Devils, for a change Page 23

  Hilary said nothing. She had heard of nuns like that, mostly small free-thinking Orders in America; had condemned them automatically. Now she was less sure. Many of the Brignor nuns were immature and childish, and Della probably thought the same of her. And wouldn’t Ivan side with Della in believing that the body should be used? She could suddenly see her pelvis rocking on the floor in Ivan’s room. Could that have been what Della called an ‘urge’? Had she kidded herself all this time that those Alexander lessons were strictly therapeutic, a way of improving her posture, breaking habits which might result in aches and pains? She had enjoyed the rocking, hadn’t she, enjoyed it every week, liked the feel of Ivan’s hands, the closeness of his body, the stir of his warm breath. He was rocking too, now, in her fantasy, her mind. Their rocking synchronised, and they were no longer on the floor, but lying in his bed, that double bed she’d glimpsed just once, when she went to use the bathroom.

  ‘Immaculate heart of Mary,’ she repeated desperately. They had been taught at Brignor to say that instantly, if an immodest thought should take them unawares. She was still under vows, still bound to God, not free to indulge in fantasies of such a blatant kind. She had continually reassured herself that her thoughts of Ivan were completely innocent, that she admired him and respected him, valued all his help; loved and sought his company, but only as a friend and teacher, not as man qua man. She slammed the magazine shut. She couldn’t end her relationship with Ivan, yet how could she defend it? She needed him, revered him, yes – but there were also far more dangerous thoughts breeding in her mind.

  She dropped the magazine back on the pile. She must never read such things again; must start monitoring her every thought and word, refuse to indulge in such loose and idle talk. She ought to change the subject right away, steer the conversation back to Della, ask about her college, her plans for Easter – anything.

  ‘Easter? Don’t remind me! Me and Dave are hoping to go to Paris, but we haven’t booked the flight yet, and it’s a mere two weeks away. I’m really looking forward to it. Dave’s great! He’s the new one, works as a DJ on Capital. That’s his photo there.’ Della pointed to a board, pinned up on the wall, a sort of memento of her life to date, crowded with photographs and cuttings, theatre programmes, menus – all the things she’d done and men she’d met; her own picture in the centre, surrounded by a group of laughing friends.

  Hilary tried to quash a sudden stab of envy – to be that experienced, that popular, at the age of seventeen; to have slept with men, enjoyed it, felt no pangs of guilt, or fears that she was frigid, no constant churning worries about her soul, her sins, her vows; to be so confident, so casual, so at ease with people; to own a room with such a sense of style, such a profusion of possessions: the stereo, the records, the daring clothes discarded on the floor, the blue suede boots, the tee shirt with a tiger on the back. And all those fancy beauty aids – most of them electric and expensive – heated rollers, heated tongs, styling brushes, sun lamps, even a battery-powered manicure set and massager. She could suddenly see her own room back in Norfolk, a schoolgirl’s room with textbooks on the shelves, neat and boring essays on the desk, her school coat in the cupboard, and no one on the walls except the Blessed Virgin Mary; nothing electric save the light. She kept gazing at the board, trying to imagine that it was her, instead of Della, dressed up in that ski suit, or waving from that sports car, sipping that champagne, or lolling on a palm-fringed beach with that handsome doting father. ‘Oh, look! There’s Ivan.’

  ‘Yeah. Mum took that a year or so ago. It’s a good one, isn’t it? He’s even smiling. Though actually, he was still in quite a state then.’

  ‘Oh, really? Why?’

  ‘Well, he hadn’t recovered from Barry’s death. I guess he never will, not completely.’

  ‘Barry?’

  ‘His lover. They used to live together – here – shared the flat downstairs. But then Barry smashed his car up, was dead before the ambulance arrived.’

  Hilary sat absolutely motionless. Barry was a man’s name.

  Della licked her eye-pencil, tried it on her wrist. ‘We never talk about it. It seems more tactful, really. I mean, Ivan went quite batty for six months or so, cancelled all his pupils, removed everything of Barry’s, wouldn’t even eat – well, nothing except baby food. I shouldn’t laugh, but that was quite a hoot. Mum meant to buy him Complan, because she was worried about how much weight he’d lost, but she picked up the wrong packet, came back with infant groats – you know, that ghastly mushy stuff they give to tiny tots. Well, Ivan got quite hooked on it, ate nothing else for months. I suppose it was a comfort thing – all hot and sweet and soothing.’ She laughed again, then shook her head. ‘Poor Ivan! Di got fed up with him, said he was overreacting, but he and Barry really loved each other, and they were married, more or less.’

