Maggie Gee - The White Family

He was flying at last, no longer awkward, alight with the fire of divine anger, eyes blazing, waving his hand, pointing his finger in a way she didn’t like, reminding her of something from history — was it a picture of God the Father, pointing? An old-fashioned picture from her childhood Bible? On all the six monitors his image flashed, flaming down on them, arm raised, shouting, and everyone stared at him, transfixed, more than a thousand people listening, gripped — suddenly she realized why she didn’t like it. It was from the past, but long before her childhood, something from history, unspeakable, and she felt ashamed for even thinking it, but his arm on the monitors rose and fell, his voice roared on, hypnotic, dramatic — He wasn’t a priest, he was the German Fuhrer, and they were the crowd at one of his rallies, she had seen a film of it only last week. Then she shook herself out of the illusion, blinked, and he was just a man again, the Reverend Lack in his foam-backed jacket, trying too hard to lift his audience.

She looked sideways at Elroy, but Elroy was listening with puzzled respect, nodding his head.

Did people really want battles, and wars? Shirley had had enough of them. Who would we be fighting? Atheists? Muslims? Men believed in battle, women did not (but a glimpse of Viola leaning forward in her seat, eyes gleaming, fists clenched, nodding and smiling, told Shirley she was wrong. Viola couldn’t wait.)

The Reverend Lack was drawing to a close. Now there would be prayers, with the organ playing softly, everyone standing, hands raised to God, and the church officials would come among them and pray with those whom the spirit moved.

Shirley still found the behaviour of the congregation during the closing prayers astonishing. Some laughed hysterically, raising their eyes, clutching themselves, others were weeping, some sitting on the floor, some half-supported in the arms of officials, some shaking uncontrollably and moaning, but down at the front they were falling, crumpling, toppling as if they had been struck by lightning at the instant the hands of the ministers touched them.

Now the Reverend Lack asked the whole second row of the congregation to come on stage and receive a blessing. They came, and he touched them, one by one, and they fell like playing cards, falling in order, and lay there pole-axed while prayers and music continued around them.

(On one of Shirley’s first visits to the Temple, a Malaysian official, ugly and kind with big brown eyes and the Pentecostal badge upon her shoulder, had come and offered to pray with her, and looking in her eyes Shirley saw similar suffering, felt a kindness that came from pain, and she fell, she yielded, she sank down before her, ‘Thank Jesus, thank Jesus, for He is good,’ fell, in truth, partly as a gift to the woman, but once she was down on the ground she felt puzzled — it was hard and uncomfortable; she couldn’t get up.)

And yet it was a wonder, in its way, this scene of transformation, of ecstasy, it was what St John’s could never quite manage, with everyone in fluid, passionate motion as the spirit rippled round the building like wind, blowing some over, raising some up, shivering the outstretched arms like corn, the organ still stirring softly underneath them.

Then Shirley’s eyes fell on the back of the stage where the two church worthies had sat throughout, the middle-aged white men in their spruce light suits, beaming approvingly on Reverend Lack. Their smiles, their posture seemed suddenly wrong, as if they had set themselves apart. She looked again at the praying priest, and his prayer, to her, became false, grotesque, maybe because he was being filmed in close-up and the image flashed all over the church, repeated six times on the TV monitors which hung above them, powerful as crucifixes, surely too big, too loud, too many — she focused again on the two watching white men, leaning back in their chairs, relaxed, smiling, though the stage at their feet was covered with the fallen, a battlefield covered with helpless bodies, nearly all of them black, lying dead still –

So many dead bodies . Why were those two smiling? How could they sit there, comfortable?

It was only a moment, then the image faded, the Temple around her returned to itself, she knew, she believed it was a good place, if they had a fault it was only being greedy, and even their greed, she supposed, was for God — Sophie was happy, they made people happy –

Why should it seem any different today?

But what she had seen was a vision of hell, and she shivered convulsively, and turned to Elroy. ‘Time to go.’

‘You in a hurry?’

‘I don’t feel well.’

Then he was all concern, whispering something to his mother and shepherding her through the crowd and down the stairs.

In the air he held her and stared into her face. She felt as though he might read her secret, so intent were his pupils, cold and small in daylight.

‘You’re shaking, woman. Is it the spirit?’

‘I think I’m just tired,’ Shirley said. ‘I think I should go home to bed. Going to church twice — it is tiring.’

(Having two men, being full of them.

Seeing such visions of life and death. The bodies lying there, the others watching.)

Melissa, Melissa! She likes my novel! She loved my novel! She couldn’t put it down! A woman of such taste, such discernment –

He was very glad it was the novel she’d read. For some reason he went hot and cold all over at the thought of her seeing Postmodernism . Melissa was brisk, Melissa was busy — a busy young woman might think he was mad. But the novel, the novel! His first-born child! She’s only had it for forty-eight hours, and she’s nearly finished it. Nearly finished! Melissa, my love!

But she’s not my love. She’s — a young professional, a working woman, a — flat-dweller, a householder, a tax-payer.

Oh breasts and lashes and lips and booties and scents of vanilla and musk and sweat — tenderness, slenderness, huskiness, oh, soon, soon, Melissa, please —

Oh hell.

I have to be calm and sensible. I have to be a responsible adult. Melissa trusts me. She’s counting on me. She wants me to come into the classroom today. Wednesday morning. At twelve hours’ notice.

A little knock on the door last night, I knew it was her, I could hardly speak –

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Melissa. Are you very busy?’

I remembered the loutish boyfriend, in the hall, and tried not to smile too adoringly. But in only a second, all was resolved — ‘Thank you for saving me, the other night. I was just getting rid of this dreadful man who turns up every so often and tries to borrow money —’

‘Delighted to be of assistance,’ I said.

‘He used to be a boyfriend. I’ve picked some losers … And now, please, you’ve got to save my life —’

One of her colleagues had just phoned to say she was going down with flu. (Melissa used the word ‘colleague’ — so delightful. Two college girls in stripy scarves —)

Professional, professional.

I must be entirely professional. Her sick colleague taught the other Year 3 Class, or the other Year 4 Class, I wasn’t listening. In any case, Melissa wondered –

If I could possibly –

If I would consider –

She didn’t want to trouble me –

Yes, just ask me and I’ll agree! Robbing a bank, arson, murder –

(Better not make any jokes about murder. George was looking solemn in the paper-shop this morning. The oik wasn’t there, Shirley’s little brother, maybe everyone round here’s got flu — so he served me himself. Puffing and wheezing. And he said there’d been a murder. Didn’t know the details. Very near here. ‘Probably some mugger.’