The Rapture Page 3

  I am never one of those people.

  *

  The chapel is too small for us to take communion at the altar. We sit in pairs either side of a narrow aisle, passing a tray of bread between us. Octavia insists the sacramental loaves are baked each morning. She doesn’t hold with the idea of wafers, which means we have to be careful of crumbs. We recite the liturgy: ‘May I drink deep into the spirit of Christ and may his blood cleanse me from all sin.’ But we don’t drink wine, not when we have a true miracle on tap. A communion chalice is passed between us and we take a sip of the Water, infused with the healing power of Octavia’s breath.

  ‘Christ’s death on the cross, His atoning for sin, has saved our souls. But still we suffer such terrible trials in this life. Another redeemer is required for the body.’ Octavia is reading aloud the words She has received from God through Her pen this evening. ‘There was a second Adam – Jesus – to reverse the sin of man. Now I come as the second Eve. I must suffer for the sins of women.’

  ‘Amen.’ The cries are loudest from the front rows where Octavia’s favourites sit. I am never invited to take a seat there, but at least from the back I have a view of the entire congregation; from here I can watch them and collect their faults. If I am lucky someone might yawn when Octavia is speaking, or whisper to their neighbour when they should be bowing their head to pray. I will jot down these transgressions in my pocketbook after chapel, ready to present to Octavia when I am called to Her sitting room to make my report. But I already know I will be found lacking, that She will say I am not committed to the Overcoming, to cleansing the society of sin. I suspect some of the others make things up, but I can never quite bring myself to do it. Perhaps I lack imagination. Besides, you have to think carefully before shining a light on other people’s lives because the glare can reflect back on you, illuminate your faults for all to see.

  Today the only person yawning is Ellen Oliver and I could never write her name in my book. She is the oldest among us. She turned sixty a few years ago, though we didn’t celebrate – we don’t have time for such worldly concerns. I’ve noticed, lately, that she is looking frail, fainter, as if the lines of her face and body have been smudged, a poorly sketched portrait of the fearless woman I have always admired. It was Ellen who realised that the messiah she had been looking for was sitting beside her in prayer group; who realised that her friend Mabel was elevated, augmented, divine. When the others came to see the Truth, they called Her Octavia: the eighth in a line of prophets. But it was Ellen who deciphered the signs. She can see what others can’t; she always sees the best in people. Even in me.

  Octavia steps behind the curtain into the small room to the side of the altar and returns with a bowl of water, the corner of a towel tucked into a loop of Her belt. ‘Be kind enough to open that for me,’ She says, passing a block of soap to Emily, who is sitting on the front row. It must be Sunlight, or Lux. God has told Her that those are the only brands to trust, so She insists that no one buys or uses any other.

  ‘I had intended to have everything ready but the Lord had so much to say this evening,’ She says. ‘When I woke from my trance I was amazed to see how many pages I had written.’ She holds out Her hand for the soap but Emily is still struggling with the wrapping. ‘Just as Christ washed the feet of His Disciples so the Lord has bade me do the same … Oh give it to me, Emily. I’ll do it myself.’ With a jerk of Her head She directs Emily to go behind the curtain and prepare herself.

  ‘Since God is fourfold – Father, Son, Holy Spirit and Daughter – so the four of you are the Chosen.’ We all know who She is talking about: the front-rowers, the ones She meets with in private after chapel. Peter, Edgar, Kate Firth – and Emily, who emerges now from behind the curtain. She looks uneasy, her shoulders hunched. One hand is curled around a ball of rolled-up viscose stockings, which she has dusted with talcum powder to dull their cheap shine. The fingers of her other hand are hooked inside the backs of her shoes. She is exposed, presenting the worn soles to the congregation, revealing the metal tacks and offcuts of leather hammered in to patch the holes. Even her naked legs look threadbare, greyish with chalky patches of dry skin and flecks of dark hair.

