‘Do you wish to say something?’ the pastor asked. His smile had reappeared, as if this interruption was not a gash in routine, but something to be welcomed and embraced.
‘I do,’ said Mother.
Someone coughed. I heard the scrape of leather against floorboards. The church held its breath.
‘Then please share it with us.’
‘This service is an abomination. You rub salt in the wounds of our dear Saviour,’ said Mother. Her voice was low, but I could sense the troubled well of emotion beneath its surface. I stopped breathing. There was a snigger from the back of the church, quickly stifled.
The pastor’s smile twisted a little, guttered like a candle flame, then surged back, steadied.
‘That is quite a claim, Mrs …’ He stumbled as he tried to recollect our family name. ‘Mrs Cartwright. I confess I fail to see how my words have offended Christ. Perhaps you could explain?’
‘You teach that Good and Evil are not absolutes,’ said Mother. Her voice strengthened. ‘You teach that Right and Wrong are things to be negotiated or debated. You muddy the clear water of the Word of God. We do not need discussion. We need instruction. And you, Pastor …’ she pointed one bony finger at the minister ‘… you are God’s voice on Earth. Or should be. Yet I do not hear the Voice of God issuing from your mouth.’ She turned now to the rest of the congregation. The silence was thick. Her voice rang out, clear and strong, gravid with conviction. ‘I hear the voice of Satan, for it is Satan’s job to cast doubt on that which does not harbour doubt, to confuse where there is clarity, to tempt us into believing we have rights to question the unquestionable. It is not the Lord’s work that is being done in this church, Pastor. It is not the Lord’s work at all.’
Pastor Bauer’s smile could not withstand this onslaught. It withered. His colour rose. I watched his face as he struggled to control his temper.
‘Surely you cannot accuse me of teaching evil, Mrs Cartwright. I preach only of tolerance and love. Do you seriously consider that to be the Devil’s work?’
‘Do you even believe in the Devil, Pastor?’ Mother replied. ‘Answer me that.’
I knew that Mother had played her trump card, even as I read the confusion in the pastor’s face. His mouth opened and closed. Of course, later I understood the workings of his mind at that moment, the words he sought to explain his beliefs, the language he weighed and rejected. At the time, though, child that I was, I knew there was only one possible response to Mother’s question. The Devil was real. Of course he was real. To deny it was to deny the existence of God Himself. It was beyond contemplation.
‘Mrs Cartwright … I don’t believe this is the forum for such discussion … Perhaps …’
‘Answer the question, Pastor!’ Mother shouted. I watched her mouth, saw the spittle fly in fine droplets. I knew hatred when I saw it. She exhaled it.
‘I … I believe that the Devil is a state of mind, Mrs Cartwright. An absence of God or a turning away from Him. The Devil is the evil within men.’
‘Not real, then.’ Mother’s voice cracked with triumph.
‘Of course, real,’ said the pastor. ‘Evil is very real. Unfortunately, we see the evidence all around us.’
‘A real, physical presence, Pastor? An entity? A dark angel cast out from Heaven and residing in Hell? Or do you not believe in Hell either?’
Pastor Bauer swallowed. I could see irresolution in the workings of his expression. And then his face cleared.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not believe in a physical Devil. I do not believe in a physical Hell. I believe these are metaphors to explain the nature of evil.’
I gasped. It is impossible to describe the betrayal I felt. And in that moment, my mother was vindicated. She had exposed evil, and evil in the very place that should be a fortress against it. I saw her then transfigured – a saviour, a light burning in the darkness, a champion of Christ who had died for our sins. I loved her so intensely. I was consumed by it.
‘You have heard!’ screamed my mother. She had her back to the pastor now, addressing the congregation. ‘You have heard from his own mouth. The Devil does not exist! Hell does not exist! Well, I know better. I read my Bible. And I believe it. I believe the Word of God!’ She turned back towards the pulpit. ‘I cannot remain in this nest of blasphemy,’ she said. ‘I seek the Light. I crave the Light. But I will pray for you, Mr Bauer. I will pray, even for you.’
