LOOK, STRANGER

by MARY HOCKING

  A mist was coming off the sea. The trees looked insubstantial and the houses of the Disney Folk had disappeared. When they had gone a hundred yards the Jarmans’ house had disappeared, too. It was hard to believe that Mr. and Mrs. Jarman would still be talking to Mrs. Hooper in that comfortable room. The lights along the coast road were blurred and the great slab of the near by hotel had lost its concrete outline although lighted windows floated disconnectedly like hanging lamps. There was no sound from the fairground which didn’t do much mid-week trade until the summer season began. A few people were walking their dogs and one or two cars were crawling with dipped headlights. Beyond the road the shingle beach shelved down to the sea. Barbara and Nancy passed a row of bathing huts and a rowing boat lying on its side. Then there was nothing but the mist although not far ahead they could hear the waves hissing on the pebbles.

  Nancy said, ‘Do you think my father’s sermon has upset many people?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Barbara answered. ‘There wouldn’t have been any point in it otherwise, would there?’

  Nancy felt desolate. She had the wrong shoes on for walking on a pebble beach, and she didn’t like their being alone with the sea so near and unseen. After they had walked a little way the mist parted for a moment and she saw the sea, inky black, only three feet away. She said involuntarily, ‘I hate dark water.’

  Barbara said, ‘You’re very inhibited, aren’t you?’

  She said this quietly and without malice. It would have been easier to cope with aggression or bitchiness which could be answered in kind. Nancy bit back a reference to her unfortunate childhood; she had made a resolution only an hour ago not to rely on this to get her out of trouble and it was a bit soon to break it. Then Barbara said, ‘I’m sorry if I seemed rude.’

  Nancy stumbled against a breakwater and nearly fell over. Barbara helped her to her feet. ‘You haven’t got the right shoes on,’ she said. ‘Why ever didn’t you say?’

  They made their way back to the road and Barbara said, ‘I’ll walk home with you.’ As they walked down the quiet, blank streets, she said, ‘Is there more going on in American towns at night?’

  ‘Not in Coopers Town,’ Nancy answered. ‘But it’s always there; it doesn’t just suddenly die on you.’

  ‘This place is like a morgue at night. No wonder Milo and his friends have to go back to prehistoric times to get a bit of life out of it.’

  ‘Do you think they really go back to prehistoric times?’

  ‘Want to judge for yourself?’

  They had come to a crossroads; to the left and to the right, behind and ahead, the neat little bungalows were bedded down for the night. It was like standing on the corner of a Hollywood film set when all the studio workers had gone home. Nancy felt an icy trickle of despair run down her spine. Life couldn’t just peter out like this! ‘How?’ she asked Barbara.

  ‘I know where they’ll be tonight. Ronnie Smart told Cam because he wants her to join them. But she’s afraid there may be a sacrificial element – a virgin to be offered up each new moon!’

  Barbara turned to the right, walking briskly now, her fists bunched in her pockets. ‘I’ve been dying to do this,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t think it would be much fun on my own.’ It was the first time she had come within hailing distance of an admission of weakness since Nancy had met her. A man passed them on a bicycle, riding slowly; for a time the tail-light wobbled in front of them, then it disappeared as he turned into a side road. ‘They probably have a curfew,’ Barbara said. ‘If he’s late home, he’ll have to go before a tribunal of blue-rinsed matrons.’ There were three street lamps still to go, then darkness. Something moved in the shrubbery of a garden just ahead, a pair of jewelled eyes turned momentarily in their direction, then a lean shadow darted across the road.

  ‘The saucy thing!’ Barbara exclaimed. ‘That was a fox.’

  ‘Doing a bit of garbage collecting,’ Nancy said as a dustbin lid clattered on concrete.

  Now the last street lamp was behind them and it was dark. A slight breeze was stirring, however, and there was a smell of damp earth. ‘With any luck, this will blow the mist away,’ Barbara said. They came to a stile. ‘You know where you are now? There’s All Hallows over there, behind those trees. And this footpath leads to the priory ruins.’

  The mist cleared slowly, clinging to their eyebrows and forming in drops on their hair. Nancy shivered. ‘Do they dress up for these rites?’

