Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

Near the ford at the bottom of the lane she encountered Bobby, who bounced up to her in friendly recognition. She patted his head and carried on down the lane with the collie skipping around her feet.

On the other side of the small ford, by the faint light of a cottage window, she could see a green Morris estate with the back doors open. She could just make out a person whom she assumed was the dog’s owner leaning over into the back of the car. It was difficult to be sure because the stream was surrounded by large trees and bushes, and the footbridge was indistinct in the darkness.

“Hello. Is that you…Michael? I found your dog at the top of the lane.”

From the interior of the car came Duval’s muffled voice: “Can you hold him a minute? I’m looking for his lead. He disappeared on our walk a while ago. Chasing rabbits…I have been out in the car looking for him…Where is that lead?”

Marda was now standing behind the Morris bending over to hold Bobby’s collar, while the dog busied himself with licking her hand. She did not see Duval check all around to ensure that nobody else was in the secluded area. He would take her. He had the chloroform ready.

“What are you doing in there, Michael?” Her voice was so kind, so friendly, so trusting…

The first thing she would recognise was the force used to clamp the cloth around her mouth and an awful sickly chemical smell. For two or three seconds she would be too shocked to do anything except try to scream, but she would not be able to. Then she would try to break free, but he would hold her firmly around her waist. Nothingness would envelop her.

He put the bottle back in the cardboard box.

“I can’t find the lead,” he said, rummaging around in the back of car, and trying to appear slightly helpless.

“No need,” said Marda smiling, “Bobby seems quite happy to stay with me.”

Duval swivelled around and smiled in turn at his prey.

They talked about Bobby for a few minutes and Marda mentioned a forthcoming trip to France, to which she was looking forward. She then risked a personal question.

“May I ask what you do? I thought that perhaps you worked professionally with animals,” she said tentatively.

“I am a priest,” Duval replied. He thought she seemed a little surprised. “I don’t often wear my dog collar when I am off duty.”

“Where’s your church?” asked Marda, trying to recover.

“In Guildford, quite close to St. Mary’s, the old Saxon church near the castle.”

“I like churches,” said Marda. “In fact, occasionally I pop into St. Mary’s. I love the ancient smell, the feeling of so much history.”

“You are very welcome to visit mine, although it’s not nearly as old. I’ll jot down the address,” he said, rifling around in his jacket for a pen and paper. “I have what I call ‘surgery hours,’ when my parishioners call in for tea and sympathy. I usually try to offer them some cake as well as the opportunity for confession.” A small, slightly dry chuckle accompanied this remark.

Marda laughed ruefully. “I could certainly do with a sympathetic ear from someone. I’ve had a terrible row with my brother. I rarely see him, but when I do we always manage to argue… Anyway, I am sure you hear enough of family troubles. You don’t need to hear mine. Sorry I mentioned it. I feel rather embarrassed, imposing on someone I hardly know. Terribly sorry,” she said, obviously flustered.

Duval put on his best priestly manner.

“That’s my job: to listen and to help. To all, whether they are Catholic or not.”

“I’m not a Catholic, although my mother is- was- but it’s nice to talk to you. You seem friendlier than most priests, although I don’t suppose I know that many.” She laughed a little too self-consciously, and Duval liked the girlishness of this grown woman.

“My surgery hours are usually between five and seven.”

“I may take you up on that.”

“Don’t come if you don’t want to. It must be your choice… We all have freedom of choice,” he added gently.

“Well, I’d better get on,” said Marda. “Thanks. I may call in to see you sometime. Bye.” She patted Bobby on the head and walked the short distance to her flat.

Duval was pleased with himself, glad that he had not taken her. It would have been too risky, too impulsive, here on his home ground. He had selected her, and he felt that she had chosen him. He was sure she would come eventually to him. A few days later they chatted briefly near the ford, and he repeated his invitation to visit the church. She said she would call in when she returned from France, which would not be for a few weeks.

The next evening a demurely dressed young woman, looking very unsure of herself, walked into Duval’s church. She gazed up at an elaborate chandelier and then at the high wooden supports of the ceiling; as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she caught a glimpse of a black surplice bustling from a passage near the side of the altar. It was Duval and he greeted her warmly.

“You look so different dressed as a priest,” Marda said shyly. “It makes it so formal, rather than chatting to an old…well, a new friend.”

Duval considered whether he should shake her hand, but decided against it. “Welcome, Marda,” he said, showing surprise but also genuine pleasure at her arrival. “I’m on duty now. So please come into the vestry and have a cup of tea. And there is some coconut cake as well.” He led her to a small office, full of old books. “Bit small and scruffy, I’m afraid, but most people find it cosy enough for a chat. I thought you were going to France.”

“I am, but I had a stinking letter from Mark, you know, the brother I mentioned to you, and, well, I wanted to clear my head before I went away.”

“Sugar?” said Duval.

“No thanks.”

“Please sit down. That chair is more comfortable. Now tell me about your brother…”

“Well, I feel awkward talking about it.”

When she started to pull out a blue packet of Gitanes cigarettes from her handbag, Duval noticed her long painted nails.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t smoke in church,” Marda said, looking flustered again. “I’m just rather nervous.”

“I don’t smoke in the actual church, but I sometimes smoke my pipe here in my office. Smoke if you want. Really . Use my ashtray.”

Duval disliked women smoking, but it was not the time to say that. Marda lit up the Gitane, sank back into her chair and sipped her tea.

“This tea tastes unusual…It’s interesting, though. What is it?”

“I have an interest in herbs,” said Duval, not looking at her. “It’s my own mix. Some conventional Assam with a few of my own little additions…You were talking about your brother.”

Marda put on a very diffident smile, with her chin down and her eyes up, as though she was a doe startled by a strange sound in the forest.

Duval waited for her to speak. When she did, the words tumbled out. “We’re not really a close family and I don’t feel I can talk about it with them. In fact, although my mother is a lapsed Catholic, my father is a staunch Anglican. He would have a blue fit if he knew I was here talking to a Catholic priest. I haven’t told a soul I’m here, not even Jenny-she’s my best friend in Guildford. Maybe it’s crazy, but I wanted to talk to someone professionally, if you like. It’s not religious, at all, so perhaps I shouldn’t really be here.”

“I’m glad you are,” said Duval. “Very glad.”

For ten or fifteen minutes the priest was told a tale of recent sibling rivalry, of two over-achievers close in age, with loving but distant parents. Duval listened carefully enough to offer the occasionally anodyne commiseration, but he was more intent on examining Marda’s potential for the tasks he would set her. It was enough to sit and let her pour her heart out.