We moved along the pew to the aisle. Mother’s head was erect and she did not look back. I tried to imitate her strength, mirror her bearing. We walked proudly to the doors of the church and out into the morning sunshine. We strode in the direction of the farm. Mother looked back once, when we had travelled a few hundred metres. I did the same. The town was deserted, the doors of the church shut. Only later did I realise what she had been hoping to see. She wanted to witness an exodus, the congregation pouring from the place of evil in a tide towards the light and love of God.
But we were alone. Just us, the barren track and the pitiless sun.
‘Whoa,’ says Carly. ‘So, that was, like, it, then? No more church?’
‘No more church,’ I say. ‘No one else at all. From that point on, we worshipped at home. Even when we made our weekly trips to town, Mother didn’t speak to anyone she didn’t have to. She felt betrayed. She felt the sole guardian against the forces of evil. There was no one she could trust.’
‘Apart from you.’
‘Apart from me. And God.’ I sigh and wipe my hand across my forehead. It is damp with sweat. ‘You have no idea how heavy a burden that was.’ I am suddenly assailed with tiredness, though it is still early. My sleep patterns have unravelled and lie in chaotic threads. ‘So Mother got her wish. It was really her wish all along. Just the three of us – God, her and me – in our dusty garden of Eden. All evil banished.’
‘You even had the apple trees,’ says Carly.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And the serpent, of course.’
‘The serpent?’
‘Adam. Adam was the serpent lurking under the tree all along. I just hadn’t recognised him. But Mamma did.
And when she discovered him, then whatever state of bliss we’d enjoyed was gone forever. I was cast out. To this day I am cast out.’
‘How did she find him? What did she do?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I say. ‘After your chicken and stuffing, I will tell you. This story is nearly done, Carly.’ The ending is so close it dominates my vision. But there is something lurking behind it. I sense a presence, though I do not know what it is.
We sit for a few minutes more. The branches have freed the sun from their grasp and it is hot. The sky is clear and dusted with delicate blues. The lilies in the pond ride the water. Time goes on.
‘Could you take me back inside, please, Carly?’ I say. ‘I am tired and a little hot.’
‘Sure thing, Mrs C.’
She wheels me along the winding path, through sun-baked flower beds and wilting grass, to the French doors. Inside, the room is cool. The fan turns leisurely. Someone has brightened my table with a vase of flowers, splashes of colour and life.
I feel content.
After Carly leaves, with many confirmations of time and arrangements for our dinner date, I doze awhile in my chair. There is a tingling in my arm, as if a fuse is slowly burning.
CHAPTER 17
JANE HELPS GET ME ready. She is excited for me.
Excited that I am leaving, if only for a short time. I am excited also. It is possibly twenty years since I dined as a guest of someone else. Maybe longer. Is it absurd to feel excited about a roast dinner among strangers? It probably is, but I don’t care. ‘You have a fantastic time,’ says Jane as she looks me up and down and brushes a stray strand of hair from my face. We had sorted through my clothing together. It had not taken long. When you reach my age, there is precious little point in a varied wardrobe. Every item was old-fashioned, dark and slightly damp. But at least the moths hadn’t got into anything. We had chosen a l
ong and shapeless dress with a spray of tired lace around the neckline. Something must have persuaded me to buy it many years ago, though why on earth I considered it desirable is lost in time. Jane shows me my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. I look like Whistler’s mother a few years past her use-by date.
‘I’m sure I will, dear.’
‘No wild dancing when you get a few drinks in you either.’
‘Spoilsport. I was hoping Carly and I would go along to a discotheque afterwards.’
Jane kisses me on the cheek.
‘Bless you, Leah. No one has gone to a disco for at least twenty years.’
‘Really? Why am I the last to find out these things?’
Carly bursts into the room at four forty-five. She brings the sunshine with her. Between the two, they lighten the gloom of my clothing. Behind Carly is a woman who is obviously her mother. I remember how I had envisaged her. Overweight and impossibly cheerful. I got half of it right. She is actually trim and impossibly cheerful. She beams at Jane and me and challenges us not to find the world a marvellous place. I don’t have the energy to fight her.
