Yet now she felt sweaty hot, as if the whole three weeks of fierce June sun had been compressed and compacted in her body, then stoked and fuelled with fear. She’d been hot for days and days, hot with apprehension, hot with some strange restlessness she couldn’t understand. She fumbled for her handkerchief, so she could wipe the perspiration from her forehead, then reahsed that she’d left it in the car. She had left Robert in the car, as well, knew she must complete this task alone; had even made him stop a good two hundred yards away, so that he hadn’t glimpsed the convent yet at all. No one in her present life had seen it, not even a tiny snapshot, or a picture, despite the huge amount of space, of sheer emotion, it still took up in her mind. Yet she longed to have him there, his voice to break the silence, his bulk to dwarf the walls; have his strong hand seize the letter, march up to the gate and drop it through. Heroic, he had called her, and she, too, had seen herself as made of martyr’s stuff, resisting tyrants, anti-Christs, for years. Yet, here she was, trembling before a harmless country mansion, which housed a dozen old and sleeping nuns.
Tomorrow was the great feast of St Alban, himself a martyr, Britain’s first. In just an hour, the midnight bell would sound, the nuns get up for Night Office to celebrate that feast; and later, at tomorrow’s Mass, the priest would vest in red-the red of martyrs’ blood. She must leave all that behind, all that ritual and symbol, the whole circling year of feasts. Six weeks ago, her own feast had come and gone – the feast of St Hilary of Aries. To all at Cranleigh Gardens, It had been just another day, a boring busy Tuesday. She had tried to think that way herself, not look in vain for the posy of wild flowers which would have been tied to her mug in the Brignor refectory, the sheaf of holy pictures with promises of prayers, the smiles from every Sister as they wished her happy feastday. That evening, Robert had phoned. She’d told him, on an impulse, regretted it immediately, when he’d laughed and called her ‘Sister Mary Aries’. The next day, he’d sent her flowers, a card tucked in amongst them, which said just ‘Happy everyday’.
Suddenly, she marched up to the gate, not caring now if her feet disturbed the silence; thrust the letter through, heard it fall with a heavy empty sound, as she turned away, head down. She glanced back over her shoulder for a last view of the walls. She might never see this place again, was no longer part of it, no longer bound by the umbilical cord of her solemn holy vows. She kept stopping, stalling, looking back; almost collided with a tall shape in the gloom – Robert, come to fetch her. Neither said a word, just stood side by side, buttressed by the walls. She was glad he’d come, wanted him as witness to this place, witness to her past; willed him silently to understand, but not to speak. Anything he said might jar or wound. And she prayed he wouldn’t touch her – not here, not now. It was enough that he was present; that naked as she was of robe or coif, he could clothe her in his strength and in his shadow. They stood as still as rooted trees, listening to the voices of the past. Could he hear the daily chanting of the Office, the grandeur of High Mass, the imperious bells pealing to direct her to the next task in her day, the next step in her life?
‘Quick!’ she whispered suddenly, seized his hand, almost dragged him after her as she blundered down the path, back towards the car. She slammed her door, sat feverish and impatient while he fiddled with the keys. ‘Hurry, Robert, please!’
She had been trying to restrain him on the journey there, begging him to slow, not to let that needle keep creeping up and up. But now the car was hurtling down the lanes, as if all her own impatience was revving through its engine, spinning with its wheels. Already she felt different, her whole body lighter, freer, as if some crushing burden had been physically removed from it. The windows were wound down, her hair tangling in the wind, face slapped and pummelled by the rush of wild sea air. It was not quite midnight yet, not St Alban’s day yet; still the feast of St Aloysius – the patron saint of youth. She was seventeen again, not a prim young virgin entering a convent, but a good-time girl out on her first date – unbridled, free as wind.
They were forced to slow as they bumped along the rough and stony track, which led to the beach they’d chosen as their camp site. The tide was far far out now, the beach huge, mysterious, beneath a thin-lipped crescent moon, a rash of stars. She checked her watch as she clambered from the car. Midnight. The nuns would be filing in to choir, eyes closed, hands joined, gait dignified and slow, as she herself streaked down the beach, eyes everywhere, drinking in the whole vast sea and sky. She increased her pace, arms and legs like pistons, barely needing any effort save the force of her elation. All the stored and frozen energy of her twenties and her thirties, when she had never run, never swung her arms, never used her body through the full range of its movement, had come flooding surging back. She craved some ritual to express her break with Brignor, flaunt her new-found freedom and relief. There were ceremonies for joining – simple vows and final vows – but none at all for leaving, breaking out.
