Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Strong, please, with milk and two large sugars.’ It was Easter Day, so she was allowed to be indulgent; the long fast over, the penance and the vigils at an end.

  ‘Shouldn’t you get back to bed? You still look pretty groggy and the doctor said to rest.’

  Doctor? Yes. A large one with cold hands. He’d been in the dream, as well, had found her naked at the bottom of the sea, examined all her bruises, wrapped her in a winding sheet.

  ‘Hilary, are you sure you feel all right? You look so sort of dazed. You do know who I am?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘The captain.’

  He laughed. ‘I like that! We need a ship or two here, not to mention a stretch of real live ocean. Look, let me help you back to bed and I’ll go and make the tea.’

  He was there again before he’d gone, sitting on the bed now, holding out a cup. ‘I brought some croissants, too, just in case you’ve found your appetite. Happy Easter, by the way. I hope you like your flowers. Those are genuine Easter lilies.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yes, to cheer your sickroom. And I’ve got some grapes downstairs. Hey, why not come downstairs? It’s a right mess, I’m afraid, but much less claustrophobic than up here. I only brought you this far up, because it’s the one and only room that’s really finished, and also furthest away from the smell of paint and plaster. I started at the top and I’m working my way down, turning a lighthouse into home.’

  ‘A lighthouse?’

  He nodded, grinning at her startled face. ‘You probably didn’t realise since there isn’t any sea. It’s more a folly, really. Some nutcase built it in 1810, perfect in all details and with a proper flame-holder on the top, for guiding ships around the rocks. The only problem is there are no rocks, and the nearest ship must be fifteen miles away. Still, I like it, and it’s ripe for a conversion. I mean, if I don’t live here myself, I can always sell it and move on. There must be quite a lot of weirdos in the world, who can’t wait to buy an inland lighthouse looking out across the downs. Tell you what, you rest here and drink your tea, and I’ll go and tidy things a bit, make your bed up on the sofa. Thank God I’ve got a sofa! A lot of things I haven’t got, including a cooker and a fridge. Never mind, we’ll manage. Don’t move till I come back.’

  She didn’t want to move. It felt wonderful to be drinking tea in bed, with a shaft of sun pawing at the honey, turning it to amber. She spread amber on her croissant. She’d never had a croissant, relished its rich taste, its unusual melting texture, which combined crisp and flabby both at once. He’d spoilt her, brought her breakfast up, brought her flowers, expensive flowers, worthy of an altar. She turned again to look at them, the exotic ice-white trumpets, with their gaping golden throats, their veined and speckled petals; the velvet-pollened stamens sticking out their tongues. No one had ever bought her flowers, least of all such glamorous ones, so why should Robert Harrington; crass and noisy Robert, whom she’d thought she hadn’t liked?

  It was all slowly coming back now – images and memories flashing through her mind: not just Robert pestering her at Wandsworth, his arm across her shoulder on Luke’s floor, his constant teasing compliments at Ivan’s birthday dinner; but Robert in her Sussex room – a completely different Robert, calming her, dressing her, packing up her things; Robert grim-faced in his car, driving fast through Sussex lanes while she sat silently beside him, some other stranger-woman weeping through her eyes; then stopping at the doctor’s, where that woman kept on crying – a terrifying sound, which seemed to claw and rack her body; a needle in her arm, then blackness and the nightmares. She’d woken once and found him there, Captain Robert Harrington, very strong and sure. They’d talked a while, together on the deck, and then she’d plunged down down again, surfaced once or twice, always found him watching at the wheel.

  She pulled up her pyjama top, shuddered at the red and angry marks. What in God’s name had she told him, how explained those marks? Strange they didn’t throb or hurt, when they’d been so sore before. Nothing seemed to hurt, except the questions in her mind. Who had put on her pyjamas, brought her up these stairs? What had really happened in the night? Had he touched her, tried to share her pain – and body – as Simon Tovey had? Her suitcase was unpacked; slippers by the bed, sponge bag on the windowsill, dressing gown hanging on a hook. Someone had looked after her, found the things she needed.

