Imaginative Experience (8 page)

There was a sandwich bar crowded with jostling office workers in the street. She queued and bought a sandwich and then, since the rain was still drenching down, she returned to the anonymous darkness of the church.

While she had been away several people had come into the side chapel; they knelt or sat as though in anticipation. She chose a chair as far from them as possible and, with her back turned, surreptitiously ate the sandwich; then, appreciating the stillness, sat back and eased the shoes off her aching feet.

Quite close to her was what looked like a sentry-box with a heavy curtain across and she noticed vaguely that people went behind the curtain, reappeared, knelt for a bit, then lit a candle, crossed themselves and went away. She sat mesmerically watching the candles, which flickered when a companion was added to their number. (Christy had loved candles, loved blowing them out and watching her wet her fingers before snuffing the wick.) Soon there would not be room for any more candles, but there was no need to worry, the people had left, she had napped. She yawned and stretched her legs, stiff with fatigue.

When like a Jack-in-a-box the priest appeared from behind the curtain, she was badly startled, realizing that all this time she had been sitting by a Confessional, and that the priest might suspect her of eavesdropping. Overcome with confusion she averted her eyes, but the priest walked past her, leaving her alone.

Her heart was beating with shock; it was time to go. She leaned down to put on her shoes, but her feet had swollen. The shoes would not fit. She almost wept with frustration.

‘Perhaps I could help?’ The priest was back and standing near her.

‘I did not realize it was a Confessional; I can’t get my shoes on. I wasn’t listening. I’m so sorry. My feet have swollen and will not go into my shoes—’

‘No hurry,’ he said, ‘no hurry at all.’ He sat beside her.

‘And I ate a sandwich in here. I’m sorry about that.’

‘So you ate a sandwich.’

‘And I laughed when that awful man went for the child for picking her nose when the bell—’

‘At the Elevation of the Host, m-m-m.’

‘Oh, curse these shoes. I must go! So you noticed him.’

‘Sit quiet a while.’

‘I have sat quiet. I’ve been here hours. I’ve slept.’

‘No harm in that.’

‘There
is.
I have to work, pay my bills, pull myself together.’

‘It looks to me,’ said the priest, ‘as though you’d “been together” too long.’

‘I’m not together any more,’ said Julia. ‘I am solo. Giles took Christy in the car when he was banned from driving; they were both killed. I thought it was safe,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘Thought it was only fair for the child to see his father. Don’t you see? I am responsible. If I had been sensible and bloody-minded, Christy would be alive now.’

The priest was silent.

‘I am not “together”,’ Julia went on, ‘any more than my feet are together with my shoes.’ Still the priest did not speak. ‘And don’t imagine,’ said Julia, who, having started to talk, could not stop, ‘that I am sorry about Giles being dead. I am absolutely delighted. He was selfish and violent and cruel and a rotten father. I was divorcing him anyway; he terrified me when he was drunk and I did not like him sober. He smelled and I found it hard to stand up to him, though I did once hit back in desperation and broke his nose; I am proud of that. But usually I cringed and held Christy between us as a shield. I knew, you see, that he was not quite enough of a shit to hit the child. Oh God!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t know why I am telling you all this; it is no business of yours. I have no faith, my belief in God is ropey and I am not even a Catholic. This is a Catholic church, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I only came in to escape the rain. Oh, blast my swollen feet!’ Again she tried to force her feet into recalcitrant shoes. ‘They simply won’t go.’ She shook with frustration.

‘We could leave aside your absence of faith,’ said the priest, ‘move out of here to the presbytery where my housekeeper could give you a cup of tea and a foot bath. That would be a start—the feet and shoes getting together,’ he said.

Julia said, ‘That sounds like heaven.’ Then she said, ‘I am sorry. I am drivelling. I’d better shut up,’ and blew her nose.

‘We could also,’ said the priest, ‘find you a bed for the night.’

Julia said, ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, but no. I have a perfectly good bed; I must get back, if I can get my shoes on. I am not as destitute as some. You are very kind,’ she said. ‘Forgive me. I have made use of your church and wasted your time.’ She was on her feet now, holding her shoes; she looked at him for the first time. He was middle-aged and grey and tired; he watched her quizzically. She felt it would be a horror to deceive him. Painfully she said, ‘There’s another thing I should tell you, but I can’t. It’s not a murder or anything like that, and it might seem a small thing to you, but to me it’s the ultimate betrayal.’

