The Pink House at Appleton

by Jonathan Braham

  The day after he received the leaflet, Mr Burton put on his suit (made in America of worsted wool) and his brown felt hat, worn squarely on his head. With Edgar reluctantly in tow, he visited Sister Margaret Mary.

  While the negotiation progressed by the front door of the school, Edgar took a peek into a classroom. The place smelled of children, newly sharpened pencils and vulnerable young women. He knew their scent. He saw the pretty young teacher, her skirt caught on a nearby desk, revealing the soft curve of delicate and private flesh behind her knees. She caught him staring and pulled her skirt down in one swift motion. But he had seen enough.

  ‘Can you make sailor suits?’ Sister asked, oblivious of the communication between Miss Casserly and the young man at the door.

  ‘I can build the ship, Sistuh,’ Mr Burton replied with a charming smile, shoving Edgar before him. ‘Wit a littuh help from me nephew here.’

  Sister took off her spectacles, fierce horn-rimmed things, and peered hard at Edgar, who took one step back and looked away.

  CHAPTER 30

  That eventful day, Sister Margaret Mary took Boyd’s class. Her bib was crispy white, just like the Holy Sacrament the boys received on their tongues from Father John the Baptist at Our Lady of Sorrows up the road. She stood before the class, writing in her perfect hand on the lined blackboard. There was much to-ing and fro-ing up at the convent, and the younger teachers like Miss Casserly and Miss Skiddar were like excited young girls. Preparations for H.M.S. Pinafore were well underway. In a distant classroom, children practised the songs, and the sound of hammer and saw could be heard as workmen built the stage in the gardens – the school’s tiny auditorium would not be able to cope. Sister Margaret Mary expected all the parents from Appleton and Balaclava to attend as usual.

  She was demonstrating, for the few whose writing did not come up to the standard, how it was done – straight up in the academy’s way, not slanted, the devil’s way. She was not impressed with the new ballpoint pens, the so-called biros. With these new pens, the students simply pressed a plastic knob and down came a thin cylinder tube with the ballpoint of sticky ink ready for writing. Sister did not allow them at the school because they hampered good writing style. Only properly sharpened HB pencils and fountain pens with black or blue Parker Quink Ink were allowed. Writing had to be round and straight up. And I copied all the letters in a big, round hand. I copied all the letters in a hand so free, that now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!

  Michael Sanderson, a boy from the senior class, entered the room from a side door. He was always tipping the balance and made Sister Catherine laugh even when she did not wish to, because to laugh at his jokes was a sin. But he would learn his manners in Sister’s presence. So everyone thought. He spoke to Sister and showed her something. Sister’s face turned immaculate crimson. The children thought they saw gold in the palm of Michael Sanderson’s hand. Sister said something to him and the little lambs, expecting him to genuflect and back away from Sister’s presence, were shocked out of their chairs, their hearts in their mouths, to see Michael, eyes winking, snap his hand up and down, whipping Sister’s veil off. Then he ran from the room laughing.

  At his desk, rigid, Boyd felt as if someone had pulled Mama’s dress off in public. Sister bent down carefully, lifted the veil and snapped it back on. Then she left the room and was gone for a long time. The children did not move. Outside there was commotion. Miss Casserly came, breathless, to take the class. There were rumours that Michael Sanderson had fled the premises. Others said he had gone to confession. Still others said that he had been struck dumb and was roaming the streets. Some of the big boys said he had used a word, the word that should never be spoken, to Sister. And he had showed her a very rude thing, the infamous Gold Coin or French Letter. Because of that, and that alone, the big boys said he would go to Hell. The children in Boyd’s class had no idea what a French Letter was. But Boyd knew immediately. It was, obviously, a letter written in French and had something to do with Mama’s perfume, Evening in Paris, folded up and placed inside a gold coin. The letter was probably like his note to Susan, not the sort of thing to show to Sister Margaret Mary. One of the big girls, who lived at Balaclava, said that Michael, for all his shortcomings, would never have behaved in such a vile manner to Sister Margaret Mary, if he had not been put up to it. Whispering it darkly to just a few of the Balaclava girls, she said that someone else was behind it. They knew about his rum drinking, his wantonness, his skylarking with Michael Sanderson. That someone was none other than Edgar, Mr Burton’s nephew.

  It was the end for Michael Sanderson. No amount of confession could save him. He was beyond prayer. He had had the audacity to behave in this intolerable way while the big plans for the production of H.M.S. Pinafore were in high gear. The Balaclava Academy was an extraordinary little institution. Nothing would sully its excellent reputation; not the Gold Coin or French Letter, not Michael Sanderson, and certainly not the sinful hidden hand of rascals. All the teachers were expected to stand firm against evil influences. Satan was busy trying to get in. They should keep him out.

