Chapter 20:a

In which Addison contemplates Great Aunt Rebecca

Monday is usually a favourite day, the Preacher ruminates, slipping on his Jesus sandals and selecting his red and orange Monday waistcoat.

It’s good to think about his successes of the day before. He’d spotted the guy Stefan in the crowd yesterday – but the throng was too great to find him afterwards, though he’d scouted around a bit amid the crowds of Followers, knowing he was keeping Carla and Helen waiting. Still, good to know the man had initiative and could come and go by himself. That was indeed a God-sent day when Addison sorted out his priorities and hitched a lift with him.

Addison likes feeling relaxed after a worthwhile day, usually has stretches of time before the next weekend’s services, and, if he is not taking a midweek meeting, can organise the rest of his workload to suit himself: for later in the day if he is enervated, earlier if he feels like go-getting.

He is righteously put out, therefore, to have to up and visit the hospital at the crack of dawn (comparatively) to retrieve an old woman who has less sense than a delinquent urchin. He took on Carla, not her barrowload of God-forsaken relatives. Surely the Great Aunt is not part of the bargain? He stands no chance at all of reeling her in. She’d need the heavyweight St. Paul, at the very least.

He ignores the usual conversations on the Superbus, preferring to concentrate fully on working out how best to show his disapproval of Rebecca’s behaviour while not withholding his regret at her mugging (it is outrageous, if not surprising).

Sometimes the demands the Lord puts on him are too contradictory to be resolved. Condemn the sin but not the sinner. Be in the world but not of it. Where does one draw the line? Turn the other cheek, walk the extra mile. For how long?

Moreover, he is supposed to love those who hate him. Of course, it is quite likely that G.A.R. – as he has taken to thinking of her – does not hate him at all but simply lives by different values. Which, he concludes wickedly, means he is not required to love her at all. This solution amuses him and he grins hugely, until he notices that the people sitting sideways to him are looking his way, bemused.

Oh well, there is a prodding in his spirit right now that means he will fetch her from hospital meekly – and then read her the riot act at home in private. A compromise, but the obvious one if he is to demonstrate the Lord’s opposition to her actions. She must be made to see how these temptations pull people into more debt and feed them hopes that are never fulfilled. There is only one way to live successfully in the real world: know your value whatever your financial status; realise that however you pull yourself up in the world’s eyes, it makes not one jot of difference to your standing with God.

His thoughts are turning into a nicely-flavoured sermon when suddenly the bus-stop looms and he jumps up to be the first to ring the bell, a habit he has never managed to suppress. The hospital is just round the corner.

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Chapter 19:c

In which Helen has a shock

Helen switches the engine off, grabs her keys instinctively and, even as she jumps out, recognises the boots and the cascade of hair, the green clip attempting to tame it. How can the Great Aunt be here? And lying on the pavement?

The answer pushes into her heightened brain before the questions finish forming. The ruffians have knocked her down while trying to steal her bag.

They haven’t succeeded: the bag is here, its contents spilled around. It must have been the money they were after, bingo money.

Idiot, she breathes angrily. Did she leave on her own, early? And why did she insist on going to such a place? This isn’t an island but a city – it’s not safe for older people.

Helen is not afraid for herself now: there is absolutely no one around. The boys have scarpered. She crouches down by the inert figure.

‘Rebecca?’ she urges, desperately thinking how to cradle the head, with no coat or jacket to use. ‘Rebecca, it’s me, Helen.’ There is no immediate response. The woman is perhaps stunned. ‘I’ll get help,’ she tells her.

Pushing her own hair back, she sprints to her car and grabs the mobile from the passenger seat.

She summons police and ambulance and returns to the old lady with the rug off the back seat. The rug reminds her of fetching Carla from hospital. Well, it’s certainly paying its way. It cushions the old lady’s head and covers her torso like a shroud, which is worrying at first.

Then Rebecca stirs. She is clearly dazed but at least she’s not dead. Helen can see no visible injuries apart from a reddened area on her cheek. But old people break hips like light bulbs. She’d better not move her. ‘The ambulance will be here in a moment,’ she murmurs encouragingly. But as they wait, her mind flings an intolerable suggestion at her: suppose this is Steve’s work, and she is the cause of it for not staying clear?  A sense of shock rocks her confidence.

