Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit (15 page)

I had to head the Bible study that night, despite my sudden nervousness and the worry that I was getting ill again. Katy
was there, and saw my troubled face, and wanted to help. ‘Come and stay this weekend,’ she offered, ‘we’ll have to sleep in the caravan, but it won’t be cold.’ I hadn’t stayed anywhere for a long time. I thought it might do me good.

On the banks of the Euphrates find a secret garden cunningly walled. There is an entrance, but the entrance is guarded. There is no way in for you. Inside you will find every plant that grows growing circular-wise like a target. Close to the heart is a sundial and at the heart an orange tree. This fruit had tripped up athletes while others have healed their wounds. All true quests end in this garden, where the split fruit pours forth blood and the halved fruit is a full bowl for travellers and pilgrims. To eat of the fruit means to leave the garden because the fruit speaks of other things, other longings. So at dusk you say goodbye to the place you love, not knowing if you can ever return, knowing you can never return by the same way as this. It may be, some other day, that you will open a gate by chance, and find yourself again on the other side of the wall.

‘I’ll bring in the calor gas,’ said Katy, ‘so we won’t be cold.’

We weren’t cold, not that night nor any of the others we spent together over the years that followed. She was my most uncomplicated love affair, and I loved her because of it. She seemed to have no worries at all, and though she still denies it, I think she planned the caravan.

‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ I murmured, not intending to stop.

‘Oh yes,’ she cried, ‘yes.’

We stopped talking about it quickly because the dialogue was getting too embarrassing. She was blissful. I took care never to look at her when I preached, though she always sat in the front row. We did have a genuinely spiritual dimension. I taught her a lot, and she put all her efforts into the church, quite apart from me. It was a good time. To the pure all things are pure….

A year had passed since Melanie’s Easter and my illness. It was Easter time again and the Church of England was winding its way up the hill, carrying the cross. On Palm Sunday Melanie returned, beaming with an important announcement. She was to be married that autumn to an army man. To be fair he had given up the bad fight for the Good Fight, but as far as I was concerned he was revolting. I had no quarrel with men. At that time there was no reason that I should. The women in our church were strong and organized. If you want to talk in terms of power I had enough to keep Mussolini happy. So I didn’t object to Melanie getting married, I objected to her getting married to
him
. And she was serene, serene to the point of being bovine. I was so angry I tried to talk to her about it, but she had left her brain in Bangor. She asked me what I was doing.

‘Doing for what?’

She blushed. I had no intention of telling her or anyone else what happened between Katy and me. Not by nature discreet or guilty I had enough memory to know where that particular revelation would lead. She left the day after, to stay with
him
and his parents. Just as they were driving off on his horrible Iron Curtain motor bike, he patted my arm, told me he knew, and forgave us both. There was only one thing I could do; mustering all my spit, I did it.

J
UDGES

’Now I give you fair warning’ shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; ‘Either you or your head must be off:

M
Y MOTHER WANTED
me to move out, and she had the backing of the pastor and most of the congregation, or so she said. I made her ill, made the house ill, brought evil into the church. There was no escaping this time. I was in trouble. Picking up my Bible, the hill seemed the only place to go just then. On the top of the hill is a stone mound to hide behind when the wind blows. The dog never worked it out; used it to pee against, or to play hide and seek with me, but still stood ears flattened and water-eyed till I slung her up in my jacket, warming both of us. The dog was a tiny and foolhardy Lancashire heeler, brown and black with pointy ears. She slept in an Alsatians’ basket which might have been her problem. She didn’t show that she knew what size she really was, she fought with every other dog we met, and snapped at passers by. Once, trying to reach a huge icicle, I fell down on to a quarry ledge and couldn’t climb back again; the earth kept crumbling away. She barked and spluttered and then ran off to help me. Now, here we were, on a different edge.

It all seemed to hinge around the fact that I loved the wrong sort of people. Right sort of people in every respect except this one; romantic love for another woman was a sin.

‘Aping men,’ my mother had said with disgust.

