She came back time and again to the concept of thirst, imbuing the word with a yearning that became ever more urgent. She called upon, inevitably, Canticles, but only obliquely, teasingly, and she shied away before committing herself to a full-blown orgy. (The Song of Solomon does become inordinately stimulating: “You are stately as a palm tree,” it croons, “and your breasts are like its clusters. I say I shall climb the palm tree and take hold of its branches… your kisses are like the best wine, going down smoothly, gliding over lips and teeth.” And: “My beloved put his hand to the latch, and my heart thrilled within me.” It is regarded as an allegory of the soul’s desire for God, but the rabbis were forced to make strong injunctions against those who would sing it in taverns. It is, in a word, bawdy.)
She ended her talk, abruptly as before, with a phrase from Canticles: “ ‘Eat, O friends, and drink: drink deeply, O lovers.’ ” She smiled and gave a small bow. “Until Saturday, friends.” And she was gone.
There was a certain breathlessness to the wave of voices that broke over the hall, and the Inner Circle around me, though they must have heard her any number of times already, stood up flustered and met one another’s eyes with a defiant half embarrassment. Some of the gentlemen in the rows below seemed distinctly warm under the collar.
In the packed foyer, I could see a multitude of brightly coloured collection baskets, filling rapidly. Several of the circle picked up baskets and moved into the crowd, but to my surprise the others made their ways to the street doors. I turned and spoke loudly into Veronica’s ear.
“Is there no gathering tonight, then?”
“No,” she shouted back. “Not on Thursdays.”
We streamed with
“Why not on Thursdays?” I asked.
“Why what? Oh, Margery, you mean. She meditates, both before and after the Thursday meetings, always.”
The contemplation of what the woman’s thoughts might consist of during those meditations gave me pause. I came to myself with a start.
“Pardon me?” I asked.
“I said, do you want to go for dinner, or a drink?”
“Oh. Not a full meal, I think.”
“A pub, then.”
A pub it was, and since it was nearby, it was already populated with a large percentage of the night’s congregation, laughing and merry and as unlikely a group of churchgoers as I had seen. We oozed snugly into two chairs at a minuscule corner table with our glasses and a plate of anaemic sandwiches from the bar.
“So, what did you think?” Veronica asked. I looked at her carefully, but there was no mischief in her eyes. And I couldn’t even put her innocence down to virginal naivete.
“I think that was the most amazing church service I’ve ever witnessed,” I said, and then around a mouthful of cheese and pickle, I asked, “Was that her standard treatment for a Thursday night?”
“She was a bit subdued tonight, because of Iris’s death. She wanted to devote the evening to a memorial service, but Mrs Fitzwarren absolutely refused to allow it. She’s never liked it that Iris was so wrapped up with the Temple, and she blames Margery for the death.”
“Blames her? How?”
“Oh, that’s too strong. I ought to say, she isn’t yet prepared to share her grief with anyone outside the family. Margery understands, but she’s hurt, too—who wouldn’t be? So she was, as I said, subdued. I’ve seen her so intense, the sparks fly.”
“Must be against the law,” I said under my breath. “Oh never mind, I was just thinking that if she becomes so… worked up, it’s no wonder she can’t sit calmly and drink tea at the end of it. I’d have to go for a brisk ten-mile walk.”
“She says she depends on the energy that she gathers on nights like this, that when she meditates, she reintegrates it and is strengthened by it. She’s an extraordinary person,” she added needlessly.
“So it seems. Tell me, does she lead meditations, or prayer meetings, with you?”
“From time to time. She does what she calls ‘teaching silence.’ It’s a way of listening to the universe—she calls it ‘opening one’s self up to the love of God.’ Ask her about it.”
“I will.”
“You’ll go and see her, then?”
“I think so. I had thought tonight, but…”
“Sorry, I should have explained. Do you want that other meat sandwich? Thanks. Why don’t you telephone tomorrow and ask Marie when would be a good time.”
“I will.” I picked up the last triangle, something unidentifiable but vaguely fishy. Veronica was staring unfocused at the sandwich in her hand.
“She is truly extraordinary,” she repeated. Her heavy eyebrows came together, and I waited. She glanced up and flushed. “Oh, it’s nothing, just something I saw—or thought I saw. I suppose I could tell you about it, though you’ll think I’ve gone loony. Maybe I oughtn’t,” she dithered. “Oh hell, why not?
“I was at the Temple one night, settling a woman and her two children into the refuge. I didn’t realise how late it was, and I needed to talk with Margery about them, so I went to find her, not thinking. She wasn’t in the sitting room—where we were the other night?—so I went on down the corridor to her private rooms, thinking that I’d find Marie at any rate. Well, I did find her—I stuck my head into the room Margery uses as a private meditation chapel and saw Marie sitting there, so I walked in. Before I could say more than ‘Marie, have you seen—’ she jumped up and grabbed my arm and started pushing me back out the door. Now, you probably could guess how most of us feel about Marie. I mean, she does her job and protects Margery from being eaten up, but she’s hardly an easy person to get along with. Anyway, I stopped dead and said, ‘Marie, what on earth is the matter?’ and she hushed me and glanced across the room, the way you do when you want to make sure you haven’t disturbed someone, so I pushed forward a few steps and saw Margery. She was kneeling, sort of sitting on her heels, and her shoulders were thrown back and her arms dangled down and her head was back, just rigid. She hadn’t heard me. She looked as if she wouldn’t have heard a bomb going off. I couldn’t see her face very well, but her mouth seemed to be open slightly, and she looked… otherworldly, as if she weren’t in the room. Marie snatched at me and started shoving at me—God, she’s an irritating person!—and I let her push me to the door. I turned around when we got there, to look over her shoulder, and just then Margery sort of collapsed, like a marionette with its strings cut. Just went limp and folded into a huddle on the floor. Marie gave me a final push and bolted the door, and I could hear her walking—not running—across the room. I didn’t mention it to Margery, or to anyone else for that matter. I don’t know if she knows I saw her. It was a Tuesday,” she added, somewhat irrelevantly.
Time had been called and the pub was quieting, but neither of us took much notice for several minutes, until the owner came and began pointedly to clear the tables next to us. We drained our glasses and put on our coats.
“Thank you for telling me, Ronnie,” I said. “I agree, she’s an interesting person.”
“You don’t think I’ve gone daft, then?”
“Oh, no,” I said emphatically. “By no means.”
I took to my narrow bed that night with a mind awhirl, plucked at by the plight of Miles Fitzwarren, the motives of Sherlock Holmes, and the spiritual life of Margery Childe. I did not sleep overly much.
NINE
Friday, 31 December-
