Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Right, that’s it for the moment, until I meet Luke himself. How about ten o’ clock tomorrow? Would that suit Mr Craddock? You can always phone me if it’s inconvenient. And now, let me show you round. Come and see our chapel. I know you said you don’t believe in God, but it’s a lovely peaceful place, and we all need peace these days.’ She held the door for Hilary, gestured down the passage. ‘Perhaps peace is God.’

  Hilary turned to stare. Robert could have said that – almost had. She was also astonished by the casual way the nun had referred to her loss of faith, appearing to accept it without expressing any outrage, or trying to reconvert her. She knelt beside her in the modern elmwood pew, feeling something of a hypocrite as she bowed her head, joined her hands, purely out of habit. Sister Anne knelt motionless, her pale eyes never wavering from the red glow of the sanctuary lamp, as if it were a magnet drawing her attention, her total concentration. Hilary raised her own eyes, fixed them on the altar; recalling Robert’s words about the power of prayer – even without a God to sanction it – how it could touch and reach the people it was meant for.

  ‘Help Luke,’ she murmured silently, invoking any Force or even Deity which lay beyond her narrow understanding; trying to rally her own powers, draw strength from Sister Anne’s. She felt sure the nun was praying for her personally; was aware of some strange lightening in the atmosphere, some lightening of her self, as if she was sloughing off dead skins, pushing back the dragging weight of winter. She closed her eyes a moment, saw herself standing on a lonely Norfolk beach, a summer sea slowly threshing in; one huge wave swelling, swelling, until it broke across her shoulders in a slap and fling of spray. All her agitation seemed to swirl and stream away, blowing off like spume; a clean south wind purging her and wringing; replacing fear, exhaustion, with boundless space and peace.

  She glanced up at the sky. It was a sky – the chapel ceiling painted with white clouds, God’s finger pointing down in a blaze of golden glory. Even on this rain-washed afternoon, with dusk already fingering the windows, the room seemed full of light – silver angels blazoning the walls, more gold in the chrysanthemums ripening in bronze vases, the haloes of the statues she remembered from her childhood – patient Joseph, rapt Teresa, kind maternal Mary. How would it strike Luke – as strange, outlandish, soppy, or like something from a fairy tale, which did have its own truth, its own majesty and wonder?

  Sister Anne turned back to touch her arm. ‘We mustn’t pray too long. I expect your knees are hurting. How about a quick look at the garden, before it’s too dark to see out there? The rain’s just beginning to ease now, so I can show you our menagerie. You won’t believe this, but our four white rabbits are called after the four Evangelists, and the biggest and the baddest is – well, guess – yes, Luke.’

  Chapter Thirty Four

  ‘Magnificat anima mea Dominum, et exsultavit spiritus meus …’ Hilary swerved, narrowly missed a passing car, cycled on unscathed, repeating that soaring ‘exsultavit’. They had always sung the Magnificat at Brignor, on feastdays, Golden Jubilees, or whenever they wished to thank and praise their God – though not, of course, on bicycles, or in the pouring rain. She was still a nun, at heart; would always be, in one sense, but did it really matter when there were nuns as wise as Sister Anne, as kind as Sister Catherine, as humorous as Sister Magdalena, who would be teaching Luke art, and whom she’d met just now over a second tray of tea? His class teacher would be not a nun, but a Mrs Margaret Rowlandson, who’d had thirty years’ experience in the classroom and four children of her own. Everything was working out far better than she’d dared to hope. She even had a blazer in her saddlebag, a boy’s striped blazer, just Luke’s size, which had been left behind a year ago, unmarked and never claimed.

  ‘You take it,’ Sister Anne had urged. ‘That’s all he’ll really need, apart from grey shorts and a tie, and a clean white shirt or two, which most boys have already.’

  She’d had to hide a grin. Luke in uniform! The thought was quite diverting, when she’d never seen him in anything but jeans. She was sure he didn’t own a tie – any more than Joe did – let alone grey shorts. Would it involve another battle to get him dressed correctly, and could Rita cope with ironing shirts, when she returned from Maureen’s, maybe already more rebellious after her daughter’s rabble-rousing? She was sure she would return. A few days cooped up with Maureen in a tiny terraced house with Sylvie and two babies was bound to bring her back, if only for some peace and space. And however much she complained about her husband, Joe was still the pivot of her life. Seven children and more than thirty years of marriage had welded them together in some creaking cast-iron partnership, which she couldn’t imagine either of them breaking. Rita had acted out of character by deserting Joe at all; must be still affected by her hormones, the whole trauma and disruption of her hysterectomy. And the season didn’t help. New Year’s Eve and Christmas were always fraught explosive times, when domestic quarrels rocketed.

