Missing Joseph (9 page)

Sin, sin, sin. She lowered her head to her fists and kept it there, oblivious of the rest of the service. She began to pray, making fervent supplications for God's forgiveness, with her eyes squeezed shut so tight she saw stars.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she whispered. “Don't let bad happen to me. I won't do it again. I promise. I promise. I'm sorry.”

It was the only prayer that she could devise, and she repeated it mindlessly, caught up in her need for direct communication with the supernatural. She heard nothing of the vicar's approach, and she didn't even know the service was over and the church empty until she felt a hand curving firmly round her shoulder. She looked up with a cry. All of the chandeliers had been extinguished. The only light remaining came in a greenish glow from an altar lamp. It touched one side of the vicar's face and cast long, crescent shadows from the bags beneath his eyes.

“He is forgiveness itself,” the vicar said quietly. His voice was soothing, just like a warm bath. “Never doubt that. He exists to forgive.”

The serenity of his tone and the kindness of his words brought tears to her eyes. “Not this,” she said. “I don't see how He can.”

His hand squeezed her shoulder, then dropped. He joined her in the pew, sitting not kneeling, and she slid back onto the bench herself. He indicated the rood atop its screen. “If the Lord's last words were, ‘Forgive them, Father,' and if His Father did indeed forgive—which we may be assured that He did—then why wouldn't He forgive you as well? Whatever your sin may be, my dear, it cannot equal the evil of putting to death the Son of God, can it?”

“No,” she whispered, although she had begun to cry. “But I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway because I wanted to do it.”

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “That's the nature of sin. We face a temptation, we have a choice to make, we choose unwisely. You aren't alone in this. But if you're resolved in your heart not to sin again, then God forgives. Seventy times seven. You may rely upon that.”

Possessing resolution in her heart was the problem. She wanted to promise. She wanted as much to believe in her promise. Unfortunately she wanted Nick more. “That's just it,” she said. And she told the vicar everything.

“Mummy knows,” she finished, plaiting his handkerchief back and forth through her fingers. “Mummy's so angry.”

The vicar dropped his head and seemed to be examining the faded needlework fleur-de-lis on the kneeler. “How old are you, my dear?”

“Thirteen,” she said.

He sighed. “Dear God.”

More tears rose in her eyes. She blotted them away and hiccupped as she spoke. “I'm bad. I know it. I
know
it. So does God.”

“No. It isn't that.” He covered her hand briefly. “It's the rush to adulthood that disturbs me. It's taking on such troubles when you're still so young.”

“It's not a trouble to me.”

He smiled gently. “No?”

“I love him. He loves me.”

“And that's generally where the trouble starts, isn't it?”

“You're making fun,” she said stiffly.

“I'm speaking the truth.” He moved his gaze from her to the altar. His hands were on his knees, and Maggie saw his fingers tense as he gripped them more firmly. “Your name is?”

“Maggie Spence.”

“I've not seen you in church before tonight, have I?”

“No. We…Mummy isn't taken much with going to church.”

“I see.” Still he held the grip on his knees. “Well, you've come upon one of mankind's biggest challenges at a fairly young age, Maggie Spence. How to cope with the sins of the flesh. Even before the time of our Lord, the ancient Greeks recommended moderation in everything. They knew, you see, the sort of consequences one faces through giving in to one's appetites.”

She frowned, confused.

He caught the look and went on with, “Sex is an appetite as well, Maggie. Something like hunger. It begins with mild curiosity rather than a rumble in the stomach, to be sure. But it quickly becomes a demanding taste. And unfortunately, it isn't like overeating or intoxication from drink, both of which provide a rather immediate physical discomfort that can later act as a reminder of the fruits of impetuous indulgence. Instead, it provides a sense of well-being and release, one that we come to wish to experience again and again.”

“Like a drug?” she asked.

“Very much like a drug. And just like many drugs, its harmful properties aren't immediately apparent. Even if we know what they are—intellectually—the promise of pleasure is often too seductive for us to abstain when we should. That's when we must turn to the Lord. We must ask Him to infuse us with the strength to resist. He faced His own temptations, you know. He understands what it is to be human.”

“Mummy doesn't talk about God,” Maggie said. “She talks about AIDS and herpes and warts and getting pregnant. She thinks I won't do it if I'm scared enough.”

“You're being harsh on her, my dear. These are far from unrealistic concerns on her part. Cruel facts are associated with sexuality these days. Your mother is wise—and kind—to share them with you.”

“Oh, too right. But what about her? Because when she and Mr. Shepherd—” Her automatic protest died unfinished. No matter her feelings, she couldn't betray Mummy to the vicar. That wouldn't be right.