  Sister Margaret Mary returned from the convent, having received divine unction, to the chorus of ‘Yes, Sister’ following every word she uttered. It was noticeable that the girls now curtseyed when they spoke to her. The young teachers did so too, their eyes full of adoration and deep respect.

  After lunch on that memorable day, Sister Catherine, in the middle of a little excited group of big girls on the patio, looked wistful, like a picture of the Virgin Mary; the Virgin Mary of Italian paintings, poised and serene.

  In the sweet heat and amid the scent of apple blossoms, pretty Diana Delfosse got out her record player, a red and cream machine with a captivating robotic arm. How she got it into the school no one knew and no one asked, not Sister Catherine, not Sister Bernadette, not even Miss Robb. And everyone wondered when Sister Margaret Mary would confiscate the music. Sister Catherine glanced furtively towards the convent and moved closer to the big girls in their bobby socks and brown loafers. Diana Delfosse laughed, showing perfect teeth, and tried to get Sister Catherine to dance. Shyly, the little boys, Boyd included, drew closer to the magic and the music.

  ‘It’s rock and roll, Sister,’ Diana Delfosse thrilled.

  ‘What?’ Sister Catherine did not quite understand and kept looking from one girl to the other and then at Diana Delfosse’s flailing body.

  ‘Jive, Sister Catherine, jive!’ Diana called out.

  Diana was jumping out of her skin, hands and legs making shocking, electric movements. Her brown loafers made quick, harsh sounds on the ground. The other girls watched in amazement. The circle drew tighter, protectively; in the very centre, the gorgeous Diana Delfosse and the coy Sister Catherine, head down and smiling, Diana encouraging her to make small, faltering movements.

  ‘It’s a new dance, Sister.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It?’ The big girls laughed out loud, some literally shrieked. Was there anyone who didn’t know who the singer was? He was in their rooms, in the magazines hidden in their bureau drawers, and everyone, absolutely everyone, was talking about him. They saw at once the limitations of being a nun, which was why none of them seriously thought of taking religious orders, except Arlene, who was an orphan and wanted to be a missionary, but she didn’t really count.

  ‘Well, who?’ Sister Catherine blushed beneath her veil.

  ‘Elvis!’ they all cried out as one. ‘Elvis Presley.’

  ‘Elvis Presley?’ Sister Catherine wrinkled her brow.

  She had no idea who this Elvis was. Boyd, watching keenly, witnessed the subtle little impulses and knew at once that Sister Catherine was yearning. She was longing to wear the lovely creamy socks that the big girls wore with their brown loafers and dance. She was longing to dance off the heavy blue habit, dance with the sun on her back and in her hair, dance away the bloody sacred heart; open her heart to romance, suffer a broken heart, dance to bursting like Diana Delfoss
e and live it up. She just wanted to be led anywhere but to the convent. Sister Bernadette’s eyes met hers and they both looked away, thinking the same guilty thoughts.

  The smaller girls had all drawn closer, with wide eyes and expressions of treasure hunters on a desert island, facing for the first time the twinkle and flash of an opened treasure chest. They did not know who Elvis Presley was either. But to be with the big girls, with Sister Catherine and Sister Bernadette, enveloped as they were in the shade in the shimmering heat on the covered terrace, the boys gathering near, hearing the new music that made the big girls giddy with delight, was pure heaven. And the great expectation of sitting in a circle on the polished floor of the music room after lunch, Sister Catherine at the piano for a double period with the lovely HMS Pinafore music, was more than they could wish for.

  The little boys were there too, with marbles and chewing gum in their pockets. Boyd was there with Adrian Lees, Robert Jureidini and Junior Chin, who was blowing pink bubblegum. They heard the music and mimicked Diana Delfosse, the girl whose eyes they could not meet. She was simply too pretty, too vivacious. They didn’t want to get too close, didn’t want to be dragged into the inner circle, the centre of everything. Only Junior Chin ventured close.

  On that day, Boyd thought of the sun, the plums, the shrieking parakeets high in the pimento trees. He thought of the gathered girls with their peculiar scent that he breathed and dreamed about, Sister Catherine in the middle of it all, vulnerable and shy, looking to Sister Bernadette for reassurance. But most of all it was the special music from the little record player with the black, shiny records and the lovely pain of missing Susan that seeped deep into him that day.

  One of the bigger girls – Denise Jureidini, they thought it was – asked whether there were any records by Chuck Berry or Paul Anka. Diana did have another special record in her small pile of 78s. It was Paul Anka’s Diana. Shouts of approval went up from some of the girls. But Paul Anka would have to wait until after Elvis. And everybody would have to wait until then.

