This was so much what Alex was not expecting (and yet what was she expecting?) that she could not answer at once, could not even immediately understand the words or collect her wits to consider whether or how she was displeased or disappointed or - yet what right had she? But what did it mean?
‘I’m sorry, I can see that this is not something you want to do.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Alex decisively, ‘I do want to, I should be absolutely delighted to rent the Slipper House - to you — ’
‘You should perhaps reflect a little.’
‘I’ve reflected. I should be very pleased indeed.’
‘I thought perhaps it might be occupied by someone else.’
‘No, no, it’s empty. I have no one - it may be a bit damp - I’ll put all the heating on - and it needs more furniture - it’s got beds and chairs of course but — ’
‘I beg you not to go to any trouble. I can provide anything extra that is necessary.’
‘What a wonderful idea!’ said Alex, whose imagination had been in motion. The whole picture now seemed perfectly charming and full of possibilities. ‘Would you like to come round now and we can look at the place together?’
‘No, no thank you. I don’t need it just yet. I just wanted to know if it was available.’
‘Oh it is, oh yes, available.’
‘Thank you — ’
‘I expect you’re going to write your great book there?’ said Alex. ‘It’s very peaceful. I’ll see no one bothers you. I could cook for you — ’
‘I’ll let you know, if I may, when - And you’ll tell me about rent, and conditions —?’
Alex resisted a desire to cry out that no rent was required. She said, ‘Mr Osmore will fix all that, I’ll ask him to write to you.’
John Robert rose to his feet. The interview was evidently over. Alex wished she had accepted the cup of tea. She rose too and pulled on her big soft coat and drew in her metal belt by an extra link.
‘Well, we’ll be in touch.’
‘Yes, thank you for coming.’
In a moment Alex was out in the windy street, careless now of her tossing hair. She walked along briskly with her hands in her pockets, smiling to herself, then laughing.
‘Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Maker of all things, Judge of all men, we acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we from time to time most grievously have committed, by thought word and deed, against thy Divine Majesty, provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against us. We do earnestly repent and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings, the remembrance of them is grievous unto us, the burden of them is intolerable …’
Diane uttered these solemn and terrible words meekly kneeling upon her knees in the darkness of St Paul’s Church, Victoria Park, at chilly draughty 8 a.m. early service (poorly attended on weekdays). She had uttered those words innumerable times since her earliest childhood, had chumbled them with her tongue and her lips until they were very smooth but not quite weightless. She did not bother her head about God’s wrath and indignation, she knew unreflectively that there was no such thing. The burden of sin was another matter: there was a burden and a grievous remembrance, hurt and damage and remorse.
George had not been to see her for a week. She felt powerless as in dreams when the muscles will not tense and the limbs will not move. She felt as if she were in public view in a pillory, stared at, laughed at, whispered about. She needed to nerve herself to go to the Baths, to the shops, to the Church, her contacts with life, her last innocent occupations, swimming, shopping and praying. Yesterday in Bowcocks all the lights had gone out because of a power-cut. The big internal areas of the shop, scarcely penetrated by the afternoon light, were suddenly dim as if foggy. Diane, who had been fingering some cheap jewellery, which she had no intention of buying, put it down abruptly. As she stood in the middle of one of the aisles, watching the ghostly figures move, a gale of fear came up out of her soul as if she had been transported to hell. She loved Bowcocks, where she had worked once; it was a safe warm brightly coloured place where she was allowed to roam about unharmed. This sudden transformation seemed a premonitory omen. She hurried out in a panic, jostling people, tears starting into her eyes.
Two opposite passions tormented her. She wanted to run, to get right away into the ‘newness of life’ promised by the prayer book. The idea of some total escape was attended by a vision of dazzling happiness: just to be by herself somewhere where there was no sex and no men, not to be doing any more of the things she was now doing, this would be enough. Unfortunately the vision contained no definite plan of removal and did not even compose a strong motive to find one. On the other hand, her love for George seemed to become more intense and more pure the more painful the situation became. Perhaps it was just that as she suffered she should be recompensed by some moral bonus. If only the love had a way, a space, a place, a mode of entry, some kind of blessed simplicity.
When Diane murmured that she had sinned in thought, word and deed and earnestly repented, she could not fix her thoughts upon George. She thought rather in a scrappy way about the old days, the ugly graceless nude photos, Mrs Belton’s awful place, drunk men at roadhouses looking at their watches and saying, ‘Come on!’ Had she not escaped from that? But where to? Ought she not to be thinking about Stella? No, she could not think about Stella, Stella was taboo, any thought she could think about George’s wife would be an abomination. Leave that to God. Oh what an awful mess and how terribly unlucky she had been. George had once said to her, ‘You’re no worse than the others, kid, only in you it shows. You’re like me. We’re more honest, we’re out in the open.’ But that wasn’t right either.
‘We do not presume to come to this thy table, O merciful God, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercy. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy table …’ The spellbinding continuity of the magnificent words was sustained by Father Bernard’s fine sonorous slightly singsong voice. A sense of the mystery of this extraordinary proceeding had remained with Diane ever since her childhood days, before her confirmation at St Olaf’s, when the communion service figured as a secret as awful as that of sex and somehow connected. ‘They eat bread and drink wine.’ She got up in the dim cold church, as foggy as Bowcocks after the electricity went off, and moved with three or four other figures in the direction of the lighted chancel. Stepping cautiously upon the tiles in her high-heeled shoes, she passed through the thorny doorway of the ornate red and gold rood screen, first hanging back with humble consideration to let the others pass before her. (The others did the same.) As she approached the handsome altar, its tremendous marble attired in gorgeous embroideries, and knelt down, her heart beat faster. She bowed her head, then raised it, aware of the glorious rustling figure of Father Bernard towering above.
‘The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on him in thy heart by faith with thanksgiving. The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.’ Father Bernard’s hand touched her lip as he gave her the wafer, and she was made happy by her sense of his sense of her presence. The heavy jewelled cup, gift of a long-dead Newbold, tilted and the sweet heady wine fed her hunger and warmed her body and pleasantly dazed her wits. She returned to her place with bowed head and a momentary sense of being a completely changed person.