GOOD DAUGHTERS Page 6

  ‘My father wouldn’t think it was different,’ Louise replied. ‘I know exactly what he would say to that: “Play-acting is either right or it is wrong; whether it is professional or not is immaterial.” ’ She gave a passable imitation of her father.

  They were walking past a terrace of small, two-storeyed houses, the occupants of which – judging by the smell – had all had boiled cabbage for their Sunday dinner. Although these people were at some pains to keep the houses decent, Guy was shocked to see how badly the paintwork had been allowed to deteriorate. He also noticed that in most cases the curtains were little better than threadbare scraps. In the rooms where the curtains had not yet been drawn there was no cheerful glow of firelight. Most of the houses fronted onto the pavement, but further on they came to two old cottages of an earlier period which had a few square feet of turned earth staked out by dilapidated railings. There were two women talking in the doorway of one of the cottages, and somewhere out of sight a child was howling dismally. Here, bad drains added to the all-pervasive smell of cabbage. The area reminded Guy of old photographs yellowing in albums. There was nothing dramatic about it, no sense of danger or depravity lurking in the shadows; it was simply that it failed to convince as a place in which real people lived and loved and had their being.

  Beyond the cottages a group of boys were sitting in the gutter shouting encouragement to another boy who was climbing a lamppost. Judith Fairley stopped to admonish the climber; his companions eyed Alice and Claire stonily. Guy and Louise walked on.

  ‘But your father doesn’t object to school plays . . .’

  ‘Oh, but he does! He went to see Miss Blaize about them.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She convinced him that our “moral welfare” could be left in her hands and that, “although she is an Anglican, she has no leanings towards Rome.” She also satisfied him on the subject of makeup. “We could hardly forbid the use of any kind of make-up in school and then permit theatrical make-up.” ’ Louise pronounced the word ‘theatrical’ in a deep voice. ‘I’d love to have heard them talking.’

  Guy was taken aback. If his father had made an exhibition of himself at his school, he would have been mortified beyond bearing. Louise, however, seemed not only to accept it but to feel a real affection for her father because of it. Guy, unable to respect any man whose opinions he did not share, was puzzled. He looked down at Louise. He really knew very little about her, but this did not seem important because she was a girl. His own mother was a mystery to him. She was pretty in the manner of the ladies who advertised the MacDonald’s permanent wave, and she talked about the superiority of MacDonald’s over Eugene in a tone which made Guy imagine that it would be barely possible to mix with people who favoured Eugene. Her clothes were well-made and tasteful, but she wore them without pleasure, as though she was under an obligation to uphold the standards of her neighbourhood. Apart from her hairstyle and her clothes, he would have found it quite difficult to recognize his mother. He would have had no such problem with Louise. Although he might have found it hard to isolate any one feature which compelled his attention – the eyes, amused as though the whole of life was a huge joke; the tilted nose (which his mother thought a little vulgar); the mouth which could be twisted to express the impudence of Harlow or the hauteur of Garbo – she would be immediately recognizable by her liveliness. Now, walking along this dreary street, by her very presence beside him she made every step of the way exciting. He had always lived in anticipation until now – ‘When you get into the main school, when you have matriculated, when you are articled . . .’ Never before had he known what it was to enjoy the given moment.

  ‘Doesn’t it make you angry when your father behaves like that?’ he asked.

  ‘Daddy cares so much; I wouldn’t have him any different.’

  ‘If he cares about the wrong things, though . . .’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ She was indifferent to ‘wrong things’.

  ‘What will you do, then? About our play, I mean.’

  ‘I’ll wait to see how things go.’

  The moment would come, she would feel it within her, just as she felt the sap rising in spring, and then she would tell her father. It did not occur to her to wonder whether the moment would be equally acceptable to him. She did not, in fact, distinguish very clearly between her own feelings and those of others.

  They had come to the end of the road and Louise turned right under a railway bridge into another street, where the houses were interspersed with small shops and laundries. ‘You’re in soapsuds island now,’ she said. ‘George Bernard Shaw has his laundry done here, did you know? Mrs Haines, who collects, says he is a real gent and won’t allow her to carry the basket down the steps.’