  ‘Please sit.’ Octavia directs her to the small pew to the left of the altar, and kneels slowly. Peter jumps to his feet to slip a cushion underneath Octavia’s knee before it reaches the ground; attentive as always, terrified that he might miss an opportunity to serve. Emily stifles a shudder as Octavia submerges her feet into the water. ‘You came to us with least to give, but most to offer,’ Octavia says. ‘You didn’t have the advantages the rest of us have enjoyed. But you have faith, Emily, and you are obedient. Those are the things the Lord values above all.’ She continues with a good lather and scrub, apparently unperturbed by Emily’s numerous corns and bunions. But then She could hardly baulk at a little dry skin when Jesus washed a leper.

  With her feet patted dry, Emily nods her head in thanks and gives up her seat to Kate Firth, who appears from behind the curtain holding a pair of burgundy shoes, and silk stockings.

  ‘Yes, it’s a lesson you have had to learn, isn’t it, Kate?’ Octavia says. ‘Our very own Doubting Thomas.’ Kate sits down and arranges the fine pleats on the gathered lapel that runs down her front. Her dress, drop-waisted crepe in the exact shade of her shoes, is yet another that I haven’t seen her wear before.

  ‘You doubted the Lord’s calling,’ Octavia says. ‘You doubted me. You wanted to be sure that we were not deceived – which was admirable. But men are blinded by reason, and look where it has got them. Women should follow their hearts, which is where the Lord dwells. That’s why He has chosen us to do His bidding. We must all remember that.’

  Kate was here at the beginning, before the beginning, when Octavia was Mabel, and, of the two of them, Kate was considered the more extraordinary: a fine-looking widow who moved to Bedford from York, bringing her northern accent and two servants with her. She and Mabel would chat over the wall between their gardens, or take turns to have the other round for tea, sharing cake and letters from the front line, sharing each other’s despair when the telegrams arrived, with no idea that one of them would soon be revealed as the Daughter of God to restore the hope that war had stolen away.

  ‘I forgive you,’ Octavia says. ‘The Lord forgives you. You were always generous in spirit and since you came to see the Truth you have been generous in deed too, opening The Haven – your own home – to the believers who have flocked to Bedford.’

  I am becoming restless. I wonder what Grace Hardwick is doing right now and what she would think of our service. If she comes, Octavia will see that I have been working for the glory of the Lord. Sometimes I daydream that Grace will stand up and tell the congregation that as soon as we met she felt God’s calling; that she felt His power in me. That would surprise them.

  It is Peter’s turn. Octavia takes the first of his feet in her hands without a word, creating a void of silence for his gratitude to fill. ‘Octavia, I cannot let You do it,’ he says. But his grave expression is undermined by the airy Australian accent which makes even the most resolute statement sound like a tentative apology.

  ‘Octavia,’ his tone is almost pleading now, ‘let me be the one to bathe You.’ Octavia is gratified by his humble attitude but I suspect, by the way he holds on to the sides of his seat, that it is motivated by ticklish feet more than deference on this occasion.

  ‘Hush now,’ She says firmly.

  In him She has found the son She always wanted. Obedient. Adoring. Present. Though there are very few years that separate them – Peter in his early fifties and Octavia in Her late – he has finally found purpose in his life and plays the part of devoted child with utter conviction. He is juvenile even in appearance. There is always too much tie hanging beneath the knot at his neck, or too little, and his trousers bunch above his shoes as though he might one day grow into them. His neck looks barely able to hold up a head so heavy with curly hair, a protuberant Adam’s apple quive
ring and bobbing beneath a face that seems to be perpetually cast down towards the floor.

  Octavia rubs soap onto his feet, lather foaming on the clumps of hairs that sprout from his toes. I find the sight of his pale skin distasteful. Feet are always covered, shrouded in socks, or shoes or slippers. And though I can’t see there’s anything about Peter’s feet that would lead anyone to sin, just the act of looking feels improper. I see his relief when the washing is over and he no longer has to fight the impulse to laugh or the reflex to kick Her away. Neither would help to create the impression that he is taking this ceremony seriously.

