She licked butter off her fingers, took a swill of tea. ‘Perhaps we ought to choose our own names, when we come of age. I had this girlfriend once, called Heather, and she joined some Eastern sect or other – started signing letters with what looked like gibberish, but meant “free and running antelope”.’ Liz made a face, grimaced. ‘She was thirteen stone at least, couldn’t run a step to save her life, but she said the name expressed her new self, her new way of looking at the world. The trouble is when do we come of age? They say it’s twenty-one, but I was still a booby then, and not much better now, at forty-three. We probably only grow up on our deathbeds, and by then it’s far too late. Unless you believe in the afterlife, which I presume you do, Hilary. Nice to choose a name for heaven and keep it for eternity. I’d choose something classy, or maybe something pious, so I’d get good treatment from the saints.’ She laughed, spooned out a last white curl of egg. ‘Della changed her name, you know. We christened her Jane – my choice, actually – but she didn’t like it once she got into her teens. Plain Jane, she thought, and no way was little Madam going to be plain. She was mad about make-up, even then, spent all her pocket money on eyeliner and lip gloss. She chose Della after Della Montefiore – you know, the singer.’
‘Er … no.’
‘She was all the rage two years ago. Then she was killed in an air crash, which was ghastly for poor Della – though she kept the name. The only problem is, she’ll probably loathe it later. It’s a sort of trendy name which is bound to date and won’t fit her when she’s older. I chose Jane specially, because I thought it was a classic.’
Hilary shifted on the bed, felt a sudden bond with Della, a new secret sympathy. Gloria and Jane.
‘Want this piece of toast, Hilary? Before I pig the lot? No? I’ll have to force it down myself then.’ Liz larded it with marmalade, talked through her final mouthful. ‘What was your name as a nun?’
‘Hilary.’
‘Oh, I see, you kept it. Do you still feel like a nun, then?’
I am a nun, she almost said, bit it back in time. What else could she call herself, when she was neither wife nor mother, not a beautician or a dress-shop owner, not an Alexander teacher? ‘Spinster’ was the only word which fitted, and that sounded cold and prudish. Or perhaps an alterations hand, except she hadn’t started yet. Liz was still waiting for an answer. ‘It … It takes a while to throw it off,’ she said.
‘I bet it does.’ Liz wiped her mouth, flicked toast crumbs off the sheet. ‘I think you ought to work out who you are. Oh, I don’t mean your identity, or heavy stuff like that, but just your style, your image – what clothes you want to wear, how you do your hair – all that sort of thing. One advantage of today is that we’re free to choose, as women, far more so than in the past, when fashion was more or less dictated. We can be ourselves nowadays, but first we have to choose which self we want, how we want to look.’
Hilary sat silent. Liz made it sound as if there were a variety of selves, each waiting to be fleshed and clothed, whereas she herself could hardly scrape up one.
Liz hitched up her nightie. ‘I had to do the same myself.’
‘You?’
‘Oh, yeah. I started to go grey when I was only twenty-nine, so I had to decide whether I’d just shrug and let it happen, wind up old and faded, or get busy with the hair-dye. It’s not just a question of how much it costs in time and cash – though that’s a factor, obviously, but of how one sees oneself. Am I still an attractive woman, in the running, so to speak, available to men – all that sort of thing. And even if the answer’s “yes”, you’ve still got to decide what sort of attractive woman – glamorous, or girlish, or maybe just maternal. It’s damn hard work deciding to be glamorous. Look at Di. She has to watch her weight every second of the time, keep her eye on fashion, so she’s always way ahead of it; never be seen without her make-up, or wearing last year’s style. It’s not so bad at her age, but once you’re over forty, it’s a constant running battle against nature. Though even at Di’s age, I had to fight nature. I had that awful frizzy hair, the sort that’s like wire wool, and I wore glasses at thirteen.’
Hilary looked up in surprise. Liz’s hair was only slightly wavy and she’d never seen her in glasses, not even for reading. ‘But …’
‘Hair-straighteners, my love, and contact lenses. The trouble is, it all becomes a sort of trap. No one’s seen me in thick specs or with a mop of frizz on top, so I’ve got to keep up the illusion, so to speak, or they may not like the real me, or even recognise it. I sometimes long to revert to nature – grey wire wool, granny specs, the lot.’
