Men On White Horses

by Pamela Haines

  It was May now. There was meant to be a procession to Our Lady, through the gardens, through Switzerland and Montmartre and back to the grotto where Our Lady of Lourdes stood. ‘O Mary we crown you with blossoms today, Queen of the Angels and Queen of the May…’ But there was a sea fret and by afternoon a wind blowing off the sea; fat drops of icy rain, mist again by tea-time. Summer had not come after all. Instead they stayed in the chapel and sang the Lourdes ‘Aue Maria’, with its rising rising ‘Aue’s’ – so high that lots of the older girls couldn’t reach them. Mother Cuth-bert had a musical-box statue of the Lourdes Virgin which played this. She brought it into religious instruction class.

  Uncle Frederick wrote: ‘… We shall probably come in August. How you will have changed! Are you still sometimes a Little Bear? I hope so. We have been nearly all last month with the Antici-Montani, staying in their lovely palace. Rome is so beautiful in the spring. The children in the family are all much older than you. Stefano is already 25. There’s also Eugenio, Ersilia and Maddalena. Taddeo at 17 is the nearest in age. They are all great fun except sadly Eugenio who is not quite right. He hasn’t really grown up, you see. How glad your parents must be that they have three such fit and lovely children. I was really glad too to hear that you have made such a good friend at the convent…’

  ‘Slimy tripe, ugh,’ Fanny said, pushing her helping down behind the hot pipes (cold now, in summer). Mother Anselm was safely at the far end of the refectory. Edwina said, ‘You’re lucky Meresia didn’t see, thanking the chance which allowed her to say the beloved’s name.

  Meresia at the head of the table seemed in a dream, fork halfway to her mouth, stationary. Edwina wondered what she would say if she told her about the music lessons and Mr Maycock. Not that she ever ever could, ever would. It was still going on, only these last two weeks it had been worse. Yesterday for instance her nipples had felt raw and sore. Lying in her cubicle that night, tender where the vest fabric had rubbed them afterwards, she’d thought that she didn’t want them touched again, ever. Her hands felt sore too and hot. She laid one of them between her thighs. It was warm there but at the same time cool and refreshing. It comforted her. Then she remembered that she ought to have her folded hands on her chest. It had been Mother Cuthbert who had shown her, her third evening. ‘On your back, my dear, with your hands like this. Then if you should die in the night…’

  Clare had said that she always lay like that: otherwise she didn’t sleep. When Edwina did so it made her feel always very peaceful-and in the winter very very cold. The cold of death perhaps? But now, her hand between her legs, she felt only this curious comfort as if someone, who wasn’t Edwina, was bringing peace to her. It was too as if something or somebody stirred and fluttered, a bird in her entrails, moving and growing between her legs. Then, cool peace, so that she drifted into sleep – and what would it matter if she died like that? There was music too. Where did the sea begin and the music end in this cool comfort of her hand which played, without moving, as she lay so still?

  ‘In order to receive the Blessed Sacrament worthily what is required? In order to receive the Blessed Sacrament worthily it is required that we be in a state of grace and keep the prescribed fast. What is it to be in a state of grace? To be in a state of grace is to be free from mortal sin and pleasing to God…’

  ‘Even if you eat something without meaning to after midnight, that does it,’ Babs said. Vita had read about a girl who absentmindedly ate a chocolate she found lying about the very morning of her First Communion. ‘It was terrible – she couldn’t disappoint all the people who’d come and spoil the whole day. So she committed a mortal sin.’

  What with worrying about accidentally eating, and looking anxiously to see that Meresia was in the chapel, and not getting the giggles, Edwina forgot to pray or to feel anything at all. Suddenly, it was all over. Communion breakfast, presents: Fanny said she’d spoken to the priest and it was all right if you’d eaten candle grease or bits off your nails, because they weren’t food.

