Twelve people round the table – the same as in the convent – yet it seemed triple that, at least; all those close-up faces zooming into hers, all those eager voices rising; people interrupting, shouting down each other’s conversation; one small boy making noises like an aeroplane, another kicking at his chair; the constant clunk and clatter of knives and forks and plates. At Brignor, they used wooden bowls, to cut down on the noise. And meals there were a ritual – the procession in and out with its solemn Latin chanting, the grace before and after, the bowing to the crucifix every time you passed it, the curtsey to the Abbess before you sat down at your place. Here, everyone had scrambled to the table, jostled elbows, squeaked back chairs, argued about who’d sit next to whom, plucked lids from dishes to see or sniff the contents, even poked their fingers in, to taste. The only grace had been Liz’s casual mumble: ‘Okay, you lot, dig in.’
She was still confused by half these strangers, the relationships she hadn’t yet worked out – who belonged to whom, who had children, husbands; who lived here, or was visiting. The only ones she’d really grasped were Liz and her two daughters, because she’d met them first, before the crush. Liz had introduced her to all these other people, but she’d been too shy to take them in, seen just a blur of faces. The men had scared her most. There were only three in all, yet they seemed to take up half the table, fill more than half the space. Men still seemed so strange to her – a foreign race. The one called Robert was especially overwhelming, with his loud excited voice, his laugh which shook the room, his sudden savage flare-ups.
‘No, I damn well didn’t, Sue! What d’you take me for – a total bloody fool?’
‘Okay, cool it, Robert. I only meant …’
‘Well, you shouldn’t start accusing, when you don’t know all the facts.’
‘Look, cut it out, you two. We had all this last week, and it was pretty boring then.’
‘Hey, did anyone see that fantastic exhibition at the Imperial War Museum – the one on Second World War art?’
‘No, I won’t go there on principle. If you believe in peace, then …’
‘Come off it, Anne. That’s stupid. Half the artists were probably pacifists.’
‘Angus went last week and wasn’t that impressed. Apparently, they got the …’
The voices went so fast, she couldn’t follow, couldn’t even fit them to their owners. She made herself look up, so she could sort out a few faces, get those straight, at least – that plump and rather breathless girl, who was eating with her fingers and had yellow wooden earrings shaped like two bananas – was she Juliet, or Anne? She was talking to a tall man, with floppy sandy hair, neatly dressed in a formal charcoal suit. Were they man and wife, or was he married to that darker girl who was recovering from a cold, and kept dabbing at her nose with torn-off lengths of toilet roll?
The third man looked more singular, with his thick dark springy beard, and wearing not a suit, but a sort of purple jerkin, over black and baggy pants. She liked his face, a kind face, with a gentle voice to match. He seemed gentle altogether, almost fatherly, though he was only in his thirties, as far as she could judge. Was that his son beside him – that bouncy, boisterous, dark-eyed child, who still thought he was an aeroplane? They’d been larking around together, mock-wrestling, swapping jokes.
The second little boy was Luke, the smaller, quieter, fairer one, who was sitting almost opposite. His name she remembered. She had always loved St Luke, the poetic-penned evangelist who was the patron saint of artists, doctors, surgeons. It was also Sister Luke’s name, and Sister Luke was special – not her friend – friends were not allowed, but the nearest thing she’d had to one at Brignor. Luke seemed strangely silent, hunched at the table as if he didn’t quite belong; the only guest – bar her – who wasn’t chattering and laughing. His long untidy hair needed washing and a trim. He’d used both his hands as jotters, so they were scrawled with smudged blue biro. His grey eyes matched her own. She caught those eyes a moment, looked down as fast as he did; both of them embarrassed, both with untouched plates.
She had eaten almost nothing. It was so difficult to talk and eat at once, a skill she’d quite forgotten. If she forked in a small mouthful, somebody would ask her something, and she’d sit there paralysed, trying not to choke. It seemed so easy for the others, just a natural habit they didn’t have to think about. She’d never learnt that habit, ate all her meals in silence; slow and solemn meals where no one grabbed or guzzled; where everything they did, even boning fish, or chewing a tough cabbage stalk, must be dignified, unhurried, and above all, prayerful. The rules here were quite different. You were meant to look at people, not stare down at your plate; take an interest in them, not keep your mind on God; above all, answer when they spoke.
