Devils, for a change Read online

  ‘You’re in luck! I bought a super-pack last week. There’s a good three dozen there.’ Liz passed a box to Hilary, still wrapped in its Boots’ bag. A super-pack? Three dozen? It felt light, looked very small.

  ‘Are you okay? Or do you want some Feminax, as well?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know, a kind of aspirin, but made especially for period pains.’

  ‘Oh no – no thank you.’

  Period pains were there to be endured, like labour pains; reminded women they were Eve’s descendants, responsible for her sin, the fall of man. Modern nuns scoffed at such ideas, took aspirin, paracetamol, probably even Feminax. But the Brignor Sisters refused all palliatives on principle, except in serious illness or emergency. Anyway, she had no pain. This period had surprised her unawares, crept up on her with no warning signs at all, no pre-menstrual backache or bloated tender breasts.

  She locked herself in the bathroom, removed the package from its bag, felt an instant surge of guilt, dismay, as she found not towels, but Tampax. Tampons had always been forbidden in her life, not only at the convent, but also at her convent school. If you inserted a tampon, then you had to touch yourself, and that was wrong; might stir up forbidden feelings, result in sexual pleasure. She had accepted the ban unquestioningly, relieved to be allowed real towels at all, since during her first Brignor year, they’d had nothing more than torn-up rags – old vests, old flannel petticoats, formed roughly into pads which were not disposable, had to be washed each month, reused. They had felt bulky and uncomfortable and were often stained and stiff from cold water and cheap soap. In her novice year, when the rags had disappeared, replaced by soft white Kotex, used only once, then conveniently flushed away, she had felt reprieved, elated, as if she had been given some expensive gift. It would have been churlish and ungrateful to expect to go one better, start demanding Tampax.

  Nor would she have wanted them, she realised, once she’d read the instruction leaflet, which looked alarmingly involved, had unpleasant diagrams of a woman’s naked body, a sort of see-through body which showed the womb and bladder. There were also frightening warnings – what to do if you couldn’t remove a tampon, or ‘lost’ the removal cord inside you; how you must always call a doctor if you developed a disease called toxic shock syndrome, which could be caused by wearing tampons. Tampons sounded dangerous altogether, yet what was the alternative? To bother Liz again, go down to that busy crowded kitchen, begging now for Kotex? She was sure Liz wouldn’t have them, and anyway she’d cautioned her to hurry, said they’d be sitting down to dinner any moment.

  She retrieved the leaflet, studied all the diagrams, surprised to find that she was meant to have two holes between her legs – one they called ‘vaginal’, and one ‘urinary’. She had assumed they were the same; blushed at her own ignorance, almost longing to be back in the safety of the convent, where there was no need to know these details, no need to touch herself. She spread the folds of skin apart, as the diagram instructed, fearing yet expecting some forbidden stab of pleasure. The only stab she felt was from the cardboard applicator, as she pushed and twisted it, obeying the instructions on the sheet. She winced at the discomfort, which was fast becoming pain. There seemed to be a barrier inside her, some blockage which resisted her, however hard she rammed. She removed the applicator, now smeared and stained with blood, tried to insert its crimson tip at a slightly different angle. It still felt hard, unkind. Perhaps she was trying from the wrong position. The leaflet suggested three alternatives, one of which was sitting on the toilet, which she had selected as the simplest.

  Now she tried squatting, crouched down on the floor like an animal, a primitive, yet still no more successful. She was beginning to tense up so much, she could hardly feel an opening, let alone one several inches long – as long as that rigid cardboard tube. Yet how could she relax, when she was so conscious of the minutes ticking by, the impatient hungry guests, awaiting only her? Supposing Liz asked Robert to go upstairs and fetch her, warn her they had started? Worse still if Ivan came, played his usual role of loving friend, unaware that everything had changed. She could almost hear his footsteps on the stairs, cried aloud as a fierce pain seemed to tear at her insides. The sharp cardboard applicator refused to move another inch inside her, yet it was nowhere near inserted. What a fool she was, a bungler, who couldn’t do the simplest things. Girls of twelve used Tampax, yet here she was, a woman almost forty, squatting on the floor, half paralysed and leaking, hands wet with fear and blood. She hated all that blood, which reminded her of Ivan once again. On his microscope, her blood had seemed miraculous, but congealing on her fingers, pooling on the lino, it looked squalid and repulsive.