‘You must be Mrs Cartwright,’ she says, striding forward and extending her hand. ‘I’m Jacky, Carly’s mum.’
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ I say, shaking her hand. It is cool and elegant. ‘But please call me Leah.’
‘Hi, Mrs C,’ says Carly. ‘You ready?’
‘To rock and roll,’ I reply. I wonder if her generation has heard of rock and roll. I wonder if Jacky’s generation has heard of rock and roll.
‘I’ll get the wheelchair,’ says Jane. ‘Now just watch out for her, Jacky. Leah is a wild child.’
The car is huge, with chrome bars along the front and seats I have to climb up steps to reach. Jane helps me into the passenger seat and fastens my seat belt. I feel exhausted just sitting down. Then they fold the wheelchair and take it around the back. Carly hops into the back seat. In a few moments the car turns through the grounds and the Home swivels out of vision.
The journey takes about half an hour. Carly’s mum chats to me.
‘I understand you were a librarian before you retired, Leah.’
I wonder how she knows this. It is not something I have mentioned to her daughter.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘I was a librarian at a small country town not far from here for … oh, about forty years.’
‘Carly told me you love books. I guess that must’ve been a perfect job for you.’
‘It was. Until things changed. When I started, you didn’t need any qualifications other than a love of reading and the energy to spread that love. I applied for the job when the library was built, got it on the grounds that I was known in the area and knew about books. I like to think I did a good job.’
‘I’m sure you did. But you said things changed.’
I place my hand on the dashboard when we go round corners. I’ve never driven a car. Ultimately, I don’t trust them.
‘They did. As the library expanded, we took on new staff. For fifteen years I had worked there by myself. And the new staff had to have qualifications. They’d done courses and knew all manner of procedures. All I knew was the books themselves. If anyone asked for a particular book I could lead them exactly to where it sat on the shelves. I could tell you if it was out on loan and when it was due back. I could probably have told you who had borrowed it. All that information was stored in my head. Then there was the Dewey Decimal system and file cards. Now there are computers and shelves of untouched books. What does a library become when books are no longer central? In many ways I’m glad I worked when I did, got out of it when I did.’
Jacky laughs.
‘I wish I could get out of teaching,’ she says. ‘Too much bureaucracy, too many meetings. It’s like the kids are an afterthought. I’m too old. At least, that’s what Carly tells me. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?’
There is no reply. She glances over her shoulder.
‘In her own world,’ she says to me. ‘Gets her iPod plugged into her ears and nothing else exists. It’s infuriating.’ ‘You must be very proud of your children,’ I say. ‘Carly is a delight, and her brother, doing medicine at university.’
She glances at me.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your son. Carly’s brother.’
‘I think you must be mistaken,’ she says. There is an edge to her voice. ‘Carly had a brother, but he died ten years ago. Leukaemia.’
It hurts, but I crane my neck to peer into the back seat. Fine white wires trail from Carly’s ears. Her head moves to an imperceptible beat. She smiles and rewards me with a small wave. I smile back and hope it’s more realistic than it feels.
‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ I say to Jacky. ‘I am old and my memory plays tricks. I obviously have my stories confused.’
I gaze out of the window. The child had a story. And I missed it. I missed it completely. It is true that I am old and confused. But I am not so old and confused that I cannot be awed by the complexities and wonders of the human mind.
Jacky guides the car into the driveway of a large house. It has a garden with neat borders and there are white pillars bookmarking the front door. She cuts the engine and Carly slides out. I stay in the car until they have assembled my wheelchair and helped me into it. The front door opens and a man steps outside. He is smiling. Cheerfulness appears to be in Carly’s genetic make-up.
‘Mrs Cartwright,’ he says. ‘Welcome.’
He is not overweight either. And he’s not wearing a suit. It is annoying when reality refuses to match my fiction.
‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘It’s lovely to be here.’
* * *
I survive dinner.
