Face the Music

"You haven't got the long bedraggled hair and scruffy beard for a start," added her wife Joanna.

"And sackcloth doesn't become you," Susie added, "so get your backside in gear and get some decent clothes on before we forcibly dress you."

That more or less set the pattern for most Friday or Saturday evenings. We almost always went to The Twilight Time Rooms, generally acknowledged to be the best lesbian nightclub in the city. They all respected my decision not to drink any alcohol but they made damned sure that I joined in the talk and danced with them. They were going to drag me back to life or bust in the attempt. And so it was the Friday of Gudrun's first week at Partridge & Co.

Susie and Joanna came around about 7:30. In my wallowing in self-pity I'd forgotten our arrangement to go to The Twilight. Susie may have been petite but she was forceful and blunt at times. "You've been crying again. Christ! You look like shit!" and promptly set about getting me into some kind of order.

Vicki and Niamh were waiting for us and I was pleased to see they had managed to bag a table before the place became too crowded. Until Carole had fallen off the wagon it had always been the six of us, occasionally joined by two other women, Hester and Marion who worked at the City Hospital with Niamh. Afterwards, well... I tried hard to avoid the gang then, more so following the funeral, but they did their best to prevent me from wallowing in misery. "We're your friends and we're looking after you because this is what real friends do," one of them had told me and another chipped in with: "It's tough love, Sarah, and if you don't like it, tough shit!" One good thing, nobody had tried to fix me up with a date yet. They might be looking after me the hard way but at least they had the sensitivity not to do that.

We'd been settled for about fifteen minutes when I happened to look towards the bar and saw a familiar figure perched on one of the tall stools. "I'm just going to say hello to someone," I told my friends as I stood up. When I reached the bar I said: "Hi."

Gudrun turned with the beginning of a smile which faded rapidly when she saw me. "I thought you didn't drink."

"I don't, but I'm here with some friends."

"Then you'd better go back to them before they miss you." She very pointedly turned her back on me so, chastened, I returned to my friends.

"What was all that about?" asked Susie, "And who is she? Friend of yours? She looked bloody rude to me."

"Just somebody... an acquaintance..." I shook my head. "It's all my fault if she was rude."

"Didn't look like it to me."

I sighed. "Take it from me, it's my fault."

* * * * *

I travelled in to work on the Monday fully meaning to apologise. Getting into the office, I hung up my coat then said: "Gudrun..." She looked at me coldly and so I just muttered: "Oh, nothing..."

And that set a pattern, creating a very tense atmosphere. We very carefully avoided speaking to each other except when necessary and even then we kept the conversation to a minimum. It turned out that Gudrun was a natural for the job and after the first week or so needed little help from me. The was one little incident which made me realise that, like me, Gudrun had her problems. One morning my desk phone rang and a man spoke, a hard-sounding voice with a slight accent of some kind.

--I wish to speak to Gudrun Nyström. Put her on. No 'please' or word of thanks.

"May I ask who's calling?"

--This is the Reverend Nyström.

"It's a Reverend Nyström for you, Gudrun," I told her as I transferred the call. Her lips tightened as she picked up the phone.

"Yes father?"

After that I just caught Gudrun's side of the conversation.

"No, father, I have no intention of returning. I have my own house and I'm happy there."

---

"No, I am not going to give up work. I'm independent now and I like it that way."

---

"Father! I am not going back to Jeremy. We've gone our separate ways and we're both happier for that. When will you accept that he wanted a divorce as much as I did."

---

"You already know my opinion. I couldn't care less about your precious Ten Commandments! They were written thousands of years ago by old men, not by a burning bush. And they were written for the benefit of men, not women."

---

"Father, I may be a lesbian but that doesn't make me evil. I'm probably a better Christian than half your congregation!" She slammed the phone down.

I couldn't pretend I'd heard nothing for the conversation, on Gudrun's side at least, had grown quite loud. All I could think of to say was: "Your father's a vicar, is he?"

"A pastor---the pastor of a chapel in Langton Heights." She returned to whatever she's been doing before the phone call. And I decided to mind my own business.

* * * * *

Around lunchtime, the Wednesday before Good Friday, Robert Partridge came to tell us that he was taking off for a week and said that we could do the same. "I've already let Molly go. Finish up whatever you're doing then you can go. I'll see you both next Wednesday."

