In The Past. (Story)
Terry Collett

 

One late evening in a bedroom of a seaside boarding house Mary was standing at the window. She was wearing an off-white nightdress and was barefooted. She parted the curtains, peered out and said to herself, I can see the pier from here. It’s all lit up like a Christmas tree. I remember one Christmas in particular. It was just after the angel came. Yes, yes, it really did come. The angel. The angel came and spoke to me. I had only just got into bed, pulled up the covers, and laid my head on the pillow when a light appeared in the corner of my bedroom. The light got larger and larger until it seemed to fill the whole room and I put my hands over my eyes to shield them from the brightness. Then the angel spoke. It was a softly spoken angel yet I heard every word the angel spoke. I’m not sure if it was a he or a she. I thought it a she, but looking back at the angel now in my memory, I’m not sure if it was a he or a she. The voice could have been either. Strange. I never thought about it at the time. Never gave it a thought. I was so dumbstruck at the sight of the angel that it didn’t seem to matter what sex it was. She paused. She gazed at her reflection in the window glass. Have you ever seen an angel? Her reflection peered back at her. My parents said I should say nothing about it. My father in particular stressed the importance of me saying not a word to a living soul. And you know what parents are like: they think these matters through from a different angle from a child. And I was still a child, then. Twelve I was. Twelve is a child’s age. And this angel appeared and spoke to me and said things that at first I didn’t understand. She sighed and looked once more at her reflection. Well, you don’t as a child do you. I mean what do you understand as a child compared to what you understand as an adult? Little. Hardly enough to cover the age span of twelve scant years. She sighed. So the angel spoke slower, and in more detail, and gradually it began to seep into my understanding what the angel was saying, and I began to shake my head, as if by shaking my head I could shake away all the things that the angel was saying. My mother said not to say anything to my father, but I did, because it was important he knew about the angel and what the angel had said. But he got angry, and said I was making it all up, and that if I made things up like that I was either very bad or very mad, and that he was very disappointed in me for saying such things. As if I would say such things if it wasn’t true. He looked at me with those dark eyes of his and I could almost see his disappointment sitting there in his eyes like an ill-tempered judge. She paused, then lifted the hem of her nightdress and bit it nervously.

The bedroom door opened and Peter entered. He was wearing a pair of old pyjamas underneath a lightweight dressing gown. He looked at Mary.

Peter said, All right to come in for a few moments?

Mary nodded. Yes, I was just getting ready for bed.

Has Paul been in? asked Peter.

Mary shook her head. No. Peter walked forward and they met by the bed. Not seen him since supper.

Peter said, I thought he’d have been up here.

No, Mary said. Why did you want him?

Peter shook his head. Not particularly. Just wondered if he was here.

Mary said, No. Peter looked around the room and Mary looked at Peter. I can see the pier from my window.

Can you? Peter walked to the window and peered out. Mary sat on the bed looking at him. Quite colourful lit up like that, said Peter.

Mary said, Reminds me of Christmas.

Does it? said Peter. Why?

The way it’s all lit up, Mary said.

I suppose it does give that impression if you look at it in a certain way, Peter said. Christmas isn’t my favourite time of year.

Mary looked at Peter’s back. Isn’t it?

Peter shook his head. No. He moved away from the window and walked up and down the room slowly. Except for the early years when I was too young to make much sense of it other than the usual childlike nonsense, I have grown to dislike Christmas immensely. Humbug as Scrooge said.

Mary said, Why so grumpy about Christmas?

Well for a number of reasons, Peter said. Firstly, my youngest sister died on Christmas Day.

Mary put her hand to her mouth and then said, Oh, no. I never knew. I honestly never knew, Peter.

Peter said, And secondly, people behave so falsely and eat so greedily and drink too much and tell each other such sentimental nonsense that it makes me cringe.

How did she die? asked Mary.

Peter said, I don’t want to talk about it.

Mary clutched her hands tightly together. I never knew, Peter. Honestly, I didn’t.

Peter gazed at Mary. I’ve never told anyone. Outside of my family, no one knows except those who needed to know for purposes of burial and death certificates.

How old was she? Mary asked.

