This house was no convent, yet seemed strangely short of mirrors; both her room and Miss Pullen’s totally devoid of them. The old one in the bathroom showed nothing but your head, and was stained and spotted, anyway, with its surface peeling off. She had still not seen herself – not all her self, not clearly – in a cold and honest light.
Impulsively, she slipped in through the door, turned the key behind her. She was grateful for that key, which seemed to lock the Abbess out, or any charge of vanity. This didn’t feel like vanity at all. She took a quick breath in, turned to face the mirror, stared in shock at the startled girl reflected there. A girl? At thirty-nine? Impossible. She kept on staring. That mirror must be wrong. She still looked young and slim, even quite presentable, not the freak, the bundle, she’d felt in her old clothes. She had struggled for so many years with depression, darkness, near despair, she had imagined all the conflict would be stamped across her face, larded round her body like an ugly layer of fat.
She must be standing too far back, so that the mirror flattered her, prevented her from seeing all her flaws. She took a few steps forward, peered more closely at her face. Her eyes looked bright, alive, not dull and somehow dead, as she’d imagined. Her cheeks were pale, admittedly, but the skin was well plumped out; no wrinkles round the eyes or frown-lines on her forehead. She had assumed she had the same lines as the Sisters all around her; lines from nose to mouth and mouth to chin, criss-cross lines etched above her lip. Those ageing nuns had seemed patterns for herself, as she grew stout and shrivelled with them – or so it always felt – grey in mind and spirit, not just greying hair. She untied her old blue headscarf, which she kept on day and night, so Miss Pullen needn’t see her convict’s hair. It was longer than she’d realised, growing well already; raggedy, uneven – yes – but still its wheaten colour. When she’d cropped it in the convent, the clippings always looked a dullish grey. Was that just depression, turning everything to ash?
She ran her hand through the short and stubbly growth, took in her whole form again. Was that really her, that slim and fair-haired stranger in lay clothes? The mirror in her mind had told her she was ugly; a sapless burnt-out creature, not woman, even – neuter. She had felt so sterile sometimes, that it seemed as if parts of her were missing; that some ruthless surgeon had yanked her womb out, sliced off both her breasts. Occasionally, as she knelt there in the silence, wrestling with the absence of her God, she imagined that her mouth had gone, as well, and that she would never form another word again. Other times, in the darkness of her cell, she had touched her eyes, to make sure they were not missing, not just empty sockets.
She was startled now to see herself so whole: face no longer cut off at the brows; eyes somehow larger than they’d ever been before, burning through her face; even the outline of two breasts beneath the dress. She seemed to be three people all at once: the nun in veil and habit whom she had left behind at Brignor; the ugly freak washed up at Rosemont Road; and this figure in the mirror – female and an interloper.
She didn’t like its clothes, the droopy dress which flopped around its calves, the shapeless navy cardigan. Why should any Order want to modernise? The habit gave you dignity, both physical and spiritual, had weight in every sense. It still seemed strange to walk without that swirl of heavy fabric, the anchor of the veil. She missed the veil the most. A bare head was so vulnerable, so cold. The nun’s veil symbolised fidelity, virginity. ‘Receive this veil,’ the priest had said, ‘the token of purity and modesty … that thou mayest, at last, with the wise Virgins, be ready to enter into the joyful marriage of the Lamb.’
She snatched her scarf up, secured it round her head again. Her vows were made for ever. All the words they used stressed that. Final Profession, perpetual Profession, unbreakable union, lifelong service. She had sworn obedience and fidelity till death.
‘Are you resolved to serve Christ and His kingdom for the whole of your life in solitude and silence, in unceasing prayer, in lowly work and willing penance, persevering unto the end?’
‘I am so resolved.’
It was a sort of death. She had lain prostrate on the chapel floor, covered with a thick black pall, to symbolise her death to the world, while the other nuns had sung the Dies Irae, as if it were a funeral. For almost half an hour, she had lain buried beneath the musty stifling darkness of that pall, embracing death, rejoicing in it, while her Sisters begged their Saviour to help her die to earthly love.
