Rock Me Gently

by Judith Kelly

  So here was the unforgettable Sister Mary. The same sharp expression resided in her steely pale eyes, dimmer now in their burnt-out sockets. She was wiry and lithe, her jowls lined and paper-white. The most striking thing about her was the feeling of suppressed fire. It was very impressive in one so elderly, yet I could sense that any intimacy with her would be difficult.

  Finally she led me through a corridor into an oak-panelled parlour with velvet chairs, glossy teak furniture and framed prints with their dull-gold backgrounds.

  ‘In, in,’ she said, with a fussy little gesture of her hand.

  On the mantelpiece a great marble clock ticked loudly. An overwhelming smell of beeswax polish filled the air. She beckoned for me to sit next to her on a settee. She seemed uneasy, her body language suggesting a double barrier with both arms clutched tightly around her waist and her legs firmly crossed. She looked at me without seeing me, as if considering what to say.

  Her first words stunned me.

  ‘Why do you refer to me as Sister Mary, when I have always been known as Sister Magdalene Ita?’ Peevishly she added, ‘You must have me confused with Sister Mary of Nazareth.’

  I stared at her familiar features. ‘No, not at all- I recall Sister Mary of Nazareth went to South Africa as a missionary shortly after my arrival in Bexhill.’ My nervous laugh felt foolish, echoing through the room. How strange that she spoke to me in just the same tone of voice, as if nothing had intervened or changed in all those years.

  She drew back, her eyes glittering in surprise, and for a moment she was speechless. However, she soldiered on and said I must therefore be confusing her with a Sister Mary Therese, who had died two years previously. I couldn’t recall knowing a nun of this name. Yet she was relentless in her denial that she had ever been known as Sister Mary, and her conviction that Sister Mary Therese must be the nun I had known.

  We were at cross-purposes. I was here to discover the whereabouts of my old friends, and she was here to defend herself against some imagined attack. If she didn’t want to see me, then why had I been invited?

  As I sat facing her, trying to understand, she drew herself up on the settee, her pale eyes wide and threatening. I stiffened. I thought she was about to burst into one of the screaming rages that had terrorised that part of my childhood. At that moment a hundred memories were freeze-framed and thrust forward, blown through a narrow tunnel to the present.

  Always out of control of her anger in those days, today she was very much in charge. So how was I to obtain an admission as to her true identity? All the nuns I had made contact with recently had alluded to her as Sister Mary, including the receptionist. A burdensome silence weighed awkwardly between us.

  ‘About my old friends who I’m trying to find -’ I started.

  She shook her head tightly. ‘I have no contact with any of the former children from the convent.’

  ‘But I was given to understand ‘

  ‘You must have misunderstood. I have no contact with them.’

  A door slammed shut within me and the key was about to turn in its lock when she asked me something that made me stop breathing for a second.

  ‘Do you remember Frances McCarthy?’ She asked the question without expression.

  The light was fading, and I could not distinguish her features. From the sunset through the window, bright glints caught her hooded eyes, and the eyes looked straight at me, sharp and mocking.

  ‘Yes, of course I do. She was my best friend.’ My voice was tense.

  She shifted in her seat, watching me. ‘Does it bother you that I ask that question?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ I said curtly. ‘I no longer feel any guilt about what happened.’

  ‘What about Janet Dover, do you remember her?’

  I forced myself to sit without trembling, to stare straight back into her eyes. ‘Of course. They were both friends of mine.’

  Between us at that moment their names were suddenly like a flash, like a physical manifestation. Our former selves appeared for a moment like ghosts, and Frances and Janet’s ghosts were with them.

  There was a moment of silence in which only the seconds could be heard as the marble clock marked them in its circular trance. The room with its yellow aftertaste of polish almost hummed with tension. Suddenly I wanted to rip apart the fabric of our shared experience.

  I held my voice tightly, not letting it shake. ‘Why did you and the other nuns punish us so severely?’

