Chapter 15:a

In which Carla takes the initiative

Carla is on the phone, waiting for someone to find the information she has requested.

Earlier, she agreed to allow Rebecca to take Dinah for a walk in the pram. She agonised over the sense of it, but Steve is predictable in some ways, and two weeks is… only ten days now. Her throat tightens at the realisation, but he may not recognise the old lady anyway – he can’t know everything, surely. Finally she had refused to worry about the outing since she also has Helen and Addison on her mind and if she keeps busy the time will pass.

She scribbles the number on a slip of paper, thanks the nameless woman at the other end of the phone for her help (though it was given unwillingly), and replaces the receiver. Getting information out of Action for Homes has been worse than trying to elicit from Addison the reason for his present state of withdrawal.

She’s quite certain it started when he came home from Holy Wind after the children’s meeting last night. Leaving half his supper untouched is always a bad sign. He’s barely spoken since, keeping himself hidden behind that drawn expression of pain, and moving about, if at all, slower than a disorientated slug. She is puzzled that when she was not managing, he was able to take control, but that now she’s up and about again, he is down.

During the afternoon she had to persuade him to go and sign the housing papers at the charity (and this is his favourite project at present); then, when he found Helen absent from her normal Friday position in the office (still off sick, they said) he couldn’t be bothered to inquire after her telephone number. Said flatly that if Carla hadn’t the number, that was that.

‘That’s that?’ Carla repeated, astounded. ‘After all she’s done for us?’ She ignored Addison’s shrug. ‘If she’s been off ill, maybe she needs us for a change.’

So she’s rung them up and insisted they give her Helen’s number. The information was wheedled from among words like ‘indisposition’ and ‘personal matter’ – which made a grin come to her face but didn’t deter her from her quest. And, she suspects, someone is in for trouble, because they surely shouldn’t have given the number to a stranger.

She smiles in quiet satisfaction at the series of digits on the paper (they represent an achievement in more ways than one), and then glances at the still form of Addison slumped dejectedly on the sofa. Her breath catches.

She dials the number quickly, and allows her thoughts to wander as she waits for Helen to answer. It will be the same old trouble seeping into Addison’s heart: doubt about his own rightness. It seems to muffle his ability to act, shrouds him with disinterest, as if the need to never be caught in error cripples his brain. It is not the first time it’s happened. Sometimes she can help him through, often some supernatural power (one she envies, actually) comes to his aid quickly. Proof enough that his God cares for him. However, she’ll deal with Addison when she’s spoken to Helen.

‘Hi! Heard you weren’t well. Sorry about that. Is it bad?’

Helen’s reply sounds slightly thick and a bit subdued. Carla offers sympathy, and, on an impulsive but inspired afterthought, responding to the kinship they have recently experienced, says suddenly, ‘I’m having a small party tomorrow. Will you come, seeing you’re getting better?’

‘A… party?’ There is a silence from the other end and she can picture Helen’s struggle to find words, and smiles at the consternation she has caused. Catching Helen on the hop is one of her amusements – but there are limits if the woman is under the weather.

‘Not if you’d rather stay at home––’ she quickly adds.

‘No… no. It’s just – well, you’ve taken me by surprise. Parties are usually planned in advance, aren’t they?’

‘Not here, they’re not. We just decided on the spur of the moment. Actually, it’s my birthday and… Addison needs cheering up a bit, and the Followers can usually rally round. Mind you,’ she adds hastily, sensing Helen’s reluctance, ‘I’ll only invite a few. We’ll have it in one of the rooms at Holy Wind. Then we can go outside if the weather holds.’

Another silence, which Carla tries generously to ignore. If only, just for once, Helen would respond without thinking and analysing.

Then the answer comes in a strangely hesitant voice, ‘That would be nice. I’ll come… and thanks. Shall I bring anything?’

Carla is overcome with a surging need to tell Helen about Steve and the threat he’s made against them all, and that she must bring her capable, logical, management skills to protect them.

It’s madness. She’s looking for a mother figure and Helen must not be embroiled in this horror. She fights the thought, subdues it into less-than-horrific proportions once more, and answers the question as intended.

After a few more exchanges, Carla hangs up and turns to Addison, suddenly feeling uncertain herself. ‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’

He smiles sadly. ‘Angel, I never forget you. I think about you night and day. I idolise you – and it’s a sin. I’ll probably be condemned for it.’

