Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Oh, no. I like them.’

  Sister Anne scratched the stained white ears, one ragged and half-bitten off. ‘This is William. He’s quite a hardened sinner, I’m afraid, but he wandered in one day without a collar and very near collapse, and he’s been here ever since. Do sit down, my dear, and tell me how I can help.’

  Hilary sank back in her chair, hope and conflict still fighting in her head. She had warmed to Sister Anne from the moment she stepped in; liked her plain but honest face, her lack of all pretension, so that she could have been the caretaker, rather than the Head; but she was still a nun, modernised or no, still tied to one narrow faith, one rigid view of life. She opened her mouth, shut it, smoothed her damp creased skirt, kept wondering how to start, or even where. Could you really grasp Luke’s problems without knowing about Sylvie, or even about Joe’s own spell in jail? Yet she felt some strange sense of loyalty to Joe, feared to blacken him too badly.

  William suddenly shifted on the floor, got up and shook himself, as if impatient of her dithering, and about to leave the room. She leaned forward, grabbed his collar, used him as her anchor as she began blurting out her story, saying far more than she’d meant; only stopping in confusion when she heard the pleading in her voice, the sheer note of desperation. She was begging Sister Anne to take Luke on, before she’d even viewed the school, or asked important questions about rules and punishments, religious education, attitudes in general.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s quite impossible, Miss Reed. We’re full up for this year, already got a waiting list, in fact. Look, come into my study and I’ll check the records, see if there’s a space for next September.’

  She followed Sister Anne along the passage, sick with disappointment. Next September was far too late. Luke would be in a remedial school by then, or being passed from psychiatrists to social workers to educational welfare. She had an overwhelming feeling that he’d be better off right here, with Sister Anne, her Sealyham, the hutches full of rabbits which she’d just seen in the garden, the slide, the coloured wigwams, the climbing frames and sandpit. This school seemed basically a home, not just in its building, its lack of concrete, asphalt, but in its scale, its general atmosphere: the cheerful classrooms they were passing now, all with plants and pictures, brightly coloured desks and chairs, each child’s self-portrait tacked up on the wall, with a crayoned name beneath. More pictures in Sister Anne’s small study, children’s art next to Botticelli – a large framed reproduction of the Annunciation.

  ‘Sit down. No, not you, William. That’s Miss Reed’s foot you’re lying on.’

  She tried to smile, though it would have been easier to cry – weep with sheer frustration. She somehow knew, just looking at this study, that Sister Anne could help Luke, if she could only find a place for him. Everything about the room revealed an interest in her children: their crooked paper sculptures displayed on two wide shelves, their homemade Christmas cards tacked all round the walls, the photos of old pupils on her notice board. Luke’s present Head had nothing in his study save books and papers, metal files, and a few confiscated objects such as roller skates and chewing gum, returned only in exchange for stringent punishments.

  ‘Look, Sister, please, even if you’re full, couldn’t you make an exception in Luke’s case?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t, Miss Reed. You see, so many parents ask us that, I feel it wouldn’t be quite fair. And, anyway, I have to consider all the other children. Poor Luke sounds quite a handful, and one disruptive child can upset a whole class.’

  ‘Yes, but if no one helps him out, he’ll be more disruptive still. He’s never had a chance, Sister. Everything’s against him – his home, his parents, his position in the family as last unwanted child, his …’

  Sister Anne reached her hand across the desk. ‘Let’s go to the chapel, shall we, and pray about his case? The good God may suggest …’

  Hilary ignored the hand, leapt up to her feet. ‘There isn’t a good God. How could there be, if He allows poor defenceless children to suffer for no reason, to lose their mothers, bash and bruise their faces, have no one in the world to care or …?’

  ‘He’s got you, Miss Reed. It sounds to me as if you care a lot.’

  ‘No, I don’t, I don’t! I’m only thinking of myself.’ She broke off, confused and angry, her head throbbing with the effort of trying to keep control. ‘I’m sorry, Sister, I didn’t mean to shout, but I’m so worried and mixed up. I feel I ought to help the boy, yet in another way I can’t bear the thought of “duty” any more. You see, everyone expects me to be the perfect nun, do good all the time, even though I’ve left and … I mean, Luke’s own father accused me just today of being selfish and a hypocrite.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m a little lost. What d’you mean, my dear, “the perfect nun”?’

