Sitting beside Diane and leaning across her to Mrs Belton, Father Bernard was trying to persuade the old woman to come to his church.
‘Come to service, Mrs Belton, it’s beautiful, you’ll see.’
‘I’ve never been in your church, well, I been in. It’s like a bazaar.’ Mrs Belton was a non-conformist.
‘You don’t go to your own church, come to mine. Come to the warmth and light. You are cold and your soul is dark.’
‘Who says my soul is dark?’ said Mrs Belton.
‘I do. Come where love is.’
‘It’s like a shop at Christmas time, all scarlet, not my idea of Church.’
‘Such precious goods, and all for free! Ask and you shall be given, knock and it shall be opened. Come to the bazaar! Scarlet for sin, and scarlet for redeeming blood. Wash in the blood of the Lamb, immerse yourself and swim unto salvation. You knew all these things once, recall them now, be as a little child, be born again, be justified, be saved.’
‘There’s nothing beyond the grave,’ said Mrs Belton.
‘The Kingdom of God is now,’ said the priest. ‘The mystery of our salvation is not in time. You need a magician in your life. You have one. His name is Jesus. Stand before him and say simply - help - help — ’
While he was speaking, leaning ardently forward, Father Bernard, unseen by Mrs Belton, was holding Diane’s hand. He had got his own hand inside her woollen glove and was kneading her palm. Diane, though used to some of her pastor’s eccentricities, still did not know what to make of him.
Mrs Belton got up. She said, ‘You got no right to think things about me, I know what you think, and set yourself up so. Leave meddling with others, get some help yourself, you’ll need it one of these days, from what I hear.’ To Diane, ‘Good-bye, dear. I’m going to swim.’
As she moved away, stiff with the dignity of arthritis, George, in swimming-trunks, suddenly appeared at the edge of the pool. Diane wrenched her hand away, losing her glove to the priest. She wondered if George had seen. George dived into the pool and disappeared under the steam.
‘Silly old bitch,’ said Father Bernard, ‘I hope she drowns.’ He absently returned Diane’s glove. ‘I preach the good news. No one listens. Automatic salvation. No time, no trouble. Turn a switch and flood your soul with light.’
‘You don’t say that to me,’ said Diane.
‘You haven’t got simple faith. She has.’
‘Have you?’
‘I am old, old — ’
‘You’re not — ’
‘Salvation is not in time. Did you see that apparition of George?’
‘Yes. Why apparition?’
‘Unreal. Made of ectoplasm.’
‘I wish you’d help George.’
‘Everyone wants me to help George. I can’t. If I laid my hands upon him, took him by the throat, I would hold only melting yielding stuff like toasted marshmallow. That is my damnation, not his.’
‘Don’t talk of damnation. Tell him about Jesus. Tell him something.’
‘If God brings him to me, God will give me words. Meanwhile he bores me. Come and see me, child. Come to the old scarlet bazaar. I’m going to swim now. It is the solution to all problems in this blessed town.’
Diane thought, George is so alone, he has made himself alone. Perhaps that’s what Father Bernard means by saying he’s unreal. And she shuddered at the thought of her return now into her own solitude.
In the vast expanse of the Outdoor Pool some people splashed quickly, privately, others swam about purposefully, looking for their friends, others systematically, obsessively, swam length after length, seeing nothing, their heads deep in the warm water. Alex, idling across the centre, ran into Adam. They seized each other, laughing. On land, their bodies could not communicate. Alex never kissed her grandson, never touched him. In the water it was different; they had new bodies, beautiful and free, warm and full of grace. Suspended, they dandled each other. They sometimes met like that, as it were in secret. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ ‘Yes.’ This simple praise of the waters was always exchanged as if this daily blessing always came as a surprise. ‘How’s Zed?’ said Alex. ‘Fine. How are you, are you all right?’ Adam always asked Alex if she was all right when he met her in the water. ‘Yes, fine. Lovely to see you.’ ‘Lovely.’ They parted and swam away.
George, leaving the nauseating sight of the swimming babies behind him, and having instantly forgotten about Adam, had proceeded to the changing-rooms and was soon in the pool. He had walked along the side, looking for a space among the swimmers, before diving in, but he had not noticed Diane nor was he thinking of her. He was now, with his perfect effortless Ennistonian crawl, doing lengths, his head well down, his hand extended at each end to touch the wall lightly as he turned. His dark hair swirled about the crown of his head, looking like Brian’s hair. He breathed unobtrusively, mysteriously, deep in the water, as if he had indeed become a fish and the healing stream were flowing through his gills.
Gabriel, who had had her swim and was now dressed, standing upon the edge of the pool, noticed George as he approached along his strong self-chosen line. (‘Doing lengths’ was a priority activity, and other swimmers kept out of the way of these blind fanatics.) She moved so that she was directly above him as, without raising his head, he curled and turned. She saw (as of course she had seen before) the way George’s hair grew, that it was like Brian’s, only this was obscured by George’s hair being combed from a side parting over the crown. This observation always gave Gabriel pleasure. She was pleased too by being able to watch him unobserved and by the way that George’s hand, touching the wall of the pool as he turned, was just below her feet. He disappeared almost instantly under the hanging cloud of steam. Gabriel waited for him to return. Brian, also now clothed, standing nearby, watched Gabriel watching George. He came forward.
Gabriel said, ‘I just saw George. Don’t you think we should write to him to say that Stella is coming to us?’
‘Hasn’t she told him?’
‘She says not.’
‘Let the bugger find out.’
‘I think we should write to him. It seems so unkind not to.’
‘No.’
For George the day had begun early with a sound of pigeons speaking in human voices. He had heard this before: the soft murmur of people speaking close to him, frightening intruders, people near him where no people should be. Burglars, police, intruders of some more terrible nameless kind. Perhaps it was just the pigeons.
He was surprised, as he was every morning now, to find himself not upstairs in his own bed, but downstairs on the large drawing-room sofa where he had been sleeping ever since Stella left, or went to hospital, or whatever she had done. There was a downstairs lavatory and wash-place. He did not need to go upstairs any more. He and Stella occupied separate bedrooms, but her presence somehow lingered upstairs, not in smells (she used no scented cosmetics) but in other signs, clothes, the always disturbing sight of her bed. Downstairs was more open and anonymous and public. He had stowed away various objects, including ornaments and a picture. The kitchen was already chaotic, that of a bachelor. George could feel that he was camping or back in ‘digs’. He woke to this strange sensation of being in a new place. He also woke to the being of Stella, Stella’s world, her existence, her consciousness, her thoughts, still continuing. God, how alive she was.