Carla laughs out loud. Then she slips down beside him on the settee and strokes his hand. ‘It just shows you’re a lovely person. But this is the first birthday I’ve had with you and I want to remember it.’ She wonders briefly if is it is to be the last – the future is looking very uncertain, but she must not even contemplate that now. Busyness will keep terror at bay.

He looks at her, strained, as if making an effort to speak. ‘Some of the Followers… well, they may not… be able to come at such short notice.’

Carla stares at him. ‘There are two hundred to choose from,’ she says. ‘I think some will come. They never refuse a get-together, even a common party.’

In fact, in the next half hour she only invites twenty people, as that is all she thinks Helen can cope with. Arrangements come to a spontaneous halt as Rebecca arrives at the front door with pram and baby, back from their stroll. She is very relieved to see them safe.

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Chapter 14:c

In which Helen grasps the nettle – uselessly

Helen pulls up in the only space left outside the surgery. They really must do something about the parking at this end of the parade. The council always has money to do inessentials, she notes, like sending out extra information on recycling collections, or erecting yet more road signs about local attractions. The basic improvements to an area are always sidelined somewhere en route.

After a brief check on her eye, Doctor Ludgrove hands her the expected prescription and nods in dismissal, not in any way unfriendly, just overworked as usual. Helen has not been on particularly affable terms with any doctor she has had as they have moved around, but neither has she bothered them unduly with trivial matters. She is therefore greatly surprised at her own voice when she pauses, hand on doorknob, and asks directly, ‘At what number of weeks of pregnancy would you have to report a baby being born dead without a doctor in attendance?’

Doctor Ludgrove’s head jerks up from the notes he has started writing and stares at Helen as though she has just shot him.

‘You haven’t-?’

‘No, no.’ Helen gives a small laugh, dismissing the question as unimportant, a triviality. What is she thinking of? ‘No, it’s just… something I read… in a magazine… I wondered…’

She turns to go. She must be mad to have mentioned it. She is cracking up with the strain of it all. Her self-made barriers collapsing.

Dr Ludgrove has already started on the notes again. ‘Twenty-eight weeks,’ he says with disinterest. ‘Before that it’s a miscarriage, afterwards a still-birth, which you report. I should think they’d need a doctor either way.’ The information is delivered seemingly with no realisation of its enormity to Helen.

And Helen is so unnerved by her own behaviour that she can no longer picture the diary page sufficiently well to remember the date of the final entry. If it was ever mentioned. So the answer is useless to her.

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Chapter 14:b

In which Helen ruminates

The moors are alight with slanted sunbeams, throwing the muted olives and bright sap greens into a patchwork of immense attractiveness for Helen. The sun is warm but as yet not hot and she has wisely thrown a light jacket over her walking trousers and boots. She knows from experience that the trace of night chill in the air remains at this altitude until midday on occasions.

But she never tires of the feel of the place. And, strangely enough, never fears for her safety even though at times the firs thicken and she is lost to view from most of the path. It is inconceivable that anyone with ill-intent would walk hereabouts on a sunny summer day. She does a spot check even so, vaguely wonders why today, but lets the thought vanish among the wisps of breeze.

Yet, even without fear, her first concrete thought this morning when the initial euphoria of arrival wears off is that she is no longer so content to be alone as she was. She imagines the enriched sensation of the walk if Carla and the baby were at her side. They would open each other’s eyes anew to their surroundings. (They might even miss swathes of it while talking about something that arrests their attention.) Helen stops herself in the middle of the somewhat resentful thought that the awareness of possibly missing a bonus has detracted from the benefit she expected to accrue. She purses her lips and strides on, concentrating fiercely on the knobbly root systems that threaten her traverse of the pine woods.

Emerging above that area after half an hour’s rough trekking, Helen stands quietly resting for a while before setting her sights on the incredibly ugly tower of bricks that is Binden’s Pile. It is only unsightly in its contrast with the natural outcrops that appear through the bracken. Nothing else man-made mars the view, unless, of course, you do as Helen plans to do and walk to a higher vantage point. Then the whole Victorian sprawl of the town looms into view below, and entirely swallows any hideousness of Binden, incorporating the Pile into its own anonymous brick mass.

