Nuns and Soldiers (47 page)

And what really happened on that morning in the kitchen, she wondered. Was that amazing ‘psychic experience’ simply another symptom, a sign of some vast ‘depression’ or mental breakdown which was about to take charge of her life and perhaps deprive her of her sanity forever? Or had she actually been visited by the
Other One
in person? She felt herself surrounded by irresponsible spiritual forces. Several nights ago she had seen something very strange upon the stairs, when she had come home from one of her lonely night walks. There was no light upon Anne’s flight of stairs. She saw it dimly, crouching in a corner, near to her door, something like a dwarf, entirely black. She had felt afraid to pass it. Then she had said to it, ‘Strange creature, what are you doing here, you are frightening me, please go away in peace’; and she had gone quickly past it and into her flat in a sweat of terror. Later she had thought, perhaps it was a large dog, a sick dog, I ought to look to see. She had taken a torch and opened the door, but there was nothing there.

She had left the convent to come out into loneliness and a sort of renewed innocence and a sort of peace. Perhaps she could never have been empty and clean like an amoeba carried by the sea. But she had thought of her new life and her new solitude as a sort of simple austerity, and perhaps in her heart she had really seen herself as God’s spy, a secret anchoress hidden in the world. She had felt this in her rediscovery of Gertrude, she had felt it when she talked to Guy. Her life ‘inside’ had, after all, a continuity with her life ‘outside’. Perhaps the God whom she had lost had spoilt her for the world, but she would live as she could in the world, as a silent invisible crippled serviceable being. What had happened to these brave thoughts which had been, she knew now that they were gone, such a splendid consolation? Had she not been warned of the snares of the world, and had she not fallen straight into one? The religious life involves the total transformation of the idea of hope. And she had thought that she could only love God. But now it seemed as if all the old fantasies and illusions were back as if they had never been away. Not silence now, but blaring cacophony filled her head, foul self-stuff filled her soul, frenzied self-will and terrible possessive energy. Only now the rage of it was worse because she was older. This was the pain of hell, envy, jealousy, resentment, anger, remorse, desire, the pain that leads to terrorism. She had thought, if I cannot have what I desire I shall die. Now, in more despair, she thought, if I cannot have what I desire I shall have to live on with some new unredeemable horror of being myself.

Was God playing a game with her? After all he had played games with Job. What game would it be here? Chess? Hide and seek? Cat and mouse? Anne could not believe in a game-playing God. She had wondered earlier whether belief in God would ever return, sweep over her one day like a great warm wet cloud. Now she felt more absolutely godless than she had ever felt in her life. Her good was her own, her evil was her own. Yet
he,
her early morning visitor, was he not something? Perhaps indeed it was he, with his luminous eyes and his enigmatic witty talk that had shaken her and shaken the last remnant of faith out of her soul. Had she understood? A little. Who was he? She felt that he had truly come from a distant place. And it came to her that he was real, that he was unique. She was an atom of the universe and he was
her own
Christ, the Christ that belonged only to her, laser-beamed to her alone from infinitely far away. At least she had seen him once; and now perhaps the grace of prayer would return to her. Would it return now, a new and different kind of prayer? Yet how can it, she thought, since I love not Christ but Peter?

Anne got up from the bed. There was no ease. She decided she would go out and walk. She walked so much now, especially at night, especially along the river. Late dusky summer evening filled the little flat with dusty floating shadows. She turned the lights on. She went into the sitting-room. She looked at it with amazement. Chairs, lamps were overturned, books and cushions strewed the floor. She thought, did I do that, I, calm rational Anne Cavidge? The effect of the aspirin had worn off and her toothache had come back. She began slowly to pick up the debris. She found herself holding a stone. It was the chipped grey stone which
he
had given her and which, she remembered now, she had laid on top of some books: the stone in which he had shown her the cosmos, all that exists, and how small it is. She held it against her torn dress. Her tooth was aching, her burnt finger was hurting. She began to cry again quietly. She had cried so much in these last days. Yet she had left the convent almost without tears, left even forever that most beloved one. ‘Good-bye,’ Anne had said, and she ‘God bless you,’ passing in a garden, on an evening in autumn, not yet a year ago.

 

 

‘Well, I think they’re ideally suited!’

‘Veronica!’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Mrs Mount.

