by Marele Day
‘It’s a long story. I’d better speak to the Bishop.’
The unavailable Bishop suddenly became available. ‘Yes?’ he said. As soon as Ignatius heard the Bishop’s voice he saw him. Pink skin like Ignatius’ new hands, thin white hair with his scalp shining through like a baby’s. The Bishop looked as if he had spent his entire life swaddled. So much at odds with that clear-spoken authoritative voice. Dominic wouldn’t have been able to stop himself telling the Bishop that it was Ignatius on the phone but until he had personal confirmation the Bishop wouldn’t assume a thing.
‘It’s Father Ignatius, My Lord.’
‘Where are you? Are you all right?’
Ignatius looked up again. How could he tell the Bishop he had a tail instead of legs, that three mad women were breathing down his neck.
‘Yes, yes,’ spluttered Ignatius, biting his lip. The nuns were looking at him so earnestly. He couldn’t help himself, he was shuddering with the effort of holding the laughter in.
‘Excuse me, My Lord, there’s some interference. I’ll call back immediately.’ He put the phone down, shooed the nuns away and laughed till tears ran from his eyes. The nuns looked from one to the other. Not even Carla found this amusing. The sight of them so stern-faced made him laugh even more. ‘I can’t,’ he managed to get out between sobs.
‘Perhaps the chapel will cure you,’ said Iphigenia.
They sat him down in front of the altar, where he had celebrated mass. It worked. His giggles disappeared and he merely felt tired. He turned away from the Blessed Virgin in case her ludicrous hair set him off again and phoned the Bishop back. ‘Sorry about that, My Lord. Yes, perfectly all right. Well, not perfectly.’ It was a little easier now that the nuns had left a space around him and no longer had their ears glued to the phone.
‘I had an accident, I’m afraid, lucky to get out of it alive. I … I was unconscious. Broke my leg. Legs,’ he added, looking down at himself. ‘This is the first chance I’ve had to phone. I’m sorry to say that the car ended up in the sea.’ That bit at least was true.
Now that he was calm, Ignatius was amazed at the ease with which it all came out. ‘Fortunately the accident happened on my way back, so I was able to have a good look at the monastery. Or at least the ruins of it,’ he embellished. ‘I don’t really think it’s suitable. In my opinion, the initial outlay would be enormous, a road would have to be built, the buildings are in great disrepair, there’s a small graveyard—that would be a problem. Consecrated ground. The remains would have to be removed. There appears to be a seal colony on the cliffs at the base of the island. There would be all sorts of environmental objections. If the media got wind of it … However, I do have good news. I struck up conversation with a chap in a pub, a rather eccentric gentleman.’ Ignatius cleared his throat and gulped. There were parts of the story that even he was having trouble swallowing. He saw himself floundering in water, trying to touch the bottom. But if he stopped swimming now he’d drown. ‘We had a drink or two. It seems he was down this way looking for a property to purchase. A property away from it all, is what he said. Well, naturally I mentioned I had come from just such a place and we got talking. He seemed quite interested and said he would go and have a look.’
The expression on Ignatius’ face changed as he heard what the Bishop had to say. He looked over at Iphigenia, his eyes wide open in surprise. ‘Is that so? He has moved quickly, hasn’t he?’ … ‘Featheringale Trust?’ A look of disbelief came over him. What had Iphigenia been up to? How could the Bishop have fallen for a ludicrous name like Featheringale? ‘No I’m not familiar with it’ … ‘Well,’ he tried to quieten his voice so the nuns couldn’t hear, ‘there was no firm commitment to the development company but I’m sure if we tell the representatives of the …’ he could hardly bring himself to say it, ‘Featheringale Trust that there is another buyer interested we can get a very healthy price. And with the minimum of fuss.’
It was the Bishop’s turn to speak.
‘I’m not sure,’ Ignatius answered. ‘Soon. No, no, no. I wouldn’t hear of it. It’s all right, my sister will drive me.’ He looked up at the nuns. When? ‘When I’m fully recovered. I’ll let you know.’ Ignatius switched off the phone. ‘He wanted to send a car to pick me up.’