The slight breeze catches not only the bracken beside the path but also Helen’s poorly eye, and she wishes she had her sunglasses to ward off the worst of the damage as she clambers more slowly upwards.

Eventually she stands dwarfed by the mass of Binden’s Pile. The climb has made her warm and she strips down to her Tee shirt, tying the jacket casually about her waist. She has met no one, although she caught sight of a man walking his dog on a lower path. Gazing first toward the moor rather than out over the town, she allows the solitude to bite deeply into her core, reminding her sharply that this is how some people live their lives: alone and without family. In fact, Carla herself must have felt that very aloneness, abandonment, once things went wrong with Steve. She couldn’t have been much above eighteen, and then to be pregnant in that manner…

Helen finds herself wondering just why it was that the girl could not run away the day she tried. What kind of a hold had a man like Steve on her? Was it a physical overpowering that simply held on to her when she was discovered? She has recent painful experience of that. Or was he keeping her shut up in such a way that she hadn’t the wherewithal to get out either quietly or quickly once she had decided?

She feels a primeval anger welling up inside her that brings a prickling behind her eyelids. The girl has been through enough. Though it is outside her own limited experience, she realises that she cannot, will not, do anything that will bring more hurt to Carla. She deserves better. But how then to solve the problem of the dead baby?

Contemplating this from every angle, Helen realises that she actually will do anything at all not to lose Carla’s friendship – and is afraid suddenly that this may lead to her joining the conspiracy of silence surrounding the situation. Maybe not doing enough to protect the girl. Watching another baby meet its fate. Seeing Carla destroyed.

Carla sinks into the background. Something else has risen in Helen’s consciousness.

She kicks out at the Pile in sudden fury at her dilemma. Everything she has ever wanted has been removed from her before she was ready. Her parents, her home, her home town, every house she and Malcolm have shared: never can she recall being in charge of her own destiny. And now her friendship with Carla is in jeopardy, just when she realises that there is something in so-called sisterhood that offers what a marriage cannot. Some lines from Keats’ Ode flow into her mind and she declaims them angrily to the towering folly: She dwells with Beauty – Beauty that must die; / And Joy whose hand is ever at his lips / Bidding adieu…

In the ensuing silence there is only the faint moan of the wind through the now distant trees. A moan that emphasises her despair.

If she sets in train events that end badly for Carla, she will have lost her friend. If she doesn’t, the friendship is in jeopardy since there is no basis of truth between them, and in any case Helen would be implicated also. Moreover, four people are in danger and she has been warned to keep out. If she does, she will lose Carla. If she doesn’t, the danger to all of them is increased. This man is nothing if not ruthless. Of that she is sure.

With a sharp stab of memory, she recalls clearly the words she said to Addison about never thinking back on what you’ve done in case you start regretting it. That is why she must make the right decision first time. She will not be able to alter it later; she isn’t made like that. She starts shaking – with fear or cold, she is not sure. She is not well yet, has cooled down too fast, must move to keep warm. Stripping off was a mistake, however warm she had become.

But putting her jacket on again brings no improvement. It must be fear.

You won’t be here soon. You could just defer the decision. The voice in her head is more mocking than helpful.

Helen feels fever-hot again, moves to the shadier side of the Pile and leans wearily against it, closing her eyes against the bright light and laying her hands behind her on the relatively cool brickwork to steady her shivering. A deep sigh escapes her lips. She stands immobile for several minutes. Then she slowly straightens up and chooses her path down the moor towards the Information Centre chalet. From there it will be a short flat stroll round the flange of the hill to the car park.

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Chapter 14:a

In which Helen has a cold and thinks of a plan

Helen experiences a worsening of her spirits when she is woken abruptly from a disturbed slumber. 

A bleary glance at the bedside clock confirms her worst suspicions: not only is it Friday already, and only eight o’clock, but her eye is definitely succumbing to a slight infection, as it has many times over the years, with the result that the liquid crystal display looks as odd as she feels. She will have to call in at Doctor Ludgrove’s for a new supply of drops.

An impatient hammering at the front door causes her to start. Probably it was the postman, not the banging in her head, that woke her just now.