  She limped out to the staircase, stronger now, with food and drink inside her, started creeping down it, clinging to the rail. The steps were steep and dangerous. She stopped several times to get her breath, or peer out through the tiny stone-framed windows, marvelling at the view. It was a sea out there; the hills themselves rolling in like breakers, capped by white-foam clouds; a strong sea-wind roaring round the tower. There were even sea gulls circling, as if they’d been fooled by the lighthouse and were searching for a shoal. All the smells were wrong, though – not the salty tang of seaweed, but turpentine and paint, new-sawn wood, fresh plaster, now wafting up to meet her, as the stairs curved round towards an open door.

  She paused on the last step, exclaiming at the bright and airy room, a perfect circle, with fight pouring in from deep-embrasured windows. The room was bare of furniture, save a trestle table piled with paint and tools, and the sofa Robert had mentioned, which looked completely out of place with its curving wooden arms in the shape of dragons’ heads, its luxurious crimson velvet. It seemed to form a small oasis amidst the clutter all around it – cardboard boxes pressing in, packing-cases spilling half their contents; more tools and paint-pots on the floor. One crate had been upturned and placed beside the sofa to form a makeshift table; two dirty mugs on top of it, half a staling sandwich, and a small transistor radio tuned to Radio 3. So that had been her Brignor Mass, a recording from the BBC. She smiled, walked over to the window. The view looked very different from lower down the tower. She was no longer poised beneath the sky, but enfolded in the hills, every detail sharper now in the dappled patchwork morning. She swung round as Robert entered, carrying a pile of rugs and cushions and whistling to himself.

  ‘Hilary! You shouldn’t be down here yet. I wanted to make it nice for you.’

  ‘It is nice. It’s wonderful. I’ve never seen a room like this before.’

  ‘Well, there’s a long way to go yet – months and months of work. Though I suppose I’m lucky to have got this far so quickly. It all happened so damned fast – stumbling on the place at all, then finding it was actually for sale – and cheap at that, then moving in last month and going at it fourteen hours a day. Hell! I never even meant to move. I was living in this commune and … I’m sorry, I’m boring you. I’ve told you all this before.’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘You know – at Ivan’s dinner. Liz says I drove her crazy, raving on about the place, but I suppose I’m just in love with it.’

  Hilary tried to think back to Ivan’s birthday dinner. She did remember Robert talking – talking long and loudly about a whole storm and shoal of things, including his precious acquisition. Though she hadn’t even grasped it was a lighthouse, only recalled that strange word ‘folly’, which she’d applied immediately to herself. She was a folly, a naive and stupid laughing stock, who’d fallen for a man who loved only his own sex. She’d been so concerned with Ivan, so embarrassed in his presence, so conscious of her period – blood soaking through the cleaning rag, maybe staining Liz’s chair – she’d had little time or interest left for Robert’s latest passion. She’d hardly even listened, just tried to tune him out. Now, she felt ashamed.

  ‘It’s fantastic, Robert, honestly – like something in a dream, or film, or …’

  ‘You wait! This is nothing. I’ve got some really dazzling schemes – not just inside, outside. See those stinging nettles – a good ten ton of them, and those huge great ugly boulders? Well, imagine Kew Gardens crossed with Hampton Court, and that’s what I intend.’ He laughed. ‘Right, your throne is ready, Ma’ am.’ He gestured to the sofa, where he had plumped pillows and spr
ead rugs. ‘And if I just clear away this debris, you might feel more at home.’ He started lunging round the room, stacking boxes, making space.

  ‘Leave it, Robert, honestly. There’s no need to do all this for me.’

  ‘There’s every need. I want to make you comfortable.’

  She watched him from the sofa as he strode in and out, banishing coffee mugs and paint pots, bringing her more things: a carafe of orange juice, a bunch of purple grapes, a twig of blackthorn blossom in a United Dairies milk bottle. ‘Sorry about the vase. Half my things are still in packing-cases. You like grapes, do you, Hilary? I tried to get you strawberries, but the damn shop didn’t have them. Mind you, I was lucky to get anything so late on Easter Saturday. And delivered to my door. I had to phone the shop and really woo the girl. Girl! She’s nearer fifty-five, but never mind, she came up with the goods – even found those lilies. I’d have preferred to choose the stuff myself, but I didn’t like to leave you, not the way you looked.’

