Marrying Off Mother: And Other Stories

by Gerald Durrell

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I said acidly. ‘I believe the Catholic Church to be broad-minded, but I feel that even they would draw the line at a nun in nineteen-twenties clothes visiting gambling hells with a handsome young gigolo.’

  Melanie giggled.

  ‘He’s not a gigolo, he’s Michel, a very nice boy,’ she said, adding irrelevantly, ‘He’s an orphan, from the orphanage at San Sebastian.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s got six fathers,’ I said. ‘I want to know why this pseudo-nun is gallivanting around in Miss Booth-Wycherly’s clothes.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Jean, laying a hand on my arm. ‘All will be explained to you, but first come and watch her play.’

  We made our way to the baccarat table and took up a station opposite to Sister Claire (who looked, I must confess, ravishing in the red velvet and yellow ostrich plumes). There was a great mound of chips in front of her, and I watched her closely as she played. She had one of those brilliant pink and white complexions like a russet autumn apple and a beautiful skin. Her cheekbones were rather high and so her blue eyes, which were enormous, looked slightly tilted and oriental. She had a well-shaped straight nose and a full, rather sensuous mouth, and her teeth when she smiled, which she often did, were small and perfect. When she smiled, her face lit up in the most extraordinary way with a sort of incandescent inner glow, and her eyes seemed to become luminous so that you felt you could almost warm your hands at them. They had the innocence and candour of a child’s eyes and when she placed her bet she watched the revolutions of the wheel with the wide-eyed eager intentness of a child peering into a Christmas shop window.

  The boy, whom I judged to be in his mid-twenties, was dark with a mop of curly hair, large gentle brown eyes and was handsome in a vaguely Italian gypsy sort of way. He was slender and moved with the easy grace of a dancer. There were many women in the room, both old and young, who regarded him with extreme predatory interest, but he had eyes only for Sister Claire, sitting in front of him in red velvet, turning her head to smile up at him so that the yellow ostrich feathers in her hat brushed against the front of his well-cut suit. I watched his expression as he spoke to her and mentally I apologized for calling him a gigolo. Here was a sensitive young man who was very deeply in love. That Sister Claire was in love with him was obvious, but whether she, in her innocence, recognized this I was inclined to doubt. But they seemed charmingly relaxed and happy with each other’s company and they acted as if the big room was empty and they were the only two in it. They ignored the crowd which stood around watching them.

  Apart from the boy, the only thing that held her full attention was the spinning wheel and the clicking ball. Having placed her bet, she would then watch the wheel with what can only be described as serenity. It was as though she was confident that the outcome would be to her advantage. Her run of luck was incredible. She obviously had no system and simply placed her chips where the spirit moved her and she was betting £50 to £100 a time. Nearly everyone at the table followed her lead. Out of twelve bets she won eleven and the croupier, with the long-suffering air of one to whom this happened all too often, pushed over some two thousand pounds’ worth of chips as I watched.

  This is her last bet,’ Jean said to me, in a low voice.

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked, fascinated.

  The Casino has had to come to an arrangement with her, her luck is uncanny. She only loses twice in an evening. “God’s warning” she calls it, but if she played indefinitely she could cripple the Casino. The first night she played, she broke the bank. It created a sensation, I can tell you, especially when they found out who she was,’ said Jean.

  ‘But dear God, you must be joking,’ I said weakly. ‘I don’t believe all this.’

  ‘No, it’s true,’ said Jean. ‘Every night her luck is the same. If she had been an ordinary person the Casino would have banned her, but when they found out she was a nun, and the centre of a cause celebre, what could they do? Public opinion would not let them ban her. So they’ve had to come to an arrangement with her. She gambles once a week for three hours and when she’s won two thousand five hundred pounds she stops. Of course it’s worth it for the Casino, since everyone comes to see the gambling nun.’