The vicar cocked his head but made no other indication that he understood in what direction Maggie's words had been heading. “Pregnancy and disease are the long-term potential consequences we face when we submit ourselves to the pleasures of sex,” he said. “But unfortunately, when we're in the midst of an encounter leading up to intercourse, we rarely think of anything save the moment's exigency.”

“Sorry?”

“The need to do it. At once.” He lifted the fleur-de-lis kneeler from its hook on the back of the pew in front of him and placed it on the uneven stone floor. “Instead, we think in terms of
it couldn't, I won't
, and
it can't
. Out of our desire for physical gratification comes the denial of possibility. I won't become pregnant; he couldn't give me a disease because I believe he doesn't have one. And it is from these little acts of denial that our deepest sorrow ultimately springs.”

He knelt and gestured that she was to join him. “Lord,” he said quietly, eyes on the altar, “help us to see Your will in all things. When we are sorely tried and tempted, allow us to realise it is through Your love that we are so tested. When we stumble and sin, forgive us our wrongs. And give us the strength to avoid all occasion of sin in the future.”

“Amen,” Maggie whispered. Through the thick fall of her hair, she felt the vicar's hand rest lightly on the back of her neck, a comradely expression that imparted the first real peace she'd had in days.

“Can you resolve to sin no more, Maggie Spence?”

“I want to.”

“Then I absolve you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

He walked out with her into the night. The lights were on in the vicarage across the street, and Maggie could see Polly Yarkin in the kitchen, setting the vicar's table for dinner.

“Of course,” the vicar was saying, as if in continuation of a previous thought, “absolution and resolve are one thing. The other's more difficult.”

“Not doing it again?”

“And keeping yourself active in other areas of your life so the temptation's not there.” He locked the church door and pocketed the key in his trousers. Although the night was quite cool, he wasn't wearing an overcoat and his clerical collar gleamed in the moonlight like a Cheshire smile. He observed her thoughtfully, pulling on his chin. “I'm starting a youth group here in the parish. Perhaps you'd like to join us. There'll be meetings and activities, things to keep you busy. It might be a good idea, all things considered.”

“I'd like to, except…We're not members of the Church, actually, Mummy and I. And I can't think that she'd let me join. Religion…She says religion leaves a bad taste in the mouth.” Maggie dropped her head when she revealed this last. It seemed particularly unfair, considering the vicar's kindness to her. She went on to add in a rush, “I don't feel that way myself. At least I don't think I do. It's just that I don't know much about it in the first place. I mean…I've hardly ever been. To Church, that is.”

“I see.” His mouth turned down, and he fished in his jacket pocket to bring out a small white card which he handed to her. “Tell your mummy I'd like to visit with her,” he said. “My name's on the card. My number as well. Perhaps I can make her feel more comfortable with the Church. Or at least pave the way for you to join us.” He walked out of the churchyard at her side and touched her shoulder in farewell.

The youth group seemed like something Mummy would agree to, once she got over her disapproval of its being tied to the Church. But when Maggie pressed the vicar's card upon her, Mummy had stared down at it for the longest time, and when she looked up, her face was pasty and her mouth looked queer.

You went to someone else
, her expression said, as clearly as if she'd spoken.
You didn't trust your mummy
.

Maggie tried to soothe her feelings as well as avoid the unspoken accusation by hurriedly saying, “Josie knows Mr. Sage, Mummy. Pam Rice does as well. Josie says he's only been in the parish for three weeks now, and he's trying to get people back to the Church. Josie says the youth group—”

“Is Nick Ware a member?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask.”

“Don't lie to me, Margaret.”

“I'm not. I just thought…The vicar wants to talk to you about it. He wants you to phone.”

Mummy walked to the rubbish basket, ripped the card in half, and buried it—with a savage little twist of her wrist—among the coffee grounds and grapefruit rinds. “I have no intention of speaking to a priest about anything, Maggie.”

“Mummy, he only—”

“This discussion is over.”

But despite Mummy's refusal to phone him, Mr. Sage had come three times to the cottage. Winslough was a small village, after all, and discovering where the Spence family lived was as easy as asking in Crofters Inn. When he'd shown up unexpectedly one afternoon, doffing his trilby to Maggie as she opened the door, Mummy had been alone in the greenhouse repotting some herbs. She'd greeted Maggie's nervous announcement of the vicar's visit by saying tersely, “Go to the inn. I'll phone when you can come home.” And the anger in her voice and the hardness of her face told Maggie it was wiser not to ask any questions. She had long known Mummy didn't like religion. But it was just like trying to gather the facts about her father: She didn't know why.

