Past Praying For

by Aline Templeton

  Patrick, still looking uncomfortable, said, ‘Well, whatever you think.’

  He set down his empty glass on one of the surfaces, beside a big, shallow pottery bowl made by Suzanne in one of her evening classes a few years ago.

  Seizing the chance to change the subject, he said, ‘By the way, what were you burning in this last night?’

  She stared at him. ‘Burning? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I emptied some ashes out of that bowl this morning when I came down to let Tigger out. They looked as if you’d been burning one of those endless lists of yours – you know, the timetables for what ought to be done by everyone of your acquaintance every moment of every day.’

  She coloured again. ‘I certainly wasn’t burning any lists,’ she said stiffly. ‘Maybe Ben was playing with matches; you’d better have a word with him.’

  But she didn’t believe him. He had said more than once that people thought she was bossy, and she assumed this was some silly spiteful joke, and as such better ignored.

  Perhaps, if she had accepted what he said, if he had persisted in trying to establish what had happened during the dark and silent hours of the previous night, things might have turned out differently. Perhaps not. Perhaps even then, it was all too late.

  Suzanne heard Ben coming down and went through to the hall. They had always made a ceremony out of this, hanging up the big green felt stocking, so lovingly made for Ben’s first Christmas when he was only six months old, on the special hook by the side of the fireplace, used only for this purpose. It was a magnificent stocking, large enough to hold real treasures, with his name appliquéd at the top, above the stars and the assorted Christmas fauna, all hemmed around with neat red blanket stitch.

  Tigger, who had accompanied him upstairs, came racing down ahead of him; Ben was lagging as he came down the stairs.

  Suzanne smiled at him lovingly.

  ‘Come on, darling, you’re exhausted! You come and get your stocking hung up, and I’ll go and get the mince pie and the carrot.’

  Ben stopped, wincing, three steps from the bottom, just above one of the pine and fir-cone bunches.

  ‘Oh, for heavens’ sake, Mum!’ he groaned.

  Suzanne stiffened, looking up at him. His glasses glinted in the light, giving him an opaque, impersonal expression. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Ben was a dutiful child, who had become accustomed to shouldering the burden of his mother’s expectations. He had kindly instincts, and he was, if he were honest with himself, a bit scared of what the result of rebellion might be. Only the terror of Mike Cutler’s scorn, if, horror of horrors, he found out about this particular wrinkle, drove him on.

  He came down the last few steps slowly.

  ‘Look, Mum –’ He paused, trying to deal with this as tactfully as he knew how. ‘It’s just – it’s a bit yuk, if you know what I mean. I mean, who’s it all for? The stocking, OK, if you like, but I’ve known for years that Dad ate the mince pie and you put the carrot back in the basket. I marked one years ago, and it was there the next morning. So…’

  His explanation trailed away, and just for a moment there was a terrible silence. His stomach lurched in fright, but when Mum spoke again, she sounded brisk as usual, though her voice was a bit funny.

  ‘I see. Well, you’re certainly right. If it’s not for you, there’s no point, is there? There’s absolutely no point at all.’

  She flashed a smile at him, and he smiled back warily. ‘Right, off you go to bed. You’re a big boy now – see? No more stockings.’

  She unhooked it as she spoke, and Ben, shocked by the lack of resistance to his argument, opened his mouth to say that he hadn’t meant that, not exactly, then thought the better of it.

  She had her back to him now, adjusting some of the parcels under the tree, and he hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘OK, then. Good-night, Mum.’

  His father came out of the kitchen, holding the dog lead, and Tigger raced off with him for his late-night walk. Ben called good-night to him too, then continued uncertainly on his way upstairs.

  He’d got his own way, hadn’t he? But he hadn’t meant that this Christmas – tomorrow morning – he was ready to come downstairs to a fireplace which didn’t have a stocking hanging beside it, full of surprises and little treats. There had always been a stocking there on Christmas morning, and he couldn’t quite believe that there wouldn’t be.

