Guilt & Redemption Ch. 09

I was glad that the format was "in conversation", as that avoided needing to dress up in academic gowns. They did not do Oxford D.Phil. gowns in my size; there were so many things they did not "do" in my size.

The porters had done a good job, along with the Drama techies. Three comfortable arm chairs had been placed either side of a coffee table, on which some of Ruth's books, and a copy of Milly's book had been placed, and we had been fitted with microphones which would make it easy for the audience. The theatre was packed.

The Vice Chancellor, in his element on any public occasion which allowed him the limelight, welcomed everyone, reminding them of the fire-drill, and that the event was being recorded and would be "up on the University's award-winning website" as soon as possible. And with that, it was over to me.

Ali had been looking at me as the VC spoke, and her smile encouraged me enormously; as did the slightly nervous look on Milly's face. Was she expecting me to go for the jugular? It would, after all, avail her naught to respond to an unexpected question by saying "that wasn't on the list."

"Ruth," I started, "as our VC has just said, you have had an enormously successful career as a novelist. I should, I suppose, declare an interest, as you taught me at Oxford and have had a formative influence on me, as on so many others, including Milly here."

Milly now looked extremely nervous. But I went on.

"But I want to ask you how far you feel that you have been a pioneer. Women like Milly and myself follow in your wake, but when you began, there was no such genre as lesbian fiction. How was it for you when you were where Milly is now?"

Ruth's face lit up. That had not been on the list, but I knew she would like it. It allowed her to talk about the eighties and being at the forefront of Virago's lesbian list. She recalled times with Germaine Greer and Angela Carter, and the radicalising influence of Clause 28 and the Thatcher Government's discriminatory policies. I smiled inwardly as she became her old self for a while. Gone was the cowed, almost timid figure I had been drinking with a few moments before. The audience was captured. Milly seemed less enraptured.

We went on to discuss her first three books, and then came to the ground-breaking one where she had scandalised her own supporters as well as her usual critics.

"Your 'Lover of Jesus' caused, I recall, a huge scandal at the time, Ruth. At Convent School we were told not to read it, and if I remember aright, both the then Archbishop of Canterbury and Archbishop of Westminster were highly critical of your blasphemy."

Ruth smiled, the way people do when reminded of "good times" in their past. We explored how some of its themes had worked their way into what had become feminist theology, and for a few moments I saw the old Ruth, the one who had first inspired me - an original and brave thinker.

Milly, clearly irked at the way the conversation was going, butted in.

"But that's so old hat now, Pixie, and the future lies with more experimental fiction."

Ruth looked almost chastened.

"At the time, Milly, that book redefined experimental fiction, and Ruth", I said, turning to her, "it's interesting you have returned that that theme in your latest, 'The broken jar'. What did you make of that, Milly?"

Suddenly - to my shock and utter amazement - I realised I had hit hit Milly amidships. She looked tongue-tied. It had never occurred to me that she would not have read Ruth's latest. When I had been with her, one of my delights had been to hear her reading chapters to me, including what must have been very early drafts of 'The broken jar'; could Milly really not have read it?

I let the question hang in the air, maybe a micro-second or two too long for Milly's comfort, then, picking up a copy from the table, I turned to a passage I had enjoyed and asked Ruth if she would mind reading it? Relieved to be off the hook, Milly did not assert her earlier objection to a public reading, and Ruth, who seemed equally pleased to be able to move on, accepted. She always read her own work so well, and the audience lapped it up.

"Mary knew she should not act on impulse. Martha was always telling her, so was Lazarus. She knew, too, that her love for Jesus made her vulnerable to teasing - and even to scandalous allegations. She knew it was nonsense. Her love was not that sort of love. Seeing him like this, tired, wired, his feet still dirty and dusty, she acted on impulse. Suddenly, wordlessly, instinctively, heart-breakingly, she knew. So she acted on impulse. Taking that alabaster jar of nard, she deliberately broke it. Everyone looked at her. If looks could kill, Judas would have been her killer. Martha tut-tutted. She lavished it on his feet."

Ruth paused:

"It was, Martha told her later, an act of 'insane generosity'. Judas said they could have sold it and fed the poor for a month. The other men looked at her oddly. Only he understood. And he understood that she understood. 'She has anointed me', he told them. Not one of them understood. But not one of them loved as she did, madly, truly, unconditionally, asking for - and expecting - nothing. To give and not to receive. Not to count the cost. To lose - and then win when all seemed lost. The shards of the jar told her that some things were better for being broken. She was one of them."

Ruth stopped. The audience, silent for a moment, burst into rapturous applause. Ruth's face showed her joy, and she sat down, taking the glass of water I had poured for her.

"Oh Ruth, that was so moving! Love that gives and does not receive, and which pours itself out and expects nothing back, is that even possible do you think? Have you experience of it?"

I hadn't meant to go there. The passage had struck me when I had read the advance copy from the publisher, and the way one does, I had asked an obvious question without considering the resonances.

As Ruth seemed to struggle, Milly, irked by not being centre-stage, butted in.

"That's such an impossible Romantic conception, so out of tune with the way the world really works, Pixie."

Then, as though she could not resist it she added:

"You ought to have learned that by now Pixie."

Ruth, catching her breath, replied.

"Yes, yes, Pixie , I have received it, but never appreciated it. But Milly is right, it is not the way the contemporary world seems to work."

She sighted and looked defeated.

