Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  She closed the door, locked up back and front, began to feel her usual twinge of nervousness as the clock hands on the landing moved to midnight. The nights were always difficult. She was still not used to sleeping in Liz’s bedroom, which seemed too big for her, too fancy altogether, despite the fact it had been denuded of its luxuries, stripped of Liz’s frills. Liz had insisted that she move down from the top floor. ‘It’s not safe, love, with you stuck away up there. If there was an intruder, you wouldn’t hear a dicky bird.

  Anyway, my room’s much nicer, much more comfortable. And you’ll have a bedside phone.’

  The phone was ringing now. ‘Damn!’ she muttered, as she reached to pick it up. Surely not house-hunters in the middle of the night – though a month of trying to sell the place had prepared her for anything. One cheery family had taken over the kitchen, casually demolished her modest lunch-for-one, and a man had come just yesterday with two delinquent dogs in tow. One had fouled the garden, the other tried to maul her.

  The phone lead was twisted, the line fuzzy and unclear. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Who? Oh, hallo, this is Hilary, the girl who … No, Liz isn’t here. She’s moved away. I thought you’d know, actually. She’s gone up North to Scarborough.’ Hilary sat down on the bed, thrown by the tremor in Mr Craddock’s voice. She’d met Luke’s father only twice, and only very briefly, and both times he’d been angry, bellowing like a bull. Now he sounded subdued and almost panicky.

  ‘What’s happened? What’s the matter? Can’t I help instead? I’m looking after things for Liz and she told me to … Rita? Oh, how awful. Is she bad? Oh, I see, they’ve taken her in. Yes, of course I will. I’ll come first thing. He’d better stay here, hadn’t he? I mean, if you’re going away and there’s no one else to …’

  She heard her voice sounding calm and confident, though it was contradicted by the churning agitation in her mind. Was she crazy to have invited Luke to stay? She hadn’t had much choice. Rita Craddock was bleeding like a skewered pig, as her husband put it baldly; had thought at first it was a really heavy period, until it turned into a haemorrhage. She’d been rushed into hospital earlier that evening, and was now under observation. Joe’s middle son had offered to take Sylvie, and had just driven back to Harlow with the bewildered girl whimpering and dribbling in the back. Luke was more a problem. He’d missed so much school already that Joe was reluctant he should move away from Wandsworth. He had banked on Liz helping out, as she had before, several times, when Rita had suffered less dramatic ailments.

  Hilary stood up, started pacing to and fro like a caged and anxious animal, tethered by the phone-lead. If only Liz were here to take control. She was surprised Joe didn’t know that she and Di had moved. Wouldn’t Stephen have told Luke, or Luke himself reported to his parents that Steve was changing schools? No. The boys were still at loggerheads, had kept up their long feud. And as for Liz herself, the last two months had been so full, so hectic and disruptive, she had hardly seen any of her friends, let alone the Craddocks. She, too, had quite ignored them – apart from that one visit, way back in July, when the baby had been teething. Luke had obviously resented all the attention being lavished on the screaming feverish infant, and had behaved extremely badly, breaking things and kicking at the pram. ‘I’m teething too,’ he’d whined, pointing to the gap in his front teeth. ‘And I don’t scream and shit my cot.’ She had found herself recoiling from both boy and baby, had not returned again. And since mid-September, her own problems seemed too pressing to take on someone else’s. Now she had to help. Joe was off to Birmingham first thing in the morning and the boy would be alone.

  She made the last arrangements, sat staring at the carpet, the dead receiver still cradled in her hands. Could she act as mother? Luke might well be very difficult with his own mother ill in hospital, his whole home life disrupted. She’d have to cook and wash for him, take him to and fro from school, amuse him after school, keep him clean and tidy. So what? Most women did that all the time, for several different children, and often with a full-time job as well. She replaced the phone, stood frowning and preoccupied, her mind on meals and shopping lists, homework, sheets and blankets. She’d better get up early – air the bedding, prepare his room, try to find some toys for him.

