Imaginary Toys (16 page)

It’s typical, I suppose, of the way people pull themselves together. Some make themselves a nice cup of tea, some pick up their knitting, some go and have a good weed in the garden, I think about an open door. Minor physical or daily things are all one can manage. The desire to attempt them grows and grows. Eventually one gets up and straightens the bed and puts the pillow out to dry on the window-ledge and washes one’s face, and then one goes downstairs and out to one’s car and finds, since this is England after all, that it hasn’t been stolen and the kumquats are still rolling about under the seats when you rock the car. Actually there was only one kumquat left, like an orange diminished by some witch’s curse. I picked it up and took a tentative bite. It was sweet and full of pips and delicious. I ate it all. The number of feet that must have kicked it about over the last few days never occurred to me. Crying makes one hungry, apart from anything
else—perhaps that’s why women make tea. Anyway I know I felt very hungry just then, and I shut the door of the car with a
gentleness
I usually reserve for other people’s cars, and went back to my room. Life was beginning to begin again. I looked in the cupboard and found a Camembert and some very stale bread, and I ate them and felt much, much better. As I said, crying exhausts one, like vomiting, and also, like vomiting, when one’s recovered one is hungry. Hunger satisfied, I drank a bottle of beer, lay down on the bed again and went to sleep.

I woke up about dinner-time and lay for a few minutes
wondering
about life and death and the speed of light and the expanding universe and the mating habits of fish and the alum industry in the early seventeenth century and Queen Victoria. Then I
wondered
if I wanted anything to eat, and decided I was starving. So I got up, and yawned a bit, and washed my face again (I hate feeling puffy around the eyes) and changed my shirt and went down to the car.

Driving with great pleasure and a sense of unity with the machine I went into the centre of Oxford, getting the most out of each gear-change, using hand-signals, being courteous to
pedestrians
, feeling generally pacific and contented. I treated myself to a large meal at considerable expense, with a whole bottle of wine, and a lot of drinks both before and afterwards. Then I went home again and slept and slept and slept till noon the next day.

That, apparently, is how
I
behave under emotional stress.

