Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Is it your mum again, poor love?’

  ‘Not just Mummy, but… .’ Suddenly, the words were pouring out: the whole complicated story about fainting, and embarrassing the priest, and making a nun miss part of Holy Mass, and her shameful lack of self-control.

  Mr Johnstone shook his head so hard, the weird floppy hat he wore fell off, revealing long, untidy hair. ‘Tuppence, it’s nothing to do with self-control. It’s a very simple problem and all you need to solve it is a cuppa and a biscuit.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re fainting because your blood sugar’s low – which is hardly any wonder when you young girls don’t eat a thing from early-evening supper to breakfast the next morning, a whole hour after church. But if you had a cup of nice sweet tea before you went to church, and a few digestive biscuits, there’d be something in your stomach to give you energy, and then you wouldn’t faint.’

  She stared at him, profoundly shocked. ‘But we’re not allowed to eat or drink before Communion. It’s a very serious sin. And, if I did have a biscuit or something and then received Communion, the Host could actually choke me or even kill me.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, my love. You don’t want to believe everything the Sisters say.’

  ‘My love’ was even better than ‘Tuppence’ and ‘poor love’ best of all, because it meant he cared about her. And she really liked his crinkly blue eyes and soft grey hair, the colour of bonfire-ash, and the fact he smiled so much (which nuns never did), although, when he smiled, you could see he’d lost two teeth. And his voice was sort of rough but comforting, like the rough red blanket the ambulance men had wrapped around her mother before they took her to the hospital. Of course, it was wrong of him to tell her that she shouldn’t believe what the nuns said but, she had to admit, it gave her rather a thrill.

  ‘Look at it this way, Tuppence – Reverend Mother said you were embarrassing the priest, so you’d be doing Father Mark a favour if you stopped yourself from fainting by having a little snack. And you’d be obeying Reverend Mother, and not causing any fuss, or making another Sister miss the service. And that seems better all round.’

  ‘But suppose I go to Hell?’

  ‘Of course you won’t! God is merciful and He loves little children especially.’

  How could that be true? A merciful God wouldn’t kill people’s mothers and, as for Him loving little children, the five-year-olds in the kindergarten here often cried themselves to sleep, so why didn’t He make them happier?

  Suddenly, the booming, growly courtyard clock chimed five. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried. ‘I’m late for Benediction.’

  ‘Off you dash, then. But remember what I said.’

  ‘OK,’ she called, already running at full pelt. Remembering it was easy, but doing it was a different matter entirely, since it involved her immortal soul.

  ‘Pssst!’ a deep male voice hissed, as she came down the stairs from the dormitory, teeth well-brushed, white veil secured with hair-grips. ‘Tuppence, over here!’

  She swung round at her name – or rather not her name. If anyone should hear it, or know she’d been talking to Mr Johnstone, she was bound to be reported. But the gardener didn’t seem to care; just repeated her name, louder, and beckoned her over, despite the disapproving looks cast in her direction by some of the other girls on their way downstairs. Darting over to where he stood at the bottom of the staircase, she put her finger on her lips, to indicate the need for silence. You weren’t allowed to say a single word during the twelve hours of the Great Silence, which stretched from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. Even if you asked to close the window, or said you were feeling ill, you’d still broken the rule and could be sent to the Penance Table in the morning, to eat your breakfast there alone – again in silence. Mr Johnstone wasn’t a proper Catholic, so he wouldn’t understand.

  She felt sick with nerves, as she stood beside him; the focus of curious glances from the long line of girls proceeding to the chapel. One of them was bound to sneak, so, whether she talked to the gardener or not, the damage was already done. However, she kept her finger on her lips and tried to make her face look as stern as Reverend Mother’s, until the last of the girls had moved on along the corridor and were safely out of earshot.

  Apparently unaware of the risks he posed, Mr Johnstone was smiling broadly as he handed over a well-worn canvas bag. ‘I’ve made you a flask of hot, sweet tea and wrapped four or five biscuits in greaseproof. You get that little lot down, Tuppence, and I’ll bet my life you won’t faint!’