  She went to draw the curtains, shivering in the large unheated room, pausing at the window, to peer up and down the street. It seemed totally deserted, curtains drawn, bedroom lights extinguished, only she awake. Perhaps she was alone not just in the house, but in the whole of Cranleigh Gardens; all the other occupants packed up and moved away, their houses stripped and plucked, their silent gardens jungled. She let the curtain fall, undressed quickly, pulled the bedclothes right up to her chin. She was still not used to Liz’s double bed – to have all that space for one unimportant person, all that luxury: the goose-down duvet which Liz had left behind for her, the pile of feather pillows.

  Sleep refused to come. She kept worrying over Luke. Suppose he played up, ran away from school? If he were difficult and sulky in his own home, he might be quite impossible in hers. She groped for the light switch, sat up against the pillows. She should have just said no, made some quick excuse, said the house was half-dismantled, so nobody could stay. The Craddocks had a brood of older children.

  Couldn’t one of them help out, or one of Rita’s family? She had enough to do already, keeping three floors clean, coping with the garden, the constant stream of house-hunters, without a sullen and rebellious child disrupting her whole …

  ‘Completely bloody selfish, that’s what you are, Hilary. You may have been a nun for all those years, but you don’t really give a damn about anyone but yourself.’

  She flinched, dodged back, as if recoiling from a blow. Robert’s voice, angry and accusing. She had tried to blot it out for eight whole weeks, forget that frightening outburst on the downs, but now the ugly phrases were roaring in her ears. She was completely selfish, lying in a feather-bed feeling sorry for herself, when Rita Craddock was bleeding in hospital, Luke motherless and miserable. She had realised, long ago, how serious Luke’s problems were, how much he needed help; the whole wretched Craddock household crying out for friendship and support. And what had she done? Turned her back on them, indulged in her own selfish petty pleasures, and when those pleasures ceased abruptly in September, she had retreated into herself, made Liz’s house a private sanctuary, a convalescent home with her as the sole patient. She had put her need for safety and survival before everyone and everything; creating order, organising, tidying, so she wouldn’t sink or crack. If other people cracked, too bad. She couldn’t take their problems, their messy feckless lives.

  Selfish? Yes, completely. She had never loved anyone, never lived close enough to another human being to nurture and support them through sickness, crisis, breakdown, or even through the endless petty daily aggravations, as most normal women did. It had been much the same with Robert. She couldn’t love him because he threatened her whole neat and tidy life, her safe and sterile order; had rejected sex because she wanted it a sacrament, a spiritual communion without noise or sweat or bodies, without any violent passion, any real abandon. She grabbed a pillow, hugged it, tried to turn it into Robert, warm and solid Robert saying she was beautiful, stroking her bare breasts. It wouldn’t work. She could only hear his fury.

  ‘You’ve made me look a total fool. I spent bloody hours searching for that ring, scoured every shop and sale room. You’ve just used me, haven’t you, led me on, let me think you cared, when you didn’t give a shit? Let’s face it, woman, it’s been all take and no give from the moment we first met. I tried to make excuses for you, give you time to change, but you’ll never change – you’re just plain bloody selfish.’

  She hurled the pillow out of bed, leapt out the other side, stood trembling by the wall. Who was Robert Harrington to use the word ‘selfish’? He had encouraged her to be herself, then tried to change that self, mould it to his whims, replace the rules and duties of the convent with anothe
r set of disciplines: the duty to be sexy, the duty to look good, to grace his lighthouse, charm his friends. He had dismissed her own perfectionism, as well as his ex-wife’s, yet was selfishly perfectionist in the pursuit of his own ends – his work, his home, his projects. He had urged her to fulfil her needs, then ignored them all himself: her need for space and privacy, her need to choose occasionally, choose meals or books or clothes, or even a whole lifestyle. He was determined to possess her, possess her mind and body, control her tastes, her mood. Wasn’t that selfish, even ruthless? And he’d been rough in bed, insensitive, hurt her and embarrassed her, and not even had the insight to realise she abhorred it. He was generous, yes; adoring, yes; but also brash and violent. He’d attacked her on the downs – actually pummelled her and slapped her, because she’d hurt his pride. She could feel his hands stinging on her face, hear his angry ranting voice scorching the whole county.

