Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  For a few seconds of vain hope Anne concentrated. Perhaps, contrary to all previous experience, this time there would be a meaningful message. But no. The sermon, expanding on the theme of the impossible biblical reading, was as she’d heard it annually ever since she’d started here. Year after year each ritualistic agenda adhered to its pre-determined path. Word for word for word. In the hope of new ears to listen? Because the Vicar, too, was disillusioned? Or was it the omnipotent will of the distant and seldom-seen Bishop which plotted this weary course?

  Staying awake was of paramount importance. To this end she pulled on the thick woollen gloves, surreptitiously shifted on the un-cushioned organ stool, and fixed her errant attention on critical scrutiny of the congregation. Long practice had taught her this almost always ensured she would remain alert.

  Even here the war was evident. Mrs Barker and Mrs Stuart had actually worn the same hats all winter. There was a soldier next to Mr Hill, both hiding in the quick get-a-way spot by the front door. Beside them Mrs Hill was, unusually, fighting heavy eye-lids. Poor woman, she was probably tired from hostessing a never-ending queue of itinerant fighting men on their way through to the war. One uniformed American, young and pink-faced and alert and as out of place as a toddler in an asylum for geriatrics, caught her eye and fleetingly fired her imagination. There were no children, anywhere; they’d arrive for Sunday School later. Nor were there any teenagers. They’d have better things to do.

  She re-inspected the country-boy face of the American; maybe speculation of this newcomer would see her safely through the next quarter hour. Was he, too, with Mr Hill? Was he as young as he looked? Or as innocent? She’d never know. She’d be playing the organ when he left. He looked no more than seventeen. Why had he really come to church? Duty? Boredom? Nothing better to do while on leave? Or was it fear? Perhaps. But also, she guessed, he could be trying to relive a nostalgic moment back home with his family. Julian disdained the Yanks. Had this one seen action? Probably not. Probably, as Julian would surely suggest, he was just another one of General MacArthur’s book-keepers.

  The Vicar, having surreptitiously consulted his pocket watch, was winding up. Piously, he declaimed: “Our Lord has told us…”

  What was Julian doing now?

  “Our Lord said…”

  Why did he never see her on Sundays?

  “… hymn number fifty-seven.”

  Was he with his communist friends on Sundays?

  “… hymn number fifty-seven.”

  The bare walls of St Margaret’s waited.

  The lethargic congregation waited.

  The impatient choir waited.

  The Vicar coughed, gestured to his congregation, and began the ritual of communion.

  Alerted, Anne ripped off her gloves, desperately willed her frozen feet to pump the pedals to build up the reluctant sound, and set her fingers to execute the belated introduction to hymn number fifty-seven.

  She saw the Hills and the soldier and Mrs Barker approach the altar rail, noted that the lone American remained in his pew, watched the choir temporarily desert her to accept the wafer and the wine, and played on alone. For the final prayers and the final hymn she mustered intense concentration until, aiming to reach the side room after everyone had left, she prolonged the recessional music.

  However today, although the choir had left, the Vicar was waiting for her.

  Her heart sank.

  “I’m sorry.” She blushed, a guaranteed reaction to the reserved Vicar.

  “Sorry?” He was mystified.

  “I was late for the communion hymn.”

  “Not to worry, Anne. I do not believe anyone was aware of the delay.” The Vicar’s richly sonorous diction, indelibly ingrained throughout years of preparation for his calling, was just one more tired cliché.

  She removed the cap and gown.

  Still he hovered.

  What could he possibly want?

  Coughing embarrassment, he placed a sealed envelope on her handbag. “I have your pay.”

  It was most unusual. Why was he paying her salary? The choir master was the treasurer.

  “I wanted to thank you, Anne,” he intoned. “For your loyalty and for your conscientious attention to the task all these years.”

  She lowered her eyes to place the envelope in her handbag.

  “You must be expecting this?”

  His pomposity was ludicrous. She felt the start of a nervous giggle.

  “You haven’t changed your mind, child? You won’t be confirmed in the Faith?”

  “I’m sorry, Vicar.”

  He hunched uneasily into his robes. “I find I am compelled to accord you an explanation. The Council…”

  It was old ground. The battle with the Church Council had been ongoing for years, since her thirteenth birthday. Even though, like all Anglican babies she’d been baptised soon after birth, she’d found she could not automatically take the ritualistic step of teenage confirmation. Especially after attending confirmation classes. The more she’d heard, the less she’d believed. Initially the ritual of Confirmation had sounded simple enough, just repeat a few words as instructed, swallow a wafer, sip some wine, and it would be over.

  Except - she hadn’t been able to do it. It wasn’t the wafer and the wine and the ceremony that bothered her; it was what they represented. What bothered her was the meaning of the ritual, the words she would have to say and the vows she would have to make. She’d been unable to fake belief, to perform the ritual and to say the words. She could not tell such a monumental lie. Nothing had changed since that first refusal. The mature decision for formal confirmation of baptism was the traditional step she could not take. How could she? She had no faith. Why should she pretend she had? It wasn’t honest.