‘Did you train as a nurse, then, before you took this job?’
‘Er, no, I …’
‘I’d loathe a job like that – looking after half-wits.’
‘Oh, she’s not a …’
‘She sounds like one to me.’
Hilary gripped the table. She shouldn’t talk about Miss Pullen. It was uncharitable, disloyal, but everyone kept pelting her with questions, especially Della, Liz’s younger daughter, a fair and very tall girl, with spiky hair which seemed to stand up on its own. She was wearing a green sweater, with rows and rows of frogs on, frogs with bulgy eyes. Her own eyes were icy-blue, nothing like her mother’s. Liz was dark, more like her elder daughter, Di; the same warm brown eyes and bronzy hair, which didn’t look quite natural. Di’s hair was swept on top, a glamorous, rather frightening sort of woman, who jangled with gold bracelets, wore rings on every finger. She ran her own boutique, a stylish place in Wimbledon, which attracted wealthy customers from the whole of south west London – or so Liz had told her earlier. She was only in her twenties, but seemed far older somehow, a sophisticated worldly type, who made her feel a child. She, too, had endless questions.
‘So you come from Norfolk, Hilary. Where in Norfolk? I know it pretty well.’
Hilary paused, took a sip of water. If she said Brignor, Di would guess. There was nothing much at Brignor, except the convent itself and a few ruined tenant cottages. She could give the village she was born in, but Di might know that too, know she hadn’t been there for more than twenty years. She fumbled for her napkin, to cover her embarrassment – the huge starched white linen napkin she kept forgetting wasn’t there. There were at least a dozen separate rules about its use, which made it seem more central than the food – sixteenth-century rules, which had been laid down by their Foundress. At breakfast, it remained folded on the table, like a mini tablecloth beneath your bowl; at lunchtime, you kept half beneath your bowl and the other half fanned out on your lap; at collation, the whole thing was spread out, covered half your habit, like a towel. Overnight, the napkin became a cover, a receptacle – the cloth you swathed your mug in, wrapped around your cutlery – again following an ancient rule in the exact way you had to fold it, turn the corners in. It was ludicrous the way she missed that napkin, almost ached for it, as the starched and formal symbol of all that she had lost.
She’d still not answered Di, though the question had now foundered in a general noisy argument about some movie they’d all seen.
‘It’s absolutely riveting – the best film he’s made in years.’
‘Riveting? It’s crap – pretentious arty nonsense, but packaged as …’
‘That’s not fair, Di. He’s trying to make some really serious points about society – how the whole thing’s built on lies and fake, yet if you try to champion so-called truth, then …’
‘You just stole that from The Sunday Times. Those critics read things into films which simply aren’t there. If there was any theme at all, it was personal obsession – the way jealousy can …’
Hilary lurched from voice to voice. How did they all know so much, or form these fierce opinions? It wasn’t simply films – they had views on everything: fashion, theatre, war and peace, exhibitions, art.
‘The photography was stunning – all those moody shots of dawn breaking on that sordid highway with its crappy little diners and godforsaken gas stations. I mean, you feel he’s saying that only nature’s unpolluted.’
‘Now who’s being pretentious? Real “Pseuds’ Corner” stuff, Phil. Dawn’s a cliché, anyway. I’d like to see a movie which banned all dawns – and sunsets.’
‘Have you seen it, Hilary?’ It was Robert who had asked, leaning down from the far end of the table, where he’d been placed between the two prettiest of the girls. It was the first time he’d addressed her, and she felt instantly self-conscious; could hear the silence gaping as the others turned to look at her, waited for her answer.
‘Er … no,’ she said. ‘I haven’t.’
‘How about his other films? You must have seen Last Call?’
She cleared her throat, tried to play for time. The last film she’d seen was The Sound of Music, at the age of seventeen.