  Perhaps Mum would do it anyway. She must have all the stuff, after all. At the top of the stairs he sneaked a look over the banisters.

  She was standing in the middle of the hall, with two bright red spots on her cheeks and brilliant, glittering eyes. She was making a strange, soft, high-pitched keening sound and she was ripping the stocking apart, right down its blanket-stitched edges. She looked – he shuddered – almost as if she was, well, mad.

  He got into bed, and cried himself to sleep.

  3

  She had been sleeping a heavy, dreamless and exhausted sleep, but now she was suddenly and completely awake, as if someone had laid a hand on her shoulder.

  She turned her head instinctively, but she knew that there was no one there.

  She felt strange, somehow, in a way she could not quite define, though she thought, vaguely, that this had happened before. She could sense her eyes becoming glassy, her gaze fixed, and then...She didn’t know what would happen, but she knew that it scared her.

  She could still move. She slid out of bed with infinite caution, then out of her bedroom and down the stairs. About her, the house was hushed, but in her fancy the silence was strained and unnatural, as if a scream were being choked back because of a steely hand about the throat.

  Perhaps if she kept moving...She went into the kitchen, busied herself with the kettle, a mug, a teabag, the teapot. But it needed more and more desperate concentration; her movements were getting slower, slower...

  Suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, she perked up. Her eyes were bright now, her shoulders straighter, her movements quick and decisive.

  Her lips curved, and she began to giggle.

  ‘Clever old Missy!’ she said softly. ‘Clever old Missy!’

  She looked at the mug, and the teapot warming in front of her, and pulled a naughty face.

  ‘Tea!’ she said disdainfully. ‘How crummy, how entirely crummy!’

  She liked the sound of that, and declaimed it once or twice, as she opened a kitchen cupboard to take out a bottle of cooking brandy and slosh a large measure into a drinking glass. She sipped at it, smacking her lips and apparently oblivious to the rawness of the spirit.

  ‘That’s better. And now –!’

  She went through to the hall, moving cautiously and murmuring ‘Sssh!’ to herself under her breath. There was a long, deep cupboard which ran below the stairs and she bent low to step into it, then crawled her way purposefully to the deepest, furthest corner. Under a pile of dust sheets there was a black plastic bag which she pulled towards her. It was quite heavy, and an awkward shape in such a confined space; she was strong, very strong, but she struggled a little to get it out. She banged it against the door and swore out loud, then froze, listening. But there was no responsive sound; the spell of silence still lay over the place, and she carried her booty into the kitchen.

  Before she opened it, she went to the sink where a pair of rubber gloves were draped to dry, and put them on. She admired her funny pink hands, wiggled the fingers a little bit. Then she went to the table and sat down for a moment to think.

  She had planned to write another letter tonight – another little part of her grand design – but now there was something else that was bothering her.

  She didn’t recall the past very clearly. Memories and times were blurry, somehow, but she remembered feelings. She remembered fear and shame and a plump body and gold glasses that glinted, and someone who seemed somehow to know what you had done in secret. It was confused in her mind, but she was clear about one thing; she must make her keep her distance, sca
re her off, or disaster for Missy would follow as it had before.

  The typewriter she took from the bag was a battered black Imperial, almost a museum piece. She set it up on the kitchen table, then made another trip to the sitting room to fetch notepaper, envelopes and stamps. Smiling in appreciation of her own cunning, she pulled the sheet from the centre of the pad, chose envelopes from the heart of the packet.

  She tapped with silent concentration, giggling occasionally her soft, high-pitched giggle, then stood up. She was still in her nightgown, with her funny pink hands and bare feet; from the pegs at the back door she took a hooded raincoat, and slipped her feet into a pair of gumboots.

  She took the letters and opened the back door stealthily, just enough to let herself out, then closed it quickly to shut off the light from inside. She stood in the shadows, listening and looking down the deserted street. She had one or two things to do tonight and she slid into the blackness like a fish released into its natural element, darting and flickering in and out of the shadows, herself a deeper darkness made visible, had there been eyes to see.