Rebecca grasps her hand more tightly. ‘They didn’t get it,’ she says, her voice weak but triumphant. ‘They never thought of my boots, the silly bunglers.’

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Chapter 19:b

In which Helen gets devious

Malcolm looks towards Helen, his face languid from a near encounter with pre-tea slumber. ‘Going out again?’ he asks.

‘Only for a moment,’ she says. ‘Don’t disturb yourself. I shall be back in two ticks. Need a couple of things from the garden centre.’

‘Not much point, is there? We’re going soon.’

‘Plenty. It goes against the grain to leave someone a wilderness. And the best weeks of the summer are ours here, if you think.’

Malcolm closes his eyes, a bored expression creeping across his features. ‘Whatever.’

Helen quickly turns away, the wrapped object still concealed in her hand, and whistles gently through pursed lips. That was a near one.

***

She is humming quietly to herself and squinting against the oblique sunshine by the time she turns the car into the estate and drives past the row of shops and the bingo hall opposite. No one much around, save a group of youngsters. An amused grin spreads across her face. She is glad she is not Addison, with Rebecca and the bingo hall to deal with. Anyone sane would walk through the park instead. At least you can breathe safely there.

She feels a hot flush in her cheeks as she remembers Rebecca’s challenge to her about the bingo hall. But it is anathema to her. Fancy anyone spending time in such a useless pursuit. At least her father hadn’t drunk and gambled their livelihood away. And yet… she knows she has never played a proper game of bingo, only that childish board version. Housy, housy, the voice in her head throws in. Are you going to find that too constrictive as well? Helen shakes the mocking voice away. Nevertheless, there are proper ways of calling and proper desks to play at. Perhaps the atmosphere is addictive and the rush to finish first compulsive. Perhaps friendships are forged in the inferno, ones that mean something and have the piquancy of spice in them because of the competition… Helen sighs, as much from longing as aversion.

The lads who had been congregated on the pavement back there now rush past her as she idles at the lights. Their panicky behaviour catches her attention. She doesn’t want to be attacked twice in a week.

Looking anxiously back through her driving mirror she sees a figure on the pavement outside the hall. Something has happened.

Swiftly checking her wing mirrors to make sure the road is clear, she reverses backwards with a roar, fifty yards or more until she is alongside. Once, only a few weeks ago, she would have steered clear.

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Chapter 19:a

In which Addison and Great Aunt Rebecca disagree

Addison looks up from his afternoon’s reading of the Sunday newspaper as Great Aunt Rebecca appears in the room. There is a recognisable going-out quality about her, which he recognises even before he notices the thick cardigan over her arm, so beloved of older folk however hot the season.

He also detects in her eyes a desire to slip out without comment. He watches without moving as she struggles into the thick, off-white garment. She’s a wily old bag, this one. How did Solomon put it? It is as sport to a fool to do mischief: but a man of understanding hath wisdom.

‘Carla?’ he asks, sitting up.

‘Asleep. So is Dinah. They need it.’

‘And you?’

‘Off out. Bit of a stretch will do me fine. Not used to having four walls so close. Houses choke me if I stay in them too long.’

She crosses briskly to the door.

Addison senses the words growing in him before he can sift them. ‘I suppose the bingo hall is big enough for you?’

The wispy eyebrows rise, revealing more than a hint of anger in the clear darting eyes. ‘Good of them to warn you of my proclivities,’ she comments drily. ‘But I am of age and I’m not needed here for a while.’

Addison jumps up. His six-foot-three frame overshadowing even the octogenarian’s brisk bearing. ‘You’ll do––’

‘Shh. You’ll wake them,’ the old lady says sharply. She stands square with her back to the door, like a momentary blockage in a drain. ‘Addison, you’re kind and self-sacrificing. Don’t think I haven’t quizzed Carla about you. I admire you. But just listen to me. When I was a kid they taught me the Bible and I remember one bit that you seem to have forgotten. Something about being salt and light. Tell me,’ and she wiggles her index finger towards him fearlessly. He can see quite clearly the gnarled arthritic nodes. ‘How can you be salt and light unless you sit in the seat of the ungodly for a contrast? … Huh?’

Her unruly hair floats around her ears in a mass, despite the clip, lightened by the sun from the opposite end of the room. Her face relaxes into a smile and Addison sees that the beady eyes have settled on him kindly.