  She couldn’t reply because of breaking the Great Silence, but it seemed horribly rude not to thank him. It was only 5.45, so he must have got up especially early to make the tea and find the Thermos and greaseproof. Yet no way could she eat or drink before Communion. So she just smiled and nodded, instead, hoping he’d know she was grateful, then tapped her watch to show she had to go.

  The minute he’d disappeared, waving over his shoulder, she headed straight for the Flower Room, knowing it would be empty at this hour, since all the girls and all the nuns were already in the chapel. She could hide the bag in one of the extra big plant-pots that were kept in the largest cupboard, stuff it into the bottom and cover it with chicken-wire and artificial moss. And, as she still had fifteen minutes before Holy Mass began, she could take her time making sure it was totally concealed. Mother Frances came here in the morning, to do the altar flowers, but not till nearly noon.

  As she stole in and closed the door, she was engulfed in a strange, stale smell of mustiness and heat and rotting flowers. Then, all at once, her attention was caught by a picture on the wall, showing Christ as a gardener, and a doctrine lesson she’d totally forgotten suddenly jolted into her mind. Mother Ignatius had told them that Mary Magdalen was the very first person to see the resurrected Christ, but had failed to recognize Him, because He’d been disguised as a gardener.

  Cecilia moved closer to the picture. She had never seen a painting of the incident, but as she studied the details, she realized to her astonishment that Christ did actually look like a younger, fitter version of Mr Johnstone. Both had twinkly blue eyes, strong, muscly hands, and long, untidy hair. Christ wasn’t missing any teeth, of course, and his hair was brown, not grey, but he was carrying a spade and wearing a weird floppy hat, not that different from Mr Johnstone’s spade and hat.

  Could it be, she thought, in an agony of fear and wonder, that Christ Himself had actually appeared to her at the bottom of the stairs just now, disguised as Mr Johnstone? Which would mean it had been Christ Himself who had advised her to eat and drink, in order not to faint. Certainly, in the Gospels, He had seemed surprisingly keen on food and wine – far more so than the nuns themselves. And if He was genuinely merciful, as Mr Johnstone said, then He wouldn’t want her to have that frightening, floaty, sicky feeling and then hit her head on the floor (not to mention all the shame of causing obstructions and disturbance).

  She glanced from the picture to the canvas bag which looked very old and shabby, as if it did indeed date back to the disciples. Of course Christ wouldn’t have had a Thermos or McVitie’s digestive biscuits, but since there was no Time with God, details like that probably didn’t matter. Surely the important things were to trust in His mercy and accept the gifts He’d brought. She must also remember that Mary Magdalen had sinned much worse than she had. The nuns never specified what actual sins they were, but they must have been quite monstrous, since she had needed to be exorcized to rid her of seven devils. Nonetheless, Christ still loved Mary Magdalen; in fact, He loved her more than anyone, except for His mother and St John.

  She continued staring at the picture, daring to believe, for the very first time ever, that Christ loved her, as well. And He must have sent the tea and biscuits to show she was forgiven for talking to the gardener, and even for wishing Mother Jude would die. So she would have to treat this humble snack like another form of Communion, and eat and drink with the utmost reverence and devotion. She made the Sign of the Cross, then
poured some of the tea into a small glass posy-vase and laid the biscuits on an earthenware saucer she’d found underneath a flowerpot. And, doing her best not to make any vulgar gulping or chewing noises, she began solemnly to sip the tea and nibble the crumbly biscuits.

  It felt strange to eat in her veil, but no way could she remove it, because there wasn’t a mirror in the Flower Room and, if she tried to do it blind, she might put it back on askew. Actually, she hated wearing a veil, but the nuns said it was a sign of respect, so never, ever, must she enter the chapel without it firmly in place. Veils were another reason she didn’t want to get married. Brides had to wear a really long one, and wear it right over their eyes, so they couldn’t see out properly. Boys were lucky, because they could be respectful even without a veil. Boys were lucky anyway.