Hilary glanced again at Liz’s hair – semi-straight, glossy brown. That fight against nature was not so very different from the training to become a nun – the same remaking of the self, the same constant battle with one’s faulty raw materials, the same striving for perfection, transformation. Would she have to do the same herself, take a second training to fit her for the world? But what image could she choose? Glamour was beyond her, and ‘maternal’ quite impossible when she’d never mothered anyone.
Liz poured the last dregs from the teapot. ‘Mind you, even really famous people like film stars, or top models, seem to battle just as hard. They say Marilyn Monroe was constructed piece by piece, rather like a car or plastic dummy. Her hair was dyed, her name invented, her jaw rebuilt, her voice desqueaked, and she was pumped with anti-ageing hormones as early as her thirties. By the way, how old are you? You don’t mind me asking, do you, Hilary?’
‘No, of course not. I’m thirty-nine – just.’
‘You can’t be! You look years younger than that. It’s not fair. Nuns seemed to lead charmed lives. I read somewhere that they live longer than the average woman, have less cancer, fewer heart attacks, and far less mental breakdown. It must be all that peace – unless it’s anti-ageing wonder-pills like Marilyn’s!’
Hilary laughed, said nothing. Sister Louis Marie had died of cancer; so had Sister Edwin. Several of the nuns had heart conditions, took pills in handfuls with their meals, not to stop them ageing, but to stop them dropping dead. She herself had felt perilously close to breakdown, as she’d knelt in what might seem like perfect peace to Liz.
Liz was leaning out of bed, trying to glimpse her face in the dressing table mirror, smoothing out the lines which ran from nose to mouth, as if she could erase them. ‘I’d go on hormones myself, if it wasn’t for the side effects. Every treatment seems to have its risks. Hair dyes give you cancer, sun beds ruin the skin … That’s what really bugs me about the beauty business. Half the things they push are either bad for you, or completely bloody useless. A dermatologist told me once that all the fancy claims they make for facials, or cosmetics, or those wonder slimming treatments, are just a load of gobbledegook. And yet my own daughter’s in the business – selling women things which waste their hard-earned money, or actually do harm.’
Hilary glanced up at her own face, still obsessed by mirrors. She knew nothing of the beauty business, yet she had noticed already how hard it was in other fields to tell truth from lies and sham. People in the world seemed to have a special knack of reading things in advertisements or newspapers, and sorting wheat from chaff; shrugging off the mirages and make-believe, the glitter and the guile. She herself found it much more difficult – the obedient nun, who swallowed everything, who’d been trained in faith, not scepticism; taught to accept unquestioningly what people said, be they Pope or priest, abbess or superior – and now politician, advertiser, beautician. She looked down again, aware of Liz’s eyes. Liz was studying her, frowning, trying to appraise her face and figure.
‘You know, if I were you, Hilary, I’d go for Laura Ashley.’
Hilary fiddled with the fringed end of the bedspread. Another name she didn’t know. A friend of Di’s, perhaps?
‘She’d even suit your background – innocent and wholesome, all that sort of stuff. It’s amazing how that shop’s caught on – sham again, I suppose. We’re all crying for that cosy
world where Nanny always tucked us into bed, and girls were sweet and virginal, and we still made hay with scythes, instead of combine-harvesters. They had a window display this summer, with yokels in smocks leaning on their pitchforks, and frilly girls picnicking with hampers among the buttercups. All the city secretaries who work in high-rise office blocks, with plastic wipe-clean plants, were snapping up the flower-prints. We’ll go there, if you like, pick out something pretty. Or perhaps you ought to speak to Della first. She’s got a gift for finding people’s styles. She’s already said how she’d love to do your hair, cut it sort of urchin, put some highlights in.’
‘Highlights?’
‘Blonde streaks. She’s right. Your hair’s a lovely colour, but the highlights would make more of it, really bring the fairness out.’
‘But I thought you said hair dyes give you cancer.’
Liz laughed. ‘Streaks are only little bits, so I shouldn’t think they count. Anyway, it’s worth it. Women take worse risks than that, in order to look good. I mean, think of plastic surgery, or even high-heeled shoes, which sound innocent enough compared with surgeons’ knives, but which cause all sorts of ghastly foot deformities. You’re very lucky, actually. You look pretty good already without hair dyes or high heels. Your skin’s fantastic, and you haven’t got a single grey hair, or not one that I can see.’