  Today was January 1 – time to start again, heal the wounds. She only prayed the healing would be swift; that Rita would come grumbling home in just a day or two, so she could call on her herself, explain the situation, spell out the advantages of Our Lady Queen of Peace. But first she must report to Joe, and with any luck, he’d ring Rita straight away, use the news as bait to lure her back. She picked up the phone the minute she walked in, not even taking off her dripping jacket.

  ‘Joe? I’ve done it! I’ve found a school and got him in – well, almost. They want to see him first, and you, of course, but I’m pretty sure they’ll take him. The head promised, more or less. She’s a nun – Sister Anne. It’s a convent, you see, but a really nice and modern one, with … What? I can’t hear you, Joe. You’re mumbling. What d’ you mean, “take him into care”? They can’t do that. They can’t, Joe! Does Rita know? I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t let …

  Joe’s indistinct mutter suddenly changed into a bellow. Hilary sank down in a chair, hstening to the tirade: complaints, expletives, threats. She longed to block her ears, couldn’t bear to know that absolutely nobody would agree to take Luke on – none of Joe’s large family, none of their acquaintances. Les had merely snubbed Joe, and when he’d begged his daughter to send Rita back at once, or look after Luke herself, all he’d got was ‘a bloody fucking earful’. Rita, it appeared, was haemorrhaging again, and in no state to go back anywhere, except to hospital. Maureen, already barely coping with Amber, Kevin, Sylvie and now an invalid, had refused point-blank to add Luke to her household. She lived miles away, in any case, so he’d have to miss his schooling, and she couldn’t stand the thought of ‘that bolshie kid’ at home all day, tormenting all the others, upsetting her routine.

  Joe disposed of Maureen in a final burst of scorn, then turned on Hilary. ‘It don’t matter whether you’ve found him fucking Paradise, there’s no way he can go there. They’ll arrange his education when they take him into care. Look, it’s no big deal – I don’t know why you’re carrying on like that. I was in care myself when I was only half his age, and it’s never done me no harm. My Mum pissed off, didn’t she, and I never saw her in my life again? I was in seven different children’s homes, and that was bloody years ago, when it was canes and belts and leather straps, not all this piss-balling about with psychologists and suchlike. I’ve spoken to the Social and they’re coming round tomorrow. Stop squawking, can’t you, woman? It was your fault I had to phone ’ em in the first place. If you’d taken Luke yourself, snapped up that nice little flat above the shop …’

  Hilary slammed the phone down. That was blackmail, and a pack of lies as well. Nice little flat! A dirty grotty noisy slum in the worst part of Tooting, with a jailbird living underneath, when she was about to move to a large and gracious college with rolling grounds and country air. And he wouldn’t stop her moving – oh, no! She could see through all his wiles, his base attempts to make her feel guilty and responsible. She’d done her best, for God’s sake, spent her whole damned day on Luke, and not
got a word of thanks. Joe was quite impossible – the rudest, crudest, most ungrateful bloody man she’d ever met. Yes, she would swear. Everything was ruined. She couldn’t think, couldn’t settle, couldn’t even go upstairs and change her clothes. She was too wound up, too angry, pacing round in circles, shivering from cold and wet and rage. Impossible for her to take the role of mother, when she didn’t love the wretched child, didn’t even like him much.

  She slouched to the window, stood leaning on the sill. It was shocking to admit that, even to herself, and she’d been trying to dodge the truth of it for weeks; trying not to face her own changed and shameful feelings. She felt sorry for him, yes, felt guilt, compassion, pity, but the genuine bond between them, which had sprung up in the early days when he’d been staying here with Liz, had somehow snapped and spoiled. He’d been just a guest at Liz’s, had seemed a quiet and harmless lad, who shared her own insomnia and loneliness, and whom one could safely comfort and befriend. But since he’d come to live with her, as her own sole charge and obligation, things had been more difficult, sometimes near impossible.