Dragging herself upright, she goes down to receive the parcel, and realises that Malcolm has already left for work: his briefcase and neatly prepared shoes are no longer parked by the hall table. Leaving the parcel where he will find it, she quickly makes a black coffee (which she will hate, however much good it may do her) and finds two strong painkillers to take back to the bedroom. It is always the same when she has had a cold for a couple of days; it is difficult to get started or believe how much better she will feel later in the day.

When she finally switches on the radio, the voice of the newsreader reminds her of Addison. He sounds friendly, happy and full of joie de vivre – quite the opposite of her own sluggish mentality this morning, and not entirely suited to the serious topic he is reporting for his listeners. This brings a small smile to her lips: Addison is likewise not quite appropriate to the serious business of modern living. He is like someone who has swallowed a magic antidote and is quite incapable of reacting normally. Seeing things as others do. She hopes – with the same fervour a child hopes his misdemeanors will remain undetected – that he will escape trouble.

Then the smile fades as Helen recalls that she has felt so ill for the last two days that she has not given a further thought to the dilemma she unearthed in the diary; not remembered that she meant to tackle Addison directly. She contemplates this as she swallows the bitter-tasting tablets. Addison is probably as much under the antidote-syndrome over this as over anything else. He must simply be trusting that God will somehow miraculously deal with it, when the reality requires that he take some steps to sort it out for himself, protect his wife from either the law or the revengeful Steve. She cannot burden Carla, but she can and must speak to Addison.

Putting the empty mug down onto the lace-edged mat in front of the clock, she swivels round on the bed, realises her nose is going to behave better today, and hugs her knees to her chin, glad that she has already effected a swap at the charity and can actually get on with the business of recovering. She starts thinking, struggling to penetrate the woolliness that has surrounded her brains. She has not been logical in her thoughts so far. It is important to start at the beginning. (Fleetingly, she wonders why she is involved at all, could just walk out of their lives, but remembers she is possibly an accomplice after the fact.)

First she must decide how to settle the matter of whether or not there is a duty to report a dead baby of whatever gestation period. And there may be a cut-off line between what is a miscarriage and what is a still-birth. She’d better check this out first. In retrospect, it is lucky that she has been out of contact with Addison or Carla since Tuesday or she might have a made a very big mistake. She might accuse Carla of a non-existent crime and needlessly upset Addison. Of course, if Addison already knows that nothing illegal happened, that would explain why he felt he could marry the girl. Nevertheless, she is certain the facts will prove that Steve made an illegal cover-up of causing the baby to be stillborn. Yes, she will have to decide who to ask, and how to ask it serruptitiously.

Assuming she is going to be proved right in her suspicions, she must decide when and how to tell Addison that she knows. There is no point in speaking to Carla since she must always have known what the situation was. But Addison… Well, the man is sound and upright, whatever she thinks of his beliefs, and he is strong. Of that she is certain. He is sure to be able to find a way through the problem when he knows a crime has been committed, without succumbing to the enormous responsibility it will present. And if the situation as such doesn’t exist, then the threat of Steve trying to claim Dinah as his own certainly does, and she will discuss that instead. If anyone can cope with such a situation, Addison can. She admires his complete confidence in his calling and his God, whether you call it an antidote or a simple conviction.

Thinking amusedly round the connotations of having an antidote to the world’s problems, Helen starts to rub her infected eye and realises she must ring the surgery before the day’s appointments are fully booked.

She is offered two-thirty, and, with that done, decides that the hours before then can be profitably spent taking her favourite walk across the moors around Binden’s Pile. She rarely has a head cold these days, but knows that the sluggishness afterwards can be satisfactorily dispelled by the breeze round the dead man’s folly, at the same time affording her a gods’ perspective glimpse of the town below and a consequent feeling of wellbeing. It will be worth the effort of pulling herself together now.

The telephone by the bed interrupts her thoughts. It is Malcolm from his mobile. The line is crackly and also overpowered by the noise of traffic.

‘Hi, Hel, just seeing if you’re okay this morning. Didn’t want to wake you earlier. You’d dozed off again.’

‘It was pretty poor sleep, actually, and the postman finished it off. Sorry I missed you leave. Did you remember to take the number you wanted?’ she asks. He is perfectly capable of getting himself off and usually does. But she knows a wifely interest keeps him happy, and he has thawed a bit lately, his ill-humour over Carla and Addison fading with the growing need to focus on his imminent change of job.

