Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

Marda was ecstatic at the thought of leaving the cellar, even for a short time. “If you would like to get yourself ready, I will come back for you in about an hour…with some heating oil.”

Her excitement was genuine. She beamed when she said, “I don’t really have much to change into. And is there any chance of having my-first-bath?”

“Your habit will do fine…and I will think about the bath,” he added grudgingly. He locked the door and left the light on.

When he came back she had combed her hair and washed as best she could. She looked at her bitten nails, but there was nothing she could do about them. She had never bitten them before. He had refused to give her make-up, but the soap was fragrant. Duval himself seemed to be a bit more spruce than normal, she thought.

Duval was making an effort, especially since he had noticed that he was starting to let himself go a bit-not shaving regularly, wearing the same stained shirt for two days.

After leading her along the corridor with both her hands cuffed together, he helped her up the stairs and through the thick wooden door of the cellar. The flat trapdoor was heavy, so he climbed first and held it open.

The kitchen exploded into her consciousness. Everyday objects such as a bottle of milk, a loaf of Hovis and pots and pans were miracles, wonderful reminders of real life, heaven after the gloom. She marvelled at the tiles, the big enamel teapot and the red-checked cloth covering a tray. This was life, life, life. Light, colour, good smells, comforts, food, but-above all-light. She wanted to cry, laugh, sing, dance, shout, all at the same time, but controlling herself, aware he was watching her every movement, she merely indulged in the unbridled pleasure of staring at all the amazing artefacts of a living kitchen.

She noticed that he had carefully laid out two places on a large pine kitchen table. The bottle of dry French wine made her almost scream with joy.

To add to her pleasure, Duval let Bobby in from an inside door. The dog leapt up at Marda and she patted him furiously.

The priest seemed pleased with himself, but still very cautious. He said, “I hope you will excuse our eating in the kitchen. It is the most secure room on the ground floor. And, if you don’t mind, I will have to handcuff one of your hands to the table.”

She didn’t know whether she should push her luck. “Michael, it’s Christmas Eve and I take it the other doors are locked. Please let me enjoy just one meal and let me eat properly. Please let’s have a civilised meal together.”

He smiled with a slight frown as if to say I half-believe you.

“One move that I don’t like and I will return you to the cellar. If you even think of trying to escape…”

“Michael, I want to have a meal with you. It’s Christmas.”

“If what your letters say is true, then I might believe you. What if you are trying to bluff me? And why did you write to Christine?”

She started fiddling with the end of the tablecloth, but she knew she had to maintain eye contact: “Michael, those letters were like my diary, my lifeline to the outside world. I needed to talk to my friends-including Christine. She has become like a friend. They were just meant for me, though. Would I lie to myself?”

After he had undone her handcuffs, he smiled again, in his lopsided way, and said, “Let’s not argue tonight. Please sit down, Marda. May I pour you some wine?”

Except for the corn spirit, she had not tasted alcohol for nearly three months. “You bet,” she said eagerly.

He pulled out for her a real chair and she actually sat at a proper table; and, in warmth and light, this was paradise for Marda. She watched him pour the wine into a crystal glass and place it in front of her. She stopped herself for all of a minute, and then drank the whole glass in one gulp.

“’Scuse my manners, but I needed that.” The unaccustomed taste made her hiccup slightly.

Sitting down opposite her, he poured himself a glass which he sipped deliberately. Savouring his wine, with no mock pretension he said, “This is from Bordeaux; it’s a good year.”

“It’s lovely, Michael, thank you. I’ve spent some time there, as you know, working with wines, so I appreciate your thoughtfulness in getting a Bordeaux. Thank you so much.”

“Since you are so appreciative, I have decided to allow you a bath, a quick one. I don’t want to spend hours on guard outside the door. I shall give you ten minutes. Do you agree?”

A look of unadulterated delight transfixed Marda’s face. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes!” she said delightedly. “Now?”

“Yes. The window is firmly shuttered from the outside so there is no point in trying to get out. The water is hot, and there is a spare towel on the chair.”

He unlocked the kitchen door and, holding her firmly by the arm, led her along a gloomy passageway next to the kitchen. He pushed her gently ahead into a darkened room, switching on the light before she could become anxious.

“Help yourself,” he said expansively. “Remember, though, I will be outside the door, in case you try any funny business. There’s no lock inside, but I promise I shall not disturb you, so long as you are not more than ten minutes. Fair enough?”

She nodded, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Duval closed the door, leaving her alone in the most spartan bathroom she had ever seen. A forty-watt bulb illuminated the white enamel sink, bath and toilet, all scrupulously clean. Alongside the bath stood a simple wooden chair, painted brown. An old heavy-duty wooden towel rail had been treated to white paint, but long ago. There was nothing else, except a threadbare towel, soap and toilet paper. She had hoped there would be a mirror.

The next ten minutes passed in a blur of ecstasy: the luxury of a real toilet, while she ran the bath, then the bliss of deep, hot water enveloping her body, the glide of the soap caressing her limbs, the chance to end the itching in her scalp, her body tingling, revived by heat and cleanliness and the smell of Lux soap, this was almost the world she came from…

“You have one more minute, Marda.” His voice ruptured her reverie, and hate suffused her being; her first luxury in months, and again he was rationing her.

“Right, Michael, coming out in a moment.” She jumped on to the cold white-tiled floor, wiping herself furiously. Only half-dry, she threw on her habit in fear that he would enter the bathroom while she was naked. She wanted to be ready before he came in to enforce his time limit. And she needed to make some effort to clean the bath: she used the towel to wipe off the tidemark from water dirtied by her first proper wash in months.

He gave her two minutes, and knocked; she opened the door, her hair still dripping.

“Happy, now?” he enquired.

“Yes, ready to eat,” she said, as he loomed behind her, gesturing the way back to the kitchen.

They sat at the table, both nervous of initiating conversation, until Duval said, “Were you really so afraid of me in the beginning? I know that the herbal drug must have been very unpleasant, but I did my best to keep you happy. Am I such an ogre?”

She held out her glass and he refilled it.

“How can I answer that, Michael? As you said, let’s not argue. Let’s just enjoy the meal. I can’t wait.” Again, she patted the dog which was now asleep under the table.

Duval had heated some canned tomato soup, for which he apologised. To Marda it tasted superb.

As he prepared the food, he was careful not to turn his back on her. Whether he was being ultra-cautious or just nervous in her presence, she wasn’t sure.

When he served up the main course Marda tried hard not to gobble it down. He ate only the vegetables, while she revelled in the turkey.