  ‘M … Married?’

  ‘Well, poofters can be married in a sense. They were faithful, anyway. And Ivan’s never looked at anyone else, not even recently.’

  Hilary reached out for a Kleenex, scrunched it into nothing. Poofter. A word she hadn’t learnt and didn’t know – didn’t want to know.

  ‘I’m surprised Mum didn’t tell you. Perhaps she didn’t want to shock you, though, or put you off agreeing to the lessons. There was quite a lot of hassle about those lessons.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ Hilary kept her eyes down, fixed them on a grease spot on the carpet; tried to keep control.

  ‘Oh, forget it. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it. Mum made me promise not to. It’s nothing anyway – just that Mum pays for your lessons. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know, do you? I mean, all the argy-bargy’s over now.’

  ‘Argy-bargy?’ She must be sounding witless, repeating Della’s words in that strangled shaky voice.

  ‘Well, Ivan refused to take a penny first of all – said Mum did enough for him already, and a few free lessons were neither here nor there. But she wouldn’t hear of that, and anyway, she wanted you to have a proper course – you know, to help you loosen up and get more confidence and stuff. So he finally agreed, but said he’d give you extra time.’

  Hilary pushed the brush away, pushed off Della’s hand. Her own hands felt cold and clumsy, yet her head was burning hot. She couldn’t sort her thoughts out: a shocked confusing tangle of shame, distaste and horror – horror at her self – her own vanity and folly in assuming that those lessons were a proof of Ivan’s affection; that he’d taught her for nothing just because he liked her, gave her extra time because he enjoyed her company, even returned her interest. Liz had probably paid not just for the lessons, but for the compliments, as well. ‘Tell her she’s attractive, Ivan. She needs a bit of boosting. Say her hair’s a pretty colour.’ So Ivan liked fair hair. Fair hair on men, on Barry. How fortunate his puppet was a male – that Victorian puppet she’d bought him for his birthday – a simpering boy with pretty golden curls, everything he wanted. Except she wouldn’t give it to him; would never set foot in his flat again, or have another lesson.

  What an adolescent fool she’d been, touring all those shops to find him something special, spending all her money on him, treasuring his photograph, mooning around like a pathetic lovesick schoolgirl. Worse than that – actually desiring him, lying on the floor with him, allowing him to touch and stroke her body, even touch her pelvis. Those lessons seemed so different now – not freeing, not releasing, but dangerous and shameful. She had never met a homosexual, but she knew the Church condemned them, refused them the sacraments if they practised what it called their vice; referred to it as ‘serious depravity’, ‘intrinsically disordered’. It was her duty to avoid him now, have nothing more to do with him.

  ‘Is that Christian charity?’ another voice demanded. She had loved Ivan till this moment, loved him for qualities which had nothing to do with his sexual preferences. He was still lovable, still gentle, still the same basic kindly person. And yet …

  ‘What’s the matter, Hilary? I haven’t shocked you, have I
?’ Della was sharpening her eyebrow pencil, flicking the fine shavings in the bin. ‘I told Mum she was way off beam if she thought you’d never hear of things like poofs. I mean, with all this AIDS hysteria, they’re headline news most days.’

  ‘Y … Yes, of course.’ She had read those headlines often, but they’d had nothing to do with Ivan – or with her – just sick and tragic people who needed help and prayers. Poofs. She shuddered. The words were so unpleasant. Even ‘gays’ seemed ironic, when they were so often sad or bitter. She stared down at her finger. It was like her ring again. ‘Joy’ – which meant suffering, disillusion. Ivan himself must have suffered horribly – to have lost the person closest to him in such a tragic death; mourned him all those months, unable to teach or eat or sleep. She ought to feel compassion for him – did feel pity, overwhelming pity, longed to comfort him and help him, make up to him in some way. But he wouldn’t want that, would he, wouldn’t want a woman close to him, concerned for him? He wanted only Barry – only men.

