When the World Was Steady (8 page)

‘Shall we?’ Nikhil stood in the hallway, waiting.

On her way out, Virginia managed to dart into the kitchen to put down her empty mug; to her consternation, she found the tiny room was spotless, the earlier clamour caused by the washed dinner dishes on the draining-board: one lonely plate, one bowl, one glass, and two battered but impeccably scrubbed pots.

Upstairs, the meeting was already well into its opening ritual: flopped in the most comfortable armchair, dress hiked, cane between her knees, Mrs Hammond was praying aloud, eyes upturned and shining. The others were more sedate, heads bowed and eyes shut, and Alistair the doctor was scratching at a spot on his chin while he spoke to God. In the corner, one of the students was actually kneeling. Angelica was in the kitchen, and alongside Mrs Hammond’s encomium to the Reverend and his flock came the intermittent rustlings of cake wrappers and the packet of tea, the burble of water, the soft chink of porcelain cups. Virginia and Nikhil surveyed the sitting-room. For the first time, she saw it a little as he must, and it suddenly looked peculiar and not cosy and familiar at all. She quite hated him for spoiling her evening.

Angelica brought the tea tray through as Mrs Hammond wound up her prayer and Philip—was it?—shouted a hearty ‘Alleluia’. He had a small, forgettable face and little round spectacles and it was surprising that his lungs were so strong. Angelica, on the other hand, was radiant, her large, oval face glowing pink as the Laura Ashley lamp at her elbow, her blue eyes wet-looking and innocent, her dimpled forearms dispensing the necessary in deft, graceful movements. Her attractiveness was felt by everyone, Virginia was sure. It caused a hush, an admiring look from Stephen
(or was it Philip? the same face, only dark instead of blond, and without glasses), and a light smile even from Nikhil, who strode forward to accept his cup as though he hadn’t drunk tea in days instead of minutes.

‘I thought, everyone,’ said Angelica, never stopping the circulation of food and drink and never spilling a crumb or drop, ‘Sugar, Mrs Hammond? I know I was to prepare an analysis of the reading Frieda suggested last time … but—milk, Philip?’—with the glasses, Virginia noted—‘but this week has been
awful
. I
am
sorry, Frieda—’ Frieda, her wiry hair askew and her face furrowed, slumped back in her chair and scowled at the plate of Madeira cake. ‘But I thought it might be apropos and maybe easier, seeing as I’ve made us all late, if we just had a little talk about Reverend Thompson’s last sermon. I mean, especially seeing as he’s not here?’

‘Oh, goody,’ said Stephen, in an unappealing way.

‘Which was it again?’ from Mrs Hammond.

‘I was so looking forward to discussing the reading,’ grumbled Frieda.

‘On what, again?’ from Mrs Hammond.

‘Revelation, chapters five to eight,’ offered Janet.

‘The sermon?’

‘No, no dear,’ said Virginia, patting Mrs Hammond’s exposed, bony knee and endeavouring to pull the old woman’s dress down a little as she did so. ‘The reading. That was the reading Angelica didn’t prepare. You must remember the sermon, dear. It was on the sins of the flesh.’

‘Of course, of course. Very strongly worded, a fine sermon.’

‘
So
relevant, I thought,’ said Janet, stirring her tea.

‘Is that all right then, shall we just do that?’ Angelica smiled hopefully.

‘Yes dear, fine. We’ll do the reading next time,’ said Mrs Hammond, who, by virtue of her seniority, was able to decide any such issues without consulting the others.

Virginia only half-listened to the discussion that followed. For the first time ever, she was watching instead of participating, and it was as if she couldn’t will herself back into her body, back into herself; she had to sit on the outside, painfully aware of the absurdities Nikhil must see and hear, and painfully aware, too, of Nikhil. He was physically separated from the others, sitting on a straight-backed dining-chair outside the plush circle of sofas and armchairs. Stephen and Philip were almost outside, but not quite, and they were together. Nikhil sat with a coffee-table book of the Sistine Chapel on his lap (a gift from Virginia to Angelica the Christmas before, when the latter had gone to Rome for a week), and he looked alternately from the magnificent representations on glossy paper to the eager faces of the group. He had a strong hooked nose, which seemed to incline even further earthwards when particularly evangelical or extreme comments were made. Then, when Alistair spoke (which was rarely), or Mrs Hammond (who, despite her energy and commitment, was also a fairly modest contributor to discussions), Nikhil would turn abruptly back to Michelangelo, as though he could glean more about his sister’s choice from the vision of Judith bearing Holofernes’ head than from the timid, dithering remarks of those present.

