Missing Joseph

  It was the aftermath that she hadn’t expected, that moment when all the nice girls don’t’s came rushing through her conscience like Noah’s flood: boys don’t respect girls who…they tell all their mates…just say no, you can do that…who steals my purse…they only want one thing, they only think of one thing…do you want a disease…what if he gets you pregnant, do you think he’ll be so hot for you then…you’ve given in once, you’ve crossed a line with him, he’ll be after you now again and again…he doesn’t love you, if he did, he wouldn’t…

  And so she had come to St. John the Baptist’s for evensong. She’d half-listened to the reading. She’d half-heard the hymns. Mostly, she’d looked at the intricate rood screen and the altar beyond it. There, the Ten Commandments—etched into looming, individual bronze tablets—comprised the reredos, and she found her attention helplessly riveted on commandment number seven. It was harvest festival. The altar steps were spread with an array of offerings. Sheaves of corn, marrows of yellow and green, new potatoes in baskets, and several bushels of beans filled the church air with the fertile scent of autumn. But Maggie was only imperfectly aware of this, as she was only imperfectly aware of the prayers being said and the organ being played. The light from the main chandelier in the chancel seemed to glitter directly onto the bronze reredos, and the word adultery quivered in her vision. It seemed to grow larger, seemed to point and accuse.

  She tried to tell herself that committing adultery meant that at least one of the parties had to be in possession of wedding vows to break. But she knew that an entire school of loathsome behaviours rested beneath the awning of that single word, and she was guilty of most of them: impure thoughts about Nick, infernal desire, sexual fantasies, and now fornication, the worst sin of all. She was black and corrupt, headed straight for damnation.

  If only she could recoil from her behaviour, writhing in disgust over the act itself or how it made her feel, God might forgive her. If only the act had made her feel unclean, He might overlook this one small lapse. If only she didn’t want it—and Nick and the indescribable warmth of their bodies’ connection—all over again, now, right here in the church.

  Sin, sin, sin. She lowered her head to her fists and kept it there, oblivious of the rest of the service. She began to pray, making fervent supplications for God’s forgiveness, with her eyes squeezed shut so tight she saw stars.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Don’t let bad happen to me. I won’t do it again. I promise. I promise. I’m sorry.”

  It was the only prayer that she could devise, and she repeated it mindlessly, caught up in her need for direct communication with the supernatural. She heard nothing of the vicar’s approach, and she didn’t even know the service was over and the church empty until she felt a hand curving firmly round her shoulder. She looked up with a cry. All of the chandeliers had been extinguished. The only light remaining came in a greenish glow from an altar lamp. It touched one side of the vicar’s face and cast long, crescent shadows from the bags beneath his eyes.

  “He is forgiveness itself,” the vicar said quietly. His voice was soothing, just like a warm bath. “Never doubt that. He exists to forgive.”

  The serenity of his tone and the kindness of his words brought tears to her eyes. “Not this,” she said. “I don’t see how He can.”

  His hand squeezed her shoulder, then dropped. He joined her in the pew, sitting not kneeling, and she slid back onto the bench herself. He indicated the rood atop its screen. “If the Lord’s last words were, ‘Forgive them, Father,’ and if His Father did indeed forgive—which we may be assured that He did—then why wouldn’t He forgive you as well? Whatever your sin may be, my dear, it cannot equal the evil of putting to death the Son of God, can it?”

  “No,” she whispered, although she had begun to cry. “But I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway because I wanted to do it.”

  He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s the nature of sin. We face a temptation, we have a choice to make, we choose unwisely. You aren’t alone in this. But if you’re resolved in your heart not to sin again, then God forgives. Seventy times seven. You may rely upon that.”

  Possessing resolution in her heart was the problem. She wanted to promise. She wanted as much to believe in her promise. Unfortunately she wanted Nick more. “That’s just it,” she said. And she told the vicar everything.