  ‘The reverse, I gather.’

  The mist parted suddenly as they came in sight of the priory ruins. The moon lit up the scene so clearly that they felt they had stepped onto a stage; automatically, they both crouched down in the grass. ‘We’ll have to creep along behind that hedge and get in the shadow of the trees,’ Barbara said. Nancy’s heart was thudding, but they reached the shelter of the hedge and made their way safely to the trees without disturbing so much as a rabbit. From beneath the trees they could look out over the priory ruins without any fear of being seen themselves. The walls were low, but here and there part of an arch reared up; it was easier, at night, for the eye to complete the broken curve, while imagination constructed a flying buttress from a strand of cloud, a roof of vaulted trees. The breeze was blowing more strongly now, but it failed to disperse a rank smell which seemed to rise from the ground.

  Barbara said, ‘Look!’

  A troop of nude figures came trotting out from the Carrick Farm entrance to the site. ‘Just like a circus! Where’s the ring master?’ Barbara spoke in a whisper although there was little danger of her voice carrying at this distance. The figures now broke from their close formation and pranced round rather aimlessly. ‘Each doing his own thing.’ Barbara seemed to find it necessary to punctuate the proceedings with comments. Nancy felt depressed. The figures looked pathetic and vulnerable as children, and it was obvious from their awkward footwork that they were not used to dancing about in fields barefoot. Some sort of order was being established now, however; one of the men had scrambled onto a great stone slab and was standing with his head tilted upwards, making a noise as though he was gargling. A woman crouched beneath the stone slab; she arched her back, then eased down on her haunches, brought her body forward, low so that her breasts touched the ground, then arched her back again and repeated the catlike motion. ‘That’s our P.E. mistress!’ Barbara exclaimed. ‘That’s her favourite exercise for relaxing the muscles around the pelvis. Do you relax the muscles round your pelvis? You’ve no idea what a difficult sex-life you’re going to have if you don’t.’

  ‘I think that’s Mrs. Anguilo.’ Nancy was peering at a pear-shaped outline which looked as if it had been blown up by a pump, one could imagine the breasts, stomach and thighs gradually inflating. ‘Poor Mrs. Anguilo!’ Nancy said, as the body revolved unsteadily. ‘I’m sure she isn’t enjoying this.’

  ‘Neither is Ronnie Smart. He’s got his back to us and his buttocks are moving left, right, left, right, as though he was on a parade ground. Poor little Ronnie! No gift for improvisation.’

  ‘It must be awfully cold out there.’

  ‘Yes, not very conducive to ecstasy, or whatever. . . . Hullo, hullo! How’s that for scene stealing?’

  The broken arch must have worn away in a series of steps, but that was not apparent from this distance, and it seemed as if the light figure which ran nimbly up the arch had taken wing. Milo stood at the top, one leg thrust forward, the knee slightly bent, perfectly balanced; then he raised his hands slowly above his head in a gesture of supplication. Nancy said, ‘I hope he isn’t going to fall.’ Now, it was Barbara who was silent, gazing at the slim body which topped the jagged column like a Greek statue, beautiful, noble, imbued with that pagan sadness for life that is sweet as honey and fleeting as a dream. Barbara’s eyes glistened. Milo’s companions had unravelled themselves from their antics and now trotted across to the base of the arch. The man on the stone slab hesitated a moment before he, too, joined the gazing circle. Milo shifted his weight; standing with legs a l
ittle apart, he slowly arched his body back, the shoulders braced as though a tremendous weight had been entrusted to his outstretched arms. His concentration was such that he might have been holding an unexploded bomb up there above his head. He began to rotate slowly on his precarious perch and this movement was accompanied by a noise that was like a long sustained howl, but strangely distant, as though it came from far away across the fields and the sea and further even than that. His hands began to move; slowly, slowly, he was bringing the thing down to earth, it was there, palpable, becoming flesh between his fingers.

  Barbara said, ‘I’m not having any more of this!’ She put her fingers in her mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. Nancy clapped her hands to her eyes and waited for she knew not what, the end of the world, Barbara’s instant demise, or, at the least, someone, probably Milo, to have a bad accident.