‘You have a very caring Bishop,’ remarked Iphigenia.
‘A Bishop who will become very suspicious if I don’t go back soon.’
She had known that once contact had been made between the Bishop and his priest, it wouldn’t stop there. How much time did she need to be assured that the sale had progressed so far it was irrevocable? Iphigenia picked up the phone and tapped out Mr Colquhoun’s number.
‘Mr Colquhoun? You may expect a call from the Bishop or his representative. Do not be surprised if they have the impression that you are acting on behalf of an eccentric old millionaire.’
Mr Colquhoun laughed. ‘Oh but I am, Sister, I am.’
There was a puzzled silence. ‘I don’t understand.’
He seemed on the point of explaining something then changed his mind. ‘I’m sorry, Sister, please continue.’
‘I wish the sale to proceed as quickly as possible and for anonymity to be preserved at all times. How long is it likely to take?’
‘You are going too fast,’ he laughed. ‘In the normal course of events, there is a settlement period, during which vendor or vendee can change their minds. I will have to liquidate some of your assets but I shouldn’t imagine that would take too long.’ He paused. ‘However, I am a little concerned about the other matter. It may drag out the affair.’
‘The other matter?’
‘The case of the disappearing priest. As I mentioned, they were not moving on the sale till that had been cleared up.’
Iphigenia looked at the priest. ‘I think you will find that problem has solved itself.’
‘You seem to be very well informed, Sister.’
She felt as if Taylor had caught her doing something naughty and Grandmother had to pretend she was chastising her. Grandmother never got angry with Iphigenia but she did enjoy watching her squirm with embarrassment. ‘In Church matters. In other matters, Mr Colquhoun, I rely on you. If you do not hear from the Bishop, please telephone him. I will …’ There it was again, a sudden silence, like a missed heartbeat. ‘Mr Colquhoun?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will call you again soon. Goodbye.’
There was a flurry of activity that the monastery hadn’t seen for years. Cleaning and polishing, dusting and spitting, as if they were preparing for a great event. And indeed they were. But it was an event that would take place far away, that would be represented on a piece of paper they would never see. Margarita and Iphigenia picked up their skirts and dusted St Anne and the Blessed Virgin. Carla climbed up and delicately washed the stained glass, a bit of spit on a page of Bible, lovingly wiping the grime from the corner of the saints’ eyes, dust from the angels’ wings. The Agnes sisters rubbed their woolly bodies along walls and pews in an attempt to polish and shine, leaving tufts of wool behind all the while. They even let the priest help, polishing smaller items with his new pink hands. The table was scrubbed of sacrificial blood and spilt things, the Agnes sisters’ droppings were picked up and spread on the garden. Carla even put her head in the trough, rubbed her fingers through to loosen the new curls and shook like a dog, spraying water everywhere.
She was living in something great and momentous. Though she couldn’t see it, she felt it everywhere like the breath of God. Iphigenia had explained ‘sale’ to her but there was nothing in monastery life remotely resembling ‘sale’ and she still found it difficult to grasp. Nevertheless, she threw herself wholeheartedly into the sale preparations. It was like the Christmases of her childhood when they had pageants. Every year Carla would be Baby Jesus. She would lie very still in the manger, smell the sweet straw.
There were too few of them now. They would have to keep swapping around, just the three of them, to be Mary and Joseph, Baby
Jesus, the Magi, the midwives, the oxen. Carla had tried to get the Agnes sisters to play the parts but they quickly lost interest and wandered away to eat grass. But now it felt like Christmas again and they’d only just had Easter!
Best of all in the cleaning was the abbess’ office. It was such a long time since anybody had been in there apart from Iphigenia. They got wads of fleece and wiped away all the cobwebs. Such a lot of books, all dark red with pretty gold lettering on the spines. Carla was disappointed that the books had no pictures. But she was pleased to discover a small Blessed Virgin hidden behind a veil of web. When the abbess’ office was finished they stood back and looked at it. A new room. It wasn’t a bedroom, it wasn’t a bakehouse. But although she didn’t properly understand it, Carla thought it was just the right room for the thing that Iphigenia had done. ‘Flowers on the table!’ Carla remembered one more detail of cleaning. She went to pick some buttercups.