  Hilary said nothing, stared down at the grapes, plump expensive grapes with an iridescent bloom; the spray of blackthorn blossom pastel-frail against its gnarled black twig. Why should he do all this for her, look after her two days and nights, stay in all Easter Saturday, so she wouldn’t be alone? She ought to thank him, but she couldn’t find the words, felt utterly confused. This was the Robert she’d always endeavoured to avoid, yet now she’d been alone with him since Friday – alone in some strange dream, where he had been her anchor and her rock. Things still seemed rather dream-like, her brain unplugged, her body like wet sawdust, as she lay back against the cushions, suddenly dead tired again.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked him. Her watch had disappeared and she had lost all sense of time, all routine, all boundaries.

  ‘Ten past twelve.’

  ‘Twelve? You mean midday?’

  He grinned. ‘Well, certainly not midnight.’

  ‘But I’ve never slept as late as this, never in my life.’ Not even as a teenager had she been allowed to laze in bed, or have lie-ins at weekends.

  ‘Well, I must confess you had me worried, especially when you sleepwalked. That’s ready why I moved you to the bedroom at the top. It’s the only one with bars across the windows, and tiny windows anyway. I was terrified you might fall out if I left you where you were, or might try to break the glass or something. As it was, I had to bar the stairs.’

  She took a sip of fruit juice, so she wouldn’t have to speak. What did he mean by ‘If I left you where you were’? Where had she been, and just what else had happened in the night? It was bad enough that he’d seen her sleepwalking – seen her dishevelled and unconscious, a puppet and a prisoner, completely in his power. ‘I … er … never seem to hurt myself,’ she muttered hesitantly, still not looking up. ‘Well, I never have before. It’s as if I keep away from windows almost from some seventh sense.’

  ‘You mean you sleepwalk quite a lot?’

  ‘I used to, a few years ago. But our Abbess said it was really just attention-seeking and I ought to try to …’

  ‘For God’s sake, Hilary! Was the woman mad or something?’

  She flushed at his sharp tone, felt a duty even now to defend her Reverend Mother. ‘Well, you can control a lot of things which people tend to think of as just “happening” – I mean, things like tears or illnesses. The Abbess said they were often self-indulgence.’

  ‘Hilary, it’s crazy, that sort of iron control. Don’t you see, that’s probably just the reason why you sleepwalk in the first place? If you keep yourself so rigid all damned day, then something has to snap at night. Your mind and body are simply shouting out for freedom and a chance of self-expression. You were beside yourself last night, literally shouting in your sleep – and sobbing, really sobbing, tears pouring down your face. You must remember, don’t you? I had to wake you in the end.’

  She put her glass down, locked her hands together, her whole body tense with shame. ‘I … I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t say sorry. Please. I’m the one who owes you an apology. I should have said it sooner, but to tell the truth, I felt a bit, well …’ He broke off, veered away from her, started pacing up and down. ‘Christ Almighty, Hilary, I’ve been dead worried all this time, not just about the fact you seemed so ill, but as to what you’d feel when you woke and found me there.’

  Ill. He meant mad, unbalanced. Hilary’s cheeks were flaming as she recalled the scene again: the sudden knocking at her door, as she held the belt suspended in the air. Had he known what she was doing? How else could he – or she – explain the marks?

  He suddenly plunged back to her, sat down on her feet. ‘Look; I’ve barged into your private life, and that’s embarrassing for both of us, but if I hadn’t found you, Hilary …’ He paused again, reached out for a grape, as if to stop his mouth with it.

  She listened to the crunching of the pips. Of course he’d known, though he wouldn’t understand. She hardly understood herself what had made her go so far. She had broken rules again, rigid rules, laid down deliberately so that Sisters wouldn’t harm themselves. It was as wrong to overdo the discipline as to avoid it altogether. You were not allowed to mark the skin, forbidden to draw blood. She ought to tell him that; owed it to her convent, to its name and reputation. She tried out words and phrases in her mind, rejected all of them. Why were words so treacherous, always too simplistic or too literal; never seemed to fit the things you tried to say with them? She plucked a grape herself, held it on her palm. The blackthorn blossom was already falling, pink and white confetti on the crate.

