Black Light

by Bedford, K. A.

  “I did not, no.”

  “Ruth!”

  “I saw there was no point.” Already I could feel myself getting overheated all over again. I got up from the table and found myself pacing, just as I had been pacing in my bedroom earlier. At a very basic level of my mind, I knew it was poor form to be on bad terms with the clergy. It would not do. It wasn’t done. Yes, I should have made an effort to apologise to the old man, but an entire decade had now passed. When I had need of spiritual counsel or worship, I went north to a tiny church in Rockingham. Father William was hardly the first such man to take exception to me over my clothes, my manner, my line of work, my failure to marry again, my — who knows, perhaps even my hat size! I had dealt with such men many times, and I had always put aside such criticisms, overt and implied, without a worry. But when it was the church, when it was a priest — yes, a priest who had insulted Antony’s memory, I reminded myself.

  Aunt Julia gave me a hug. She was much shorter than I was, so it perhaps presented a humorous spectacle, and that helped. She was very warm, as I had always remembered. “I’m sorry, Julia, about, back home, the funeral, the — ” I was close to tears.

  Julia let go a moment so she could look up at me. “It’s quite all right, Ruth. Think nothing of it. I should have been more sensitive. My timing was dreadful. I’ve regretted that day so many times, all these years. But I never stopped loving you, dear. I have always been your father’s sister, and I have always looked out for you.”

  Twelve years before, on the day of Antony’s well-attended funeral, a day in which I felt a numb, cold fury whirling through me, Julia had approached me after Antony was interred and asked me, with great tact, how I would feel if she ventured across to what she called “the deadworld” in order to find Antony’s spirit, so she might ask him, personally, what had happened. In those days, with the War still raging, I was younger and much more certain of my rationalist, empiricist views than I was now, at the age of thirty-eight. When Julia proposed her idea, I was furious. I told her never to speak to me again. I would not be party to any sort of nonsense childish superstition meddling with my memories of Antony. I did want to know what had happened to him, and what he had been doing on the battlefield that day, but Julia’s method was not the way to find out.

  I wiped my eyes. Julia dabbed at hers. We stood there, sniffling.

  Time passed. We had some more cocoa and chatted about neutral things. Julia believed I should apologise to Father William. I believed he should apologise to me. But someone would have to go first. Someone had to “be the better man”, as it were, even after all this time. Someone had to take the high moral ground. I was very partial to the high moral ground: the view was marvellous. You could see for miles. Which was all very well, and very glib, but it was a distraction from the crux of the matter: that somewhere not far from here in Pelican River, a quiet little fishing town where nothing much ever happened, someone, possibly someone I knew, had a cellar under their property, and in that cellar they were trying to work some magic in order, I was starting to believe, to kill me. Gordon had referred to it as an accumulation of “foul energy”. It was preposterous! This was not the Middle Ages. The world was in the grip of a scientific revolution, with an entirely new way to think about reality struggling to be born, right now, in Europe. Science and progress were advancing. We were leaving behind superstition and the old ways of doing things. And yet here we seemed to have someone resorting very much to those old ways in order to deal with me. One would think it would be much easier simply to show up at my house with a gun and shoot me. If you had a problem with me, why not do the straightforward thing? Why all the nonsense? Just come and get me! I wanted to shout. I’m right here.

  I chanced to look at the east-facing window over the kitchen sink. The sky was faintly lighter; a deep greyness was stifling the weak light of distant stars. A new weather front was coming in from the sea. Such things were not altogether unusual in May; winter would properly set in only a few days hence, at the start of June. But right now, on this night, it seemed altogether troubling. I felt cold, despite sitting only a few feet from the range. Julia pulled her blue crocheted shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Is it that late?” she said, turning to see the dim light growing out there.

  It was indeed late. I only hoped it was not too late.