Despite the interference, they chat for a few moments more and then she tells him she intends taking a walk to clear her head.

‘Who with?’ he asks.

‘With whom?’ The correction is for pedantry’s sake, to stake something intangible between them: obviously she isn’t quite at death’s door. ‘Myself. Who else?’

‘You might have been taking that girl and the baby.’ Of course, the answer lacks any sense of reprimand now that he knows she isn’t, but Helen still has to bite her tongue. ‘Oh well,’ he continues. ‘As I say, I was just checking you were okay.’

‘Thanks. Love you. Bye,’  The answer is standard issue and she replaces the receiver quickly. His pettiness annoys her but he has given her an idea. One she will pursue as soon as the opportunity presents.

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Chapter 13:c

In which Addison is sabotaged

Gradually they work round the circle. Addison lays hands on them all, and is helped by the ones sitting nearest each time. Some have small school problems and they all hold hands and pray for God to help. (God will surely indulge these little ones for their willing response to him tonight.) Others have aches here and there, or chesty coughs lingering from summer colds or earlier hayfever. Between them, in the gloom, they take the whole quarter of an hour praying for each other, without a single rustle of restlessness.

Noises reach their ears from the main hall. Someone switches on the hall lights and immediately there is a new level of illumination in their own room. Addison grins round at them conspiratorially as they start to exclaim in surprise at how quickly time has passed and surely their parents have come early? Their eyes are brilliant with joy and Addison swells with the success of his teaching time, without any hint of complimenting himself. It is all of God. He hopes the parents will encourage their children’s use of tongues at home and in the services. Why wait till they’re grown up to catch them?

‘Whatever is going on?’ exclaims a strident voice. Addison jumps out of his reverie and switches on the lamps.

‘We were just finishing praying,’ he says mildly.

‘Daddy, we’ve got a langwidge,’ shouts a small child, running over to his father in the doorway.

‘Me too,’ calls another. And pandemonium breaks out momentarily.

‘We laid hands on each other,’ explains an older girl seriously, ‘didn’t we?’ She appeals to Addison for confirmation. ‘That’s how God touches us.’

There is an unnatural pause after these words.

‘What? All alone here?’

The mother who spoke turns and raises an eyebrow at her friend. Addison is surprised. They are both Followers of long standing. Surely they will not object on that account? There wasn’t a helper free tonight.

Sheila, Pete’s wife, appears again. She has already left once. ‘Why were the lamps out?’ she demands to know. ‘Chris tells me you were in the dark tonight.’

‘Was there only you here, Addison?’ someone else says quietly. ‘That’s not very wise. Children Act and all that, you know.’

‘You mean child protection,’ corrects another voice. It is Talie. Surely she will understand? But she says, ‘Addison, you’d better be more careful. That’s not the first error you’ve made recently.’ And she sounds critical, as though he were responsible for his tiredness. He doesn’t even know what she is referring to. He never pretended to be perfect, she knows him too well to think that.

‘There was no problem,’ he says, fighting nonetheless a small quiver of apprehension. ‘They all know me well. Rob couldn’t make it, but it didn’t need two this time. And anyway,’ he continues brightly, ‘God has done a wonderful work here tonight. Can you just sense the excitement? It’s electric. That’s the important thing, surely? Ask them about it on the way home,’ he entreats, as he deliberately arranges the discarded seating and sees the rest of the parents out in a subdued little group.

*** 

Now why does someone always have to sour the good gift of God, he asks himself bitterly on the walk home. Why does someone always have to see wrong in right? A tinge of depression starts to curl round his mind. Okay, he touched the children. Does that make him a child molester? Don’t motives get checked out in the context of the whole scenario to help decide what’s what?

He marches on, eyes fixed on each foot in turn, watching the new sandal replace the receding one over and over again. He is mesmerised. Snatches of the evening echo in his disturbed mind, refusing to settle again into the euphoria they so recently inhabited.

Suddenly, penetrating finally the elation and success of the evening, Addison sees the ‘whole scenario’ as a judge would in a court of law. A group of mixed-sex children with one leader, alone in a dim room, engaged in a rite of letting go their rational speech. Feeling for the next person in order to lay hands on some part of their anatomy. And the utter joy experienced while doing so.

Addison struggles to swallow.

Would anyone believe it was a sovereign work of Almighty God and the surest foundation a child could have in life?