The conversation turned to communism, and thence to extreme politics, to the Americans, to AIDS and to homosexuality. Nikhil was aware of the heat generated by the topic: Virginia saw him shut the book of photographs altogether.

‘I think they deserve it and I’m not ashamed to say so,’ said Frieda, crossing her arms and glaring at the window. ‘It’s a sin, it’s in the Bible, it’s very clear. Ask the Reverend. And the Church of England, they’re always pussyfooting around the issue because half the ministers are pansies, groping up each other’s frocks in the vestry before services—’

‘Frieda,
please
!’ Angelica made a rapid eye gesture at Mrs Hammond, who hadn’t heard all of the tirade but enough to
pique her interest.

‘What about women?’ said Philip with a smirk. ‘It’s not so clear about women, is it?’

‘Well,’ said Virginia, in as icy a tone as she had ever used, ‘I can’t imagine it’s an
issue
. It’s just not an issue.’

‘It exists, you know,’ Philip insisted.

‘God’s retribution isn’t seeking out
women
, because women aren’t guilty. We only have to look at who is being struck down. It’s
men,
’ she hissed, with such venom that Angelica made a chiding face, and Nikhil leaned forward in his chair, biting his lip.

‘Virginia dear,’ said Janet, in her soothing, counsellor’s voice that made Virginia bristle down the back of her neck, ‘You mustn’t
simplify
so. I do think we’re taking rather a reductive approach. I really do not believe that AIDS is caused by God in that way. If it were, God would stop it, in the repentant.’

‘Does He?’ asked Stephen, from the kitchen door, where he had gone to ferret for more food. ‘I mean, in all the crusades, Billy Graham and Swaggart and Bonker and even less massive gatherings, has
anyone
been healed of AIDS?’

Everyone looked up, or down, or at their hands and tried to think of an instance they had heard of, or better yet, had witnessed. At length, Mrs Hammond said, ‘There must be
someone
. It’s just that in our church, our congregation, we don’t have such problems, so we don’t know.’

Virginia looked from Philip to Stephen and back again; she could have sworn they exchanged glances, significant ones.

‘Rotten fruit. Can’t repent properly, can’t be healed,’ muttered Frieda.

‘Madeira cake?’ Angelica passed the plate, depleted now, to Nikhil.

He stood up and rubbed his trousers with his palms. ‘Thank you, no. Thank you, Angelica, this has been most interesting, but my books are calling.’

‘I can’t hear them,’ said Stephen.

Nikhil frowned. ‘Yes, well, goodnight to you all. And to you, Virginia.’ He bowed and left the room. Virginia could hear his lonely trail back to the vinyl lounge suite.

‘What was that all about?’ asked Frieda.

‘He does seem sweet. Oddly silent though. Never know what he’s thinking,’ said Janet, as if, reflected Virginia, those whose minds were not illuminated by the gospel thought and felt in mysterious, dark ways.

‘Were you with him, then?’ prompted Angelica.

They were all watching. Virginia stretched her neck to its full length. ‘Well,
you
weren’t here, and I couldn’t stay out on the doorstep—the neighbours were staring.’

‘So what’s his flat like?’ Alistair had woken from apparent slumber to ask.

‘Rather grim. It’s rented. It’s—’

‘You don’t suppose—I mean, he didn’t take offence, he’s not—’ bubbled Angelica.

‘If he is, it’s a damn good thing. He should know where we stand.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Frieda. Of course he’s not. He’s had a hard time. A difficult year.’ Virginia spoke sharply. ‘And there’s no need to swear.’

‘But did you, I mean, what did you find out?’ Angelica had her wet velvet eyes open as far as they would go.

‘What do you mean?’

‘About why. Why us, why
here.
’

‘Because you live here, my dear. Because his sister has married a Christian.’

There was a murmur all around and then everyone tried to speak at once. Virginia picked up the Sistine Chapel book and slammed it on the coffee table. ‘One thing I found out,’ she said, as all eyes turned again to her, ‘is that noise in this building carries
dreadfully. So if I were you I would save my unpleasant speculation for another time and place.’