Ivan saved her – changed the subject, swept them on from films to the rights of unborn foetuses; all the voices rising with the passions. Ivan was the bearded man, whose name she’d grasped, at last, and who was something called an Alexander teacher, though she’d no idea what that was. She’d assumed he was Di’s husband, until she discovered that he lived down in the basement – which Liz called the garden flat – a lodger, not a husband. No one had a husband, as far as she could tell. Yet Di did have a child. The taller boy was hers, the noisy one called Stephen, who kept jumping up and down. That had startled her – Liz a grandma, when she didn’t look much older than herself?
There was a sudden shout of laughter at a joke she hadn’t caught. They’d somehow moved from foetuses to cats; the plump girl speaking now, through a mouthful of potato.
‘At least cats don’t have abortions. We’ve just had Rosa spayed. It’s changed her whole character. She’s a matron now, instead of just a slut. She couldn’t say “no” before, not even to an alley cat.’
Hilary glanced across at Luke, astonished they should discuss such things with two small children present, use words like abortion – though neither child was paying much attention. Luke’s whole concentration was focused on his fork, which he was using not for eating, but to jab into his palm. Stephen seemed more interested in her. For the last few minutes, his unflinching gaze had never left her face.
‘Why have you taken off your tights?’ he blurted out, at last, his piercing voice alerting the whole room.
Everyone stopped talking, as all eyes switched to her. She could feel herself blushing; a stupid, childish, endless blush, which seemed to be spreading from her cheeks and chest, right down to her guilty naked legs. Stephen must have seen those legs when he was crawling under the table to retrieve his paper napkin.
‘I … er … haven’t, Stephen. I don’t wear tights.’
‘Aren’t you cold, then? Mummy only has bare legs in the summer.’
She gulped her water far too fast, to hide and cool her face, gain a few brief moments to find a better answer. She could hardly tell him that there were no tights in the jumble box, that she’d always had bare legs beneath her habit, and that, without a habit, yes, you did get very cold, especially in mid-January, but that made a useful penance, helped the holy souls in Purgatory. He was staring at her hair now, would probably ask her next ask why it looked so short and raggedy and was sticking up in tufts – or why she’d gone so red. The blush was getting fiercer, her whole body burning hot. She longed to run away, bolt out of the room, or at least retrieve the headscarf she’d been wearing when she came, swathe it like a yashmak, so it covered her whole face.
‘Stephen, don’t be rude.’ Di fumbled for her lighter, lit a cigarette, as if she, too, felt the tension.
‘I’m not.’
‘And don’t keep dropping food. You’re a great big boy of six, not a baby in your highchair. Go and get a cloth and wipe that mess up.’
Stephen jerked out of his seat, caught his glass of water with his arm. It crashed on to the tiles, the noise echoing round the room. Hilary slumped back in her own chair, guilt fighting sheer relief. At least the spotlight was off her now – with people jumping up, mopping water, clearing shards of glass. Yet the poor child would be punished, sent upstairs, or slapped – which was hardly fair when it was partly her own fault. If you broke anything at Brignor, you had to kiss the floor in penance for disturbing others’ silence; carry the smashed pieces around with you all day, abase yourself in public, since you had broken your vow of poverty, as well as just a glass. She watched, amazed, as Stephen just plumped down again, his glass replaced, refilled; no punishment at all, beyond a mild rebuke from Di.
She took one last sip of water, then forced a piece of meat down. It still seemed wrong to eat meat, an almost dangerous luxury she had done nothing to deserve. The casserole was rich, buttery, with garlic; all the vegetables also cooked in butter; the table strewn with extras – sauces, pickles, ketchups, three different sorts of mustards. At Brignor, they ate their food unseasoned – even salt and pepper both forbidden; everything served plain, so that appetite would be restrained, not stimulated. If they did enjoy a dish, found themselves deriving any pleasure from it, then they must immediately deny that pleasure, pour a little water on the food, or imagine they were eating coal or mud. Here, it wasn’t easy. Her taste buds were continually delighted, startled sometimes, tantalised, but when she tried to think of mud or coal, someone asked another question, or distracted her again. Every sense was being titillated – sight, smell, taste; even the feel of an upholstered seat beneath her, instead of a rigid wooden bench; her ears syruped with soft love songs, crooning from a radio.
‘More wine for you, Hilary?’