  Della scrutinised her eyebrow pencil, gave it a last twist in the sharpener. ‘Some people say Jesus was a poofter. There’s this big new book about it, with what they call new conclusive evidence.’

  Hilary jerked up from her chair. Della was just shocking her on purpose; must have realised she was fond of Ivan and had set out deliberately to hurt her; probably resented the fact that her mother spent her money on expensive lessons for some naive mixed-up nun, instead of on her daughter. She had always been unfriendly, unpredictable.

  ‘Hey, Hilary, sit down! I haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘No, really, that’s enough.’ She unpinned the towel, forced her voice to soundless brusque, as she added a lame thank you. Why take it out on Della? That was only further proof of how unpleasant she’d become – vindictive and unfair, blaming other people for her own wounded self-esteem, her pathetic ignorance. Was Jesus really homosexual? Did people in the world accept that now, as they appeared to accept so many other things, which would have seemed unthinkable at Brignor, truly scandalous? She fought against a sudden tide of images: Christ in Ivan’s baggy pants and green embroidered smock; Christ arid Ivan living in the flat together, lying in that double bed; Christ and Ivan rocking …

  She stumbled out of Della’s room. This was sin, grave sin. She had never had such thoughts before, entertained such blasphemies. It had been wrong enough to have muddled God with Ivan, allowed herself to reinterpret her religion in a softer, more indulgent way, just to suit herself; relaxed the rules, believed she had found man’s love, then confused it with God’s.

  God was angry with her, as He had been for years and years – more angry now, in that she had given Him short change, cut her church attendance to Sunday morning Mass and nothing more, avoided the whole issue of confession. Confession … She halted on the landing, leant against the wall. How could she tell those two priests at St Agatha’s that she had allowed herself immodest thoughts towards a homosexual; indulged in sensual pleasures with him? She had told them nothing yet, had hushed up all her problems and her past, acted out the part instead of devout but cheerful spinster. She couldn’t change roles now, admit she’d been a nun; was still a nun in one sense, in that she hadn’t been exclaustrated, hadn’t even returned to see her Abbess; a negligent and weak-willed nun who had become emotionally involved with a gay, a poof, a poofter. If she did confess it, then she would never dare to face those priests again, would have to stop going to that church. And that would mean losing Susan Wallis, her new important Catholic friend.

  She struggled up the stairs, relieved to find that Luke had disappeared. She had to be alone, to think. She must get in touch with Susan right away – not to tell her about Ivan – she could never tell a soul, but to say she’d changed her mind about the conference. Susan had suggested that they both attend a Charismatic Conference to be held in Sussex during Easter week. She’d declined before, disliked the little that she’d heard about the Charismatic movement; feared the thought of travelling to a new and alien place, being surrounded by strange faces. And, anyway, she’d especially wanted to stay at Cranleigh Gardens over Easter. Di, Liz and Della would all be going away, leaving only her and Ivan in the house. She’d made no plans, just allowed herself to hope.

  Now it was essential that she, too, went away, and the conference would be a perfect chance to renew her spirituality, perhaps find a new confessor who would be a total stranger, one she’d never need to see again, once he had absolved her. She needed absolution; had needed it since Christmas, and more than ever now. And before she went to Sussex, she’d travel the other way – to Norfolk – sort out her position with the Abbess, make her apologies in person, before begging a formal dispensation from her vows. She felt sick with dread to think of it, but like confession, she’d put it off too long.

  She grimaced as she saw her face reflected in the mirrors. All that paint and powder seemed to symbolise the petty trivial person she’d become. Her eyelashes felt sticky, stiff; her face camouflaged, as if she wore a mask. It was like another sort of habit, confining and uncomfortable, hiding the real her. It was all false, all sham, all proof of her vanity. She kicked off her new shoes: high heels mining her feet, as the bleach would harm her hair. How could she have allowed herself to get caught in the beauty trap, spend money on such trivia, when no one had released her from her vow of poverty? ‘Thou hast made us for thyself, O God, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.’ St Augustine’s words, which she had totally ignored, seeking empty happiness in paltry worldly things – and all this during Lent, a penitential season when she should be fasting every day, her thoughts fixed on the Cross, not on hairdos, make-up, clothes.