  She struggled to her feet, the cardboard tube protruding still. Could she leave it sticking out like that, cover it with pants and tights? No. She couldn’t walk, or only with her legs apart, and her whole insides were aching, as if objecting to that foreign body, which felt huge and hard and stiff now, as if it had spread and swelled inside her.

  She removed it gingerly, flushed it down the toilet, tried not to see her watch; that stupid Mickey Mouse mocking her concern with his maddening ‘don’t care’ grin, the minute hand creeping past the seven. They would have started their first course by now, or worse still, not have started it; all sitting round the table with just one empty place. She glanced in desperation round the bathroom, grabbed the cleaning rag which was folded on the Vim, refolded it to form a pad. It felt rough, looked stained and grubby. Too bad. The older nuns at Brignor had used rags for thirty years, had never had the luxury of Kotex, the boon of Feminax.

  She longed for Feminax herself, as a dull but throbbing pain seemed to spread from her vagina right round to her back. Eve’s pain. It was right she should be reminded of Eve, who had been vain and disobedient, committed the first sin, deserved punishment and penance. She pulled her knickers up around the pad, washed her hands – refused to check her make-up or her hair – then walked slowly down to Ivan’s birthday dinner.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘My friends and God’s friends, this is the happiest day of your life. There should not be one sad face in this room, because the Lord has chosen every single one of you to be here this afternoon, sent you here to spread His word, to praise Him.’

  ‘Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!’

  A thousand voices shouting, two thousands hands clapping, men and women springing up, dancing in the aisles. Even the speaker gyrating on the stage now, arms outstretched, hips jerking; three of his disciples dancing with him – wild immodest dancing more suited to a party, or one of Della’s discos. It was a disco – a religious disco, organised for Christ: hot-blooded headstrong music, a large live band with guitarists in Hawaiian shirts, a huge black-bearded drummer with hair right down his back; amplifiers, TV cameras, the whole hall throbbing with ‘Hosannas!’, ‘Alleluias!’, stomping feet, applause.

  Hilary sat rigid in the last row at the back. This was Lent – Maundy Thursday, Passion Week – a time for silence, reverence, not this giddy celebration. The girl beside her had jumped right up on her chair-seat and was shouting ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!’, arms aloft. The whole row in front was swaying to the music, two people leaping up to join the jigging revellers; a young girl with her eyes shut, huge breasts wobbling in a ‘Jesus Loves Me’ tee shirt, and a balding man in glasses hopping on one leg.

  Applause and music died away, as the speaker raised his arms again, moved to the centre of the velvet-curtained stage, lit only by multicoloured spotlights. ‘The key word, my friends, this whole four days, is Resurrection.’ He paused a moment, repeated it, half-singing. ‘Res-urr-ect-ion! The Resurrection is a happy whoopy thing, because it means we’re saved from sin, and saved from death. And the Charismatic movement is a kind of Resurrection in itself – God’s springtime in the Church. Brothers and sisters, just look out of those windows. See the sky, smell the flowers! It’s spring out there, as well, God’s annual jamboree, with Resurrection running
riot everywhere – bulbs and blossom, new growth, re-creation. This week we’re going to grow and blossom too, grow in our faith, blossom in our prayer.’

  Hilary glanced towards the windows, which were double-barred with blinds and heavy curtains. Impossible to see the sky or flowers. Spring had been shut out, to give more dramatic light effects on stage. She peered down at her programme in the green and purple gloom. The speaker was a Mr Duck – Jim Duck – not Father, not Reverend, not even a Catholic. Had Susan Wallis known this conference wasn’t Catholic? Oh, there were Catholics present, certainly. She’d met quite a few already, seen the names of Catholic priests printed in the programme, but they were far outnumbered by the rest – the throng of Pentecostals, evangelicals, Charismatics from a score of different churches and traditions, all joined by their insistence on spiritual renewal through the gifts, or charisms, of the Holy Spirit poured down on the faithful.