  ‘Peter, you are an example to us all.’ Octavia looks up to the congregation to make Her meaning clear: an example to those who think they should be chosen, those who were here before Peter came along. And long before Edgar Peissart arrived. It is his turn now.

  ‘Edgar,’ Octavia says, taking a moment to line up the pair of two-tone Oxfords that he was wearing, black toes side-by-side, white bars perfectly aligned. She takes each hem of his trousers and rolls it up to just below the knee, exposing scarlet socks held up by garters.

  ‘Really, Edgar,’ She says, averting Her eyes as though finding the sight of them painful, ‘what a garish colour.’

  ‘They are considered rather fashionable in America,’ he says without apology.

  ‘They may be considered fashionable in America but here in England they are considered vulgar.’

  He says nothing more and leans down to take them off, bending forward and revealing a thin patch in his white hair. He is a dandy, an old man dressed as a young one. He always wears an air of youthful detachment, but his face betrays his age: eyes so deep-set that they are in perpetual shadow and lips that turn down at the corners even when he smiles. When Kate Firth first saw him she said he looked like the Devil himself, but I’ve always imagined Satan would be handsome and charming and young. After all, he can take any shape he pleases, and beautiful people always get away with more.

  ‘We women have been instructed not to listen to the opinions of any man, lest we should be led astray,’ Octavia says, nodding for him to put his feet into the water. ‘But let no one be in any doubt that you are here as a follower, not as a teacher. You bow to the rule of woman. You serve faithfully. Let that not be questioned by anyone in the Garden.’ Has She heard the whispered conversations? There are those who think Edgar should not be favoured. He’s a man and an American. What is She thinking? But Edgar is nothing if not persistent. He started writing to Her last year, asking for Her blessing to move to England and join the society. He wouldn’t give up until She gave in, but we were all surprised when She relented. Octavia is not a person who concedes. She doesn’t have to, She has the certainty of God’s blessing in everything.

  ‘Indeed, Octavia,’ he says. ‘I am Your servant. Sent by God to represent man’s place in the New World.’ He turns his head to the congregation. ‘For God has a role for all of us.’

  ‘And that role,’ says Octavia, jerking his feet out of the water, ‘is to serve. Not to seek your own glories. Pride leads to a fall, Edgar.’ She does not dry him but stands instead, wiping Her hands on the damp towel with a look of distaste before addressing the room.

  ‘I, then, have washed the feet of my disciples, just as Christ did. And I ask you to remember the words He said: Verily, verily, I say unto you, The servant is not greater than his lord.’

  Garden of Eden

  Eight taps on the front door. Eight. I must remember to tell Octavia. She will know it is a sign.

  ‘Miss Hardwick,’ I say, opening the door wide in welcome. ‘I knew you’d come.’ But that is not the truth. This morning I went over and over our conversation in my head and by lunchtime I was convinced she had accepted my invitation only to be polite. It’s what the English do best. But here she is, standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Of course I came,’ she says, and there’s that smile again, is it amusement? I will ask her not to mention that we met in church. Time turns the truth into a lie: if Octavia found out now She would think I had been up to something. She might stop me going out for walks. She might stop the others too, and then I’d have to suffer their resentment, as well as Her disappointment.

  Grace steps into the hall and I am ready this time. I hold out my hand. She is wearing gloves, dark blue like her coat. Which is just as well; perhaps the touch of skin would be too much.

  ‘Welcome to our little society. Are you ready for the grand tour?’

  Today this is my place, my story to tell. Today I am someone with something to say. I lead her down the hallway, past the closed door of the sitting room. I’m not ready to take her in there yet. Everything is too heavy: the oversized sideboards, the shelves crammed with rules and proclamations, even the mantelpiece clock labours to tick each step in time. The net curtains and drapes make the light so dim you can barely make out the photographs on the wall: faces that look happier than I remember them. Take a picture and in that flash of light, reality is transformed, a moment becomes a memory.

