‘I prefer the habit, and I’m sure it stops me sinning. If I didn’t have it on, I might be tempted to pop into a pub and have a pint – or two!’
Her laugh was genuine, unforced. She used her hands to gesture with, used her eyes expressively. Hilary felt more and more dejected. She had prided herself on making so much progress, yet now she realised just how stiff she was, how stilted, how still so overscrupulous. Here was a room full of Christians, Catholics, whose God had been crucified this day, yet all around her mouths were munching, chattering; greedy hands grabbing for more food. Even Sister Lucian was larding mustard on her bacon. Mustard was a stimulus, a relish which inflamed the taste buds, and bacon was forbidden on this day of abstinence. She reproved herself for criticising, longed to be as casual – less a judge, a goody-goody. She herself had swallowed just two salty spoons of bran, yet still felt guilty, gluttonous.
She could suddenly see Miss Pullen in her mind, one half of her face twisted and distorted, the other half quite normal. That was how she felt – half a normal woman in the matter of her dress and hair, her changing views and outlook; yet still half a nun, warped in some way, freakish, permanently retarded. Would she ever catch up, feel at home in the world, or remain a permanent outsider – some extraterrestrial, whose inner core and yearning dragged her always God-wards? How strange that Sister Lucian had no inkling of her past, nor of what they had in common, but saw her as a secular, maybe even married. She touched her ‘wedding’ ring, made sure the Christ was hidden. The nun’s own ring was silver, engraved with a small dove: the Paraclete, the comforter.
‘Brian, can I steal some marmalade? These pots are so darn tiny, they don’t go anywhere.’ The nun pushed her plate away, started on her toast. She had left an egg, a whole poached egg, untouched, flecked with mustard. Hilary couldn’t keep her eyes from it, could taste mustard in her own throat, hot and stinging like Reverend Mother’s voice. ‘Waste is a sin, Sister Louis Marie, and a breach of our holy vow of poverty.’ She was back in the convent, still a nervous postulant, watching Sister Louis Marie beg her soup at dinner, as a penance for leaving half a crust at lunch. The heavy-eyed French Sister prostrated herself humbly before each nun in turn, holding out her empty bowl to cajole a tepid spoonful from each one – Sister Louis Marie, who came from a wealthy family in Lyons; would have been used to eating the finest food at home, served on the finest china by a maid in uniform. The other nuns had already started eating, so their spoons were dirty, the soup maybe even germy, yet she thanked each for the favour with another deep prostration. Her main course was taken from the scrap-dish, one small cold boiled potato, pock-marked with black eyes, a few skins and bones of fish. Sister Mary Gloria shouldn’t have been watching, should have kept her eyes down, been listening to the reading, but it was only her fourth week in the convent, and she hadn’t yet outlawed curiosity – or horror.
‘Where you from, Hilary?’
She jumped, realised Brian was speaking to her; almost answered ‘Brignor’, changed it into ‘Wandsworth.’
‘I don’t know it, I’m afraid. I’m a stranger in the South. Sister Lucian and I first met in murky Manchester. Hey, Sister, do you remember that young monk who said he kept a rattlesnake …?’
The two were laughing now again. Hilary edged her chair away, glanced around the huge canteen, which was echoing and booming like a public swimming baths, bursts of laughter exploding from the tables, a sudden crash as someone dropped a pile of dirty plates. She still missed the Brignor refectory, despite the penances, the strictness. Meals, however simple, had been almost sacramental, the serving nuns processing in, with cabbage soup, or swedes; eyes cast down, steps exactly matched, as they bowed low before each Sister, offering her the food. Even clearing the table became a solemn ceremonial with its own set rules; nothing rushed or casual, the whole elaborate ritual like a prayer. And if a Sister wanted something, she would never ask or grab. There were special signs to indicate her needs: a circled thumb and forefinger for water, two fingers raised for bread – even signs for illness so you could excuse yourself, in silence, with just one finger touched against your pulse. She longed to make that sign herself, creep back to her room, avoid the need to socialise, to talk.
‘Which workshop are you going to?’ Sister Lucian was trying to include her, not make her feel left out.
‘I hadn’t thought. Do we have to choose?’