  The sun shone for the procession in the afternoon. Edwina’s flowered wreath gripped too tight and set her head throbbing. ‘How can you grumble when you think of Our Lord and the Crown of Thorns?’ Clare told her. ‘Yes,’ Edwina said indignantly, ‘but He was famous for it.’ She and Fanny were at the head of the procession. They had to scatter rose petals, kissing them as they did so. whenever they’d practised, Fanny had got out of rhythm, irritating Mother Scholastica, who was in charge, beyond endurance. ‘Frances, you are doing it expressly.’ Now, on the afternoon, Fanny had begun a violent attack of hay fever. Pink-eyed, runny-nosed, the basket of petals shaking with every sneeze. ‘Jesus my Lord my God my All,’ they sang, following the Blessed Sacrament between the elm trees.

  It filled her with shame and fear, the idea of telling Meresia. And yet she felt such a relief, such a quiet joy when she’d made the decision. For how long now she’d wanted, desperately needed, something to say to Meresia that would hold her for more than a few seconds. And (why had she never thought of it before) Meresia would surely solve it all?

  The day before the next piano lesson she looked for her, finding her after tea walking along near the Lourdes grotto, on her way to tennis. She and Hermione, racquets under their arms. She said, heart thumping: ‘Meresia, can I talk to you?’ Hermione went on ahead. ‘Meresia,’ she began, and then dried up completely.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Meresia said patiently, then, ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ as Edwina began or thought she was beginning to cry.

  ‘Come along and sit down,’ Meresia said, taking her arm, leading her over to a bench near the grotto where Our Lady looked down on them, arms outspread.

  ‘It’s my music lesson –’

  ‘Yes?’ Meresia frowned, looked doubtful. ‘I suppose?’ she began, then: ‘No, tell me –’

  when Edwina had finished, ‘Oh darling,’ she said, ‘how awful for you.’ (She had believed her, completely, without question. Not as Mother, who would surely have said: ‘But is it true, Edwina?’)

  ‘How truly awful for you,’ she said again. And then, oh joy of joys, putting her arm round her, holding her close, she said very gently: ‘The best thing of all would be if you could try not to worry any more – forget about it. Just –’ she paused – ‘just if it comes into your mind and you’re still upset – then you could pray for him. To Our Lady. Because he must need our prayers or he wouldn’t do anything so –’ she hesitated, searched for the word –’impure. So awfully immodest.’

  And then releasing Edwina, sitting up again, no longer the Child of Mary speaking but the child perhaps of Lydia Merriwether: ‘Oh gosh,’ she said, ‘what an awful mess. I mean – had you told anybody else?’ Edwina shook her head. Meresia bounced a tennis ball up and down, holding the racquet with easy grace: ‘It’s just-that it makes sense of something someone said, oh ages ago, and two girls, I know, have given up piano. Just saying they weren’t interested any more.’

  ‘I couldn’t say that. Ever.’

  Meresia turned. ‘You’re – rather good, aren’t you, darling? Jean heard you practising once.’ She stooped and picked up the ball. ‘Anyway, leave everything to me, won’t you?’ She put her arm round Edwina again.

  They walked back to the building together. She felt a sort of excited peace, so that she didn’t ask for anything else. It was how she would have liked to feel with Uncle Frederick.

  HELP POLICE. HORRIBLE THEFT. The beautiful bejewelled crozier, clasped in the wooden hand of St Hilda, the statue near the Lady Chapel, was found without its jewels – those gleaming rubies, emeralds, winking diamonds, palely glowing amethysts. The pride and joy of the convent. News of the theft went the rounds, was chewed over at mealtimes. The jewels were from Mother Scholastica’s dowry, Edwina learnt: part of the enormous whispered sum she’d brought in with her. Clare, white-faced, was the shocked centre of the drama. Mother Scholastica was seen to look no different.

  The police came. Not the helmeted perspiri
ng figures of the picture books, but important ones, in dark suits with Gladstone bags and confident expressions, and large walrus moustaches. Mother Aelred asked for hands up of those who had visited the chapel after evening prayers. The police would like a word with them. It may have been that something was noticed. No stone must be left unturned, she explained, leaving in the air an image of the grounds being searched on hands and knees. And indeed the two important police could be seen, bending, looking at footmarks, examining window panes.