Then Mr. Sage died. Just like Daddy, Maggie thought. And he liked me just like Daddy. I know he did. I do.

Now in her bedroom, Maggie found she had run out of words to send to heaven. She was a sinner, a slut, a tart, a scrubber. She was the vilest creature God ever put on earth.

She got to her feet and rubbed her knees where they were red and sore from the rug's digging into them. Wearily, she wandered to the bathroom and rustled through the cupboard to find what Mummy kept hidden there.

“What happens is this,” Josie had explained confidentially when they'd come upon the odd plastic container with its even odder spout, deeply buried among the towels. “After they have sex, the woman fills this bottle thing with oil and vinegar. Then she sort of sticks this nozzle part up inside and pumps it real hard and then she won't have a baby.”

“But she'll smell like a tossed salad,” Pam Rice put in. “I don't think you've got your facts straight, Jo.”

“I most certainly do, Miss Pamela Know-it-all.”

“Right.”

Maggie examined the bottle. She shuddered at the thought. Her knees weakened a bit, but she would have to do it. She carried it downstairs and into the kitchen where she set it on the work top and took down the oil and vinegar. Josie hadn't said how much to use. Half and half, most likely. She uncapped the vinegar and began to pour.

The kitchen door opened. Mummy walked in.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HERE WAS NOTHING TO SAY, SO MAGGIE kept pouring, keeping her eyes on the vinegar as its level rose. When it reached halfway, she recapped the bottle and unstoppered the oil. Her mother spoke.

“What in God's name are you doing, Margaret?”

“Nothing,” she said. It seemed obvious enough. The vinegar. The oil. The plastic bottle with its detachable, elongated spout lying next to it. What else could she be doing but preparing to rid her body of all the internal traces of a man? And who else would that man be but Nick Ware?

Juliet Spence shut the door behind her with a
snick
of the lock. At the sound, Punkin appeared from the darkness of the sitting room and glided across the kitchen to rub against her legs. He mewled softly.

“The cat wants feeding.”

“I forgot,” Maggie said.

“How did you forget? What were you doing?”

Maggie didn't reply. She poured the oil into the bottle, watching it bob and swirl in graceful amber orbs as it met the vinegar.

“Answer me, Margaret.”

Maggie heard her mother's handbag drop onto one of the kitchen chairs. Her heavy pea jacket followed. Then came the sharp
plit plot
of her boots as she crossed the room.

Never had Maggie been more aware of the advantage her mother had in height than when Juliet Spence joined her at the work top. She seemed to tower above her like an angel of vengeance. One false move and the sword would fall.

“What exactly are you planning to do with that concoction?” Juliet asked. Her voice sounded careful, the way someone spoke just before he was sick.

“Use it.”

“For?”

“Nothing.”

“I'm glad of it.”

“Why?”

“Because if you're developing a bent towards feminine hygiene, you're going to have quite a mess on your hands if you douche with oil. And I take it that we
are
talking about hygiene, Margaret. There's nothing else behind this, I'm sure. Aside, of course, from a curious and rather sudden compulsion to be certain your private parts are fresh and clean.”

Maggie studiously set the oil on the work top next to the vinegar. She stared at the undulating mixture she'd made.

“I saw Nick Ware pedalling his bicycle along the Clitheroe Road on my way home,” her mother went on. Her words were coming faster now, each one sounding as if her teeth clipped it off. “I don't particularly want to think what that—combined with this fascinating experiment you're apparently conducting in emulsification—might actually mean.”

Maggie touched her index finger to the plastic bottle. She observed her hand. Like the rest of her, it was small, dimpled, and plump. It couldn't possibly be less like her mother's. It was unsuited for housework and heavy toil, unused to digging and working with the earth.

“This oil-and-vinegar business isn't connected with Nick Ware, is it? Tell me it was purely coincidence that I should have seen him heading back towards the village not ten minutes ago.”

Maggie jiggled the bottle and watched the oil slip and slide across the surface of the vinegar. Her mother's hand clamped over her wrist. Maggie felt the immediate answering numbness in her fingers.

“That hurts.”

“Then talk to me, Margaret. Tell me Nick Ware hasn't been here tonight. Tell me you haven't had sex with him again. Because you reek of it. Are you aware of that? Do you realise you smell like a whore?”

“So what? You smell of it, too.”

