‘I invite you all to come together in this sacrament of love – whose chief purpose is to fill us with more love – love for God, love for one another, love for the whole world.’
He was now about to consecrate the bread and wine, but still he didn’t stand, simply sat back on his heels, blue flip-flops half kicked off; spread his arms above the fifty chunks of bread, the fifty plastic glasses.
‘This is my Body. This is my Blood.’
She had heard the words so often, yet never spoken with such reverence, such conviction. She longed to kneel, prostrate herself, express her own devotion, but all the rest were sitting – most of them inelegantly, legs spread-eagled, or knees hunched up to chests. Then, suddenly, there was a stir and tide of movement as the priest handed out the bread and wine. ‘I share with you this bread of life, this food of love, this cup of peace …’
A glass of wine was pushed into her hand, a piece of bread offered with a smile. Her own smile faded from her lips, as she sat paralysed with horror. Until this actual moment, she had totally forgotten the problem of Communion – that she was still in sin and unabsolved, and therefore couldn’t take it. She had expected a traditional Mass, where the congregation would surge up to the altar rails and she would stay behind, kneeling in her pew, as she always did at Wandsworth, hoping nobody would notice in the general crush and bustle. Here, she was a member of a circle, unable to conceal herself, expected to partake like all the rest. True, some seemed a little awkward, chewing on their morsels of dry bread, or wincing at the roughness of the wine. Father Tovey was young enough himself to have overlooked the fact that French bread was a problem for those with false or faulty teeth. One woman was obviously embarrassed, sucking at her crust to soften it, eyes screwed up in pain and concentration. Others were trying to disguise the amount of chewing necessary to get the stale bread down. Yet all were eating – all except for her – hers the only bread untouched, the only glass undrained.
How could she eat Christ’s Body or drink His precious Blood? For all the other hundreds at the conference –Anglicans, Evangelicals, Baptists, Presbyterians – there wouldn’t be a problem. For them, the Body and Blood of Christ were present only figuratively, symbolically, not in actuality, as the Roman Church believed. But for Catholics, here, and everywhere, ‘This is my Body’ meant just what it said: Christ’s real and literal presence in the sacrament. Which is why it would be sacrilege to swallow it, in her state of mortal sin, yet also sacrilege to leave it or reject it. Every morsel of consecrated bread, every drop of consecrated wine, had to be consumed by the communicant. You couldn’t drop it, hide it, conceal it on your person, or leave even a small crumb, since that was Christ’s own Body you were slighting. If there were any hosts left over at a conventional Mass, the priest either returned them to the ciborium and placed them in the tabernacle, or he swallowed them himself; finished up the last dregs of the wine.
She could return her bread and wine to Father Tovey, for him to eat and drink, but it would be so public, so humiliating. Several people had already started looking at her with a mixture of concern and curiosity. ‘Are you all right?’ one whispered. Hilary nodded, palms sweaty, as she moved the scrap of bread towards her mouth. She was being forced to sin through sheer embarrassment; more eyes on her now, as she sat tense and rigid, the bread just a hair’s-breadth from her lips. All she had to do was open her mouth and swallow it, yet if she did so, she would be defying God deliberately, sinning mortally again. She glanced around the circle, the ring of pious faces, the tray of empty glasses. These were her friends, her fellow Catholics, all one with her, united, yet she felt more alone, more alien, than even with Jim Duck.
The inch or two of bread seemed to be swelling in her hand until it was a whole French loaf; the drop of wine a vatful. Yet the larger they became, the more her stomach shrank, her throat constricted. It was like her First Communion, when the host had stuck and she had touched it with a finger. That had been a sin, one which had haunted her for years, cast a blight across her childhood. Yet, ironically, they’d changed the rules since then. Now you were allowed to touch the host, even in a formal church, receive Communion in the hand, instead of on the tongue. If that had changed, then why not other things? Would it really be so wrong for her to take Communion in this one emergency, to save embarrassing the priest, upsetting all these kindly friendly people?
