Father Hugh closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. ‘Glory indeed, Miss Sinclair! Such colours… Such scents!’ He cupped a full-blown rose and plunged his aquiline nose into its luxuriant petals. Upright once again, he looked down at the flower ladies from his lofty height and pronounced, ‘Our senses are God-given and such displays as these allow us to revel in them! Take advantage of your opportunities, ladies. Hedonism is not always the work of the Devil,’ he added, flashing them another of his smiles.
‘What a very odd remark,’ Miss Cartwright whispered as Father Hugh headed towards the vestry.
Ettie watched him disappear through the door. ‘Did you think so?’ she asked, a little breathless. Extending a finger towards a lily and stroking its firm, waxy petals she said, ‘I thought it was wonderful!’
1958
When at the age of sixteen Flora decided she was going to be an actress, her parents were relieved. This ambition seemed slightly less appalling than Flora’s previous aspiration, which was to be a nun. Dora could not for the life of her see how the two vocations could possibly co-exist and queried Flora’s latest decision. Her daughter had replied impatiently, ‘Oh, you just don’t understand!’ and flounced off to her room, but the truth was Flora didn’t understand either.
One thing she did understand was that she wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of her life being Flora Elizabeth Dunbar, skulking in her brilliant brother’s shadow. It was all very well for Rory who was obviously going to be a famous musician with his life mapped out for him. He’d never had any doubts and nor had anyone else, but no one, it seemed to Flora, much cared what became of her. It was assumed she would marry and have a family (even by Ettie, who hadn’t managed to achieve that happy state herself.)
Flora knew she was clever, if not as clever as her brother. Her best subjects at school were English and Scripture. She spent many happy hours reading Shakespeare and the Bible and writing passionate love poetry to an anonymous love object - anonymous because Flora had not yet managed to fall in love, except possibly with Jean Seberg whom she’d recently seen at the cinema playing Saint Joan. Flora’s love poems were not dedicated to Miss Seberg, but she felt a strange desire to emulate her. Or was it Saint Joan she wished to emulate?
Flora became confused when she thought about what she wanted to do with her life. What she really wanted to be was a better person, but she knew in her heart that would be tremendously hard work. She thought she might settle instead for being a different person.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure! Get a move on, Ror. Ma will be back soon.’
Rory picked up the dressmaking shears, weighed them in his hand and looked at Flora doubtfully. ‘How short do you want it?’
‘Really short. Like yours.’
He picked up her long blonde pony-tail and pulled it slowly through his hand. ‘It seems a shame…’
‘Oh, give me the scissors - I’ll do it!’
‘You won’t be able to do the back. Sit still if you don’t want to lose an ear.’
Rory gathered the pony-tail into his hand and started to shear through it with the scissors. The rhythmic crunching sound sent shivers down his spine. Seated in front of her dressing table, holding her breath, Flora watched his frown of concentration. When Rory had finished cutting he held up the hank of hair as if it were a dead animal. ‘What shall I do with it?’
‘Put it in that shoebox.’
Rory laid the hair gently in the box, coiling it round like a question-mark, then he looked at Flora’s reflection in the mirror. ‘You’re sure?’
‘It’s too late to ask me now!’ said Flora, who wasn’t sure at all.
‘You look very strange.’
‘That’s because it’s lop-sided. Hurry up, Rory! She’ll kill us if she comes in and finds out what we’re doing.’
Rory burst out laughing. ‘You don’t suppose Ma’s not going to notice, do you?’
She turned and held out a trembling hand. ‘Give me the scissors.’
‘No, I’ll do it. Sit still.’
Carefully and methodically, Rory lifted locks of hair all over Flora’s head and cut them so they were about three inches long. He took particular care with her fringe which he cut a little longer (‘otherwise you’ll look like a boy’). He stopped frowning and smiled at her now and again as if he were enjoying himself. Once he accidentally scratched her cheek with the scissors, but by then Flora was glad of an excuse to cry a little. Rory apologised, licked his thumb and wiped away the blood, saying, ‘I think it looks nice. You look older… Sophisticated.’