  “I regret it has had to come to this, Anne. The Council is unlikely to change its mind, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s all right.” She was sorry for him. He was caught in the middle. “There really is no need.”

  The Vicar insisted: “I owe it to you to explain, Anne.”

  “There’s really no need, sir,” she repeated. “I know you’ve spoken for me with the Church Council. Please tell them - I can’t do this.”

  “I must say, Anne…” His mild eyes suddenly fired. “I do have to admire your courage.”

  “It’s not courage,” she blushed. “I just can’t be so dishonest.”

  “Would that more of our young folk should consult their conscience before taking action,” he sighed. “It’s to your credit, child. Listen to your inner voice, Anne. Our Lord would not have it otherwise.”

  Preparing to leave, she pulled on her gloves.

  “However…” He was uneasy. “There is one thing. I would…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “May I enquire? Do you need the - the salary? I mean to say - now you are fully employed. A laboratory, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  “Of course. The question is… The Council rather thought… To be truthful, Anne, they really thought you would come round. It discomposes them, unsettles them do you see. When they partake of communion while you do not… They are ill at ease. It becomes a question – is our organist a disbeliever? Do you see? It sets an undesirable example. The congregation…” His voice trailed away to silence.

  “I don’t need the money, Vicar.” Again, she made to leave. “I’m happy to leave.”

  “Oh dear. I’m not doing this at all well.”

  Such a fuss! What was he getting at? She moved to open the exit door. A cold blast of air froze the room.

  “The thing is,” he tentatively re-closed the door. “I respect your decision not to consider Confirmation. Even so - would you stay on?”

  She gasped. After making it clear she wasn’t wanted, they had the nerve to ask her to stay. Standing firm was quite easy. “I’m sorry, Vicar.”

  “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “You will require time to consult with your parents.”

>   “It’s my decision, Vicar. I’ll be leaving. I am sorry.” This lie was permissible. She’d hurt him enough. In fact, she wasn’t at all sorry. She’d miss the early morning walks, but little else. The prospect of all the extra free time was heavenly.

  “The problem is, Anne - there is no one else.”

  “You mean they’ve already tried to find someone.” Though she wasn’t sorry to be leaving, she still felt sorry for him. He’d always been uncomfortable with the Church Council’s intrigues.

  He had the grace to prevaricate. “The war…”

  She should just collect her coat and keep on walking out that door. The Vicar had no choice; he was saddled with his Council. She wasn’t. Except, he had been good to her. Gratitude demanded loyalty.

  “All right.” Relenting, she eased past him to open the door. “I’ll stay until they find someone. Tell them to keep looking.”

  “I am grateful, Anne. I do appreciate the discomfort this will cause you. Are you sure you won’t be too inconvenienced?”

  “I’ll see you next Sunday, Vicar.” She escaped. The sooner the Church Council found a nice Anglican mouse to fill her place the better.

  Even so, Sundays would never be the same again. The divide between them was in the open. They wanted to be rid of her. No more pretence. For how much longer would she be compelled to endure such an alien atmosphere? Please make it soon, Vicar.

  The encounter had been unsettling. Why couldn’t she be like other people? Why couldn’t she just go along with what other people passively went along with? Why couldn’t she compromise? Common sense and self interest, even logic, suggested she should just give in. Who would it hurt? All she had to do was say a few words she didn’t believe. Other people did it all the time. Surely only a few of the people she saw in church every Sunday were there because of some weird notion of faith. And the Vicar, of course. Most, she believed, were there because it was the right thing to do. They’d been brought up to do it. Better to be safe than sorry. God was watching, the fires of hell were waiting. Fear, not faith, sat on those increasingly empty seats.

  Faith asked the impossible. It asked for illogical belief in things that could not have happened. It asked for belief without questions. And she had many unanswered questions. Too many. All these years playing the organ, watching the Vicar, listening, doubting, had reinforced the need to question blind belief. Any blind belief. Especially lately. Especially this morning, when Christian hymns and Communist anthem sang together in her mind.

  She could not believe in the Vicar’s Christianity. Far easier to believe in Julian’s communism. Infinitely more logical to comprehend the commitment she’d witnessed last night. Last night she’d been with people who were risking prison for their belief. People risking prison for their belief? Like Saint Paul? Like Saint Peter? And Saint Joan. Yes, but they’d been simple people; not twentieth century people who knew better. Communism did not demand blind faith in illogical myths.

  Reaching the front gate she turned. Having locked the door the Vicar, head down and deep in thought, or prayer, was trudging back to the vicarage. The winter sun was climbing the pale morning sky, the lush lawn twinkling with melting dew, and St Margaret’s was momentarily at peace.

  She turned away. Mum would have the house warm and hot soup would be waiting on the stove.

  Julian came for tea. As most Sundays, her mother served cold lamb left-overs from the mid-day hot roast and rice custard pudding. Although her mother found talking with Julian difficult, she made a valiant effort to establish a warm atmosphere. They talked safely, skimming primly across the weather, the war and women who were managing without their men.