  8

  I rolled a sheet of my personal letterhead stationery into the big black Imperial typewriter and tapped in today’s date and the church’s address on Sullivan Street. I noticed that my typing today was worse than usual; I was making foolish, elementary mistakes, which was quite unlike me. Indeed, I thought, as I slapped the carriage return lever a few times to bring up a good amount of white space, it’s not as if, after all this time, I still care what Father William thinks, is it?

  Dear Father William,

  I wrote. The slap of keys on paper sounded louder than usual; I found myself thinking of machine-gun fire, even to the point of almost smelling the discharge smoke, the impression was so intense. I pressed on.

  I am writing to you today in order to discuss my outrageous behaviour

  Wait a moment. I could see the point of being conciliatory, and even humble. Humility doesn’t cost anything, after all. And I had slapped the vile old trout. But did I want to be this conciliatory? I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me that assaulting one’s local priest is not only appalling behaviour, unbecoming a lady, but also counterproductive in the long term. Gossip will spread, and a man so central to a community is in a perfect position to spread said gossip. Therefore, Mother would counsel, grovel abjectly, or, at least, play the part of abject apology, even if you do not feel it. It is hard enough being a single woman in the world without having an entire town arrayed against you. I knew Mother was right about this. But to grovel? After all this time? I still felt the shock of that moment as if it had happened only today. I would sooner die than make a grovelling apology to that man, I thought. And yet, if that feeling in my chest was any guide, it was the required course of action. Then again, a perhaps less conscientious side of my nature argued, there had been no detectable decline in the way the people of this town saw me. They thought then, and they thought now, that I was a very odd fish indeed. Was it possible that Father William had not been spreading disgusting rumours about me? Was it possible he hadn’t told anyone about it? In all this time I’d not considered that possibility — I’d not thought about it at all. I remember worrying a great deal at the time, but nothing came of it. There had been no campaign in the press against me, no-one came to my door to express their outrage, no “gentle hints” that possibly I was no longer welcome. Then an even more shocking thought arrived in my head: what if other people in this town hated him as much as I did? That gave me pause. I sat, thinking it over, staring out the window, unsure what to think. I pulled that draft out of the machine; I had always enjoyed the satisfying riiiiiiiip sound. Still, I rolled in a fresh sheet and resumed work.

  Many years ago, you and I had a conversation at your church on Sullivan Street, I

  Hmm. He already knows his address. Do I need to include that “Sullivan Street” reference? At this point it would mean starting over again. It stayed. I pressed on.

  I assaulted you without provocation or justification. It was an appalling thing to have done, a shameful breach

  Not bad. Not marvellous, but it would do for the moment. Keep going. Though, I was not sure about “a shameful breach”, which looked and sounded clumsy. It would be easy to fix on the next draft.

  Since that occasion I have had time to reflect on my dreadful behaviour and now I feel the need to offer you, indeed the entire community of Pelican River, my most abject apology. My actions were inexcusable. I am sorry, Father William, for my outburst. I do not expect you, even after all this time, to allow me back into your church. Certainly not. I do, however, feel it would be wrong of me to leave this matter unresolved. Naturally, I should be willing to make a formal public apology in
the Pelican River Record if you believe that would be appropriate as well.

  Again, please accept my profound apologies.

  Thank you for your time. I remain, as ever, your humble servant,

  How I hated having to say such things as that! Humble servant! Bollocks!

  R. E. Black (Mrs.)

  Half an hour later, I pulled the seventh and final draft of the letter from the machine and set it on my desk next to the beetling tower of over three hundred manuscript pages that so far represented my next novel. The letter seemed, on balance, a more important document.

  I quickly typed up an envelope, signed the letter with my favourite fountain pen, the Black Tethys with solid gold nib, and placed it in my Out tray. For any other correspondence, I would ask one of my staff to post it for me. This one, I would deal with myself. I knew, and my mother’s voice in my head agreed, that I should have written this letter when the incident was fresh. That I had taken all this time was, I’m sure she would have thought, and told me, unforgivable. But it was done now, and better late than never. I had a strange thought: what if he’d forgotten about it? What if he felt ashamed of having said what he said to me that day? I’d never previously considered this. Perhaps that was why I hadn’t seen any sign in all the years since of any kind of campaign against me and my presence here?

