by MARY HOCKING
His mind wandered further down the deep purple labyrinth of despair; he had passed almost beyond exhaustion and it was only when he noticed old Mrs. Thomas easing herself up on the seat that he realized that he was making heavy demands on his congregation. He rose and announced the hymn:
‘O Sacred Head sore wounded
With grief and shame laid down
How scornfully surrounded
With thorns thy only crown.’
The organist tried to force the pace, but they dragged it out as they had always done. The door at the back opened and several people who had been waiting until the prayers ended crept in. One or two people went out. Rutledge was standing at the front with the air of a person who intends to see something through. At the back there was Spencer. Maynard wanted the verger to go, but Ralph would not allow that. His task was with the Spencers. The congregation dragged on to the next verse. How many thousands of years separated Good Friday from Easter Sunday!
‘Thy comeliness and vigour
Are withered now and gone . . .’
Myra was there. She had said that she would stay until near the end. Could she ever forgive him for his neglect? He looked at her. Now it was she who seemed to look up and beyond, her face calm, almost contented. Her serenity increased his own desolation. His life so far, it seemed, had been a long voyage in the wrong direction. Was there nothing left, nothing which could be salvaged?
The congregation was sitting again.
‘But Peter followed him afar off unto the High Priest’s palace . . .’
Peter had made so many mistakes. He had denied his Lord thrice, and yet it was on this rock that His church had been founded. If only he, too, might be given the opportunity to build again. The service went on. They sang: ‘At the cross her station keeping’, and then he began to read: ‘They were come unto a place called Golgotha, this is to say, a place of a skull. . . .’
When at last it was over, he remained behind for a while and then walked slowly down the dark nave. He went out into the porch and stood in the doorway; the breeze twisted the cassock around his legs and he bent to straighten it. When he looked up he saw the sunlight catching the lilac on the vicarage wall. The purple had blossomed.
How I dramatize things! he thought angrily. Will I never, never learn? And yet, because he was by nature a hopeful man, the old, persistent excitement stirred within him as he looked at the lilac. Then, distantly, he heard the sound of a child’s voice.
Sarah put down her book. It was very quiet because the man with the clippers had gone indoors; perhaps he was having his tea. She hoped that hers would be ready soon. She was glad when Uncle Ralph came in at the gate, because that meant that they would not have to wait much longer. He stood looking across at her in a rather surprised way; she felt embarrassed about the reading aloud and pushed the book away from her.
‘I thought you were playing with Sukie,’ he said as he came towards her.
‘I’m alone,’ she pointed out.
‘Do you mind being alone?’
‘I might as well be alone as be with her,’ she complained. ‘Sometimes it’s just as though there were three of us—and I’m the one who’s left out of things. God calls her all the time and he never speaks to me.’
At first she thought that he had not heard; but after a while he said quietly, looking at the lilac bushes:
‘I shouldn’t worry about it. He has never “called” me, either, Sarah. It is not for many of us, the blinding light on the Damascus road.’
Damascus. It was a lovely word. Sarah said it over and over to herself, forgetting about God and Sukie Price. Damascus, Damascus, Damascus: it was deep silk and rich brocade, showers of rubies and emeralds and amethysts, the smell of cinnamon and ginger and all the exotic things that Aunt Myra brought out of the cupboard at Christmas. She wanted to share this gorgeous vision with Uncle Ralph. But he was still looking at the lilac and she did not understand the expression on his face. The old fear gripped her. She said:
‘Will they take you away on Monday?’
He looked down at her.
‘Would it matter so much to you, Sarah?’
‘I shouldn’t like it.’
His eyes were very bright.
‘They won’t take me away, I promise you.’
He looked at her so strangely that for a moment she was afraid that he was going to put his arms around her; but he only stretched out his hand and she took it gladly. They walked across the lawn together towards the house. In the dining-room they could see Aunt Myra laying cutlery on the table. Uncle Ralph said:
‘I believe there are crumpets for tea, Sarah. You like crumpets, don’t you?
Mary Hocking
Born in London in 1921, Mary was educated at Haberdashers’ Aske’s Girls School, Acton. During the Second World War she served in the Women’s Royal Naval Service (Wrens) attached to the Fleet Air Arm Meteorology branch and then briefly with the Signal Section in Plymouth.
Writing was in her blood. Juggling her work as a local government officer in Middlesex Education Department with writing, at first short stories for magazines and pieces for The Times Educational Supplement, she then had her first book, The Winter City, published in 1961.
The book was a success and enabled Mary to relinquish her full time occupation to devote her time to writing. Long before family sagas had become cult viewing, she had embarked upon the `Fairley Family’ trilogy – Good Daughters, Indifferent Heroes, and Welcome Strangers – books which give her readers a faithful, realistic and uncompromising portrayal of ordinary people caught up in extraordinary times, between the years of 1933 and 1946.
For many years she was an active member of the `Monday Lit’, a Lewes-based group which brought in current writers and poets to speak about their work, an enthusiastic supporter of Lewes Little Theatre, and worshipped at the town’s St Pancras RC Church.
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Copyright
First published in Great Britain by Chatto & Windus Ltd 1964
This edition published 2015 by Bello
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Copyright © Mary Hocking 1964
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