‘Oh, yes. We all break into groups this morning. Haven’t you read your programme? I’m going to Bodywork. There’s this Reverend Mother running it. I’ve never met her, but they say she’s very good. Why don’t you come along? Brian’s coming, aren’t you, Brian?’
He swallowed a last white frill of egg, nodded, wiped his mouth. ‘I’m not sure which is most unfit – my body or my soul. But we get so much soul-stuff anyway, I’ve decided it’s my body’s turn this morning.’
‘What is Bodywork, exactly?’ Hilary asked, to gain some time, though she had decided already to avoid it at all costs – to avoid anything and everything run by a Reverend Mother.
‘I’m not quite sure.’ Sister Lucian had cut her toast in soldiers, like a child, her chubby fingers glazed with marmalade. ‘A bit of everything, I think – dancing, exercise, encounter groups – sort of acknowledging your body and relating to it.’
Hilary’s ‘no’ boomed louder in her mind, though she merely smiled politely. She’d choose something more cerebral, more spiritual, in keeping with Good Friday. But what? The names of the other workshops were slowly coming back: Painting and Praying, Sing Joyfully to God, Renewal through Yoga, Jesus Rock. Nothing suitable at all. She drained her tea, mumbled some excuse about going to her room first, moved towards the door, almost collided with a woman striding in – a woman in man’s dungarees with a red shirt underneath – Elaine, from last night’s ginger group.
‘Hi, Hilary! I’m knackered – and missed breakfast by the looks of it. They’re just clearing all the food away. Bloody hell!’ Elaine reached out for a sausage left on someone’s plate, crammed it in her mouth. ‘By the way, I hope you’re coming to the painting workshop. It’s great! I went last year and we all did finger-painting and squirted huge great aerosols around.’
‘No,’ she said, suddenly decisive. ‘I’m sorry, Elaine, but I’ve just promised to go to Bodywork with Brian and Sister Lucian.’
‘Right, I’d like everyone sitting on the floor – crosslegged, if you can manage it. I want us all to ground ourselves, to actually feel the ground through and with our bodies.’
People started getting up, mostly nervously, reluctantly. The plump and well-dressed leader smiled encouragement.
‘Don’t skulk against the walls like that. We’re here to share our bodies with each other. Can we make a circle? That’s better. Now, is everyone quite comfy? No? Well, take a few deep breaths.’
Hilary inhaled, let her breath out slowly. She was surprised how shy this group seemed, far smaller and more inhibited than Jim Duck’s ecstatic mob. Each event seemed different – different in its atmosphere, different in its members. Apart from Brian and Sister Lucian, and a woman called Thérèse who’d been in the kitchen with Elaine last night, but hadn’t said a word, there was no one else she knew, or even recognised; certainly no wild unbridled revellers. Perhaps Bodywork attracted all the misfits, self-conscious shrinking people, who were unhappy with their bodies, unable to let go.
‘Now let’s introduce ourselves. Each one say their name and add a few brief words to tell each other who they are – what they do, how they feel. I’ll start, shall I, break the ice? Right, I’m Molly.’
‘But I thought they said … I mean, I understood this was run by a religious.’ The speaker sounded angry, cheated in some way, a thin and sallow woman in her sixties, who was having obvious difficulty in sitting on the floor. Several other people mumbled in support, as if they’d been dunking the same thing, but were too scared to voice objections.
‘We’re all religious,’ Molly smiled. ‘That’s why
we’re here. Yes, I am a nun, in fact, and I do run a convent, but the title “Reverend Mother” has always seemed rather inappropriate, since I’m neither reverend nor a mother. I prefer plain Molly. I was christened Amanda Margaret Mary by my parents, but it’s a wee bit of a mouthful, don’t you think? Still, if you’d rather call me Amanda, please do go ahead. Call me anything you like, I shan’t mind, I promise.’
Hilary simply stared. She was used to nuns in mufti – or at least to the idea – the sober skirts in grey or navy blue, the loose and shapeless blouses, low-heeled lace-up shoes. But Molly wore a tartan pleated skirt, a scarlet shirt with ruffles down the front, matching scarlet sling-backs which Della would have envied, with high stiletto heels. Yet Reverend Mother Molly was still bound by vows of poverty, of chastity. It was one thing for Elaine to wear dungarees and gym shoes. Elaine had left her convent and the clothes were old and shabby. But Molly’s clothes looked new, the sort of stylish snobby outfits they sold at Di’s boutique. Who paid for them, she wondered – guessed others in the group were wondering too, especially Sister Lucian, whose habit now seemed quite archaic, compared with Molly’s glad rags.
