The Beloved (11 page)

It is still dark when I wake. But when I look out of the attic window, I see a smear of light across the horizon and know it is time to leave. I dress in my clean mourning gown and leave the wool dress folded on the stool. I creep down the stairs and into the kitchen. There is the remains of a loaf of bread on the table. I hope George and Ada won't mind if I take it with me. It is a sin to steal, I know. But where I am going, I will be forgiven for it all.

As I close the farmhouse door behind me, I dare to wish for George and Ada to always be happy. It is the smallest of wishes. It is a good wish; a simple wish and I hope with all my heart that no harm will come of it.

I walk briskly, keeping to the fields and hedgerows that flank the Bristol Road. I wonder if anybody is out looking for me. Eli, or Dr Fox and Mrs Abbot. I wonder if anybody has bothered to look for me at all. A coach rumbles past, its oil lamps still glowing in the half -light. But otherwise it is peaceful out here with just the sounds of my boots crunching on the ground and the early morning chatter of birds. It is beautiful to see the sky lift around me, like a lid taken off a cooking pot to reveal a freshly made, untouched day.

I pass derelict barns and small, tight copses, and as I walk, I try not to think of Papa or Eli, or anybody. I only think of what lies ahead and of how I will be made as clean and fresh as this new day. I stop and rest awhile by the side of a stream. I splash my face with weed-green water and eat George and Ada's bread. George said that first evening that newspaper men from London had been to the Abode of Love. It must be a place of miracles then: a place full of love and forgiveness.

I start walking again. I am anxious now that the sun is up, and I can see the first signs of Bridgwater in the distance. It is strange to think that I have to go back to where I started, before I can begin to move on. My feet slow, but my heart starts to clatter as I spy chimney pots and wispy plumes of smoke snaking their way up into the pale blue sky. I am scared to be seen in case someone is out looking for me, so I skirt around the edges of town hoping to find a stranger who will point me on to the right road. I pass a small cottage with an old woman sitting on the doorstep. ‘Excuse me!' I shout over to her. ‘Can you tell me the quickest way to Spaxton?'

She grins a toothless grin and waves at me.

‘The quickest way to Spaxton?' I try again. But it is no good. She is either deaf or simple or both.

Across the lane, outside another cottage, there is a man loading sacks onto the back of a cart. His skin is leathery and brown as the earth. He eyes me as I walk towards him and for one awful moment, I think I see a glint of recognition cross his face. But it passes quickly enough and I tell myself that it is easy to see things that are not there if you go looking for them. ‘Morning, missy,' he says to me. ‘I heard you asking old Mother over there the way to Spaxton.'

‘I  …  I did,' I stammer. ‘But I don't think she heard me.'

‘Oh, she'll have heard you all right. Hears everything, that one does. But seeing as how she hasn't left that cottage for going on fifty years, she wouldn't have a clue where anywhere was. In fact, she wouldn't have a clue where her own head was unless it was pointed out to her.' He laughs at himself and heaves another sack onto the back of the cart.

‘And  …  and you, sir,' I say. ‘Can you tell me the way?'

He laughs again. ‘Well. I ain't never been called sir in my life! But for that,' he says, ‘you can hop in the back and I'll take you part-way if you like. Never had any cause to go to Spaxton meself, but I'll drop you at the crossroads and you'll see it's not far from there.'

‘That would be very kind of you, sir,' I say. ‘You see, I'm visiting my sister, and I lost my purse and  … '

‘Don't matter to me why you're going,' he says. ‘Your business is yours and mine's mine. As long as I get these taters delivered. Now stop calling me sir, and jump in the back.'

I nestle down between the sacks, feeling the warmth of the man's kindness. I didn't know there were people like him and George and Ada in the world, and it makes me glad that I am part of it now. The man whistles and clucks at his horse and I lie on the sacks, out of view, and watch the endless blue of the sky overhead that is varied only by the occasional smudge of a cloud or a low-hanging branch. I could stay here forever, caught between what was and what is going to be. I smile to myself to think that a cart full of potatoes is the one place that, so far in my life, I have felt the happiest.

But it ends soon enough, as the man slows his horse and the cart judders to a halt. ‘There you go, missy,' he shouts over his shoulder. ‘That's as near as I can get you.'

I climb down from the cart and look around. There are two dusty lanes crossing each other and a thicket of trees on all sides. It is not what I expected and it feels as though we are nowhere. The cart driver clicks his tongue at his horse and waves his arm to the left. ‘Up that lane there, missy,' he says. ‘Just keep going. You'll get there in the end.' Then he is gone, in a rumble of stone and dust, and I don't even think he hears the
thank you!
that I call after him.

The lane is steep and narrow with high banks on either side that are shaded by a canopy of greenery. It seems to go on forever, and I am out of breath by the time the lane flattens out and winds sharply around to the left. I keep walking and the lane keeps winding, this way and that, and I just want it to end. I just want to find this place so the churning in my stomach will stop. Then at last, the lane opens up and I find myself on a quiet village green with a cluster of cottages and a low, white building with a painted sign declaring it to be The Lamb Inn. It is all so ordinary. I look about nervously. There is nothing to tell me I am in the right place.