Hilary turned back to the mirror, as if to check on Liz’s words; realised she was smiling, a happy startled smile. She’d just received a compliment – her first in years and years. And even Della didn’t see her as simply someone with a prison-cut.
‘I envy you, Hilary, being able to start again, and with a sort of clean slate behind you. My life seems such a mess. Fights and rows and one-night stands with guys I hardly knew or …’ She broke off, made a little clatter with her cup and saucer, to cover her embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, love, forgive me. I’m so used to talking frankly with my mates, I keep forgetting I ought to watch my language. I suppose I’m just not used to nuns.’
Hilary mumbled some inanity, tried to analyse her feelings – a mixture of pleasure and annoyance: pleasure that Liz should speak so freely, trust her with these confidences; annoyance that she’d stopped halfway, obviously regarding nuns as sissies, who must be protected from reality. Yet didn’t nuns bring that on themselves, hiding away in their prim and narrow cloister; referring to ‘the world’, which made it sound like some alien place they had transcended and condemned; praying for ‘sinners’, as if they were plaster saints themselves? If they were one with all the world, then they, too, were responsible for every sin committed, even the grossest, most revolting ones. So why had she shrunk at that coarse term, ‘one-night stands’, guessing what it meant from Liz’s own reaction, feeling just a shudder of revulsion?
Liz shifted on her pillows. ‘It’s strange to think our lives have been so different. I mean, what makes a girl give up everything for God? I simply can’t imagine it – or what it’s like once you’re locked inside with just a gang of women.’
Hilary said nothing. How could she explain that there were no bolted doors, no keys; that a nun entered willingly, with joy, a sense of honour that God had chosen her; that the grilles were only there to protect her from distraction, so that her whole mind and heart and purpose could be fixed on God alone; that you lived with God – and for Him – not with ‘just a gang of women’. Liz wouldn’t understand. Once you talked of God, you sounded preachy, sanctimonious. And there simply weren’t the words. Supernatural concepts slipped through and past the language, like trying to package smoke in brown paper and string.
‘Perhaps you’ll tell me a bit about it sometime. I must admit I’m curious. I’ve always thought of nuns as sort of …’ Liz paused, seemed to be censoring a host of different words.
‘Freaks?’
‘You said it.’ Liz laughed. ‘Or maybe paragons.’ Liz was fidgeting herself now, pulling at her shoulder straps, playing with her teaspoon. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask you, Hilary, but don’t you often think about – you know, men and sex and stuff, wonder what it’s like, what you’re missing?’
Hilary held tight on to the fringe. ‘No,’ she said, almost to herself. Liz would think she was lying. Was she lying? She hardly even knew. The subject was too dangerous, and she had thought so long in nun’s terms, followed the official line, there seemed no personal feelings left, no opinions of her own. She could tell Liz what the books said, the Rule, the Constitutions; that chastity was a glory, not a deprivation; that celibacy was part of poverty, and since nuns didn’t own their bodies, they had no right to any pleasure from them. Their hearts and bodies belonged to God alone, and love of God was far higher than carnal or conjugal love. Yet terms like that would seem as strange to Liz as words like punk or Walkman seemed to her. And wouldn’t it sound priggish and superior to repeat what they’d been taught: that marriage was of brass, virginity of gold?
She glanced down at her tights, still felt a shock of pride and sheer surprise that those blatant sheeny brown-gold legs could actually be hers; legs on show, and worldly. She had read spiritual books on temptations of the flesh, but her own trials at Brignor had centred on the mind: temptations against faith and hope, not stirrings of the body. She had managed to subdue the flesh, disown her body, or view it like a punch-bag; something dead which needed pummelling, attacking. Even now, if she tried to think of sex, her mind went almost blank, as if the years and years of censorship had become strictly automatic. One priest had advised them that if they ever had problems with what he called concupiscence, they were to think of men as merely a mass of bone and muscle, a collection of red and white corpuscles, a sack of coiled intestines. It had always proved effective.