  On the far side of the street Guy saw the Methodist chapel, a grim-looking building in dingy red brick, fronted by spiked iron railings. He experienced, George Bernard Shaw notwithstanding, a moment of dismay akin to fear. An atmosphere of mute hopelessness seemed to cling about him as though all the unemployed had breathed their sourness into this dismal area. He pulled himself together and said to Louise, ‘Would it be helpful if Jacov and I talked to your father?’

  ‘Perhaps. But he’ll say no at first. If he does come round, it will take a day or so.’

  ‘What will you do if he says no finally?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about that yet.’

  A time would come when she would go her own way, but she sensed that it was not yet. Judith Fairley, Claire and Alice joined them, and they crossed the road to the chapel.

  At the door, a rosy-cheeked man with a walrus moustache was talking to a chirpy little woman who waved to the Fairleys in a manner too skittish for a person of her age. ‘That is Dot,’ Louise told Guy. ‘She’s a bit simple.’ A spotty-faced young man handed out hymn books, saying unctuously to Guy, ‘Glad to have you worship with us, friend.’

  The chapel was not like the Holland Park Chapel, which had stained-glass windows and an organ, and the appearance of being distantly related to the Church of England. It was small and bare of adornment. The platform was a space on which three objects had been deposited; an upright piano to the left, a pulpit to the right with a large Bible on a ledge and, back centre, a table covered with a green baize cloth on which stood a vase of yellow chrysanthemums. The room was lit by gas lamps which hissed and popped. After they had bowed their heads in prayer, Guy whispered to Louise, ‘We have electric light in our chapel.’

  The rosy-cheeked man at the far door broke away from Dot and moved along the row in front of the Fairleys to talk to a middle-aged woman, who looked plump not so much as a result of cheerful good living, but of wearing layers of clothes in order to keep out the cold.

  ‘Did you hear the Minister forgot to ask Mrs Ravilious to open the bazaar?’ the man asked, chuckling.

  The woman replied loudly, ‘I don’t think it’s funny, Mr Crockett. In this world, money matters, say what you will, and the way he goes on there soon won’t be a Lord’s House for us to worship in.’

  Her companion, a bird-like woman with hairs bristling from a pointed chin, hissed, ‘Forgetful he may be, but he’s one of the saints of God, Miss Thomas.’

  ‘Then the Lord has more patience than I have, Miss Dyer.’

  This conversation was interrupted by a woman trailing a scowling small boy who squeezed past Miss Thomas and Miss Dyer, a process involving much fumbling with handbags, groping for gloves and the dropping of hymn books. As soon as they were seated, the small boy whispered to his mother, who said sharply, ‘Not now.’ A gloomy, cadaverous man came through the door at the back of the platform carrying a board with hymn numbers on it, which he hung on a nail at the side of the pulpit. The conversation in the hall died down, and there was silence save for the turning of the leaves of hymn books and the hissing of the gas. Claire and Alice looked at the woman with the small boy. They had heard older people say that Dolly Bligh was still attractive ‘in spite of everything’, but t
hey could not understand this, because she was over thirty and sallow. Last week in chapel, while they had been waiting for their father they had heard Miss Thomas talking to the Minister. Mr Bligh, they knew, was in prison; what they had hitherto not known was that when he came out Mrs Bligh would have to choose between him and their daughters, because he was known to interfere with them. From the way in which Miss Thomas had spoken, they had been aware that the word ‘interfere’ was being used in a sense to which they were unaccustomed, and although no particulars had been given they had sensed, if not the exact nature, then the general area of the trouble. Alice wondered what the girls would do if Mrs Bligh chose her husband; Claire assumed she would stay with her children.