  Her eyes burned as if the last drop of moisture had been scorched out of her body. She snorted. ‘We did what was necessary. You must understand that some of those children were very rough and headstrong and would take advantage of any weakness in us. Some of the nuns, especially Sister Mary Therese, believed in the old school of thought regarding discipline. A rap over the knuckles or a box on the ear wasn’t sufficient to break an obstinate child’s will and remould it in God’s way.’

  Her mind, as if magnetised by her speech, seemed to circle slowly round and round the subject of disciplining children. As she spoke I involuntarily glanced at her face. As I did so I met the gaze of her metallic eyes and something in the tilt of her head or the angle of her profile gave me a sharp impression of the younger nun I remembered. I turned my eyes away again.

  ‘But there are kinder ways of teaching children to behave.’ I forced my voice out with immense effort, as one tries to scream in a nightmare.

  The icy voice continued. ‘We were only God’s implements. We had to act before your whole natures became warped. A life of vows is a difficult one, particularly then, when we had no control over any of the decisions that were made. We had no choices and times were tough, yet those were the glory days for the Catholic Church. Nowadays, churches are closing. Saints are superfluous. Priests face their congregations like television presenters on a cookery programme, abandoning the Latin liturgy in favour of pop-song Masses. Humiliation and discipline are a thing of the past. I miss the old traditions. Those dear dead days beyond recall: St Christopher medallions on car dashboards. We had everything then. Now we have nothing,’ she sighed.

  I found myself almost sad for her, almost believing her.

  ‘I think the nuns were very capable in taking care of the children. We acted as your nurses, your teachers, your social workers. We had to be with you constantly, we never had a moment to ourselves except during prayer time and at night. But it was the Lord’s will and we did our best.’

  I could find no words. When I did not reply immediately, I could see that she took my silence for acceptance. She sat pale and composed, lit with a singular, quiet exhilaration. Her words sounded rehearsed, precise. Unrepentant. She must have prepared them for my visit.

  ‘We were devoted to the children, you know. We were just following our order’s rule, which is based upon strict lines of self-denial, poverty and obedience. We tried to combine a life of work and prayer for you in imitation of the Holy Family.’

  I managed to swallow. ‘So you’re saying you were merely obeying rules, is that it?’

  She shrugged her shoulders and nodded.

  I wanted to fling at her example after example of vicious cruelty, demand answers and extract penitence and contrition even if I had to shake them out of her. Yet I could hardly think, could hardly take in what she was saying.

  ‘But that kind of obedience ... it must have been destructive to the nuns, and - and so unjust on the children.’

  So unjust. The words echoed weakly.

  ‘Unjust, unjust? My dear, you were all charity cases. Charity is not entirely about mercy, and little to do with justice. We were carrying out that work for the sake of our own salvation. It was a way of detaching ourselves from acquisitiveness and greed.’

  My voice raised. ‘In other words, you were doing it for your own benefit, not ours. I accept that life must have been difficult for the nuns as well. Yet didn’t you ever question whether such punishments were wrong?’

  Her pale eyes snapped at me. ‘We had to do what we w
ere told. We did try to find other solutions, such as the punishments of silence, but the minute our backs were turned you’d all be playing up. As you know, many of the children were orphans and lacked parental authority. Many of them were wayward. It was up to us to teach them the rule of obedience. We had to use harsh tactics.’

  Since I made no reply, she must have felt she was beginning to make her point, for she kept on in the same vein for a good while. She consoled herself with cliches, and more than once it was as if she totally forgot to whom she was speaking. Her small face gleamed with fierce pride as she said, ‘We couldn’t allow ourselves to be faint-hearted, you know.’

  I could read the sharp disappointment in her face when I cut in at last. Now I knew why I was here.

  ‘You do realise you are speaking about innocent children here? Where was the justice in those two twelve-year-old girls losing their lives?’

  My words touched her face like a soiled hand, dabbing her eyes and cheeks with smudges of anxiety. She tried to speak but couldn’t.