  Leaning back, I stared out the window. From here I could look down over the town and across the estuary. The new wooden Traffic Bridge extending Estuary Road across the river was a white arc to the far left, teeming with all manner of vehicles, both motorised and horse-drawn. The estuary itself looked like hammered pewter on this overcast, bleak day; strong westerly winds stirred the chop. I saw terns hovering above the water, and knew they would be hunting fish with eyes more powerful than I could imagine. And, of course, there was always a pelican or two, somewhere to be seen, enormous white and black birds, ridiculous-looking on the ground but impossibly graceful in the air. Beyond the far side of the estuary, the broad white beaches of Hagan’s Head lay, inviting even on a day like this, when I knew the fine white sand would be thick with brown seaweed, and the smell would be near-overpowering. Many times I had gone out there, rugged up against the elements on days just like this, and sat on the sand, wrapped in blankets, taking in the cold, gusting sea winds.

  I never wanted to leave.

  Later, Rutherford brought Julia home from the noon Mass.

  “How was it?” I was in the lounge room again, sipping black coffee and poring over manuscript pages, armed with my vicious red pen. My protagonist was having a very bad day indeed.

  Julia allowed Rutherford to take her heavy coat and made her way to the fireplace, to warm her hands. “There were only seven people there, including myself. Is that usual?”

  Rutherford inquired if Miss Templesmith would care for something warming to drink. She asked for a cup of tea.

  I said, “Hmm, well he does have three sessions on Sundays, as well as each night during the week, including a midnight Mass on Saturday nights. Or at least that was the way he used to do things.” I spotted Sally Hall bustling through the hall armed with a load of folded linen. “Sally? Could I have a word?”

  Sally deposited the enormous pile of linen on one of the armchairs, and pulled a loose stray blonde hair from her eyes. “Ma’am?”

  “Father William, he’s still doing all those services during the week and so forth?”

  “Not as many as before, ma’am. He’s cut right back lately.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Think he’s tired, ma’am.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Sally.”

  She bobbed, scooped up her linen and got back to work.

  Father William tired? Even though I had not set foot in his church for years, I heard about him constantly, and now and then ran across him in town — not that he acknowledged my existence. He was always in the local newspaper, indefatigable, a force to be reckoned with, doing his bit — serving on committees, organising fundraising activities, making home visits for the handful of parishioners who could not get to Mass. “How did you find him?” I asked Julia.

  “I rather thought he mumbled a lot, actually. Looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well. There was one surprising thing, though,” she said. “The service itself. It was just so, how to put this …? So shabby, if you’ll excuse me saying so. Back home, and you’ll remember this, nothing’s changed since you left, back home churches are like palaces of God! Statues of the saints carved from the finest Italian marble, gold leaf on everything, the most beautiful tiles, vestments sewn from the finest fabrics. You know you’re there to marvel at God’s glory, and to feel humble in His presence. It’s an awe-inspiring sort of experience.”

  I remembered. It had always bothered me that the Church possessed such astonishing riches, while elsewhere in the world there were people who couldn’t afford to buy bread — and yet these same paupers nevertheless could sacrifice a few coins for the Church! It was something else I had often been sorely tempted to protest about during services back home, where things were indeed as Julia described. When I had read somewhere that the Church was the richest single institution in the world, I wasn’t at all surprised.

  “Shabby in what way?”

  Julia looked as though she hardly knew where to start. “Well. For a start, there were hardly any other people there. A miserable bunch, too. Sour-faced, downcast. And then of course, the roof leaks. There are draughts because two of the stained-glass windows are broken. Cheap gold paint rather than gold leaf. The pews looked in need of a good varnishing, and the floor hadn’t been swept properly. And the wine was sour. I nearly choked!”

