A Pure Clear Light

by Madeleine St John

  ‘Rather nice, actually.’

  ‘In what way, nice?’

  ‘Well—nice. I can’t tell you. It’s one of those things you have to find out for yourself.’

  ‘Are you going to go again?’

  ‘I might. I’ll see.’

  ‘I can’t see why you’d want to go to church. You don’t believe in God.’

  ‘No, that’s true. But then, I don’t not believe, either.’

  Janey was confused.

  ‘You could come too if you wanted,’ said Flora. ‘And see what you think of it all.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Janey. ‘I mean, I don’t believe in God.’

  ‘Well, you’re only thirteen,’ said Flora. ‘You haven’t had that long to think it over.’

  Janey sat there. ‘I quite liked that organ,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Flora agreed. ‘The organ’s pretty hot stuff. Even better inside.’

  ‘I might come, one day,’ said Janey. ‘Or I might not.’

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Flora. ‘Can’t say fairer than that.’ Janey pulled a face at her and they both laughed. ‘Do you want to go out and see the boats?’ Flora asked.

  ‘No,’ said Janey; ‘not unless you do.’

  ‘We’ll stay here, then,’ said Flora, ‘and be nice and cosy. What if you get us some more coffee?’ So Janey did. I’ve got to find some way of spending more time with her alone, Flora thought. She’s at that age. I could lose her confidence. It would kill me.

  34

  Simon was staring out of the window, wine glass in hand. ‘I might give David a call,’ he said. ‘See how he’s getting on.’ Flora, sitting at the kitchen table, said nothing. The children were all in the sitting room watching Our Hospitality on video. ‘But then,’ Simon went on, ‘one doesn’t want to look too enthusiastic, at this stage.’

  ‘You’re enthusiastic then, are you?’ said Flora.

  ‘Ish,’ said Simon. Then he turned around and gestured vaguely with the hand which was holding the wine glass. ‘Talking of enthusiasm,’ he said.

  ‘I wondered when you might get around to that,’ said Flora.

  ‘Yes, well. I mean—what?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, if I were you.’

  ‘You’re quite sure about that?’

  ‘It was only an Anglican church, after all. I recall I had your permission for that.’

  ‘Humph. Permission. Look—’

  ‘I wonder what you think this is all about, that it should vex you at all.’

  ‘If I knew what it was about, it wouldn’t vex me.’

  ‘Come along and find out, and then you won’t be vexed.’

  Simon ignored this enticement. ‘And that isn’t the half of it,’ he said. ‘What actually vexes me is the thought that this may be only step one of the journey back to Rome.’

  ‘Rome,’ said Flora, ruminatively.

  ‘Yes, Rome.

  ’ ‘You make it sound a pretty dire destination,’ said Flora.

  ‘So it is,’ said Simon unhesitatingly.

  Flora laughed. ‘You Protestants have such ideas of the place,’ she said.

  ‘The facts speak for themselves,’ said Simon. ‘Glossing over them is the most pernicious form of sentimentality, to say no worse.’

  ‘That could be so,’ agreed Flora mildly.

  ‘Anyway, by the way, I am not a Protestant,’ said Simon. ‘I am not an anything, as you know, other than a rational creature.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Flora.

  ‘Don’t humour me. I’m serious.’

  ‘All right,’ said Flora. ‘Well, as to your being rational, I can only say that I am not entirely confident that you have considered all the data, and a conclusion derived—however rationally—from an insufficiency of data is not in the end a rational conclusion.’

  ‘What if I don’t admit some of your so-called data to be anything other than fanciful suppositions, or even illusions?’

  ‘Then surely you would have to discountenance the Church of England as deeply as you do that of Rome.’

  ‘No,’ said Simon. The doctrine of the Church of England is minimal, and was always—and rightly—intended to be; that of Rome is notoriously and wilfully extravagant. The degree of delusion in the first case is harmless and in the second dangerous.’