  Aware she was already badly distracted, when she’d just vowed to keep her mind on God, she decided to say a prayer between each mouthful, to help her concentrate. ‘Thank you, dear Lord, for your blessings,’ she repeated, fervently, until she had swallowed the last biscuit-crumb and drained the last drop of tea. She then stowed the flask and greaseproof paper back into the bag and hid it in the largest of the plant-pots, as she’d planned to do originally.

  Keeping one eye on her watch, she made another Sign of the Cross, then opened the door a crack, emerging only cautiously once she’d checked that no one was in sight. And, by three minutes to six, she was safely back in the chapel, eyes closed, hands clasped, ready to rise to her feet when Father Mark made his solemn entrance.

  ‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he intoned, bowing before the altar. ‘Introibo ad altare Dei.’

  ‘Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam,’ she responded dutifully, along with all the other girls. Normally, at the start of Mass, she would be feeling weak and empty, with a great, grumbling hole in her tummy, so it was something of a miracle that, on this particular morning, she could focus fully on the prayers without sinful thoughts of breakfast intruding, or fears she might faint and let everybody down again. And never before had the service passed so quickly – Confiteor, Introit, Kyrie and Gloria, all went by in a flash. Even the Gospel, which often seemed worryingly long, because you had to stand for it and she sometimes felt quite shaky on her feet, caused no problems at all. And those parts of the Creed she never understood, even in English, let alone in Latin – ‘begotten, not made; consubstantial with the Father’, or ‘incarnate by the Holy Ghost’ – just wafted past her ears today, as if Christ were saying, ‘Don’t worry, my child. In the fullness of time, all things will be made clear.’

  Christ seemed kinder altogether, now that He had given her new energy and strength, and suppressed her usual hunger-pangs and dizziness and that frightening feeling of being not quite ‘there’. And, when it was time for Holy Communion and she processed out of her pew and walked slowly up the aisle, towards the altar, she felt wholly confident she could remain upright, as instructed, and not embarrass the priest, or inconvenience the girls on either side of her.

  ‘Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam, Amen. Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam… .’

  She could hear Father Mark’s repeated murmur, as he placed the Host on each girl’s tongue – first, the older girls, then the middle forms and – in just a few minutes – her class. Despite the wait, she didn’t feel the slightest bit unsteady, but seemed to be rooted firmly, like the cedar tree that grew tall and strong and powerful, just beyond the chapel.

  And, yes, now it was her turn to take her place at the altar-rails, so she knelt devoutly, watching out of the corner of her eye as Father Mark came slowly along the row of girls, carrying the ciborium. Never before had Communion seemed so special, because she was about to receive the Body and Blood of a new, kinder, merciful God, who had actually intervened in her personal life to save her from humiliation and from Reverend Mother’s fury.

  As the priest drew nearer, she opened her mouth and extended her tongue, in readiness for that important moment when he would stand directly over her.

  ‘Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam, Amen,’ he whispered, lowering the tiny white wafer towards her, but, suddenly, appallingly, a saggy, swimmy feeling seemed to turn her bones to junket and her blood to lemonade. Fight the feeling, she willed herself, as Reverend Mother had urged and, desperately, she strained every muscle to stop herself from fainting.

  In vain. She was becoming limp and droopy, like a blurred pencil mark on a fuzzy page, about to be rubbed out. Yet, still she struggled, determined to use every ounce of willpower, so that she could somehow find the strength to grope up from her knees and return to her pew, without actually keeling over. But, all at once, her willpower failed, along with her lollopy body, which, of its own accord, collapsed on to the floor like a lumpish sack of flour. And, as she hit the hard wood with a sickening thud, she realized to her abject terror that she wasn’t simply fainting, she was plunging into Hell. She had sinned beyond redemption, not only by eating and drinking before receiving Holy Communion, but by her unpardonable pride in imagining that the gardener’s snack had been a gift from Christ, instead of a devilish temptation. Perhaps it had even been the Devil himself who had given her the bag, deliberately disguised as Mr Johnstone, to test her strength of mind. And, since she had failed that test horrendously, the only fitting punishment was Eternal Damnation in the all-consuming flames of Hell, tortured by all the monsters and demons described by Our Lady of Fatima.

