by Lulu Taylor
The Beloved brings joy and gladness to all
We heed his voice, we heed his call
For his is the word the Almighty doth speak
He uses his arm to strengthen the weak . . .
It is almost as though the Almighty is speaking the Beloved’s words rather than the other way around, Letty thinks as she sings. But Maud has done her best, and the hymns are pleasing enough.
On Friday morning, all hands are on deck and even the ladies are working, dusting the best furniture or arranging flowers, to make sure that all is ready. A telegram arrives from the Beloved to say that he and Sarah will be with them later that day, and Letty is filled with excitement at the thought of his return. When the doorbell rings that afternoon, she’s in the hall dusting the gilt-framed mirror and, thinking it could be the Beloved, she rushes to open it before any of the Angels can arrive. But standing on the doorstep is a quite different man: rather plump and red-faced, his coat buttons straining over his stomach, and wearing a trilby hat. Next to him is a small fair lady with anxious eyes, holding a valise. Behind them both lurks a figure in a dark coat, a hat pulled low over his face, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
‘You must be the Kendalls!’ cries Letty. She had forgotten all about them in the Beloved’s absence but now she recalls in a rush.
‘Yes.’ The man smiles, his plump cheeks rising up like little red cushions. ‘I’m Mr Kendall. This is my wife. And this is my son, Arthur.’ He nods to the figure skulking on the steps behind him.
‘Please come in!’ Letty stands back, beaming, to let them into the hall. ‘Where is your luggage?’
‘It’s being brought later from the station.’
The trio enter the hall, blinking in the bright light after the gloom of the descending evening outside. Mr Kendall looks about. ‘Is the Reverend Phillips here?’
Letty doesn’t understand for a moment, and then says, ‘Oh, you mean the Beloved! I’m afraid he was called away. But he’ll be back any moment. Please come and I’ll show you to your room.’
‘This is quite a house,’ remarks Mrs Kendall, taking off her shawl. She seems impressed by the chequerboard floor and the vast mirrors, the marble busts standing on the torchières either side of the drawing room door. On the round mahogany table in the centre, hothouse flowers spill over a huge pink and gold porcelain vase.
‘I hope you’ll be comfortable here,’ Letty says politely. Both Mr and Mrs Kendall are dressed well, in expensive clothes, and she suspects their standards are high. The house, gleaming in anticipation of the evening’s celebrations, is looking its very best.
She leads them upstairs and shows them to what used to be her room; it already feels as though it is not her own, even though it looks the same: decorated in pale blue with silk hangings around the bed, and heavy damask curtains.
‘Very pretty,’ says Mrs Kendall, happier than ever as she notes the well-made French furniture and the gilt lamps with pleated shades.
‘The dressing room is made up for you, Arthur,’ Letty says, looking at the boy. He’s not really a boy, she notices, too tall for that, but it’s hard to see much of him. He flicks a gaze at her from under the low brim of his hat and grunts.
Mrs Kendall says, ‘I’m sure he’ll be most comfortable, Miss . . . ?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I should have said. I’m Miss Evans. Lettice Evans.’
Mrs Kendall raises her eyebrows and Mr Kendall says, ‘Then this was your house?’
‘No . . . well, I’ve always lived here. But it belonged to my sister, Arabella. You will meet her very soon.’ Letty thinks that Arabella is probably taking a long, scented bath in order to be ready for the Beloved’s return. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in. Please come down when you’re ready and there will be some tea for you. Our inaugural service is due to begin at eight o’clock.’
‘And the reverend will be back?’ Mr Kendall casts a glance at his watch.
‘Oh yes. He promised.’
The hours move on and the Beloved does not return. As eight o’clock nears, the community begins to gather in the hall, murmuring and nervous.
‘Have faith!’ declares Arabella. ‘He will be here.’ She is in a white gown, with a high neck and long, tight sleeves. The fullish skirt ends at the calf, the hem fringed in white feathers. It’s not like anything Letty’s seen before. The other ladies are in the prescribed uniform of white blouses and long skirts, some very plain and others adorned with lace and jewellery.
