THE LAST MONK. 11

Betty starts finding out who she is.

THE LAST MONK

11

“It’s not far into town,” Amy told me, “and when we get there we’ll find shops that sell everything we want. But one thing crossed my mind, and the Inspector thought it might be a good idea, there are places called Charity shops, which some people call thrift shops, where unwanted used items are sold, and as we have no idea what you might like to wear until you can try things on, we could get several items cheaply and you would them have time to get to know what you look like in them.”

“Dirty old things?” I asked, being quite used to having to dress in dirty old things.

Amy laughed. “Not at all!” she said, “people give good used things for the shops to sell again, that’s all. Those that they sell are usually as good as new. You’ll see. And if they’re not that good nobody’s holding a gun to your head and ordering you to buy them!”

She found somewhere to leave her car while I tried to work our what she meant by gun. And then, out of the car, she led me along the most confusing road imaginable. It was lined with windows in which more things than I could imagine existeing anywhere were on display for people to pause and look at. But we soon arrived at the shop she was apparently looking for.

“This is a charity shop,” she said, “all the goods on sale have been given by people who no longer need them, and the money paid for them helps people in some sort of need.”

I was pondering on the word money as we went into the shop where there were rows and rows of clothes hanging from rails. The place had the kind of smell I’m beginning to associate with clothing, not unpleasant but a little pervasive.

”Let’s look around,” suggested Amy, and she looked along a rail until she saw something she liked the look of, and when she held it up I could see why. It would look lovely on her.

“This should fit you,” she said, “what do you think?”

And it was as easy as that! Amy found three or four items and I liked the look of all of them.

“You’ve got similar eyes to mine,” she smiled.

I was beginning to understand some of the odd things she said.

She paid for those clothes, then took me to another shop which sold a lot of lacy things.

“Underwear,” she said, “I always prefer to buy underwear brand new rather than used. And we can get stuff like soap and shower gel next door too.”

I could only hope that I’d understand one day!

In that shop a woman took a tape and measured me so that I had the right size bra, and Amy also bought me several pairs of what she called knickers as well as some bras once the measuring assured her that were exactly my size. Then in the shop next door she bought some things that would probably mean something to me soon, but for the moment thet didn’t.

And with bags of things we returned to her car which took us back to Crooked Gates, where it seemed I lived.

“Now if you’re quick you can grab a shower,” smiled Amy, “but we must rush. I’ve got to get back to the station soon, and the Inspector wants you with me.”

So within minutes I was having my first ever shower, and the water was warm rather than the cold that I was expecting, and I discovered the rare joy of stuff called shower gel, which was made me smell like a garden in springtime! It was then that I knew that my exit from the monastery was complete, as was my entry into a different world. I think that shower marked a change in me, maybe encapsulated by Amy who told me that cleanliness was next to godliness. I felt really clean though had no idea what godliness was.

It wasn’t long after that, when I had dried myself off and had chosen one of my new dresses to wear, one with pink and white flowers in a subtle pattern all over it, that I was ready to go with Amy to the police station again. This was becoming what I would call a busy day!

Inspector Appleby was still an enigma to me because my every instinct was to look at him as a female, but I had somehow managed to replace some of my apparent instincts with a different perspective. I suppose it was accepting that me in my pretty dress and wearing a new bra without a tight chest binding, and matching panties as an added luxury, was a woman made me look at the more sombre appearance of the Inspector as a man.

“Well, Betty, I see you look more yourself,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so I let it pass.

He smiled, and added, “you’ve had an extraordinary journey, and thanks to Sergeant Lovelace you’re doing better than any of us imagined you would. It must all, though, still be very confusing for you. Now let me explain something: this meeting is being recorded in video so that an expert in psychology can work out what might be best for you. Please, if you feel distressed, tell us to stop at any time, and I’ll switch the recorder off.”

I nodded. There was too much in there that I couldn’t understand for it to make much sense to me. I mean, recorded in video? What might that mean? So I smiled and accepted his words.

“Well, Betty, do you like your name?” he asked.

Of course I did! I’d always been a Betty and I hope I always will!

“How did you get to be called that?” he asked, “I mean, who first used the name Betty, meaning you?”

I knew the answer. I had a mother once, and before she died she’d called me Betty. The monks had told me, all of them at separate times.

“I had a mother before she died,” I said, “the monks told me,” I added, “August, I think, told me, and Colonius and sometimes even Celestial.”

“I see. And did you believe them?”

I shrugged, “why should they not tell the truth? After all, they are monks!”

“We’ll come to that later,” he said, “so you accept that your mother called you Betty?”

I nodded. “And then she died. August told me.”

“I wonder why he should tell you that?” mused Inspector Appleby, “especially as it’s not true…”

“But it must be!” I protested.

“Listen, Betty, you remember how I said that I’ve got an expert to listen into our conversation? And that I’m recording it?”

“I don’t understand recording,” I muttered an obstinate streak in me emerging as a consequence of too much confusion.

“Well, you will. But first, who do you think is the best expert when it comes to understanding you?” he asked.

I had him there, I knew it, when “me!” I told him, “nobody knows me better than I do!”

He smiled. So I hadn’t got him, then. “You’re quite right there,” he said, “and next to you, who might know you best?

I shook my head. Nobody knew me, not since Celestial had taken himself to his tomb.

“Satan?” I asked, seriously.

“No. Satan was an ancient work of the imagination and represents ultimate evil,” he said, “and I don’t think there’s one thing evil about you. I think you’re the most good person I’ve ever met. Confused, misled, but ultimately good and nothing to do with evil,” he replied, “and the person I mean who knows you almost as much as you know yourself is your mother.

“And your mother is my expert, listening in to us now and ready to tell me who you are…”

TO BE CONTINUED

© Peter Rogerson, 15.08.23

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