He said, ‘Let me deal with your feet and your shoes,’ and led her towards the door.

Julia thought, I am being a bore, there’s a limit to what he can stand. He probably gets all the flotsam of the Government’s Victorian values in here; he doesn’t need me. I must not impose. She thrust her handkerchief back in her pocket and walked beside him, carrying her shoes. Passing the altar the priest genuflected and she, looking up and seeing the Virgin framed in delicious mother-of-pearl, exclaimed ‘How lovely, how surprising. Most Catholic churches in England are hideous.’

He said, ‘This is the Bavarian church.’ He did not explain, but asked, ‘Do you live in London?’ distancing her somehow by his question. When she said, ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I will give you your bus fare.’

And she, distanced, exclaimed, ‘Thank you, but I have some money. I had enough to buy a sandwich.’

And he said, ‘So you did.’

They were by this time at the door of the presbytery; he unlocked the door, ushered her in and called to his housekeeper. The opportunity to tell him more was over; she bottled it up.

But later, as the bus which would carry her back to the World’s End came rushing to a stop, she hesitated in the crush of people climbing on board.

The priest had not flinched at a broken nose; could she not have purged herself of that other infinitely worse burden? Then, as she hesitated and people pushed from behind, the conductor reached down, caught her arm and pulled her into the bus.

‘I
THOUGHT I WOULD
just look in to see how you are getting on.’ Rebecca strode past as Sylvester opened the door. ‘I see you’ve given your door knocker a polish. Jolly good, it’s such a pretty one. I like dolphins; getting quite rare, the dolphin knockers. The Americans bag them all.’ She pressed on into the sitting-room. ‘I was just passing,’ she said, ‘on my way.’

‘Where to?’ Sylvester teased, not expecting an answer. ‘Where were you on your way to?’

‘Oh!’ Rebecca exclaimed, coming to a halt. ‘Oh!’ Her large eyes probed the room like searchlights. ‘A writing table! That’s new! It’s a beauty, Sylvester.’ She stroked the mahogany, slid a drawer open. ‘These are quite hard to come by, Sylvester, and it has its original handles, marvellous. And it’s in jolly good nick. Lashing out a bit, aren’t you?’

‘It was my father’s, it’s been in store. Celia didn’t like it.’

Rebecca laughed. ‘I don’t suppose for one moment she realized what it’s worth, or perhaps she thought it was a copy? Or has Andrew Battersby got lots of valuable writing tables?’

‘Perhaps he has. Like a drink?’

‘Oh, yes please, just a little one. And the chair; that’s new, too.’

‘Also my father’s.’

‘It’s Chippendale, lovely.’ She ran her hand across the back and down the arm.

‘Yes.’

‘Just look at its legs,’ Rebecca crooned. ‘My goodness, Sylvester, I wish I had legs like that. Mine are like grand pianos.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Sylvester, who had often thought so. ‘I’ll get your drink.’ He left his visitor eyeing the room.

Rebecca stopped stroking the chair and looked about her. Something was different apart from the desk and the chair; there was a subtle change since her last visit. The sofa was posed as before and the armchair, the shelves lining the back wall were still stuffed with books and the mantelshelf bare, as was the floor. What was it?

Sylvester came back from the kitchen, carrying a tumbler in each hand. He handed Rebecca hers. ‘Do sit down.’ He indicated the sofa and sat in the chair by the desk, keeping his back to the window.

Rebecca said, ‘Delicious. You know exactly how I like it.’

Sylvester said nothing, crossed his feet at the ankles, sipped his drink.

‘If you are refurnishing, you should let me help you,’ Rebecca offered. ‘I am pretty hot on antiques.’ Sylvester thought, she never gives up. ‘For starters,’ Rebecca went on, ‘you will need some rugs. Those Persian rugs were lovely.’

Sylvester said, ‘Turkish.’

‘Of course, Turkish. Any hope of getting them back? Surely that’s the sort of thing Andrew Battersby would have lots of?’

Sylvester said, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

Rebecca said, ‘Well, you must have rugs. You can’t live with a bare floor, it’s so uncosy. I’ll look about. I know a man in Fulham who has an excellent collection at quite moderate prices.’

Sylvester said, ‘No.’

‘No? But—’

‘They are being cleaned.’

‘What are being cleaned?’

‘My rugs.’

‘So you’ve got some rugs?’ Rebecca flushed. ‘Your father’s?’

‘I bought them.’

‘Oh, lovely. Persian?’

