highly regarded and itâs basically a religious foundation. Anstey isnât a Catholic himself but they do go regularly to Lourdes. That will please you; I mean that youâve always been interested in religion. Itâs one of the subjects that we havenât really seen eye to eye about. I probably wasnât as understanding about your needs as I ought to have been.â
He could afford now to be indulgent of that particular foible. He had forgotten that he had taught her to do withoutGod. Her religion had been one of those possessions that, casually, neither understanding them nor valuing them, he had taken from her. They hadnât really been important to her, those consoling substitutes for sex, for love. She couldnât pretend that she had relinquished them with much of a struggle, those comforting illusions taught in St. Matthewâs Primary School, assimilated behind the draped terylene curtains of her auntâs front sitting-room in Alma Terrace, Middlesbrough, with its holy pictures, its photograph of Pope John, its framed papal blessing of her aunt and uncleâs wedding. All were part of that orphaned, uneventful, not unhappy childhood which was as remote now as a distant, once-visited alien shore. She couldnât return because she no longer knew the way.
In the end she had welcomed the thought of Toynton Grange as a refuge. She had pictured herself with a group of patients sitting in their chairs in the sun and looking at the sea; the sea, constantly changing but eternal, comforting and yet frightening, speaking to her in its ceaseless rhythm that nothing really mattered, that human misery was of small account, that everything passed in time. And it wasnât, after all, to be a permanent arrangement. Steve, with the help of the local authority social services department, planned to move into a new and more suitable flat; this was only to be a temporary separation.
But it had lasted now for eight months; eight months in which she had become increasingly disabled, increasingly unhappy. She had tried to conceal it since unhappiness at Toynton Grange was a sin against the Holy Ghost, a sin against Wilfred. And for most of the time she thought that she had succeeded. She had little in common with the other patients. Grace Willison, dull, middle-aged, pious. Eighteen-year-old George Allan with his boisterous vulgarity; it had been a relief when he became too ill to leavehis bed. Henry Carwardine, remote, sarcastic, treating her as if she were a junior clerk. Jennie Pegram, for ever fussing with her hair and smiling her stupid secret smile. And Victor Holroyd, the terrifying Victor, who had hated her as much as he hated everyone at Toynton Grange. Victor who saw no virtue in concealing unhappiness, who frequently proclaimed that if people were dedicated to the practice of charity they might as well have someone to be charitable about.
She had always taken it for granted that it was Victor who had typed the poison pen letter. It was a letter as traumatic in its way as the one she had found from Mogg. She felt for it now, deep in a side pocket in her skirt. It was still there, the cheap paper limp with much handling. But she didnât need to read it. She knew it now by heart, even the first paragraph. She had read that once, and then had turned the paper over at the top so that the words were hidden. Even to think about them burnt her cheek. How could heâit must be a man surely?âknow how she and Steve had made love together, that they had done those particular acts and in that way? How could anyone know? Had she, perhaps, cried out in her sleep, moaning her need and her longing? But, if so, only Grace Willison could possibly have heard from the adjoining bedroom, and how could she have understood?
She remembered reading somewhere that obscene letters were usually written by women, particularly by spinsters. Perhaps it hadnât been Victor Holroyd after all. Grace Willison,
He could afford now to be indulgent of that particular foible. He had forgotten that he had taught her to do withoutGod. Her religion had been one of those possessions that, casually, neither understanding them nor valuing them, he had taken from her. They hadnât really been important to her, those consoling substitutes for sex, for love. She couldnât pretend that she had relinquished them with much of a struggle, those comforting illusions taught in St. Matthewâs Primary School, assimilated behind the draped terylene curtains of her auntâs front sitting-room in Alma Terrace, Middlesbrough, with its holy pictures, its photograph of Pope John, its framed papal blessing of her aunt and uncleâs wedding. All were part of that orphaned, uneventful, not unhappy childhood which was as remote now as a distant, once-visited alien shore. She couldnât return because she no longer knew the way.
In the end she had welcomed the thought of Toynton Grange as a refuge. She had pictured herself with a group of patients sitting in their chairs in the sun and looking at the sea; the sea, constantly changing but eternal, comforting and yet frightening, speaking to her in its ceaseless rhythm that nothing really mattered, that human misery was of small account, that everything passed in time. And it wasnât, after all, to be a permanent arrangement. Steve, with the help of the local authority social services department, planned to move into a new and more suitable flat; this was only to be a temporary separation.
But it had lasted now for eight months; eight months in which she had become increasingly disabled, increasingly unhappy. She had tried to conceal it since unhappiness at Toynton Grange was a sin against the Holy Ghost, a sin against Wilfred. And for most of the time she thought that she had succeeded. She had little in common with the other patients. Grace Willison, dull, middle-aged, pious. Eighteen-year-old George Allan with his boisterous vulgarity; it had been a relief when he became too ill to leavehis bed. Henry Carwardine, remote, sarcastic, treating her as if she were a junior clerk. Jennie Pegram, for ever fussing with her hair and smiling her stupid secret smile. And Victor Holroyd, the terrifying Victor, who had hated her as much as he hated everyone at Toynton Grange. Victor who saw no virtue in concealing unhappiness, who frequently proclaimed that if people were dedicated to the practice of charity they might as well have someone to be charitable about.
She had always taken it for granted that it was Victor who had typed the poison pen letter. It was a letter as traumatic in its way as the one she had found from Mogg. She felt for it now, deep in a side pocket in her skirt. It was still there, the cheap paper limp with much handling. But she didnât need to read it. She knew it now by heart, even the first paragraph. She had read that once, and then had turned the paper over at the top so that the words were hidden. Even to think about them burnt her cheek. How could heâit must be a man surely?âknow how she and Steve had made love together, that they had done those particular acts and in that way? How could anyone know? Had she, perhaps, cried out in her sleep, moaning her need and her longing? But, if so, only Grace Willison could possibly have heard from the adjoining bedroom, and how could she have understood?
She remembered reading somewhere that obscene letters were usually written by women, particularly by spinsters. Perhaps it hadnât been Victor Holroyd after all. Grace Willison,
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