Chapter 18:c

In which Helen is impressed

A voice breaks into her thoughts. Someone has stood up. In fact several are already on their feet with hands held aloft and heads tilted back, Helen notices in surprise. The speaker is a West Indian with a clear penetrating staccato tenor. He is singing a sort of message to a wavy melody that is perhaps spontaneous in its direction but definite in its delivery. The words he sings are a challenge, a demand even, to allow him – no, the ‘me’ must mean God – into every corner of their minds, to not hang back or hold him at bay but to allow his truth to penetrate and free. Hold onto me in the dark recess, and my light will show the way to freedom. There is more but Helen recalls only the gist. It seems as if he is singing to her alone. Such gentleness, such compulsion to let go. Helen rarely lets go (a few weeks ago she would have declared never, but is now wiser) but acknowledges a deep yearning inside to do so. It’s silly of course, he cannot know her, so it must be meant for someone else. She takes her eyes off the singer and watches Addison.

He is standing in a trance, one hand stretched out and up, a look of total concentration on his familiar features. More white teeth appear as he slowly smiles in satisfaction. Helen recognises the look and the mind behind it. He is pleased that God has taken over. Helen would prefer proof that it is God, but is willing to suspend judgment while she observes. (She must be taking note of Addison’s sermon, she thinks wryly.)

More words are spoken, of encouragement to go deeper, give freely, spread the word or bring their trials to Jesus. Helen takes in less of this. The music starts again, the band joins in, directing speed and repetitions, and Addison invites the younger ones, who are already girating in time to the music, to come up front with him and dance to the Lord.

‘As the Lord leads, express your love,’ he shouts to the congregation after a few more moments. ‘Let every fibre of your being praise the Lord. The children are not inhibited. Follow their example.’

Carla catches Helen’s eye with a raise of her own brow. She is not being critical, Helen notes, merely accepting of Addison’s exuberant leading. That must be so, because she is jigging with Dinah on one hip, despite the baby’s attempt at pre-noon sleep. This makes Helen laugh out loud. She is so used to the noise now that she can hear her own laugh quite clearly. But thankfully it is immediately lost in the general loudness. No one else heeds them.

She is not alone in keeping her feet firmly planted on the wooden floor – but then again, there are so many people, possibly two hundred or so, she calculates, that no one stands out unless they make a point of being heard or seen. Like the children up with Addison. It’s good to see youngsters occupied safely, she thinks. Another point in his favour.

Suddenly one of them turns to the congregation and his voice carries over the dying notes of the tune. The words are nonsense. He speaks a string of gobbledegook as certainly as if it were English, clear and high-pitched, having a ring of authority about it, which is quite at odds with the rubbish pouring out. Helen is not the only one stunned to silence.

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Chapter 18:b

In which Helen joins in

Momentarily Helen is stupefied by the noise of the system. It makes her ears hurt. She turns in shock to Carla, but the girl is leaning across her, crooning something in Dinah’s ear. Suddenly everyone is joining in with the song, and the intensity of sound from the speakers is mitigated by natural human emissions from the whole auditorium. Helen cannot at first join in, even though the tune is highly accessible to the most unmusical ear, but, glancing across to the front surreptitiously, she catches sight of the sizeable overhead projector screen and finds her place in the words, more by good luck than anything else. The sound levels are still sufficient to inhibit proper brain function.

Several similar songs follow in rapid succession – one of which Helen actually recognises from Carla’s afternoon repertoire with the baby. This familiarity helps her to join in the words in a more meaningful way and she begins to really take part. It isn’t only Followers who have a monopoly on thankfulness. She briefly remembers Malcolm’s grunted words as she got up after far too little sleep and left him settling in for more than he ought to have needed: For goodness’ sake show your gratitude for a moment’s peace and quiet and stay in bed like me. Well, it feels better to show gratitude to someone right now. She starts to relax.

Soon Addison is up on the platform at the front delivering what could pass as a sermon but seems to Helen more like something from American TV. It is about not judging people by external symptoms but looking to the whole man, remembering that God looks on the heart and that they too will be judged by the same standards they employ. It is a moving half hour, Addison intense and excitable at one moment, vulnerable and genuine at another – the very quality she had first noted about him when they met beside Carla’s hospital bed.

