Free Easy Peasy by Lesley Glaister Page A

dysentery on top of Malaria I was very far gone. The fact is I was so humiliated by the filth of my body that I used every possible means to clean myself up. I know you will understand at least that much, that you experienced illness of at least the same degree. I used much of your diary as lavatory paper, Ralph. I have no excuse. It was a diabolical thing to do when you had trusted it to my safe keeping. I thought I would not survive, possibly you would not survive, and thus it would be of no significance . I am sorry. Would that I had had more self-control. That was my first wrong .
    The second was in my lie to you: that the papers had been found and confiscated, a plausible fabrication, so much so that I almost became convinced of it myself .
    The third and greatest wrong, and one that I could put right, even now but out of cowardice I will not, is of not confessing to you face to face, not giving you these remaining scraps. Even as a mature man, a man of God, I cannot face this test. It is my greatest failure of nerve. I have done wrong by myself in this, Ralph. For I have been unable to seek your forgiveness and will die, still with my guilt weighing me down .
    My memory of you is of a brave man. I know how you suffered in your soul over the Vince business. I wish it had been possible to talk and to pray with you. I do pray that you found peace with yourself. I do not think you did wrong .
    I pray you will find it in your heart to forgive me .
    Yours sincerely ,
    Benjamin Priest
    I fold the thin blue paper and put it down on top of the envelope. I walk about the room. My back aches, I’ve been sitting cramped forward with my shoulders hunched. I need someone to rub my shoulders, Foxy with her fierce fingers, probing so deep it hurts as it helps. It is all so horrible I want to laugh. My father’s diary used as lavatory paper. So mundanely tragic. This man, this Reverend Priest suffering a lifetime of guilt for that . I am almost glad Daddy will never know. Would he have laughed? He would have forgotten about the diaries, I’m sure. This farcical confession would only bring it all back. Bring what back? The Vince business? What’s that? His dreams? I do not think they ever went away, not for more than a few weeks at a time. What was it that was in his dreams?
    I am glad not to have to show him the letter.
    Now the Reverend Priest can never be forgiven.
    Would Daddy have forgiven him?
    How can I know? I do not, did not know him. And he: did he know me?
    He knew the woman who visited, in disguise. I never wore my own sort of clothes home. Normally I dress in period gear from the shop. Right now, I favour 40s’ stuff – fifty years celebrated in Second Hand Rose. My favourite dress is a navy-and-white rayon knee-length number with a belted waist and white buttons down the bodice. I wear it with fake pearl beads and Cuban heels and my hair sausage-rolled round my head. I like the way people stare: older women stop me sometimes to tell me how I take them back.
    But for going home I’ve always chosen something classy but nondescript. You could not read me by my clothes. Well-cut slacks, lambswool sweaters in navy or camel, tidy silver studs in my ears, hair dried smooth as it will go. Lipstick, just a dab of pink. It is not just for appearances or to fool them. It is not just a masquerade. Those sensible clothes make me sensible. Make me the sort of daughter I think they would like me to be. Of course, I should not be running a shop. I should be a solicitor, like Hazel, or a teacher, at least. Mummy sees me here when she visits, she knows more, sees more, in any case, I think, could see through me. Though she doesn’t say much her eyes are very piercing. But Daddy: all Daddy knows is what he sees. Saw.
    I did so want him to be pleased with me. I nearly married once. Daddy would have approved if I had married Guy. He was the right sort of man: an architect, well spoken, quite – but not too