Now if I was aping men she’d have every reason to be disgusted. As far as I was concerned men were something you had around the place, not particularly interesting, but quite harmless. I had never shown the slightest feeling for them, and apart from my never wearing a skirt, saw nothing else in common between us. Then I remembered the famous incident of the man who’d come to our church with his boyfriend. At least, they were holding hands. ‘Should have been a woman that one,’ my mother had remarked.

This was clearly not true. At that point I had no notion of sexual politics, but I knew that a homosexual is further away from a woman than a rhinoceros. Now that I do have a number of notions about sexual politics, this early observation holds good. There are shades of meaning, but a man is a man, wherever you find it. My mother has always given me problems because she is enlightened and reactionary at the same time. She didn’t believe in Determinism and Neglect, she believed that you made people and yourself what you wanted. Anyone could be saved and anyone could fall to the Devil, it was their choice. While some of our church forgave me on the admittedly dubious grounds that I couldn’t help it (they had read Havelock Ellis and knew about Inversion), my mother saw it as a wilful act on my part to sell my soul. At first, for me, it had been an accident. That accident had forced me to think more carefully about my own instincts and others’ attitudes. After the exorcism I had tried to replace my world with another just like it, but I couldn’t. I loved God and I loved the church, but I began to see that as more and more complicated. It didn’t help that I had no intention of becoming a missionary.

‘But that’s what your training’s for,’ my mother had wailed.

‘I can preach just as well at home.’

‘Oh, you’ll get married and get involved.’ She was bitter.

Odd that I was obviously not going to get married. I thought
at first she would have been pleased. A complicated mind, my mother had.

Sir Perceval, the youngest of Arthur’s knights, at last set forth from Camelot. The king had begged him not to go; he knew this was no ordinary quest. Since the visit of the Holy Grail one feast day, the mood had changed. They were brothers, they laughed at Sir Gawain and his exploits in the land of the green knight, they were brave, all brave, and their loyalty was to the king. . . . Had been to the king. The Round Table and the high-walled castle were almost symbols now. Once they were meat and drink. But for Launcelot and Bors, betrayal is in the future as well as in the past. Launcelot is gone, driven mad by heavy things. Somewhere he is searching too; reports reach the king; garbled, incoherent, ragged like the men who bring them. The hall is empty. Soon the enemy will come. There was a stone that held a bright sword and no one could pull the sword because their minds were fixed on the stone.

Arthur sits on the wide steps. The Round Table is decorated with every plant that grows growing circular-wise like a target. Near the centre is a sundial and at the centre a thorny crown. Dusty now, but all things turn to dust.

Arthur thinks of before, when there were lights and smiles.

There was a woman, he remembers her. But oh, Sir Perceval, come and turn cartwheels again.

Katy and I had gone away together for a week at the Morecambe guest house for the bereaved. It was the slack season, so anyone could go, grieving or not, though they were always very strict in winter. Katy’s family were on holiday in their caravan nearby, so we were considered safe. I had been careful to keep any letters in my Saturday job locker, and as far as I could tell, we were above suspicion. We were careless though, that first night on holiday. The thought of having a whole week alone left us over-eager and I forgot to lock the door. She had pulled me on to the bed, then I noticed a thin shaft of light staining the carpet by the edge of the bed. My neck prickled and my mouth went dry. Someone was standing at the door. We didn’t move, and after a moment the
light disappeared. Flopping down by Katy’s side I squeezed her hand tight, and promised her we’d think of something.

We did. The plan was the most fanciful of my brilliant career and from her point of view it worked perfectly. There was no hope for me.

At breakfast time we were summoned to the office of my mother’s old friend and erstwhile treasurer of the Society for the Lost.

‘I want the truth,’ she said, not looking at either of us, ‘and don’t think you fool me.’

I told her that my affair with Melanie had never really ended. That Melanie had written to me for months and that finally, torn with love myself, I had begged Katy to help me arrange a meeting.

‘This was the one place I thought we would be safe,’ I told her as I wept.