Her mother's fingers contracted convulsively, her short nails creating sharp pressure points of pain on the soft underside of Maggie's wrist. Maggie cried out and tried to pull away but only succeeded in flinging their locked hands against the plastic bottle so that it slipped into the sink. The pungent mixture arced out to form an oleaginous pool. As it drained away, it left red and gold beads against the white porcelain.

“I suppose you think I deserve that remark,” Juliet said. “You've decided sex with Nick is the perfect way to get an eye for an eye. Which is what you want, isn't it? Isn't it what you've been wanting for months? Mummy's taken a lover and you'll fix her good if it's the last thing you do.”

“It's nothing to do with you. I don't care what you do. I don't care how you do it. I don't even care when. I love Nick. He loves me.”

“I see. And when he makes you pregnant and you're faced with having his baby, will he love you then? Will he leave school in order to support the two of you? And how will it feel, Margaret Jane Spence—motherhood before your fourteenth birthday?”

Juliet released her and went into the old-fashioned larder. Maggie rubbed her wrist and listened to the angry pop and snap of airtight containers being opened and closed on the chipped marble work top. Her mother returned, brought the kettle to the sink, set it to boil on the cooker. “Sit down,” she said.

Maggie hesitated, running her fingers through the oil and vinegar that remained in the sink. She knew what was to follow—it was exactly what had followed her first encounter with Nick in the Hall in October—but unlike October, this time she understood what those two words presaged, and the understanding was a sickness to her that quickly ran ice down her back. How stupid she'd been just three months ago. What had she been thinking? Each morning Mummy had presented her with the cup of thick liquid she passed off as her special female tea, and Maggie had screwed up her face and drunk it obediently, believing it was the vitamin supplement Mummy claimed it to be, something every girl needed when she became a woman. But now, in conjunction with her mother's words this evening, she remembered a hushed conversation that Mummy had had with Mrs. Rice in this very kitchen nearly two years ago, with Mrs. Rice begging for something to “kill it, stop it, I beg you, Juliet” and with Mummy saying, “I can't do that, Marion. It's a private oath, to be sure, but it's an oath nonetheless, and I mean to keep it. You must go to a clinic if you want to be rid of it.” At which Mrs. Rice began to weep, saying, “Ted won't hear of it. He'd kill me if he thought I did anything at all…” And then six months later her twins were born.

“I said sit down,” Juliet Spence repeated. She was pouring the water over the dried, crushed bark root. Its acrid odour wafted up with the steam. She added two tablespoons of honey to the drink, stirred it vigorously, and took it to the table. “Come here.”

Maggie felt the angry cramps without use of the stimulant, a phantom pain that grew from her memory. “I won't drink that.”

“You will.”

“I won't. You want to kill the baby, don't you? My baby, Mummy. Mine and Nick's. That's what you were doing before, in October. You said it was vitamins, to make my bones strong and to give me more energy. You said women need more calcium than little girls and I wasn't a little girl any longer so I needed to drink it. But you were lying, weren't you?
Weren't
you, Mummy? You wanted to make sure I didn't have a baby.”

“You're being hysterical.”

“You think it's happened, don't you? You think there's a baby inside me, don't you? Isn't that why you want me to drink?”

“We'll make it un-happen if it's happened. That's all.”

“To a baby? My baby? No!” The edge of the work top dug into her spine as Maggie backed away from her mother.

Juliet set the mug on the table, resting a hand on her hip. With the other hand, she rubbed her forehead. In the kitchen light, her face looked gaunt. The streaks of grey in her hair seemed at once duller and more pronounced. “Then what exactly is it that you were planning to do with the oil and vinegar if not try—no matter how ineffectively—to stop a baby's conception?”

“That's…” Maggie turned miserably back to the sink.

“Different? Why? Because it's easy? Because it washes things away without any pain, stopping things before they start? How convenient for you, Maggie. Unfortunately, that's not the way it's going to be. Come here. Sit down.”

Maggie pulled the oil and vinegar towards her in a protective and largely meaningless gesture. Her mother continued.

“Even if oil and vinegar were efficacious contraceptives—which they are not, by the way—a douche is completely useless much more than five minutes after intercourse.”

“I don't care. I wasn't using it for that. I just wanted to be clean. Like you said.”

“I see. Fine. Whatever you wish. Now, are you going to drink this, or are we going to argue, deny, and play with reality for the rest of the night? Because neither of us is leaving this room until you've drunk it, Maggie. Depend upon that.”

“I won't drink it. You can't make me. I'll have the baby. It's mine. I'll have it. I'll love it. I will.”

“You don't know the first thing about loving anyone.”

“I do!”