Then the door of the inn opens and two men step outside. They eye me suspiciously and whisper to each other. ‘Lost yer way, girl?' one of them shouts. I don't like the way they are looking at me, as though I have done something wrong just by standing there. I carry on walking, but I can sense they are watching me and judging me. I want to shout back at them, to leave me alone, to mind their own business. But that is not me any more. That is only the girl they see with their eyes. They can't see inside me. They can't see how much I want to change.

Just past the inn, the lane widens and on one side is a high red-brick wall. I remember Sarah's words: ‘He has a place in Spaxton,' she'd said, ‘surrounded by high walls and guarded by bloodhounds.' I am excited and eager now. The wall is almost twice my height, but I can see from the glimpses of fancy chimney pots and tiled roofs that there are buildings behind it. I come to a small wooden gate, but when I try to open it, I find it is locked. I walk on, and the wall never varies in height. I wonder what it is trying to keep in, or trying to keep out. Further along, I come to another gate, an enormous studded carriage gate with stone pillars on either side. Across the top of the gate is a row of lacy iron spears and, right in the centre is a large metal cross. I know then that I have found where I need to be.

I know I have found the Abode of Love.

I do not know how to get in. I have walked around the entire perimeter of the wall and there are no other entrances save for the two gates I have already seen. I try banging my fists on the main gate, but soon my knuckles are sore. I walk back to the smaller gate and pick a small stone from the ground. I knock it against the wood, over and over again. Then the barking starts, loud and ferocious, and my blood turns cold at the thought of sharp yellow teeth and mad-dog eyes. But I won't let them stop me. I kick at the gate in a fury. ‘Let me in!' I shout. ‘Let me in!'

I slump to the ground in frustration. The barking turns to low growls and then to silence. I lean against the gate. It is warm on my back and I think I might have to stay here forever. There is nowhere else for me to go. Then I hear a scrape, a scratching. Just the tiniest sound. I think for a moment the hounds are back. But there is no growling or sniffing. It is a different sound I hear, a gentler sound. I jump to my feet and put my ear to the wood. ‘Hello?' I say. ‘Hello. Is there anybody there?' I hold my breath and I am certain that I can sense a shift in the air. There is somebody behind the gate and whoever it is, is listening to me. ‘Please,' I say. ‘I know you are there. I just want to talk to somebody.'

I wait, and wait. Then just as I am about to bang on the gate again, there is a voice, a woman's voice. ‘Who are you?' it says.

My relief is so great that my words come too quickly, tumbling out over each other. ‘I am Alice Angel. And I've come to see Henry Prince!'

‘Are you another from London?' asks the voice.

‘No, no,' I say. ‘I am from Bridgwater. That is where I first saw him. In the town square.'

‘And what business might you have with Our Beloved?'

I don't know what to say. I did not think I would have to give a reason to see him. I thought he would be here himself to welcome me. ‘I  …  I heard him in the town square,' I say again. ‘He said  … ' I think hard, trying to remember the right words. ‘He said, “Follow me and I will show you paradise on earth.” So I am here. I came.'

There is silence again, save for the pounding of my heart. ‘
Please,
' I whisper.

Then the gate rattles. There is the sound of metal on metal and a woman's face peers out at me. She is young and soft-looking and as she gestures for me to follow her, I see that she is with child. ‘Alice Angel,' she says. ‘What a beautiful name.' She smiles at me. ‘My name is Glory.'

She closes the gate behind us and I stare in astonishment at the sight that meets my eyes. There is a whole village spread out before me, a tiny but perfect village. There is a cluster of pretty cottages, a majestic mansion and even a chapel, covered in stone carvings of the strangest creatures I have ever seen. There are lawns and flower beds and white gravel pathways gleaming in the morning sun. ‘I will take you straight to him,' says the woman called Glory. ‘He will decide if you can stay.' We walk through a central courtyard and pass a couple of women who are kneeling to tend the flower beds.

‘Good morning, Glory,' they say. ‘We have been blessed with another magnificent day.'

‘Every new day we are blessed with is magnificent,' Glory replies. She leads me along a narrow gravel pathway, lined with neat box hedges. The pathway winds around the side of the mansion and stops outside a white-painted door that is hung with a large golden cross. Two huge bloodhounds are spread out across the doorstep. They growl deep down in their throats, but Glory just pats them casually on the head. ‘Hush, now. You have done your duty,' she says. We step over the hounds and Glory opens the door and beckons me inside.

We enter a large, dark hallway. The air is hushed and still and smells of wood smoke, fresh linen and the pungent perfume of freshly cut flowers. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the glaring sunshine outside to the dimness inside. Then I see thick rugs on a polished wooden floor and oak wall panels that gleam in the light of the handful of candles that are dotted about. Soft green fronds of pot plants spill out of ornate vases, and the walls are covered in flocked paper of red, green and gold. And everywhere there are flowers, of all colours and types. It would put the comforts of Lions House to shame. Glory stops and taps lightly on a door which is framed by long, red velvet curtains. ‘Wait here a moment,' she says as she disappears into the room.