  I had not been aware things were quite so poor. I told Julia about my letter. She was pleased. “When will you post it?”

  I had planned to post it tomorrow, Monday.

  She said, “Why not post it today? You only have to drop it in the box.”

  I called Rutherford, who took Julia and me into town, pulling up out the front of the granite Postmaster General building at the corner of Estuary Road and Lewisham Street. He offered to deposit the letter in the big red postbox pillar, but I wanted to do it myself.

  Outside, few people were about. My view of the estuary was obscured by sheoak and jacaranda trees lining Estuary Road. The wind was cold and fresh; I had to hold onto my hat.

  Feeling surprisingly nervous, I pushed the letter into the slot, and heard it land, softly, deep down near the bottom of the pillar.

  And, immediately, I found myself worrying: had I done the right thing? Had I been apologetic enough? What if it didn’t work? I would need a plan. Worse, what if he simply ignored it, and didn’t even open it — I could see that happening in a great many of the possible future worlds that would arise from this moment. Why should he open a letter from That Woman, especially after such an unconscionably long time? What could she possibly have to say that would be of interest to a busy man like him?

  Later, Julia asked when we would be getting back in touch with Mr Duncombe. “Strictly professional interest, Julia, I’m sure,” I said, allowing a tiny smile. We were at the Pelican River Old England Tea Rooms, where Mrs Battersby bustled about us, her only customers at the moment.

  Julia flushed, and insisted that she was only thinking of my plan for us to drive her around the town and surrounding areas to see if she experienced anything “untoward” in her other bits of reality. Though thinking about it now, I was starting to wonder whether this might be too dangerous for Julia. She could have another attack of whatever had caused her recent seizure. “Are you quite sure you feel up to it?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it!” she said.

  I looked at Rutherford, who stood quietly nearby. “I am available whenever you require my services, ma’am, of course.”

  He was a fine man, Rutherford. Yet, I had the oddest feeling in the back of my mind that it might be best, if we were to try out this plan, to do it alone. We could take my other car, a blue Renault Tulip, the sport
y French roadster I used when I needed to take off on my own and didn’t want the huge black Bentley, which required enormous effort merely to steer. The Tulip, by contrast, was quick and nimble — though rather lacking in passenger comforts.

  I explained this idea. “Please feel free to take the evening off, Rutherford. I think we can manage.”

  “Right you are, ma’am.”

  Julia said, “These scones are awfully good, I must say!”

  Gordon took a long time answering the telephone. He said, puffing for breath, “Just been out in the shed. Had a bit of a thought about the control mechanism — see, it occurred to me I needed to think about the entire vehicle moving in Einsteinian four-dimensional space-time, so I would need more than three control sticks, you see, one for the engine throttle — though I’ve had some thoughts about the throttle design, too, which I need to study more closely — and the others to control temporal direction and frame of whatsit!”

  I listened to all this breathless outpouring with some difficulty: I could hear the many dogs, as usual, swarming and barking around him, and I could picture him being buffeted about. Some of those dogs were on the large side, too, and could easily knock a man over if he wasn’t sufficiently braced. Still, he almost never yelled at them, and they all, Gordon included, seemed very happy. “Gordon, would you be available this evening for a spot of research into Julia’s mysterious disturbances?” When he asked, I explained what she had told me early this morning.

  “Of course, of course. Sounds like a winning plan. Shall I bring a map?”

  I didn’t have one. “The very thing! Would you care to join us for dinner first?”

  He hesitated. “Dinner, hmm. Well … ” He would be thinking about how he didn’t want to impose on my hospitality two nights in a row, though he had done exactly this many times in the past. He was good about not presuming, but sometimes he could take it too far.

  I insisted; he gave in. We collected him on the way home.