She tugged off shoes and jacket, left them on the beach, raced towards the water, and into the first shallow froth of white. ‘Be careful!’ Robert yelled, his footsteps drumming after her, pounding on the sand: She took no notice, only plunged in deeper, bunching up her skirt, wincing as the icy water lapped and shocked her legs. Robert was much closer now, struggling through the breakers to try to catch her up, but hampered by the current and his clothes. Suddenly, she ducked down in the water, swam instead of floundering, felt herself lifted on the waves; rising with them, slewing down, spray breaking over her head. She could hardly hear Robert’s voice for the noise of wind and water. He was swimming right beside her, his body tossed and buffeted.
‘I thought you said this sea was dangerous.’
‘It is!’ she shouted back. ‘Especially in our clothes.’ She longed to be without them, to be naked like a fish. She had stripped off her long habit, stripped off Rule and vows, so why should she be hampered by that soggy spoilsport skirt, tangling round her limbs and trying to restrain her? She fumbled for the buttons, which went right down the front of it, tried to pull them free. A sudden violent breaker thwacked across her face, blinding her a moment, as she fought to get her breath, choking with the force of it, gagging on the salt. She closed her eyes, trod water, let two more waves surge past, then tugged the sodden skirt again, wrenching at the buttons. The third wave snatched it off for her, swept it back and down. She was free now, unencumbered; a sleek and streamlined dolphin, with no clothes, no nagging conscience, just a torso and good lungs.
‘This is wonderful!’ she shouted, as she cut across a swathe of glinting moonlight, plunged on into black. ‘Let’s swim all the way to Norway.’
They recovered, panting, on the beach, exhausted, muscles aching. ‘God!’ said Robert, rubbing his cold limbs. ‘You’re a fantastic swimmer, Hilary. You keep fazing me with all these hidden talents. What next?’
She flushed, tried to tug her tee shirt down, to hide her naked thighs. The saturated fabric was clinging to her breasts, outlining her nipples. The fight from moon and stars was only very faint, but she was aware of Robert’s eyes lingering on her body, returning to her breasts. His voice was low, and half-amused, as he laid a chilled and heavy hand across her naked leg. ‘Why stop at just the skirt? You’d actually be warmer if you took your top off, too – and those stupid pants.’
She rolled away, hugged knees to chest, to hide both breasts and pants. So now he was demanding what Liz called ‘payment’, payment for his kindness, for the chauffeuring, the gifts. Why not? He deserved them, didn’t he, and she herself had excited and aroused him by running wild, shedding all restraint. It now seemed unbelievable that she had flung away her skirt, with no thought at all for afterwards, or of how it might affect him; no thought of waste, or money.
‘I’ll … er … get changed in the car,’ she said, jerking to her feet.
It seemed a long way back – darker, slower going, more broken shells and pebbles underfoot, things which jabbed and cut; a brisk sea breeze slapping her b
are legs. So what happened to the good-time girl, she asked herself ironically, as she crouched shivering and awkward in the cramped front seat, trying to get dressed? She ignored her pyjamas, although it was now nearly one a.m.; struggled into a high-necked, long-sleeved tracksuit. She was still damp underneath it, but too frightened of her nakedness to take the time to dry herself. She wasn’t sure where Robert was, or whether he were watching. She had passed him a towel, a torch, his own dry clothes, the knapsack and the groundsheets; suggested that he get dressed somewhere else.
She emerged still shivering from the car, her own feeble torch-beam almost snuffed out by the darkness which seemed to close around it. She was a nothing in this vastness, this blur of alien sea and sky, stretching to infinity – nothing but a grain of sand, a speck.
‘Robert!’ she called anxiously, but his name was blown away, shredded into spume. Supposing he had left her, stalked off in a huff, angered by her constant fears and scruples, her sudden shifts of mood, which encouraged then rejected him; swept her from elation to sullen prudishness. His own moods could change, as well. Liz had spoken of his temper, which could suddenly erupt, she’d warned, replace sunny calm with hurricane. She hadn’t seen it yet, but now that she’d repulsed him, he might well be stung, resentful.