A younger priest had taken a more jokey line, suggested that they view their sexuality as something like a spare tank on a car, which, as sworn non-drivers, they never had to use; simply carry but ignore. She thought back to her convent years. Had people disobeyed that priest, siphoned off their tanks? She doubted it profoundly. Liz probably saw the convent in very different terms from the cool and brisk reality. She had read accounts of nuns in Miss Pullen’s daily papers, realised people viewed them as objects of desire; or suspected secret wild liaisons between nun and nun, or nun and priest; their outward primness masking raging passions. It simply wasn’t like that. Most of the nuns at Brignor were now elderly, dried up; Father Martin seventy next birthday. Yet, even in their younger days, sex was something they’d deliberately and happily renounced, and not just as a penance, but a privilege.
She smoothed her skirt, clasped her hands, unclasped them. The silence seemed uneasy. Liz was waiting for an answer, some confession, revelation, more than just that muttered ‘no’. Yet she couldn’t give it, felt loyal still to her Order, was aware she’d gone far too far already, at least in Reverend Mother’s eyes. Her embarrassment was catching. Liz, too, was looking down, making some pretence of tidying the breakfast things.
‘Well,’ she said, at last. ‘I wouldn’t mind another hour in bed, but I promised Tim and Jenny I’d meet them in the pub. Why don’t you come along?’
‘Oh, no. No thank you.’ More names – Tim and Jenny. More strange faces, questions, more risk of breaking confidences, offending Reverend Mother. It would be bad enough tonight, with that boisterous Robert there – and probably several others – all drinking, laughing, arguing; plunging head-first into deep and turbulent subjects, while she stood shivering on the edge.
‘Why not? You don’t always have to hide away, you know.’
Hilary tensed. Miss Baines’s phrase. She had left Miss Baines, Miss Pullen – two other joyless spinsters who saw Sundays as a day for only prayer and naps, piety and Complan.
‘And have a drink for once, a proper drink with a bit of kick behind it. It’ll help you to relax. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ Hilary nodded, collected up the tray, smiling to herself as Liz still yawned and groaned, unable or unwilling to pluck herself from bed. They’d been told as postulants t
o spring up in the morning at the first sound of the bell, as if their bedding were on fire and they were leaping from the flames. She had done it ever since. But poor Sister Mary Liz would have charred to a cinder seven hours ago.
‘What? Speak up, Hilary. I can’t hear a single word.’
Hilary tried to shout above the music, the roar of other voices, the sudden brays of laughter, yelled orders from the barman. Her throat felt hoarse already from the smoke. She barked her brief remark again, was relieved when Tim looked satisfied, smiled and nodded at her. She forced a smile herself. Could this be pleasure? It must be. Everyone else was chatting and relaxing, downing drinks, tapping feet or fingers to the rhythm of the band. They were privileged, apparently, to be enjoying what was called a live group – five frightening-looking youths dressed in black leather jackets and blue jeans, who played a type of music she’d never heard before – wild insistent music, which seemed angry and alive, booming and slamming into every niche and corner of the pub, invading even her body, so that frantic drums were pounding in her stomach, hysterical guitars trapped and twanging right inside her skull.
She tried another sip of gin. It was worse than sherry, far worse – had an evil oily taste which lingered in her mouth, even when she’d swallowed it. Reverend Mother should buy some gin for Brignor, as a new and most effective penance. She giggled suddenly, startled by the sound. She must be careful or she’d land up drunk. They had bought her what was called a double; Liz insisting on ‘the hard stuff’, saying she mustn’t be a party-pooper. More words for her collection. She was doing rather well with words. ‘Okay’ was easy now. She’d managed ‘Hi!’ to Tim and Jenny, and even ‘great’. In just a day, she’d learnt the difference between a tee shirt and a sweatshirt, a tracksuit and a catsuit, and discovered Malibu, Cinzano and even Bloody Marys, though that name seemed so blasphemous she couldn’t get it out.
She’d even learnt to look around, forget her usual ‘custody of the eyes’, which meant looking down, looking inward, keeping her attention on God and only God. If she were going to pluck up courage to ask for dispensation from her vows, then she’d better make some effort to learn to break the minor rules, at least. She’d seen an unsteady singing Scotsman spill two beers in turn, a woman feeding steak and kidney pie to her obese bull-terrier, and a passionate young couple kissing very publicly, their arms entwined, joined at mouth and groin. That she knew she shouldn’t watch, yet her eyes kept flicking back to them, noting how his lips crushed into hers.
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