She started. Robert was standing just behind her, a bottle in each hand.
‘She can’t have “more”,’ Della said, sarcastically. ‘She hasn’t had a drop yet.’
‘Well, white or red?’ Robert proffered both. ‘I recommend the claret. It’s certainly an improvement on that poisonous South Thames water.’
She mumbled a refusal, prayed that he would move, not hover by her chair like that, still trying to change her mind. His sheer male bulk seemed to threaten and disturb her. His amused and teasing voice made her own sound prim and feeble.
‘What do they say – a meal without wine is like a brother-in-law’s kiss?’ He splashed the red into her glass. ‘I wouldn’t know – I’ve never had a brother-in-law.’
‘You’ve never had a meal without wine, you mean.’
‘Hey, come off it, Liz. That’s snide.’
‘Just my little joke, Bob.’
‘Not a very funny one. And I’m Robert, please, not Bob.’
‘You were Bob when I first met you.’
‘Maybe. I’m different now.’
‘Oh, really? You surprise me.’
Hilary heard the sudden sharpness in both voices, saw the mutual hostile glances, before Robert moved away, changed places with the tall thin man called Philip.
‘Come on, Phil, give another chap a chance. You’ve been monopolising Sue the whole damned evening, and she’s dying for a change of face – aren’t you, Susie darling?’
Sue giggled as he edged his chair in closer, put an arm around her shoulders, started fondling her bare neck. Hilary glanced at them, confused. They’d been fighting earlier on, and now they were embracing. She couldn’t understand it. And Sue didn ‘t pull away, didn’t seem to mind being stroked and touched in public. She herself felt embarrassed and exposed, as if the hand were on her own neck – that hot and heavy male hand with its tangle of fair hairs. She forced her eyes away. She’d no right to be watching; had been trained at Brignor never to look up. Even if someone fainted in the refectory or chapel, it was the Infirmarian’s job to pick the body up, and no other nun so much as raised her eyes. Far harder at this table, though, with all the banter and distractions, the four-way conversations, the arguments, and sudden strange hostilities.
Even
the radio was adding to the din, though no one else seemed aware that it was on. How could they ignore it – all those urgent breathless voices peddling dandruff cures or motor oil, yet sounding as ecstatic as if they’d just seen the living God – and all mixed up with weather forecasts, news flashes, shrill and raucous songs? She’d been amazed to hear advertisements on radio; startled by the casual way the announcers joked and chatted – everyone a pal – even accidents or hold-ups a subject for their wisecracks. Yet she envied them, in one way. They were so at ease, so friendly, wouldn’t cower at this table without a word to say, but would galvanise the group with their superlatives – every guest the greatest, every dish ‘super, fab, fantastic’.
She suppressed a sudden smile as she imagined Sister Gerard putting on a voice like that for the Life of John Bosco or Journey of a Soul. The readings in the refectory were always slow and solemn. You had to practise first, enunciate each word, give each page the reverence it deserved. She almost missed the readings – the way they helped to sanctify the meal, kept your mind on God. The week she’d left, they’d been working through Thomas à Kempis’s Imitation of Christ, a book well-suited to the refectory, since the fifteenth-century monk believed that if only men could be weaned away from their need for food and drink, they would then be free to praise God without pause or interruption. ‘If you desire to be God’s spouse, then drink only the chalice of suffering, eat only the dry bread of mortification.’
She jumped as a pea nicked in her face. Stephen was using peas as bullets, now, and had selected her as target. ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead!’ Liz removed his plate, leaned across the table.
‘Are you all right, Hilary? You’ve eaten almost nothing. If you don’t like the casserole, I can do you something else. How about an omelette?’
‘No, really. It’s …’ She struggled for the word. At Brignor, you must never mention food, never comment on it. Did she like the casserole? She wasn’t even sure. She’d spent so many years trying to eradicate her personal likes and dislikes; punishing all failures by forcing down a double portion of any dish she loathed, she was now thoroughly confused about her natural preferences. Except for swedes, of course. Those she knew she hated, always would. But there were no swedes here, only delicate courgettes, tiny tender peas, creamy mashed potato. So why was it so difficult to swallow?
Devils, for a change Page 10