She stumbled down the path, across the dunes, suddenly saw a leap of flame, heard the crackle, of dry wood. She ran towards the fire, found him crouching on the burnished sand beside it, breaking up distorted limbs of driftwood, both hands glowing golden as he fed the flames with sticks. Neither said a word. It was she who reached to kiss him – an adult kiss, mouth to dangerous mouth. She glimpsed his startled glance before shutting her own eyes, feeling the strange texture of his lips. His chin was rough and hurting, his tongue pushing at her mouth, as if to force it open. She kept it shut, afraid. The word ‘kiss’ sounded gentle and affectionate, but this kiss was urgent, fierce, as if she had struck a match and some new and frightening power she had never seen in Robert had leapt up like a flame. His whole body had joined in, was pressing, gripping hers, as if he wanted every curve and bone and plane to mould into his own. How long did kisses last?
As if in answer, he released her just a little, so he could see her face; touched her cheeks, her lashes, with one caressing finger. She let out a deep breath, half relief, half pleasure, but suddenly he clamped his lips against her open mouth, sought and found her tongue. She was taken by surprise; her own tongue powerless, captive, as his sucked and nuzzled hers. It seemed extraordinary, extraordinary, that someone else’s tongue should be right inside her mouth – her private mouth, her small mouth, which somehow seemed more intimate than any other part of her. She could taste his supper, the lingering tang of sausages and grease, overlaid with wine. He must be tasting hers as well; their two salivas mingling, her own tongue moving now, as if he had forced it to respond.
She felt a hand slide slowly up her back, slip round to cup her breast. She tried to speak, to stop him, but she no longer owned her mouth or voice, no longer owned her body. He was unzipping her tracksuit, unbuttoning his own shirt. She hardly recognised him. He seemed larger than he’d ever been before; rearing tall and solid in the night, his features blurred and indistinct, as if he were no longer Robert Harrington, but Man in general, Man in abstract. She was frightened of him, frightened of his forcefulness; the way he seemed completely taken over, as if he had forgotten who she was, forgotten all her fears and inexperience; was simply claiming her as Woman – any woman. He had dragged her top off, was unhooking her bra, crushing his own bare and hairy chest against her naked breasts; and now his lower half, pressing thrusting closer, groin to groin. She could feel him far too big, bigger than Simon – far more headstrong and impetuous, as he seemed to rut against her, making noises like an animal. He tried to force her tracksuit bottoms down, but she grabbed his hand, pushed it off. She could see that label on the tin, Robert’s precious relic tin – ‘UNFIT FOR BABIES’, printed in huge capitals on the torn and dirty wrapper. She was unfit for babies, could never be a mother, yet this act could make her one. In just a few brief minutes, her whole life could be changed and overturned.
He seemed not to hear her begging him to stop, not even to be aware that she was speaking. His own voice was the louder, as he kept stabbing out incoherent words, breathing very heavily. ‘Christ!’ ‘Oh, yes, my darling.’ He had dragged her trousers off now, was unzipping his own jeans. Suddenly, he clutched the zip, let out a strangled shout; seemed to hold himself, as if warding off a blow; then keeled over on his knees, head down, face hidden in his hands.
She crouched beside him, touched his shoulder nervously. He appeared to be in pain; must have pulled a muscle, strained his back; was still moaning very softly on his knees. ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.
He looked up, gave a brief embarrassed laugh. ‘Yes. Sorry. Rotten timing.’ He reached out for his towel, mopped his thighs, his jeans. ‘That hasn’t happened since I was a wild lad of sixteen. I guess I’m out of practice. I really do apologise.’
What for, she wondered, picking up her clothes? Wasn’t she the one who was meant to be apologising, for trying to stop him, fighting off his hands, worrying about things like contraception, when she should have been passionate, abandoned?
His voice was still unsteady as he buttoned back his shirt. ‘Though you ought to take half the blame, at least, you know. You’re the most exciting bloody woman – and completely unpredictable. I mean, to suddenly seduce me, when you’d just given me the brush-off …’
‘Seduce you?’
