She returned to bed, smoothed the tangled sheets. How could she be frightened, with everything so solid – the high and creaky bedstead with its wooden head and footboards, the thirties wardrobe which was too big for the room, the battered chest of drawers? She was behaving quite hysterically, like an indulged and stupid child. And she’d no right to keep the light on, as she’d done the last five nights. It wasted the electricity and Miss Pullen paid the bills.
She had barely clicked it off again, when her frantic hand was back, fumbling for that fight switch, groping through the darkness, to turn the terror off. Fear and dark were one now. She could hear the chaplain’s voice: ‘Perfect love casteth out fear.’ That was it: she didn’t love enough. She felt pity for Miss Pullen, but no real Christian love; had even banged her cup down when her charge had spilt the tea. Miss Pullen spilt things purposely, kept dropping spoons and books, but that was no real reason to stop treating her as Christ. She had to keep her mind on Christ, keep searching for Him, even in the dark. His was perfect love. Hadn’t Father Martin told her that the cruellest desolations were proofs of that great love, since He was allowing her to suffer here on earth, and not in hell? So why did she fear hell still?
Exhausted, she sat up again, abandoned bed for chair. She’d better read, distract herself, give up thoughts of sleeping. The only books she’d found, so far, were a shelf of lurid paperbacks and a seven-volume set of The History of the English-Speaking Peoples. She picked up Volume One, blenched to see the letter she’d been using as a bookmark – her letter from the Abbess, whose cruel and wounding phrases were now incised into her skull. ‘By leaving in this fashion, you have shown blatant disregard for your vow of Holy Obedience, scandalised your Sisters, made your life a mockery …’ She couldn’t blame the Abbess, who bore a grave responsibility, had to account for each nun’s soul on Judgement Day; pledging each Eternal Life, on the day of their Profession, if they were faithful to their vows. She had not only cast aside those vows, but laid guilt on her superior as well. Mother’s letter demanded a reply. Sister Mary Hilary had either to return forthwith, or write requesting formal leave of absence.
Sister Mary Hilary refolded the blue paper, closed the heavy book. Both steps were impossible. There was no way she could return, yet to obtain a leave of absence meant writing to the Bishop, setting out her reasons for needing time away. He might well dismiss her reasons as mere neurotic weakness, refuse to grant the leave. She replaced the history on the shelf, took down a lightweight crime novel. She’d never had much interest in criminals or crime until now she felt condemned herself, alone and shunned and guilty in the dock.
She stood rigid, rooted to the floor, staring at the orange blob, the only patch of colour in the darkness. What was it? Where was it? Who had brought her here? She tried to remember names for things: the thing she stood on, thing above her, those small hot heavy white things which seemed attached to her. The names had disappeared; everything had vanished except the darkness and that one bright blob. She couldn’t move. Who was she? Terror surged and spiralled as she realised she didn’t know the answer, didn’t know her name. She searched back in the reaches of her mind. No clue, no pictures, no memories at all. Time passed. She was aware of that, at least; time slowly moiling on, while she stood, stranded, a mind without a name.
Supposing the name eluded her for ever? This could be eternity, trapped and banished on her own, not knowing who she was. She was aware of endless passages, dark and low and maze-like; corridors of dense black fear, stretching on for ever. No doors or windows anywhere. No way out. No way in to who she was, or where.
She could feel her heart pounding through her chest – which meant she was alive still. Yet the state felt more like death. She tried to move towards the orange, touch it with the white things. It felt hard and cold, with two protuberances. The word was coming back. A word she knew, everybody knew, except it was still not on her tongue. She made one last effort, stormed and dragged her mind, struggling through the tangled coils of what seemed like black barbed wire.
Kettle! Yes, a kettle. The thing she made the tea with. Tea – another word she knew now. All the words were flooding back, even in the darkness. Floor – the thing she stood on; ceiling up above her; hands – the things attached to her. And her? Sister Mary Hilary.
She groped towards the light switch, blinked in the bright neon at the fawn Formica table, the scuffed and chequered lino, the shiny orange kettle on the range. She was in Miss Pullen’s kitchen, must have sleepwalked there from her bedroom one floor up. She shuddered. That flight of stairs was steep, the hallway full of hazards – sharp edges, jutting furniture. She crept back to the stove. She ought to make some tea, strong sweet tea to calm her down, stop her hands from shaking. No. Tea was not allowed, only lukewarm water, and it was forbidden to make snacks, to eat or drink at all, except at mealtimes, unless a nun were ill. She wasn’t ill. This was sheer indulgence. She had sleepwalked several times before, and the Abbess had dismissed it as hysteria, a bid for attention, a proof that her emotions were still not disciplined, her self too strong, trying to take over, even in her sleep.
