The Anchoress of Shere

write to Christine?”

She started fiddling with the end of the tablecloth, but she knew she had to maintain eye contact: “Michael, those letters were like my diary, my lifeline to the outside world. I needed to talk to my friends-including Christine. She has become like a friend. They were just meant for me, though. Would I lie to myself?”

After he had undone her handcuffs, he smiled again, in his lopsided way, and said, “Let’s not argue tonight. Please sit down, Marda. May I pour you some wine?”

Except for the corn spirit, she had not tasted alcohol for nearly three months. “You bet,” she said eagerly.

He pulled out for her a real chair and she actually sat at a proper table; and, in warmth and light, this was paradise for Marda. She watched him pour the wine into a crystal glass and place it in front of her. She stopped herself for all of a minute, and then drank the whole glass in one gulp.

“’Scuse my manners, but I needed that.” The unaccustomed taste made her hiccup slightly.

Sitting down opposite her, he poured himself a glass which he sipped deliberately. Savouring his wine, with no mock pretension he said, “This is from Bordeaux; it’s a good year.”

“It’s lovely, Michael, thank you. I’ve spent some time there, as you know, working with wines, so I appreciate your thoughtfulness in getting a Bordeaux. Thank you so much.”

“Since you are so appreciative, I have decided to allow you a bath, a quick one. I don’t want to spend hours on guard outside the door. I shall give you ten minutes. Do you agree?”

A look of unadulterated delight transfixed Marda’s face. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes!” she said delightedly. “Now?”

“Yes. The window is firmly shuttered from the outside so there is no point in trying to get out. The water is hot, and there is a spare towel on the chair.”

He unlocked the kitchen door and, holding her firmly by the arm, led her along a gloomy passageway next to the kitchen. He pushed her gently ahead into a darkened room, switching on the light before she could become anxious.

“Help yourself,” he said expansively. “Remember, though, I will be outside the door, in case you try any funny business. There’s no lock inside, but I promise I shall not disturb you, so long as you are not more than ten minutes. Fair enough?”

She nodded, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Duval closed the door, leaving her alone in the most spartan bathroom she had ever seen. A forty-watt bulb illuminated the white enamel sink, bath and toilet, all scrupulously clean. Alongside the bath stood a simple wooden chair, painted brown. An old heavy-duty wooden towel rail had been treated to white paint, but long ago. There was nothing else, except a threadbare towel, soap and toilet paper. She had hoped there would be a mirror.

The next ten minutes passed in a blur of ecstasy: the luxury of a real toilet, while she ran the bath, then the bliss of deep, hot water enveloping her body, the glide of the soap caressing her limbs, the chance to end the itching in her scalp, her body tingling, revived by heat and cleanliness and the smell of Lux soap, this was almost the world she came from…

“You have one more minute, Marda.” His voice ruptured her reverie, and hate suffused her being; her first luxury in months, and again he was rationing her.

“Right, Michael, coming out in a moment.” She jumped on to the cold white-tiled floor, wiping herself furiously. Only half-dry, she threw on her habit in fear that he would enter the bathroom while she was naked. She wanted to be ready before he came in to enforce his time limit. And she needed to make some effort to clean the bath: she used the towel to wipe off the tidemark from water dirtied by her first proper wash in months.

He gave her two minutes, and knocked; she opened the door, her hair still dripping.

“Happy, now?” he enquired.

“Yes, ready to eat,” she said, as he loomed behind her, gesturing the way back to the kitchen.

They sat at the table, both nervous of initiating conversation, until Duval said, “Were you really so afraid of me in the beginning? I know that the herbal drug must have been very unpleasant, but I did my best to keep you happy. Am I such an ogre?”

She held out her glass and he refilled it.

“How can I answer that, Michael? As you said, let’s not argue. Let’s just enjoy the meal. I can’t wait.” Again, she patted the dog which was now asleep under the table.

Duval had heated some canned tomato soup, for which he apologised. To Marda it tasted superb.

As he prepared the food, he was careful not to turn his back on her. Whether he was being ultra-cautious or just nervous in her presence, she wasn’t sure.

When he served up the main course Marda tried hard not to gobble it down. He ate only the vegetables, while she revelled in the turkey.

“This is excellent, Michael,” she said with her mouth full and not caring. “I didn’t know you were such a good cook.”

“So that’s what you think of my cuisine over the last three months?”

They both laughed. He relaxed and, after the second glass of wine, so did Marda-a little.

“Hmm,” she said, after beginning the third glass. She never was much of a drinker, but this wine tasted so delicious. “Hmmm, lovely wine. So I have been here nearly three months; that’s a very long holiday from work.”

“Yes. And I hope you will stay a little longer, Christine.”

Marda went utterly cold and numbness overtook her brain.

“Marda, sorry. I suppose I have been working too hard on my book.” He did not appear in the least embarrassed by the confusion.

Marda managed to recover and changed tack by asking about the Christmas decorations in Guildford, and whether it was snowing. Did he know what films were showing locally? The day before she was taken by Duval she had read a review of Bonnie and Clyde. When asked whether he had seen the film, he told her that he never went to the cinema. Who was in the pantomime in the theatre? And she asked him to summarise what had happened internationally. He mentioned some political event in Africa, and she joked that it was perhaps warmer there than in Bolivia. Marda sucked in the fresh information as though it were the very tangible essence of freedom, vicarious freedom.

He had bought a small fruit trifle, a dessert she had always enjoyed. Over the cheese and biscuits she asked him about the football league, but he knew nothing. So she asked him what Harold Wilson had been up to. That was a little easier for him.

“I’m a bit of a newspaper fan, like to keep up with the news, sort of a family tradition,” she explained.

“Since you have constantly asked me for newspapers, as a special concession, I have been ordering various periodicals for you, but I have been examining them to see if they are a suitable complement to your instruction,” he said. “The Times may have some merit, but the music papers you mentioned are soaked in sin.”

“OK, I won’t ask about music, but would you tell me what’s been happening the world?”

Duval told her that Clement Attlee had died, and so had Che Guevara. He tried to respond to the concerns of a different generation when he realised that she was interested in the death of the charismatic guerrilla leader whose picture was pinned on the wall of nearly every college student’s room. Joan Baez, he told her, had been arrested during an anti-Vietnam war protest, and Charles de Gaulle had vetoed British entry into the Common Market. He seemed so knowledgeable that Marda quizzed him on his views on the new Europe.

Eventually she asked, “If you don’t normally read the newspapers and don’t own a TV, where do you get your information?”

“Mainly from the radio. The BBC keeps me in touch with the world.”

“Would you put the radio on?” she pleaded.

“Which station?” he replied without any demur, taking the dust cover off an old Dansette transistor radio.

“Can you find the new Radio 1? You know, the pop music station.” He didn’t, but he played with the dial.

“Oh, oh, it’s the Bee Gees. Please leave that station on. I love them.” The haunting strains of “Massachusetts” filled the kitchen.

The priest could not disguise a slight grimace. “Do you mind if I lower it?”

“No, but please leave it on.”