She has slipped into reverie and only belatedly notices that Addison has started a gentle loving song which is picked up sensitively around the room and harmonised randomly. She has no need to join in; many are quietly swaying or sitting with closed eyes in an attitude of meditation. She glances at Carla. Dinah is now asleep on her knee instead of Helen’s, and Carla is either day-dreaming or carried away with the music. Helen allows herself a grin. She will let the music wash over herself too; it is very therapeutic.

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Chapter 18:a

In which Helen finds herself in a strange place

Helen has a way of instilling confidence in herself: she pops into the tiny cloakroom and checks her face in the mirror. Satisfied that her make-up is untouched by the recent skirmish to get Dinah into a cardigan, she glances quickly over her skirt and jacket, chosen to complement her palish complexion and fairish hair, then rapidly goes to rejoin Carla and the baby in the area at the back of the barn. She is not too sure, however, that anyone here bothers what they look like once they have left their houses. She sees no one else making the visit to the little room but, there again, perhaps no one else is here for the first time.

‘You look fine.’ Carla seems to have read her mind.

‘Thanks. I expect it doesn’t really matter, does it.’ It is a statement rather than a question.

She slings her bag on her shoulder and looks expectantly at Carla.

‘We’ll sit over here,’ says Carla, leading her towards the back half of the right hand side of the arena. Helen knows the chairs will be comfortable. She’d admired them when she first came down to inspect the place with Addison, proud as a father of his Followers and their meeting place.

‘Where’s Addison?’ she asks quietly.

‘With the band. They’ll be starting soon. Bit like a seaside concert at first,’ Carla says with a wicked grin sideways, pulling Helen down beside her. She dumps Dinah on Helen’s lap. Strangely, this pleases Helen because it gives her a role, a sign of belonging.

One or two come over and have a word with her in passing, happy to see her but making no fuss. Another cause for gratitude. Helen has no idea why she is experiencing a small surge of adrenalin this morning; possibly because in the night she cleared her mind of all the problems, against her better judgement; or maybe because she has no real idea what will occur and can therefore make no satisfactory plan to dissimulate her newness. She hopes it will be a traditional service but cannot ignore the tiny niggle of doubt. Addison doesn’t look the traditional sort.

Assuming a nonchalance she definitely does not feel, Helen makes a determined effort to look around. This main arena with its rafters and beams is parallel to the room they partied in last night, and about twice as long and several times as wide. She pictures it as it was that afternoon with Addison, quiet, smelling of polish and very much a sanctuary in the widest sense of the word. Rapidly now, however, it is filling up with hordes of people of all ages chattering their way to seats or standing in groups conversing. She cannot imagine another church (if you can call it that) where so much noise, excitement and general hubbub is engendered by the chore of coming to a routine event.

In fact, she quickly concludes it isn’t a chore for them. Most faces appear radiant, although the sun is also filtering onto them through the narrow set of skylights along the roof ridge. (The dust and dirt of a city environment prevent the amount of sun entering that would have been expected when the place was built, she reflects.) Soon Helen feels the anticipation encroaching on her like a contagion. This is both strange and exhilarating and causes her to pause a moment in her observations and simply feel it caressing her.

‘Nonsense,’ she murmurs and straightens Dinah’s legs out on her knees.

‘Sorry?’

‘I said “nonsense”.’ She turns to stare at Carla. ‘How can something that is invisible seem tangible?’

‘Something like what?’ The girl is obviously unaware of any effect of the surroundings.

‘Oh nothing. I just felt… strange all of a sudden.’

‘Nerves,’ says Carla. ‘Glad to see you have some! Don’t worry,’ and she indicates the band in a kind of told-you-so gesture. ‘No one’ll notice you now.’

The person in charge of the music is beginning to pull the band members together, gesticulating to gain their attention, counting a rhythm with another wave of his hand. And then it starts.

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Chapter 17:d

In which Addison loses sleep

Addison floats in a great open space where there are no people, no yawning caverns, no overwhelming needs that he is almost unable to meet, no ties round his feet to drag him backwards just when he is lunging forward for the kill, no sword hovering in threat over his heart.

