“Very much like a drug. And just like many drugs, its harmful properties aren’t immediately apparent. Even if we know what they are — intellectually — the promise of pleasure is often too seductive for us to abstain when we should. That’s when we must turn to the Lord. We must ask Him to infuse us with the strength to resist. He faced His own temptations, you know. He understands what it is to be human.”
“Mummy doesn’t talk about God,” Maggie said. “She talks about AIDS and herpes and warts and getting pregnant. She thinks I won’t do it if I’m scared enough.”
“You’re being harsh on her, my dear. These are far from unrealistic concerns on her part. Cruel facts are associated with sexuality these days. Your mother is wise — and kind — to share them with you.”
“Oh, too right. But what about her? Because when she and Mr. Shepherd—” Her automatic protest died unfinished. No matter her feelings, she couldn’t betray Mummy to the vicar. That wouldn’t be right.
The vicar cocked his head but made no other indication that he understood in what direction Maggie’s words had been heading. “Pregnancy and disease are the long-term potential consequences we face when we submit ourselves to the pleasures of sex,” he said. “But unfortunately, when we’re in the midst of an encounter leading up to intercourse, we rarely think of anything save the moment’s exigency.”
“Sorry?”
“The need to do it. At once.” He lifted the fleur-de-lis kneeler from its hook on the back of the pew in front of him and placed it on the uneven stone floor. “Instead, we think in terms of
He knelt and gestured that she was to join him. “Lord,” he said quietly, eyes on the altar, “help us to see Your will in all things. When we are sorely tried and tempted, allow us to realise it is through Your love that we are so tested. When we stumble and sin, forgive us our wrongs. And give us the strength to avoid all occasion of sin in the future.”
“Amen,” Maggie whispered. Through the thick fall of her hair, she felt the vicar’s hand rest lightly on the back of her neck, a comradely expression that imparted the fi rst real peace she’d had in days.
“Can you resolve to sin no more, Maggie Spence?”
“I want to.”
“Then I absolve you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
He walked out with her into the night. The lights were on in the vicarage across the street, and Maggie could see Polly Yarkin in the kitchen, setting the vicar’s table for dinner.
“Of course,” the vicar was saying, as if in continuation of a previous thought, “absolution and resolve are one thing. The other’s more diffi cult.”
“Not doing it again?”
“And keeping yourself active in other areas of your life so the temptation’s not there.” He locked the church door and pocketed the key in his trousers. Although the night was quite cool, he wasn’t wearing an overcoat and his clerical collar gleamed in the moonlight like a Cheshire smile. He observed her thoughtfully, pulling on his chin. “I’m starting a youth group here in the parish. Perhaps you’d like to join us. There’ll be meetings and activities, things to keep you busy. It might be a good idea, all things considered.”
“I’d like to, except…We’re not members of the Church, actually, Mummy and I. And I can’t think that she’d let me join. Religion… She says religion leaves a bad taste in the mouth.” Maggie dropped her head when she revealed this last. It seemed particularly unfair, considering the vicar’s kindness to her. She went on to add in a rush, “I don’t feel that way myself. At least I don’t think I do. It’s just that I don’t know much about it in the first place. I mean…I’ve hardly ever been. To Church, that is.”
“I see.” His mouth turned down, and he fished in his jacket pocket to bring out a small white card which he handed to her. “Tell your mummy I’d like to visit with her,” he said. “My name’s on the card. My number as well. Perhaps I can make her feel more comfortable with the Church. Or at least pave the way for you to join us.” He walked out of the churchyard at her side and touched her shoulder in farewell.
The youth group seemed like something Mummy would agree to, once she got over her disapproval of its being tied to the Church.
But when Maggie pressed the vicar’s card upon her, Mummy had stared down at it for the longest time, and when she looked up, her face was pasty and her mouth looked queer.
Maggie tried to soothe her feelings as well as avoid the unspoken accusation by hurriedly saying, “Josie knows Mr. Sage, Mummy. Pam Rice does as well. Josie says he’s only been in the parish for three weeks now, and he’s trying to get people back to the Church. Josie says the youth group—”
“Is Nick Ware a member?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Don’t lie to me, Margaret.”
“I’m not. I just thought…The vicar wants to talk to you about it. He wants you to phone.”
Mummy walked to the rubbish basket, ripped the card in half, and buried it — with a savage little twist of her wrist — among the coffee grounds and grapefruit rinds. “I have no intention of speaking to a priest about anything, Maggie.”
“Mummy, he only—”
“This discussion is over.”
But despite Mummy’s refusal to phone him, Mr. Sage had come three times to the cottage. Winslough was a small village, after all, and discovering where the Spence family lived was as easy as asking in Crofters Inn. When he’d shown up unexpectedly one afternoon, doffing his trilby to Maggie as she opened the door, Mummy had been alone in the greenhouse repotting some herbs. She’d greeted Maggie’s nervous announcement of the vicar’s visit by saying tersely, “Go to the inn. I’ll phone when you can come home.” And the anger in her voice and the hardness of her face told Maggie it was wiser not to ask any questions. She had long known Mummy didn’t like religion. But it was just like trying to gather the facts about her father: She didn’t know why.
Then Mr. Sage died. Just like Daddy, Maggie thought. And he liked me just like Daddy. I know he did. I do.
Now in her bedroom, Maggie found she had run out of words to send to heaven. She was a sinner, a slut, a tart, a scrubber. She was the vilest creature God ever put on earth.
She got to her feet and rubbed her knees where they were red and sore from the rug’s digging into them. Wearily, she wandered to the bathroom and rustled through the cupboard to find what Mummy kept hidden there.
“What happens is this,” Josie had explained confidentially when they’d come upon the odd plastic container with its even odder spout, deeply buried among the towels. “After they have sex, the woman fills this bottle thing with oil and vinegar. Then she sort of sticks this nozzle part up inside and pumps it real hard and then she won’t have a baby.”
“But she’ll smell like a tossed salad,” Pam Rice put in. “I don’t think you’ve got your facts straight, Jo.”
“I most certainly do, Miss Pamela Know-itall.”
“Right.”
Maggie examined the bottle. She shuddered at the thought. Her knees weakened a bit, but she would have to do it. She carried it downstairs and into the kitchen where she set it on the work top and took down the oil and vinegar. Josie hadn’t said how much to use. Half and half, most likely. She uncapped the vinegar and began to pour.
The kitchen door opened. Mummy walked in.
THERE WAS NOTHING TO SAY, so maggie kept pouring, keeping her eyes on the vinegar as its level rose. When it reached halfway, she recapped the bottle and unstoppered the oil. Her mother spoke.
