by MARY HOCKING
Jill came into the hall and eased the front door open; she did it so stealthily that Sarah thought she might be going to run away, but she only stood there looking towards the front gate. There was no sound, only the cold rush of air again. Soon Aunt Myra returned.
‘I think we had better have a talk,’ she said to Jill.
They went into the dining-room and shut the door. Sarah supposed that she could have followed them and asked what had happened to Uncle Ralph. But they would only repeat: ‘He’s out looking for you. He’ll be back as soon as the police tell him you’re safe.’ And it would be useless to try to explain to them about the terrible things that had happened in the vestry. They would only soothe and pretend and give her more hot milk.
She went back to her room. The curtains twitched as the wind flicked them and the flame of the night-light fanned out so that shadows danced on the bedroom wall. Sarah felt that she would be happier without the shadows, so she blew out the light. She climbed into bed and held the hot-water bottle to her stomach; it was getting rather cold and was anything but comforting.
Some time later the front gate clicked. Sarah scrambled to the window. It was Mr. Wilson stumbling up the drive like someone walking in a fog. She opened the window and sat on the ledge listening while he fumbled at the front door. Her heart began to pump very fast. She wished that God might strike Mr. Wilson, who had brought so much misery on them all, dead. She looked up at the sky where she supposed God to be; the stars were bright and seemed very near, they winked at her indifferently and Mr. Wilson found his key and let himself in. Sarah stayed by the window for a moment listening to other footsteps which might be those of Uncle Ralph. It was only a man taking a dog for a walk.
No one seemed to have taken any notice of Mr. Wilson’s arrival; perhaps they had not heard him. Sarah went to the door and opened it a few inches. She heard him come slowly up the stairs and lock himself in the bathroom. He was there for a long time. She went back to the window to look for Uncle Ralph. The wind was strong and it seemed to have travelled a long way; the city smells of diesel fumes, coal dust, and fried food in café kitchens mingled with the country smell of wet grass. The wind ruffled her thin nightdress and strands of hair whipped across her cheeks; in the moonlight her thin face was white and the eyes looked dark and very big, staring suspiciously into the street. She heard the bathroom door open and Mr. Wilson’s footsteps dragging up to the attic. Perhaps he could tell her about Uncle Ralph? She felt afraid of him after the scene in the vestry, but the fear was not so unbearable as the waiting. She ran quickly up to his room so as not to give herself time to think; as she poked her head round the door she whispered:
‘It’s me, Sarah.’
He did not hear. For a moment she stood amazed; but it was not fear but disgust that welled up like a hot wave burning her chest, blocking her throat, filling her nostrils and mouth with bile. He was sitting hunched on the bed and he was crying. It was not like the soft sounds that women make when they cry; it was a racking of his whole body as each sob was torn out of him. Sarah wanted to rush across to him and beat him with her fists until he stopped making these unbearably ugly noises. She hated him! She put her hands over her ears and backed out of the room. As she stood on the dark landing a light went on below.
‘I think he must be in,’ Aunt Myra said.
Someone came to the foot of the attic stairs. A shadow jumped on the wall. The child crouched in the doorway of one of the disused attic rooms. It must be Aunt Myra because only she moved so lightly and she would make a great fuss if she found Sarah out of bed. But it was not Aunt Myra. It was Jill who came up the stairs so quietly, taking one step at a time in a way that was quite unlike her. She did not see Sarah because when she reached the top she turned at once into Mr. Wilson’s room. She paused for a moment on the threshold, letting the door swing open wide. Sarah curled up her toes on the dusty floor and waited for the outburst of scorn which must surely come since Jill’s reactions were always strenuous. But it didn’t happen that way. Jill spoke very softly and all that she said was ‘Oh, my dear!’; then she crossed the room and disappeared from sight. Sarah hesitated, puzzled. The wind stirred in the chimney behind her and her nightdress flapped against her legs. She held it tight around her and crept forward until she could see into Mr. Wilson’s room. Jill was sitting on the bed beside him; she touched his shoulder and he gave a little choking cry and collapsed against her. Sarah watched as Jill folded her arms around him and held him close. It was a very strange night and this seemed the strangest thing of all. How could Jill? It made Sarah sick to think of anyone actually touching him when he was being so beastly. A bird flew into the eaves and the branches of the creeper tapped against the window. Sarah’s teeth were chattering. She wanted to run away; yet for a little while she remained, unable to take her eyes from Jill’s face.