  She had never confided, that to anyone, save a few vague hints to Gill; was ashamed of seeming selfish, unmaternal. Though Luke was hardly the easiest of children – was fussy with his food, refused to flush the toilet, and would only wash or take a bath after endless chivvying. Even his appearance had seemed to subtly change, those weeks he stayed with her: his fair hair turning darker, his face thinner, almost sly, his new front teeth coming down just slightly crooked, as if to match his uneven jagged haircut. It was wicked not to love a child because he was no longer blond and pretty, but how could she dissemble love, if it simply wasn’t there? Up to Christmas Day, it had, in fact, been possible. She’d still felt a deep concern, which was very close to love, but Joe himself had helped destroy it, by pushing her too far.

  Okay, so she was selfish, but wasn’t everybody selfish – Joe himself, Rita, Maureen, Les? If Luke’s own flesh and blood refused to help him, why should she step in? She had made her decision to develop her own gifts, live life for herself, and if she changed her mind and involved herself with Luke, she would lose everything in one disastrous stroke – her job, her room, her future and her music.

  She moved to the piano stool, head bowed above the keys. Her music meant so much now. She had already got the syllabus for her Grade 8 examination, discovered with surprised delight that they’d set the very same Beethoven sonata as in 1966. It seemed more than just coincidence – almost like a sign that she was meant to play, take up again where she had broken off before. She’d been practising it daily, and even in a week had made some definite progress, especially with the slow movement, which had always been her favourite. She could struggle through that movement now, if not with inspiration, at least with no wrong notes, and though it needed months of work to reach the tough new standards the examiners demanded, she was still elated to be playing it at all. The score lay open on the music-rest. She’d been intending to tackle it this morning, after her usual hour of exercises for loosening up the fingers. Those too were paying off. She could stretch an octave with far less ache and stiffness, play her scales more evenly, make her chords sound crisper and more balanced.

  She removed her jacket, rubbed her hands, to warm them, then began the solemn lingering chords which opened the slow movement. The music sounded muted and severe, the phrase-ends drooping, as if exhausted or discouraged; the whole mood tired, forlorn. A throbbing left-hand tremolo kept breaking up the melody; the strong chords petering out, as if they’d lost hope, lost direction, even a heavy brooding pause. She seemed to hear Luke’s sadness in the mournful modulation which followed that taut silence; his small but grim despair in the listless limping rhythm. She broke off in mid-bar. If she refused to lose her music, then Luke would lose far more – his convent school, his one last chance, his home and both his parents; would be taken into care, treated like an orphan or delinquent. He had missed his home and family when he was staying with her here, and that was just a few short weeks. How would he react if he were permanently removed from them, shut up in some dreary faceless home, with no one special person to act as mother, anchor? He’d end up like his father – aggressive, bitter, loveless, cursing the whole world. Could she really blame Joe Craddock when he’d suffered seven children’s homes himself, lost his mother at the age of three or four? That cycle could continue endlessly – Luke’s own children equally disruptive and deprived – if someone didn’t stop it, stop it now.

  But who? She had yelled at Sister Anne that if she didn’t take Luke on, it would be partly her own fault if he grew up to be a criminal or a thug. The same applied to her – and far more so. She had voiced her indignation that he’d never had a chance, no one in the world to care or help. And here she was, breezing off to fulfil her own ambitions, leaving him to a life of institutions.

  No, that was too extreme. She had no real proof Luke was going into care – only Joe’s own word for it, and Joe could well be bluffing, so as to make her change her mind. And, even if it were true, surely these things took longer to arrange? Wouldn’t they require a court order first, or at least a lot of paperwork? By the time they’d worked through all the small print, Rita might be back. In fact, that itself would surely bring her back. Whatever Joe alleged, she refused to believe that decent loving Rita, even with her failings, her recent moods and outbursts, would simply stand by passively while they took her son away. It was absolutely crazy for her to risk her own whole future, resign her job, for the sake of just a week or two. She must bring Rita back herself and much sooner than a week or two – entreat her back to Wandsworth tomorrow, or the next day; save Luke from his court order, herself from the scrapheap. Impulsively, she seized the phone, dialled Maureen’s Swindon number. She’d insist that Rita listen, refuse to put the phone down until she’d extracted a firm promise from her, even if she had to plead all night.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, you can’t speak to Mum. She isn’t here. No, you can’t phone her there, neither. The nurses won’t allow it. She’s sedated for the night. The op’s tomorrow morning – nine o’clock – and I’m bloody worried, if you really want to know. The doctor said she’s been doing far too much, and … Yeah, I know all about my rotten little brother. Dad’s phoned already – seven times, in fact. Sorry, I can’t help.’