When the others had gone home, Virginia stayed to help Angelica with the washing-up. The small kitchen grew steamy from the torrents Angelica wasted—she didn’t fill the sink but washed and rinsed each dish individually—and Virginia felt soothed for the first time that evening. There was great intimacy in the act of drying Angelica’s plates, in the two women brushing against each other as they made order. Angelica was so generous, physically, that she all but filled the kitchen on her own, and Virginia had the impression of moulding her sparer self into the spaces that were left for her. Such a sense would, in other circumstances, have grated, but with Angelica, she believed it was a harmonious compromise, an expression of God’s love.

‘Did he really say that?’ Angelica asked, as she swizzled soapy water in the teapot.

‘Who? What?’

‘Nikhil.’

‘Oh yes, apparently his sister, who is younger than he, if you can believe it—’

‘No, Ginny, about coming up here because of me. Because
I
live here.’

‘Not in so many words, I suppose.’

Angelica looked disappointed.

‘But he implied it. I’m sure he implied it. Do you—you don’t—’

‘Don’t be silly. I just wondered, because you said.’

‘Of course.’ Virginia dried the cutlery energetically. The moment was spoiled. She had to keep talking to cover the annoyance she felt—annoyance at Nikhil’s intrusion even into this private time. ‘About his sister, it’s extraordinary, as I say, she’s younger than
he, a child really, and she’s gone and married a
much
older man, a Christian apparently, and she’s—’ And then Virginia stopped suddenly.

‘She’s what?’

‘Nothing. He told me stories about it. In confidence. It’s not for me to repeat them.’ In fact, Virginia found, with the words on the tip of her tongue, that she was as jealous of her time with Nikhil as of her time with Angelica, and that particularly given the interest the latter displayed in the former, she didn’t want to give anything away. By way of changing the subject she said, ‘He is, they are Hindu. The family. He said.’

‘Yes I know. Quite a peaceable and delightful religion, I always think.’

‘Honestly, Angel! And them off knifing each other by the dozen in the back alleys of Calcutta!’

Angelica furrowed her creamy brow and said, sternly, ‘I do think you fall prey to stereotypes
too
much, Virginia. Just too much. It’s backward and intolerant of you, I sometimes feel.’

Virginia could not move. It was as if every pore had begun to seep moisture or tears and it was all solidifying into a cold, horrified casing around her. Her friend had never spoken so harshly to her before. She heard the little gasping sobs her throat made, and set all her strength to not crying in earnest.

‘I’m sorry, Ginny my love. I didn’t mean it.’

Virginia leaned against the sink, and Angelica stroked her grey hair away from her steamy face, resting a young, full cheek against her older one. Angelica’s skin was inexplicably cool, as if the altercation had not affected her at all. Angelica kissed her ear and her chin and put an arm around her shoulders, but Virginia felt strangely detached.

‘Are you all right, pet?’ Angelica asked, so close that her lashes fluttered against Virginia’s skin.

‘I must go home. Mother will be going to bed and she gets
annoyed.’

‘Oh silly, come off it! Ginny, don’t let this be something between us. I just thought now and earlier, about homosexuals, you were more … well, you just didn’t have much patience. That’s all.’

‘And you feel differently? I never knew!’ Virginia sounded more sneering than she wanted to. She couldn’t help it.

‘You
are
sulky. Ginny, love, don’t go off in a huff, please?’ Angelica kissed her again. ‘Please, pet? I suppose I do feel differently, a bit, because of my age, maybe, and my family.’

Virginia turned her prickling eyes full on her friend’s face and said nothing. But the frozen feeling went away, and she was very attentive.

‘Which I don’t want to talk about, Virginia Simpson, as you well know. So let’s talk about something else. Like the fact that Mrs Hammond’s withered thigh was
very
visible above her stockings. From where I was sitting, anyway.’

‘Yes, it’s true, it was, wasn’t it? And I could swear that Alistair was eyeing her leg when he pretended to be sleeping.’

‘Ginny, he wasn’t!’

‘And Philip and Stephen, not to argue on the subject, but they
were
blushing.’

Angelica giggled. ‘Stephen
particularly
. Beet red! He had to come and scrounge in the fridge so we wouldn’t see his face.’

Virginia felt she had said, at last, the right thing.

‘I guess we should pray for them, really.’ Every so often she suggested this to alleviate her conscience.

Angelica flapped at Virginia’s shoulder in mock rage. ‘You turncoat! You
really
think just like Frieda and you know it.’

‘I don’t. You know I don’t. I try to think the way God wants me to. We can’t do more than that.’