The food is very good, but my appetite withered years ago. They serve me an impossibly large portion which only diminishes my hunger further. I feel guilty. When I have eaten all I can, what remains on my plate appears larger than the portion I started with. I wonder if I will be able to make it through the evening without visiting the bathroom. The practicalities are daunting. The possibilities of disaster more so.
Conversation is bright and cheerful. It couldn’t fail to be.
Once I have turned down dessert, Carly’s parents clear the table.
‘Carly told us you would be finishing your story tonight, Leah,’ says her mother. ‘So, if you don’t mind, we’ll leave you to it. If there’s anything you need, just let Carly know, okay?’
‘Thank you so much. You are very kind.’
‘Would you care for a drink? A sherry perhaps?’
‘A glass of water would be fine,’ I say. ‘Alcohol and I were never the best of friends. I severed our relationship a long time ago.’
‘Of course.’
The dining room is pleasant. The furniture is expensive and in good taste. It reminds me of what used to be called an ‘entertaining room’. There are two armchairs in front of an ornate fireplace, unlit in the balmy evening air. Carly helps me from my dining chair to an armchair. I sink into its depths and know that without help I would never achieve the vertical again. Carly takes the chair opposite.
‘Recording machine?’ I say.
‘Got it, Mrs C,’ she says. ‘But before you start, I just want to say something. You know, about all that stuff. When we sort of fell out. My story? Yeah? You were interested in how I met Josh. My boyfriend? And I kind of blew you off.’
‘You don’t have to tell me anything, my dear.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I know. But there is something I wanted to discuss with you. And it’s not something I can really talk about to my folks, you know. It’s not a story. Not like you tell. But … I dunno. I just wanted to talk about it.’
‘Is it sexual?’
‘What?’ Her face creases. ‘No. Nothing about sex. Jeez, Mrs C. But I guess I want your advice. About love.’
‘Ah. Love is something I know a little about.’
‘Well.’ She folds her legs beneath her. It is an effortless movement. I wonder ho
w many years it has been since I was able to do that. I wonder if I have ever been able to do that. ‘You know how I said I saw Josh when he was playing his guitar. And how he was really into it. Into the playing. And that’s what attracted me to him. Well …’ She reaches to twist her eyebrow stud. ‘It’s just that Josh is really, really good at music. He plays in this band and they’re popular. There’s even been talk of a contract. With a music company, you know? And …’
‘Yes?’ I say.
‘Now he’s sorta bigger than he was. Do you see what I mean?’
‘No.’
‘He’s like more than Josh. More than the dorky kid I saw who was into music. And he’s popular. With everyone. He’s become uber-cool.’
Uber-cool?
‘And you are worried your feelings are changing?’ I reply.
‘No. I mean, yes. They are changing. I’m so into him. More than ever. It’s just there are pressures.’
‘Ah!’ I begin to see the problem. ‘Is he pressuring you into sex before you are ready?’
‘Jeez, no.’ Carly plucks at her lower lip and smiles. I am rewarded with a glimpse of ornamental dental work. ‘What is it with you, Mrs C? You’re, like, obsessed with sex. There are other things, you know.’
‘Well, perhaps you could be more forthright, Carly. I can’t advise you unless I understand the nature of the problem.’
‘It’s … Look, am I good enough? That’s what I want to know. Am I good enough for him?’
There is a slight pain in my chest. Indigestion. That’s the problem with the substitution of decent food for inedible steak and black-eyed potatoes. It has taken my digestive system by surprise. A culinary ambush.
‘Are you good enough for this Josh of yours? Is that what you are asking?’
Carly nods.
I shift my weight in the chair. It eases the burning slightly.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I don’t know this young man of yours, but I think I have learned something about you. And I will tell you what I see. You are a beautiful girl. You have exceptionally fine bone structure. But that’s not important. That kind of beauty might be the kind in vogue right now so you are fortunate, I suppose, to possess it. But what has nothing to do with chance is your inner beauty. It shines through you and brightens wherever you are. You have an enormous capacity for love, Carly. I feel it, like warmth from a fire.’
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