‘Don’t cast pearls before swine was what I read,’ he retorts, trying desperately to keep his rising temper under control. His new-found confidence still requires control. His long fingers clench the back of the dining chair as if to anchor him on the rim of politeness. ‘Which means, be very careful who you sit alongside when you feel like spreadin’ God’s holy word. Doubt if there are many in the bingo hall who would notice salt if it were spread on their wounded souls,’ he adds darkly.

‘There are more ways than one to show your knickers.’

She waves a hand at him to accompany her parting shot, swivels on her booted heel and departs.

The fragrance of her hand cream causes Addison to swallow twice as it assaults him. He crosses the room in two strides and flings open the back window.

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Chapter 18:f

In which Helen unwraps more than an old toy

Helen waits until Malcolm is in the garden with his after dinner coffee and then furtively slips up to the landing. She must look in the Jacobean chest. It is perhaps two weeks since she was drawn to think of her private drawer, felt the compelling lure from within it. Now, in the warmth and silence, the brass knobs steady her hands with their cold smoothness.

Taking a deep breath, she pulls gently, slightly fearful of what she may rediscover among the array of wrapped articles neatly placed side by side in the deep recess of the drawer. They are as she remembers them. Each one placed there at a different time, most of them having moved house with her several times.

She stares at them for a long moment, then, running lightly across the soft carpeting to the house bathroom, she checks through the open window that Malcolm is in the hammock with his coffee and newspaper, and swiftly returns to her task, feeling slightly calmer.

She unwraps and rewraps the various articles, quickly checking each one, yet realising before she looks inside that it is not the one. There are unused layettes, rattles, a play-wheel, several Ladybird books, other trinkets of sentimental value, a couple of copies of Balzac novels with a dedication penned by a forgotten admirer (did she put these away to spare Malcolm some imagined agony?) and a baby’s pink teddy bear.

Near the bottom, she finds the thing she is looking for.

As she allows its drawing power to claim her, the words of the unknown message-giver spring to mind with renewed clarity: Hold onto me in the dark recess and my light will show the way to freedom.

Immediately, she stops her feverish unwrapping as if it might burn her hands. Then, telling herself not to be so stupid, she tears off the rest and reveals what she always knew it was: a very light ball, made of straw and covered in silver foil, the size of a Jaffa orange. It is held together still, after all these years, by a covering of meshed, gold thread and attached to a now-perished elastic (rubber?) cord.

With a certain amount of awe she turns it over and over very carefully between her fingers.

She can see it now, bouncing lightly up and down until it mesmerised her. Uncle John always chuckled and his chuckle reverberated against her back as she sat cradled on his lap; he said he was laughing at her delight as the silver paper trapped her eyes in its motion, and her head followed willy-nilly. Looking like an obliging toy, he said.

When she asked to be allowed a go with the silver ball, he would turn her laughingly towards him and waggle his finger in front of her nose. ‘Okay,’ he would say, ‘but one favour deserves another, you know.’

Suddenly the image blanks out. Helen’s eyes are wet: she has started to cry. How silly to feel grief now, at the mere memory of his words. She never wept when he died. She must be getting old, or loopy, or both.

Quickly she packs the straw ball away and starts on the rest of the stuff. She must spend some time with Malcolm before tea. Perhaps, before or after, she can find some excuse to pop back to Carla’s. She needs to talk instead of think. She must talk to Carla. Carla sees things straight, as they are.

After pausing to formulate a plan, she selects one of the packages and retains it, closing the drawer quietly on the others.

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Chapter 18:e

In which Carla puts Helen straight

Helen opens her mouth and then shuts it. She cannot remember quickly enough what she is meant to know or not know. A warm glow creeps up her neck. Helen’s mind tells her to ward off the sordid story that might take life again in front of her. A diary is one thing. She must keep herself separate from the actual revelation that is threatening to come – or she will again have to face what to do with the information. She has barely shelved it for ten hours. On the other hand, if she lets it come, she will officially know and can maybe start to sort it out for Carla. She is in an agony of dilemma, all in an instant.

‘Don’t be embarrassed. I’m not going to off-load the gory details,’ Carla goes on, ‘but I’m telling you: once he got violent I had no choice. I was under his control. It’s not God in there. It’s a pervading atmosphere, which makes them all succumb to doing what everyone else is doing. Of course, it gives them a feeling of belonging, so it’s not bad. But I recognise people having to do something. There’s something predictable about it.’