‘What if he’s been prevented from returning?’ asks Ethel Channing-Davies, who is a fretful sort. ‘He was seeing the bishop, wasn’t he?’
Everybody knows that the bishop is at loggerheads with the Beloved. There has been talk of defrocking. Could it be any worse than that? A nervous flutter goes through the assembled women. The idea of the community without its beating heart is unsupportable.
The ancient Reverend Silas lifts a trembling finger. ‘I can take the service if, for any reason, our leader is unable to be with us.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ declares Arabella, shooting him a furious look, ‘and utterly unnecessary. He will be here.’ With her chin high in the air, she stalks out in a flounce of shaking feathers.
The Kendall family have come downstairs, dressed according to the Beloved’s instructions: the men in plain black trousers and a double-breasted waistcoat over a white shirt. Mr Kendall wears a bow tie with his, but his son Arthur has a sombre necktie in black satin. Mrs Kendall’s sober white dress is belted at the middle but her large bust and bottom give her the appearance of an Edwardian matron. All three stand together watching proceedings with a grave wariness. Arabella has hardly noticed them, she is so preoccupied with the evening ahead and the whereabouts of the Beloved.
The Angels move among them all, handing out glasses of barley water and plain biscuits, to help sustain the congregation until the feast. Letty watches the son Arthur take a biscuit with an expression of scorn on his face. He is taller than both of his parents and their soft, plump features have taken an unexpectedly craggy turn in his face; or perhaps, she thinks, it is just his youth that gives him hollows in each cheek and a hungry look. He must be around twenty, she thinks. His hair is long at the top and combed back, some kind of oil giving it a burnished appearance, but it looks as though it is dark blonde in its natural state. His slate-grey eyes wander over the crowd of middle-aged women and ancient men without interest, then they land on Letty and for a moment they stare at each other. Despite their ignorance of one another, they acknowledge their common bond of youth. But in Arthur’s eyes is a resentment that she guesses is his lack of desire to be here. He shifts his gaze away carelessly.
Letty looks at the grandfather clock. It shows almost a quarter to eight. What are we to do? Is the Beloved not coming then? She can hardly bear to think it, not because of the fact that he will not be able to lead their service, but because he promised. Surely, surely, he is not capable of breaking a promise.
‘Listen to me!’ Arabella stands at the top of the stairs, looking out over them all. ‘Everyone! Please listen. We will go now to the church. We will prepare for him. For he will surely come. We must have faith.’
Her strident, confident voice calms and restores them all. Arabella descends the stairs with majestic poise, and the crowd in the hall parts to let her through, then forms behind her into a procession. Kitty rushes forward to open the door and Arabella marches through, the band of followers behind her. One of the Army of the Redeemed, a Mr Wilson, has brought his trumpet and he starts to toot away while a few of the ladies clap along, and soon they are all processing jauntily along, clapping.
Letty joins in, her spirits rising. She checked her reflection before she came downstairs, and was content with it. Her dark brown hair, thick and hard to tame, has not been bobbed, much as she would like it, and she has to be content with tucking it back hard and crimping the front to imitate the fashionable hairstyles. It is probably vanity, but she can’t help wanting to make the most of
herself. Her looks are somewhere between Arabella’s sharp, dark drama and Cecily’s softer prettiness. She has a pert chin and upturned nose that she wishes were straight, but her complexion is good and she’s glad that her black lashes give boldness to her slightly too pale and rather slanting, catlike green eyes. Perhaps it is living among so many older ladies, but today she feels young and fresh and bright. She is wearing a white woollen skirt and a soft white jersey silk top, the prettiest and most festive things she has in the right colour. No one has stopped for a coat but the evening air is balmy enough. It is May and the day has been a warm one. Arabella leads on and they follow, heading along the newly made path around the rhododendron thicket towards the church.
‘Come, come,’ calls Arabella, her tone excited and happy. ‘See the holy place ahead!’