  ‘Anglicans seem to believe all sorts of different things,’ murmured Flora.

  ‘That which they all believe,’ said Simon, ‘could be written on half a sheet of A4.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see what I think,’ said Flora, ‘after I’ve given them a fair trial.’

  ‘God,’ said Simon. ‘Are you saying that you actually intend to make a habit of this churchgoing, then?’

  ‘I might,’ said Flora. ‘I’ll see how I feel. I’ll see how I get on.’

  Simon poured some more wine. ‘What was it like?’ he said. ‘First impressions.’

  ‘Oh, very nice,’ said Flora. ‘Nice is the word.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘Niceness is, after all, the English—and a fortiori, therefore, the Anglican—speciality. It’s only a question of determining what the word really means.’

  ‘It’s not nearly as simple as it looks.’

  ‘That’s the English for you. So it was nice, was it?’

  ‘And more. Perhaps.’

  ‘Did you actually commune?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a silence. Simon was too tired, for the moment, to go into all that. ‘Oh, Flora,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Simon.

  ’ He drank some more wine. ‘I thought you were happy,’ he said; and then immediately wished he had not.

  ‘I am happy,’ said Flora. ‘Mostly. I mean, how could I not be? I’m one of the fortunate of the earth. We both are. We all are. Of course I’m happy: as happy, that is, as it’s possible to be, in the world. It’s just that that happiness is—well—’

  ‘Yes, I know it’s transitory,’ said Simon; ‘obviously. But that is the whole point of it. As of everything. To substitute for a true awareness of this essential transience a belief in an illusory God-the-Father and all that pertains thereto seems to me a retrograde step.’

  ‘God-the-Father,’ said Flora. ‘Well, perhaps belief—in some sense—in God—in some sense—is the only way of arriving at a true awareness, as you put it, of the essential transience. For some of us, anyway.’

  They were silent. ‘I would hate to lose you,’ said Simon—he, the adulterer—in a low voice. ‘My life would be sour grapes and ashes.’ Flora laughed: the quotation came from one of their favourite authors. But Simon sat unsmiling, staring at the table, overcome for the time being with a sense of what it might be to have ‘lost’ Flora, and her laughter died away.

  ‘It looks to me,’ she said, ‘as if your transience-awareness could use a bit of heightening.’

  A more dreadful awareness was dawning on Simon at this moment: that of his own apparent duplicity. The fine straight line was a narrow path, all right. Just when you thought it could get no finer, it did. ‘That must be true,’ he said; ‘yes.’

  He drank some more wine, and Flora got up and started the supper. Soup, she thought; I’ll get some vegetables into Thomas.

  35

  Lydia and Louisa were eating salt-beef sandwiches in a place on the edge of Soho, which was handy for Louisa, who worked backstage in a famous shop in Regent Street.

  ‘Fabulous,’ said Louisa.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Lydia.

  They munched for a while and Lydia wiped her mouth. She looked around at the lunch-hour crowd—the usual West End potpourri. ‘Lunching,’ she said. ‘I must do a series on London lunching sometime, for Floating World.’

  ‘Terrific,’ said Louisa. ‘Do it.’

  ‘It’s only a question of time, and money.’

  ‘Strange how many questions boil down to those two things,’ said Louisa. ‘I’ve noticed it frequently.’

  ‘Yes, most,’ said Lydia. ‘I say, Louisa?’


  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A really funny coincidence happened to me the other day.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I’m walking along Westbourne Grove, okay?’

  ‘Okay so far.’

  ‘Because I’ve been to see one of my photographers—he lives in one of those funny squares to the south of, okay?’

  ‘Still okay; go on.’

  ‘And I see this Volvo coming along, so that makes me think of Flora, you know.’

  ‘Yes, Volvos make me think of Flora too.’

  ‘It’s silly really because after all Claire and Alex, for example, have a Volvo too.’

  ‘But with them it’s not quite the same, somehow.’

  ‘They’re not so Volvo-ish.’