There was, in that confession, an unplumbed ocean of sadness.

We moved on to discuss the "contemporary" feminist novel, as exemplified by Milly's novel, and I let Milly rabbit on. My heart had gone out of it. It wasn't that Milly had nothing to say, she had plenty, it was just that none of it was original or even interesting. Still, she filled the space, and by the end we knew there was one great fan of her fiction - herself.

We took a few questions at the end, and then retired for drinks in the Common Room before going to dinner in the Vice Chancellor's dining room.

"Oh Pix, that was so, so ... ."

Words seemed to fail Ali.

"Poignant, I suppose."

I smiled, a little sadly.

"I didn't go there deliberately, darling."

She hugged me.

"I know. Watch out, here comes your boss and the Dean."

"Pixie, you were so good, that was fascinating," gushed Karen.

"Yes, the Dean is right, you did the university proud Dr Hoff."

"Hoffmann', corrected Ali. For some reason the VC always abbreviated my name. Maybe he felt it was too long for such a short person?

"Yes, yes of course. Well done."

Ruth was signing copies of her books, a long queue had gathered. The one forming for Milly was shorter. I tried not to feel smug - tried, but failed.

The Vice Chancellor liked his formal placements for dinner, and had put Ruth between himself and me. Milly was sitting opposite, flanked by Ali and Karen. It was the usual University rubber chicken dinner, which was why I had taken the precaution of ordering vegan food for myself and Ali. The chef loved vegan cooking and she did us proud.

The conversation was the usual small talk, with the Vice Chancellor competing with Ruth to see how many names they could both drop. I had a nice chat with the Director of Research, who was interested in the economics of publishing and could not quite see how it worked.

"But Pixie, why on earth do people buy made up stories? And aren't books a bit, well, passé?"

Bless him. If it was not utilitarian, he didn't get it. I listened patiently. He did not require and answer, just an audience.

As the main course was served, Ruth and I were free to talk.

"Thank you, Pixie, you were kinder than I deserved after the way I treated you."

"Oh Ruth, I think I know now why you did that, and I bear no hard feelings. It was Milly, wasn't it?"

Ruth blushed.

"Yes. You don't understand, how could you Pixie. I need to know I am still attractive, I can't take on the responsibility for another, I need someone to do that for me, and Milly does. She takes so much off me."

Ruefully, I reflected that was truer than Ruth knew.

"You seem happy, Pixie. Ali seems a good woman."

"She is Ruth."

And there, after all that time, and all that there had been between us, we left it. She wrote a letter of thanks for the review I gave the new book in 'The Observer', and that was the last letter I got from her before she and Milly moved to America.

At drinks afterwards, Milly ignored me. I was glad of it. Enough, I thought, enough - it was over.

--------

That was three years and a lifetime ago.

That night Ali and I went home and made love. Our passion, which we had thought spent by the afternoon's love-making, was re-ignited. I only later realised why - and why it was so good.

Taking our coats off, we instinctively went to the bedroom.

"I want you", was all she said. But the look in Ali's eyes told me more than words could ever convey.

She continued to look at me as she slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders, exposing her beautiful breasts, snug in the push-up white bra. I wanted to disappear into them, but she gave me a look which meant - "no". I watched as she unclasped her bra, letting her breasts fall free; her nipples were dark pink and stiff. I so wanted her. She stood, letting the dress pool at her feet before stepping out of it and placing it on the rail by the bed. As she stood there in her white knickers and stockings, I was overwhelmed by her beauty. But still she gave me that look which meant "wait"; I waited.

Ali walked over to me and, pressing herself against me, her breasts engulfing my eager face, I felt her unzip my dress, her hands pulling it down my body. I stepped out of it, and out of my shoes. My hands grasped her breasts, kneading them, warm and welcoming, her firm nipples pressed into my palms. I felt her hands push under my French knickers, gripping my tight arse-cheeks. I knew what she wanted.

Putting my hands around her neck, I jumped up, her hands cupping my arse, she pulled me to her, our nipples squeezed together. She fell backwards on the bed, leaving me straddling her tummy. Pushing me up a moment, I was able, somewhat inelegantly, to remove my knickers, but that done, she eased my up her body until my pussy was above her face. Once there, she seized my hips and pushed me onto her tongue and lips.

It felt as though a thousand fireworks exploded. My senses were overloaded. The feel of her tongue as it explored my pussy made me whimper. I simultaneously wanted to grind on her face and to let her feather-lick me. As I squirmed, I felt her fingers stretch me; I felt so full and could not help myself from pushing down and then up, moving rhythmically as her fingers rubbed the sides of my gooey pussy; the noises I was making was evidence of how wet I was.

As Ali fingered me, I rode her as though wanting us to be one, then, suddenly moving so that I fell sideways, she was on top, licking my clit as her fingers drove in and out, filling me. I felt her left hand on my sensitive left nipple, and as she squeezed and twisted it, I felt the heat flood through me - I came, oh how I came!

She smiled, her fingers still in me, her face smelling of me; we kissed.

"I love you Pixie."

I looked at her. I was where I wanted to be: home.

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And this Sunday, I officiated at my first Evening Prayer, with Ali watching. It was the end of a three year journey and another consummation of our lives together. Back at the Vicarage she asked me how it felt. In the warm afterglow of what had just happened I smiled and said, as I felt the guilt wash away: "Redeemed!"