What followed was again my fault. Gudrun asked me something, quietly and politely, and I, in another fit of depression, made some sort of uncalled for and sarcastic reply, instantly regretted but too late to take back.. Gudrun finished whatever she was doing, locked her desk and gathered her coat and bag. She was about to leave but turned away from the door and stormed back to me.

"Why are you such a bitch?" she said, "You've been a bitch to me almost from when I started here. What did I ever do to you? I'll tell you this, Sarah Rackham---if you're trying to drive me out, you're not going to succeed!"

Conscience stabbed me. "I'm not try---" but she was gone before I could finish.

* * * * *

My parents had booked a long weekend in Amsterdam so I'd promised to drive to Wales to see my Grandma Myfanwy. As we now had the afternoon off, I could manage the two-three hour drive and arrive before five. My idea was to stay over the Wednesday and Thursday nights and drive home on Good Friday. I intended to go into the office on the Saturday morning to clear up a little unfinished work and then just try to relax for the rest of the break. Although fat chance of that on Saturday evening as the girls planned to get me out. Okay, so I could at least relax on Easter Sunday and Monday.

Grandma may be touching eighty-something but she's astute and as soon as she saw me knew that things weren't right. She sat me down, made a cup of tea and said: "What's the trouble, cariad?"

"What do you mean, trouble?"

"Sarah Louise Rackham, I've known you from the time you popped out of the oven and I know full well when you're troubled about something. So what is it? Girl trouble?"

"Not really... well, in a way but not the kind of trouble you're thinking. Grandma, I'm turning into a horrible person and I don't like it and I'm scared..." She put her arm around me and I told her everything, my bouts of self-hatred and aggression because I blamed myself for Carole's death, the way I treated people badly and especially the way I'd been acting towards Gudrun.

When I'd finished she said: "I'm going to tell you something you may not like to hear but you have to accept it. Carole was bad for you, pure poison. Oh yes, I know how much you loved her and I'm sure she loved you but that doesn't make things any better. Sober, Carole was a lovely girl and if she'd stayed sober you would likely have had a wonderful life together. But she couldn't stay sober and from what you've told me before she was likely to turn into a monster when she was drinking. I've been lucky, never had an alcoholic in my life but I've known people who have and they all tell much the same story: it was living with Jekyll and Hyde, with Hyde usually coming out on top.

"You've got to accept that Carole's life-style and death were her responsibility, no-one else's. The relationship you had was completely toxic and there was a danger that sooner or later she'd have dragged you down. In fact, Carole herself recognised that and she did you a huge favour when she left you. Yes, you loved her but you've got to let go of her. You can't spend the rest of your life grieving so deeply over someone who might have destroyed you. Thank goodness you've got friends like Susie and the others who are doing everything they can to help you.

Somehow you need to make amends with the people you've hurt, especially this girl Gudrun who can't possibly know why you're so unpleasant. Promise me you'll try to make things better with her."

I nodded and Grandma added: "At my age I don't know how much longer I've got but I really want to see the old Sarah back again before I go."

* * * * *

I took Grandma out shopping and for some lunch on Good Friday so it was fairly late by the time I managed to get away. She tried to get me to stay over another night but I really wanted to get into the office on Saturday. "Well, if you must go... but drive carefully, cariad, the weather forecast is for a bad storm a bit later on and it's already looking grim."

She was right there. The sky was thick with cloud, some of it a filthy purple-black colour and it was far darker than it should have been for the time of day. The rain held off until I was about ten miles from the city when it started, a deluge backed up by vicious gusts of wind that rocked my small car. The windscreen wipers were going full blast but made little difference and in some especially dark places I had to slow right down. And then for some reason the car died on me. I managed to pull into the side of the road and onto the grass verge where I tried for about ten minutes to get it started again before accepting it was buggered. Muttering words that I'd hate Grandma to hear I got out my phone. Of course, I hadn't charged it for a couple of days. So there I was, a mile or so from Langton Heights with a dead car and a dead phone, and I didn't fancy spending the night in one with only the other for company. Then it occurred to me where I might find help...