  ‘How did it start?’ I asked, bewildered. ‘And what’s it got to do with Miss Booth-Wycherly’s clothes, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Sister Claire will tell you herself,’ said Jean. ‘They’re joining us later for supper, so possess your soul in patience until then. But you must not laugh, Gerry, for she is very serious about the whole thing.’

  ‘Laugh?’ I said. ‘I’m too bewildered to laugh.’

  When we got back to the flat and Jean had poured drinks for us, we went out on to the wide veranda, cloaked with purple and salmon pink bougainvillaea, where below us the lights of Monte Carlo glittered like a carelessly emptied jewel box.

  ‘I do feel,’ I said judiciously, ‘that there are certain points of this story missing. I would like to have a little background, if I may, before the nun who broke the bank at Monte Carlo arrives.’

  ‘Well, it’s only background,’ said Jean. ‘Sister Claire will tell you the really extraordinary part of the story.’

  ‘Fire away,’ I said.

  ‘She was born in Devonshire, and her family were Catholic. When she was in her teens her father got a job as a gardener to a large Roman Catholic convent near Wolverhampton. She worked with him and soon she became adept at producing fruit, vegetables and flowers for the convent. The convent was a teaching one but also an orphanage and this suited Sister Claire very well for she is passionately attached to children. In her spare time she used to help the nuns with their work. When her father died she took over his job. It was then she decided to become a nun. Well, one day she saw an article about San Sebastian and the work being done by the Little Sisters of Innocence and this fired her imagination. She felt that this was a sign from God. She had always been convinced He had work for her to do and she had eagerly awaited a sign. This article was, for her, that sign. She must work at San Sebastian.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ I protested. ‘She must have read hundreds of articles in magazines. Why didn’t she take those as signs?’

  Jean carefully eased half an inch of white ash off the end of his cigar.

  ‘Because,’ he said, ‘when you are kneeling in a flowerbed, praying for guidance, and the first thing you see when you finish is a single page from a magazine containing the article wrapped round some newly arrived seedlings, you are apt to take it as a sign, especially if you are Sister Claire.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘Sister Claire,’ continued Jean, ‘sees sermons in stones and portents in flowers and trees. Her God is everywhere, constantly giving signs of His wishes, constantly guiding, so one must therefore be constantly on the alert to interpret His wishes. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes, I think I’m beginning to,’ I said thoughtfully.

  ‘Unless you can understand her deep conviction that she is always in touch with the Almighty, you cannot understand what made her do what she did. Also you must understand her complete innocence. What she is convinced she was instructed to do by God cannot possibly be wrong, and rather than not do it she would cheerfully go to the stake. She is the stuff martyrs are made of. She has saint’s blood in her.’

  He paused and refilled our glasses.

  ‘Well, having made up her mind (and once the mind of someone like Sister Claire is made up nothing on earth can shift it), she moved heaven and earth until, eventually, she arrived up at San Sebastian six years ago. She worked part time with the younger children and ran the garden and the tiny farm with great efficiency. And then three things happened simultaneously. First, the convent was told it was overcrowded and would have to send half the children elsewhere. Secondly, Michel lost his job in Monte Carlo and returned to the convent; thirdly, Miss Booth-Wycherly died and left the orphanage — amongst other things — her clothes. Separately, these things do not appear
to have anything in common but put them together and if you are Sister Claire you take it as a direct message from heaven.’

  ‘But I still don’t see . . .’ I began, when we heard the sound of the doorbell. The maid ushered Sister Claire and Michel out on to the veranda and, in the light of the candles set on the dining table in the corner, the red velvet hat and dress glowed like garnets. Jean introduced me.

  ‘I’m delighted to meet any friend of Miss Booth-Wycherly,’ Sister Claire said, clasping my hand in both of hers, and blinding me with the intenseness of her blue gaze. Her hands I noticed were still rough and calloused from hard work but they were warm and seemed to vibrate with energy as a bird vibrates when you hold it in your cupped hands.

  ‘You must have been shocked to learn of her death, you poor man,’ she went on, ‘but it is nice to know that she was an instrument of God and that she’s left so much good behind her, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Jean was only just beginning to explain things to me. Perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened with this . . . er . . .’