‘I look like you,’ Flora said gloomily.
‘No, you don’t. Well, a bit, I suppose.’ He stood behind her and looked into the mirror, comparing their reflections. ‘Our eyes are different colours. And you don’t have freckles.’ He wanted to say she was pretty and he wasn’t, but he thought that sounded stupid.
Flora groaned. ‘I look awful.’
Rory felt unaccountably guilty and started to panic. ‘Well, why did you ask me to do it then?’
‘I didn’t know I’d look awful, did I?’
‘You don’t look awful. You just look… different. Anyway, it’s too late now.’ He patted his handiwork, ruffling her hair. ‘It feels nice. You try.’
Flora raised a tentative hand to her head and stroked her hair. ‘It feels like an animal. Like a cat.’
‘Or an otter. Very smooth and sleek. Not like mine. Mine feels…’ He reached up and touched his own hair, as if to remind himself. ‘Mine feels rough.’
‘It wouldn’t if you brushed it more often.’
‘No, mine’s different. Feel.’ He grasped her hand, bent his head and laid her palm against his hair. ‘See? It’s not silky like yours.’
‘No.’ She raised her other hand and stroked the fine down on his upper lip. ‘That’s silky…’
Rory didn’t answer but stood quite still as Flora gently touched his mouth. The front door opened and closed with a slam. He jerked his head away from his sister’s exploring fingers. ‘Now we’re for it.’ He looked down at the floor and then at himself, both covered in snippets of hair. ‘Crikey! Look at the mess!’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll deal with it.’ Flora stood up and started to brush hair from the front of his shirt. ‘You clear off and leave me to deal with Ma.’
‘Rather you than me,’ he said with a grin.
‘What can she do to me other than scream and shout? And I’ve heard it all before,’ Flora said, rolling her eyes heavenwards, ‘many, many times.’
Since my mother had refused to take me to the hairdresser’s I took matters into my own hands and Rory took the dressmaking shears into his. It was the wickedest thing we’d ever done, but even then I took all the blame. When she’d finished being hysterical Dora asked if I’d cut it off myself. I lied and said yes, mainly because I wanted to take all the credit for this wonderfully subversive act, but by then I was used to protecting Rory, covering for him. It was just habit.
1958
The Reverend Hugh Wentworth was in church one evening tidying hymnbooks and reorganising the parish notices on the board. He looked up from the back of the church towards the altar to admire the elaborate flower arrangements which, he noted gratefully, distracted the eye from the vulgar Victorian stained glass in the windows. His eye was caught by a head bent low in a pew. A worshipper deep in prayer, perhaps even asleep. The hair was short, very fair and rather untidy. Hugh’s heart was gladdened to think that a boy had chosen to come into church to talk to God. Most of his regular churchgoers were women, many of them elderly. Hugh saw young parishioners when they were christened and married, hardly at all in between.
As he shuffled notices about the Brownie pack, the Mothers’ Union and a whist drive, Hugh thought how much he still missed his old life in the monastery. He knew he’d made the right decision in leaving and he loved his work as a parish priest, but he missed the companionship and spiritual commitment of monastic life; he mi
ssed even more the intellectual stimulation of his training at the seminary. He could see that, on the face of it, the Anglican Church had little appeal for boys unless they aspired to be choristers or priests. Hugh had spent a lot of time thinking about how this might be changed and had discussed with Miriam setting up a youth club. She hadn’t been keen on the idea, viewing such an undertaking as yet another drain on her husband’s precious free time.
As he studied the boy’s bent head Hugh wondered whether a Bible study group might appeal to the youth of the parish. It would certainly require less organisation than a youth club, which would please Miriam. Yes, a Bible study group would be a good idea and if some youngsters could be persuaded to come along, so much the better. They’ll ginger things up a bit, Hugh thought with a smile.
