Awakening (7 page)

One morning in her abjection, having done the unmentionable thing, lying panting, Anna opened her eyes and saw a hand.

Jesus's hand reached from above, through the bedroom ceiling. A spider on its high web trembled. The dawn chorus paused. It was a workman's hand, strong and able and callused, honest earth beneath the nails. First it pointed and Anna shrank, guiltily afraid. Then it turned and opened. The soiled girl reached up to the gentle carpenter. Simple as that.

‘I think I have seen my Lord,' she told her family at breakfast.

Rejoicing. Kisses. Anna's testimony was received with attentive rapture. Then Beatrice piped up, ‘Oh, so have I!'
She hadn't, as far as Anna knew, but she understood why her sister couldn't be left behind and accepted what Papa said, that conversion can take place without commotion: it can come as a still, small voice, heard in the quiet of the night.
They broke bread together as a family renewed.

‘I was worse than Nebuchadnezzar,' Anna exclaimed proudly. ‘On all fours. Now I am whiter than white.'

And Beatrice cried out, not to be outdone, ‘Yes, and I was worse than King Ahab who walked in the sins of Jeroboam and was eaten by dogs.'

They were to be washed in the blood of the Lamb. Pussy willows and catkins powdered the boughs with pollen. The Avon and the Jordan were one river.

Beatrice, followed by Anna, descended into the scalding cold; they placed themselves in their father's hands, receiving his smile as their last earthly experience. As they rose, gasping, the same smile welcomed them into a new world and led them towards the shore. A rapture of rooks burst in the air high above; about them echoed the
halleluias
and
selahs
of the brothers and sisters of the church. Navvies trudging to the main road stopped to stare, sandwich boxes slung round their necks. Upriver a fisherman and his spaniel looked on. The universe wheeled around the Pentecost sisters, who for that white immortal moment stood at the hub of all being. Many hands hauled them to the bank. The very river-dirt on their soles seemed sacred as they took turns kneeling to wash one another's feet by a leaping fire.

Not even your wedding day could compare with the once-in-a-lifetime drama of baptism.

Faith remains but it has twisted under the impact of bereavements and a too eager intelligence. ‘You are like me,
liebe
Anna,' said Lore. ‘
Konsequent.
What you think, you must also live. You can do no other.' But Anna on the verge of rebellion sees a high wall and balks at it. ‘Prove me wrong, oh my loving Lord, prove me wrong,' she begs
.
Part of her scampers away like vermin cowering in the diminishing circle of corn with other pitiful prey while His reapers' scythes close in. Whimpering, whispering: ‘I take it all back
.'

Knocking at the door: Miriam and Baines Sala. Sukey trudges upstairs to see if Anna's well enough to receive them. Yes, and it's better they come now while her sister's out: Beatrice's mood since the Anwyl incident has been none too indulgent.

A face of glorious gentleness framed in a plain straw bonnet peers round the door. ‘May I come in? Baines is with me – is that all right? Are you sure? We've brought you food for the soul. And some port wine, rather good; I thought I'd better sample it myself beforehand! How are you,
dearest
Anna?'

Mirrie removes her bonnet and cloak and hangs them on the back of her chair. Her husband hands over the packages of books Anna is greedy for, plus three bottles of port.

‘George Eliot's
Adam Bede.
Something by Mill.
The
book by Mr Darwin.
Freedom Seeks Her –
a novel, let us know what you think of that. All hot off the press or at least warm. Here you are, love. There'll be something there to interest you.'

‘
Thank you, thank you. I don't generally read novels.' Beatrice, whose eye is everywhere, will not condone the reading of fiction, for what is it but fakery from beginning to end? But … how old am I anyway? Anna asks herself. When we're a pair of codgers, shall I still be writing my diary under the bedclothes and pretending to read the pieties of Jeremy Taylor?

‘Well, no, but keep them anyway, you never know. If one of
us
were to write a work of fiction, I'm sure you'd read that, wouldn't you?'