  Hilary replaced the dead receiver, slumped down by the window. She was feeling tired and almost feverish, perhaps sickening for a cold. Not surprising, really, when she’d sat around in sodden clothes all day. She shut her eyes a moment, could see herself back with Sister Anne, her hair dripping down her neck, her wet skirt clinging damply to her thighs. She tensed, dodged back; sweat, not rain, now clammy on her forehead. Botticelli’s Mary seemed to loom above her, in that tormented swooning pose she had noticed in the painting; the figure’s red-robed arms stretched up and out, as if trying to block the news off, refuse her sudden motherhood, dismiss the radiant Angel at her feet.

  She did her best to struggle up, dislodge that violent picture from her mind, but her legs seemed weak and papery, the figure still more real – Mary’s eyes half-closed, her features deathly pale; even the folds of her blue mantle looking frenzied, disarrayed. She jerked her head irritably, as if impatient to dispel the words now throbbing through it – words she knew so well: St Luke, 1:29 – all the different translations, old and new: ‘Mary was deeply troubled at his saying’, ‘Mary was much perplexed’, ‘Her heart was disturbed within her.’

  She could feel that fear herself, that perplexity, disturbance, feel it in her sweaty hands, her queasy churning stomach. She had always thought of Mary as a quiet and gentle woman, passively consenting to God’s will; had never grasped her sense of almost panic, the agonising conflict in her mind. Mary wasn’t married, had not expected motherhood, maybe even dreaded it – not just the gossip, the whispered innuendos, but the shock, the work, the suffering, the total loss of freedom. She had been reading at her lectern when Gabriel burst in, an elabor
ate wooden lectern which looked just like a music stand. She had noticed that particularly as she gazed up at the painting in the office, her mind on music even then; Mozart, Grieg, Rachmaninov, muddled with her fury, her hopes and fears for Luke.

  She forced her eyes to open, staggered to her feet. She ought to do her practice – sick or no – mustn’t miss a day, or fall behind. She groped towards the piano, which looked only a dark blur; stopped halfway, disorientated. The ground seemed not quite steady and she could hear the noise of wind. Had the weather changed from rain to storm and squall? No. The wind was in the room. She could feel it on her face, see it blowing back her mantle. She must be feverish, delirious – not just sickening for a cold, but for something much more serious. She limped back to the wall, eyes blinded by the light; an intense and dazzling light, which appeared to have no source.

  She tried to reach her arms out, to ward the Angel off; felt the red sleeves tight, confining, the gauzy veil slipping from her head. Her long brown hair was heavy on her back; all her clothes too heavy; the sweltering velvet mantle tangling round her feet, the rough fabric of her underskirt prickly-hot and chafing. She could hear the rain still drumming down outside, echoed in her nervous thudding heartbeat. The Angel’s outstretched fingers were only inches from her own now; the scent of the white lily choking in her nostrils, cloying, queasy-sweet.

  ‘No!’ she cried; heard different words, spoken in her own soft voice, spoken obediently and humbly, as she bowed down by the music stand, hands folded on her breast.

  ‘Be it done unto me according to Thy word.’

  EPIPHANY

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Hilary slipped out of bed to fetch another jersey, shivering as the cold night air lunged between her legs. Perhaps she ought to sleep in thick wool trousers – add a winter coat as well, a scarf and fur-lined gloves. She had already pulled a sweater over her flimsy nylon nightie, doubled all the thin and scratchy blankets. The room was dank, as well as cold, one wall darkened by a damp and mouldy stain. Joe had brought her oil heaters, but she didn’t like to leave them on all night, and, anyway, they stank – their sickly nauseous odour still clinging to the room. She trailed to the window, lifted the curtain, which was really an old car-rug rigged up on two nails; peered out at the mean and narrow street. A drunken lamppost reeled towards its neighbour, the abandoned Ford beneath it slewed half across the kerb. Most of the other windows were boarded up or smashed; shop signs missing letters, so they lisped a strange starved language of their own.