They all gasp as they come around the side of the thicket to see the new church, with its lights blazing from within, the great stained-glass window glowing like a jewel. By some unseen cue, the organ within strikes up and a riotous peal of music flows out into the night. The trumpet stops, and the clapping, as they listen to the wonderful noise.
But where is he? Where can he be? Letty is aware that this holiday mood, infectious though it is, will come crashing down if Arabella’s promise is not fulfilled.
Arabella doesn’t stop on the threshold, but continues on into the bright new interior, every chair polished, the red velvet-pile carpet pristine, the brass chandeliers glimmering. Up at the organ sits Maud, pounding away on the keys, her feet dancing across the pedals as she peers over the top of her glasses to read her music. When they reach the front of the church, the followers begin to take their places in the chairs. Letty sidles into a seat, and sees the Kendall family on the opposite side, the parents with their faces aglow, Arthur’s expression still stony but with a hint of interest at what will happen next.
Arabella stands before the altar, her back to everyone and her head bowed, the hem of feathers swinging about her calves, her pearls glimmering. Then the moment comes: the organ finishes with a flourish and the notes fade away. There is silence, heavy with expectation. Slowly Arabella raises her head, turning her face to the great window over the altar. She lifts her arms high, spreading out her palms to the image of the lamb in the centre of the window, the lamb with the flag carried in its mouth and the sword beneath its feet.
‘Oh Beloved!’ she cries, her voice loud and piercing. ‘Oh Beloved, come to us! Do not leave your children hungering for your presence! Thirsting for your presence!’ She takes a deep breath and begins to recite:
‘By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth:
I sought him, but I found him not.
I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets,
and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth:
I sought him but I found him not.’
There is a kind of sigh from the listening congregation, a wispy sound of longing.
Letty thinks, It’s the ‘Song of Solomon’. Spoken like an invocation.
Arabella turns to them all, her arms still aloft. She stares down the aisle of the church between the rows of people. Then a radiant smile bursts over her face and a great voice bellows from the doors.
‘I am here. I am come!’
They turn as one and there in the doorway stands the Beloved, his arms also held high.
Arabella cries ecstatically, ‘The voice of my Beloved! Behold, he cometh leaping on the mountains and skipping on the hills!’
For a moment, Letty has a vision of the Beloved skipping up a hill in his black suit and is seized by an impulse to laugh, but it is replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief and joy. The Beloved is home, as he promised. All is well. Around her, the followers sigh and moan with happiness and fulfilment. Maud squints at her music and starts up with the hymn they have all been practising in order to welcome him home, and everybody begins to sing. The Beloved walks slowly up the aisle, blessing those he passes, touching their outstretched hands, nodding and smiling, listening to the hymn in his praise. Behind him walks his wife, Sarah, her face tired and drawn but her eyes as serene as ever.
When the hymn is over, the Beloved has reached the altar, and he turns to them and motions for them all to sit. Letty sinks down, unable to take her eyes off him. They have missed him more than she ever thought possible in such a short time. She hopes that he will never go again.
We cannot survive without him. She knows it’s true. Then her soul is filled with joy, because she knows that the Beloved’s promise is that death is conquered. They shall never, any of them, be separated from him.
The Beloved is speaking, his magnificent voice filling the room. ‘Today, I did battle with dark forces. With evil forces! Today I have finally cut my binds to the old ways. I am free. And so, my brothers and sisters, are you. We are free to live as the truth demands! It was no longer possible for me to conceal myself from you all. Some of you already know, you have had the knowledge vouchsafed to you, most from divine visions.’ He pauses, then says loudly, ‘Today I cease to be the Reverend Phillips. I gave the bishop back the symbols of my allegiance to his way. I go now on a greater path. A holy path. The path to salvation! And you are my chosen to accompany me on this road.’
A tremor of excitement passes over the congregation.
