I Leap Over the Wall

by Monica Baldwin

  Three times a day she gave round letters to the nuns, after they had been previously examined by the Prioress. This obliged her to be constantly in and out of the Superior’s room, so that she had many opportunities of slipping in a suggestion or tactfully sowing the seeds of an idea. This could make her a valuable friend—or, possibly, a dangerous enemy.

  Perhaps the most tiresome of her jobs was the adornment of a number of the ‘little altars’—wooden brackets on which were set a statue or picture of a saint. These lurked in every corner of the monastery. Practically every nun had charge of one. This meant that a vase or two of flowers, with perhaps a few candles or a lamp on ‘occasions’, had to be crammed on to the bracket, and the whole affair dusted carefully every day. When the saint’s festival came round, the nun was expected to do something spectacular in the way of decoration. So, on the eve, she would spend such free moments as she possessed in decking out the altar and its immediate surroundings with ferns, foliage, flowers and a forest of elegant candlesticks mounted on wooden stands.

  (The idea was, I believe, that the larger and more elaborate the ‘dress’, the more fervour it betokened in the dresser. A meagre ‘dress’, suggesting that only a short time had been spent upon it, was thus a sure sign of tepidity.)

  A carpet, with a cushion supporting a book, was then spread before it; so that when the community assembled at the appointed hour, the Prioress could recite the prayer or litany in honour of the saint.

  To me, this business of ‘dressing’ the little altars always seemed rather a waste of time. Time was so scarce, and there were so many things one longed to do in it….

  The actual mode of government was simple.

  It was based upon faith—which has been defined as a supernatural faculty of discerning the divine through, and in, the human.

  Those who embrace the Religious Life believe that it contains three special channels by which the Will of God comes to them. These are, (1) the Rule, which outlines the spirit and observances of the Order; (2) the Constitutions and Customs, which fill in details; and (3) the commands of the Superior.

  By faith, each Religious sees God in the Superior. ‘Never’, says St. John of the Cross, ‘look upon your Superior, be he who he may, otherwise than if you were looking upon God, for he stands in his place. If you reflect upon the character, ways … or habits of your Superior, you will change your obedience from divine into human … and obedience influenced by human considerations is almost worthless in the eyes of God.’

  As a result, the more complete the submission of one’s will to that of the Superior (sin always, of course, excepted), the more perfectly one’s will is united to the Will of God.

  I once consulted the famous Dominican, Father Bede Jarrett, about this matter of submission.

  He was a man of deep humour, profound learning, and wide experience. I told him about an order which had just been given to me by a Superior and which had struck me as being neither wise nor just.

  ‘I can submit my will sufficiently to do the thing I’ve been told to do,’ I explained to him, ‘but as for forcing my mind …’

  He looked at me with those intent yet curiously brooding eyes that were so unforgettable.

  He said: ‘I once took that same problem to my Novice Master. He told me to re-read The Charge of the Light Brigade. The idea, you see, is, that you do what you’re told, no matter how certain you feel that someone has blundered. To ride fearlessly into the jaws of death without reasoning why adds splendour to your obedience.’

  ‘Even,’ I persisted, ‘if you feel convinced that what you’ve been told to do is sheerest lunacy?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Ah, but don’t you see?—that’s just where the heroism comes in.’

  This point of view impressed me. Of course, it fits in perfectly with another basic principle of the Christian life—that one is not made or unmade by the things that happen to one, but by one’s reactions to the circumstances of one’s life.

  That, as the Dominican assured me, is all that God cares about.

  But there was another theory which helped to influence the decisions of those in authority. This I found harder to assimilate. It was the theory of la grâce d’état. In practice, it really meant that if a nun were appointed to an office, that nun—provided that she prayed sufficiently for God’s grace and did what lay in her to make the thing a success—was certain not to fail. ‘I can do all things,’ one was reminded by one’s Novice Mistress, ‘in him who strengtheneth me’—a heartening belief when the day for the annual Change of Office came round and a kind of General Post took place in the community.

  I have seen a young and quite inexperienced little under-vestiarian summoned on such an occasion to the Superior’s room. She came forth in a terrified daze, unable to realize that she had just been appointed Mistress of Novices. Another, who knew nothing of medicine and had never nursed anyone, appeared equally stunned when informed that henceforward she would hold the office of Infirmarian.

  I myself felt the need of all the support which la grâce d’état could provide for me at an extremely early stage of my career. After barely six months in the convent, I was told suddenly that in a fortnight’s time I should have to go down to the school and give classes in English, Geography and History.

  I was panic-stricken.

  My own school-days had been delightful, but the classes were dull and I had never bothered about studying. My time had been spent in devouring Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, the works of Kipling and the plays of Oscar Wilde, whose epigrams dazzled my adolescent mind. As a result, the lacunae in my education were such that it would have been hard to find anyone less fitted for the instruction of youth.

  This I tried nervously to explain to the Prioress.

  She assured me, however, that, in the spiritual order, one was never justified in saying that anything at all ‘could not be done’.