As he turned to leave he caught a faint sound of weeping and glanced across at the boy again. His immediate impulse was to offer comfort, but then he wondered about the etiquette of intruding on prayer. Quite possibly the boy didn’t even know Hugh was present in the church. He decided to make his presence felt, as discreetly as possible. He dropped several hymnals on the floor, offering a swift apology to God for irreverence in a good cause.
The head shot up. There were sounds of fumbling, then a nose being blown vigorously. As Hugh watched the hunched, narrow shoulders, the head above them turned round and looked at him. He was astonished to see that this was no boy, but Miss Sinclair’s niece, Flora Dunbar, who attended church regularly. The child was transformed. Her long blonde hair was shorn. With her red eyes and mournful expression, she now looked like some Dickensian waif.
‘Flora! I didn’t realise it was you. I’m sorry if I intruded on your prayers.’ She gave him a faint smile, but said nothing. ‘But… if you’re in need of spiritual comfort,’ Hugh spread his large hands, opening his arms towards her, ‘I am here.’
It wasn’t a bad chat-up line. I certainly fell for it. I fell for the whole classic package: older, married man - and a priest, to boot. I didn’t stand a chance. At sixteen I thought Hugh was the nicest, kindest, most handsome man I’d ever met.
Actually, I still do.
Hugh was the first man I’d met - apart from Rory, who didn’t count - who talked to me, asked me what I thought about things and actually listened to my answers. Rory had practically stopped talking to me by then anyway. Things just weren’t the same any more. He was sullen and moody and spent all his spare time playing the piano or shut up in his room. He didn’t have a girlfriend, although several of the girls at school were keen to go out with him. I could never quite see the attraction. He wasn’t tall and never seemed to be all that clean, but my friends raved about his soulful eyes and his beautiful hands. I told Rory he could take his pick, but he just shrugged and said he hadn’t got time for ‘all that rubbish’. Rory thought women were a lower form of life.
Actually, he still does.
1958
Hugh genuflected towards the altar and sat down next to Flora in the pew, dealing with the lack of leg-room by turning his body to face her. ‘These pews weren’t built with men of my height in mind,’ he joked mildly. Flora smiled but remained silent. ‘I wonder if you’d like to tell me what brought you into church?’
‘I was asking for guidance.’ Hugh nodded and waited. Flora screwed her damp hankie into a ball. ‘I’ve got to make a decision, you see. I was going to go to drama school. To train as an actress,’ she added shyly, ‘but I think I’ve decided that, actually, I want to be a nun.’
Hugh maintained his composure, frowning hard to stop himself from laughing. ‘A nun? Now what makes you think you’d like to be a nun?’
‘Well, I’d really like to become a better person. Dedicate my life to God. Help people, that sort of thing. And… I think living in a convent would be… nice and peaceful. I think I’d like that. I think it would help me to be good.’
‘I see. Have you ever met a nun?’
‘No.’
‘Or visited a convent?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’ Hugh folded his hands together and rested them in his lap. ‘You know, people tend to think life in an enclosed order is somehow easier than life outside. Quiet. Contemplative. But actually it’s jolly hard work. I know because I used to be a monk, you see.’
Flora’s lips parted as Father Hugh assumed even more ecclesiastical glamour in her young eyes. She swallowed. ‘I’ve talked to Ettie about it and she said I should pray for guidance. She said God would make His plan for me clear but,’ Flora sighed, ‘He’s taking His time about it.’
‘Miss Sinclair is right, of course: prayer will certainly help to clarify things in your mind.’
‘She’s the only one who doesn’t laugh at me wanting to be a nun. Or an actress.’
‘It’s a big decision to make. Certainly no laughing matter.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it for years.’
‘But you still don’t feel certain?’
‘No. Well, yes, I do. I feel absolutely certain that I want to be a nun. Then I change my mind and feel absolutely certain that I want to be an actress.’