Later, when she had crept back to her room and was lying in the darkness, even her Uncle Ralph forgotten, she kept thinking of the way that Jill had held him; and then she thought of the look on Jill’s face which was like the look which Sarah dimly remembered on her own mother’s face when she bent over her to kiss her goodnight. It filled her with a rather disturbing wonder.
II
Ralph had not hurried back. They had told him at the police station that Sarah had returned home and seemed not much the worse for her experience. He had refused a lift, saying that he felt the need for air. In reality, it was time that he needed. He wanted to slow down the ruthless pressure of events, to win for himself a few moments’ grace. As he walked along the dark streets, he thought: How impatient you have become with me, my God; could you not, after the turbulence of the past few weeks, have allowed me a little respite? Was it necessary for Wilson to have suffered that torment in the vestry? It had been so appalling to watch the thin shell of self-respect crumbling; to be condemned to stand aside, rendered impotent by the inner knowledge, whose wisdom he dared not disobey, that Wilson’s redemption was something in which he no longer had a part to play.
A dog barked in a house as he went by and in the distance he heard the rumble of a late bus. He hated these intrusions on his solitude. Now the churchyard was just ahead and he could see the car parked outside the vicarage. His footsteps faltered; he had to force himself to go up the drive. When Myra opened the front door, he saw the anxiety in her eyes.
‘Sarah?’
‘In bed and asleep.’
‘And Wilson?’
‘He came in a little while ago.’ He went towards the stairs.
‘There is nothing you can do, Ralph. Jill is with him.’
His hand dropped from the banister rail and he turned slowly towards her. She said:
‘There is a Chief Inspector Blake waiting to see you in the sitting-room.’
‘Didn’t they tell him that Sarah had been found?’
‘It isn’t Sarah that he is concerned with.’
There was to be no respite, then; no time in which to reconcile himself to the bitter withdrawal. As he turned towards the sitting- room, Myra said gently, just as she used to in the early days of their marriage when he had to deal with a difficult parishioner:
‘I’ll have some tea ready when you have finished.’
Polite concern was registered in the face of the man who rose to greet Ralph, but the eyes behind the neat spectacles were the colour of steel.
‘I am sorry to trouble you at such a time.’
But you will do what you have to do, nevertheless, Ralph thought. As he sat opposite his inquisitor, a tremor of fear ran through his body. How differently he had once imagined that this scene would be played!
‘You have plans for Easter?’
‘It is always a busy time for the clergy.’
‘But I believe that many of them take a rest on the bank holiday?’
‘That is what you have come to advise me to do?’
A smile flickered briefly behind the spectacles.
‘I should like it to be as simple as that.’
Ralph had a beguiling glimpse of his image in the other’s eyes. What was it that Jill had said? Something about the crusader, always riding at the head of the column. This was the moment when temptation becomes most subtle. He had always imagined that, at such a time, he would find the necessary strength. Instead, he discovered that he had a weakness which might well betray him. He said querulously:
‘Please say what you have to say. I am very tired.’
It had come to the attention of the authorities that a demonstration was planned at an air base on Easter Monday. . . . As the man spoke, his face impassive as though acting a part in a play which he himself thought trite, Ralph was thinking: I haven’t the moral courage to go through with this; at any moment, I shall start reacting in the way that he expects, playing the hero, taking my lead from him. . . . The man was repeating a question:
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .’
‘I was saying that there is a danger of these movements being used by people who are neither idealistic nor fundamentally peaceful.’
