There’s nothing for you, Dilys.’

  *

  It must be later than I thought. The sun has already woken the Garden. Every flower is wide-eyed and watchful; Yggdrasil’s leaves emerald against a cloudless sky. It’s in summer that this place looks most like Eden; like the picture in the Bible Octavia gave me when I turned eight; the Eden from long ago and far away. It’s in summer that the dahlias arrive for their annual holiday, unpacking their garish wardrobe, shouting from the flowerbeds in exotic tongues. Octavia planted the first of them when we were children: orchid dahlias with petals that curled into points. They looked like the paper windmills we played with on the beach in Norfolk. Now they stand among a clash of other varieties: heads striped red and white like sticks of rock; orange-petalled faces that look as though their tips have been dusted with sugar. I wonder if they remind Octavia of the seaside, of the day we flew a kite and my brothers buried me in the sand. Of the times before She was taken ill.

  Someone asked Her once why She was so fond of dahlias but She said only that they were a lesson from God about dignity. They stand up straight and tall, never buckling beneath the weight of their beautiful burden.

  The thought makes me feel stronger. I must get to work.

  *

  As soon as I step through the back door of Castleside I hear someone at the front. The doorbell is ringing. I move slowly into the hallway. Through the stained glass panel in the door I see a figure bend down. Fingers poke through the letterbox.

  I don’t want to see anyone. Not today.

  ‘Dilys, are you there? It’s Edgar. May I please come in?’ His voice is thin and frayed. ‘Dilys, please, would you open the door?’

  I walk away, intending to ignore him, but he calls again. He is not going to leave me alone until I talk to him, so I unlock the front door, just enough to show my reluctance without being rude.

  ‘Edgar,’ I say. ‘Why didn’t you come to the back?’

  ‘After last time, I thought it best—’

  ‘I’m afraid I am rather busy.’

  ‘I was hoping to have a talk with you. To ask your advice,’ he says.

  I open the door slightly wider, which he takes as a cue to step inside. His grey suit is as pale as his eyes, which, added to his white hair, gives the impression that he is covered in dust. Or flour. The thought brings back a memory of the rituals I watched from behind the chapel curtain.

  ‘I’m told that you have everything ready,’ he says, looking around the hallway.

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Well, you have done a marvellous job. I just hope Octavia appreciates it. She doesn’t find it easy to let others share Her triumphs.’

  The silence that follows is full of expectation. I can feel he is waiting for me to say more. He wants to know how far he can go, how much he can say.

  ‘I do not seek praise, Edgar. I merely do my duty in the Lord’s name.’

  ‘Of course, of course. As we all do. But you must be proud of what you have achieved.’

  I am. If he opened the door behind me he would see the clusters of chairs arranged around the room, the dark green sofa donated by Kate, the wicker chair from Ellen’s parlour, the Persian rug from Rachel Fox’s bedroom. If he stepped into the dining room he’d see the table set for twelve; the kitchen fully stocked with utensils, a row of enamel pans decorated with a flash of green around each rim.

  ‘Edgar, you wanted my advice about something.’

  ‘Yes. It’s … well, it’s rather a delicate matter. But I thought if anyone would understand, Dilys, it would be you. We have known each other a long time.’

  It is strange that he should say that, that he should think it. I don’t feel that I know him at all. And I’m certain he knows nothing about me. At least I hope he doesn’t.

  ‘Dilys, it’s about Octavia. I am concerned for Her.’

  Again he pauses as though he has uttered a codeword to which I will respond. I half expect him to wink or give me some other sign. The situation is starting to feel absurd, but I know that every word could be dangerous. I won’t speak. He could use it against me.

  ‘You know yourself that Emily appears to have increasing influence,’ he says, ‘and, as Octavia’s favourite, she seems to be enjoying certain privileges and powers that the rest of us do not.’ He has a sheen of perspiration on his face now, his eyes seem to move of their own volition, darting around the hallway as though following the path of an invisible fly.