  ‘I’ve met girls like you before – pretending butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but really hard as nails. Well, don’t think I’m taken in. I’m not. I’m …’

  She had heard about his temper, never quite believed it till she experienced it that night; found it so unnerving, she’d done everything she could to erase it from her mind, pretend it never happened, pretend Robert was unreal. He was probably doing much the same himself, since she’d heard nothing further from him – not a letter, not a phone call, not a single word of sorrow or regret.

  Impulsively, she reached out for the phone, dialled his Sussex number. He wouldn’t be asleep, rarely went to bed before the early hours. Despite the cold, her hands were clammy wet, her heart pounding through her flimsy nylon nightie. Her whole stomach seemed to heave as she listened to his number ringing out. She had no idea what she planned to say. ‘You brute, you bully, hitting me like that. I never want to see you in my life again.’ ‘I love you, Robert – truly – please come back.’ ‘I’ll never forgive you, never in my life.’ ‘I’m sorry, it was my fault. I was just too prim and scared. Let’s try again. Let’s …’

  She was speaking to herself, speaking to a piece of deaf white plastic, voice desperate now, imploring. ‘Please answer, please say anything. Please wake up and hear the phone.’ The ringing tone sounded tired and jaded. She hung on one more minute, let it drag to two, to three; still sat there, hoping, pleading, clutching the receiver as if it were his arm. Perhaps he’d moved away, sold his tower – ‘Gloria’s Tower’ – bought a new folly which wouldn’t bear her taint, a water-mill or castle named for someone else.

  She groped for her slippers, stumbled down the stairs into the sitting room. She had to have a drink, something to anaesthetise the seething mass of memories, remorse. The room looked bare and barren, with all Liz’s softening touches swept away. She had turned the place not into a sanctuary, but into a remand home, where everything was disciplined and stark; had become a nun again, a strict old-fashioned nun.

  She poured herself a glass of Southern Comfort, another gift from Robert, sat staring at the blank uncurtained windows, trying not to think; suddenly giggled to herself as she began to gulp it down. Strict old-fashioned nuns didn’t sprawl in low-cut lacy nightgowns, knocking back strong liquor. Robert had affected her far more than she realised, given her a taste for alcohol, made her more extravagant, more worldly altogether. He’d also changed her views and her philosophy, taught her ‘God is Truth’, instead of ‘Truth is God’. She could salvage most of that, value what he’d given her, preserve the best of it, while throwing out the rest; rejecting his demands, his domination. She had chosen not to marry him for sound and rational reasons; had actually made a decision on her own, broken with her former convent habit of always seeking guidance and advice. That was some achievement. She’d also decided not to go to Scarborough – another key decision – had resisted Liz’s fussing, Di’s urgent overtures as she realised alteration-hands were as rare up North as they’d been in Wimbledon. Liz was still keeping her, paying for her services as secretary and agent, but that would end in just a month or so. And once she moved into the college, she would be entirely self-sufficient.

  ‘About time too,’ she murmured, as she fiddled with the bottle-cap, curled up in her chair. She had seen Robert as a teacher, Ivan as a priest, used Liz as aunt and nanny; was still searching for her real aunt, had even sent a letter to Eva’s old address in Gloucestershire, in case she’d moved back there. She’d have to change her outlook, learn to stand alone now, without priests or teachers, mother-figures, elusive Evas, sanctuaries; even do some mothering herself, offer Luke a home. She lurched to her feet, dragged herself upstairs again, bottle in her hands. She’d use it as a nightcap. Joe Craddock was expecting her first thing in the morning, so she ought to get some sleep, conserve her energies. She might need them in the next few days – or weeks.