Oh, there’s a bird. It must have flown in when the door was open. Poor thing, it will never get out again. It’ll tap and tap at the stained glass, trying to rest on the branches of lead, its beak will get all bloody, and eventually it’ll fall down and die beneath a radiator. Can’t I do something? Isn’t there a ladder? But how would I catch it? It would only be frightened and move to another window. A butterfly net. They ought to keep one somewhere. Perhaps they do. In the vestry? How one’s feet echo when the church is empty! It makes me feel guilty, as though I was disturbing the church itself at its prayers. Silly idea. The altar is the head, with the lighted candles for eyes, and the sides of the church are arms, rounding into hands, joining at the apse. Praying for what? Please God will you get that bird out of here? Please God can’t you get a few people to come in here sometimes? What am I doing in the vestry? Ladder. And butterfly net. No ladder. No net. What a lot of dust. Why do they always fill vestries with
mouldering
old books? Hymn-books with pages missing. Children didn’t respect them. Why keep them, though? This place needs a woman to keep it tidy. I’d put in a proper light to start with. That awful fly-blown naked bulb. And I’d wash the curtains. And mend the cassocks and surplices. They ought to have nuns to look after them if they won’t marry. So silly not to. Priests don’t have any idea how to run a house or keep a church clean. Just look at this curtain. Can’t have been cleaned for ever so many years. No wonder people think of religion as dusty and musty and not up to date. And the floor. I suppose it gets scrubbed once a month or so, if it’s lucky. You’d think people would want to keep their church clean. But then they don’t think of it as theirs. It’s the priest’s, the priests’. And the Fathers are rather an odd bunch. Can’t imagine them
asking a woman to do anything. Can’t waste time in here, what am I doing? Oh, the bird. Well, they’ll have to get someone to clean up after it if I don’t get it out of here pretty soon. Where’s it gone? Oh, how clever, perched on a capital. But how am I ever going to get it down? It looks ever so sweet up there, among the twisted vines and the leaves and things. If only they’d let a bit of light in here. Could see things more clearly. Is it the bird? Or a carving? It’s a carving. Boo. Boo. There, it didn’t move. Where is it, then? Gone out, perhaps? Not a sound of a flutter. Can’t have got out, no window open. Door shut. Must be in here somewhere. Perhaps it came in to pray, too. I’ll look for it afterwards. Where shall I kneel? Near the altar, near the Virgin. Stupid Protestants. Statues aren’t idols. Never thought for a minute she looks like that. And He can’t have hung like that. Not physically possible. They don’t understand that statues help me to concentrate. Concentrate. Goodness, these hassocks could do with a good bumping in the open air. Ever so dirty. Charles says I shouldn’t say ever so. No sillier than very. Pews always smell of pine-needles. Nice. Keeps going in spite of the incense. Cleaner, too, somehow. Ah!
Concentrate.
Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come—oh, there’s the bird again, bother. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Bother that bird. In the East window. Battling against Christ on the cross. Must be blasphemy, that. I must be able to catch it somehow. A surplice. Throw it up and over. Bring the bird down in it. Like an unopened parachute. No, bad idea. A butterfly net and a ladder. The candle-snuffer. Where is it? It’s a very tiny bird, it might be big enough. Where’s the bird gone? Still there. Clinging to the lead. Miles out of reach. Stand on the altar. No, mustn’t do that. Sacrilege, probably. A chair. Goodness, when did anyone last dust this place? Never noticed before. You could write your name all over the church. Shocking. Very big church, of course. Difficult to get it clean all over. Could get someone to dust the pews and chairs, though. Not fair on people’s clothes. Getting their bottoms to do the cleaning. Must be firms to do it. Still, very hard up. Wouldn’t think so from their vestments. In the old days they used to whitewash the churches every Easter. That would be nice. Covered up all those frescoes, though. Here we are. If I put it here, I should be able to reach. Where’s the snuffer? Where can I have put it? Oh, there, of course. Now. Goodness, the chair isn’t safe. One hand on the wall. Can’t control the snuffer that way. Here goes. Wobbly, but still.
Now. Up, reach
up,
up. Oh, bother the thing, it’s still out of reach. I’m going to fall off. One foot on the altar, then. Reach. No.
Both
feet on the altar. Hope no one decides to come in. What’s the time? No, half an hour till Angelus. Up again. Oh, do come down a bit, bird. Can’t you see I’m trying to help you, you stupid thing? Don’t you want to be set free? What did you come in for, in the first place? That’s better, come down a bit. A bit more. Just a teeny bit more. There. Now I can reach you. Don’t be frightened. Don’t frighten it. Just let the snuffer down, gently, ever so gently, over, over, gently—damn it! Mustn’t swear in church. So nearly had it. Here’s a chance. Come a bit nearer, can’t you? Mustn’t knock over a candle. No,
this
way, you stupid creature.
This
way. Trying to help people. Hopeless. Won’t be helped. That’s right, and a bit more, a bit more. There. Now. I’ve got it! Down, down, slowly, slowly, but don’t let it—oh, really. I could kill it. Now it’s miles away again. Up on the cross, perching on the lead of His right arm. His strong right arm, mighty and powerful in battle. Fight it, then. Mind the candles. Up. Come down, damn you, come down. Can’t you see I’m trying—that’s better. Now, this time I must scoop it down quickly. It’ll get away again otherwise. Oh, the wings scratching against the glass. I can’t bear it. My arms ache like anything. Oh dear, it’s ever so difficult. Now. Quick! There! Quick, down to the floor, jump, quick. Lay the snuffer down straight. Can’t get out. Oh my God, I’ve knocked over a candle. Don’t swear. Got the bird, though. Light it from the other one. That’s right. Not too much mess. A bit of wax won’t show on this floor. Now what? Cup hands under the snuffer. Carry the whole thing to the door. Its little toes are quite sharp. Ouch. Never mind. Probably thinks I want to kill it. Like a prisoner being released from jail, but thinks he’s being taken to execution. Must be its heart, that fluttering. Quaking with terror, poor thing. The noise of my feet! Not much farther. Goodness, how do I open the door? Put the snuffer flat on the floor. That’s right. Poor thing might suffocate. It is a very small bird, though. A fledgling? The little pest, it’s scratched me enough to bleed. Gratitude for you. Now, hands underneath again. Heavens, it nearly got out. And through the porch. And—there! Oh, how lovely to be able to fly! Sit on a gravestone and sing for me. No, it’s gone. What kind of bird? Fledgling. Sparrow fledgling, probably. What a commotion. It might have sat on a gravestone, though. Pray now. Have to get my eyes used to the darkness again. Why don’t they let in a bit more light? So silly making it all dark.