  But beyond, the calm domestic night-world with its streetlamps and pavements and parked cars was empty, its houses blank in their own innocent darkness, except where a window sparkled with the lights of a Christmas tree.

  This was her playground, the world in which she moved for her mischief, her own special homage to her unholy deities of Misrule. And that mischief was breeding crueller mischief, as she watched from her strange hiding-place the people she knew best become twisted by distress, even fear. She had learned how to exploit vulnerability long ago, and if she had forgotten why she needed to do so, she recognized the deep, evil excitement that was growing now, demanding blacker devilment and wider powers.

  So tonight she had thinking work to do, and she slid back through the shadows like the ripple of a running wave. Seated at the table with more of the rough brandy, she plotted, her eyes bright and blank, as if their intelligence were unconnected to a spirit within. She must practise, experiment; she must be clever and elusive, until with her grand finale she could change her world dramatically and take control. She could feel the need strong within her, consuming her like the healing fire itself – but that was enough. Like other night creatures, she dare not risk even the first whisper of cock-crow.

  She put the typewriter back in its bag. There was a little book covered with blue suede in there too; she stroked it thoughtfully with her pink-gloved hands, but did not open it.

  As she came out of the cupboard, having restored the bag to its original place, she was getting sleepy, and back in the kitchen she hung up the coat, returned the boots and gloves to their proper place. She was tired now, very tired. The bed upstairs was warm and inviting, even if it led her back into the prison from which she could do no more than peer out at the world through the eyes of Dumbo, as she always called her.

  At least she could spy on Dumbo, even if she couldn’t always fight her way out. Dumbo, poor fool, could see nothing when Missy was in control, though even that lame-brain was beginning to sense the musky taint of wickedness in the air about her, and be afraid. Very much afraid.

  Smiling drowsily, Missy made her way quietly back upstairs.

  ***

  Laura Ferrars, yawning a yawn which almost dislocated her jaw, shuffled into the kitchen with her dressing gown unfastened and her feet shoved into an ancient pair of furry slippers. It was six o’clock; she would put the turkey in the oven and then go straight back to bed. She didn’t wake refreshed these days, after restless and dream-haunted nights.

  Melissa and Sara, thank heavens, were past the stage of 4 a.m. reveille on Christmas Day, and if Sara woke she would open her stocking quietly in her own room. The Wicked Witch of the North was a pussycat compared to Melissa untimely roused.

  With arms braced she lifted the prepared turkey from the kitchen table and slid it into the Aga. For a nasty moment she thought it hadn’t clearance, but no, it was all right.

  She was going to make a big effort today, she decided as she closed the door. After all, it was Christmas, and James and the girls couldn’t be expected to tiptoe round the corpse of her self-esteem speaking in hushed whispers indefinitely.

  She had not as a child been in the habit of expressing her feelings, and living with James certainly wouldn’t encourage anyone to parade them. ‘Thank goodness you’re level-headed, Laura,’ was his highest praise, usually after he had left her to cope with a teenage tear-tantrum from one of the girls.

  She was past mistress by now at suppressing her problems under a veneer of confidence when she felt shy, or calmness when panic threatened to engulf her. And it worked, in its way, though when articles in thoughtful magazines suggested that this was hardly wise, she could believe them. The injuries life inflicted on her never seemed to heal very well; they suppurated and left scars, but you can’t change your nature to order.

  So all she could do now was to cover this particular wound – deeper and wider and more crippling than any she had suffered before – with the flimsy fabric of cheerfulness and hope that gangrene didn’t set in.

  At least she should have another three or four hours before she had to get the show on the road. She had reached the kitchen door when her eye was caught by something on the floor.

  One of the girls must have left her school blazer lying there, though what on earth she had been doing with it in the holidays she could not imagine. Tutting mumsily, she went to pick it up and restore it to the pegs in the lobby by the back door.