  ‘If you put everything you’ve got into it, and trust God,’ she insisted, kindly but firmly, ‘He will do the thing for you. Remember St. Peter walking on the waves.’ And an eminent Jesuit, to whom I confided my apprehension next time I went to Confession, advised me to imitate the apostles when Christ told them to feed five thousand people with five barley loaves and a few cold fish.

  After that, of course, there was nothing more to be said.

  (9)

  That evening, I wrote a faintly acid note to Mr. Hambledon, asking for an explanation.

  Unfortunately, according to the maddening habit of letters, it just crossed one from him to me. In it, he said that some changes had just been made at the airfield and asked if I could possibly take up my work there in a couple of days’ time. There was no mention whatsoever of the photostat.

  It was, I suppose—all things considered—rather unwise of me. But, after I had thought it over for a little, I wired to Mr. Hambledon that I would come.

  1 In convents, the Rule is looked upon as the expression of the Will of God for the religious. A French Carmelite, Sœur Elisabeth de la Trinité, described the Rule as ‘la forme en laquelle Dieu me veut sainte’. Each act of fidelity to Rule is thus seen as an act of conformity to the Will of God, an opportunity for ‘satisfying the Beloved’—down to the most apparently trivial details. It is, of course, when this point of view is forgotten or ignored that the Rule becomes arduous.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  (1)

  I GREATLY enjoyed the journey from St. Pancras to—perhaps we had better call it Shuffleborough.

  This was largely because of the panorama to be seen from the carriage windows. I suppose I had been shut away for so long that I had forgotten what mustard fields looked like; but they seemed to me one of the loveliest things I had seen since I came out. Sheet upon sheet of blazing yellow, half-way between sulphur and celandine, with hot golden sunshine pouring down upon them out of a dazzling June sky. It thrilled me like music.

  I had a book, too, called High Rising by Angela Thirkell. This caused me to utter such yelp
s of delighted laughter that the gaggle of stolid-looking A.T.S. girls sitting opposite kept looking across to see what it was all about.

  As had been arranged, I was met at the station by the Welfare Officer. By the way she shook hands, I could tell at once that something was wrong.

  ‘It’s just too bad!’ she kept lamenting. ‘I really hardly know how to give you the message … it’s just too bad!’

  This was alarming. Had the aerodrome perhaps been destroyed by enemy action? Or had Mr. Hambledon committed suicide?

  ‘Look,’ I said at last, ‘do let me know what has happened. I promise you I won’t collapse.’

  Mr. Hambledon, it appeared, had sent for her that morning and given instructions for me to be told on my arrival that the job had fallen through and that I had better return to London by the next convenient train.

  I gazed at her, dumbfounded. What on earth was I going to do?

  I thought it over for a moment. Then, breathing forth fire and brimstone against Mr. Hambledon, I determined that I would beard him myself and discover what lay behind this extraordinary affair.

  So the Welfare Officer and I packed ourselves and the two suitcases which contained all my earthly possessions into a taxi, and away we drove along the hot white dusty road to the aerodrome.

  The Welfare Officer, whose soft pale face made me think of a magnolia, assured me that she had no inkling as to what the cause of Mr. Hambledon’s behaviour could be.

  ‘But then, of course,’ she concluded, ‘at that place you do always feel that anything might be done to you.’ And she proceeded to relate tales about what had been done to her since she worked there. None of them in any way increased my esteem for Mr. Hambledon.

  The aerodrome, when at last we arrived there, did not impress me. A huddle of lizard-coloured huts clustered round about the entrance; further on, two enormous corrugated sheds stretched half-way down the cropped turf of the landing-ground. I followed the Welfare Officer into one of them. A girl was working on some stiff, sour-smelling canvas at a kind of sewing-machine. Further on, a group of tousled, pasty-faced mechanics tinkered at the smashed fuselage of a war-scarred plane. They stared as we passed, but took no further notice of us. Beyond this shed, a hut stood in a hot pool of sunshine. Men and girls in boiler-suits and overalls were pouring in through the open door.

  ‘The canteen,’ said the Welfare Officer. ‘I’ll leave you with the manageress while I look for Mr. Hambledon.’ And she disappeared in the direction of some office-like buildings over the way.

  A kindly woman in a check apron pulled me behind the counter. She set a very thick cup of fierce-looking tea before me. While I drank it, I took stock of those whom Providence had so nearly ordained should be my fellow-workers.

  Most of them were smoking. The girls, who for no apparent reason shrieked and giggled incessantly, struck me as rather a brazen-looking crowd. Two or three had a frightened, hangdog air which was rather sinister. The men lounged about on the benches, shouting to one another and indulging in rough horse-play with the girls. Their language was new to me. Most of their swear-words I had not heard before. All of them stared at me as though I had dropped from another planet.

  Presently the Welfare Officer returned and said that, if I would go across and wait on the airfield, Mr. Hambledon would come to me.

  So I went.

  I may as well confess at once that Mr. Hambledon was too much for me. True, I allowed myself the luxury of telling him quite a lot—though, alas, not all—of what I thought about him; but against his particular technique I really hadn’t a chance. It was like banging a balloon. Never have I met anyone who so skilfully bounced and slithered away from every question put to him. Especially about the photostat. His replies simply had no bearing at all upon the situation. The only explanation he attempted to offer was that ‘the job had fallen through’. And he repeated that I had better go back to London as soon as possible.