She had even made her will. That, too, was symbolical, since after her Profession a nun could own absolutely nothing; must have legally disposed of her possessions, however small or trifling. No photographs, no letters, no trinkets, keepsakes, mementoes of her parents. She had no parents now, belonged to God alone.
She wore His ring to prove it. The priest had placed it on her wedding finger at that same Profession ceremony. ‘Receive this ring, that you may be called the Bride of God, and be conscious of the faithfulness of the Eternal King, who has bound you to Himself.’
A silver ring – not gold – to symbolise her poverty; a ring shaped as a crucifix to remind her she must suffer for her Bridegroom. Yet ‘Joy’ was written on it, joy in suffering. She had exchanged her crown of roses for a crown of thorns – not mere symbolic thorns – but long and spiky hurting ones which pressed down on her head. Hers was a crucified Lover. She must feel not just the thorns, but the nails and spear as well, sweat blood with Him in the garden of Gethsemane.
She tugged at the ring, which refused to budge past the obstruction of her knuckle. She had been trying to remove it for the last two weeks, but that finger must have swollen. It seemed proof of her betrayal – the professed nun’s ring worn with an unveiled head and worldly clothes; Christ dying on her finger. Ail she’d managed was to twist the slim band round, so that the figure was concealed on the inside of her hand, and the word ‘Joy’, once inconspicuous, now clear for all to read. The letters seemed to haunt her, as she recalled the real and brimming joy she had felt at her Profession, as she repeated St Paul’s words: ‘I am nailed with Christ to the Cross. I am dead that I may live for God alone.’
She sat staring at the cake. No – that heavy gluey hotchpotch bore no faint resemblance to any cake she’d seen. It had failed to rise at all, was burnt around the edges, sticking to the tin, yet soggy in the centre, orange lumps congealing in a curdled greyish pap. Miss Pullen’s cat was dead, alas, or she’d have saved the hash as cat food. Though even a mere tomcat would probably take one sniff and run. She suddenly burst out laughing, the first time she’d laughed in months. This was her great triumph, her culinary achievement, the news she’d longed to holler from the rooftops. Well, that would cure her pride.
She strode towards the waste-bucket, tipped the whole mess in, stood rigid for a moment, her foot still on the pedal. How could she be laughing? She had wasted fuel, wasted good ingredients, and waste was always sin. She had been taught that as a postulant; been rebuked for wasting food her very first day in the convent, as a foolish raw recruit of seventeen. Sister Cook had burnt the fish, each portion black and charred, impossible to cut. She had tried to stick her knife in it, but the rock-hard plaice had skidded to the floor. ‘There is no health of soul, nor hope of eternal life, but in the Cross. Take up, therefore, your cross with Christ, and …’ The spiritual reading, which accompanied each meal, went calmly, quietly on. No mouth had twitched, no eye looked up, save hers. Once again, she had made waste worse by laughing – just one stifled nervous giggle, which had swiftly changed to horror when she was ordered to retrieve the fish and eat it – grimy now, as well as burnt – and eat it on her knees, with her chair-seat as her table, since she’d disturbed the others’ silence, insulted Sister Cook. She had struggled with her pride, struggled with a sudden wave of homesickness. Her mother’s cooking was plain and unpretentious, but it didn’t break your teeth.
She had soon learnt better, begun to grasp the principle that no crumb of Christ’s creation should ever be spurned or squandered – ha
d even warmed to the idea, which seemed entirely different from her mother’s dreary economies, stressing shortages and worry. Their vow of poverty promised, rather, joy and freedom; freedom from possessions and attachments, the joy of travelling light.
