Being Here (19 page)

‘Good morning, Leah,' he said. ‘And welcome back. How are you this fine day?'

This time, I was prepared for conversation.

‘Good. Thank you, Pastor,' I said.

Mother withered me with a glance. I had no idea what I'd done to deserve it.

‘Am I right in thinking you brought a companion with you?' the pastor continued. He glanced over my shoulder and I froze.

‘You are not,' said Mother. Her voice was ice.

‘Ah, I must be mistaken.'

Mother took me by the hand and pulled me into the dark recesses of the church. Her fingers trembled against mine. I could sense something violent rising within her flesh.

‘The man is mad,' she muttered.

We took our seats in our usual pew. I wanted to ask why we were here, when the verandah had been our church for the last couple of Sundays. But the trembling in my mother's hand was a warning. I bent my head and prayed, and waited for the storm I knew was coming.

Throughout the prayers and hymns, Mother was her normal enthusiastic self. Her voice was the loudest while we were all singing, though it was far from the most melodic. She couldn't carry a tune, but she made up for her musical deficiencies through sheer volume. It used to embarrass me. Now it was simply another patina in the gloss of routine.

I became tense when Pastor Bauer ascended the pulpit. My tension mirrored my mother's. I felt her become more rigid, as if she was merging with the hardness of the pew. I wondered if those around us could sense the electricity she was generating.

The pastor swept his smile around the congregation, like a lighthouse that bestowed its beam on all. He started with a couple of anecdotes about town life. They were warm and affectionate and anchored firmly in the commonplace. Sermons weren't supposed to be like this. They weren't sermons unless we felt discomfort and guilt, if we weren't squirming against the unforgiving wood beneath. I was accustomed to feeling I had offended God in ways I hadn't understood. Pastor Bauer made me feel like God had a sense of humour. I was confused.

Mother stood when the pastor moved on to the main point of his sermon, which appeared to be about not judging those whose opinions you do not share. He stopped in mid-sentence as he observed my mother's figure, a lone upright among the crowd. Mother said nothing. She simply stood there. I felt her hand reach for mine, clasp my fingers and tug. I stood also, my heart thumping. The eyes of the congregation turned towards us. For a few moments there was silence as the world focused on us.

‘Do you wish to say something?' the pastor asked. His smile had reappeared, as if this interruption was not a gash in routine, but something to be welcomed and embraced.

‘I do,' said Mother.

Someone coughed. I heard the scrape of leather against floorboards. The church held its breath.

‘Then please share it with us.'

‘This service is an abomination. You rub salt in the wounds of our dear Saviour,' said Mother. Her voice was low, but I could sense the troubled well of emotion beneath its surface. I stopped breathing. There was a snigger from the back of the church, quickly stifled.

The pastor's smile twisted a little, guttered like a candle flame, then surged back, steadied.

‘That is quite a claim, Mrs …' He stumbled as he tried to recollect our family name. ‘Mrs Cartwright. I confess I fail to see how my words have offended Christ. Perhaps you could explain?'

‘You teach that Good and Evil are not absolutes,' said Mother. Her voice strengthened. ‘You teach that Right and Wrong are things to be negotiated or debated. You muddy the clear water of the Word of God. We do not need discussion. We need instruction. And you, Pastor …' she pointed one bony finger at the minister ‘… you are God's voice on Earth. Or should be. Yet I do not hear the Voice of God issuing from your mouth.' She turned now to the rest of the congregation. The silence was thick. Her voice rang out, clear and strong, gravid with conviction. ‘I hear the voice of Satan, for it is Satan's job to cast doubt on that which does not harbour doubt, to confuse where there is clarity, to tempt us into believing we have rights to question the unquestionable. It is not the Lord's work that is being done in this church, Pastor. It is not the Lord's work at all.'

Pastor Bauer's smile could not withstand this onslaught. It withered. His colour rose. I watched his face as he struggled to control his temper.

‘Surely you cannot accuse me of teaching evil, Mrs Cartwright. I preach only of tolerance and love. Do you seriously consider that to be the Devil's work?'

‘Do you even believe in the Devil, Pastor?' Mother replied. ‘Answer me that.'

I knew that Mother had played her trump card, even as I read the confusion in the pastor's face. His mouth opened and closed. Of course, later I understood the workings of his mind at that moment, the words he sought to explain his beliefs, the language he weighed and rejected. At the time, though, child that I was, I knew there was only one possible response to Mother's question. The Devil was real. Of course he was real. To deny it was to deny the existence of God Himself. It was beyond contemplation.

‘Mrs Cartwright … I don't believe this is the forum for such discussion … Perhaps …'

‘Answer the question, Pastor!' Mother shouted. I watched her mouth, saw the spittle fly in fine droplets. I knew hatred when I saw it. She exhaled it.