She believed me. She wanted to. I knew she wouldn’t fancy explaining to Katy’s family, and I knew she wanted to upset my mother as much as possible. Forcing all the blame on me would do that. She told me to pack and be ready to leave by the morning. She wanted her letter to arrive home before I did. Katy was safe, that was the important thing. She was stubborn and angry like me, but unlike me she couldn’t cope with the darker side of our church. I’d seen her kick against it before, seen her kick and cry. I was determined that they shouldn’t start the demon stuff on her. I was supposed to spend the rest of the day in prayer, Melanie presumably gone. I spent it in bed with Katy. ‘What will you do?’ she asked, her arm tucked into mine as we walked the beach early the following day.

The sand was full of sprats gasping as the tide left them behind. As I left Katy behind, she was crying. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew I wouldn’t live through any of that again. Hands in my pockets, I played with a rough brown pebble.

Of course the scene at home had been incredible. My mother smashed every plate in the kitchenette.

‘There’s no supper,’ she told her husband when he came in off the late shift. ‘There’s nothing to eat it off.’ He went to the fish and chip shop and ate them at the counter.

‘Oh I’m a fool to meself,’ she thundered. ‘Keeping you as long as I have, letting you do more exams, and for what?’ She shook me. ‘For what?’ I pulled away.

‘Leave me alone.’

‘You’ll be left alone soon enough.’ And she went round to the telephone box to call the pastor.

When she came back, she ordered me to bed, and it seemed best to obey. My bed was narrow. I lay in it, unable to forgive myself, unable to forgive her. At regular intervals I heard her calling on the Lord to send a sign. Certainly the pastor arrived, but glad as she was, I think she would have preferred something a bit more spectacular, like for me and my bedroom to be consumed with flames while the rest of the house escaped. Downstairs, they talked in low voices for a long time. I was almost asleep when the pastor appeared with my mother hovering in the background. He stood a safe distance away like I was infected. I put my head under the pillow because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. The pastor snatched it away and explained to me as quietly as he could that I was the victim of a great evil. That I was afflicted and oppressed, that I had deceived the flock. ‘The demon,’ he announced very slowly, ‘had returned sevenfold.’

My mother gave a little cry, and then got angry again. It was my own fault. My own perversity. They started arguing between themselves about whether I was an unfortunate victim or a wicked person. I listened for a while; neither of them were very convincing, and besides, seven ripe oranges had just dropped on to the window sill.

‘Have an orange,’ I offered, by way of conversation. They both stared at me like I was mad. ‘They’re over there.’ I pointed to the window.

‘She’s raving,’ said my mother, incredulous. (She hated mad people.)

‘It’s her master speaking,’ replied the pastor gravely. ‘Ignore her, I shall take this case to the council, it’s too hard for me. Keep an eye on her, but let her go to church.’

My mother nodded, sobbing and biting her lip. They left me in peace. I lay for a long time just watching the oranges. They were pretty, but not much help. I was going to need more than an icon to get me through this one.

The day after, I did go to the Sisterhood meeting. It was the first time Elsie had been at church since her long spell in hospital. She knew what was happening, but still held me close and told me not to be silly. ‘Come for a cup after this,’ she decided, ‘but don’t tell t’others.’

The meeting was near-hysterical with the strain of them all wondering what to do. Mrs White kept banging the wrong notes, and Alice lost the thread of her message when she caught me looking at her. We were thankful when nine o’clock came and it was over. No one asked me why I was leaving before the tea came round, they must have assumed Elsie was tired or I’m sure they’d have tried to stop her. When I got back to Elsie’s it was the first time anyone had talked to me about Miss Jewsbury.

‘She’s living in Leeds,’ Elsie told me, ‘teaching music in one of them special schools. She’s not living alone.’ She gazed at me shrewdly. ‘It were me that told her about you.’

I was astonished. I didn’t really believe Elsie had known. She said she’d just been able to see it.

‘If I’d bin around none of that trouble would have happened anyway. I would have sorted both of you out, but with being in and out of that damn hospital. . . .’

I got up and hugged her and we sat by the fire together like we used to, not saying much. We didn’t talk about
it
, not the rights or wrongs or anything; she looked after me by giving me what I most needed, an ordinary time with a friend.