Light. The word seemed mocking. ‘You can nearly always tempt her with a light Victoria sponge.’ She fell to her knees beside the bin, started spooning out the cake mixture, trying to rescue every morsel, ungluing it from newspaper, scraping it off tins. She packed it back firmly in its own tin, smoothed the surface, returned it to the table; sat staring at her failure, as she slumped down in a chair. Had she ever understood the vow of poverty? It wasn’t just a matter of giving up possessions, or even skills and talents like her music (the highest use of anything was its sacrifice to God); but of being emptied of one’s feelings and emotions, of memories or fantasies, prejudices, pride; even being stripped of one’s opinions, since those, too, smacked of self. After two whole decades, she’d still nowhere near succeeded, and these last few days she’d been especially lax – vain in seeking mirrors, pleased with her appearance, obsessed with both her body and her birthday. She had indulged in childish terrors every night, criticised a priest, allowed herself to loathe a pair of boots. Even in the convent, her emotions had been far too strong, not emptied out at all. She had given way to fear, to depression and self-pity, allowed herself to want – want a child, want peace.
She reached out for the cake, heard the mixture glug and squelch as she heaped a generous serving on a plate. It was getting on for lunchtime, and she couldn’t waste more food; help herself to bread or soup, when lunch was ready-made. She forced down the first spoonful, trying not to gag on a slimy piece of Swede, sweetish and half-raw still. There was no taste of cake at all, just a strangely bitter flavour she didn’t recognise. The texture was still worse – sudden gritty mouthfuls, followed by damp and glutinous lumps. And the cake was oddly speckled now, mixed with dirt and tea leaves, potato peelings, porridge – extras from the waste-bin. She must rejoice in that, welcome any chance of extra penance. She had promised daily penance when she made her solemn vows – had broken all her other vows, so that one she could keep.
She swallowed a large dollop as slowly as she could, to spin the penance out, make it really meaningful – a mouthful for each sin. She worked through waste, and pride, and vanity; looked up a moment – chewing – caught the brilliant orange eye of the kettle on the range. ‘Thirty-nine,’ it whispered. ‘Your birthday, your last chance.’ She tried to fight temptation, as the image of the baby surged back into her mind – so vivid, she could see its mouth closing round her nipple, smell its sweetish milky smell. Frantically, she searched her plate for the largest piece of swede, jammed it in her mouth, to quash and void that image, cancel out the date. This was not her birthday cake, but penance cake.
Chapter Six
Hilary clung on to the rail, jolting with the bus, almost overbalancing on to a buxom woman’s lap. The woman glared and muttered. ‘I’m sorry,’ Hilary whispered. She had apologised seven times already; for treading on an old man’s foot; for being in the way, for holding up the bus queue, not understanding that you paid the driver when you first got on, instead of waiting for the conductor to take your fare. Conductors seemed to have vanished in the later 1980s, as had also any joy. People seemed so miserable and rude; not the chatty jolly passengers she remembered from her childhood, or the conductors who were friends, gave you fruit-gums, tweaked your blue school hat.
She couldn’t blame these Londoners. Half of them looked ill, many were overweight or elderly. The woman who had glared at her was loaded down with shopping, one bag splitting open, a wailing infant struggling in her arms. A gnarled old man was strap-hanging, though he looked too frail to stand, legs unsteady, scrawny hands clutching at the rail. Her own feet burned and pinched. She still wasn’t used to shoes. The battered gaping slip-ons had finally slipped off, been thrown out with the rubbish. She had changed to bedroom slippers, an unobtrusive brown pair she’d rescued from the jumble box – but you couldn’t wear slippers on a bus. The only other shoes she’d found were black patent with high heels, a scuffed and smelly pair which needed soling. She had forced her feet to fit them, but the pain was still severe, and she hadn’t learnt to balance yet on what felt like wobbly stilts.
Frightening to be out at all – at least to venture further than the tiny Earlsfield corner shop. Even unenclosed Orders preferred nuns to be in pairs, not go out unaccompanied. On her one and only visit to the hospital, Sister Mark had driven her, made all the arrangements, done the talking for her, acted as her chaperone and nanny. These people had no chaperones, no warm and waiting cars to whisk them home. She felt a rush of shame as she glanced around their strained and stoic faces. It had seemed their natural right as nuns to be protected – from crowds, or buses, or coping on their own.