‘I … I believe that the Devil is a state of mind, Mrs Cartwright. An absence of God or a turning away from Him. The Devil is the evil within men.'

‘Not real, then.' Mother's voice cracked with triumph.

‘Of course, real,' said the pastor. ‘Evil is very real. Unfortunately, we see the evidence all around us.'

‘A real, physical presence, Pastor? An entity? A dark angel cast out from Heaven and residing in Hell? Or do you not believe in Hell either?'

Pastor Bauer swallowed. I could see irresolution in the workings of his expression. And then his face cleared.

‘No,' he said. ‘I do not believe in a physical Devil. I do not believe in a physical Hell. I believe these are metaphors to explain the nature of evil.'

I gasped. It is impossible to describe the betrayal I felt. And in that moment, my mother was vindicated. She had exposed evil, and evil in the very place that should be a fortress against it. I saw her then transfigured – a saviour, a light burning in the darkness, a champion of Christ who had died for our sins. I loved her so intensely. I was consumed by it.

‘You have heard!' screamed my mother. She had her back to the pastor now, addressing the congregation. ‘You have heard from his own mouth. The Devil does not exist! Hell does not exist! Well, I know better. I read my Bible. And I believe it. I believe the Word of God!' She turned back towards the pulpit. ‘I cannot remain in this nest of blasphemy,' she said. ‘I seek the Light. I crave the Light. But I will pray for you, Mr Bauer. I will pray, even for you.'

We moved along the pew to the aisle. Mother's head was erect and she did not look back. I tried to imitate her strength, mirror her bearing. We walked proudly to the doors of the church and out into the morning sunshine. We strode in the direction of the farm. Mother looked back once, when we had travelled a few hundred metres. I did the same. The town was deserted, the doors of the church shut. Only later did I realise what she had been hoping to see. She wanted to witness an exodus, the congregation pouring from the place of evil in a tide towards the light and love of God.

But we were alone. Just us, the barren track and the pitiless sun.

‘Whoa,' says Carly. ‘So, that was, like, it, then? No more church?'

‘No more church,' I say. ‘No one else at all. From that point on, we worshipped at home. Even when we made our weekly trips to town, Mother didn't speak to anyone she didn't have to. She felt betrayed. She felt the sole guardian against the forces of evil. There was no one she could trust.'

‘Apart from you.'

‘Apart from me. And God.' I sigh and wipe my hand across my forehead. It is damp with sweat. ‘You have no idea how heavy a burden that was.' I am suddenly assailed with tiredness, though it is still early. My sleep patterns have unravelled and lie in chaotic threads. ‘So Mother got her wish. It was really her wish all along. Just the three of us – God, her and me – in our dusty garden of Eden. All evil banished.'

‘You even had the apple trees,' says Carly.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘And the serpent, of course.'

‘The serpent?'

‘Adam. Adam was the serpent lurking under the tree all along. I just hadn't recognised him. But Mamma did.

And when she discovered him, then whatever state of bliss we'd enjoyed was gone forever. I was cast out. To this day I am cast out.'

‘How did she find him? What did she do?'

‘Tomorrow,' I say. ‘After your chicken and stuffing, I will tell you. This story is nearly done, Carly.' The ending is so close it dominates my vision. But there is something lurking behind it. I sense a presence, though I do not know what it is.

We sit for a few minutes more. The branches have freed the sun from their grasp and it is hot. The sky is clear and dusted with delicate blues. The lilies in the pond ride the water. Time goes on.

‘Could you take me back inside, please, Carly?' I say. ‘I am tired and a little hot.'

‘Sure thing, Mrs C.'

She wheels me along the winding path, through sun-baked flower beds and wilting grass, to the French doors. Inside, the room is cool. The fan turns leisurely. Someone has brightened my table with a vase of flowers, splashes of colour and life.

I feel content.

After Carly leaves, with many confirmations of time and arrangements for our dinner date, I doze awhile in my chair. There is a tingling in my arm, as if a fuse is slowly burning.

CHAPTER 17

J
ANE HELPS GET ME
ready. She is excited for me.

Excited that I am leaving, if only for a short time. I am excited also. It is possibly twenty years since I dined as a guest of someone else. Maybe longer. Is it absurd to feel excited about a roast dinner among strangers? It probably is, but I don't care. ‘You have a fantastic time,' says Jane as she looks me up and down and brushes a stray strand of hair from my face. We had sorted through my clothing together. It had not taken long. When you reach my age, there is precious little point in a varied wardrobe. Every item was old-fashioned, dark and slightly damp. But at least the moths hadn't got into anything. We had chosen a long and shapeless dress with a spray of tired lace around the neckline. Something must have persuaded me to buy it many years ago, though why on earth I considered it desirable is lost in time. Jane shows me my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. I look like Whistler's mother a few years past her use-by date.