  ‘This miracle?’ asked Sister Claire. ‘Of course I will.’ She accepted a glass of lemonade, sipped it and then leaned forward eagerly.

  ‘I hope I’m not a vain person, Mr Durrell,’ she began, ‘but ever since I was quite a young woman I have had this inner conviction that God had marked me out for some special task. I am, I regret to say, a very impatient person, it’s one of my many faults and I like . . . what is the saying? Yes, I like things done yesterday, not tomorrow. But God has all the time in the world and you cannot hurry Him. Also, if He’s to use you He must train you and this takes time. Then, when He is ready and He thinks you are, He gives you the signals. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, gravely.

  ‘Sometimes they are very obvious signals, but sometimes they are rather obscure, I regret to say, and I fear that some one misses altogether. Monsieur Schultz told you about the magazine article?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Such a clear sign,’ said Sister Claire, beaming at me delightedly. ‘I could almost hear His voice.’

  ‘May I suggest we move to the table and eat before supper gets cold,’ said Melanie. ‘You can finish your story there.’

  ‘Of course! Of course!’ cried Sister Claire, ‘I’m as hungry as an orphanage full of children.’

  She gave a ripple of delicious musical laughter and her eyes shone with humour. It was easy to see why Michel was in love with her. As we went to the table I walked by his side.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I asked.

  He gave me a quick smile.

  ‘No . . . little only. Claire she teach me. She is very good for teaching,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I replied.

  We sat down at the table and Melanie had placed me opposite Sister Claire.

  ‘Do please go on with your story,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m sure Mr Durrell won’t eat a thing until he’s heard it.’

  ‘Yes, she’s quite right, Sister,’ I agreed.

  ‘You must not call me Sister,’ she said, and a shadow seemed to pass over her face momentarily. ‘I am no longer a nun, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized. ‘May I call you Miss Claire then?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, smiling delightedly. ‘I’d like that.’

  She dipped her spoon into the succulent melon and sighed.

  ‘How the children would enjoy this. I must send them some.’

  ‘Do you still keep in er. . . er. . . touch with the orphanage?’ I asked, hoping to steer her back to her story.

  ‘Keep in touch? She almost keeps it!’ said Jean, with an explosive chuckle. Sister Claire blushed.

  ‘I only help,’ she said firmly. ‘But it is only accomplished because it is God’s wish that I should do so.’

  There was a little silence in which I tried to imagine the Almighty instructing a nun to gamble.

  ‘So you left Wolverhampton and came to San Sebastian,’ I said at last.

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes, six years ago. As I’d had some experience in the gardens they put me in charge of their little farm. It was difficult at first as I knew nothing about cows or pigs, not even about chickens really, but I soon learnt. In my spare time I used to take the children for walks, or organize games for them — that was the part I liked best really. The children were so sweet you have no idea, then I used to grow all sorts of special things for them, like sweet corn and strawberries, which they simply loved. I was very happy, but you know even so I still felt I was not fulfilling whatever task God had ordained for me.’

  She finished her melon and sat back, staring at her plate thoughtfully. Then she looked up and her blue eyes shone like sunlit sapphires.

  ‘Then one day God began to unfold His whole plan for me. I remember I had risen early, there were several tasks I wanted to do before Mass. Well, I accomplished these so well that I had some time to spare, so after breakfast I decided to weed the flowerbed outside Sister Mary’s windows. I had laid out a small flowerbed there because Sister Mary did so enjoy flowers, but I’d been so busy with the farm that I’m afraid I had neglected it. Dandelions are excellent in the salad but they are not excellent in herbaceous borders. It was a warm day I remember and the windows of Sister Mary’s office were open, so I could hear every word that was said inside. I do assure you that I was not eavesdropping. In fact, when I first heard the voices, I was about to make my presence known and to leave but it was the first sentence that made my blood run cold, and I assure you I just sat there as though I was in a trance. I know now of course that God intended me to hear, but I did not realize it then. It was the Mayor of San Sebastian who was talking to Sister Mary and what he said was, “So, Sister, I’m afraid if you cannot build a new wing on the orphanage you will have to send some of the children away.”