  ‘It’s all over,’ Barbara said. ‘You can look now.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Nancy still wasn’t looking.

  ‘They’re going home in rather bad order. Milo jumped. His reactions are really extraordinarily quick.’

  Some of the Ancient People were coming towards them. Milo and Mrs. Anguilo passed quite close. Nancy had a glimpse of her terrified face. After they had gone a small man limped past; his screwed up face looked like that of a little boy who has gone after stolen fruit and got a belly-ache from eating green apples.

  ‘Why did you whistle?’ Nancy asked Barbara.

  ‘I had the feeling it wasn’t good for Milo to be up on that pillar.’

  ‘Why wasn’t it good for him?’

  Barbara said infuriatingly, ‘Ah, there’s a lot you don’t know. We’re very behind the times in Helmsley. We have witches and warlocks.’

  ‘Now you’re teasing me.’

  They retraced their steps across the field.

  ‘Was that really your P.E. mistress?’ Nancy asked. ‘Surely she wouldn’t do that sort of thing with a pupil?’

  ‘She’s done most other things with him, so why not this?’ Barbara kicked a stone out of her path. ‘Silly bitch!’

  ‘Do you . . .’ Nancy fumbled awkwardly for words. ‘I mean, have you . . .?’

  ‘Goodness, no. I’ve got a lot of studying to do before I get to medical school.’

  Nancy walked on in silence. She felt that Barbara had the map of her life traced out, and at some stage in the future there was a notice which read “have intercourse”, suitably placed so that it did not interfere with her studies and was not so late as irreparably to damage her development. Barbara, Nancy told herself, was cold and calculating. But Barbara, sparkling in moonlight, looked far from cold. The hard truth was that she was seventeen and virgo intacta, and it didn’t seem to have done her the slightest harm.

  They came to the stile and Nancy watched as Barbara, in a display of spritely exuberance, vaulted over it. When she has a man, she’ll make a success of that, too, Nancy thought wretchedly. They walked towards the lighted streets and turned in the direction of All Hallows. As the bulk of the church loomed up, Nancy wondered what she was to do with the knowledge she had acquired.

  ‘Ought I to tell my father?’ she asked Barbara.

  ‘I shouldn’t if I were you. It would be difficult for him to ignore it, in his position. And you don’t want to get the Anguilos into trouble, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Nancy was not accustomed to keeping problems to herself.

  ‘Why not talk to Tudor Lindsay about it?’ Barbara suggested. ‘He might be able to put a stop to it. He knows the Anguilos quite well. If they dropped out of the magic circle, it wouldn’t matter about the others, would it?’

  Nancy hesitated, thinking about Tudor. ‘Do you think he’d mind?’

  ‘Why should he? It’s his job.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you think much of him.’

  ‘Oh, he’s great, for all I know. It’s just that our family has been mixed up enough with the Lindsays.’

  She gave no explanation of this remark, and Nancy, who was savouring the pleasures of a future meeting with Tudor, was not curious.

  It was half-past ten when Nancy went into the house. She expected her father to be waiting for her, but instead there was a note on the hall window ledge, which read, ‘I have gone visiting. Back by ten.’ Nancy wrote under it, ‘In bed. Ten thirty!’

  Her father had to go to a meeting of the parochial church council the next evening and soon after he left the house Nancy set off for Carrick Farm. By the time she reached the farm she had lost her nerve and had Zoe not caught sight of her as she hovered at the gate, she might well have returned to the vicarage and transacted her business over the telephone.

  Tudor was in his study writing up his case notes. He was wearing spectacles which he took off as Zoe led Nancy into the room.

  ‘Nancy wants to talk to you about the squatters,’ Zoe said.

  ‘Come in, Nancy.’ There was something familiar in the absence of fuss as if she was keeping an engagement with him. ‘I hope they haven’t been bothering you?’

  ‘Well, a little. . . .’ She looked about uncertainly. There was barely room for two in the room, let alone three.

  ‘Sit down and tell me about it.’

