The Anchoress of Shere

The opportunity arrived sooner than she had intended. It seemed like the middle of the night when Duval stormed in without knocking. The light blinded her for a few seconds and, as usual, she had no idea of night and day unless he told her. It was disorienting, as was being woken up so abruptly.

“Get out,” he ordered. “Get out, now.”

“I can go? Leave?” she asked groggily.

“You can leave your room and go to the corridor. The cellar door is double locked, so there’s no point in trying to get out again. Stay out there while I search your room.”

He seemed to go berserk as he threw her blankets on the floor and searched through her books. He removed her notebooks, then looked in every little cranny of the heater and wash-basin, and under her portable toilet.

Now fully awake and thoroughly alarmed, she asked, “What’s wrong, Michael? What are you looking for? I haven’t done anything. I haven’t got anything.”

His unshaven face was flushed with anger. “Shut up. Shut up! Don’t make me any angrier than I am.”

Petrified, she kept quiet, and retreated shivering to the end of the corridor near the large crucifix.

“Aha! Your little pigeonhole,” he said with an exaggerated note of triumph. Taking out a penknife, he edged the letters out of the air vent. With the notebook in his hand and her letters in his pocket, he walked out into the corridor.

“Get back in there,” he barked. “I suspected you were keeping a diary.”

He locked the door and turned off the light. It remained dark for an hour, then twelve hours and then, so she guessed, for twenty-four hours. She had a water bottle and the scraps of food she had stored, so she did not feel hungry for the first day.

He’s taking a long time reading my few notes and letters, she thought. Has he gone away?

Then, after what she estimated were two days, she wondered whether he had deserted her as he had deserted Denise-just leaving her to rot. It couldn’t be, not after all her stratagems of appeasement.

The heater had run out of paraffin, and the room temperature moved slowly towards zero. Putting on the cardigan he had allowed her, she wrapped the blankets tightly around herself.

She tried to think, despite the cold. “Thank God, I destroyed my original letters,” she told herself. “Those new ones should satisfy him.”

She wondered whether she had been plausible, because lying didn’t come naturally to her. She was pleased that she had taken precautions, but would he believe them? She had to be extra attentive to each nuance of his every mood in future.

She forced herself to relive good memories from the past: she was surprised how often Mrs. Violet Jenkins, from Wales but an inspiring teacher of English, surfaced in her catalogue of heroes. Schooldays hadn’t seemed so good at the time, but in retrospect Mrs. Jenkins had been very kind, very encouraging. She would be surprised to learn that her star pupil was reading the English mystics, and occasionally Gerard Manley Hopkins for light relief. The Cloud of Unknowing would certainly impress her, if only she could be told about it. If only. Marda’s thoughts involuntarily turned to school meals. They didn’t seem worth eating then, but her hunger pangs transformed them into bacchanalian feasts.

She began to pray, and surprised herself by quoting word perfectly from some of the prayers she had been taught by the monster upstairs. She questioned her sanity for the umpteenth time that day, or was it night? The black hole of timelessness was sucking her into madness. Finally, she drifted off into a nightmare in which she was transformed into a slave in some far-off time. She was chained in a medieval kitchen, forced to scrub and clean pots in a dungeon. She was beaten, but at least she encountered different tormentors; one or two even exchanged kind words and gave her scraps of food…

A sound came as if from a long, long tunnel, and she jumped when she realised it was a knock. On her door. A knock. That was a good sign.

The light went on and she managed to say, “Come in.”

He came in, trying, she thought, not to look in the slightest bit sheepish.

“Excuse my intrusion,” he said politely. “I don’t like reading other people’s private things, but I had to know. Were you telling the truth in your letters?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you write them?”

“I had to keep some-even imaginary-contact with the outside world.”

He snorted slightly.

“Are you hungry?” He said this almost tenderly.

“Yes, I’m starving. And it’s really cold in here.”

He turned his back to walk out and then spun around on his heels. He looked at her without speaking for a few seconds, seeming to take in the whole room, her whole subterranean existence. Finally, he said, “It’s Christmas Eve, so I wondered whether you would like a special meal. I have cooked a turkey. I don’t eat meat, but it seems right to offer you some on this eve of the feast.”

Marda thought: that’s as close as he is going to get to offering me an apology. “Oh, thank you,” she said appreciatively. “I’d like to help you. I’m not a bad cook, you know. I could help with the trimmings.”

Smiling, he said, “I can prepare it all myself, but thank you. I will lay out the table…upstairs…in the warm. I don’t expect to have any callers this late. I rarely have callers at all, especially on Christmas Eve. I will ask you to put on your handcuffs again, just as a precaution.”

Marda was ecstatic at the thought of leaving the cellar, even for a short time. “If you would like to get yourself ready, I will come back for you in about an hour…with some heating oil.”

Her excitement was genuine. She beamed when she said, “I don’t really have much to change into. And is there any chance of having my-first-bath?”

“Your habit will do fine…and I will think about the bath,” he added grudgingly. He locked the door and left the light on.

When he came back she had combed her hair and washed as best she could. She looked at her bitten nails, but there was nothing she could do about them. She had never bitten them before. He had refused to give her make-up, but the soap was fragrant. Duval himself seemed to be a bit more spruce than normal, she thought.

Duval was making an effort, especially since he had noticed that he was starting to let himself go a bit-not shaving regularly, wearing the same stained shirt for two days.

After leading her along the corridor with both her hands cuffed together, he helped her up the stairs and through the thick wooden door of the cellar. The flat trapdoor was heavy, so he climbed first and held it open.

The kitchen exploded into her consciousness. Everyday objects such as a bottle of milk, a loaf of Hovis and pots and pans were miracles, wonderful reminders of real life, heaven after the gloom. She marvelled at the tiles, the big enamel teapot and the red-checked cloth covering a tray. This was life, life, life. Light, colour, good smells, comforts, food, but-above all-light. She wanted to cry, laugh, sing, dance, shout, all at the same time, but controlling herself, aware he was watching her every movement, she merely indulged in the unbridled pleasure of staring at all the amazing artefacts of a living kitchen.

She noticed that he had carefully laid out two places on a large pine kitchen table. The bottle of dry French wine made her almost scream with joy.

To add to her pleasure, Duval let Bobby in from an inside door. The dog leapt up at Marda and she patted him furiously.

The priest seemed pleased with himself, but still very cautious. He said, “I hope you will excuse our eating in the kitchen. It is the most secure room on the ground floor. And, if you don’t mind, I will have to handcuff one of your hands to the table.”

She didn’t know whether she should push her luck. “Michael, it’s Christmas Eve and I take it the other doors are locked. Please let me enjoy just one meal and let me eat properly. Please let’s have a civilised meal together.”

He smiled with a slight frown as if to say I half-believe you.

“One move that I don’t like and I will return you to the cellar. If you even think of trying to escape…”

“Michael, I want to have a meal with you. It’s Christmas.”

“If what your letters say is true, then I might believe you. What if you are trying to bluff me? And why did you