He is uncontrollably happy, so much so that tears course down his face and he awakens suddenly and rubs his eyes, surprised to find them dry and clear. Everything in the room is easily discernible as the sun is already up and the curtains thin and in need of replacing. He will pray about their financial priorities.

Turning to the clock on Carla’s side of the bed, he realises that once again he’s been cheated of much-needed sleep. It’s just before five, and he ought to stay asleep till eight and then spend his usual time with God before the service. (He never eats breakfast on a Sunday morning, preferring to prove to God that it is his bread he depends upon in order to be able to minister to the needy.)

But sleep. There will be no more now. He is alert and ready to rise. Nevertheless, he will be weary all day and unable to drop off until bedtime. He rubs his lips with the back of his hand. Everything has its price.

He decides to turn the sleeplessness to his advantage and take a walk before anyone is up. The Great Aunt’s snoring proves she will not notice the noise of the front door. And Carla will not heed him after the many disturbed nights he has provided recently. She looks soundly and peacefully asleep. He’s glad she’s got over that weepy hysterical interlude.

He tiptoes past Dinah’s cot, collecting trousers and shirt on the way, and steals downstairs. Within three minutes he is outside, his lungs constricted by the onslaught of the chilly air. Then he starts to breathe more easily, and revels in its freshness. Only the surroundings mitigate his enjoyment. There is something about a run-down area that always brings a lump to his throat. As he walks purposefully round the local streets, he prays for the occupants of the various dwellings.

By the time he returns an hour later he is his old self. There is work to be done and he is called to do it. No one will be allowed to stop him. His prepared sermon is ditched. He must exhort the Followers not to judge prematurely, using Isaiah’s words as his text: He shall not judge after the sight of his eyes, neither reprove after the hearing of his ears. It will be an implicit appeal for confidence in his work.

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Chapter 17:c

In which Helen floats in the cosmos

Seated in her car in the early hours, on a hill overlooking the waterworks, Helen is now sleepy. The whisky has affected her. Dangerous to drink on top of paracetamol. She is becoming totally careless. Fragments of everything she has ever been or done are whirling and spinning out of control in her head. Unable to grasp a single one, she knows she should be at home tucked up near Malcolm, getting some much needed sleep so that she will be able to sort out her next moves with her normal presence of mind.

The diary, the dead baby, Carla’s crime (if that is what it is), Steve’s attack on her in the driveway, his orders to her to stay out of the way, all are like a dream that is insistent, but insubstantial when focused on. Maybe it’s the drink-paracetamol combination, but she’s losing the will to apply her mind vigorously. Anything felt insistently has always required her full attention – but she will go to pieces if she engages further with these dilemmas. The answer is to allow the insubstantiality to win, and excuse herself that way.

Her own dreams are fragmented in the melee: the need to have a baby, the desire to help bring up Carla’s and have some input into a future generation, her longing for a deeply satisfying relationship, her frustration with Malcolm’s intransigence, even boringness. How is it all to be sorted out? How will she untangle herself until she is free? What, for that matter, is freedom? It is unlikely she will find the answer at Holy Wind, though she suspects this is subconsciously what she is trying to ascertain. Why else would she impulsively announce her intended presence?

She becomes totally aware of her surroundings. A myriad of stars have winked into view with a clarity that owes much to the fact that the moon set several hours earlier. She stares at the immensity of it all, suddenly undecided about seeking for any kind of freedom. There is so much space out there to get lost in. She has made a very secure fence around herself; to break through would leave her unprotected in an immense openness like the one above.

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Chapter 17:b

In which Carla lies in bed thinking

Carla lies awake long past midnight until all thoughts of Helen organising her and taking her over have been deposited on the side-shelves of her mind, where they can still warn her but not block her way. She’s risked a great deal to get her freedom and is not about to become embroiled in one of those intense relationships that sap your energy and irritate you.

Perhaps a holiday is called for. She doesn’t know if Addison has the word in his vocabulary. But now would be a very good time, considering his low morale. How like him to doubt the Followers despite all the evidence of their love and care. He swings between enormous confidence and self-deprecation so easily that it occurs to her that he is not as stable as he should be. She must make sure she continues to support him in his self-appointed task at the Holy Wind. At least he is doing good. He could be unemployed and living on state benefit. She catches herself thinking that God has been gracious to him. She is starting to think like him too! She turns to glance at his sleeping form and grins, wishing the room was dark enough to hide it. They will line the curtains soon.