She kept peering through the window, watching for her stop. ‘Look out for the Goat in Boots,’ Father Anstey had told her. ‘It’s a big pub on the corner, opposite a garage.’ It was he who’d forced her out, at last. Miss Pullen wore a surgical belt which was old and wearing thin, had to be replaced. The local chemists didn’t stock them, only Wright’s, in Wandsworth.
‘I’ll jot down the address, draw you a rough map. And while you’re there, perhaps you’d go to Tesco’s for me, and buy half a pound of Roquefort. That branch is really good for cheese. Oh, and get some decent coffee for Miss O’Connor. She likes the fresh-ground beans.’
Miss O’Connor. Expected back in just three days, to resume her duties, oust her substitute. She would lose her job, her refuge. The priest was trying to help, find someone else who needed her, could offer her a room in return for nursing, charring – anything. She trembled at the thought of moving on, having to face a normal household, eat her meals in public, become a relaxed and chatty person who could crack a joke, conduct a conversation. She had considered doing office cleaning, so she could work at night – alone – but she’d have nowhere then to live. A residential job meant other people, fitting in with them. How could she fit in, when everything about her shrieked ‘alien’, ‘outsider’? Yet worse if no one wanted her. She would be on the streets again, homeless, penniless.
She had written to her aunt, enclosed a stamped addressed envelope, but hadn’t had it back. If a reply arrived eventually, who would send it on to her – and where? That letter had been difficult, taken two whole days. ‘Praised be Jesus Christ!’ she’d written first – which was how a nun began a letter, dedicating all its words to God. But this was a letter explaining she was not a nun; that she had left her convent and was living in the world. She tried again, remembering to put just the date, and not ‘the feast of St Benet Biscop’. Lay people thought in terms of simple days and months; knew little of the hierarchy of feasts, as the Church’s year circled round from one Advent to the next, matching its liturgy to the colour of the vestments, to each martyr, pastor, virgin, saint, each period of penitence or joy. Half the saints she knew and loved would be empty names to these people on the bus.
She’d kept crossing out, re-starting, as if aware of Reverend Mother reading every line. All their letters in and out were read. She found herself writing not to dear Aunt Eva, but a stilted, halting letter to the Abbess, trying to defend herself, explain. In the end, she scored that out as well, penned just a few brief lines, explaining nothing, just begging Eva to get in touch immediately. ‘A corpse can’t get in touch,’ mocked a cruel voice in her head. She had tried to quash that voice, dropped the letter in the postbox with a desperate whispered prayer.
The bus was now less crowded. She took the one free seat, felt guilty as she sank down into plush, though no one else was standing. The boy next to her was eating a jam doughnut, its brown bag stained with grease. She could hear her stomach rumbling, as he chewed the last small mouthful; licked imaginary sugar off her lips. She’d been hungry now for days. She had finished up the penance-cake, then eaten a few vegetables she’d found rotting in t
he rack, boiled them first, to kill off any germs. The larder was still full of tins, but she hadn’t liked to touch them. It seemed wrong to help herself, still wrong to make a cup of tea, or switch the one-bar fire on. The only tin she’d opened was the ancient can of cat food, which had made another penance, with its putrid fishy smell, its slimy jellied globules slithering down her throat. She couldn’t stop her penances. And yet today should be a joyous day – the feast of St Antony of Egypt, who was regarded as the founder of monasticism, though he’d lived mainly as a hermit in the desert. He was a fitting saint for her, with his rigorous austerities, his desperate daily struggles with temptation, his diet of dry bread. She could see him suddenly, a fourth-century recluse in goatskins and a beard, riding on this twentieth-century bus with her, more startled even than she was by the traffic and the din.
Devils, for a change Page 8