  ‘I was a nun, Sister – yes, for twenty-two years – a Sister of Notre Dame de Bourges. I wasn’t going to tell you. I’ve swamped you with Luke’s problems, without adding mine on top. But I left a year ago, then lost my faith, as well.’ She stopped, aware that she was tensing, hands clenched, shoulders rigid, as if prepared for Reverend Mother’s shocked reproaches. Sister Anne only looked concerned.

  ‘That must have been a terrible upheaval. I do understand, believe me. One of our own community left two years ago, and she’s still not really settled, even now. Would it help to talk about it?’

  Hillary shook her head. She was here to discuss Luke’s future, not her past. She had solved her own problems, carved out a new life – if only Luke and his brute father would leave her free to live it. Yet Sister Anne was already gently probing, asking kindly questions about her Order, her vocation. She answered tersely, her mind still fixed on Luke. The boy was at a crossroads, as she herself had been – not at seven, but at the age of seventeen. If someone had miraculously appeared then, weaned her from the convent, changed the whole direction of her life, she would have been spared those years of misery, that sense of being cut off, shut away, turned into a ‘case’ – a different sort of case from Luke’s, but still branded and ‘abnormal’. Luke could still be saved, if only this headmistress would change her mind, move from Brignor back to Wandsworth.

  ‘It’s interesting that you opted for the contemplative life, rather than a teaching order. Did you feel that …?’

  Hilary shook her head impatiently, hair clammy on her neck. ‘I’m sorry, Sister, but I just can’t see how this is helping Luke. You haven’t got a place for him – okay – I’d better tell his father, and maybe Joe can pull some strings, get him into Borstal.’

  Sister Anne stood up, moved around the desk to her. ‘I do realise how upset you are, but as you’ve seen, I’ve checked through all the class-lists, and they’re all jam-packed already. But look, there is the possibility that a few children may drop out. I won’t know that till term’s started, but why not get in touch again, about a week or so from now, and I’ll see how things look then?’

  ‘A week or so’s too late. He’ll be lost by then.’ As I was lost, she added to herself, as she snapped up to her feet, grabbed her jacket, strode towards the door. It was all talk with this nun – pious platitudes, even tolerant acceptance of her own sarcastic outbursts, but nothing of the slightest help to Luke.

  Sister Anne pushed back a wisp of hair, touched her silver cross. ‘I’m sure God won’t allow …’

  Hilary swung back again. ‘I don’t believe in God,’ she shouted. ‘I’ve told you that already. And I’m not sure now if I even believe in goodness – anybody’s goodness. It seems to me there’s nothing in the world except misery and suffering and endless hopeless problems, so that just as you dare hope you’ve found a sort of life, and can leave the past behind and start again, the bloody rotten phone rings and you’re saddled with a problem child whom no one else will help you with, because everybody’s too full, or scared, or busy, or frightened he’ll disrupt their precious …’ She lunged towards a statue of Our Lady, simpering in a niche with a gold crown on her
head, blue roses on her feet. ‘Queen of Peace. Yes, wonderful, except Luke won’t get that peace – won’t know what the word means, and if he grows up to be a criminal or a thug, then it’ll be partly your fault, Sister Anne. Goodbye.’

  She marched back along the passage, eyes blinded with hot tears of rage and shame, so that she didn’t see the small dog racing after her, darting between her legs to overtake. She tripped and fell on him, sprawled full-length on the floor. He wriggled out, yelping, sat cowering by the skirting, while she herself lay stunned, remembering only that she’d said ‘bloody’ to a nun, and that nun was kneeling on the floor beside her, passing her a handkerchief, even dabbing at her eyes, as if she were a child.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that wretched dog. Have you hurt yourself?’

  ‘I … I’m not too sure.’

  ‘Let’s help you up and see.’