  Several seconds passed before she answered. ‘Oh, I’ve had enough! I’m not going to sit here being quizzed about something that happened so long ago. The nuns loved the children, but you only had yourselves to blame, you wouldn’t come out of the sea when you were called. Yet it’s delightful to think that Frances and Janet are in heaven together.’

  She let a little laugh escape between her teeth, as if a joke had been made.

  I leaned forward, holding her eyes with my own as I said clearly, ‘The nuns knelt in prayer and did nothing to help us while we were in difficulties and Frances and Janet were drowning.’

  A wild dilating fire appeared in her eyes. She shook her head. ‘The time had come for those two children. Besides, there was little those two nuns could do. Do you remember those cumbersome habits we used to wear? Can you imagine what it was like to be dressed in twenty pounds of gabardine and starch in the middle of August? Those habits made it impossible for the nuns to effect any kind of rescue. In any case, I believe one of the nuns was held back from entering the sea by several children.’

  I became silent again. What was I hoping to hear? Even I didn’t know. What did it matter? As she said, it was so long ago. Maybe to hear a trace of real sorrow, an explanation as to why the nuns put the entire blame for the drownings on me? And why had the two girls been buried in an unmarked grave? And why had it been hushed up that Janet, as a non-swimmer, had been sent into the sea to call in the other children? And why had there been no mention of Janet’s courage when she sacrificed her life trying to rescue Frances?

  The silence between us was far from empty. It was hostile. Full of unspoken words.

  ‘What is it you want me to say?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you really here?’

  I stared down at the parquet floor and pinched my nose between my fingers. The years slipped away as I was whisked back towards the unhappy playground.

  ‘Look at my face,’ I said, raising my head. ‘Look closely. Take your time. It’ll come to you.’

  I let my own eyes dwell on the sagging skin of the nun’s cheeks; she raised her head briefly, but then dropped it again, as if her veil had suddenly become too heavy. Go on, I silently challenged her, look at me. She then lifted her head again and stared at my face. Her face remained neutral, her eyes continuing to reflect the sunset through the window. I sensed the tension in her body, as if she felt cornered. Her staring eyes travelled across my nose. Then a violent flush spread across her face as if a warm cloth had been thrown round her head. She drew in her breath sharply.

  ‘It’s understandable why you don’t want to remember me,’ I said softly, ‘but I can’t forget you so easily, however much I’d like to.’

  ‘It all happened so long ago.’ Her words came out with a struggle, tinged with anger. ‘What’s the matter with you? Why do you need to dredge up the past in this way? What is it that you want after all this time? I suppose you’re waiting for me to apologise?’

  ‘What’s the point of an apology?’ I said, turning away from her. ‘You destroyed my faith, but that really doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘It does. And I do apologise. Now I’d like to ask you a question,’ she said. She was flushed with distress and annoyance.

  ‘Are you free from sin?’

  ‘I’m as free as anyone else.’

  ‘Well, you’re in good company. I know I could get into Heaven any time I choose.’

  I felt shattered, reluctant to delve deeper. Silence fell on me in droplets. Behind Sister Mary’s head there was a picture of the Virgin and Child in a bevelled burnished gilt frame. The Virgin looked infinitely sad, but detached. As though she knew that all the concern she felt for the pathetic human scene taking place under her calm sad gaze could not alter human nature by one iota. Her high round brow, the tendrils of her perfectly curled golden hair, gave her an implacable beauty.

  Sister Mary’s brow on the other hand was not visible beneath her veil, and no strands escaped from that prison. Any hair that did show would be grey and wispy, if not white. Nuns’ hair had been a fixation when I was at the convent. The thrill when Sister Cuthbert had appeared in class with a distinct curl of brown hair that had the nerve to emerge from its captivity. As nuns were not allowed to look in the mirror, she was probably unaware of her mistake. Another thrill at the idea of Sister Mary’s tart scold when the rogue wisp was glimpsed. It all added up to the fact that the nuns were not bald and did not shave their heads; they simply cut their hair conveniently short.