  ‘Shall we start in the Garden?’ I lead her out through the narrow yard which runs between our kitchen and that of Rachel Fox next door, thankful that I invited her to come on a Sunday when the washing line is mercifully free of our weekday offerings. At the end of the wall I usher her left, and see her surprise as the Garden opens up in front of us.

  ‘I had no idea it would be so …’

  ‘Big?’ I ask. ‘This is the main lawn. Not quite a cricket pitch but big enough for croquet. We knocked down the garden walls between the houses, so we can be together all the time. We live, we worship …’ I stop before I say any more. We watch, but I don’t need to tell her that.

  Borders line the edges of the lawn, paths leading off through trellis archways to the back doors of the houses around the outside of the Garden.

  ‘And a tennis court!’ she says. ‘I’d never have believed all this was here.’

  ‘We have some wealthy members.’

  The war stole their brothers and husbands and they were left with great piles of money in their place. They inherited freedom. Perhaps they didn’t know what to do with it; perhaps that’s why they came here. But I don’t tell her that either.

  ‘It’s a lovely garden,’ she says. And as I watch her stand and take it in, I realise she is right. Once the weather turns I rarely linger out here, dashing to outrun the chill before it climbs inside my bones. Octavia would say that I am too sensitive, but I cannot bear to look at the skeletons that summer has left behind. Life shrinks back from winter’s bared teeth, the earth exposed like the soil of fresh graves. Lavender is stripped to a stack of silvery needles, the leaves of the rhododendrons left downcast and defeated.

  ‘It doesn’t look its best this time of year,’ I say. But today it looks more beautiful than I have ever seen it. Last night’s frost has retreated to the darkest corners of the garden, hiding in the shelter of the two stone lions that guard the entrance to the chapel, catching the last of the weakening light with a defiant glint. It is not cold enough for snow but the viburnum hedges bend instead with the burden of white blossoms. Today I can feel spring slumbering in the beds that line the path beneath our feet. The sun is getting sleepy too, already slouching behind the chimneypots of Castleside and The Haven that cast long shadows across the lawn. I think of them as generals that guard the west entrance of the Garden, dwarfing the houses on every other side.

  ‘That’s Castleside,’ I say, pointing out the three-storey villa on the left. ‘We only bought it last year. There was a wall running right along here,’ I explain, halting our steps in the very centre of the Garden. ‘Everything this side was ours, everything that side was theirs.’

  ‘Theirs?’

  ‘It used to belong to Bedford School. It was where the boarders stayed, but Octavia arranged for the society to buy it.’

  ‘And that one, beside it? It looks even bigger!’

  ‘That’s The Haven. Kate Firth lives there. She takes in new members while
they find something more permanent.’

  ‘So she has boarders of her own?’ she laughs.

  ‘Yes, I suppose she has.’

  ‘I envy them,’ she says, looking up at the bedroom windows. ‘Friends together, sharing all this. That feeling of belonging to something.’

  I envy them too.

  ‘She lets us use the rooms at the back for society business,’ I say, pointing to the outhouses built onto the back of The Haven. ‘We’ve got our own printing press now to produce books and pamphlets, and next door is where we keep the archive.’

  ‘There’s so much to take in,’ she says. ‘I’d love to see it all.’

  ‘Perhaps another day you shall.’ But that’s not up to me; that will be a decision for Octavia.

  Miss Hardwick turns slowly to survey the Garden. ‘That must be the chapel you told me about,’ she says, walking towards it. On the outside its design is unremarkable: more walls of red brick to match those built on every side of the Garden, a pitched roof of russet tiles. One could almost mistake it for a low barn or workshop. But at one end a clock tower rises, clad in lead, with four white faces framed in gold.

  ‘That’s where we’ll find the stained glass window you promised?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’ Of course. The window. That’s the reason she came. I hold the door open and let her walk ahead. She is a bird, a dark blue bird, slim and slight; her head moving this way and that to take in every detail, as if she might take flight at any moment. Beside her I feel plain, oversized and clumsy.

  ‘We meet here every evening,’ I say. ‘When Octavia tells us what the Lord has said.’

  ‘And Octavia is … your leader?’