  Zoe went out and shut the door. Tudor seated Nancy in his desk chair and drew up a stool for himself. She told him what had happened. He watched her face, quizzically, as if she was telling him about herself. When she had finished he said, ‘You shouldn’t be upset by these poor people. They can’t find any other way of acting out their fears and repressions, that’s all.’

  ‘It was . . . sort of blasphemous.’

  ‘Blasphemy against what?’

  ‘Well, God . . . and Jesus, I suppose.’

  Do you know what I think? Gods, ancient and modern, are a blasphemy against the human spirit. Mature people don’t need gods, Nancy.’

  She did not answer and he said, ‘I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’

  ‘No . . . I. . .’ She turned her head away.

  ‘Don’t always back out of situations.’ He put his hand beneath her chin and turned her face towards him. ‘If you’re shocked, say so.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Because you don’t like to bother other people with your feelings?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘That’s a lie. You know that’s a lie, don’t you? Self-exposure is a risk and you’re not prepared to run risks, that’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  She bit her lip. He ran his finger lightly down her throat. ‘Isn’t it?’ She shivered and he said, ‘Now don’t be silly about this. You’ve got to grow up one day. Are you a virgin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just once, because you were curious? Is that it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I . . . yes, I. . . that would be great, it would be a very real help to me, Tudor.’ She gave an idiotic little laugh. ‘But not right now, I mean, when you’re busy and. . . .’

  He let her flounder. Then there was silence. Nancy thought of Zoe, perhaps in the hall, listening to the silence.

  Tudor said quietly, ‘What are you frightened of, Nancy?’

  Nancy wondered what he expected her to be frightened of, but the room was too small and he was too near for her to be able to think.

  ‘I must go now.’ She got up abruptly and upset some of his papers on the floor.

  ‘Must you?’ His eyes were slate grey.

  ‘I hope you’re not angry?’

  ‘My dear girl, why should I be angry?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘Perhaps I could see you when I’m a bit more sort of settled?’

  He gave the faintest shrug as though the conversation had become boring. For a moment as she looked at him it flickered across Nancy’s mind that he was cruel. There has to be a way of escape, a rope up which one can climb; that brief intimation of his cruelty would one day be the hemp of her rope. But now as she went out of the
room her only thought was that she might have lost the chance of getting to know him better.

  Zoe, coming out of the kitchen, said, ‘Aren’t you stopping for coffee, Nancy?’

  Nancy shook her head, fumbled at the door and let herself out.

  ‘That’s an odd little girl,’ Tudor said, coming out of the study.

  Zoe looked at him as if she had made a discovery, although it was difficult to imagine what else she could discover about Tudor.

  Chapter Five

  All the trees were pricked with green and Mrs. Hooper told Vereker she could never remember the catkins being so enormous in other years. Vereker responded warmly to the catkins because he wanted to win favour with Mrs. Hooper. It was difficult having a member of the parochial church council who wasn’t on speaking terms with the vicar. He thanked God for the miracle of the catkins.

  Easter came. There were seventy-five people at the Good Friday service, which was a post-war record, and on Easter Sunday the church was packed for the eleven o’clock communion.

  ‘The Kingdom of Heaven is spring,’ Vereker said. ‘The green after the winter. You and I made green, here and now. Now. Always now. Now for Zacchaeus, now for Mary Magdalene, now for us in the sacrament here in All Hallows.’

  In the vestry afterwards. Miss Genevieve Draisey helped the churchwardens to count the collection.

  ‘He’s advertized the event well enough, I suppose he was bound to draw a crowd,’ Miss Draisey said in her hoarse, theatrical voice. Miss Draisey was a very important person, but Donald Jarman was never able to take her seriously because she looked so unnervingly like a comedian in drag with her bracelets and bangles and bulging sausage curls. ‘I wonder he didn’t stand outside the church door shouting, “Roll up! Roll up! All the fun of the Easter Festival!”.’ She pushed a bundle of pound notes to one side with as much distaste as if they were thirty pieces of silver.

  ‘He’s done a lot of visiting. No harm in that,’ Donald Jarman said. Vereker, in agreement with the Reverend Roberts, had donated his Easter offering to the church and neither of his churchwardens was disposed to quarrel with the means by which he had got people to the church.