‘There is always that danger, of course.’
‘Then you do understand our position? There is a considerable security risk involved . . .’
‘Greater than the risk of a nuclear explosion?’
‘I’m a policeman. I don’t have political views.’
‘But as a human being?’
‘I’m not here in that capacity this evening. I am here simply to draw your attention to certain facts. This is not the first demonstration of its kind and it is possible that the penalties will be much stiffer this time. The authorities take a very serious view of the affair. It was thought that you might like an opportunity for . . . reflection.’
Ralph said: ‘Thank you.’ He found that he was saying it with just the air of amused courtesy that the man expected.
‘That’s all right then, sir,’ A glance of understanding, of complicity almost. ‘I’ve done my best.’
As they walked to the door, the man took off his glasses and put them away in a case; without them, his eyes looked tired and rather vulnerable. He stuffed the case in his pocket and grinned at Ralph.
‘I can’t say that I agree with you, but . . .’
He did not complete the sentence, but his expression told Ralph that he respected courage. Ralph felt the warm glow that the good¬will of others always brought to him; he wanted to cement the sudden feeling of comradeship that existed between them by offering a drink. Surely to capitulate now would be sordid and unimaginative? It would soil them both. Surely . . . He put his hand on the door knob to steady himself.
‘I’ve been thinking this thing over for some time, as it happens.’ The man was drawing on a glove; he paused, waiting.
‘I shan’t give you any further trouble.’
The fingers in the glove curved inwards, making a hard, clenched fist; the man stared down for a moment and then rubbed his other hand over the bunched knuckles. When he looked up the whole face had coarsened, the lips curled, the heavy eyelids drooped, even the voice had thickened.
‘Decided to be sensible, have you? Well, that’s nice to know.’
No doubt he spoke like that to informers; but it was a risk to use the tone with a man in Ralph’s position. Perhaps he was too tired to care about the risk. He turned and went down the path without looking back. Later, he would be saying to his colleagues, his voice a little bitter: ‘Well, that one scared easily!’ There would be others who would echo that sentiment.
Behind him, Ralph could hear Myra moving about in the kitchen. He could not go to her now, but because he did not want to worry her, he left a note on the hall table. Then he went out and made his way to the church. It was a clear night; the sky was bright with stars and there was a full moon hanging low over the yews. In the church the moonlight was fragmented by the stained-glass windows and it formed a cold silver tracery across the empty pews. There is no comfort in moonlight, Ralph thought as he went slowly up the nave. He knelt unsupported at the steps which led to the altar. He felt utterly desolate. He was nothing but an empty shell in a desert place, a hollow in which would echo only the wind’s insistent mockery. He knelt there all night but no comfort came to him and at the end of his vigil he could only say, without feeling: ‘Thy will be done.’
In the morning he went to see Frank Godfrey.
III
The sun was warm and there was the first touch of purple on the lilac bushes along the vicarage wall, Sukie Price sat on the lawn cross-legged, her skirt hitched up above her thighs.
‘You look rude,’ Sarah told her.
But Sukie was too concerned with more important matters to bother.
‘Your Mr. Wilson is going, isn’t he?’
‘He’s got lodgings nearer his work.’
‘My mummy says it’s our Sid’s fault he’s going.’ Sukie gave a deep sigh. ‘I suppose God is testing me through my brother Sid.’ She didn’t sound so proud about it as usual and a tear trickled down her pinched little face.
Sarah said impatiently:
‘I’ll push you on my swing if you like.’
Perhaps that would keep Sukie quiet about God and her brother Sid. She pushed with great energy and one or two of the people on their way to the three-hour service thought it rather unsuitable that the vicar’s niece should be behaving in such an abandoned way on Good Friday. After a while, Sukie said:
‘I’d better go; ‘cos I don’t want to be here when your Mr. Wilson leaves.’