She clung on to the kettle, as if its cheerful orange could warm her like a fire; was surprised to find it cold. It seemed too bright and modern for Miss Pullen’s dingy house, where so much else was old, or barren brown. It felt important, somehow – the beacon in her nightmare, the first word to return.
She cleared her throat, just to hear the noise. She was used to silence, but this silence seemed more total than at Brignor, where an hour or so of talking was permitted every day. Those stiff-necked recreations when they sat round in a circle, darning socks or sewing, had seemed sometimes an ordeal. You could be lonely in a community, as well as on your own, especially when all close ties were forbidden, and conversations must be always safely general and polite. No confidential chats, no personal disclosures. A young American retreat priest had told them, just two years ago, that a good contemplative would make a good prostitute, because she had to give herself to everyone, regardless of her feelings, couldn’t pick and choose her favourites. The older nuns had been distinctly shocked, but she had understood him. You loved and ‘serviced’ everyone, even those Sisters who annoyed you most. Sister Anna, for example, with her high-pitched girlish giggle, had been a constant trial. She had often sat there, wincing at that giggle, cringing at the jokes, yet outwardly serene, only screaming silently from the months of doubt and darkness which she couldn’t, mustn’t share.
Now she realised she hadn’t been as friendless as she had allowed herself to feel. Some nuns had antennae, understood, without the need for words. Sister Luke was sensitive, had often smiled at her, even touched her hand a second, though that was quite forbidden; a fleeting, caring touch which said, ‘I feel your pain. Take courage.’ And at least she’d not been physically alone: other nuns beside her in the refectory; other Sisters’ voices lapping hers in choir, a dozen people always in the house.
Here, the silence stretched in all directions. Only Father Anstey’s brief remarks, Miss Pullen’s angry grunts. And once her charge had gone to sleep, the stillness seemed to freeze and stiffen round her, especially in the death-hush of her bedroom. Her convent cell was one in a long row, and although you never spoke there, and would be most severely punished if you dared invite another nun in, at least you had the comfort of noises through the wall: the friendly splash of water from a ewer, the creak of a loose board. Miss Pullen’s room was at the back. The walls were thick, conducted not the faintest human sound.
She fumbled for a chair, still feeling half-disorientated, as if she wasn’t quite awake yet, perhaps not even quite alive. She wondered what the time was, wondered what the date was, tried to work it out. The Feast of the Epiphany had been four days ago, the feast on which God ‘manifested’ Himself – though He hadn’t done to her – a solemn feast at Brignor, with tall candles on the altar, symbolising the bright star over Bethlehem, which led the Three Kings to their greater infa
nt King. That was January 6. Which meant today must be the tenth. Her birthday! The one she’d dreaded for so long, tried to keep dismissing, blank out of her mind. Nuns didn’t keep their birthdays, only the anniversaries of their Clothing and Profession, and the feast-days of their name-saint. Age shouldn’t matter in a convent. One’s age in religion was the only thing which counted, and that was reckoned from the year a nun first entered, so that a fifty-year-old Sister would be younger than a twenty-year-old, if she had joined the Order after her. Yet, for months she’d been aware that she would be thirty-nine in January. Why was it so crucial? Because there was only one year left till forty, the real start of middle age? No. Something more important.
She rose slowly from her chair, seemed to be drawn towards the range again, its cheerless black enlivened by that kettle. She ran her hands across its pregnant orange belly, then down to her flat stomach. You could have a child at thirty-nine, but you were old already, had lost your really fertile years, couldn’t waste more precious months, agonising, hoping. It was that American retreat priest who’d first sown those dangerous longings – something else he’d said: ‘A contemplative praying for the world is like a mother feeding a baby. Both get up at night to give nurture to the weak and helpless.’ As he spoke, a disconcerting image had flashed into her mind. She was a mother with a baby, a real and solid baby pulling at her nipple, nuzzling at her breast – breasts hot and tight with milk. The image kept returning, was especially vivid now, as she still clutched that stupid kettle, feeling not its hard cold metal, but the soft flesh of a child. She darted to the sink, let the blast of the cold tap dispel her vacuous motherhood. A kettle was for making tea, not for playing babies. The first grey fight was filtering through the curtains, the clotted dark dispersing. It was far later than she’d thought – not night at all, but morning – time to wake her charge up, make her early tea, wash and dress and feed her. There wasn’t room for self-indulgent fantasies. She had a child already: Miss Ethel Margaret Pullen.