  She herself felt empty of all gifts, nervous, out of place. Her own Abbess had never really approved of the ecumenical movement, claimed it weakened and diluted the primacy of Catholicism in its rightly Roman form, threatened the authority of the Pope. And Charismatics had earned only Mother’s contempt – even Catholic Charismatics, whom she regarded as emotionally unstable. No mature or professional pray-er, she insisted, should need all that commotion and hysteria, all those dangerous and divisive goings-on.

  Hilary now secretly agreed with her, appalled that some plump and coarse-faced layman, in a crew cut and a blazer, with a slight South London accent and a frankly comic name, should be trumpeting the Resurrection four full days too early, ignoring the Crucifixion altogether. She grimaced at his plastic shoes, his polyester slacks in powder blue; rebuked herself for snobbery, a lack of Christian love. She should be trying to reap some value from this talk, not criticising the speaker’s clothes and person, as Di or Della might. The Kingsleys had influenced her far more than they should, yet it wasn’t only that. When you were used to a Father Martin in a long black cassock or traditional sacred vestments; a Reverend Father Martin with his sternly solemn voice, his six years of training, seven years in Rome, it was hard to hear this tyro rant and vaunt.

  ‘The Resurrection means that Jesus loves me. Yes, me! If I was the only person on this earth, He’d still die for me, just me. And you! He’d die for you. He’d go through all that agony, just for each of you alone. But you’ve got to get to know Him, get to know Him personally.’ Jim Duck moved downstage, the spotlights following, one lone guitar sobbing with emotion. ‘D’you realise, friends, that Jesus Christ is the greatest guy you’ve ever met? He’s not a wimp, not a prig. He wasn’t even religious. You read your Bible and you’ll see He had a pretty short fuse with those scribes and Pharisees. He was just an ordinary sort of bloke, like you and me. And that’s how you’ve got to talk to Him. Not fancy formal prayers. Just “Hi, Lord! How are you?” when you wake up each morning, or “Gee, Lord, you’re the greatest!” through the day. And listen to Him, friends, because He’s probably answering you. He’s probably saying “You’re not so bad yourself, Jim.” That’s what he says to me.’

  Laughter rippled through the hall. Hilary stayed stony-faced, unable to join in. She had never heard the Son of God discussed in such a way – this crude colloquial language, this slangy matiness, as if man and God were just two pals, not creature and Creator.

  ‘My God’s a jolly God, with a broad grin on His face, not a stern and angry judge. I often roar with laughter when I pray. He always has a joke with me Himself, or shares a pint. Jesus wasn’t scared of having fun. He often went to parties, let His hair down. He wants us to enjoy ourselves, not sit with long sad faces in a pew. But in return, we’ve got to go out to the world and declare to all the hordes of hell that Jesus is our friend and He’s the tops.’

  Hilary was wincing still. Could any Christian see God in those terms? Even an aloof and angry Judge was preferable to this jokey jolly Jesus, with His belly laughs, His chummy camaraderie. She knew instinctively that a God like that couldn’t possibly exist, that He was an invention of Jim Duck, of all this throng of people who wanted fun rather than faith, jokes instead of sermons. She tried to find her own God, a dignified and grave God, whom you respected and deferred to, a God of might and majesty, with a sword and sceptre in His hand, not a frothing beer glass.

  She glanced back at Jim Duck, realised with a sudden shock that he would no more believe in her God than she in his; would claim she had invented Him because she had a psychological need for an Avenger and Chastiser, or was an intellectual snob, who required a God Who spoke in Latin and preferred plainsong to guitars, cathedrals to saloon bars. But if people just made up the gods they wanted, modelled them on their own individual needs and temperaments, then what about truth or revelation?

  She gazed up at the banners which framed the stage – elaborate silken banners, like those she’d made herself in the Brignor Vestment Room; their huge embroidered letters proclaiming ‘PEACE’, ‘PRAISE’, ‘JOY’. Joy. Those three letters seemed to haunt her, and always when she felt no joy at all. She was confused enough already. Her visit to the Abbess had been more painful and upsetting than her worst imaginings. She had returned tired and shocked from Brignor to an empty house. Liz, Di and Della had all departed for their Easter break, leaving her a scribbled note and a Snoopy Easter Egg. She had packed her case, travelled down to Sussex on her own. Susan had arranged to meet her at the conference, since she was staying with her mother on the coast and would come on straight from there. Impossible to find her in the swarm and tide of people converging on the campus, drawing up in cars, shouting to each other, exchanging hugs and greetings. She had queued at the reception desk in another crush of bodies, asked timidly where she might find Susan Wallis.