Gudrun

Good Friday started out badly and got worse as the day progressed so by the evening it was dreadful. From early morning the heavy cloud cover and steadily increasing wind-speed had boded ill and so it turned out. My father was probably in chapel, preaching that God had sent the filthy weather to show unbelievers and waverers how it had been at the moment Jesus died. If you can't convert them with honeyed words, then scare the hell out of them. I think he preferred to scare the hell out of them straight away, rather like Amos Starkadder and the Quivering Brethren in Cold Comfort Farm.

What's that line in Macbeth? 'So foul and fair a day I have not seen.' If the Bard had been writing this line tonight, he'd have quickly scribbled out the 'fair'. We were getting the tail-end of some dying Atlantic hurricane with an improbable name. It was supposed to be heading up the Irish sea towards the north of Scotland as it petered out but its aim was a little off. I had the heavy velveteen curtains pulled close and the gas-fire on, flames dancing cheerfully among its imitation logs. Central heating is fine but on a night like this visible flames are so much more cosy, even if the logs are false. I'd turned off all the lights save for a solitary reading lamp which added to the feeling of warmth. However, I could not escape the sound of rain lashing against the windows as it was whipped by sudden gusts of violent wind. At least there was no thunder and lightning so I wasn't suffering the heebie-jeebies.

I couldn't have watched TV even if I'd wanted to. Jeremy had arranged for me to have satellite TV and the ferocious wind meant no signal. So I was engrossed in a book, specifically a collection of ghost stories by M R James. I'd been forbidden such tales when I was a teenager, my father dismissing them as blasphemous pagan nonsense. His list of proscribed books was lengthy, almost as far-reaching as that of the Vatican, and included such corrupting influences as H G Wells, Aldous Huxley and Grahame Greene. So now I was making up for lost time.

I was part way through a sinister tale of ghostly vengeance called 'The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral' when a sudden urgent buzz! from the doorbell made me jump. At least, I thought there was some urgency in the ringing. Imagination, I guess, caused by the vicious weather outside. And I couldn't think who would be visiting me on such a night. Unless there was an emergency, it was unlikely to be one of my neighbours. The bell rang again, once more with that note of urgency. I looked through the peephole but the outside security light must have had blown for all I could see was a shadowy hunched figure on the doorstep. Maybe reading James's eerie tales on such a night had not been a good idea. I slid the security-chain on and opened the door a fraction. The door rattled hard and if it hadn't been for the chain, I think a gust of wind might have ripped it from my grasp.

"Gudrun! Thank God you're in!" It was Sarah Rackham. Now what did she want? "Gudrun, I've no right to ask but can I come in please?"

I could have told her to go away, dreadful as the weather was, but that's not in my nature and anyway, there was a note of real distress in her voice. I slipped the chain, stepped back and opened the door sufficiently wide to let Sarah in, slamming it shut before a another blast could snatch it from me. Sarah's coat was only light, more suited to a cool spring or autumn evening, and she was sodden, seemingly right through. "Sorry," she whispered, "I can't be a welcome sight."

I didn't bother to give that the answer I thought it deserved. Instead I asked: "What happened to you?" Even to my ear my voice didn't sound the remotest bit hospitable or friendly.

"My car broke down a couple of miles from here, almost in the countryside" she told me, "and my phone was dead. I couldn't find a taxi and... well, I'm sorry for imposing on you but you're the only person I know in this part of the city. I knew your address from the personnel records I keep at work. Can I use your phone to call a taxi please?" Sarah was shivering constantly as she talked.

"You've walked a couple of miles in this storm and you're drenched," I said, what I'd once heard someone call a statement of the bleeding obvious, "and I don't think many taxi drivers will be eager to come so far from the city centre in this weather." You can't live your whole life as I did and not have great chunks of the Bible firmly imprinted in your psyche. I thought of the Good Samaritan parable. "Come on through and I'll run you a hot bath," I added.

"Don't go to any trouble for me."

"Don't argue! " I snapped, "I don't want a pneumonia case on my hands! Come along!" I led Sarah to the bathroom which was nicely warmed up by the central-heating.

"But I haven't anything else to wear. I had to leave my case in the car."

"I'll find you something." I began to run the hot water and added a good measure of scented bath-foam. "Just dump your wet clothes outside the door when you've taken everything off."