  Looking at Sister Mary now, beneath the tumble-locked Virgin, I found that I had not altogether lost my fixation with nuns’ hair. Or their appearance in general.

  Finally I said, ‘I was given to understand that you were in touch with some of my friends from the convent. I would very much like to have their addresses or ‘

  I was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  ‘Yes, come in,’ said Sister Mary impatiently. ‘Well, Sister, what is it?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sister, I didn’t realise you had a visitor -’ A slightly breathless voice behind me. I turned round and saw a young nun with a wide ruddy face and intense eyes. She scrutinised me with unsmiling objectivity for a moment or two. I turned away and I could hear her muttering something in a low voice to Sister Mary, who gazed over my head at her visitor with barely concealed annoyance. I could feel myself becoming red with embarrassment and I twisted round, trying to see what it was that the nun was saying.

  ‘As you can see, Sister, I’m rather busy at the moment,’ said Sister Mary quickly.

  The nun departed and Sister Mary frowned. I noticed that she suspended speaking until there could be no question of the recent intruder overhearing us.

  Then at last she said, ‘Unfortunately, I lost my address book in one of the many moves I made over the years from convent to convent.’ Her voice sounded weak and slightly hoarse. ‘I used to have a lot of photographs of the children as well, but they also got lost in the moves.’

  Just circles and more circles. And endless unspoken questions. My head ached, and my eyes felt strained and sore. Nothing was resolved. I slipped into a morose silence. Her fire had faded, and she sat looking tired, old and vulnerable. The sight of her almost moved me to pity. But I had to be careful in my compassion, for vulnerability can be like snow on a sharp rock, and melt away at the first sign of a thaw.

  My voice was low and tense as I asked her again: ‘So you have never been referred to as Sister Mary?’

  And she denied it a third time.

  I stood up abruptly, looking at my watch. ‘I’m afraid I need to go now. I’ll come back if I may another day.’

  She looked up in surprise, her eyes vague. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort! Another day I may be underground. I’m dying with curiosity to know the real purpose of your visit today. I shan’t sleep tonight unless you tell me. Sit down and relax.’

  I sat down again and looked at her doubtfully.

  ‘I’m trying to
contact Ruth Norton,’ I said. ‘That’s why I came.’

  ‘Ruth Norton,’ Sister Mary repeated with careful diction. As she spoke, she grimaced and delicately rubbed the tips of her fingers together as though she had been dabbling them in something unpleasant.

  ‘I wondered if you might have her address. I believe she may live somewhere in Guildford.’

  ‘Ah!’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘And why, pray, would you want it?’ she added, still staring at me.

  I held her gaze determined not to be intimidated.

  ‘As you know, we were friends ...’

  ‘And all these years later, you intend to ... what? Drop her a line? Turn up on her doorstep? Gossip about the old days and cause trouble for me? You two were always trouble together. Ruth Norton in particular was a rebel. Has she ever contacted you?’

  I couldn’t take her staring eyes any longer. I looked away from her and concentrated on the view out of the window.

  ‘Well, has she?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, but the word came out so quietly that even I couldn’t really hear it.

  ‘Let me give you a bit of advice ...’ To my surprise I discovered that she had risen from the settee and was standing beside me. I turned my head to look at her. I saw her now as an elderly woman. I wondered why I was still wary of her. She paused; she was gazing out the window and seemed unaware of my attention.

  ‘I just want her address,’ I said eventually, breaking the silence.

  ‘Well, I’m giving you some advice instead,’ she said. ‘Everything that happened in the past should be laid to rest and not dragged into the daylight after all these years. If I knew Norton’s address - which I don’t - I wouldn’t dream of giving it to you.’

  I stared at her helplessly for a moment and wondered what she was afraid of, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. The smell of beeswax, the denials, the lack of success in discovering the whereabouts of Ruth - all combined to give me a feeling of nausea. It reminded me of the nausea of jaundice. I dream of it sometimes and awaken with a start, thankful to find myself with no yellow aftertaste.