  ‘Actually I suppose we’d have a Volvo too if we had another child, but as it is, with only Fergus we can just about get away with the Peugeot.’

  ‘Would that be a good reason for not having another child?’

  ‘It’s probably one.’

  ‘Well, be that as it may, Flora pre-eminently has a Volvo, and the children to put in it, so when I see a Volvo I think of Flora.’

  ‘Which you must therefore do quite frequently, no?’

  ‘Exactly. Exactly. So there I was, this day—early evening actually

  —seeing a Volvo and thinking of Flora for the zillionth time, on the streets of London, except that this time, who do you think was actually driving said Volvo?’

  ‘Flora, of course.’

  ‘No, Simon.’

  ‘Well, same thing.’

  ‘Yes but don’t you think that’s a huge coincidence?’

  Louisa thought. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘When you think of all the Volvos there are, driving about.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘No. He looked pretty preoccupied, actually.’

  ‘Kids in the car?’

  ‘No, it was empty.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Louisa, ‘what Simon was doing in Westbourne Grove.’

  ‘Travelling westwards,’ said Lydia.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Louisa. ‘Not exactly his stamping ground, I would have thought. Oh well.’

  ‘None of our business.’

  ‘No, none whatsoever.’

  Lydia laughed. ‘Women really are different from men,’ she said. ‘I don’t care what anyone says. They ask more questions.’

  ‘Different ones, at any rate,’ said Louisa.

  ‘Vive la difference!

  ’ ‘D’accord.

  ’ ‘I say, Louisa.’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘I saw an awfully nice handbag in your shop just now, before I came here. Just what I’m looking for.’

  ‘Okay, show me the one you want and I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘You are a dear. Do you still get the same discount?’

  ‘Yes, still the same.’

  Lydia calculated. ‘I’ll give you a blank cheque up front,’ she said, opening her wretched old handbag, ‘and you can fill it in later, okay?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Louisa. ‘Shall we go?’ And they tripped happily back together to the famous shop in Regent Street.

  36

  ‘Ooh, lovely handbag, Lydia, is it new?’

  ‘Brand new. Louisa got it for me at her discount.’

  ‘Even then.’

  ‘Yes, even then.’

  ‘Business must be good!’

  ‘Well, ish, I wouldn’t say more.’

  ‘But ish is good!’

  The waiter came and they ordered. Last week salt beef in Soho, this week fettuccine in the Fulham Road, thought Lydia. Life is a lunch. She looked around. Yes, she must do that series. Lunching in London. London lunching. London at lunch. ‘What do you think?’ she asked Flora. Flora knew her words. All too soon they were overcome by the absurdity of the words lunch, luncheon, lunching, and had to abandon the matter for the time being. ‘It’ll come to me,’ said Lydia. ‘Suddenly. In a flash.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Flora.

  ‘How’s Simon?’

  ‘Simon’s okay.’

  Suddenly, in a flash, Lydia forsook her intention of telling Flora about the funny coincidence of two weeks ago, when she’d seen Simon travelling westwards along Westbourne Grove in the family Volvo.

  ‘That’s good,’ she simply said. ‘And how are the children?’

  Flora told her. ‘I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for,’ she said. She was telling Lydia about Nell’s dancing lessons. ‘We got there, on the day,’ she said, ‘and Thomas was with us, of course, because we’d gone straight from school, and Thomas took one look at the set-up, saw little boys all kitted out and taking part, and insisted that he wanted dancing lessons too. I ask you!’

  Lydia laughed. ‘So I had to do the whole routine again,’ Flora went on. ‘Back to Freed’s, tights, shoes, the lot. Of course, I don’t know how long it will last. He may lose interest within a few weeks.’

  ‘Or on the other hand he may be a principal at the Royal Ballet in say twenty years’ time,’ said Lydia. ‘Or somewhere. It could go either way.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’ They both laughed. ‘In the meantime,’ said Flora, ‘I’m run ragged.’