  Mrs Bligh said to her son, ‘You should have gone before you left home.’ While he was debating this, the door at the back of the platform opened and the Minister came out. He was a tall, ungainly man who gave the impression of someone moving about on stilts. As he reached the pulpit, several sheets of paper fell onto the floor; he swooped to retrieve them and banged his head on the book ledge as he straightened. Miss Thomas sighed. The Minister glanced at the notes now topmost in the bundle and announced in a gentle voice, ‘Let us begin our worship of God by standing and singing together hymn number one hundred and twenty-two, “Brightest and best of the sons of the morning”.’

  The pianist found herself confronted with a decision she was ill-equipped to make. While she hesitated, Miss Thomas began to sing in a resolute soprano, ‘ “The day is past and over, all thanks, O Lord, to Thee”.’ The congregation supported her gratefully.

  There followed prayers during which the small boy made repeated attempts to attract his mother’s attention, an old man in the front pew murmured ‘Amen!’ fervently at frequent intervals and Dot shouted ‘Hallelujah!’ Miss Thomas then rose to read the notices. ‘On Monday at three p.m. there will be the usual meeting of the Women’s Bright Hour . . .’ The small boy triumphantly announced that he had wet himself and, as the congregation rose to sing the next hynm, his mother led him out. Miss Dyer whispered to Miss Thomas, ‘She shouldn’t bring him out in the evening. He ought to be in bed.’

  ‘She says its warmer here than at home.’

  ‘Where’s the girls, then?’

  ‘They’ve been taken away, didn’t you know?’

  Alice looked at Claire; she was standing with her head bent over her hymn book, and it was questionable whether she had heard. They sang ‘Fight the good fight’, and then settled themselves for the sermon. While Mr Fairley rose from the front row and ascended the platform, the two sidesmen turned down the gas lamps in the body of the hall.

  The room was slowly darkened and, by contrast, the little glow of light around the pulpit seemed to have an added intensity. The silence in the hall was broken only by the popping of one of the gas lamps and the distant sound of a train rumbling over the railway bridge. Mr Fairley frowned down upon the congregation. ‘Our brethren in the Church of England will by this evening have repeated the Apostles’ Creed and probably the Nicene Creed as well. We do not do this, and it is well that we do not do it. Tonight, however, I should like to examine the Apostles’ Creed.

  ‘ “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, and in one Lord Jesus Christ, His only Son . . .” We would all say “amen” to that.’ Miss Thomas exchanged a look with Miss Dyer, which made it clear that not everyone was prepared to make this concession to the Church of England. ‘But should we say it so easily? “I believe”: a tremendous statement to trip so readily off the tongue. Consider the world today. What evidence do we see of the hand of God in our affairs? Within the last weeks we have heard of the fall of the Daladier government in France and of the Hindenburg government in Germany; Adolf Hitler has become Chancellor of Germany; in Italy there is a dictatorship; in Russia a communist regime enslaves the people; Japan is at war with China; while in our own country we have two million, nine hundred thousand unemployed.’ He enunciated each word with sombre clarity, so that the dead weight of numbers seemed to bear down on the unemployed among his audience, and they felt more diminished and hopeless than ever, it is not an encouraging picture, is it?’ he demanded. ‘God, we are told, created us out of chaos: it sometimes seems He is intent on returning us to chaos.’

  At this point boys ran in from the street, banged on the doors and shouted messages which were only partly comprehensible, but unmistakably rude. The sidesmen, with expressions of grave reverence on their faces, got up and moved with unhurried dignity towards the doors; from outside there was the sound of an irreverent but not ill-humoured exchange, then they returned looking as grave as ever.

  ‘Let us go on with this stupendous statement of belief: “conceived by the Holy Ghost” – well, I have reservations about that, but let it pass – “born of the Virgin Mary . . .” What sort of a world was He born into? A world not noticeably more full of hope than our own. Years before his birth, Sophocles wrote:

  “Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say,

  Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have looked into the eye of day;

  The second best’s a gay goodnight, and quickly turn away.” ’

  Miss Dyer nodded her head vigorously, which was her way of paying homage to poetry, whether by Ella Wheeler Wilcox or John Milton.

  ‘By the time Jesus was born in Bethlehem, the brutal Roman civilization had succeeded the Greek and straddled the world, exhausting itself in the process. It was already divided, and dying – in my view – of lack of hope for the future and belief in itself.