  Fanny was interviewed. They were really nice to her, she told everyone. One of them patted her on the head and said he had a daughter her age at home and he only hoped that she would have been as helpful.

  She had been back to chapel, she’d told them, to say some special prayers for a Novena to be finished by the Feast of the Precious Blood. The detectives had been most awfully impressed and asked her all about the Precious Blood and how did you do a Novena? She’d told them too about the Nine First Fridays and what the Sacred Heart had promised Margaret Mary Alacoque. ‘It’s wonderfully easy to get to Heaven if you know the way,’ the other man had remarked. Marion said: ‘I’ll bet you were glad you went in to pray. Jolly things like that never happen to me.’

  ‘Don’t be assy,’ Fanny said, ‘of course I wasn’t there – ‘

  They were good detectives though and found their man: the ne’er-do-well husband of the woman who did the rough at the farm guest-house. He had hidden all night in the organ loft, waiting his chance. He was traced as far north as Newcastle, but the jewels were gone. False ones gleamed now in the crozier.

  ‘All those who have music lessons with Mr Maycock,’ Mother Aelred announced, ‘please come to me for extra work. It is not certain,’ she added, ‘that he will be able to come back this term at all. Arrangements will be made…’

  Arrangements were not made. There were only three weeks of term left. She practised as hard, harder, than ever. One hot afternoon in early June, she was called to the parlour. Meresia said, ‘Daddy, this is Edwina.’

  He was only a little taller than Meresia, with grey receding hair; he put on a pair of glasses immediately after shaking hands, as if to look at her more closely.

  ‘You’re going to play for me later?’ The surprise was still total. A message during break while she and Fanny were wolfing down cold toast left over from the mistresses’ breakfast.

  He’d come in his own motor, with a chauffeur. They were to go on a picnic, to Goathland. The chauffeur was rather young and wore a very long coat and had spots on the back of his neck: from where Edwina sat she found that she was looking at them for a lot of the time as they drove inland, towards Wheeldale Moor, the red brick of the convent on its rocky promontory fading, growing smaller; soon the sea would be left behind.

  ‘How did you order, arrange, such weather, my darling?’ But Meresia just smiled at her father and said it had been lovely all the week. Today she wasn’t wearing her Child of Mary ribbon, but had mufti on: a cream-coloured skirt and a blouse with a lot of hand crochet round the neck and wrists. On her it looked more beautiful than anything of Aunt Adelina’s, ever. ‘Are you happy?’ she asked Edwina. She sat holding hands with her father.

  Of course she was happy. And even more so when they’d settled down near the heather, not far from the Roman road, the slightest of afternoon breezes stirring the bracken. Seeing the signpost marked ‘Beckhole’ she had told them about Sarah. It was so easy because everything she said was right. She couldn’t believe in her happiness.

  Meresia’s father was very gentle and easy with Meresia. She couldn’t imagine being friends with her father. The way Meresia said, ‘Daddy, do you remember that time – you know, that concert, that man we met…’Turning to Edwina perhaps: ‘If you could have seen him. We were in Paris because – no, but it’s too much –’ laughing, overcome by the memory and the happiness of the memory.

  The chauffeur sat a little way away after he’d brought the hamper over. He was reading a pink newspaper which he held down in the breeze. He had food beside him which he didn’t seem very interested in. Edwina wondered what it was like to eat apart like that. It was the same as the nuns, and yet not. More like Arthur perhaps?

  After tea, she took her shoes off, wiggled her toes in their black lisle stockings.

  Meresia’s father said, ‘Take the stockings off too. I would.’ Edwina giggled, and Meresia said, ‘He’s like that. A tease.’ But he seemed to her really a serious person; his face so firm and quiet, the jawline like Meresia’s.

  ‘We should drive down to Beckhole then, for Edwina.’

  She told them: ‘There was a Dragon. It ate lots of beautiful maidens (Sarah’s face by the fireside, hoping Nurse wouldn’t come in), and of course he breathed fire. But then he got slain by a very brave man called Roland Burden who fought him for half of a whole day… She thought as she spoke of Meresia being carried away by the monster to his lair up in the hills. She saw the limp powerless body, that curious softness of Meresia, so that everywhere you placed your hand you would meet only yielding flower-scented gentleness. A rose without thorns.