  She grabbed a tissue, tried to scrub the lipstick off, the blusher. The Kleenex was soon scarlet, but her lips looked no less pale. She used some spit this time, scoured her lips, her eyelids, but only smeared and smudged the colour, without removing it. ‘It’s not indelible,’ she remembered Della saying, yet she couldn’t get it off. She needed soap and water, crept into the bathroom, flinched at still more mirrors.

  First, she used the lavatory, stared in horror at the piece of toilet paper stained crimson like the Kleenex. Her period had begun, the first one she’d had since June last year. She hadn’t worried overmuch. Periods were a nuisance, so she was glad to be without them; aware that they could stop because of stress. She’d been under stress for years, wrought-up about her faith, her future as a nun; often sleepless, or suffering blinding headaches. She’d deliberately avoided the jolly Brignor doctor, who hadn’t any pills for doubts and desolation; could only give her hormones to restart her menstrual cycle. She didn’t want those pointless monthly cramps again, those regular reminders that she could still conceive, still bear a child.

  She didn’t need reminders. Even without periods, the thought was always nudging her, especially recently. She had allowed herself to indulge in secret sinful fantasies of her and Ivan conceiving their own child. Each time they had tea together, those pink and chubby faces on the baby foods had smiled down from his shelves, refuelling her desires. She flushed the toilet, as if flushing Ivan away, aborting their frail child; remained standing by the cistern, wondering what to do. She had no sanitary towels, hadn’t used them for nine months. Nine months without a period usually meant pregnancy. Hers was a phantom one, the phantom child of Ivan’s phantom love. She mustn’t think of Ivan any more, must ban him from her mind, concentrate instead on practicalities: how did she get towels? It was half past six already. The nearest chemist would be shut, and it was hardly fair on Liz to go traipsing round the shops to find one open, when the birthday dinner was just about to start. She’d forgotten Liz completely; should be in the kitchen with her, tossing salads, shining glasses, twisting paper napkins into swans. If she rushed down straight away, she could ask Liz to lend her towels, then make up for her negligence by doing all the washing-up, at midnight.

  She lined her knickers with several sheets of toilet paper, limped downstairs
, fearing they might slip; was horrified to find the kitchen crowded. Half the guests had arrived already, drifted in from the sitting room, so they could chat to Liz while she made the last adjustments to the bouillabaisse. She stopped rigid at the door. Mouths were opening, shutting; hands reaching out towards her, exclamations, compliments.

  ‘Wow! I like the hair.’

  ‘You look marvellous, love, fantastic!’

  ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you, Hilary. It’s absolutely stunning.’

  She suddenly glimpsed Ivan, who looked completely different, no longer wise and gentle, but mocking, threatening, stupidly effeminate. He, too, was praising her, his false face wreathed in smiles, easy empty flatteries dripping from his lips. Liz had paid for all those compliments, paid too highly. She edged away, shrinking from his voice; shrinking from the heat, the glare, the reek of fish and garlic, which made her stomach heave. A plate of discarded fish bones was lying on the side: Ivan’s bones – her own – which he had shown her, celebrated.

  ‘Hilary! You look sensational.’

  Robert’s voice above the rest, Robert striding now towards her, his eyes and voice admiring. Had Liz paid them all to praise her? She couldn’t look ‘sensational’ when she’d smudged her make-up, hadn’t changed her dress. She might even smell of menstrual blood, as Sister Dunstan did each month at Brignor: a sickly sweetish smell, which had made a welcome penance for the other nuns, but would be quite repellent here, in this deodorised and glamorised society. She backed away, out into the hall, stood clinging to the coat stand.

  ‘What’s the matter, Hilary? You’re not usually so shy these days, and you’ve met this lot before – or most of them. They all think you look great.’ Liz had come out after her, took her arm, tried to steer her back.

  Hilary flinched at the contact, wondered why certain words were so difficult to utter, never sounded comfortable or casual. She had hated asking for sanitary towels, even at the convent, where they were never given as a right, but must be begged as a favour every month. ‘I humbly beg, Mother …’ Not quite the formula for Liz. She mumbled an alternative, followed her upstairs.