  Lydia looked at her. ‘You don’t look ragged,’ she said. It wasn’t quite a lie.

  Flora looked up. ‘I haven’t any time,’ she said. ‘I never, never have a moment to sit quite still doing fuck-all. One needs a few moments every day, well at least every other day, to sit quite still doing fuck-all.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Lydia. ‘I do a lot of that.’

  ‘How I envy you,’ said Flora.

  ‘In my next life,’ said Lydia, ‘I’m going to have three children. I’ve asked for that specially.’

  ‘Do you want the husband as well? Or just the children on their own?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Lydia. ‘Yes, I suppose the husband as well.’

  ‘Then do as much fuck-alling this time round as you possibly can,’ said Flora. ‘It’s your last chance.’

  37

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Fuck-all.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Why not. One day you’re going to church, another you’re doing fuck-all: I don’t know what’s come over you lately, Flora.’

  ‘I’m just growing and developing as a person.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good. Carry on.’

  ‘You should try it too.’

  ‘I have done.’

  ‘Then it shouldn’t surprise you when I do it too.’

  ‘No, all right, all right. Do you want to come and see a film?’

  Flora sat up. ‘A film?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, a film. There’s a mustn’t-miss on at the Gate.’

  Flora lay back on the sofa again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I must miss.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Simon.

  ‘Anyway, there are the children.’

  ‘Oh, Janey can cope for just a few hours,’ said Simon.

  ‘No,’ Flora replied. ‘Honestly. I’d truly rather stay here, and go on doing fuck-all.’

  ‘All right,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll go by myself. Do you mind?’

  ‘No,’ Flora assured him. ‘Not at all. Enjoy yourself.’

  It’s my work,’ said Simon.

  ‘Of course,’ said Flora. ‘Of course it is.’ Of course it was.

  ‘I’m meant to be at the cinema.’

  ‘You are at the cinema.’

  ‘Some movie this is.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been wondering when you were going to turn up here with a camcorder.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what you want, is it?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said we’d reached that stage yet, would you?’ He wondered if they ever would: was there world enough and time? They had at least reached a stage.

  ‘Come out with me.’

  ‘Where?’

 
; ‘Just out. Just locally.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just want to be with you in an anonymous crowd.’

  ‘So long as it’s anonymous.’

  ‘That’s one thing about Bayswater. It’s the heartland of anonymity.’

  ‘I like that!’

  ‘Well it is. I mean, only an American stockbroker would think of actually living here.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Not I. Come on, let’s go out somewhere. What about that new brasserie?’

  ‘All right.’

  They got dressed. ‘Will you have time to come back here again afterwards?’ said Gillian.

  Simon looked at his watch. ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘Next time. We’ll come back afterwards next time.’

  In the brasserie he saw how right he was. It was intensely exciting to sit here, in a public place, with this intensely desirable woman, knowing that one could have her later on: it would be even more intensely exciting if one knew that one should. He took her hand.

  ‘I’m crazy for you,’ he told her.

  ‘That’s good,’ she replied.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. It is. As good as a thing can be.’

  ‘As good as gold?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. As good as gold.’

  38

  The two younger children were already asleep; Flora was in Janey’s room, glancing over Janey’s homework. Everything seemed to be in order. So it had better be. Janey came in from the bathroom and got into bed and Flora switched off the light and sat on the edge of Janey’s bed. ‘How many miles to Babylon?’ she said.

  ‘Oh—about two thousand—would it be?’ said Janey. ‘Two thousand and ten.

  ’ ‘Can I get there by candlelight?’

  ‘Yes, and back again.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll go there next year, then, and skip France.’

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’

  ‘He went to the cinema.’

  ‘When will he come home?’

  ‘Oh, fairly soon, I expect.’

  ‘Is he going to go away on location again?’

  ‘I expect so, one of these days.’

  ‘No, but soon?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘You don’t mind him going away, do you?’