The bread was right against her lips now. She opened them, swallowed only terror, as she seemed to hear Christ’s words spoken at that Maundy Thursday supper: ‘One of you shall betray me. Better for that man that he should never have been born.’ Not man, but woman; not Judas, but herself. She jerked up to her feet, rammed glass and bread into Father Tovey’s hands and blundered to the door.
Chapter Fourteen
Hilary checked her watch. She could hardly see the figures. The bedside lamp was tiny, with the lowest wattage bulb, threw dim and frightening shadows on the wall. She held the watch-face nearer to its light. Nearly two a.m. She ought to get some sleep, or she would never cope with the rigorous Good Friday programme, planned for the next day. At least her stomach had calmed down. She had explained to Father Tovey that she had suddenly been seized with the most violent cramping pains, which was why she’d left the chapel so precipitately. It had, in fact, been true. She had fled straight from church to toilet, sat there half an hour voiding lunch and breakfast, probably through sheer nerves. The priest had been extremely understanding, and several of the group had come up to her room with medicines and sympathy. She had felt a total fraud, yet was touched by their concern, especially by the girl who slept next door, a fellow Catholic – Bridget – who’d gone out specially to buy her milk and sandwiches, since she’d missed the canteen meal.
She took a sip of milk, wished she had some sleeping pills, something to block out the confusion of emotions still raging in her head. She felt newly orphaned away from Cranleigh Gardens, which had become her home, her refuge. Without the Kingsleys, all her earlier fears and vulnerability had come flooding back again. She was even missing Ivan, though still shocked by what he was, and especially missing Luke – the bond she felt when he stayed the night at Liz’s, the sense of his small but friendly presence through the wall. She wondered if he, too, were lying sleepless. He had gone back to his family for Easter, after a row with his father, which had involved Liz and Di as well, had left the Kingsleys and the Craddocks shouting at each other down the phone. She pulled the blankets round her, shivering suddenly, as her own father’s features replaced those of Mr Craddock. He had died eleven years ago, almost to the day, died in Passion Week – although Easter had been late that year, late April, almost May: a brilliant blowy day, with the last almond blossom drifting like warm snow. She had missed the funeral – home visits were not allowed in Lent – had been forbidden even to grieve. ‘You gave him up already, when you entered, Sister Hilary.’
‘Yes, but my mother …’
‘You gave her up as well, child.’
Hilary reached out for her milk again, choking as she gulped it far too fast. Anger was forbidden, just as much as grief. Father Martin had told them to reflect on the story of Job, if they were ever tempted to resentment – Job, who trusted God, yet was stripped of wife, children, friends, health, possessions, and still begged pardon for daring to complain. Or St Paul, in his letter to the Philippians, who wrote from prison – confined in chains, eating rancid food, breathing fetid air, yet never whining, indeed repeating the word ‘joy’ eleven times.
Joy. She tugged guiltily at her ring for the umpteenth time since coming back from Brignor. Mother Abbess had insisted she return it. She had slipped into a jeweller’s, before catching her train back, but the tiny Norfolk shop didn’t have the proper tool for sawing off stuck rings. They had tried their best with pliers, only hurt her finger, marked the silver. She had almost missed her train, had to thank them, rush away. ‘If you’re going to London, lady, try a jeweller’s there. They’ll do it for you easy.’
&nb
sp; Easy, no.
She slipped out of bed, switched on the main light. Now she could see the posters on the walls: pop stars, ponies, sunset over Malibu; the warm orange of the chair. Stupid to feel wretched in such a bright and cheerful room. She pulled back the curtains, gazed out at the shadowed campus buildings, the rolling downs beyond. She had been looking forward to four days in the country, back with fields and trees again, and not far from the sea. She missed the sea. Although she never saw it in the convent, she had always been aware of it, consciously, subconsciously; a huge and boundless presence just ten miles away, tugging at her mind, as it threshed in and out, in and out, following the moon. So why did she ache for London streets again, feel so vulnerable and lost, like a tiny child torn forcibly from Mother Liz and dumped in a strange house? She was thirty-nine years old, should have outgrown the need for mothers, Reverend or profane.