  ‘So, into this despairing world He was born, and the next thing that we are asked to note about Him is that He “suffered under Pontius Pilate . . .” ’ Mr Fairley gazed at them, eyes popping from beneath bushy eyebrows: his capacity for astonishment was infinite. ‘Nothing between that birth and that suffering, no mention that He grew up working at His father’s carpentry bench, made friends and walked with them through cornfields in Galilee, turned water into wine at a marriage at Cana; only birth, suffering and death. Yet for nearly two thousand years men have followed Him and tried to make His way their way. Why? We should ask ourselves these questions from time to time.’ He allowed a pause for them to put the question to themselves. Mr Fairley’s family obligingly registered concern; the old man who had said ‘amen’ during the prayers slept peacefully, each outward breath producing a noise like the blowing of a contented horse; the Minister had the look of a man troubled in spirit; the rest of the congregation waited in varying attitudes of stoicism. ‘Why?’ Mr Fairley repeated. ‘What did He offer them? “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me . . .” “I came not to send peace, but a sword . . .” “Nation will rise against nation, kingdom against kingdom, and there will be famines and earthquakes in various places . . .” Hard words, if you think about them, which we seldom do.’ The dark, cadaverous man nodded in dismal approbation and cracked his knuckles.

  ‘But He did make certain promises: “I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live . . .” “I will not leave you desolate; I will come to you . . .” Not, I surest, as the Man of Sorrows will He come, but as the man who drew all manner of folk to Him who were enriched and invigorated and made eternally joyful by His company.’

  While Mr Fairley was saying this, the boys ran in from the street and banged the doors. The sidesmen withdrew, this time accompanied by Dot, who could be heard shouting that the devil was in one Harry Rowbotham. The old man woke up and stared unblinkingly at Mr Fairley to show how alert he was.

  ‘Why do we listen to these promises? Others have said splendid things; but their voices die. This voice speaks to us directly, as though no centuries separated us; it is a voice which challenges us at the deepest level of our being, and we need no one to interpret for us in order that we can understand what it is that is required of us.’ He felt the challenge himself, every moment of every day. Earl
y in his life he had acquired a taste for his own way, and this made for confrontation rather than contemplation. His protruding eyes brimmed over with emotion as he said, ‘If we decide to answer His call, we may stray from the path, but we do so knowingly; for there is that within us, and within all men, that knows it is answerable to Him. He is our master and we prove it every day, in every decision that we make, in every encounter with another human being.’ Miss Thomas scratched at a mark on her coat, and then carried out a morbid inspection of her fingernail.

  ‘And the Creed says, “And after three days He rose again from the dead and ascended into Heaven and sitteth on the right hand of God, from whence He shall come to judge both the quick and the dead . . .” And I say NO!’ Mr Fairley banged the pulpit and Mr Crockett, who had been counting the congregation, lost his place and began a recount. ‘I cannot accept this as the bare bones of my belief. For I believe He broke through not only the bonds of death, but of time. The agonies that came upon Him in the Garden of Gethsemane were indeed the sins of the world, of my sins and your sins, then, at that moment, bearing down upon Him.’

  Alice thought of Jesus hanging on the cross, knowing that police in Shepherd’s Bush were investigating a burglary that had never taken place. The hissing gas lamps had a hypnotic effect. She bent her little finger back, which was something she had been told was a cure if you felt faint; it was certainly painful enough to occupy her mind until the urge to stand up and confess her sin had passed.

  Mr Fairley was glaring angrily, a flush of colour on his cheeks; his voice became louder, vibrating with the force of his emotion. Judith thought: he’ll have a stroke when he’s older; it’s in the family. ‘And He is crucified now and the Resurrection and the promise are now. My Christ is not sitting at the right hand of God watching the miseries of the world and waiting to come in judgement. He is here among us. But do we look for him, my friends? Do we go where He will be?’ Mr Fairley paused. It was plain he would not be pleased to be answered in the affirmative.