‘Of course I would, Baines, of course. But have you?'

‘Aha, who knows?'

‘When you were a child, did you write behind your hand – like this?' Miriam cups her hand round an imaginary pen.

Anna thinks of candle flames that have to be protected against the draught. ‘Oh yes, I still do – well, I keep a journal. A mess, rather. It's all in bits.'

‘Writing is really quite magical, don't you find? A magic circle. Stories will fly away, if you let them out too soon – like a dream when you tell it. Anyway, a novel might be nonsense, who knows? Who wants to be found out and made a fool of or worse?'

‘Nothing of yours is ever nonsense. Neither of you could ever be laughed at,' Anna says devoutly.

‘Dear. I for one am sniggered at in the street every day for my droopy dress and my innocence of stays. But – Anna – one of these books is rather special. Please accept it with our love.'

Anna opens
Freedom Seeks Her
at the title page. The author is unknown to her, but then she has not kept up with modern literature: Calder North. Mirrie has written in her elegant hand: ‘To Anna Pentecost, from her friends B. and M. Sala'
.

‘Well, there you are. I hope you like it. But anyway, never mind about that, how are you?'

‘Better for seeing you, of course. And thank you, dear Mirrie, for these treasures. I go on much as before.'

‘Can't we take you away to the seaside? You'd be so revived.' Mirrie sits down beside her, squeezing Anna's hand. ‘A change is what you need. I get so mouldy if I don't get a change of air and scene.'

‘Not possible, Mirrie,' Anna says simply. Mirrie has no idea of limitations. Having broken bounds herself, she seems to think anyone can do the same. ‘Tell me about yourself.'

‘Well, we had Barbara staying – such a lively time. Madame Bodichon, that is. And Miss Parkes. But now our friends have left for London – I waved their train off. We were like a hive of intellectual bees and we moped when they'd gone, didn't we, Baines? Baines never minds being the sole male.'

‘Why would I?'

‘Goodness me, plenty of men would simply hate it. Or like it for the wrong reasons.'

‘If Mirrie's happy, I'm generally happy. Simple as that. Anyway, I had plenty to keep me busy.'

And something in the way the two incline to one another with that private, intimate look gives the clue. That's it!
Baines has published a novel! Surely. There's always something mysterious about the Salas, a reticence that says, You don't quite know us – yet.

‘Anyway, we're off to St Ives carrying zoological specimen jars. And then by paddle steamer from Ilfracombe to Tenby – where our geological hammers may come out.'

Anna can imagine her short-sighted friend bending over rock pools at high tide, skirts tucked up,
that
look on her face, intense, ardent. Baines has in mind to study and photograph a creature called
Anthea cereus
: a polyp. According to the great naturalist, Mr Gosse, she fixes herself on one foot and waves her tentacles like vicious little serpents. And Anthea has this secret hair, which, when touched, sends a harpoon full of poison to its prey, inflicting paralysis. And then her tentacles deliver the morsel to her mouth. Ingenious.

‘But there's an odd twist. Parasite fish that are
immune
to the poison thrive all round Anthea and dine on what she misses. How do you think they have become immune?'

‘But is Anthea an animal or a plant?' asks Anna.

‘Good question. An animal that looks planty. She's mostly a stomach. And not really a she, of course! Some are male, some female, some hermaphroditic. We so wish you could come.'

Male and female created He them
, Anna thinks. But everything, seen up close with or without a microscope turns out to be more slippery than you assumed. And she likes that, it piques her curiosity. It's as if her mind retains a particle of Lore which lights up in controversy. She yearns to join the Salas' expedition. To find some answers. Answers that might open further questions, as they should.

‘Perhaps I could come, though?' Anna suggests, sitting up, arms round her knees, wondering how many changes of train it would take. The sea air would be reviving. It would be like going to Lulworth with Lore. ‘Where will you be staying?'

‘Come! Please! Come – we can't take no for an answer.'