  Robert had shifted to the far end of the sofa, chin cupped in his hands. ‘You’re not angry with me, are you – I mean, that I brought you here at all? It must seem a damn cheek, but what else could I do, with Liz and Di and Delia all away? It was Liz, in fact, who suggested that I call on you, before she left for France. She phoned to say you’d be staying just ten miles away, so why didn’t I pop over in the car? I did phone first, I promise. But the guy who answered said they didn’t take messages for ordinary conference members, only for the staff. So I thought I’d take a chance and just drop in. I’m sorry, Hilary, honestly I am.’

  She watched another blossom tremble from the twig, fall between the grapes and disappear. He’d apologised – three times. For saving her, for nursing her, for buying grapes and lilies.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, springing up awkwardly to try to find some Kleenex; passing her his handkerchief instead.

  ‘I’m not.’ She touched her face, surprised to find it wet. She had forgotten how to cry – crying was forbidden. But how often had she cried at night, unknowingly? For months, or even years, perhaps? And that woman in the car, that sobbing, screaming stranger, who’d lost all control, all dignity, could that really have been her?

  ‘If you’re upset about the doctor, he’s a pal of mine and absolutely trustworthy. I had to find a doctor – you do see that, don’t you, Hilary? I was frightened you’d been raped, for heaven’s sake. Okay, you told me about Simon, so we can forget all that bit now. I just wanted you to know I didn’t …’

  She stared at him in shock. Told him about Simon? That was quite impossible. She’d resolved to hush the whole thing up, never say a word to anyone. And they hadn’t talked at all, not that she remembered, or only in a dream. Yet he’d hardly mention Simon’s name, unless she’d let it out herself. How many people was she – an hysteric and a sleepwalker, a gossip and a telltale? And why had it all vanished from her mind, as if those dangerous alter egos had taken over in the night, said things she’d never say herself, shamed her and betrayed her – betrayed Simon, too, most likely.

  ‘It wasn’t Simon’s fault,’ she faltered, concerned now that she’d slandered him, portrayed him as a bully or a brute. ‘I … let him. I mean, it didn’t seem to matter if there wasn’t any God.’

  ‘No God?’

  Suddenly she was blurting out the whole grotesque Good Friday – Jim Duck and Elaine, Reverend Mother Molly, the so-called
‘healing’ session, when she’d lost her faith, her God.

  ‘But you are healed, don’t you see – or at least well on the way.’ Robert seized her hand, almost knocking over the milk bottle in his eagerness to speak. ‘You say you’ve lost your faith, but actually you’ve gained something, and something really vital – the freedom to be yourself. Your faith was acting like a straitjacket, keeping you confined in a narrow set of rules. For the first time in your life, you can be free from all those rules, free from guilt and punishment, free to grow. You’re a passionate person, Hilary. I realised that the first moment I laid eyes on you. Oh, I’m not talking about sex. I mean feelings and emotions, the capacity to respond to things, enjoy things. All that’s been forbidden up to now. You’ve been taught to seek perfection through constant self-denial. But perfection isn’t possible, not for human beings. We all goof, or make a hash of things. It’s simply part of life – like pain and mess and mystery are. If you try to avoid them, you’ll always end up miserable and frustrated with yourself. I know – my wife was a perfectionist.’

  ‘Your wife?’ She’d no idea he had a wife, felt a sudden rush of guilt; glanced behind her, startled, as if expecting Mrs Harrington to walk in through the door, find her in her nightclothes, dishevelled and …

  ‘Well, ex-wife I should say, though it’s funny how the “ex”-bit hurts, even after all these years. And talking of messes, I made a mess of that – not just the marriage, but the divorce as well. I never see my son now. He lives right up in the wilds of Scotland and calls someone else “Dad”.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Hilary eased her hand from his, embarrassed by its stickiness; nervous at this talk of his relationships, his past. She had seen him as a bachelor, free and unencumbered, roaming round the world, changing jobs and houses, in the way Liz had described. Had his wife and son tagged after him on all those exotic trips, or had he divorced them long before? She felt somehow disconcerted to know he had been married – almost angry with him, as if he’d deliberately misled her.