They had all assumed this worldly made-up woman was a substitute, a stand-in; that the Reverend Mother detailed on the programme had been delayed or taken ill. Hilary had been secretly relieved. Now she was confounded. She tried to imagine her own Abbess dressed in a kilt and three-inch heels, sitting cross-legged on the floor, saying ‘Call me what you like. I am neither reverend nor a mother.’ She could feel a laugh threatening, a laugh of sheer shocked disbelief, tried to rum it into a smile. Molly smiled back warmly, obviously glad to see a face which wasn’t simply hostile or incredulous.
‘I’m here today to try and teach you how to use your bodies, to love and own the body God has given you, whatever its age or shape. Bodies are the only thing we have to express our love of God, so we mustn’t ignore them or neglect them. My body’s feeling extra good this morning, so I hope to share that with you.’
The silence was embarrassing. Everyone was staring at Molly’s auburn hair, which seemed to owe less to God’s own bounty than to the skills of a good salon; the glossy scarlet lipstick which exactly matched her blouse, the flash of white lace petticoat beneath the tartan flounces.
‘Well, is no one going to speak? Come on, don’t be shy. We’re all in the same boat, you know. I’m shy as well, very shy. In fact, when I first became a superior, I really had to fight that.’
Hilary wondered if she’d heard right. Shy? This relaxed and chatty extrovert, who’d chosen brilliant colours, clothes which drew attention to herself? She glanced again at Molly, who was wiggling her toes, knees splayed out, expensive shoes kicked off now. Wiggling her toes! The gesture seemed obscene. The Brignor Abbess kept all movement to a minimum, could kneel for hours in chapel, as if she were a statue; appeared to glide on castors. Hilary had sometimes even wondered if her heart beat, or if that, too, had been stilled, in the interests of total reverent silence.
Molly flexed her shoulders, clasped an ankle in each hand. ‘Let’s go round the circle anti-clockwise, and let’s start with a man, since we’re lucky enough to have one – two men, in fact. Wonderful! Right, you with the nice beard, what’s your name, my dear?’
Hilary hardly heard the names. She was too concerned with what she’d say herself. Should she admit she’d been a nun? Thérèse already knew, might somehow let it out. Then Brian and Sister Lucian would think she was a fraud, for concealing it at breakfast. Was it wrong to try to hide it, deny her whole adult past to date, pretend her life began three months ago? She glanced at Sister Lucian, felt the same confusing mixture of envy and aversion; became more and more uneasy as it got closer to her turn. Just two to go. Just one. Just …
‘I’m Hilary,’ she managed. ‘I live in London and do mainly sewing work.’
‘And how are you feeling, Hilary?’
‘Terrible.’
Everybody laughed. At least it broke the tension. Molly smiled at her, squeezed her hand encouragingly. Hilary froze. Her own Abbess would never touch a fellow nun, except at her Profession and the Renewal of her Vows, when she would clasp the Sister’s hand in hers, receive her promise to observe her vows till death. Till death …
Molly had moved on to the next name – Marie-Clare – a French girl, who admitted stumblingly that her whole life was a mess. Molly slipped into the circle, put her arm around her. Hilary watched, envious of the girl who didn’t pull away, or freeze, but seemed to relish the experience, even laid her head against Molly’s shoulder, as if she were her child. Whatever she said, Molly was a mother, a mother with a lap and arms, large and obvious breasts. Hilary could suddenly see her own mother, lying in the nursing home, her scraggy chest covered with a dressing. She had never been able to breast-feed, had produced abscesses, not milk – or so Aunt Eva told her twelve years later. Why had both her Mothers been so grudging? Mother Amanda Margaret Mary would have gold-top in her breasts, the full cream milk of human kindness. She envied her, as well. To be able to show such warmth, be so relaxed and easy-going. She herself was still too inhibited to put her arm round Luke, let alone an adult and a stranger.