My legs are trembling. A thought comes to me that maybe this is what it is like to stand at the gates of Heaven. Will I be admitted? Will Henry Prince permit me to stay? There is a large mirror on the wall opposite. I look at the girl standing in it. Against the blackness of her gown and hair, her face is whiter than white. She looks exhausted and in need of pity. I know that I would help her if it were within my power.

The door opens and Glory reappears. Her eyes are glittering and she runs her hands over the protruding shape of her child. ‘He will see you now,' she says, and stands aside to let me pass. I grab her hand, urgently.

‘But what shall I call him?'

She frowns briefly, as though I should already know the answer to this, as though the answer is as simple as saying the sky is blue. ‘Why, Beloved, of course,' she says, before walking away.

I take a deep breath and step into the room. My eyes start to sting and as I rub at them and blink, I see horizontal clouds of smoke hovering, from wall to wall, across the room. The walls are red, a deep, crimson red, the ceiling too, and the curtains and the carpet. I have never seen a room like it. The colour folds around me and thrums inside me like a heartbeat. The room is breathing, as though it has lungs of its own. I want to reach across and touch the walls to see if they are real.

‘Welcome,' says a voice. My hand flies to my mouth to quell a startled yelp. I peer through the smoke to the other side of the room, where half a dozen chairs are grouped around an enormous marble fireplace. ‘Come here, my child. So I can see you.' His voice is as soothing as fat drops of sunlight and honey, just as I remember it to be. I walk towards him, my heart fluttering like a moth in my throat. He is sitting in a high-backed chair, so carved and ornate that it looks like a throne, and he is blowing great plumes of cigar smoke towards the ceiling. ‘So, my child,' he says, and he looks at me for such a long while that I fear the moth in my throat will soon shoot from my mouth and hit him between the eyes. ‘What have you to say for yourself?' he asks me.

There is so much I want to say that I don't know where to begin.
I am Alice Angel
, I want to tell him.
I am sixteen years old. I am not mad. But I am a bad person. I have done some terrible things lately. I want to be forgiven. I want to be a good person, the person they all expect me to be. I have seen you and I have heard you talk. I think you understand. Can you help me?

But his eyes have silenced my tongue. I had forgotten how shocking they are in their intensity.

‘Well?' he says, at last. ‘I believe you wish to join us?' I think he must have seen through the hair, skin and bone of my head, straight into my mind, to read my thoughts.

I nod dumbly.

‘Have you brought anything with you?' he asks.

This time I shake my head.

‘What? Nothing?' He tosses his head and his ringlets, as black and glossy as a horse's coat, fall about his shoulders.

I stretch out my arms and show him my open palms. ‘I have nothing other than what I am standing in,' I manage to say.

He looks at me sharply and his blue eyes turn dark and hard as granite. ‘You know that all property and riches are as dirt?'

I nod, not sure of what to say. But there is a sinking feeling inside me. I am doing it all wrong, and I am sure that any moment now, he will throw me out of the door.

He settles back in his chair and regards me thoughtfully. He strokes his beard slowly, as if it is a favourite cat. ‘You cannot enter the Abode unless you are prepared to give up all your earthly riches.' His voice is softer now and I think that maybe all is not lost yet.

‘But I have no earthly riches to give up,' I say. ‘I have nothing.' I think of Mama's jewellery box and how it is crammed with all manner of gems and brooches and pearls. If I had been better prepared, I would have stolen a pocketful.

Henry Prince sighs.

My chest is tight with panic now. ‘Please!' I say. ‘If I had any riches at all, I would be more than happy to give them
all
up!' I lower my head so he cannot see the tears in my eyes. I put my hand to my throat to try and still the frantic beating of my heart. It is then that I feel the chain around my neck and I quickly close my fingers around the gold locket.

‘Riches, great or small, must be sacrificed,' he says. ‘The more you are prepared to give to God, the greater your reward will be here in this life,'

He means me to give up my locket, I know it. The only thing I have left of Papa. I lift my head, meaning to protest, but there is such a look of sadness on his face, that the words die on my tongue. I squeeze my eyes shut, ready to hear the worst of news.

‘Very well,' he says eventually. ‘If you have no riches to give up, you may give up your labour to us instead. You will join the Parlour, if that suits?'

‘What  …  what is the Parlour?' I ask, my voice shaking with relief.

‘Glory will show you. Go and find her. She will be in the gardens.' He stands, and he is like a giant towering over me. ‘Now, child.' He places a hand on my head. ‘You are blessed, and you have started the journey to forgiveness in this world. Go now, and I will see you in chapel tonight.'

I cannot believe it. I cannot believe he has said yes to me. I feel as though I have been given the greatest gift of all and, just as I saw the girl in the town square do, I want to fall to my knees and kiss his bare feet. But instead I just whisper, thank you. Then another word rises up from inside me and fills my mouth, and I say, louder now, ‘Thank you  …  Beloved.'