  ‘Are you Miss Reed?’

  ‘Er … yes, I am.’ The name seemed unfamiliar – far more so than Hilary. No one used her surname, either at Liz’s or the shop.

  ‘Miss Wallis left a message for you. She’s terribly sorry, but she’ll have to miss the conference. Her mother fell and broke her wrist. It happened just this morning. She says she tried to phone you straight away, in London, but there was no reply, so …’

  She hardly heard the rest. She was fighting terror, panic. How could she face the conference on her own, without a friend to cling to? Susan should have warned her how large the numbers were, how completely overwhelming; prepared her for the shock. But had she known herself? She’d seemed vague about the conference, vague about the Charismatics generally, had simply warmed to the idea of a religious movement which stressed joy and spontaneity, and which allowed laymen a less passive powerless role.

  ‘That’s right – you laugh!’

  Hilary jumped. Everyone around her was in fact guffawing, the noise swelling, roaring through the hall, she the only one who hadn’t heard the joke.

  ‘Yeah, I want you all to laugh today – laugh the whole weekend. If you love the Lord, you’ve got something real to laugh about, something to tell the rest of the weeping world. God’s laughing too, I can guarantee you that.’

  Wild applause took over from the laughter. Jim waited till it died away, his grinning face now grave. ‘There’s just one thing He’s not too pleased about. Jesus wants to know where the hell are all the guys. We’ve got seven hundred and sixty ladies booked on this conference and only one hundred and ninety men. My sisters, I congratulate you; my brothers, I beg you to go out and bring in more recruits. Storm into the pubs and bars and offices and tell your fellow men that their Lord is waiting for them – waiting for them here.’

  Hilary glanced up and down the rows. Jim Duck was right. Almost every head was female, many of them young – attractive lively-looking girls, whom she’d never have expected to find at such a conference – except they’d probably come more for the whoopee than for any deep spiritual experience. The whole audience had now broken into song. She ought to say ‘hymn’ and ‘congregation’, but both those terms seemed wildly inappropriate.


  Let us praise His name with dancing

  Let us shake the tambourine.

  Half the hall instantly obeyed, tambourines appearing as if by magic, their shrill and jangling sound competing with the band. Men, women, teenagers, started pouring on to the stage, to join the dance with Jim.

  ‘Dance, dance, dance before the King!’ the impassioned choir beseeched. The dancing grew wilder, as if in answer; people flinging up their arms, shimmying their hips, using their whole bodies to express their prayer and praise. This was a religion of bodies, not souls; a religion of rapt faces, throaty cries. Hilary felt a jolt of startled recognition. She had seen that ecstatic expression somewhere else: in the Soho sex-shops, her first day in the world. She couldn’t kick Soho from her mind – those flagrant posters, photographs, girls with half-closed eyes, grimacing mouths. Here they were again, in these fervent Christian worshippers, breasts thrusting, bellies shaking, as they danced to please the King.

  Let us celebrate with dancing,

  Sound the trumpet, beat the drum …

  Drums and trumpets answered, the hall booming and vibrating, not just from the band, but from a thousand open throats. Only she was mute, didn’t know the words, knew no hymns at all which fitted with this frenzied jungle music. She felt totally excluded, a foreigner, an alien, someone who belonged to a completely different tribe with different rituals.

  At last, the hall subsided, people returning to their seats, as Jim claimed solo stage again. ‘Not bad for a warm-up! And now we’re all relaxed, my friends, I want us to introduce ourselves. Will you all please say hallo to the person sitting next to you – both sides, not just one. And don’t forget the folks in front of you, and those behind, as well. You can shake hands, if you like, or if you prefer a hug, that’s fine. Just let the Spirit move you. Say your name, exchange a word or two – why you’re here, what you’re hoping for. And if the Lord has touched you, or you’ve been born again or baptised in the Spirit, share that too. Share it with a stranger. Go out and touch that person – touch him literally.’