Hugh suppressed a smile. ‘Tell me, how do you feel about being Flora Dunbar?’
Flora stared at him. ‘Well, I don’t have a choice, do I? That’s who I am!’
‘My point exactly. You see, whether you become a dedicated nun or a celebrated actress, the fact remains you’ll still be - will always be - Flora Dunbar. Although in either case,’ he said with a twinkle, ‘you could at least change your name.’ Flora laughed. Hugh felt moved as he saw her anxious expression lift, some of the rigidity drop from her shoulders. ‘You see, I suspect the problem - your biggest problem - is how you feel about being Flora. If you could just sort that out, it might not matter quite so much whether you become a nun or an actress.’ Flora looked down and said nothing. ‘You know, God will love you whatever you decide to do with your life. He won’t love you any more for being a nun and He certainly won’t love you any less for being an actress. Think of the parable of the Prodigal Son.’
Flora looked up again and said cautiously, ‘I never really thought that story was very fair.’
‘No, quite right! It’s extremely unfair. But it’s not a parable about rewards for being good. It’s a lesson on the infinite forgiveness of God, how it’s never too late to be sorry for what we’ve done. If you look at the story in that light, it’s enormously comforting to all of us sinners.’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it like that.’
‘As children we tend to grow up seeking approval. We think by being good we will earn our parents’ love and very often we do. But we don’t have to be good to earn our Heavenly Father’s love. He does, however, expect us to be good for goodness’ sake.’ Seasoned preacher though he was, Hugh was disconcerted by Flora’s steady, enraptured gaze. He changed the subject swiftly. ‘I don’t think I know your parents, do I?’
‘No. My father’s an atheist and my mother - well, she isn’t anything really. They don’t come to church.’
‘So there’s only Miss Sinclair to discuss these matters with?’
‘And my brother Rory. But he thinks being a nun is a really stupid idea. He says I worry too much about things, things that don’t really matter. But he never thinks about anything apart from music.’
‘I see. Look, why don’t you come round to the vicarage one day next week and have a cup of tea and a chat? My wife, Miriam, will be there of course,’ Hugh added hastily, though Flora wasn’t sure why. ‘We could talk things over and…’ He put his head on one side and smiled at her, ‘perhaps say a prayer together? How does that sound to you?’
‘Oh, yes, I’d like that very much! Would it just be… you and me?’
‘Our conversation will be quite confidential, you need have no worries on that score. But I’d prefer you to tell your parents where you’re going.’
‘Oh, yes, I will.’
‘Would Wednesday at seven suit you? I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of spare
time, what with parish council meetings, confirmation classes and so on.’
‘Mrs Wentworth won’t mind me taking up your time?’
‘Not at all. She’s quite used to it. My time is not my own in any case. It’s all dedicated to the service of God and my parishioners - of whom you are one!’
Flora tugged nervously at the short hair above her ear, unsure how to thank Father Hugh for his generosity and understanding. She wanted to throw her arms round the enormous man and give him a hug but as soon as the thought entered her head she chastised herself for her childishness. She murmured, ‘Thank you, Father Hugh—’ then clapped a hand to her mouth and blushed. ‘I mean, Reverend Wentworth!’
Hugh laughed loudly, revealing his white teeth. ‘Oh, everyone calls me Father Hugh! Without exception.’ She pulled at her hair again, embarrassed. His smile lasted a long time. Eventually he said, ‘I wonder if I might ask you a personal question, Flora? It is related to what we’ve been discussing.’
Her initial reaction was to be thrilled to be asked a personal question, but then she wondered what it might be, whether answering it might entail telling a lie. Flora had done a lot of bad things and she knew God would forgive her, but she didn’t think His forgiveness would extend to lying in church, let alone to the vicar.
‘What did you want to ask me?’ she said anxiously.
‘I was curious to know if you’d cut your hair as part of your plan to become a nun?’
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