  ‘You may imagine my horror at hearing this. To part with some of the children, most of whom had been with us for several years, and who looked upon the orphanage as home and us as their parents, was unthinkable. Sister Mary, of course, said it was impossible to build a new wing as we had only just enough money to keep going. The Mayor, who was a good, kind man, said he fully realized this and he knew the children weren’t suffering, even if they did have to sleep six to a room. But the council had decreed that it was unhygienic and unsuitable and this was their decision. Then he left, telling Sister Mary that she had three weeks to give him a reply before the next council meeting. I can’t tell you the black despair that seized me. I knew that Sister Mary could do nothing and that we would have to lose some of our children. I am afraid I was weak enough to give way to despair and I cried. When I had recovered myself, I realized God would not let this happen, and so I prayed to Him for guidance. It was then that the first miracle occurred.’

  The maid placed a bowl of crimson wild strawberries in front of Sister Claire and flanked it with a jug of cream.

  ‘Oh, fraises du bois,’ cried Sister Claire delightedly, ‘I used to take the children out into the woods at San Sebastian and we used to collect them and take them back to the orphanage. I fear they used to eat more than they took back, but they did enjoy it.’

  ‘What was the first miracle?’ I asked, determined that Sister Claire should not be side-tracked.

  ‘Oh, yes, well that of course was Michel losing his job. Michel was one of our children, but long before my time. Sister Mary had got him a job in a bakery in Monte Carlo, but the old man, the baker, fell sick and had to close down. So Michel came back to the orphanage and he arrived the very day that Sister Mary had the bad news. She called me into her office and I thought she was going to tell me about the Mayor’s visit. I was going to confess that I had heard it all. But she didn’t say a word about it and I realized that she was not going to burden the rest of us with this worry, but she was going to try and solve the problem herself. No, what she wanted to see me about was Michel. She said that while she was trying to find him another job sh
e thought he could work with me on the farm, for she knew there were several things that needed doing that were beyond my strength. I was delighted, for it meant that I could get the cowshed roof repaired and . . . oh well . . . a host of other things . . . and Michel was so strong and good with his hands. So he came to work with me and we managed to get so much done together. Well, one day I told him I had always felt that God had work for me to do and that he would give me a sign. To anyone else I expect I would have sounded presumptuous but Michel understood completely. Indeed, he was so sympathetic that I felt impelled to tell him about the awful thing that had happened to the orphanage because it was preying on my mind. He was as shocked and horrified as I was, but we talked about it and neither of us could see any way of solving the problem.

  ‘Then the second miracle happened. Sister Mary called me to her office and told me that poor Miss Booth-Wycherly had died and left all her clothes and furniture to us. She asked me to take Michel down to Monte Carlo and pack up Miss Booth-Wycherly’s clothes and arrange to have them brought up to the orphanage and then to have the furniture sold. Now, I had never been to Monte Carlo before, but of course Michel had and knew his way about. We took the bus down and really I can remember it being quite a shock, quite bewildering you know. It was so long since I had been in a city, it took my breath away. I felt stunned by all the noise and activity. The whole time I was there I was in a sort of daze.’

  Sister Claire paused and took a sip of lemonade.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m talking an awful lot,’ she said apologetically. ‘I do hope I’m not boring you.’

  A chorus of voices assured her that she was not boring us.

  ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘when we got to Miss Booth-Wycherly’s home I must admit I was a little surprised and disappointed, for Michel had been so sure that we would find something of value that would help save the orphanage. I could see that the furniture was so worm-eaten that it would not fetch a good price, and the clothes, though beautifully kept, I felt were too old-fashioned to sell. But there were piles and piles of them. Such beautiful materials. I’d never seen so many clothes for one person.’