Sanctuary

by Ali Rowland

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It’s so cold here. If I was at home I’d have to switch the heating on. She’d be calling me, nagging me, summoning me, until I did it, and made her a hot water bottle too while the house warmed up. She can’t stand the cold. She can’t stand any discomfort. And it’s my job to keep her content.

I don’t know how I got here. I don’t mean how I got to the church – I know that, silly! I walked, then got a bus, and then walked again. If I went to the local church, she might find out. She’s got a host of spies, her friends who pop in for chats. The ones I wait on with milky tea and those tedious dry biscuits they love. I prefer a cookie, myself, but I’d never dare offer any of them one – they’d think it hadn’t been baked for long enough. They’ve lived sheltered lives, restricted lives.

Obviously, I do know how I got into this situation. I never escaped. I should have got away before caring for her became a routine, my life. You can’t have your own life when you’re needed at any minute in case there’s an emergency. You have to be on call. Like the police.

Even the thought of them makes me shiver. I’m safe here, though. In old films, the type she likes to watch on afternoons, the criminals always go to church for sanctuary, where the police can’t set foot.

A door creaks, a warning before anyone appears. I put my tissue away, my hands together, eyes closed, like they taught us in school, and then I’m as good as praying.

It’s the woman vicar. I peep to see her moving round the altar. She looks back and sees me. I’m glad she knows I’m here, she’ll come over. There’s things I need to say.

“Are you okay there?”

“I’m a bit cold,” I say.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She smiles. “I can make you a cup of tea. Come into the vestry, it’ll be quieter in there. We can talk.”

She has a lovely voice. The lilt makes her sound like she’s about to sing, like an actress in one of the old musicals. I know she doesn’t know how I like my tea, but never mind.

“That’s kind, thank you.”

It is better in that room, even though it’s cluttered with books and candles, and in need of a good vacuum. The tea’s okay, although I asked for just a little milk, and she sort of slopped it in, so it’s not quite as strong as I like.

“When it’s all over, it’ll be me making you tea,” I say, “just how you like it.”

She looks away. I’ve noticed this before, when I’ve mentioned after. Is she embarrassed? Or afraid? I’m not good at reading people. So long as she does what she promised, that’s all I really care about.

“You don’t need to do that,” she says. “Probably best if we don’t see each other …”

After, that’s another story. I need assurance now. “You’re still on, though? You’ll go through with it?” I’m assertive here. That’s what she, herself, has told me before. To be strong about what I want.

“Listen, pet …”

She’s called me that before. It’s a sweet, northern thing. But I can’t be sentimental now, not even with her.

“You did promise. I got your word on it. You won’t let me down now, will you?”

“Please understand, I felt sorry for you. You caught me at a vulnerable moment. We should talk more. Maybe if I do some counselling for you…”

I interrupt her then. I know it’s rude. My aunt would never stand for that. She’d shout at me. She’d want another cup of tea, and all the other stuff I have to do to make her feel better when I’ve upset her. But this is different. It’s the vicar woman. The one who’s going to save me.

I slam my teacup down, and a bit spills out onto the table. Someone will have to clean that up. “We have an arrangement,” I say, and my voice is suddenly loud in what is little more than a cupboard, and the words echo off the walls. “You promised me.” I stand up, and she shrinks a bit. Am I scaring her? Something in my head clicks. “You said you’d do it, and if you don’t, I will tell someone. There’ll be trouble for us both then. You don’t want that. I don’t want that.” I’m close to her. It’s more than I’ve said for years, as if there’s a tap in my head turned on.

“All right,” she says, “don’t distress yourself.” She stands, and puts her arms out to touch me on the shoulders, a gesture of reassurance. I shrug her off, I don’t want anyone touching me. She’s kind, and brave. Just what I need. But she must agree to do it.

She’s slightly shorter than me. My aunt is taller than me. I’m dominating her now. But I don’t move back, not yet.

“Say you’ll do it. Like you promised. That you’ll help me.” I’m not shouting at her, but my voice is firm, like when she’s demanding something, giving orders. I’m confused. For a moment, I’m not sure who is talking to who.

“It’s okay. I’ll help you. Please, sit down. It’ll be alright, I promise you.”

I do sit down. I wipe the spilt tea up. We don’t say much then. She knows where, and how. She agrees she’ll go today because I’m not going back. She gives me the key to her flat. I’ll go there, and if it’s anything like this vestry, I’m going to have a lot of tidying up to do. I think I’ll give the kitchen and bathroom a good scrub. Then I’ll go out and buy biscuits, and some cookies, and then we’ll settle down.