The Anchoress of Shere

He lowered the volume slightly, then rummaged around in a kitchen cabinet. “Would you like some port?”

Marda was a bit giggly now.

“Yes, pleeeease.”

She swigged down the port. Her body, partly anaesthetised after so much pain and fear, craved more alcohol. “Excuse me being a little pig, but can I have some more please?” She held out the empty glass.

Marda was not emulating his archetype of the austere Christine, he thought, but his guest had endured a long preliminary penance. There had to be occasional rewards, even of meat and wine, before she could make her own decision to renounce such indulgences. And, after all, it was Christmas, a traditional time for feasting.

So Duval, with no apparent reluctance, poured her a second glass of port. He had not touched his first.

“Have you got me a Christmas present then?” she said jokingly.

He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “As a matter of fact I have,” he said, barely concealing the sense of his own largesse.

She was about to say, “I hope it’s not a bleeding Bible,” but she wasn’t that drunk.

“I have bought you a dress. I hope it’s the right size.”

Marda pretended to look cross. “You’re not supposed to tell me because it spoils the surprise. Please let me see it.”

As he pulled a gift-wrapped package out of a drawer in the pine kitchen dresser, she practically seized it from his hands and ripped it open. At any other time she would have opened it very carefully to save the paper to use again.

“Oh Michael, it’s lovely,” she cooed. “Blue is my favourite colour. But I thought you wanted me to wear a religious habit.”

“I want you to have a choice. That’s my point. I don’t often wear my clerical garb here in the house. Tonight is an occasion where you could wear a dress so you can go downstairs and try it on if you like.”

“May I use your bathroom to change? I don’t want to spoil the lovely meal by going down…down there…not just yet.”

“If you want to, but I shall wait by the door, if you don’t mind,” he said a little warily.

Under escort, she went to the bathroom to change, emerging with her new dress on and the habit over her arm.

Once back in the kitchen, she deposited the stale clothing on a chair. Marda turned to him and asked expectantly, “How do you like it?”

His face indicated obvious pleasure.

Encouraged, she gave a modest impression of a model’s twirl, then stood next to him.

He reached out with his hand to brush her cheek, ever so gently and momentarily, and then turned red with embarrassment.

“Oh, you’ve gone all shy, Michael. I just wanted to show how pleased I am with your present. Come on, do you like it?”

He looked lost for words, but managed to say quietly, “You look ethereal.”

“That’s the first time you’ve paid me that kind of compliment. Why, thank you, kind sir.” Disbelievingly, Marda heard her own words echoing in the room; suddenly a flash from Gone With The Wind intruded upon her mind: she was imitating Scarlett, and Rhett had not been fooled, had he? She knew she was no actress, but she was warm, clean, well-fed and rather tipsy. There might not be a better time. She understood that she was about to take the biggest risk of her short life. He was an apparently celibate priest who was also a deranged killer. Not an ideal choice. She would pretend, she would try to be the world’s greatest actress, to find a chance to escape, or to immobilise him, perhaps even to kill him. She was utterly desperate to seize what might be her only opportunity.

She sat on his lap.

He froze.

“Don’t, Michael,” she said almost crossly. “I won’t hurt you. Don’t be silly.”

Taking hold of his hands, she put them around her waist. Hesitantly he conceded, although he held her limply.

Marda heard herself say, “I know I don’t look very sexy in these boots and socks, but it’s a nice dress and- hey-it makes me feel like a woman again. And I don’t have any make-up on. Treat me like a woman, Michael, not a student. Don’t freeze me out.”

She pecked him lightly on the cheek, almost recoiling as the stubble rippled along her lips, but he did relax a little. She willed herself to recall her lover in France, trying to picture every fine feature of his face, then, as she squirmed a little on Duval’s lap, her dress rode up along her thighs.

“Don’t you find me attractive?” she asked provocatively. “You always avoid touching me.”

He closed his eyes.

“I know I’ve got a bit skinny and pale, but has being locked up made me so ugly? I haven’t looked in a mirror since I came here. Look at me, don’t you find me attractive?”

“Of course I do,” he said, almost stuttering.

“Please open your eyes. Am I so frightening?”

The traditional wood stove in the kitchen was pumping out heat. Marda, returning to her own seat, took off her shoes and socks, then skipped around on the bare linoleum, humming to herself. The drink had fortified her, while he seemed relaxed, trusting almost, she thought, and this might be her last chance. She swallowed hard and, as she twirled around, she pulled off her dress while grabbing a tea towel to cover her breasts.

“Look at me. Don’t you want me? Isn’t this what you really wanted me to be?”

She flicked the towel into the air, leaving herself naked except for her pants.

“Do you want to see me naked? Is that what you want? Then I’ll do it for you. Here.”

She tugged off her pants, covering herself with her hands as she walked towards him.

Panic swept his face, he stood up and retreated until his back was pressed against the main kitchen door.

She followed him, standing on tiptoes to put her arms around his neck, and whispered, “You can hold me if you like. Do what you like with me…as long as you don’t hurt me. Take me to your bedroom now if you want to. Anywhere, but not down there in the coal-hole.”

As she pressed her naked body against him, he uttered a half-suppressed croak.

“Go on, kiss me if you want,” she said aggressively.

Reluctantly, almost like an automaton, he leaned forward to kiss her on the lips lightly as she squeezed against him.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see the large knife he had used to carve the turkey, and she desperately tried to estimate whether she could reach it. Marda pressed hard against him to move him towards the sideboard where the knife lay, tantalisingly close. She edged him towards it, keeping his back to the knife. Pressed against him, she felt the surprising roughness of his tweed jacket against her naked breasts.

She was sure he was not aware of the knife. Marda steeled herself to kill, but her most pressing fear was whether she could be quick enough to reach the knife before he reacted. She prayed that he would keep his eyes shut.

“Stop. Stop. Don’t kiss me any more, Christine,” he barked in a pained, almost strangled voice. He seized her hand and, with surprising strength, dragged her towards the trapdoor. “You’re the Whore of Babylon. The scarlet- coloured beast. Go to the pit where you belong.”

“No, please, please don’t put me back. Please,” she begged. “I’ll put my clothes on. No!” she shouted at the top of her voice. “Michael. Don’t.”

The last thing she heard on the radio as the trapdoor closed was the current hit song by the Spencer Davis Trio: “Somebody help me, yeah. Won’t somebody tell me what I’ve done wrong?”

XIII. The Officer