A Pure Clear Light. Madeleine John St.
said Flora.
She let the whole thing ride for another year, but when the mood once more came upon her – or was it the Holy Ghost speaking to her? Probably – she looked again at the noticeboard in the porch of an Anglican church not too far from where they lived in Hammersmith, and judging it rightly to be High (another, nearer, was Low) she found herself noting the times of the masses. Hmmm, she thought. She had no present intention of attending; she was just sussing it out. In any case, she was too busy to brood very often, because she had gone into business with a woman friend importing and selling third-world textiles; and the children continued to be highly labour-intensive: Janey was thirteen, Nell was nine, and little Thomas had just turned five.
Simon was not beset by brooding questions about spiritual growth – the Holy Ghost, it appears, was content to leave him to his own devices – but he had reached a point of vague disquiet with the givens, that was a fact. Simon had meant originally to become the Jean Renoir de nos jours, but actually he directed television plays and not especially meritorious ones at that. He was gritty and impatient and competent and personable and always had plenty of work; there was never time to sit down quietly and write the script of another Grande Illusion. He had a family to care for after all, Flora’s income notwithstanding: and that was earmarked for the school fees, anyway. So Simon just got on with it – and it wasn’t such a bad old life; there were lots worse. Flora was looking a bit seedy these days, but you had to expect that. The children were pretty, and clever: they argued a lot – you had to expect that, too – but he could tell from the manner of their arguing that they had sharp wits, so their futures in this jungle of a world seemed (as far as they could be) secure.
He nevertheless believed that one of these days, soon, he would find a window in the schedule, and would fly through it into a warm well-lighted place in which that script (a production certainty) could and would be written; or at any rate, started.
It was just six months or so after Flora had noted – and then forgotten – the times of the Sunday and weekday masses that something resembling a window seemed to appear in the wall around Simon, in that he found he would not after all be able to accompany Flora and the offspring to the gîte in the Périgord which they had taken with some friends of theirs – the Hunters, and their two sons – during the summer holidays. It had been intended that he would join them for a fortnight of the scheduled month but this was now impossible: a job which ought to have been finished in time had had to be deferred, and Simon was therefore, as he explained to Flora, ‘Fucked.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Flora, rather relieved at the thought of being away from him for a bit. ‘Poor Simon.’
‘Yeah,’ said Simon. He was in fact thinking that, with no family around him to distract his attention and commandeer his time, he might be able, at last, to sit down and get to work on that script. The longer one left these things the better they potentially became, but it really was time to get cracking, because he wasn’t getting any younger.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, said Flora under her breath, and the Virgin Mary (all lit up from inside, as if by an electric light bulb) inclined her head ever so slightly. She was ready to receive whatever further confidences Flora might have. What did you wish to say to me, my child? Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Yes, yes. And? Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Very good, Flora: I will pray for you. Ever-ready, ever-virgin mother of God – pray for my children! Certainly. And Simon, my husband. It shall be done.
Flora picked up the paring knife and went on with the dinner preparations. She didn’t sufficiently believe in God – believe? in God? what could this possibly, now, mean? – to pray to him, or Him, or, just conceivably, Her – but the Virgin was a tolerant sort of creature: nothing if not tolerant: look what she’d put up with already! so there was no difficulty about asking her to do the praying for one. That was what mothers were for. Hail Mary, full of grace, she began again; and the front door slammed shut and Simon came in. The light went out inside the Virgin Mary and she faded from view. ‘Oh, hello darling,’ said Flora; ‘how was your day?’
‘Pretty vile. What about you?’
‘Oh, fine, fine. My day was fine.’
‘Oh well. Have we got any gin?’
‘Could you just go and sort out the kids first – there’s an arbitration matter. I left it for you.’
‘Those bloody kids. Where are they?’
‘Upstairs. No, Janey’s in the sitting room. You’ll find them soon enough if you look. Go on.’
He went away, muttering, but came back looking pleased with himself. ‘I’ve sorted it,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘I had to bribe them.’
‘Did it cost much?’
‘A fiver.’
‘No one could say we haven’t taught them the value of money.’
‘No, they could not. Where’s that gin?’
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
‘I was thinking, so long as you can’t come to France – is that really off, Simon? Definitely? – I was thinking, I might ask Lydia if she’d like to come with us.’
‘What?’
‘Lydia. You know, Faraday. Lydia Faraday.’
‘Yes, I know who you mean. Lydia Faraday. What on earth do you want to ask Lydia Faraday for?’
‘Well, why ever not? Poor Lydia.’
‘Poor hell.’
‘Simon!’
‘Well, for God’s sake.’
‘Anyway, what’s it to do with you? You won’t be there.’
‘Oh, Flora.’ Simon sprawled back in his armchair and clutched his head. ‘Honestly,’ he said. ‘Lydia.’
Flora, watching this performance, began to laugh.
‘What have you got against poor Lydia?’ she said. Simon let go of his head and sat up. He reached for the gin bottle and topped up his drink – Flora always made them too weak – and took a swallow.
‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘she isn’t poor. She’s probably got more than the rest of us put together. Jack was saying –’
‘Then he shouldn’t have been,’ said Flora severely. Jack Hunter, a solicitor, had done some work for Lydia a year or two back, when she had got into a tax muddle.
‘Don’t be priggish,’ said Simon. ‘The point is, Lydia likes to put it about that she’s on her uppers, but –’
‘That’s not true either,’ said Flora. ‘I never heard her putting it about that she was short of money.’
‘No, she doesn’t say so in so many words,’ said Simon. She’s not that obtuse. She just suggests it in a thousand tiny ways. I could practically throttle her sometimes. Who’s she trying to impress?’
‘Simon, what are you talking about?’ cried Flora, amidst her laughter. ‘Name me even one of these thousand tiny ways.’
‘Well, look at the way she dresses,’ said Simon, ‘for a start.’
‘Dresses?’
‘Yes, dresses.’