  “Mummy knows,” she finished, plaiting his handkerchief back and forth through her fingers. “Mummy’s so angry.”

  The vicar dropped his head and seemed to be examining the faded needlework fleur-de-lis on the kneeler. “How old are you, my dear?”

  “Thirteen,” she said.

  He sighed. “Dear God.”

  More tears rose in her eyes. She blotted them away and hiccupped as she spoke. “I’m bad. I know it. I know it. So does God.”

  “No. It isn’t that.” He covered her hand briefly. “It’s the rush to adulthood that disturbs me. It’s taking on such troubles when you’re still so young.”

  “It’s not a trouble to me.”

  He smiled gently. “No?”

  “I love him. He loves me.”

  “And that’s generally where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

  “You’re making fun,” she said stiffly.

  “I’m speaking the truth.” He moved his gaze from her to the altar. His hands were on his knees, and Maggie saw his fingers tense as he gripped them more firmly. “Your name is?”

  “Maggie Spence.”

  “I’ve not seen you in church before tonight, have I?”

  “No. We…Mummy isn’t taken much with going to church.”

  “I see.” Still he held the grip on his knees. “Well, you’ve come upon one of mankind’s biggest challenges at a fairly young age, Maggie Spence. How to cope with the sins of the flesh. Even before the time of our Lord, the ancient Greeks recommended moderation in everything. They knew, you see, the sort of consequences one faces through giving in to one’s appetites.”

  She frowned, confused.

  He caught the look and went on with, “Sex is an appetite as well, Maggie. Something like hunger. It begins with mild curiosity rather than a rumble in the stomach, to be sure. But it quickly becomes a demanding taste. And unfortunately, it isn’t like overeating or intoxication from drink, both of which provide a rather immediate physical discomfort that can later act as a reminder of the fruits of impetuous indulgence. Instead, it provides a sense of well-being and release, one that we come to wish to experience again and again.”

  “Like a drug?” she asked.

  “Very much like a drug. And just like many drugs, its harmful properties aren’t immediately apparent. Even if we know what they are—intellectually—the promise of pleasure is often too seductive for us to abstain when we should. That’s when we must turn to the Lord. We must ask Him to infuse us with the strength to resist. He faced His own temptations, you know. He understands what it is to be human.”

  “Mummy doesn’t talk about God,” Maggie said. “She talks about AIDS and herpes and warts and getting pregnant. She thinks I won’t do it if I’m scared enough.”

  “You’re being harsh on her, my dear. These are far from unrealistic concerns on her part. Cruel facts are associated with sexuality these days. Your mother is wise—and kind—to share them with you.”

  “Oh, too right. But what about her? Because when she and Mr. Shepherd—” Her automatic protest died unfinished. No matter her feelings, she couldn’t betray Mummy to the vicar. That wouldn’t be right.

  The vicar cocked his head but made no other indication that he understood in what direction Maggie’s words had been heading. “Pregnancy and disease are the long-term potential consequences we face when we submit ourselves to the pleasures of sex,” he said. “But unfortunately, when we’re in the midst of an encounter leading up to intercourse, we rarely think of anything save the moment’s exigency.”

  “Sorr
y?”

  “The need to do it. At once.” He lifted the fleur-de-lis kneeler from its hook on the back of the pew in front of him and placed it on the uneven stone floor. “Instead, we think in terms of it couldn’t, I won’t, and it can’t. Out of our desire for physical gratification comes the denial of possibility. I won’t become pregnant; he couldn’t give me a disease because I believe he doesn’t have one. And it is from these little acts of denial that our deepest sorrow ultimately springs.”

  He knelt and gestured that she was to join him. “Lord,” he said quietly, eyes on the altar, “help us to see Your will in all things. When we are sorely tried and tempted, allow us to realise it is through Your love that we are so tested. When we stumble and sin, forgive us our wrongs. And give us the strength to avoid all occasion of sin in the future.”