I gave Sarah time to get some comfort from the bath then went to the airing cupboard for warm towels and a fleecy winter bathrobe. I knocked softly on the bathroom door and walked in in time to see Sarah stepping out of the bath.

"Oh, I'm sorry---I didn't think you'd be finished yet." I averted my eyes as I held out the towels and the robe for her.

" 's okay," she said, "I'm pleasantly warmed through now."

I tried hard not to look at her but I couldn't resist and all my good intentions failed. Sarah had a nice body---make that a lovely body---with medium-sized tip-tilted breasts, the nipples large and brown. I noticed too that she was shaved or waxed clean and where her pubic hair should have been was a tattoo of a blue butterfly. I turned away, uncomfortable and feeling that somehow my gaze was intrusive. "I'll leave you to it," I muttered, "When you're ready come through and I'll have a hot drink waiting for you."

Gathering up her soaking clothing, I went to the kitchen and prepared two mugs of hot chocolate, reasoning that a comfort drink would do Sarah a lot more good than tea or coffee. I carried the drinks into the sitting room and Sarah, well wrapped up in the fluffy robe, joined me a few minutes later. With a muttered word of thanks she settled at the end of the sofa closest to the gas-fire, legs tucked beneath her and clutching her mug in both hands.

Another squall hit the windows, the rain a scattering of shotgun pellets against the glass. Sarah seemed to shiver slightly so I told her: "You can stay here tonight. There are fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room." Sarah made as if to protest and I added: "Look, the rain sounds even worse than when you arrived here. It's hammering down out there and this storm's forecast to last until at least early tomorrow. I've put your clothes in the washing machine---when they're done they can go in the drier and they'll be ready in the morning. They'll be a bit creased but that's better than soaking wet. We're roughly the same build so I'll find you a t-shirt and some shorts to wear in bed."

Blue flames leapt and flickered and Sarah stared into the fire as she sipped at her drink. "I'm so ashamed," she said.

"Why?"

"The way I treated you when we first met." She sighed a little. "The way I've continued to behave. And now you're being so kind to me and I don't deserve it."

"I wouldn't turn a dog out in this weather," I said then felt myself flush. "I'm sorry---didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Sarah gave a little smile, first I'd ever seen from her. "Not even a bitch?"

At least she was able to mock herself. I thought I'd change the subject before it grew uncomfortable and snatched at the first thing that came to mind. "Can I ask you something, Sarah? It's a bit personal so if you don't like it, tell me to mind my own business."

"Go ahead."

" Well, I've never personally known anyone with a tattoo before, my father's church considered them sinful vanity. When you were getting out of the bath, I couldn't help noticing the tattoo over your..." I made a vague gesture towards her lap, "...um... your privates."

She smiled a little for the second time and I think there was a tiny hint of mischief in her eyes. "Over my pussy, you mean?"

Again I felt the flush. "Yes."

"It's okay, Gudrun, you can say the word. Give it a try. Pussy."

"The tattoo over your... your... pussy..."

"There, wasn't too difficult, was it?"

"No," I admitted reluctantly, "I guess you can take the girl out of the church but it's a damnably hard job to take the church out of the girl. Especially the rigid sort of church I was brought up in." Try again, Gudrun Nyström, I told myself. "Is the tattoo significant? The one over your... your... pussy... I mean."

"I've only got the one," Sarah told me, "And yes, it's significant."

"Can I ask why?"

Her expression momentarily changed to the melancholic one I was used to then she shrugged. "You won't know about Carole, no reason for you to know. Carole was my lover but we were estranged and she died a little over a year ago leaving some very unhappy memories. Guess that's why I've been such a bitch recently, it's so near the anniversary and I've been screaming inside, lashing out at innocent people, even people like you who knew nothing about us. I loved her so much and I know she loved me. The trouble was, Carole had a serious drink problem and she left me, saying it was better for me that she did so."

"And the drink killed her?" I asked.

"In a way, I suppose it did," Sarah said, "She'd been out to buy a bottle, ran in front of a car and was killed. That's the main reason I don't drink. When you asked me to go for a glass of wine that time I felt as though you were mocking me, unfair as that was.