  Hilary took the hand offered her, struggled to her feet, checked her knees, which were only bruised, rubbed her smarting palms; flushing scarlet with embarrassment as she recalled her words, her fierce vindictive tone. She mumbled an apology, tried to creep away, edge along the passage to the door.

  Sister Anne followed, headdress knocked askew. ‘It’s me who should say sorry. William could have killed you, dashing out like that. Come back to my office and sit down. You ought to rest a minute, after a nasty fall like that.’

  ‘No, really, Sister, I … I must get back.’ She took another step towards the porch. Essential to escape before she disgraced herself still further. She should never have set foot inside a convent. The memories were too acute, too painful.

  The nun retrieved her handkerchief, freckled now with blood. ‘Look, both your hands are bleeding. I can’t let you go without a cup of tea, and something for those grazes. I’ll ring through to Sister Catherine. She can probably find some witch hazel, as well as make the tea.’

  Hilary followed her reluctantly, subsided on the same small chair, which felt chilly now and damp. Her inbuilt habit of obeying her superiors was still too powerful to ignore. Yet she resented that submission, felt awkward, hypocritical, as she sat exchanging pleasantries – the weather, Christmas, the wicked ways of Sealyhams; forcing down the convent tea, which was too sickly sweet and milky for her taste. She longed to slip away, begrudged the waste of time, the trivial conversation which they were using as a poultice to try to heal the breach, remove the sting and venom from her recent bitter tirade.

  Yet, even now, her voice still sounded petulant – an abrupt unfriendly voice, with an undertone of anger which seemed completely inappropriate to the safely anodyne subjects they were tossing to and fro. She was frightened of that anger, terrified she’d shout again, rail at Sister Anne as if she were the Abbess and she’d at last decided to end her cowed obedience and express her screaming grievances, muzzled all those years. That was totally unfair. Sister Anne was nothing like the Abbess, had been exceptionally long-suffering, and even now was supplying her with details of an organisation set up specially for ex-nuns, which provided information and support.

  ‘I’m not an ex-nun,’ she muttered half-inaudibly, aware how rude it sounded, yet bridling at that ‘ex’, its implication that she had only a past – not a present or a future – a troubled past, which cried out for support.

  Sister Anne said nothing, started sorting through the papers on her desk, abandoning all attempts at further conversation. Hilary watched, abashed. She had obviously upset the nun by her ungracious manner, her impatient brusque replies, that final clinching rudeness. Her face looked closed and pained now, one hand twitching slightly, as if she, too, were annoyed, but trying to control it. She was probably reflecting that if Luke were half as difficult as his so-called champion, then she’d been wise to turn him down. She had also closed her eyes, which only served to emphasise the sudden chilly distance which seemed to have sprung between them. Or was she simply praying – perhaps for patience, or endurance?

  Hilary cleared her throat, fiddled with her teaspoon. She could hear her watch gasping through the silence, its tiny strangled tick an expression of her own unease. Her hands and knees were throbbing still, the accusing smell of witch hazel lingering in the air, like another veiled reproach. She tried to fix her gaze on the Botticelli painting which faced her on the wall, stitch her eyes and mind to it, to calm her agitation, distract her from the curdled mix of shame and sheer frustration still churning in her mind. She’d seen the work before, in one of Robert’s glossy books on Italian Renaissance art; had noticed it particularly, since the Virgin wasn’t passive and obedient, as in most Annunciations, kneeling humbly, with her hands crossed on her breast, but was reeling back in shock and almost horror, arms stretched out in front of her, as if to ward the Angel off.

  ‘Miss Reed?’