  Anne was on tenterhooks. It happened every single time he visited; any thoughtless word could trigger exposure. Every moment was a risk. A single word, a phrase, a comment, even an undisguised look, could betray Julian’s secret life. Or her own. What if Julian said something about last night? The smallest reference to her playing the piano? Or to the brown-out in the slums? Or something about the train? It wouldn’t take much. Mum was quick, and already suspicious. The explosion would be cataclysmic.

  Surprisingly, relief came from Julian. The table had been cleared, the dishes done, and her mother settled with her book and her knitting, when Julian suggested: “It’s not too cold out, Anne. Why don’t we go for walk?”

  It was unusual. It was infinitely welcome

  “Which way?” Julian opened the gate.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Is there a park? Somewhere quiet? We have to talk.”

  A park? Out here where the houses sat so close together you could hear your next-door neighbour snore? Not a chance.

  “Somewhere to sit, to talk. There must be somewhere, Anne.”

  “Let’s go to St Margaret’s.” The words escaped before she had time to think.

  “Your church? What a great idea!”

  “I’m sorry,” she quickly countered. “It’s not a good idea at all.”

  “Nonsense. Can we be alone?”

  “Evening prayers will be finished by the time we get there.”

  “Won’t someone see us?”

  “Not by the time we get there. The Vicar will be back home.”

  “How far?”

  “Twenty minutes. It’s....”

  He took her arm. “Lead the way.”

  “I’m not sure,” she held back. “There must be somewhere else. Is it that important?”

  His grip tightened. “Lead on, Anne.”

  What was so important? Why was he so determined to walk so far to talk? If only she could have thought of somewhere else. She’d always taken this walk alone. It felt like an intrusion. Yet she needed to take him there. Even though she intended to soon leave it, she needed him to see St Margaret’s. At least he hadn’t ridiculed the suggestion.

  As it had this morning, the hysterically yapping terrier dashed from under his next-door verandah to skittle along the fence between them. Ten minutes later the friendly labrador greeted them. Walking briskly, talking little, they climbed the slope to the crest where St Margaret’s silently brooded over its nest of neat weatherboard houses.

  Julian stopped. “It’s not very big. The way you talk, I’d have thought it was huge.”

  “It’s very old. It’s historical. The convicts built it.”

  “I know my history, too, Anne. Where do we go?”

  Opening the gate, she led him across the spongy lawn. Did he feel the presence of those long dead men in chains? Did he want to spend a little time thinking about those men? Did he consider their pain? Wasn’t he even interested in the fact that these walls were built with blood? Did he ever wonder about places like St Margaret’s? About why churches like this had been built by men who were no better than slaves?

  She’d probably never know. Julian thought about the future, not the past. He certainly didn’t think about churches. Though – maybe he once had? Surely he hadn’t always been a communist. How could he have been? The whole idea was too European, too new. Tonight it wasn’t important. He obviously had something else on his mind.

  From the Vicar’s low-slung blue-stone rectory behind the church there was no sign of life. No light and no noise penetrated the curtains of the brown-out. Leading the way across the lawn, she located the key on the ledge above the door to the annex and went inside.

  “Don’t switch on the light!” Julian was alarmed.

  “There’s candles and matches. They use them for…”

  “I know what they use them for.”

  “Stay there. I know where they are.”

  Feeling her familiar way, she lit a candle and set it in a holder on the table.

  “You’ve done that before,” Julian smiled into the flickering light.

  “When Dad went away.”

  “Why then?”

  “I didn’t want Mum to know how upset I was. Why?”

  “You haven’t been here with boys?”

  “Of course not!”

 
“I don’t believe you, Anne.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  Removing her gloves, he held her hands. “The walk has warmed you up.”

  “It’s creepy in here. Do we have to talk?”

  “Did you talk to your mother?”

  So this was this why they were here. All this fuss, and she still didn’t know what it was about.

  “Admit it, Anne. You didn’t.”

  “I will. I just don’t know…”

  “You don’t know what to ask. Is that it?”

  “I don’t understand. You said I love love. I don’t understand.”

  Freeing her hands, he retreated to the doorway. It was impossible to see his face, to guess what he was thinking.

  She started up.

  “Stay there, Anne.”

  “I’m cold!”

  “Good. So am I.”

  “I want to go home. I don’t want to talk.”

  “For God’s sake, Anne! Use your brains for once!”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you angry.”

  “God help me,” he lowered his voice. “I’m not bloody angry.”

  “Julian… Please… Why are we here?” She was crying.

  “We’re here because…” He moved to her side. “Anne, you must stop crying.”

  She leaned into him. As always she felt the familiar stirrings, the confusing surge of her body towards his. She pressed against him.

  “Christ!” He pushed her away.

  “What’s wrong?” She reached for him.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This has to stop.”

  “What’s wrong? I don’t understand. What have I done?”

  “I’m sorry, Anne. I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t love me.”

  He did not answer.

  “Julian….?”

  “This has to stop.”

  “You keep saying that! You don’t want to see me any more. Just say it!”