A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [45]
In the packed foyer, I could see a multitude of brightly coloured collection baskets, filling rapidly. Several of the circle picked up baskets and moved into the crowd, but to my surprise the others made their ways to the street doors. I turned and spoke loudly into Veronica’s ear.
“Is there no gathering tonight, then?”
“No,” she shouted back. “Not on Thursdays.”
We streamed with hoi polloi out onto the cool and rational street and washed up, blinking, beneath a lamppost, ignoring as best we could the buskers and vendors who had anticipated the crowd.
“Why not on Thursdays?” I asked.
“Why what? Oh, Margery, you mean. She meditates, both before and after the Thursday meetings, always.”
The contemplation of what the woman’s thoughts might consist of during those meditations gave me pause. I came to myself with a start.
“Pardon me?” I asked.
“I said, do you want to go for dinner, or a drink?”
“Oh. Not a full meal, I think.”
“A pub, then.”
A pub it was, and since it was nearby, it was already populated with a large percentage of the night’s congregation, laughing and merry and as unlikely a group of churchgoers as I had seen. We oozed snugly into two chairs at a minuscule corner table with our glasses and a plate of anaemic sandwiches from the bar.
“So, what did you think?” Veronica asked. I looked at her carefully, but there was no mischief in her eyes. And I couldn’t even put her innocence down to virginal naïveté.
“I think that was the most amazing church service I’ve ever witnessed,” I said, and then around a mouthful of cheese and pickle, I asked, “Was that her standard treatment for a Thursday night?”
“She was a bit subdued tonight, because of Iris’s death. She wanted to devote the evening to a memorial service, but Mrs Fitzwarren absolutely refused to allow it. She’s never liked it that Iris was so wrapped up with the Temple, and she blames Margery for the death.”
“Blames her? How?”
“Oh, that’s too strong. I ought to say, she isn’t yet prepared to share her grief with anyone outside the family. Margery understands, but she’s hurt, too—who wouldn’t be? So she was, as I said, subdued. I’ve seen her so intense, the sparks fly.”
“Must be against the law,” I said under my breath. “Oh never mind, I was just thinking that if she becomes so… worked up, it’s no wonder she can’t sit calmly and drink tea at the end of it. I’d have to go for a brisk ten-mile walk.”
“She says she depends on the energy that she gathers on nights like this, that when she meditates, she reintegrates it and is strengthened by it. She’s an extraordinary person,” she added needlessly.
“So it seems. Tell me, does she lead meditations, or prayer meetings, with you?”
“From time to time. She does what she calls ‘teaching silence.’ It’s a way of listening to the universe—she calls it ‘opening one’s self up to the love of God.’ Ask her about it.”
“I will.”
“You’ll go and see her, then?”
“I think so. I had thought tonight, but…”
“Sorry, I should have explained. Do you want that other meat sandwich? Thanks. Why don’t you telephone tomorrow and ask Marie when would be a good time.”
“I will.” I picked up the last triangle, something unidentifiable but vaguely fishy. Veronica was staring unfocused at the sandwich in her hand.
“She is truly extraordinary,” she repeated. Her heavy eyebrows came together, and I waited. She glanced up and flushed. “Oh, it’s nothing, just something I saw—or thought I saw. I suppose I could tell you about it, though you’ll think I’ve gone loony. Maybe I oughtn’t,” she dithered. “Oh hell, why not?
“I was at the Temple one night, settling a woman and her two children into the refuge. I didn’t realise how late it was, and I needed to talk with Margery about them, so I went to find her, not thinking. She wasn’t in the sitting room—where we were the other night?—so I went on down the corridor to her private rooms, thinking that I’d find Marie at any rate. Well, I did find her