  She started, jolted back from Nazareth to Upper Westmead Gardens. She’d been semi-mesmerised by the brilliant blues and scarlets of the picture; by the Angel’s rippling hair and billowing robe; the stiff and waxy lily, whose glinting green and gold was echoed in the Angel’s feathered wings. She shifted her gaze from Mary’s pale and fine-boned face to Sister Anne’s rounded ruddy one. The nun was looking up, her expression grave and frowning still, hands tightly clasped together on the desk. Hilary lowered her own eyes. She knew now what was coming – the pained recriminations, the soft but stern reproof, the quiet insinuation that she was hardly a fit person to be pleading for a problem child.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said …’ Sister Anne paused, as if embarrassed, gave a vague pat to her still dishevelled headdress. ‘How you don’t believe in goodness. That worries me, a lot, and I fear it’s partly my fault – perhaps the fault of all of us who are too concerned with keeping our lives simple and uncomplicated, leaving someone else to mop up the disasters, deal with all the crises. You’re right in what you said, you know. I do have a responsibility, towards you, as well as Luke.’ She picked up her pen again, ran it like a pointer up and down her class lists. ‘We are full this term, bursting at the seams, in fact, and Luke may well be difficult, but as you pointed out yourself, he’s got as much claim on my conscience as on yours. What I’m trying to say, Miss Reed, is I feel I turned him down too hastily and perhaps we ought to offer him a chance.’

  Hilary leaned forward. Had she really heard those words, and not the more reproachful ones she had scripted in her mind? The rain was nailing down outside, its dull insistent drone confusing and distracting her. She gripped the teaspoon tighter, felt it hard and hurting in her palm.

  ‘From what you’ve said already, he may, of course, need remedial education at a special school. I can’t judge that until I get to know him. So what I’m suggesting is that I give him a term’s trial, and assess him myself – you know, unofficially, keep an eye on him, liaise with his teachers.’

  ‘In September, you mean?’ Hilary forced the words out, not daring yet to hope. September was too late. Had Sister Anne not grasped that?

  ‘No, in January – in five days’ time. Our term starts on the 6th.’

  She sank back in her chair, still half-incredulous, still fighting shame and guilt. She had criticised this nun, deplored her so-called platitudes, yet she’d had the courage, the humility, to change her mind, offer Luke a place. The 6th was perfect, absolutely perfect, the day before her own college term began. She’d already be in Hertfordshire, but was bound to get permission to return for just one night, so she could bring Luke here herself, imbue him with some courage, at least on his first morning.

  Sister Anne capped her pen, glanced across at William, who was asleep now on the rug. ‘It’s just a trial, you understand? If he settles down, that’s fine. I’ll be very happy to keep him till he’s eleven, but if it does turn out he’s in genuine need of special education, then I’m afraid he’ll have to leave – for his sake, as well as ours. You do see that, don’t you, dear?’

  She nodded, light-headed with relief; could hardly think beyond one blessed term. ‘Yes, of course I do. That’s fine. It
’s just this one first chance he needs, so he can believe in goodness, if you like.’

  ‘Well, we’ll do everything we can – that I guarantee. I’ll give him a hand with his reading, squeeze it in after lunch each day. I often take the slower children for individual sessions, and it’s amazing how they improve, once they get some extra help. We also have a system where each new child is looked after by another child of roughly the same age, who shows him the ropes, sits next to him in class, helps him feel at home. But we’re going a bit fast. I shall have to meet Luke first, of course, and interview his parents – or at least the father, if you say the mother’s left. Will Mr Craddock come, d’ you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, vehemently. ‘He will.’ If I have to drag him by the hair, she added silently. ‘Though it might be better if he came with me – perhaps later on today, or in the morning, or whenever suits you best. He’s a little …’ She paused a moment, considered various adjectives: violent, angry, moody, unpredictable; realised to her shame that they all applied equally well to her. It was high time she got away, if she were modelling her behaviour on Joe Craddock’s. One ‘bloody’ was enough, two outbursts in a week a shade excessive, especially following a lifetime of submission. At least Robert would be pleased with her, and proud.

  ‘And I’ll need all his particulars. I’ll take those now, shall I, since we’re rather short of time before term starts? I’ll have to phone his present Head, before I do anything official – I’m sure you realise that – but I know Mr Stanthorpe very well, in fact, so I don’t see any problem there.’

  Hilary offered up a silent prayer of thanks. So she wouldn’t have to face the man herself, endure another hostile confrontation, or take the risk that Joe might come to blows with him. She started spelling out Luke’s name, address and birthday, feeling a huge weight leave her shoulders, as if she were handing over not just facts and figures, but the boy himself, with all his problems, his whole sad and chequered history; transferring the burden to Sister Anne instead.