  Even worse – in fact, too terrible to contemplate – she would be eternally banished from her adored and much-missed mother, who would spend her own eternity a million miles away, in Heaven.

  And it was all happening now, this minute, the pain, the torture, the darkness, and the unbearable, horrible loneliness of being cut off from the person she loved best in the whole world – cut off not just in this life but in the Next, separated from those safe and sheltering arms for ever and ever and ever and… .

  Marshmallows

  Typical, Helen thought, as she made her way, with difficulty, along the aisle of the train – too many people and too few seats. The 9.06 to Exeter was invariably noisy and crowded, but today of all days she had been relying on a stress-free journey. Dipping and ducking to avoid the jutting elbows of those already seated, she stepped over bags and rucksacks obstructing half the space, forced to squeeze past querulous people coming in the opposite direction, presumably in search of an empty seat. She gave silent thanks for her reservation – a table seat in the Quiet Carriage, which should, at least, be mercifully free of phones and afford her room to work.

  Having finally located it, she was surprised to see the whole table unoccupied, despite the fact it was only a couple of minutes before departure time. Each seat bore a reservation slip, so, with any luck, the other three passengers might join the train at Reading, which meant half an hour free not just of mobiles, but of distracting chatter or boisterous kids.

  She settled herself by the window, plugged in her laptop, and did her best to ignore the announcements about safety procedures and buffet opening-times, as the train made ready to leave. There wasn’t a minute to waste: her presentation needed serious rethinking before the all-important meeting in just over three hours’ time.

  But barely had she brought up the file and begun reassessing the notes she’d made last night, when an inordinately overweight couple came lumbering down the aisle and stopped at her table to check the seat-numbers.

  ‘Yeah, this is it, Barry!’

  Despite the fact that ‘Barry’ was following close behind, the woman’s voice was megaphone-loud. She then attempted to squeeze her bulk into the opposite window-seat, puffing and wheezing as she negotiated the cramped and narrow space.

  ‘I know I’m built on the big side,’ she laughed, compressing her podgy stomach, in order to slide further in, ‘but, even so, you’d think they’d give us a bit more room!’

 
Helen merely nodded, although the comment had been addressed to her. She was not normally unfriendly but, with this presentation weighing on her mind, she had no desire to encourage idle chit-chat. Not that she could do much work while Barry was struggling to settle himself, hampered as he was by a couple of capacious holdalls, a bulky wicker picnic basket and several plastic carriers.

  ‘Mind if I put these here?’ he asked Helen, indicating the free seat next to her.

  ‘Wouldn’t they be better up on the luggage-rack?’

  ‘No, we need this stuff for the journey, and I can’t be fagged keep getting up and down. I’m Barry, by the way.’

  Helen refrained from saying that everyone in the carriage was probably aware of that fact, given the volume of the woman’s voice. Instead, she resorted to silence again, in the hope that this chummy pair would take the hint.

  ‘And this here is Tracey, my other half.’

  Another brief nod on Helen’s part, which didn’t deter Tracey from proffering her podgy hand, like a party-guest expecting formal introductions. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  I didn’t, Helen bit back, instead giving her name grudgingly, whilst extricating her fingers from the sticky, sweaty handshake.

  ‘And are you going all the way to Newquay?

  ‘No, just to Exeter.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a coincidence! We’re getting off there, too. But then we have to take a taxi to a village about three miles out, where my parents have just bought a house. It’s a dear little place, but unfortunately it isn’t on a bus route.’

  ‘It was a real bargain, though,’ Barry chipped in, ‘much cheaper than a house in the town centre. Admittedly, it needs a fair bit of work, but they’re not too bothered, to tell the truth. What’s important for Tracey’s mum is the fact it’s a bungalow, because she can’t manage stairs too well now. Anyway, they’ve laid on this housewarming picnic in the garden and invited all their friends and neighbours, so it should be quite a knees-up!’