  The Cranbourne Girls blazer was a pleasant shade of dark green, with its crest and motto (‘Video, audio, disco’: officially rendered as ‘I see, I hear, I learn’ but the source of much mirthful satisfaction to those of a less classical bent) embroidered on the pocket in gold thread.

  This pocket, when Laura picked it up, flapped loose. Uncomprehending for a moment, she stared at it, ripped savagely along its stitching from the body of the garment.

  Her first thought was of concealment. She had been shaken already by the flowers, but this was worse. If it were, indeed, something she had done herself, the others must never know. No one must discover if she was having blackouts, going mad.

  She had the needle threaded and was sitting in her rocking chair, the blazer in her hand, before her shock dissolved in tears. Surely she could not have done this, surely...

  But if not she, then who? She looked about her comfortable, homely kitchen as if, even now, some spirit of malevolence might lurk within its walls, and began to shake.

  ***

  The Christmas Day Open House at the Lodge was proving less than entirely successful. Too many of the guests had seen each other too recently, and the children who had last night relished the novelty of all being together, were jaded and fretful after a late night and an early start to the day.

  Half a dozen other couples appeared, some fresh from the eleven o’clock carol service at St Mary’s, which inspired Piers to new heights of wit as he greeted them with glasses of champagne heavily adulterated with peach schnapps.

  ‘Well, how was our lady padre this morning? Miss Margaret Moon – it’s just too good to be true, really, wouldn’t you say? Do you suppose it’s a nom de plume – or a nom de guerre, perhaps, fight the good fight, and all that.’

  He gave a roar of laughter which shook his fleshy jowls, and one or two of his audience laughed too.

  ‘It does seem a bit strange, certainly, having a woman priest,’ said pretty Anthea Jones, who had given her husband Richard instructions that he was not to leave her side for ten seconds if Piers McEvoy were anywhere in the vicinity.

  ‘I really don’t get this, you know. Tell me why it’s such a big deal? If she was setting up as a football jock, I could understand it.’ Hayley Cutler, resplendent in a holly-berry red silk shirt and dark green velvet trousers, was in a mellow mood already, thanks to the American breakfast-time Christmas tradition of egg nogg made with liberal proportions of brandy.

  �
��I have to say it’s crossed my mind that she’d make quite a useful prop,’ Piers put in.

  Hayley persisted. ‘We’ve had women priests in the States for years, and it seems like a nice enough job for a lady to me. Sure, some of them are dreary enough, but the guys in that line of business aren’t usually any ball of fire either.’

  ‘I don’t think I would actually describe Margaret Moon as dreary.’ Richard Jones, a cheerful, open-faced young Welsh doctor who in his spare time was a handy second-row forward for the county rugby football team, had already had some dealings with her over elderly and hospitalized parishioners, and was ready to admit that she had impressed him.

  ‘To keep up the sporting metaphor, she’s ready to run with the ball, I would say. She might actually stir things up around here. She’s a good person to talk to, and she’s started taking a real interest in people’s lives already. Perhaps the fact that she’s a woman is an advantage.’

  Suzanne sniffed. ‘The whole thing gives me the creeps. There’s something unnatural about it, and she looks simply ridiculous, standing there in a white nightgown. It takes all the meaning out of it, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Never knew you were one of the God Squad, Suzie.’ Piers was splashing champagne into every glass he could find that was not brimming already.

  ‘She isn’t. She’s just in a bad mood and looking for someone to kick who can’t kick back, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

  Patrick’s malice was embarrassingly apparent, and Suzanne, whose colour was already high, glared at him with more naked antagonism than was socially comfortable for the bystanders.

  Anthea shifted uneasily, and true to his rugby player’s instincts, Richard flung himself into the conversation with gallantry if not tact.

  ‘It’s all a question of getting used to the idea, don’t you agree? Think how much prejudice there was initially against the idea of women being doctors instead of nurses, and yet no one thinks twice about that now.’