‘You know very well that is out of the question,' says Beatrice in the doorway. She has returned from the Eliases without being noticed. ‘Mrs Sala – Mr Sala – excuse me for interrupting – but Anna's health is delicate. She needs to lead a very quiet and sedate and retired life. And I'm sure you will understand that too much excitement … it simply will not do. You will worsen her condition.'

*

‘You are quite mistaken, Miss Pentecost. The last thing I should
ever
wish to
do is to disturb a person's
faith
,' says Miriam Sala in her honeyed voice, before Beatrice all but thrusts them out of the door by walking straight at them. Mrs Sala's horse-face seems to have elongated in dismay. And what Beatrice reads in it is, I am going to be caught out and exposed. ‘Faith I reverence, I do most truly. Faith is always a good.' Mrs Sala backs away over the threshold of the door, stumbles and has to be steadied by her husband. ‘And truth – but I do not worship cold reason. For what is truth but truth of
feeling
? But, forgive me, your sister knows her own
mind
. She is no child or weakling to be protected against me – or against herself. Anna is an original.'

How dare this scarecrow presume to tell Beatrice Pentecost what her younger sister is or is not? And to dictate her sloppy, slipshod, slippery notions of ‘truth'? Beatrice's eye, sweeping Anna's sickchamber, has observed a new pile of heretical books, as well as three bottles of expensive port wine. And what if Anna goes to her Maker with that literary filth polluting her soul? All the good seed choked with tares?

‘It's enough to
make
Anna ill,' the woman calls back. ‘The constraint.'

The husband has the grace to shush her; his hand hovers under Mrs Sala's elbow, to coax her away. He stands no higher than Anna; a good inch lower than his wife, who in the wild disarray of her outdoor clothing takes up space enough for two. There's not half a man in Mr Sala, less manliness than in Mr Anwyl, which is saying a great deal. Few manly men are left. They're all away on missions to Jamaica and India like Mr Knibb, Mr Phillippo and Mr Wenger. They are in America with Herr Ritter. Baines Sala is an effeminate who hides behind his wife's petticoats.

Beatrice can tell by Mrs Sala's shaking shoulders that she is sobbing. Good: weep. And learn. Keep away; you are unwelcome in my house.

‘When are you leaving for Switzerland, Mrs Sala?' Beatrice flings after her.

The woman halts in her tracks; turns; hesitates; retraces her steps. ‘Miss Pentecost,' she says. Tears stand in her eyes; she has the grace to look ashamed. ‘Pray forgive me. I have alarmed you and spoken impetuously – rudely – under your roof. I was once an iconoclast, looking for idols to destroy. But, believe me, I am not so now. I reverence the human Jesus and read the Gospels every day. I have a cast of Thorwaldsen's figure of Christ on my work desk. Your sister, she is … very special, very dear. I listen to her more than I speak, believe me.'

She holds out a grey-gloved hand.

Beatrice bows her head so as to appear not to see it. ‘I don't think you realise how much Anna stands to lose. I don't mean her earthly life, Mrs Sala. I mean eternal life.'

There's no answer to this and Mrs Sala can summon none, for – statue or no statue – she is a secularist who denies Providence and the Divinity of Christ. Beatrice watches the pair walking away up the street, leaning inwards, arm in arm – the husband half-supporting the wife, the wren and the cuckoo. Perhaps that's the last she'll see of them.

When Beatrice looks in on Anna, her sister appears shrivelled. She droops against the pillows, dark circles under her swollen eyes, lids closed. But, oh no, you're not asleep. As a child, Beatrice would jump on Anna and dig her in the ribs when she took this passive strategy. The assault rarely worked. The submerged spirit dived deeper. Now the averted face says, dumbly, These people are my friends, my guests. And you I have not invited into my bedroom. Beatrice stands over her sister. What has Anna done with the books? They must be destroyed. Beatrice crouches: nothing but the chamber pot under the bed.
In
the bed perhaps? Beatrice's heart is pounding, her face is hot.