‘No, Kelim.’

‘Oh,’ said Rebecca, ‘Kelim.’ She swallowed some of her whisky. He’s forgotten how I like it, she thought, this is weak. She looked at Sylvester, sitting with his back to the light in his father’s chair with his father’s writing table behind him. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’m latching on. Now you have the house to yourself you’ve started on “the new novel”. You are shot of Celia and have time to write. That’s it, isn’t it? What’s the novel about?’

‘I am writing the life of Wellington’s valet,’ Sylvester improvised. (What animal is it, he asked himself, which, when it gets something in its jaws, can’t let go?)

‘Wellington’s valet? I didn’t know he had a valet. Well, I suppose he must have. There will be a lot of research, I can help you with that. And if you want typing done, you must come to me,’ said Rebecca.

‘I shall have a word processor.’

‘It will spoil the look of the room. You don’t want a word processor, just let me—I would like to help,’ Rebecca said bravely.

‘I know you would.’ Sylvester uncrossed his legs and stood up, holding his empty glass.

Rebecca perforce stood too. ‘You have done something to this room,’ she said, ‘something other than the desk and the chair. What is it?’

Sylvester took her empty glass and stood waiting, a glass in each hand. Then Rebecca exclaimed, ‘I know! It smells. It smells of beeswax. It’s clean. Look at the floor! It’s polished like a mirror. Did you get one of those firms with an electric floor polisher? Really, Sylvester, you should have asked me; some of those firms are daylight robbers. No, don’t tell me,’ she cried, laughing, ‘you did it yourself.’

Sylvester said, ‘My cleaning lady did it.’

‘Oh!’ cried Rebecca joyfully. ‘Mrs Andrews. I’m so glad you changed your mind. I told you she would look after you.’

‘Not Mrs Andrews.’

‘Not Mrs Andrews?’ Rebecca’s voice rose. ‘Who, then? What’s she called? What agency did you use? Was it reliable?’

‘I didn’t use an agency.’

‘Sylvester!’

‘I advertised in the Corner Shop.’

‘You what? You didn’t! I thought you were joking.’

‘It was a coincidence.’ Sylvester was patient. ‘I was paying for my papers—by the way, the service includes removal of horrible stinking advertisements from the colour mags—and I placed this advertisement and bingo, that was it.’ He laughed. ‘Works like a charm. As you see, the place is clean,’ he boasted.

‘What is the woman called?’

‘Mrs Piper.’

‘Mrs Piper?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a gypsy name. Oh, Sylvester, do be careful. What is she like? It sounds terribly risky.’

‘I haven’t seen her.’

‘What can you mean? You must have seen her, I saw Mrs Andrews for you. What are her references?’

‘No references.’

‘And you haven’t seen her!’ Rebecca rolled her magnificent eyes. ‘How d’you manage?’

‘If she wants anything, floor polish, Ajax, that sort of thing, she leaves a note. I leave the money for it with her money, and that’s it.’

‘How does she get in?’

‘With a key.’

‘And who gave her the key? You must have seen her when you gave her the key. Sylvester, you are teasing me.’

‘No, I am not. I gave the key to the Corner Shop; they gave it to her.’

‘You are winding me up,’ said Rebecca, aghast.

‘No, I am not.’

‘Sylvester, how can you be so trusting? Mark my words, she will steal the spoons.’

‘Celia took those.’ Sylvester leaned down and pecked Rebecca’s cheek. ‘Now I must get back to the Valet,’ he said gently, while indicating the door with a hand holding an empty glass. ‘I must not keep you. You were on your way somewhere.’

‘Yes,’ said Rebecca courageously. ‘I must not dally gossiping. I shall be late.’

Sylvester watched her go and, as he watched, he remembered that the animal who would not let go was supposed to be a pig. Once a pig had something clamped in its jaws, he had read, it chumped whatever it was up.

Perhaps I really could write the life of Wellington’s valet, he mused, sitting at his desk. Margaret Forster wrote a splendid life of Elizabeth Barrett-Browning’s maid. One would have to do a lot of daunting research, though, because if one did not and got contemporary details wrong, the experts would be down like a ton of bricks. Far better to stick to the novel; he knew all too well the details for that, though how, Sylvester asked himself as he stared blindly out of the window, would he rivet the attention of readers with his humiliating tale? ‘Oh, Mother,’ he said out loud, ‘if you were not dead I would come and complain, grumble that you put the idea in my mind, where it sticks like a burr.’