No-one was coming but Iphigenia said they would know when the ‘sale had gone through’. What was it going through, the eye of a needle? Everything was mysterious and wonderful—new words, new ideas, excitement over things she couldn’t see. The man’s garment was finished, they were just waiting for the right time for the Robing.
When the scrubbing and spitting and polishing was done Iphigenia returned to the office to make another phone call to Mr Colquhoun. She sat at the abbess’ desk, imagining Mr Colquhoun at his as he told her that steps had been taken, but that the Bishop was awaiting the return of his secretary before any sale could be finalised.
‘And when does the Bishop think that will be?’ probed Iphigenia.
‘Soon. He seems to be a very popular young man, everyone is awaiting his return. Including the car-hire firm. They have lost a vehicle. In the ocean apparently. Their insurance company is anxious to talk to the priest. They may get impatient enough to start investigating without him.’ Iphigenia heard her heart pounding. ‘Are you sure, Sister, you have no information that can shed light on this matter?’
‘We pray for the priest’s safe return,’ Iphigenia managed to say. ‘Meanwhile, please progress as far as you can with the sale.’
There was a crackle and the line went dead. She was consciously taking large gulps of air, as if her lungs were too tired to do it of their own accord. It had been difficult to hear everything Mr Colquhoun said, the fuzzy prickles in her chest had moved into her ear and into the phone. Sometimes Mr Colquhoun’s voice was blocked out altogether.
They couldn’t wait till the sale was secured, they would have to set the priest free now. She gathered the sisters together.
‘It is time for Robing Day.’
It was such a long time since there had been a Robing Day in the monastery. Carla loved the beautiful white wedding dresses the nuns wore before donning the black habits. Kneeling in front of the prelate in their flowing gowns, the matrons of honour removing the veil and the Bishop snipping off a lock of hair with his small silver scissors. Carla remembered too that on Robing Day they had biscuits made with honey. She reminded Iphigenia, in case she had forgotten. Iphigenia smiled tiredly. She was more concerned that they could still remember the words.
The nuns have come into the Knitting Room to fetch the priest’s new garment. Carla opens the cupboard and everything tumbles out. Aprons, vests, skirts, blankets. All the knitting they have ever done, the pure white garments, the multicoloured ones. Carla laughs, bowled over by the avalanche of wool, enough to outfit every sister in Christendom. She picks out the priest’s garment. ‘Straw that broke the camel’s back,’ she grins to Margarita and Iphigenia.
Iphigenia stares. At the millions and millions of tiny stitches, row upon row upon row. She hears the quiet click of needles, their voices chanting and telling stories before the Great Silence descends. Carla and Margarita begin to put everything back. But Iphigenia is still staring. At their own threadbare garments while scattered all around are the things they have made, of every hue and pattern. All this in the service of God yet stuck in a cupboard where God can’t see.
They bring Ignatius into the courtyard and stand before him, a trinity of prelates. They have discarded their old garments and donned fluffy new white ones.
All morning he had been thinking about it. With the plaster off he would be free to leave. But instead of exhilaration he felt apprehension. Now that the moment he had so long awaited had finally arrived, he wasn’t sure he was ready. He took a deep breath and put his trust in his Heavenly Father.
The nuns didn’t know the words to robe a priest so they used the words to robe a sister instead.
‘What do you ask?’ they said.
‘The mercy of God and the grace of the holy habit.’
‘Do you ask it with your whole heart?’
‘Yes, my Lords, I do.’
Ignatius kept his eyes to the ground, trying for the solemnity worthy of the true occasion.
‘God grant you perseverance, my daughter,’ they said to him.
‘My son,’ Ignatius murmured under his breath.
Now it was time for him to take off his white gown and don the black.
It was Margarita who was going to divest him. She approached with the shearing shears, smiling benignly. He turned his head to avoid the flash of sunlight bouncing off the blades.