‘This path will not be easy. There will be trials. There will be sacrifices. The day is at hand, and much is asked of the elect. It is required that we re-enact the mystical union of the Lamb and his people. I myself am married, as you know, to Sarah. Our union is the holiest of holy. It is a spiritual union only, like that of the Lamb with his Church.’ The Beloved’s eyes flash and he points at his wife, now sitting in the front row. ‘That woman and I refrain from physical intimacy! We reject it!’
There is a muffled gasp among his listeners.
‘Yes.’ He begins to walk back and forth in front of the altar. ‘That’s right. We have renounced the flesh, and so must you all. The kingdom is at hand. The Devil is putting up his strongest fight in his frenzy to hold this world in his grasp. Do you think he wants to give up this prize, this sordid den of iniquity in which every vice brings him pleasure? Of course not. We must fight him at every turn. We have no need to bring children into this world, not when the day is near, the day when we will all be judged. We must concentrate our efforts on battling the Devil, and on saving the souls that exist today. Now! Here!’ The Beloved slams his hand down on a hymn book. Letty jumps at the sound.
There is a breathless silence as the Beloved stalks back and forth, staring at them all with blazing eyes.
‘We will begin our fight with spiritual marriages that will bring our brothers and sisters together and yet deny the Devil his pleasure in carnality. I announce here that our first couple to be united will be Reverend Silas and Albertina Johnson.’
Letty gasps, as everyone else does, and no one can help turning to look at the astonished couple in their different pews. The Reverend Silas, aged and bent and held up by his walking stick, almost bald with just a fringe of white hair around his ears, appears quite bewildered, while his betrothed, a sedate lady in her mid-forties with grey hair and fat, soft hands, looks fearful. But the jubilation of the people around them, and the immediate congratulations, seem to buoy them up and soon they are smiling and happy, nodding and waving to each other from their places.
The Beloved quietens them down with a gesture. ‘There will be more unions, brothers and sisters.’
Letty can’t help darting a glance around the church. There are many more women than men. One of the men is Reverend Gilbert, almost as aged as Reverend Silas. There are old boys from the Army of the Redeemed, but one of those is already married. Apart from that, there are the gardeners, a groom, a handyman and the boy who does the errands.
Surely he can’t mean us to marry them? Letty thinks, puzzled. Then her gaze falls on Arthur Kendall. He is staring directly back at her. At once, she flushes bright red and she looks away.
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By the altar, Arabella is watching the Beloved with shining eyes.
PART THREE
Chapter Seventeen
‘Hi, Caz,’ Rory says, standing in the doorway. He’s trying to smile, but his expression is tortured. ‘Can I come in? I’ve got some news.’
Caz stares at him. Has he found out where Kate is? She can’t help hoping he has. Then she won’t feel so torn anymore between her promise to Kate, and Rory’s pain. She knows deep down she’s ready to break. She’s so worried about Kate and the fact that there’s been no word, no communication. The phone is off. The emails are unanswered. ‘Of course. Come in,’ she says.
In the kitchen, Rory slumps down onto one of the chairs.
‘Two weeks she’s been gone,’ he says. ‘More than two weeks. They can’t find a trace of her. Where the hell can she be?’
Caz stares at him. I have to stay loyal. I promised. She takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t know.’ It’s true. She doesn’t know. But what she does know is tearing her up inside. ‘What’s the news?’
‘It’s Ady. He’s woken up.’ Rory’s mouth tightens and she can see he’s still fighting the emotions that threaten to tumble out.
Caz gasps and breaks into a smile. ‘But that’s brilliant! He’s awake! Oh Rory, I’m so happy for you, and for him. How is he? What do they say about his progress?’
‘It happened yesterday. They told me to expect it when they started to reduce the drugs keeping him under. It was an amazing moment, Caz, to see his eyes open after all this time.’ Rory manages to smile at the memory. ‘He’s fuzzy. He’s not fully aware yet. But they think he’s going to be all right.’ Then his expression contorts and his voice trembles. ‘He wants his mother, though. He’s asking for her. He needs her. And . . . I don’t know where she is. I can’t get her for him. Do you know how that feels? Why should he have to lose his mother as well?’