  “Amen,” Maggie whispered. Through the thick fall of her hair, she felt the vicar’s hand rest lightly on the back of her neck, a comradely expression that imparted the first real peace she’d had in days.

  “Can you resolve to sin no more, Maggie Spence?”

  “I want to.”

  “Then I absolve you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  He walked out with her into the night. The lights were on in the vicarage across the street, and Maggie could see Polly Yarkin in the kitchen, setting the vicar’s table for dinner.

  “Of course,” the vicar was saying, as if in continuation of a previous thought, “absolution and resolve are one thing. The other’s more difficult.”

  “Not doing it again?”

  “And keeping yourself active in other areas of your life so the temptation’s not there.” He locked the church door and pocketed the key in his trousers. Although the night was quite cool, he wasn’t wearing an overcoat and his clerical collar gleamed in the moonlight like a Cheshire smile. He observed her thoughtfully, pulling on his chin. “I’m starting a youth group here in the parish. Perhaps you’d like to join us. There’ll be meetings and activities, things to keep you busy. It might be a good idea, all things considered.”

  “I’d like to, except…We’re not members of the Church, actually, Mummy and I. And I can’t think that she’d let me join. Religion…She says religion leaves a bad taste in the mouth.” Maggie dropped her head when she revealed this last. It seemed particularly unfair, considering the vicar’s kindness to her. She went on to add in a rush, “I don’t feel that way myself. At least I don’t think I do. It’s just that I don’t know much about it in the first place. I mean…I’ve hardly ever been. To Church, that is.”

  “I see.” His mouth turned down, and he fished in his jacket pocket to bring out a small white card which he handed to her. “Tell your mummy I’d like to visit with her,” he said. “My name’s on the card. My number as well. Perhaps I can make her feel more comfortable with the Church. Or at least pave the way for you to join us.” He walked out of the churchyard at her side and touched her shoulder in farewell.

  The youth group seemed like something Mummy would agree to, once she got over her disapproval of its being tied to the Church. But when Maggie pressed the vicar’s card upon her, Mummy had stared down at it for the longest time, and when she looked up, her face was pasty and her mouth looked queer.

  You went to someone else, her expression said, as clearly as if she’d spoken. You didn’t trust your mummy.

  Maggie tried to soothe her feelings as well as avoid the unspoken accusation by hurriedly saying, “Josie knows Mr. Sage, Mummy. Pam Rice does as well. Josie says he’s only been in the parish for three weeks now, and he’s trying to get people back to the Church. Josie says the youth group—”

  “Is Nick Ware a member?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Margaret.”

  “I’m not. I just thought…The vicar wants to talk to you about it. He wants you to phone.”

  Mummy walked to the rubbish basket, ripped the card in half, and buried it—with a savage little twist of her wrist—among the coffee grounds and grapefruit rinds. “I have no intention of speaking to a priest about anything, Maggie.”

  “Mummy, he only—”

  “This discussion is over.”

  But despite Mummy’s refusal to phone him, Mr. Sage had come three times to the cottage. Winslough was a small village, after all, and discovering where the Spence family lived was as easy as asking in Crofters Inn. When he’d shown up unexpectedly one afternoon, doffing his trilby to Maggie as she opened the door, Mummy had been alone in the greenhouse repotting some herbs. She’d greeted Maggie’s nervous announcement of the vicar’s visit by saying tersely, “Go to the inn. I’ll phone when you can come home.” And the anger in her voice and the hardness of her face told Maggie it was wiser not to ask any questions. She had long known Mummy didn’t like religion. But it was just like trying to gather the facts about her father: She didn’t know why.

  Then Mr. Sage died. Just like Daddy, Maggie thought. And he liked me just like Daddy. I know he did. I do.

  Now in her bedroom, Maggie found she had run out of words to send to heaven. She was a sinner, a slut, a tart, a scrubber. She was the vilest creature God ever put on earth.

  She got to her feet and rubbed her knees where they were red and sore from the rug’s digging into them. Wearily, she wandered to the bathroom and rustled through the cupboard to find what Mummy kept hidden there.