  After about half an hour’s unsuccessful manoeuvring to get him cornered, it struck me that it would be as well if the first move towards concluding the interview came from me. I therefore, in the grand manner, and with an air of ineffable hauteur, dismissed him from my presence, as though he were a refractory kitchen-boy. This took him so by surprise that he withdrew, with no more than a mumble, from the scene of combat. I remember observing that his ears were claret-coloured as he slouched away.

  Outside, while I was shaking the dust of the aerodrome from my feet, I saw the Welfare Officer waiting for me. I told her the result of the conversation. This in no way appeared to surprise her.

  She said, ‘I do wish I could help you. I’ve been thinking up a little plan while you and Mr. Hambledon were talking. I wonder what you’ll say to it?’

  Still smarting a little from the sense of injustice induced by my recent contact with that gentleman, I looked down at her. I felt suddenly and strangely comforted, for the eyes that looked back at me from behind the horn-rimmed spectacles were among the kindest I have ever seen.

  (2)

  At this point the chronicle becomes suddenly and violently saturated with the atmosphere of the Acts of the Apostles.

  This was due in the first place to the behaviour of the Welfare Officer, whose name, it appeared, was Olwen Price. She insisted that, instead of returning to London, I should go back, then and there, to Shuffleborough, and spend the night with her at the flat which she shared with her school-teacher friend. This friend, she assured me, was One In A Thousand; and, if I cared to discuss with her what she called ‘the possibilities of my position’, she thought I might find help in her advice.

  I accepted this extraordinarily kind invitation. It would have been almost impossible to refuse. Upon which, the atmosphere to which I have alluded began to make itself felt.

  The Acts of the Apostles has always seemed to me one of the greatest thrillers of all time. The chapters, however, which now concern us are those which describe how the earliest. Christians lived. They had ‘but one heart and one soul’; they ‘dwelt together in gladness and simplicity of heart’; ‘all their possessions were in common’ and they ‘distributed to everyone according as he had need’. An idyllic picture, of which every detail was faithfully reproduced in the household across whose threshold I now stepped.

  I hope that I shall not be misunderstood if I say here that I am not what is usually described as ‘pious’. But I fall down flat in the dust with admiration when I come across people who take the Sermon on the Mount literally and practise it, point by point, in their daily lives. And that was what Olwen and her friend quite obviously did.

  The flat was small and light and beige-coloured, with a style of furniture that was new to me. Everything was as plain and pale as possible, and shaped, so far as might be, like a box. I was regarding it with interest when a door opened and a young woman in a blue dress came in. One had the impression that a light sea-wave was about to break on the shore….

  ‘Meet Wendy Nicholls!’ said Olwen dramatically.

  I jumped a little—I hope not too noticeably—for I had never before heard this form of introduction. It struck me as peculiar….

  I find it a little difficult to write about Olwen and Wendy. This is because I do not know how to reproduce the unique atmosphere in which they lived. To relate merely what they said and did would be dull. To the non-religious it might even sound funny; whereas it was actually all rather beautiful. Like Helen Waddell’s Desert Fathers, their every action seemed to show forth a standard of values that just turned the world upside down. They were clean-hearted, like the nicest kind of children; they were absolutely honest; and I never heard either of them offend in the smallest degree against charity.

  We had a supper-ish kind of meal in their little kitchen, where they lavished upon me everything that their tiny war-time larder contained. Afterwards, we sat in armchairs and made ourselves known to one another. Their outlook on life was unusual. I feel, however, that to analyse it would need a more competent pen than mine. All
I can say is that their warm-hearted human sympathy and kindness was unforgettable; and that it impressed me more and more as we talked ourselves far into that hot summer night.

  They urged me to stay down there with them for at least a day or two. They were sure they could find me a job. Then began a great ringing up of their friends; and, before I knew where I was, an interview had been arranged for me with the works manager of an electrical engineering firm who had a large factory just outside Shuffleborough. Just what the prospective job would be, I did not find out; but ‘Jack’, Wendy assured me, would do anything he could for me. (‘Jack’ and Wendy, I gathered, were kindred spirits where the things of the soul were concerned.) Finally, when sleep laid its hand rather heavily upon us, these surprising women knelt down like two children at their mother’s knee and started to say their prayers. Out loud.

  It seems incredible, but they really did it. And though I was curiously embarrassed, to them it was the most natural thing in the world. They talked to God exactly as if they saw him there before them, and knew for a fact that he cared tremendously about their smallest concerns. Wendy even thanked him politely for having guided me to their flat and requested that she and Olwen might be instrumental in finding the right kind of work for me.

  I quite realize that the idea of such proceedings will give rise to sensations of nausea in the stomach of a certain kind of person. For my own part, I found it most touching. And when, dizzy with sleep, they got up from their knees and said goodnight to me, it was with such good and kind and happy faces that I could have hugged the pair of them.