‘But I saw they were ha- happy to be there.’ Helen stammers involuntarily.

‘They feel guilty if they miss, so they’re happy to get there.’

Carla’s verdict is too simplistic to explain what Helen has witnessed but she does not push the point.

‘I was happy to oblige the pimp, in a twisted sense. It meant he wouldn’t beat me up for another day.’ Carla is determined to let her know about her past, almost as if the snake has escaped. Helen glances round, hoping no one else is overhearing the conversation. Where is Addison?

‘And where was God?’ Carla persists. ‘The hell I was in was truth all right, but where was God?’

Helen shakes her head. She knows nothing.

‘I’ll get baptised, I’ll do it for Addison. But it’s a symbol, nothing more. It’ll be me doing the washing away. Because I’ve decided it’s in my best interests. God doesn’t come into it. And it may keep Satan out.’ Her voice has lowered to a whisper. As if she is embarrassed to deny God while acknowledging Satan. Helen suspects Carla’s Satan has a name – she wants to tell the girl he has returned, and to take care. The words die on her lips. She would have to explain why she has kept quiet till now.

They are silent then, walking up and down the path, waiting for Addison, Helen a full stride behind Carla, the distance elongated into fantastical proportions in her mind.

Chapter 18:d

In which Helen ponders the existence of something outside herself

In the stillness that follows this outburst, Helen can smell polish, sweat and baby powder. The normality of this concoction produces a counterfoil for the fear that the boy’s outburst has engendered in her.

Then Addison is speaking with assurance.

‘The boy has brought us a word from God. Don’t be surprised that out of the mouths of babes comes forth such a word. The Holy Spirit is willing to use anyone who loves God. We will wait for the interpretation.’

Helen quizzes Carla via a slight raising of her eyebrows.

‘Someone will tell us it in English,’ is the whispered reply.

Seconds pass. A slight muttering is audible. Then a lady at the back supplies the awaited message. It takes the form of a rather longer plea for them to bathe in the dew falling from heaven and to focus on God’s Spirit, not their own, in the days ahead.

Helen is prompted to thinking that this could all be rigged by Addison – and yet her experience of Addison refutes this. She has no reason to actively doubt, but it is so unusual, so absolutely out of her experience that she finds it nearly impossible to think sensibly at all. She tells herself that her brain was sectioned the minute the loud music started, but she knows that this is not entirely the truth. It is almost as if another part of her has woken and begun to take note. Could this be her spirit? And which bit of her awoke at Addison’s touch? At Carla’s touch? At Malcolm’s intransigence? She is so many parts at once. Yet she has always chosen to live in just one sensible, practical way. She must have resolved on this way very early in life but at least it has been a firm plank to walk on.

The rest of the service is brought to its culmination in a joyful but disciplined manner, which seems to Helen acceptable. Quite balanced on the whole, she assents in her spirit. Not too way-out, not too traditional, a credit to Addison, in fact. And how nice to see people taking part instead of being passive pew-fillers. She has not realised till now that this is how she views church: a matter of pew-filling as part of the heavenly insurance policy. Voluntary attendance and intentional participation, especially by children, has not occurred to her as a valid option. Well, she’s glad to have come. It puts Addison in a different light; in point of fact, it puts God in a different light.

Waiting by the bank of poppies afterwards, where she and Carla have agreed to meet up with Addison before getting in the car, Helen remembers his words about not closing up when someone comes near her. She is still puzzled by his perception.

‘There is something in there,’ she blurts out.

‘Where?’ Carla asks looking round.

‘I mean in the barn. There’s something in the Holy Wind place. I felt it.’

‘Atmosphere?’

‘More than that. Supposing it’s God?’

‘Nonsense.’

Helen grins at Carla’s vehemence. ‘Well, a sense of truth, then. Something that’s there in so much quantity that it has a reality, a presence of its own. You can feel it.’

‘It’s the atmosphere, I tell you. It controls them. That’s okay. I don’t mind, but it’s no more no less than atmosphere.’ Carla looks around her furtively. ‘Let’s walk.’ They stroll towards the car park and she says quietly, ‘I was under the control of a pimp once.’

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