Peter sighed and stopped walking and said, She was five. She had an allergy we knew nothing of and over dinner she had a fit and collapsed and was dead before she could receive any treatment.
Mary said, Oh, my God…You poor man. She held the hem of her nightdress in her mouth and bit it for a few moments.

Peter said, So now you know why I don’t want to talk about it. It made Christmas after that rather a dismal affair. We hardly celebrated it after that. Went through the motions. Had the dinner. Pulled a few crackers. Had a few drinks. And forgot about it as soon as we could until the next damned Christmas came. Peter paused and then walked to Mary who was holding the hem of her nightdress in her hands. So, where has Paul gone? I could have sworn he’d be here. He sat beside Mary on the bed.

Mary said in a soft voice, Can I tell you something?

Peter said, If you want to. Is it about Paul?

Mary shook her head. No, it’s not about Paul. It’s about me and my past.

Peter smiled. Oh, sounds intriguing. Speak on.

Mary said, It’s a serious matter. I’ve told no one, not even Paul.

Oh, I see, Peter said. Opening up the skeleton cupboard are we?

Mary said, It’s about me and what happened to me.

So what happened to you, Mary? asked Peter.

Mary said, I became pregnant at thirteen.

Pregnant? You? Peter said.

Mary nodded. Yes. I never knew what was wrong with me until I became sick in the mornings and told my mother about the sickness and she…The angel had said something about it. I never thought about it until a year later.

And so what happened? Peter asked.

Mary said, My mother took me to the doctors who said I was pregnant. She went frantic. Asked me who I’d been with and who had touched me and to give her the boy’s name and where he lived. She paused and bit the hem of her nightdress again. She then looked at Peter, put down her hem and sighed. There was no boy. No one had touched me nor had I been with anyone. Not me. And she wouldn’t believe me. Said I was a liar. A very bad girl, she said I was.

Peter said, Yes, I suppose she would if you said that you’d been with no one and had not been touched by anyone and yet was pregnant. I suppose she would be angry if that was what you said.

Father wanted to send me away to some convent he knew of who dealt with these sorts of things, but mother said no, Mary said. And they had a terrible row that went on for days. Elizabeth didn’t believe me either. She said I was to tell the truth. And I was telling the truth. How can you tell the truth anymore than you are if you are telling the truth in the first place?

Peter said, Do you believe that is what happened to you? Pregnant yet untouched by anyone?

Mary nodded. It’s what happened.

Peter said, And you’ve not told Paul?

The angel said it would, Mary said.

Peter sighed. Paul won’t like that. He never could understand women who claimed to have got pregnant without sex. It sort of angered him. We met many a young girl who claimed she was in the family way and that he or I were to blame or that either of us could be the father, but girls who told us they never had sex and were pregnant really angered Paul.

Mary said, And yet when I told mother what the angel said she said not to repeat it to my father and to keep stumm. Yes, stumm. Can’t quite see my mother saying anything like that could you? But she did. She paused. Peter got up and walked around the room slowly in deep thought. Mary looked at her hands. She put a finger against my lips and told me to keep stumm. My father seldom spoke to me after that.

And Paul’s anger is quite frightening to see, Peter said.

Mary said, Even when I left university with a good degree he said nothing.

I can imagine him in the pulpit, Peter said, preaching in a loud voice to a congregation of loose women, about the impossibility of becoming pregnant, without having close relations with a member of the opposite sex. Peter sat again next to Mary. What really happened?

Mary said, I was sent to Coventry as they say.

Maybe you were too drunk to notice the boy who messed with you, Peter said. Maybe you never understood what he was up to that night or day or whatever time it was he touched you.

Mary shook her head. No. I’ve not told Paul or anyone until now.

Peter said, And so what then? Who if anyone?

Mary said, There was no one. I never knew any boys. Never would have let them touch me. Not then. Not at that age.

Mary told such dreadful lies it made one gasp and wipe one’s eyes, Peter said.

Mary said, The angel said about these things. I never understood. I only wanted to be good. The light faded as Mary and Peter stared at each other as the evening descended into the room.


 

 

Copyright © 2011 Terry Collett
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"