  ‘We are Her followers but you are Her daughter. You must be concerned.’

  I’m trapped now. If I let him go on, I will be complicit in my silence.

  ‘I trust Octavia to know what is right,’ I say.

  ‘Of course, of course. And that’s why those of us who love Her and want the best for Her must stay close, and look after each other. We mustn’t be divided.’ He has come this far. Too late to turn back now. He will say what he has come to say. ‘There will always be those who spread lies, and falsehoods; those who choose to live in suspicion. But I came to ask you, Dilys, to remember that I want the best for your mother.’

  ‘We all do.’

  Edgar pauses to consider how to phrase what he is going to say next. But he is interrupted by the sound of the back door opening. With a panicked look he darts into the dining room.

  ‘Hello?’ I call.

  Grace steps into the hallway.

  ‘I brought your lunch,’ she says, handing me a brown paper bag of what feels like sandwiches. ‘I thought it would give us a chance to talk. But I don’t have long.’

  I want to ask her what she and Emily were talking about this morning but I can’t. Edgar is listening. Edgar will hear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level. ‘Not now. It is not a good time.’

  I turn my eyes towards the dining room so that she will understand, but the gesture is lost on her; she is already walking away.

  ‘Of course,’ she says flatly. ‘Not a good time. It never is.’

  She walks out of the hallway and I hear her shout: ‘Octavia wants you back by three o’clock. She is holding a meeting at Number 12.’

  Then I hear the back door slam.

  Webs for Destruction

  ‘Thank you all for coming.’ Octavia speaks as though we had a choice. ‘It is under grave circumstances that I summoned you here.’ She says ‘summoned’ but I am starting to think She means ‘summonsed’. Octavia is holding court, standing at the head of the dining table, staring at us one by one. She is deciding who the guilty party is. I can already hear a whisper inside my head.

  Someone has done something wrong. Someone will have to be punished.

&n
bsp; She knows. About last night. I feel like I am falling.

  ‘To talk bravely behind people’s backs of what one will not say to their face is cowardly, unworthy of a true believer,’ She says. ‘To talk. But also to listen.’ She rests Her hands on the table and leans forward. ‘Both are sins in my eyes.’

  To talk, but also to listen.

  She means Edgar. The things he said at Castleside this morning.

  Octavia digs Her fingertips into the tablecloth, the one embroidered with posies of forget-me-nots, the one with an orange juice stain which, try as she might, Grace just couldn’t get out. Emily sits on Her right-hand side, Peter beside her. I am alone on the opposite side, Sir Jack patrolling the tabletop between us.

  ‘This morning there was a sign.’ Octavia walks to the sideboard and takes a glass from the nearest drawer. No, a jar: it has a lid on, but it appears to contain nothing more than a tangle of dark brown wool. ‘A sign of evil in our midst,’ She says, holding it up in front of Her face, and giving it a little shake.

  The wool begins to unknot itself, stretch out a mass of spindly legs. In the jar She has a spider. A big one. Bigger than those I have tried to ignore in the rafters of the clock tower. Sir Jack begins to hop and call out with an abrupt ‘chyak chyak’ of excitement. But he is promptly shooed off the table by Octavia and registers his disappointment with a disgruntled shake of his wings.

  ‘This morning I found him crawling on my Bible,’ she says, watching the spider’s desperate attempts to climb out. ‘And I knew that it was time to act.’ She walks to my side of the table and brings the jar to my face. I can see the creature magnified through the thick glass, and behind it Her eye looking through for my reaction. I watch the spider’s pathetic scramblings and try not to betray my disgust.

  ‘Spiders are thought to be innocuous and harmless,’ She says, walking back around the table and lifting the jar over Peter’s head so that it appears quite suddenly not an inch from the tip of his nose. ‘But they are very subtle over their prey and they weave webs for destruction. Just as your enemies try to weave a web about you.’ She tips the jar upside down to agitate it again, then places it on the table. ‘As we are told in the Book of Job …’ She says, looking around for one of us to recite the verse.