It was drinks night at Manfred’s. This ceremony had succeeded to the old Ebury Street gatherings, which now seemed to everyone present to belong to the remote past. Of course Tim and Gertrude were invited, but so far had not turned up.

‘It’s a foolish marriage,’ said Janet Openshaw. ‘Why couldn’t she just have an affair?’

‘Why didn’t you stop her from marrying the fellow, Manfred?’

‘My dear Ed, I can do nothing with Gertrude.’

‘She was wearing her mourning like a nun’s veil, and now this!’

Stanley Openshaw said, ‘Gertrude couldn’t have an affair, she’s too serious and moral.’

‘Is it serious and moral to get married to -’

‘She loves him. That’s the explanation.’

‘Stanley! Guy died in December.’

‘Or e’er those shoes were old . . .’

‘I mean, Gertrude couldn’t do anything frivolous, so she must be deeply in love.’

‘Just what I think,’ said Mrs Mount. ‘They both are.’

‘I see Gertrude as a rather virginal person,’ said Manfred, ‘sort of chaste and solemn. I agree with Stanley.’

‘Guy cornered her early in life.’

‘Then it’s a late case of wild oats.’

‘Put it this way, Gertrude is the sort of woman who has got to love somebody.’

‘Well, it won’t last. He’s such a lightweight. She’ll regret it.’

‘I don’t think I agree,’ said Gerald. ‘I like Tim.’

‘He’s an adventurer, he’s just after her money.’

‘You’re a cynic, Janet,’ said Manfred. ‘Romance is a complicated business.’

‘Romance!’

‘I think we’d better go,’ said Stanley. ‘I must anyway. I’ve got to get back to the House.’

‘The House isn’t sitting.’

‘I am though! I’ve got to see a man about a tax.’

‘Tim Reede has never had a thought for anybody but himself.’

‘Which of us has any other thought, Janet dear? Mother love doesn’t count.’

‘I think they’ll be happy,’ said Gerald. ‘I’m prepared to bet on it.’

‘Gerald is starry-eyed.’

‘What do you think, Moses?’

‘I would view the situation with caution,’ said Moses.

‘Moses would view the situation with caution!’

‘I think they’re both in love and I think Tim is capable of loyalty.’

‘My dear Veronica, no one’s suggested he’s a rotter,’ said Ed Roper.

‘I think he’s capable of loyalty and seriousness.’

‘She’ll keep him up to the mark,’ said Manfred.

‘We’ll keep them up to the mark. Gertrude needs us as a chorus.’

‘Gertrude would hate to lose face. She’ll do her damnedest to make it work.’

‘Well, Gertrude is high-principled and he’s timid, so their chances are good.’

‘They’ll keep each other up to the mark, up to different marks. They’re so unlike, they’ll expand each other’s worlds. Tim has an instinct for happiness.’

‘Moses says Tim has an instinct for happiness!’

‘But really - Tim after Guy!’

‘Happiness is not to be despised.’

‘No one here despises it, I assure you.’

‘Janet -’

‘Yes, yes, Stanley.’

‘Gertrude has an instinct for happiness too,’ said Mrs Mount. ‘She has an instinct for getting herself into the right place, like a cat. She was jolly lucky to get Guy. We all thought so at the time, well I did anyway, and then everyone got used to it. I think none of you see how clever she’s been. You say “Tim after Guy”. Precisely. Gertrude had an older man when she needed one, now she has a younger man when she needs one. She married her father, now she’s married her son.’

‘The result is certainly rejuvenating,’ said Gerald. ‘Gertrude looks much younger.’

‘Janet will say “mutton dressed as lamb”!’

‘Don’t be beastly, Veronica. I just hope she’ll be all right. If that man lets her down -’

‘It’s certainly a change,’ said Moses Greenberg, ‘and why not? She married the man who had everything. Now she’s married the man who has nothing.’

‘Materially or spiritually?’

‘I see Veronica’s point.’

‘Janet -’

‘Yes, yes, yes, Stanley, I’m coming.’

‘You can stay, but I must take the car.’

‘I’ll come - you can drop me off. I’ve got to entertain Rosalind’s string quartet.’

‘How are the boys?’

‘Ned’s in California, William’s digging in Greece.’

‘Your children are so talented.’