Could you hate a pair of boots, really loathe them? It was wrong to hate at all, but Miss Pullen’s stiff black boots seemed somehow evil; battered leather ankle-boots with slimy knotted laces, dirty yellow insoles which showed the impression of misshapen feet. Hilary crouched to lace them up, remove the woolly bed socks. Miss Pullen never went out, but she wore her coat all day, a thick tweed skirt, lisle stockings, and the boots. The house was always cold. Miss Pullen wasn’t poor, could have afforded central heating, gas fires in all the rooms, but she preferred to keep her money in the bank. In her will, she had left it to the church, to Father Anstey in particular.
Hilary stood up, shook out the crumpled coat, a once-expensive raincoat, now stained with food and grease. It was never washed or cleaned, since Miss Pullen wouldn’t part with it for longer than a night, and even then, she wanted it beside her, draped across her chair. First thing in the morning, it went back on again.
Hilary could sympathise, would have liked to wear a coat herself, not only for its warmth, but to use it as a tortoise did its shell. She fastened all the buttons, then went to fetch the porridge, which already had a scum on top and had started to congeal. She ought to reheat it, but it would only go cold again, while Miss Pullen pushed the bowl away, or refused to open her mouth.
‘N … N … N …’ she stuttered, as she jerked her head right back. That was ‘no’, could go on for minutes, as she fought to get the word out, growing more and more frustrated. She had refused to have speech therapy, or any other therapy; refused all help at all, save Miss O’Connor’s. So how did Miss O’ Connor manage? She was probably a much better cook, made porridge with no lumps; served all the little delicacies she’d mentioned in her notes. ‘Try egg custard and blancmanges, souffléés, creamy soups. And don’t forget a cake or two. You can nearly always tempt her with a light Victoria sponge.’
Hilary refilled the spoon, watched the porridge drool down chin and coat. She had never made a cake, not even as a child. Her mother always bought cakes from the grocer, discouraged her from messing up the kitchen. And in all her years at Brignor, she had never cooked at all. They couldn’t spare her for domestic chores, when she was so handy with her needle, and could actually earn money by the labour of her hands. Of course, she never saw the money, or thought in terms of wages. Her work was prayer, obedience. But her skill as vestment-maker had spread far beyond the county or the local village priests. She’d been designing vestments recently for bishops, Father Generals; elaborate brocade chasubles for Golden Jubilees; matching stoles with appliquéd silver chalices, shining jewel-grapes, ears of silken wheat. She had also made the cloaks for the Knights and Dames of the Holy Sepulchre – white cloaks with scarlet crosses for the Knights, black velvet for the Dames. Yet her skills now seemed so narrow, and quite pointless in the world. Who wanted satin-stitch on hand-embroidered orphreys, or elaborate cope-hoods sewn with flowers and gems? Ordinary women had to cook as well as sew, nurse and launder, drive and shop – all the normal routine things she’d never done.
Miss Pullen made a grunting sound, tried to grab her Daily Express. Her sight was bad and she refused to wear her glasses, so she liked it read aloud – especially the disasters – wars and armed rebellions, earthquakes, bomb attacks. Hilary unfolded it with her usual twinge of guilt. Papers were forbidden in the convent. The Abbess took The Times, but pre-censored it severely, consigning humour, arts and gossip to the waste bin, along with business news and sport. A few remaining articles were carefully cut out, pinned up on the noticeboard for the other nuns to read: crises which demanded prayers: peace talks, or elections, or international incidents, but only those with no hint of sin or scandal.
She glanced briefly at the headlines – ‘Heroin shock. “Dirty Dick” confesses.’ ‘Yard man on call-girl charge’ – searched the sea of print for something more salubrious, something Reverend Mother would permit. She read the main news story on violence in Armagh – Ireland always needed prayers – continued with a report on the social life of dolphins. Miss Pullen seemed restive and was pulling at her coat. She searched for a disaster, found an air crash and a flood, read out the fatalities, her voice dwindling to a whisper, as she tried to deny those pointless savage deaths. She craved to believe in a good God’s ordered world, not this hell of twisted wreckage, dismembered bloated bodies. She knew now why the Abbess banned the papers. It wasn’t just the scandals, but the danger to their faith. If the world was rotten, then how could its Creator escape all blame? ‘Free will,’ she kept insisting to herself. But who had made that will …?