Sarah was not sure that she wanted to be there herself. She was glad that Mr. Wilson was going, particularly as it meant that Uncle Ralph would be taking charge of the Easter pageant; but she did not want actually to see him go. She picked up her book and began to read aloud; she was fascinated by the sound of her own voice and was enjoying herself when she heard the front door slam. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mr. Wilson coming across the grass towards her. She did not look up until he put his case down beside her. It was a very small case, she noticed; but then he had come without any luggage at all. Perhaps he was thinking of this, because he said:
‘You watched me from the window when I came, Sarah. Do you remember?’
It seemed a very long time ago and so much had happened since then that she could hardly remember anything except how disappointed she had been that he seemed so dull. He sat down beside her, rather awkwardly, because he had his arm in a sling.
‘Things have changed since then, haven’t they?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She thought about the Easter pageant and the lovely costume that Aunt Myra had made for her which was hanging up behind her bedroom door. Mr. Wilson said:
‘I wake in the morning afraid that it is all a dream.’
Someone else had come out of the house. Mr. Wilson bent down and plucked a blade of grass and then studied it intently. Sarah picked up her book again. Aunt Myra walked down the drive and stopped on the edge of the gravel as though afraid to walk on the grass. She said:
‘This, I believe, is where I have to wish you every happiness.’
Sarah wondered why Aunt Myra should sound so sad about it. Mr. Wilson, however, was not sad. He said: ‘We shall be happy.’ There was a thrill in his voice which Sarah had never heard before. The slight breeze seemed suddenly to have freshened, and her bare arms tingled. Perhaps Aunt Myra felt it, too, because she shivered and turned her head away.
‘It’s not impossible, I suppose,’ she murmured.
She put her hand up slowly, shading her eyes from the sun. When next she spoke it was in the voice in which she addressed casual visitors to the vicarage.
‘My husband will be sorry to have missed you.’
Mr. Wilson said that he was sorry, too. But he didn’t sound sorry, and he added gaily:
‘I hope he won’t be arrested on Monday.’
Mr. Wilson’s jokes never seemed to come off and this one was no exception. Soon Aunt Myra continued on her way to the church and Mr. Wilson picked up his case.
‘Will you come and stay with Jill and me when we are married, Sarah-with-an-h?’
‘If you want me to.’
‘We do want it.’
‘I expect I’ll come then.’
There didn’t seem much more to say and she was glad when he went. In spite of the case and his bad arm his footsteps did not drag as he walked to the gate and he didn’t stop for any backward glances, although Aunt Myra watched him from the church path. Sarah picked up her book and began to read aloud. The sun was warm on her back and she could feel small insects crawling up her legs; the man next door was clipping the hedge. It would soon be summer. Mr. Maynard and old Mrs. Thomas went up the path to the church; they paused for a moment, listening to Sarah, and Mr. Maynard said: ‘What an odd little girl!’
After the brightness of the sun it seemed very dark in the church; it was cold, too, Spencer having failed to stoke up the boiler. Purple swathed the crosses on the altar and in the lady chapel; even the picture of the Mother and Child in the children’s corner had been covered. Everywhere God had been obliterated. The voice that spoke was harsh.
‘Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane and saith unto his disciples, Sit ye here while I go and pray yonder.’
Old Mrs. Thomas used to say that the vicar always spoke so poetically on Good Friday that he made the crucifixion seem beautiful. But today there was no poetry and it was a relief when he said:
‘Let us kneel in silent prayer.’
There was only defeat: wherever his mind turned there was no escape from it. ‘A light will have gone out of our movement,’ Frank had said. It had sounded like an obituary and Frank, ashen-faced, had looked more deathly than Ralph himself. He tried to pray for Frank. But what could he say? If he prayed that his load might be lessened, how could he be sure that he was not asking this because he could not bear the thought that Frank had been chosen for the role which he had hoped might be his?
And Jill and Wilson? He tried to pray for their happiness; but even this had a hollow sound because he felt that he was asking that his beloved Jill should redeem his failure.