‘Gerald, I must have a talk with you about Ned. I’m so afraid he’ll become religious. You must tell him mathematics is the road to freedom. Well, we must go.’

‘Good-bye -’

‘Oh hello, Victor, we’re just going. Here’s Victor.’

‘Hello, doc. Good-bye Janet, good-bye Stanley.’

‘Janet has just been deploring the married pair.’

‘Which married pair?’

‘Don’t be silly, Victor.’

‘Janet is fed up
à cause des chères têtes blondes.
’

‘What on earth is Veronica talking about?’

‘Naturally Janet’s cross about the money.’

‘The money?’

‘The Openshaw children were to have Guy’s money.’

‘So Janet thought, anyway.’

‘Nothing on paper.’

‘Now Tim will gamble it all away, after all he’s Irish.’

‘Bound to.’

‘He’ll get rid of it in two years.’

‘Gertrude won’t let him.’

‘That young fellow has more sense than you think.’

‘Janet was so sure Gertrude would never marry again.’

‘Janet thinks it’s damned unsporting of Gertrude to marry.’

‘Guy ought to have divided the spoil up a bit.’

‘She might have married someone who could treble the cash.’

‘Someone not a hundred yards from here could have done it, if I may say so.’

‘Don’t let’s keep discussing Gertrude,’ said Manfred.

‘I agree,’ said Mrs Mount. ‘Let’s wish them well and help them in any way we can.’

‘No Count today.’

‘No Count at all.’

‘He’s moping.’

‘We wouldn’t talk like this if the Count were here,’ said Gerald.

‘You’re right,’ said Manfred. ‘Someone give Victor a drink, he’s fainting.’

‘Thanks, I’ve had an awful day. Hello, Ed, how’s your you-know-what? ’

‘What’s Ed’s you-know-what?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘It’s better, but please don’t talk about it.’

‘What’s happened to the nun?’ said Moses Greenberg. ‘I can’t remember her name.’

‘Anne Cavidge, Gertrude’s old school pal.’

‘Anyone seen her? You ought to invite her, Manfred.’

‘Oh I have, but she doesn’t come.’

‘Desperately shy, poor thing.’

‘They never recover.’

‘Well, I must be off.’

‘Good night, Moses dear.’

‘Moses is so censorious.’

‘Do you see him as disappointed?’

‘About Gertrude? No.’

‘Perhaps he had his dreams, who knows.’

‘Well, I
love
Moses,’ said Mrs Mount.

‘Any Balintoy news? Has Gerald been favoured with a letter?’

‘Yes, he’s in Hawaii.’

‘Gerald’s the favourite as usual.’

‘Where on earth does he get the money?’

‘No holiday for me this year.’

‘I hope to get to Eastbourne,’ said Mrs Mount.

‘I suppose Manfred’s jaunting off on business to Zurich as usual.’

‘My business doesn’t take me any farther than Fulham.’

‘And Ed’s off to Paris.’

‘I
work
in Paris,’ said Ed.

‘There’s no business like art business.’

‘I suppose Gerald’s going to a jolly conference in Sydney or Chicago or somewhere?’

‘No, no farther than Jodrell Bank.’

‘Made any discoveries lately, Gerald?’

‘Well - yes -’

‘Gerald’s made a discovery, quiet everybody.’

Gerald, burly and sweating, put down his glass. ‘I-I couldn’t - explain it -’

‘There’s probably only two people on the planet who’d understand. ’

‘That’s about it,’ said Gerald.

‘Gerald seems quite upset.’

‘So am I. Is anything going to
happen
, Gerald?’

‘Well - it could do -’

‘Gerald says something’s going to happen.’

‘Does he mean a cosmic disaster?’

‘This is a morbid conversation,’ said Mrs Mount. ‘Give me another drink, please.’

‘Moira Lebowitz was here last week, she’s become so beautiful. ’

‘ “Women are trained everywhere to please, so any party is dull without them”.’

‘Who said that?’

‘Guy, oddly enough.’

‘I am here!’

‘Sorry, Veronica. Have a cigarette?’

‘Have a
what
?’

‘Victor says he’s going to make us all jog round the park every day.’

‘Is he hell.’

‘By the way, I’ve got a spare ticket for
Aida.
Anybody? Veronica? ’