  The bed seemed even vaster, her mind more helter-skelter, as it plunged from Robert down in Sussex to the Kingsleys up in Scarborough; from Sylvie in Harlow to Rita in her ward; from Luke’s concrete-jungle playground to her job at Claremont College. She hadn’t drunk enough, was still restless and keyed up. She uncapped the bottle, filled her glass again; realised she was missing Robert, actually missing that male body she had criticised, rejected. She had allowed her thoughts to dwell on him, broken through the barrier she had set up round his name, recalled him from limbo, from the dead. She pulled her nightie up, let her hand stray across her thigh. She had never touched herself, even though he’d begged her several times; said it turned him on, said she ought to masturbate as part of being adult, being fully sexual. The hand groped lower, moved between her legs, began to stroke guiltily and nervously. She closed her eyes, tried to rock her pelvis the way that Ivan taught. It didn’t seem to work. She kept remembering sex with Robert, the way her rocking thrusting body wouldn’t link up with her mind, wouldn’t register as pleasure, refused to burst into excitement, was simply movement, simply automatic.

  ‘Pretend,’ she urged herself. ‘Fake it just to start with.’ Liz had told her that scores of women faked their sexual pleasure, at least in the beginning; went to bed more to please their men, or make themselves feel normal, loved, secure. She’d done the same herself, might have become a truly sensual women, if she’d only persevered, allowed herself more time and more experience. She thrust her legs apart, even dared insert a finger, tried to think of nothing but herself – her pleasure, her enjoyment, the passion which would follow once she’d shammed a bit. ‘All you need is practice,’ Liz had said so often. ‘Sex is just a skill you have to learn, like any other skill.’

  She licked the finger, tried to push it deeper, explore herself, get to know her body. She’d read the sex books, knew what was expected. It was important to relax, they urged, maybe even fantasise. She tried to think of Robert, a different Robert, gender, less explosive; a man who didn’t sweat or swear, didn’t boast about the prowess of what he called Big Bob, didn’t have genitals at all; a man who had no body-hair, only long blond ringlets falling to his shoulders. She sat up with a jerk, snatched her hand away. She’d turned Robert into Jesus, and still it hadn’t worked. She was still dry, still tense and squeamish. She tugged her nightie down, wiped her finger on the sheet. They didn’t write sex manuals for women like herself, eccentric semi-nuns who weren’t sexually frustrated, as single manless females were expected invariably to be, but spiritually frustrated. The craving was still there, the craving for a God, a faith, a meaning to her life. She smoothed her tousled hair, let out a sudden laugh. She was spiritually randy, to use Delia’s word, and Robert’s. It was a randiness – a constant urge and restlessness, an aching rutting search. Did no one else experience it? There were so many other urgent hungers in the world, for food, success, achievement; hungers on the television – complexions craving moisturiser, digestions lacking fibre. Could she really be so unique in panting after angels, searching in the supermarket for spiritual adventures in convenient packet form, bottlesful of grace?

  She reached out for her glass. The
only bottle in her grasp was Robert’s Southern Comfort. She had bid goodbye to grace, would have to settle for good old-fashioned liquor. She’d drunk only one small glass, so far; not enough to anaesthetise so many different worries. She tucked the duvet round her shoulders, lolled back on the pillows, kept sipping steadily; pausing for a moment to swill the amber liquid round her mouth, relishing its warmth, its kick, as it tingled down her throat. If she couldn’t find her God, at least she’d find whisky-flavoured oblivion.

  The alarm clock and the doorbell shrilled at the same time. Hilary struggled out of bed, a foul taste in her mouth, a cruel relentless hammer banging in her head. She had been dreaming about wounds; her whole body a deep wound, a red and pulsing opening. Still dazed, she took the parcel from the postman, a pile of bumph, two letters – one addressed to her, with a smudgy Norfolk postmark. Her entire attention focused on that postmark, on the neat and spidery writing, Reverend Mother’s writing, which acted like a dose of Angostura bitters; cut right through her hangover, jolted her to wakefulness, even to alarm. She plunged into the kitchen, collapsed on a chair, heart pounding now, as well as just her head. The envelope was bigger than the usual small pale blue ones the Abbess always used, looked quite fat and bulky, as if it held more than just a letter. She tore it open, found the letter, and another envelope – an important-looking white one with an Italian stamp. She closed her eyes a second, as if to blank it out. That second stiff white letter was from Rome, from the Sacred Congregation for Religious, their name spelled out in Latin on the envelope; Citta del Vaticano screaming from the postmark. It could only be one thing: the formal dispensation from her vows.