She stood in front of his feet and looked at the white plaster, somewhat less white and pristine than when it had been applied. Margarita remembered applying the cast, wrapping the bandages round and round to keep the legs together, slapping the plaster on thickly, trying to immure him in it. And now she was going to let him out.
She walked around the plaster, assessing the task in hand. The best way in, of course, was at the top. She came up level with his hip. Ignatius noticed her hands tremble a little. Instinctively his hands made a cover for his penis. She came down to the feet again, tapping at the plaster, feeling for the hollow space between the feet. But she had done too good a job in the first place, inside the fishtail the feet were welded together like Siamese twins.
She decided to make the first cut at the side. She stuck one blade in between the plaster and his skin.
He flinched at the coldness of the metal. He must remain perfectly calm and still, so that she can do the job with no mistakes. This is the moment he has hoped and waited for. He knows it must happen but he feels as if he is being skinned alive. The plaster cast has become so much a part of him that he has to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from screaming out stop!
Iphigenia and Carla are watching, hands together over their stomachs.
Snip. The blade cuts into the plaster with a rough unpleasant sound, like metal being scraped over rock. Margarita’s hand is steadied by the contact and she soon is absorbed in her task. She has even started humming the shearing chant. Carla and Iphigenia start humming too. The Agnes sisters come for a look. Snip. The incision reaches knee level.
Ignatius feels the coolness of air on his thigh. Without disturbing his pose, he stretches his neck a little to peer into the gap being created. Snip. And now he feels the blade along the outside of his calf. Snip, the ankle. Across the feet and up the other side. She stands back. It is done.
The priest lay perfectly still while Carla and Iphigenia lifted the dirty white carapace to free his legs. They stood gazing at those white legs with their brushing of black hairs so flattened down they looked as if they had been etched on. The pattern of hairs on his big toes made a sea anemone.
His legs were thinner, much thinner than Ignatius remembered. They were strange unfamiliar creatures. He tried to wiggle his toes but nothing happened, the nerves and the ganglions in that area were not receiving the message his brain was sending. Carla’s hand hovered over his leg, checking with him to see whether he minded.
It was the lightest of touches but it shot through him like an electric charge. Nevertheless he bore with it. She gave a few more tentative strokes delighted at the way the hairs sprang away from the soft moist skin.
The hairs weren�
��t the only thing to spring. The charge that had jolted his legs also jolted his penis. His cupped hands proved to be poor covering indeed. Carla’s eyes were round as saucers yet she had learnt not to touch Baby Moses in the bulrushes.
Her attention was diverted by Iphigenia. ‘The garment, Carla.’ The garment was neatly folded on the table. Carla took one more look then picked the garment up and let it fall to its full length.
‘Here,’ Carla said breathlessly. Without too much ceremony they placed the garment over his head and smoothed it down the length of his body. He was clad again, his body covered in fine wool that did not scratch. Margarita approached with the shears and snipped off some of his hair.
‘He shall receive a blessing from the Lord, and mercy from God the Saviour.’
They had robed him, he had repeated the words of Simple Profession. He had become a nun.
He did not join in the nuns’ prayer but fell to the prayer of St Ignatius Loyola.
Soul of Christ, sanctify me.
Body of Christ, save me.
Blood of Christ, inebriate me.
Water out of the side of Christ, wash me.
O good Jesus, hear me;
Hide me within Thy wounds;
Suffer me …
Ignatius could not continue. How had he ever found those words edifying or uplifting? Suffering and hurts and blood and oozing wounds. This was not the prayer for a man who had just regained his human form, his dignity.
Ignatius sat with them for the evening meal, straightbacked, his feet touching the ground. He felt tall and elegant in his new robes. The garment resembled a cassock, and it was only when you took a closer look, at the warp and weft of it, did the nuns’ designs become visible. There was no knitting and no stories this night, and immediately supper was over, the four of them fell into the Great Silence.
In the days that followed a new set of preparations began—preparing the priest’s legs for his return to the world. They took him for walks in the fields, at first with two of them supporting him, then eventually just Carla accompanying him.