She continued reading till Miss Pullen nodded off, then laid the paper gently on her lap; cleared away the breakfast things, pausing at the larder door as she put the milk away. Wasn’t this her chance to do some cooking – make that cake, perhaps – a light Victoria sponge to tempt Miss Pullen, a cake of recompense? She started searching through the cookbooks, looking for a recipe. Sponges all took eggs, and she hadn’t any eggs, had never thought to buy them. She remembered in the War, her mother had made cakes from things like swedes and carrots – or so she’d always claimed. Her mother enjoyed complaining about the War: the way bananas simply vanished, the indignity of ration books, the cheek of Mrs Grant next door who wangled extra sugar. She murmured a brief prayer for the safety of her mother’s soul – only hoped Eternity would please her – then went to check the larder; found several shrivelled carrots, even a fat swede. She had always hated swedes. They figured at the convent three or four times weekly, a cheap and staple vegetable the Sisters grew themselves. In twenty years, she must have eaten over a thousand pounds of swede, plain unbuttered swede, sometimes woody, or only semi-cooked. (Sister Cook wasn’t always skilled.) But maybe in a cake, you wouldn’t taste them, especially if she added some strong flavouring.
‘Cream 6 oz butter with the same amount of sugar, and beat till light and fluffy …’ At least she had butter, and a good two pounds of sugar, though the butter was rock-hard and seemed hostile to the sugar, patently un
willing to merge or mix at all. She beat until her arm ached, but the butter stuck in small hard lumps to the bottom of the bowl, while the gritty stubborn sugar sprayed across the work-top. She’d better add some water. She ran a little in the bowl, watched with pleasure as the sugar soaked it up. The butter was less tractable. She used her hands, tried to knead and pummel it, as Sister Gerard did, when she made the convent bread. The butter only oozed between her fingers, still refused to cream. Perhaps it needed eggs, some slimy gum to bind it to the sugar. She’d substitute her vegetables, grate them first, to make them light and moist. The only problem was she couldn’t find a grater. She searched all the drawers and cupboards, turfed out a floral chamber pot, some stuff for killing ants, an ancient tin of cat-food, but still no grater. Well, she’d simply have to chop them, chop them very fine, an exercise in patience.
She sat down at the table, listening for Miss Pullen’s bell, ready to respond the instant that it rang. That was second nature. You obeyed the convent bells without the slightest pause, without crossing your ‘t’, if you were writing; or pulling through your needle, if you’d just stuck it in the fabric; without finishing your sentence, if you were speaking to a Sister. The bells were honoured as the voice of God, calling you to chapel seven times a day. Obedience to a Lover, not a tyrant. She missed the bells, tolling for the Angelus, or choir, pealing out at the beginning of each hour, to remind the nuns to devote that hour to God.
She mixed in her vegetables, followed by the flour, and the teaspoon of vanilla essence suggested in the recipe. A teaspoon seemed so little, especially if it were fighting with the flavour of the swedes, so she shook in the whole bottle, then transferred the sticky mixture to a tin. She felt a sense of real achievement as she shut the oven door; had to stop herself from running, as she returned upstairs to spread the news: ‘I’ve made a cake – the first one in my life!’ Miss Pullen was asleep still, couldn’t share her triumph. She walked on down the passage, too elated to sit down, stopped a guilty moment outside Miss O’Connor’s door. There was a mirror in that room, the only full-length mirror in the house. She had been avoiding mirrors for the last two weeks, yet utterly obsessed with them, seeing them in every shiny surface, every pane of glass – a sudden jolting shock as the reflection’s eyes met hers, or a face she didn’t recognise mimicked her own startled flinch of panic. She’d look away, look down; immediately immerse herself in some job or safe distraction. There had been no mirrors in the convent. Most Orders allowed a small one in each cell, so that nuns could check their veils were straight, or snip off a stray whisker. But the Notre Dame Sisters had refused to introduce them. However small the mirror, it could still encourage vanity, or lead to self-absorption.
Devils, for a change Page 7