The thought of hiding in a dark room immediately flashes a vision of Steve on her mind’s screen and she sobers. Disappearing to another country would avoid the two-week deadline. But what would happen on their return? He would again stalk them, this time maddened by the delay, ready to wreak vengeance on Addison too. Maybe burn the house down with them all inside, if they’re unlucky. She sits up and stares into the half-dark. Her mind is amok with possibilities. Steve was never violent except when drunk. Why impute worse to him now?

She knows why: Dinah has altered everything. A man is changed by the birth of a child. Steve is no exception. He has lost something that was part of him, and even without drink is desperate enough to carry out his threats. Carla is startled to find condemnation of herself creeping in.

You shouldn’t have run away. It would have turned out all right if you’d stayed. You’re in the wrong.

Carla claps her hand over her ears. This is treachery. She won’t listen. He’s already killed a baby – he cannot be trusted. She tells herself this is the only reason she will not negotiate with him, but it is a lie. She will not share Dinah with him – she’s already fought for her and been through too much to think of compromising. She must escape somewhere to work out a counter-attack that cannot fail.

A holiday would have to be chosen carefully. Living on the Followers’ tithe imposes on Addison the responsibility not to be frivolous and blow it all unthinkingly. Yet a holiday away from the stress would be valuable in other ways too. Her mother always said a holiday was essential, even if it only consisted of a change.

Carla settles back against the pillow, calmer now, stretches out and considers the holidays they had as a child, before the trouble started and things got tight. Morecambe most years, Scarborough occasionally. The traditional seaside vacation. But just once in a while, her father would take a sudden unexpected interest in the plans and they would pack boots, binoculars and waterproofs and set off for the hills. From their rented cottage, she and her father would walk for miles while her mother would come only a short distance with them and then turn back, pleading she had other ways of occupying herself than fending off insects and jumping ravines. On their return, exhausted and ready for a meal, they’d find her comfortably lounging on a chair in the sun outside the front door, absorbed in a good book.

Reflecting on this strange state of affairs, Carla falls further into retrospection, and it is early morning before sleep takes over.

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Chapter 17:a

In which we return to Malcolm

Malcolm stirs in his sleep as an owl hoots from somewhere close by. He is used to this summer disturbance and subconsciously ignores its importunity.

Then he is blearily awake as a thought penetrates his coveted first hours of slumber.

Helen.

He stretches out a hand and feels the bed-clothes where she usually humps her body in an effort to stay as far away from him as the bed will permit. Normally he is amused at her childish desire to sleep in peace. Now, however, he is disturbed by her distance, in fact not even sure she’s there. He pulls his torso heavily upright, staring hard into the darkness to make out the protrusion of quilt that would reassure him of her presence.

Unable to decide conclusively, he stretches his free arm backwards and fumbles for the lamp.

The bedclothes on Helen’s half remain as they were when he tumbled exhausted into his side. He remembers the relief he felt that nothing further would be required of him tonight. A glance at the clock confirms that he has been asleep for two hours. It is nearly tomorrow.

Malcolm groans. If the pressure at work does not let up he will be six foot under before the planned move. There is little time left for sleep, even with a Sunday lie-in. Whatever can Helen be up to?

He’d wanted to discuss a trip to Iceland with her. Maybe for late September when the job is off the ground and can be left for a couple of weeks. The brochure’s alluring descriptions of geothermal activity and sledge excursions have stayed at the back of his mind since he discovered the information on his colleague’s desk a few days ago. Such an idea has fuelled his energies in a new way. He intended talking the matter over with Helen after returning from his mother’s at three, but there was a note saying she’d gone to buy Carla a birthday present and would go straight on to the little gathering she was having to celebrate.

No harm done. He will book it either way. He knows what Helen likes after all this time and they will need to get away together quite soon if they are not to join the divorce statistics. She should be glad he is not one of those husbands for whom their wives have to organise the annual jamboree.

He lies awake for a few minutes and then falls into a dreamless sleep.

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