The Anchoress of Shere

“I’m not a Catholic, although my mother is-was-but it’s nice to talk to you. You seem friendlier than most priests, although I don’t suppose I know that many.” She laughed a little too self- consciously, and Duval liked the girlishness of this grown woman.

“My surgery hours are usually between five and seven.”

“I may take you up on that.”

“Don’t come if you don’t want to. It must be your choice… We all have freedom of choice,” he added gently.

“Well, I’d better get on,” said Marda. “Thanks. I may call in to see you sometime. Bye.” She patted Bobby on the head and walked the short distance to her flat.

Duval was pleased with himself, glad that he had not taken her. It would have been too risky, too impulsive, here on his home ground. He had selected her, and he felt that she had chosen him. He was sure she would come eventually to him. A few days later they chatted briefly near the ford, and he repeated his invitation to visit the church. She said she would call in when she returned from France, which would not be for a few weeks.

The next evening a demurely dressed young woman, looking very unsure of herself, walked into Duval’s church. She gazed up at an elaborate chandelier and then at the high wooden supports of the ceiling; as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she caught a glimpse of a black surplice bustling from a passage near the side of the altar. It was Duval and he greeted her warmly.

“You look so different dressed as a priest,” Marda said shyly. “It makes it so formal, rather than chatting to an old…well, a new friend.”

Duval considered whether he should shake her hand, but decided against it. “Welcome, Marda,” he said, showing surprise but also genuine pleasure at her arrival. “I’m on duty now. So please come into the vestry and have a cup of tea. And there is some coconut cake as well.” He led her to a small office, full of old books. “Bit small and scruffy, I’m afraid, but most people find it cosy enough for a chat. I thought you were going to France.”

“I am, but I had a stinking letter from Mark, you know, the brother I mentioned to you, and, well, I wanted to clear my head before I went away.”

“Sugar?” said Duval.

“No thanks.”

“Please sit down. That chair is more comfortable. Now tell me about your brother…”

“Well, I feel awkward talking about it.”

When she started to pull out a blue packet of Gitanes cigarettes from her handbag, Duval noticed her long painted nails.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t smoke in church,” Marda said, looking flustered again. “I’m just rather nervous.”

“I don’t smoke in the actual church, but I sometimes smoke my pipe here in my office. Smoke if you want. Really. Use my ashtray.”

Duval disliked women smoking, but it was not the time to say that. Marda lit up the Gitane, sank back into her chair and sipped her tea.

“This tea tastes unusual…It’s interesting, though. What is it?”

“I have an interest in herbs,” said Duval, not looking at her. “It’s my own mix. Some conventional Assam with a few of my own little additions…You were talking about your brother.”

Marda put on a very diffident smile, with her chin down and her eyes up, as though she was a doe startled by a strange sound in the forest.

Duval waited for her to speak. When she did, the words tumbled out. “We’re not really a close family and I don’t feel I can talk about it with them. In fact, although my mother is a lapsed Catholic, my father is a staunch Anglican. He would have a blue fit if he knew I was here talking to a Catholic priest. I haven’t told a soul I’m here, not even Jenny-she’s my best friend in Guildford. Maybe it’s crazy, but I wanted to talk to someone professionally, if you like. It’s not religious, at all, so perhaps I shouldn’t really be here.”

“I’m glad you are,” said Duval. “Very glad.”

For ten or fifteen minutes the priest was told a tale of recent sibling rivalry, of two over-achievers close in age, with loving but distant parents. Duval listened carefully enough to offer the occasionally anodyne commiseration, but he was more intent on examining Marda’s potential for the tasks he would set her. It was enough to sit and let her pour her heart out.

Suddenly Marda dried up. “I feel such a fool, telling you all my problems; I’m sure you have lots to do…” And she stood up to leave.

Duval stood with her. “It’s good to talk. Confessions-or even informal chats like this-are often the first steps to resolving personal problems. Please call in again. If it helps, I am always ready to listen and provide whatever advice I can.”

He offered his hand, and she shook it warmly. The priest escorted her to the side entrance of the church, passing two old women bent under the weight of their years, praying in a small side chapel, too engrossed in worship to notice the striking young woman. It was dark when she left the church.

If she comes again, thought Duval, she has chosen. She has exercised her own free will. It is her choice.

Duval did not have to wait long. The next evening, after work, Marda rushed in from the rain to apologise for unburdening herself. This time the church was empty.

The priest led her into his room, and offered her tea again. She was very reluctant to stop, but he insisted. He calmed her by asking, “Did it help, opening yourself up a little? That’s all that matters; and, remember, it is my role in life to listen to people’s problems. Priests can sometimes be useful, you know.”

She drank her tea rapidly, trying to avoid any impression of imposing on this man whom she had so recently met.

“Michael…or should I call you ‘Father’ in church…?”

“Please call me ‘Michael,’ I insist.”

“Well, Michael, I do appreciate your listening and your advice, but I must be truthful, I’m not into formal religion at all…no offence meant, of course.” She laughed at her own clumsiness.

Michael laughed too. “None taken, I can assure you.”

Marda wanted to put her cup down, to indicate politely that she was about to leave. She tried to get up from her seat, but slumped back down. She spoke, but she found it hard to enunciate correctly. The priest stood and watched as Marda’s voice started to wind down to a quiet, slurring monotone. As her head slumped on to her chest and her empty cup and saucer fell to the floor and broke into pieces, Duval locked the door to his office.

When she awoke from her drugged sleep Marda was lying in complete darkness on what felt like a wooden bench.

Too groggy to explore her mind, let alone her new environment, she just turned to her side and was copiously sick. She lay back prone on the bench and opened and closed her eyes. It didn’t make any difference because it was completely black. She pinched herself to see if she was dreaming. For a moment she thought she was dead, until she heard herself croak: “Where the hell am I?”

Somehow that fragment of self-assertion made her feel a little better, although she had a pulsating headache. Her lips and mouth were bitter from a chemical taste and sour from the vomit. She desperately wanted to drink something. Anything. A part of her felt like falling asleep again, but her panic forced her to explore.

She stretched out her left hand to touch a cold stone wall to her side. Then she raised her right hand to just above her head and felt the same cold stone. She began to feel cold herself. What is this place? her mind screamed, terror welling up inside her. Some sort of burial vault in the church?

Her jacket had gone, so had her shoes. She tried to sit up, but the pain rushed to her head again and she lay back down. Slowly she felt her body with her hands, and realised that she was wearing just her bra and pants. For a second, indignation displaced some of the dread.

“The bastard,” she said aloud. “The bastard. He’s drugged me, locked me up somewhere in some cold dungeon or something…and he’s taken my clothes.” The thought suddenly took hold of her terrified mind that he could have raped her as well, and she began to sob uncontrollably. Then her common sense reasserted itself, and she realised that there was no bruising or pain between her legs. She would know if she had been violated.