She let the curtain fall, forced herself to kneel. It was already Good Friday. She should be reflecting on Christ’s death, begging pardon for the sins which had nailed Him to the Cross; her own most recent sin in even contemplating sacrilege at the Maundy Thursday Mass. She prayed first for her father, begged his forgiveness, also; implored God to give him the happiness he had never found on earth.
Her eyes nicked open. She could hear a noise – someone gasping, wheezing, as if they couldn’t breathe. The girl next door. She sounded in distress, in pain. Hilary got up from her knees, stood nervous by the bed. She ought to go and help, as Bridget had helped her, yet it still seemed wrong to enter someone’s room, or intrude herself where perhaps she wasn’t wanted. She could hear voices now – a man’s voice, very low, with Bridget’s cries above it. Perhaps they’d fetched the warden, or a doctor. No. The man was laughing, an excited throaty laugh, followed by a bout of urgent whispering. Then Bridget started whispering herself; no longer sounded ill at all; was even laughing now, as well, instead of whimpering. She felt embarrassed to be eavesdropping, but the walls were cardboard-thin, conducted every sound. A louder giggly ‘No, Ian!’ was followed by a warning ‘Sssh.’ Hilary knelt down again, tried to block her ears. She had better stop her private prayers, change to something with a formula, which would help her concentrate. She had already said the Office – what she could recall of it. Now she started on the stations of the Cross, in keeping with Good Friday, trying to call up the first station in her mind, repeat the prayers they said each week at Brignor.
‘Hail, Jesus, who, though guiltless, didst will to suffer the sentence of death, even the death of the Cross, grant that …’
There was silence now next door, but a strangely threatening silence, which made her somehow nervous, distracted her from praying. Had he gone, the man? She hadn’t heard footsteps, or the creaking of a door. She had no right to be listening, nor even curious. She put her hands across her ears, forced her attention back to Christ condemned.
‘Grant that, out of love for thee, I may not …’
She flinched. There was a creaking now – but not the door, the bed. And the voices had returned again – different voices – strangulated, jerky. She abandoned the first station, leapfrogged to the second, words slipping from her grasp, as they jumbled with the frenzied sounds next door.
‘Hail, Jesus, who didst patiently accept the death of Crucifixion, may the wood of thy Cross be as a soft bed to me, and may I die for …’
Soft bed. Those two were in bed – Bridget and that man – in bed together, a creaking rocking bed, its iron legs skidding wildly on the floor. And yet Bridget was single and a Catholic, a devout and pious Catholic, or so she had implied, when they’d had their chat this evening. She mustn’t think about it. It was wrong to judge or criticise, and she was muddling all the stations, skipping some, forgetting some, her flustered prayers skewing out of sequence.
‘Jesus, who before thy Crucifixion was stripped naked, strip me of the things of this world, so that naked I may …’
Naked. Why were all the words obscene, even in the stations of the Cross? She could see Bridget naked on her bed – plump pale thighs apart, large breasts falling sideways, as she lay back on the pillows. The man was much more shadowy, just a silhouette, like the man in the advertisement for Camel cigarettes. She had started noticing advertisements, especially those with men in, started looking at their bodies. She jerked her head violently, trying to jolt the pictures out of it. It was sacrilege and blasphemy to confuse Christ’s death and Passion with these vile disgusting images. Half her mind was praying still, as she hurtled on towards the Crucifixion – Christ naked now, as well – naked on the Cross, just a flimsy drapery bunched around his loins. She gripped the bed, appalled and half-incredulous at the contents of her mind. There had been naked Christs throughout the convent, crucifixes everywhere, so why had they never troubled her before? She had never even thought of them as naked. They were sacred icons, a focus for her prayer, for her contrition. Now she could see only Christ’s bare flesh – bare chest, bare thighs, bare … This must be the devil. Mother had warned her that Satan would be using every wile to wean her from the faith, would take advantage of her lawless state, to try to win her soul.