Molly hugged the French girl, assured her they’d talk later, then retrieved her shoes, stood up. ‘Right, now we’re going to do an exercise, just to get us going. I want you to imagine that you’ve all been stuffed in the bottom of a large brown paper bag, and the bag’s been tied securely at the top. First, see what it feels like, what your reactions are, then use every effort possible to try to escape, get out of that confining bag. All right?’
No one stirred at first. There were a few nervous titters, coughs, then suddenly Sister Lucian got up to her feet and started wrestling with an imaginary paper sack, pushing at the sides, wrenching at the top, even kicking out with one black-stockinged foot. Hilary watched, astonished. Was the nun obeying simply out of duty, or enjoying the experience? Despite her age and girth, and the restrictions of the habit, she seemed supple, energetic, using her whole body as she bent and reached and stretched, flinging up her arms, butting with her head. Other people were now slowly getting up, emboldened by her courage. An obese and dumpy woman wobbled onto the floor, punched the air with fat and feeble arms. A younger girl began threshing furiously, as if fighting off an army. Both men now joined in, and then an older woman, whose white hair and bandaged ankle didn’t stop her running round in tiny frantic circles, trying to break out of her bag. At least three-quarters of the group were now in bags and fighting to escape: shadow-boxing, grappling with brown paper, lunging at thin air.
Molly skipped around them like a referee, laughing her approval. ‘That’s good! That’s very good. Now make sounds, as well. You don’t have to be silent. Match your movements to your grunts and groans and yells.’
Again, Sister Lucian was the first one to obey, letting out a strangled shout, surprising in its force. Hilary longed to scream herself, scream her sheer frustration at being unable to break out, express herself, let go. She was the one who had left her Order, thrown off her long robes, yet she was still too scared, too hidebound, to behave like Sister Lucian. The nun was like a model, one she couldn’t follow, only envy and resent. She felt even more a failure, as howls and moans and whimperings began to pour from every throat, swelling in a babel. She retreated to a corner, watched burly Brian crawling on the floor, petite Thérèse charging, tussling, punching; everyone save her trying to break or tear or burst their paper bags.
‘Having trouble, Hilary?’ Molly had come over, crouched beside her on the floor. ‘Don’t worry. Just take your time, do it in your own way. Have you got into your bag yet?’
‘Er, no.’
‘Well, try that first, and just see how it feels.’
Self-consciously, she climbed into a bag, a non-existent bag, felt the brown walls close around her, the string fasten at the top. So how did it feel? She wasn’t sure, at first, was aware only of embarrassment, of Molly watching her. She closed her
eyes, tried to block out everything, to sink down in her bag. That was better – peaceful. She had shut the others out now, was in her own quiet space. She slumped even further down, relishing her privacy. She felt safe, protected, back with walls again and boundaries; a confined and sheltered space where nobody could touch her. She liked the bag, surprisingly. Why should she escape from it, waste all that fruitless energy trying to get out? She was tired already, sluggish from her night awake, exhausted from the confusion in her mind. Each new group she met seemed to throw up more conflicts, contradictions. Did Molly’s loving warmth give her leave to break her vow of poverty, or Elaine’s bitterness justify her anger? Were Sister Lucian’s easy-going ways a virtue or a danger? She didn’t know the answers, didn’t like the questions; didn’t even want a mind at all; a mind which kept criticising, questioning, contradicting everything by turn. And she didn’t want a body – a body which had periods, or strange and shameful urges, set off by those noises through the wall – a body too like Bridget’s, which might betray her sometime, even make those same wild threatening noises.
She curled up very small, hid her eyes in the dark carpet, put her hands across her ears, so she could shut out all the grunts and yowls and scufflings. Why settle for a flimsy paper bag, when she could pack herself away in corrugated cardboard, layers of strong brown paper? She started imagining the wrappings, feeling safer with each one, as she retreated to the centre of her parcel, shielded by stiff cardboard, armoured in brown paper. No one could get in, nobody could touch her. Every other person was trying to escape, yelling as they struggled up and out. She alone sat absolutely still, picturing the firm string knotted round her, the final daub of sealing wax to secure and seal the knots, so no one would be tempted to undo her.
Devils, for a change Page 28