‘God! I feel a fool. I’m the virgin now, for heaven’s sake.’ He laughed again, more freely, went to fetch the groundsheet, fumbled in the knapsack, came up with a flask. ‘How about a nightcap? I brought a drop of brandy, since you seemed to rather like it in that Easter tipsy trifle.’
She tensed, recalling Simon’s brandy; her body feeling strange, unsettled, lips burning, almost sore. He touched his glass to hers, sat silent for a while, face half-dark, half-ruddy in the fire. She reached her hand out, but he didn’t seem to see it. The hand felt lonely, stupid. Wasn’t the sex act meant to join you, make you one heart through one flesh? She and Robert were in two entirely different places – he sitting on the sand, while she kept returning to the convent in her mind. The journey was a long one. Though Brignor was so close in miles, it seemed further in distance than it had ever been before. ‘I am writing to request formal dispensation from …’ She took a gulp of brandy, choked it down.
Robert flung his head back, so he could look up at the sky. ‘The stars seem huge out here, far bigger than in London, and far more of them, somehow. D’you realise, there are five billion stars in the Milky Way alone, and five billion galaxies in the universe, and the population of the globe has just reached the five billion mark, and each of us five billion human beings has five billion neurons in our brain.’ He swilled brandy round his mouth before swallowing it appreciatively. ‘Five billion must be a sort of magic number. And if you work it out, it means there’s one star apiece for every living person and one galaxy in the universe for each of us. Isn’t that nice?’ He eased his shoulders, rubbed his neck, before looking up again. ‘We should have been designed with heads which tilt back comfortably, or with little levers on them, like those reclining airline seats. I could watch the stars for ever, couldn’t you? There’s a marvellous story about Anaxagoras – you know, the Greek philosopher chappie who inspired Socrates and Aristotle. Someone asked him once why a man should choose rather to be born than not, and do you know what he said?’
She shook her head, had never even heard of Anaxagoras, was astonished Robert seemed so changed – no longer rutting animal, but serene astronomer.
‘Just this: “For the sake of viewing the heavens and the whole order of the universe.” What an answer! Isn’t it fantastic? And I think I’d go along with it. After all, we’re made from stars ourselves. That’s pretty damn fantastic in itself. In fact, someone else once said – I ca
n’t remember who now, but someone in our own time–that we’re a star’s way of knowing about stars.’
Hilary had focused on one faint and modest star. It seemed a mere pinprick in the darkness, yet she remembered reading somewhere that some giant stars were five hundred times larger than the sun. She tried – and failed – to imagine such a supergiant, to feel its light blinding her close up. All she felt was tiny, and alone. ‘I feel just a speck,’ she said. ‘A nothing.’
‘That’s wrong, completely wrong. Just think what you are compared with an amoeba. You’re a genius, a giant. And even in your own right, you’re amazing – we all are. If only I could make you see it, Hilary.’
‘I saw it when I had a faith. It was so much easier then, because we were created by an amazing God, and going back to Him – sort of handmade by a craftsman, and immortal.’
‘We’re still immortal.’
‘No we’re not. We just die and putrefy.’
‘It depends which way you look at it. We all tend to focus on time passing, and of course the end of that is death. If we’re stuck in time, we die. But once we get outside time, eternity is now.’
‘How d’you mean, “outside time”?’
‘Well, see it as a circle rather than a line. “In my end is my beginning” – all that sort of stuff. Past, present, future, all coterminous. It’s quite difficult to grasp. You have to feel it, really, sort of in your gut-be aware the past is still around, continuing to affect us, and the future’s here already, drawing us into itself; that all our different tenses are just a fiction, a convenience. Time doesn’t pass, whatever we may say. Okay, you’re not convinced. I can see that from your face. But look at it a different way. You can’t deny we see fight from the past. I mean, the sun’s light, for example, is already eight minutes old when it reaches us, and light from Andromeda is a good two million years old, so their pasts are present for us.’ He laughed. ‘Just think – if Andromeda disappeared tonight, it would be two million years before we knew.’ He folded two spare sweaters to make a cushion for her, arranged it on the groundsheet. ‘But even on a simple level, there are other ways of achieving immortality – in the things we leave behind, for instance: children, works of art.’
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