‘Lord, help me, save me!’ She couldn’t find the words, kept repeating ‘Help me!’, as she tried, in vain, to block out what was going on next door. The rocking had intensified, much faster now, more violent; the gasps turned into cries, terrifying cries, a sudden muffled scream, then silence. She gave up all pretence of praying, sank back on the bed. The room was dankly cold and she was sweating, her whole body burning hot, throbbing with some restless agitation. She seized her dressing gown, slipped out to the bathroom, splashed her face with water – freezing water – soaked a flannel in it, pushed it down between her legs, as they had been taught to do at Brignor, if they were ever tempted by what Mother called stirrings of the flesh.
Gradually, her heart stopped pounding, the sweating changed to shivering, but there was still no way she could go back to her room. That man might stay all night with Bridget, the noises start again … She would never sleep now anyway. Best to try to calm herself, make a cup of tea in the students’ kitchen, two floors down, stay there till the morning. She buttoned up her dressing gown, so that it concealed her damp pyjamas, crept along the hushed and dim-lit passage, tiptoed down two dark flights of stairs.
‘Who’s that?’
She froze. Someone else awake. A light on in the kitchen, a girl’s voice calling out to her. She pushed the door, almost bolted back upstairs. The room was full of women – women in their nightwear, women lounging, smoking, sprawling, drinking coffee. Not a soul she recognised – not Sally, Heather, Joan, and no one from the Mass.
‘Can’t sleep?’
‘Er … no.’
‘Come in.’
She stared confused at all the faces, bodies; hand still on the door knob. ‘No, really, I …’
‘Come on, come and join us. But shut the door – it’s draughty. There’s a spare seat over here.’
‘Cup of coffee?’
‘Th … Thank you, but I …’
‘White or black?’
‘White, please.’ Simpler to give in.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Hilary.’
A babble of ‘hallos’ from all the rest, names flung at her too fast for her to catch – except Elaine, the one who’d spoken first, a crop-haired girl, wearing blue pyjamas, with a creased and grubby anorak on top.
‘I hope you’re a rebel, because we’re the ginger group.’
Laughter.
‘We’re just discussing the iniquities of churches, especially the Holy Roman one. You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?’
She nodded. They must have seen her at the Mass. How else could they know?
Elaine grinned. ‘An ex-nun, too, I bet! Don’t look so startled, Hilary. I used to run an ex-nuns’ group and I developed a sort of eye for them. Even in mufti, there are always telltale signs – no bright colours or dangly jewellery, back too straight, voice too low, whole
manner too polite.’
Hilary crossed the room, feeling every eye upon her, her own eyes cold, as she sat stiffly on the one spare chair. Politeness had its value. It was extremely rude to label her like that, divulge her secret to this crowd of unknown women, make her feel stupid and exposed. And could it really be so obvious? She’d assumed she looked nothing like a nun now, had lost all her old habits of timidity, submissiveness. Even her dressing gown, although not exactly bright, was still a daring shade of salmon; something she would never have bought without Di and Liz’s prompting.
‘Don’t worry, I used to be a nun myself – Anglican, not Catholic. They’re just as bad, though – worse, in some respects. I was in for fourteen years, escaped in a gymslip with 10p in my pocket.’
Hilary almost jumped out of her chair. A fellow criminal, someone else who had dared to run away, risked excommunication; must have gone through the same agonising fears, the same battle with her abbess. Yet Elaine seemed nothing like a nun: a forceful, almost vulgar sort of woman with a shrill laugh, raucous voice, now slumped back in her chair with her legs crossed at the thigh, and puffing on what looked like a cigar.
‘I’d run away before, but in my habit that time. I lasted just three hours. We wore those huge white stiffened wimples, which stuck out miles each side. I felt like a dinosaur, something far too big and clumsy, which ought to be extinct. I seemed to take up too much room, be blocking people’s way, yet inside I felt tiny, like an ant – a nobody, a nothing.’
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