He trembles physically despite the warm air still wafting gently through the city (it’s only nine o’clock), and hopes with all his heart that there is no one among the Followers who bears him a grudge. No one to pursue the matter. His judgement of human nature has been very poor. Perhaps, after all, he has been following just a dream and not a direct order from God. The depression descends unerringly.

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Chapter 13:b

In which we see what matters to Addison 

‘Here we go,’ Addison says to the children. ‘I’m going to hand round the boxes one at a time. When you get it, pass it on. Make sure everyone has one. Then keep one yourself. That’s like when Jesus served others first.’

The manoeuvre involves a lot of touching, feeling and a few small squeals, but no one is silly. A reverent stillness has fallen on the group and Addison takes the moment to pray in a voice ringing with authority.

‘Father God, as we open our boxes to show we believe you have a present for us, would you help all of us here speak out loud in a language we have never learnt. A language that you will give us by the power of your Holy Spirit at work in this room. AMEN!’

He says this word so loudly he feels the girl next to him start slightly. Her bare arm rubs against his. He senses excitement, is aware of a ripple of stirring in the circle. The moment has come. Please God, may the vison not have been a lie.

***

For several moments there is complete silence in the darkened room. Then he hears a scraping as some start opening their boxes. Addison’s chest is so restricted by fear that he can hardly breathe, but he will not interrupt. A work of God must be allowed to proceed at its own pace.

And then a small voice, shrill and lacking in confidence, breaks the impasse with a jabber of syllables and phrases… another pause… the same voice continues, stronger now… Then he is joined by a young girl’s decisive declaration in yet another garble of sounds. It begins to have meaning, though not one they themselves can ascertain. Within seconds the room is alive with voices, some assured and obviously revelling in the experience, others tentatively copying, like fledgelings learning to leave the nest. Addison listens for a moment and watches the shadowy waving of arms that accompanies the tongues. Then he joins his deeper voice to theirs in a flood of thankfulness for God’s favour.

As the manifestations begin to subside, he tells them they will now use their language to praise God for things they enjoy at home and at school. Just picture the thing they enjoy and let the Spirit use their tongues to thank God. No need to think of their own sentences.

‘And we will lift our voices in song at the same time,’ he instructs them. ‘Any tune that comes. Make it up as you go along. You can create it, just like God does.’

This is an immediate success amongst the younger members of the group. They seem totally uninhibited. Their spirits can achieve way beyond their verbal skills, Addison reflects, realising that he’s always known this. Very soon the sheer infectiousness of the sound draws in the more reticent older ones to its beauty. The song weaves in and out, up and over their heads with a sound of angels. Addison himself provides a lower drone to fill out the harmony that is emerging. An image of Carla springs unbidden to his mind and he thanks God for her too. His own angel.

When they have fallen silent out of ecstatic exhaustion there remains an unearthly silence. Then Addison says gently, ‘We have time to pray for each other in your new language.’

‘Can you pray for my leg to get better?’ says Philip quickly. ‘It still aches from when I broke it.’

‘That’s just the sort of think God specialises in,’ says Addison with a huge grin, which he knows the boy can barely see. The light from the church arena is fading rapidly now and they are more like a group of shadows.

‘This is what we do,’ he continues, flashing the tiny light on his wristwatch as he speaks. Quarter of an hour left. ‘Someone has to lay their hand on the bit that is hurting. It’s like joining the power from God to the person. And then we all pray in our language and the Holy Spirit uses our special language to pray the right prayer, so God of course answers it. Maybe not quite how we would,’ he warns, ‘but the right answer, all the same. God knows best.’

There are many offers to put hands on Philip’s thigh and Addison therefore decides that first time he will show them how, to avoid any unintentional irreverence. He feels his way past two children and kneels in front of Philip, placing his hand lightly on the upper leg.

‘Right-o. Start praying your language now, out loud, and when I say ‘Amen’, so do you. Got it? Think hard, ‘cos this is God’s work you’re helping him do.’

It is over in a moment. Then the little girl next along wants them to pray for her granny who is ill. ‘When it’s for someone else,’ Addison explains, ‘we put our hands on you instead, because they’re not here.’

They are so keen, these children. So willing. Oh God, give him access to many more children to win for the Kingdom before the devil gets them. 

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