And to think, a week ago I didn’t even know this existed, I thought, and then said it aloud to Veronica.
“You’d have heard of it before too long,” she said, and I believed her. In my preoccupation with the religious aspects of Margery Childe’s personality and message, I had been aware of the attendant practical manifestations of that message only as on the periphery. Now, moving around within the walls of the hive, as it were, I became increasingly aware that as far as Margery’s followers were concerned, the thrice-weekly services might be Margery’s way of infusing them with her energies, but here was where those energies were ultimately spent.
The Temple was a political machine, a highly efficient means of gathering in and laying out monies and giving the enthusiasm of every Temple member, no matter how lowly, a direction and a concrete goal. Canvassing, speech making, pamphlet printing; doctoring the poor and teaching the illiterate; feeding the hungry and planning assaults on the law of the land—all went on here, all directed by a member of the Inner Circle, and therefore ultimately by Margery Childe herself. A mystic, perhaps, but one quite aware of the need for works as well as contemplations. There was a groundswell of power within these walls, gathering beneath Margery Childe and carrying her—where? A seat on the local council? Into Parliament? The fifteenth-century St Catherine of Genoa was a teacher, a philanthropist, the administrator of a great hospital—and a mystic. A century before her, another Catherine, of Siena, advised kings and popes, played a key role in papal reformation, and ran a nursing order; she was also a visionary and a mystic ranked by Miss Underhill alongside St Francis in importance. So, why not Margery Childe in twentieth-century London?
We went back up the stairs to the ground floor, and Veronica was about to lead me into the side entrance of the hall when we were intercepted by one of the refuge workers.
“Oh, Miss Beaconsfield, I’m glad I found you. There’s a Queenie something wants to see you, says her husband’s gone off his nut. She’s cryin’ and carrying’ on like anything.”
“You go on, Ronnie,” I said. “It’s almost time for me to see Margery, anyway.”
“If you’re sure? I’ll tell Marie you’re here.”
She scurried down the hallway and up the stairs, then returned within a minute, gave me a brief wave, and turned into the corridor that led to the shelter. I nodded at the women behind their desks, noting that their curiosity about me had increased when I had mentioned Margery, an indication that the Temple was now big enough to make its leader aloof from lesser mortals. I sat down and picked up a stack of pamphlets to keep me occupied, managing to work my way through
Margery Childe was sitting in front of a fire, wearing an orange-and-grey shot silk dressing gown, a book in her lap. She uncurled from her chair and came to greet me, one hand out to seize mine.
“Mary, how lovely—may I call you Mary? Everyone calls me Margery. I hope you will. Do you mind an informal meal, here in front of the fire? I never eat very much before a service, and I have to go and dress and meditate in an hour. I hope you don’t mind that, either. What a lovely colour of green that is; it does magical things to your eyes.”
My responses consisted of Yes, of course, very well, of course not, I understand, and thank you, and I found myself giving Marie my coat and hat and being seated at a small table with two delicate chairs that I tentatively identified as Louis XIV. The place settings were luminous and paper-thin, the silver old and heavy, the glasses blown into an ornate and modern twist. I hid my twice-let-down hem beneath the table.
“Veronica has been showing you about, I take it?”
“Yes, it was most impressive.”
“You sound surprised.” From her expression, it was a common reaction.
“Mostly by the fact that I’d not heard of the Temple before Monday.”
“We are working to remedy that. Wine?”
“Thank you.” She poured from a cut-glass decanter into two glasses that matched those on the table, these with a twist of pale orange in the stem. “But it must be new,” I noted, accepting the glass, “most of it. One of the presses in the print shop looked almost unused.”
“True. Five years ago, we hired a pair of second-storey rooms once a week. We now own four buildings outright.”
I wanted very badly to know more of just how the transformation had come about, but I held my tongue. It would have sounded, if not accusatory, at the least suspicious, and even if she did answer, I did not want that note to sound just yet.
“Very impressive,” I repeated. “I shall make a donation to the library fund.”
“A good choice,” she said blandly, without so much as a glance at my tired clothing. “Veronica has great hopes for her free lending library.” The bluestocking will be good for a couple of pounds, she was thinking, and with a rush of mischief, I decided to surprise her come Monday.
“I had also not expected you—the Temple—to be so politically active, somehow.”
“Religion oughtn’t dirty its hands, you mean? Without essential changes in the law, we will be operating soup kitchens and baby clinics until Doomsday.”
“But don’t you think—” I was interrupted by Marie, entering with a wide tray on which were several covered dishes. She unloaded it onto our table, removed the covers, and fussed with the arrangement of bits of cutlery for a moment, and then, somewhat to my surprise, she left. Margery served us, giving herself rather little and me rather a lot of the chicken slices in tarragon sauce, the glazed carrots, still firm, the potatoes and salad. She bowed her head briefly over her plate, then approached the food with neat concentration, chewing each mouthful thoroughly and washing it down with a sip of some pale herbal tea that had a slice of lemon floating in it. I drank a glass of fruity German wine. She ate a bite, then looked up at me.
“You were saying?” she enquired.
“I was wondering whether your identity as a, shall we say nonconforming religious leader might not count against you in the political arena.”
“I think not. Some will take it as a sign of my dedication and will listen to me the more for it; others will see it as a mere eccentricity.”
“I hope you’re right.” It was said politely, but she took it as a declaration of wholehearted support.
“That’s very good of you. And actually, I have been thinking, and praying, a great deal about you and your offer.” (Offer? I thought indignantly.) “And I have come to realise that my teaching has indeed been a very personal thing, and perhaps it is time to place it on a more universally acceptable plane. It came to me in the night that perhaps once the other projects are securely launched, we might think about sponsoring an academic project, research and discussions along the lines of what you were saying the other night. Invite the more prominent thinkers in the field. Perhaps even a journal… on the press you saw standing idle. What do you think?”
Damn it, was what I thought; then grimly, Does the woman imagine she can buy me? Something of the thought must have shown on my face, because she laid down her fork and leant forward.
“I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t feel is right, Mary. I’m sure there are a thousand things I’ve said and done that you don’t agree with. And I’m not about to say that I’ll change. However, I want to learn. For my own sake, and for the Temple, I need to know how your world handles the questions that I grapple with alone. You say that you were surprised at our existence; it is nothing to the impression you made on me. I did not sleep at all Monday night. All I could do was think how blind and arrogant I’d been. I felt like some peasant who owned a pretty box, only to have someone take it and open it to reveal the jewels inside. I need your help, Mary. Not as a permanent commitment—I don’t ask that of you. I’m not asking you to join the Temple. But I need you, just at the beginning, to start me on the road. Please.”
How does one refuse such a request? I know that I was not able to. By the time Marie arrived with a second tray, coffee and strawberries (in January!) I found I had agreed to a series of informal tutorials with Margery and one lecture to the Inner Circle at the end of the month.
Having gotten what she wanted, Margery sat back with her coffee.
“Tell me a little about yourself, Mary. Veronica hints of dark secrets and exciting adventures in your