“Really? Then what does it mean to make a promise to someone you love? Is it just words? Is it something you say to get you through the moment? Something without meaning mouthed to soothe feelings? Something to get what you want?”

Maggie felt tears building behind her eyes, in her nose. Everything on the work top—a dented toaster, four metal canisters, a mortar and pestle, seven glass jars—shimmered as she began to cry.

“You made a promise to me, Maggie. We had an agreement. Shall I recall it for you?”

Maggie grabbed on to the kitchen sink's tap and shoved it back and forth, having no purpose for doing so other than experiencing the certainty of contact with something that she could control. Punkin leapt to the work top and approached her. He wove in and out of the bottles and jars, pausing to sniff at some crumbs on the toaster. He gave a plaintive mew and rubbed against her arm. She reached for him blindly and lowered her face to the back of his neck. He smelled of wet hay. His fur adhered to the trail her tears were making on her cheeks.

“If we didn't leave the village, if I agreed that we wouldn't move on this time, you'd see I never regretted it. You'd make me proud. Do you remember that? Do you remember giving me your solemn word? You were sitting at this very table last August, crying and pleading to stay in Winslough. ‘Just this once, Mummy. Please don't let's move again. I've got such good mates here, special mates, Mummy. I want to finish school. I'll do anything. Please. Let's just stay.'”

“It was the truth. My mates. Josie and Pam.”

“It was a variation on truth, less than a half-truth if you will. Which is no doubt why within the next two months you were having it off on the floor in Cotes Hall with a fifteen-year-old farmboy and God knows who else.”

“That isn't true!”

“Which part, Maggie? Having it off with Nick? Or pulling down your knickers for any one of his randy little mates who wanted to give you a poke?”

“I hate you!”

“Yes. Ever since this started, you've been making that clear. And I'm sorry about that. Because I don't hate you.”

“You're doing the same.” Maggie swung back to her mother. “You preach about being good and not having babies and all the time you're doing no better than me. You do it with Mr. Shepherd. Everyone knows.”

“Which is what this is all about, isn't it? You're thirteen years old. During your entire life I've never taken a lover. And you're bound and determined that I won't take one now. I'm to go on living solely for you, just as you're used to. Right?”

“No.”

“And if you have to get pregnant to keep me in line, then that's just fine.”

“No!”

“Because what is a baby after all, Maggie? Just something you can use to get what you want. You want Nick tied to you? Fine, give him sex. You want Mummy preoccupied with your concerns? Good. Get yourself pregnant. You want everyone to notice how special you are? Open your legs for any bloke who sniffs you up. You want—”

Maggie grabbed up the vinegar and hurled the bottle to the floor where it exploded against the tile. Glass shards shot the length of the room. At once the air was eye-stingingly sour. Punkin hissed, backing into the canisters, his fur on end and his tail a plume.

“I'll love my baby,” she cried. “I'll love it and take care of it and it'll love me. That's what babies do. That's all babies do. They love their mummies and their mummies love them.”

Juliet Spence ran her eyes over the mess on the floor. Against the tiles—which were cream coloured—the vinegar looked like diluted blood.

“It's genetic.” She sounded worn out. “My God in heaven, it's inbred at your core.” She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sank onto it. She cupped her hands round the mug of tea. “Babies aren't love machines,” she said to the mug. “They don't know how to love. They don't know what love is. They only have needs. Hunger, thirst, sleep, and wet nappies. And that's the end of it.”

“It's not,” Maggie said. “They love you. They make you feel good inside. They belong to you. One hundred percent. You can hold them and sleep with them and cuddle them close. And when they get big—”

“They break you in pieces. One way or another. It comes down to that.”

Maggie rubbed the back of her wrist across her wet cheeks. “You just don't want me to have something to love. That's what it is. You can have Mr. Shepherd. That's fine and good for you. But I'm not supposed to have anything at all.”

“Do you really believe that? You don't think you have me?”

“You're not enough, Mummy.”

“I see.”

Maggie picked up the cat and cradled it against her. She saw defeat and sorrow in her mother's posture: slumped into the seat with her long legs outstretched. She didn't care. She pressed the advantage. What did it matter? Mummy could get comfort from Mr. Shepherd if she felt hurt. “I want to know about Daddy.”

Her mother said nothing. She merely turned the mug in her hands. On the table lay a packet of snapshots that they'd taken over Christmas, and she reached for this. The holiday had fallen before the inquest, and they'd worked hard at good spirits and happiness, trying to forget what frightening possibilities the future held for them both if Juliet stood trial. She flipped through the pictures, all of the two of them. It had always been that way, years and years of the two of them, a relationship that had brooked no interference from any third party.