  The idyll was almost over. They were back at the convent, and ‘Which piano would be best, I wonder?’ Meresia said. The parlour one wasn’t too good, but it was the most convenient so she played to him on that one, feeling the damp resistance, the sweetish raisiny smell coming up from the keys.

  when she’d asked what she should play, he’d said: ‘Something you have by heart. Two pieces perhaps, one for execution, one for touch and feeling.’ She gave him some Mozart and then a Chopin waltz she had been trying on her own. She wanted tremble, glitter when she was playing the Chopin but when she tried half-damping the pedal, it stuck – she hadn’t wanted to risk the smudgy sound of it full down.

  ‘That was sort of drier than I meant, in that last but one section – because of the pedal.’ She found herself talking easily.

  He nodded. They spoke a while then he said: ‘I think you sing in your mind, sing while you play. That’s so, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ But she had never thought of it before. He talked to her then, Meresia looking on approvingly, eagerly almost. One had, he told her, to be enormously careful. ‘I’ve seen so many spoilt – and especially with the piano. Not all can be Mozarts after all and triumph over the whole problem. Little Master Solomon who played before the Queen earlier this year, they say he won’t do anything like that again until his studies are finished. Admirable – if it comes to pass.’ He smiled, then turned to Meresia: ‘I don’t want to predict anything. One can’t anyway; but I think quite seriously that there is something very definite here. Quite a gift…’

  when Reverend Mother came in a little later he spoke to her with great authority. It seemed to Edwina that in a few golden minutes everything was arranged. Her parents would be written to. He knew of someone excellent in Scarborough but who would be abroad this summer. It would be best to practise gently until the autumn. He said: ‘If I can help again?’ and then as they shook hands finally: ‘I think your future could be very interesting, don’t you?’

  The first disappointment was that Uncle Frederick didn’t come. Not his fault, but Aunt Adelina’s. In late May she had been quite seriously ill and now the specialist said there was no question of travel. She would convalesce in a spa. Next year, he wrote, they would try to do better.

  Macouba was Cora’s pony now. Edwina said that she didn’t want another, that she wasn’t interested any more in riding, and especially hunting. She watched Mother’s scorn and yes, anger, when she said this. Father told her that she must please herself. His mind was already ten days ahead, to when the grouse shooting would start. Also, he was very taken up with a breeding experiment: crossing a foxhound with a bloodhound. The fruits of his efforts were to be seen romping and rolling in the sun in a wire pen near the stables.

  She saw them often, because after the first week of the holidays she was down every day with Macouba. He had strangles, and it was Edwina, not Cora, w
ho cared. Throwing rugs over his shivering frame, coaxing him with hot bran mashes, helping Arthur poultice his glands. She was there when the vet came to lance the swellings. She and Arthur talked. It was like the old days. His eldest boy worked in their garden now: Mr Ramsden shouted at him.

  Meresia wrote to Mother about the new piano lessons. Edwina was shown the letter. Mother and Father said how kind it was of Meresia’s father. Edwina told them that he and Lydia Merriwether were to separate – she felt important knowing about it, yet sad at the same time.

  ‘Mother Bede explained. It’s because of their work. They can’t be in the same place at the same time. Sometimes God wills it that way, she told us…’

  ‘You could spare me your convent phrases, Edwina,’ Mother said, with a dry little smile. Edwina was eating kedgeree, pushing it about with a fork. ‘Your manners,’ Mother said sharply. She rose from the table, taking Meresia’s letter. The envelope remained on the table.

  That evening, in her room, a chair against the door, Edwina practised over and over and over again that beautiful, beautiful handwriting. ‘Mrs Thomas Illingworth’– each individual letter – rows and rows of Meresia’s ‘a’s’, ‘t’s’. This is what my handwriting will be like, she thought. I will take Meresia into myself, become part of her.