Afraid God will disappear in the light of day? What nonsense. My feet so loud again. Left, right, echo, echo. Hate to be locked up inside a church like that bird. Free now. Footprints on the
altar-cloth.
Handkerchief. Still a bit mucky. Goodness, they could do with some new flowers. Summer, after all. Such mouldering things, like those old hymn-books. Crumple when I touch the vase. Not good enough for God. Pray. The
dirt
in these hassocks. Our Father. I’m not listening to myself. Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Funny thing. Why do You have a name? Don’t think of You as a father, You know. Fathers are stiff and stern, won’t let me do what I want. Like Father Gibbons. Or Daddy. You’re not like that, are You? Why do You have a name? Human weakness? Why do I think of You in capital letters? Do the angels call You Sir? Silly. Concentrate. You’re terribly nice, Mary, with your face painted like no one’s face ever was. I want to have a baby, oh, ever so much, you’ve no idea. I don’t want to give birth to God or anything. Just an ordinary human baby. A boy, if I can only have one. Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy. Really. Thy kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven. You know, I don’t think I believe in Your heaven. Not the way Father Gibbons makes it sound. Terribly dull. I think that Your heaven is like my earth, only with all the obstacles to happiness removed. You can’t expect me to be enthusiastic about things that pass human understanding, can You? Just because the priests can’t think of a good answer. You see, I’m not stupid, and You’re pretty lucky to have me at all, You know. Considering everything, and the way You’ve been so awful to us. Very few intelligent people can swallow You at all. But I do believe in You, I think. I believe in something, and it takes Your shape. You don’t have a shape. You see, I’ve always been brought up to believe in You, but You are always changing, aren’t You? My idea of You is, anyway. And I dare say I shouldn’t be in this church at all. I should be in
something
much less formal. But I’ve always been to churches like this. I like the vestments and the smell of incense. I suppose I ought to go over to Rome, like Nicholas says. But I shan’t. As a matter of fact I’ve come here to ask You a question. But that bird distracted me. I was almost crying when I arrived. I can’t go on like this. We can’t. I know I’ve said it before. You see it’s You or Jack, and I want both. I shall always believe in You, whatever happens. But You may change a lot more before everything settles down, don’t You think? You see, at the moment, what with everything
not
being
settled—let me give You an example. I was listening to the radio this morning. I’d just washed my hair. When I heard someone singing that song. From
Porgy
and
Bess,
isn’t it? ‘I
love you, Porgy’. It’s a girl’s song. I’ve always liked it. And I started humming as it went along. And it came to that bit where she says: ‘Don’t let him handle me with his hot hands.’ And the comb fell out of my hand, I felt ever so odd. Just at the bit where she says ‘handle’. And I thought about him so strongly. I couldn’t help it. Just for a moment I thought he was there, and he was going to—You see it’s almost impossible—I’ve tried everything—but I can’t stop it—You do see, don’t You? And I don’t think I can try to stop it any longer. That’s what I came to tell You. And we can’t get married yet or anything, as You very well know. Well, we
could.
But I don’t think it would be right to. And we do love each other. And You’re trying to stop us. Father Gibbons says so. He says You think we are sinning. I think that’s ridiculous. He’s a man, he’s never been married, how could he know? Men don’t understand. If loving a man with all your heart and soul and body is a sin, then I’m a sinner, and I don’t care, so there. Everything gets so complicated when Father Gibbons starts talking about sin. It’s like looking at things through stained glass. Everything’s twisted and
odd-looking.
But I can’t believe You mind me going to bed with Jack. It makes us both so much happier and nicer to other people. Father Gibbons can’t understand that. He makes it sound as if the only real sin was sex. I don’t believe that, do You? That’s why I’ll never join the Romans, really. I think contraceptives are a
marvellous
invention. They say it’s much nicer without. But we don’t take any foolish risks. You see we’re really quite responsible people. So I’m going to sleep with Jack. And I don’t expect You’ll see me in this particular building again. I’m leaving Oxford for good, now. Jack’s staying on to get his Dip. Ed. as You probably know. So I may be back at week-ends and call in. But I shan’t see Father Gibbons any more. You don’t mind, do You? Oh dear, there’s someone coming. It’s a woman, good. Oh, and she’s brought You some new flowers. About time too. I’d better shut my eyes. You do see, don’t You, that I couldn’t go on, as we were. It was hopeless for everyone. And You must make Jack see it, too. Because he’s the one that believes in Father Gibbons, not me. Let him handle me, please, with his hot hands. It’s a kind of worship. With my body I thee worship. Do You see what I mean? It’s not just my body or his body, it’s an act of worship to You, who made us and made it
possible and made it possible for us to enjoy it, and be ourselves. And we don’t forget You, ever. We don’t think of You all the time, of course. But we don’t forget You in lots of important ways. I do love You. I love You for making the world and for making me, too. And Jack. You do understand, don’t You? And thank You that all the exams are over. Only the viva now. They weren’t too bad. Jack’s pretty confident, too. I expect he told You. And do try and make him see that it’s all right, and that Father Gibbons is wrong. Thank You very much. I feel much better now. I had to explain, You see. I must go and tell that woman about the bird, now. It was rather awful, it getting shut in here like that, wasn’t it? do hope You don’t mind me talking to You like this. I don’t know what I was thinking about when I was rude just now. And You’ve been a great help. And I do believe in You. And aren’t You glad that the bird is free again? It’s terribly murky in here, You know. You ought to get someone to look after it properly. It needs a woman to make a church nice. I think a lot of nonsense is talked about You. And I love You very much for being human, and for being kind to the woman taken in adultery, and for loving one disciple more than the others, and though I’m sorry for you, Mary, I’m sure you were the sweetest woman in the world. I’ll go and tell the woman about the bird. Oh, the noise of my feet in here!

‘Hallo. There was a bird caught in here. But I’ve let it out.’