  “What happens is this,” Josie had explained confidentially when they’d come upon the odd plastic container with its even odder spout, deeply buried among the towels. “After they have sex, the woman fills this bottle thing with oil and vinegar. Then she sort of sticks this nozzle part up inside and pumps it real hard and then she won’t have a baby.”

  “But she’ll smell like a tossed salad,” Pam Rice put in. “I don’t think you’ve got your facts straight, Jo.”

  “I most certainly do, Miss Pamela Know-it-all.”

  “Right.”

  Maggie examined the bottle. She shuddered at the thought. Her knees weakened a bit, but she would have to do it. She carried it downstairs and into the kitchen where she set it on the work top and took down the oil and vinegar. Josie hadn’t said how much to use. Half and half, most likely. She uncapped the vinegar and began to pour.

  The kitchen door opened. Mummy walked in.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THERE WAS NOTHING TO SAY, SO MAGGIE kept pouring, keeping her eyes on the vinegar as its level rose. When it reached halfway, she recapped the bottle and unstoppered the oil. Her mother spoke.

  “What in God’s name are you doing, Margaret?”

  “Nothing,” she said. It seemed obvious enough. The vinegar. The oil. The plastic bottle with its detachable, elongated spout lying next to it. What else could she be doing but preparing to rid her body of all the internal traces of a man? And who else would that man be but Nick Ware?

  Juliet Spence shut the door behind her with a snick of the lock. At the sound, Punkin appeared from the darkness of the sitting room and glided across the kitchen to rub against her legs. He mewled softly.

  “The cat wants feeding.”

  “I forgot,” Maggie said.

  “How did you forget? What were you doing?”

  Maggie didn’t reply. She poured the oil into the bottle, watching it bob and swirl in graceful amber orbs as it met the vinegar.

  “Answer me, Margaret.”

  Maggie heard her mother’s handbag drop onto one of the kitchen chairs. Her heavy pea jacket followed. Then came the sharp plit plot of her boots as she crossed the room.

  Never had Maggie been more aware of the advantage her mother had in height than when Juliet Spence joined her at the work top. She seemed to tower above her like an angel of vengeance. One false move and the sword would fall.

  “What exactly are you planning to do with that concoction?” Juliet asked. Her voice sounded careful, the way someone spoke just before he was sick.

  “Use it.”


  “For?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m glad of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you’re developing a bent towards feminine hygiene, you’re going to have quite a mess on your hands if you douche with oil. And I take it that we are talking about hygiene, Margaret. There’s nothing else behind this, I’m sure. Aside, of course, from a curious and rather sudden compulsion to be certain your private parts are fresh and clean.”

  Maggie studiously set the oil on the work top next to the vinegar. She stared at the undulating mixture she’d made.

  “I saw Nick Ware pedalling his bicycle along the Clitheroe Road on my way home,” her mother went on. Her words were coming faster now, each one sounding as if her teeth clipped it off. “I don’t particularly want to think what that—combined with this fascinating experiment you’re apparently conducting in emulsification—might actually mean.”

  Maggie touched her index finger to the plastic bottle. She observed her hand. Like the rest of her, it was small, dimpled, and plump. It couldn’t possibly be less like her mother’s. It was unsuited for housework and heavy toil, unused to digging and working with the earth.

  “This oil-and-vinegar business isn’t connected with Nick Ware, is it? Tell me it was purely coincidence that I should have seen him heading back towards the village not ten minutes ago.”

  Maggie jiggled the bottle and watched the oil slip and slide across the surface of the vinegar. Her mother’s hand clamped over her wrist. Maggie felt the immediate answering numbness in her fingers.

  “That hurts.”

  “Then talk to me, Margaret. Tell me Nick Ware hasn’t been here tonight. Tell me you haven’t had sex with him again. Because you reek of it. Are you aware of that? Do you realise you smell like a whore?”