  ‘Baby, let me be your loving Teddy Bear,’ Diana sang out, repeating the words of the song.

  The other girls joined in and soon Miss Casserly and Miss Skiddar arrived, snapping their fingers and singing, ‘Baby let me be. Baby let me be.’

  The moment Miss Casserly arrived on the scene, some of the big girls ran to her, their fingers splayed with great anticipation. Miss Casserly’s dark, glossy ringlets played freely about her face. The big girls whispered in her ear and stood back, wanting her to confirm the buzz. They had asked, What’s your tale, nightingale? But Miss Casserly did not provide the information they wanted to hear, rumours they wanted confirmed or denied.

  Sister Catherine’s face was aglow after hearing “Teddy Bear”. And when Diana Delfosse, flipping the 78 record over to “Love Me Tender”, grabbed her about the waist, she ran with an operatic shriek from the group and away from Sister Bernadette, out into the sun. Miss Casserly, happy and gay, went to her, fingers splayed, like the big girls. It was a memorable picture: the tree heavy with apples and the air with apple scent, the lips of the girls apple-red, Miss Casserly and Sister Catherine inches from the shade of the tree in the sweet heat of the lunchtime sun, silhouetted against the white of the school building, laughing, hugging, talking in hushed tones, not everyone understanding. Some of the big girls whispered, and it must have been about wonderful things because their eyes were as clear as the Balaclava skies.

  ‘Love me tender, love me sweet,’ Diana sang passionately, eyes closed, an imaginary Elvis Presley in her arms. Some of the smaller girls, like the Cadien sisters, stared at the ground, blushing.

  Diana did eventually play Paul Anka’s Diana and brought the party to its climax. But it was Miss Robb, well pressed, grey hobble skirt tight and shining about her hips, who ended it when she appeared on the tiny gallery of the main school building, glowering, the big brass bell in her hands. She didn’t have to ring the bell. Everyone knew it was the end of one thing and the beginning of something else. And Miss Casserly went away from them.

  She left the school early that day, seemingly in a devilish hurry, which was unusual for her. Put a chain around my neck and lead me anywhere.

  The children walked in an orderly file up the hill to the convent for the double period of music. Behind them, the carpenters hammered at the wooden stage. They entered the convent excited about the H.M.S. Pinafore songs: We sail the ocean blue, and our saucy ship’s a beauty. The music room radiated calm and cool, its wooden floors shone like the piano and when Sister Catherine arrived, full of grace, it felt like an ante-room of heaven. The girls kneeled down and sat on their heels, skirts draped on the floor, backs straight up like the writing in their exercise books. The boys sat carelessly behind the girls on the floor, not knowing what to do with their legs, one or two ending up under the girls’ skirts, against their bright white bloomers. It was a day of gushing songs, piano music and beating hearts. In the afternoon, after the H.M.S. Pinafore songs, they trooped back down the hill behind Sister Catherine.

  Miss Casserly had not been there to practise her song, For I am called Little Buttercup – dear Little Buttercup, though I could never tell why. Everyone wondered at this and missed her bird-like warbling.

  The sun was dying as the calm but agile Mr Chin arrived in the Plymouth station wagon with the power steering and the sweet smell of petrol. The children took their seats and waved goodbye to Sister Margaret Mary. The station wagon went out between the two moss-covered cut-stone pillars at the school gate. Mr Chin, his dark hair falling over his eyes, looked up and down the road. To his left was Balaclava and to his right the road to Raheen, Appleton and Maggotty. He let the power steering wheel pass smoothly through his open palms and Boyd heard it say Shhhhhh! He turned right as Sister Margaret Mary watched gravely from the office, a solid figure of blue and white and gold-rimmed spectacles. I am the monarch of the sea, the ruler of the Queen’s Navee. The Plymouth, full of small, glowing children, went downhill and uphill and across railway tracks in the afternoon light, along smooth unending lanes with apple-green cane fields beyond.

  The new words appeared just as they were driving along Raheen, where the road was straight and perfect. One of the big girls whispered it with great wonderfulness and secrecy, and it was repeated. Several of the little girls giggled with ignorance and Diana Delfosse whispered in someone’s ear. Soon everyone was saying it in hushed tones. Ann-Marie and Dawn seemed bewildered, not understanding what it meant. Boyd did not know, nor did Adrian and his sisters and the others. What could it mean? It was a mystery of such potency that the big girls had to whisper it. Perhaps Sister Margaret Mary would talk about it at assembly in the morning because it was so important, like the Hail Mary or the Ten Commandments. They heard it but they did not hear it, this adult secret.

  The big girls had said it, the mysterious thing. It was the association of the two words that hid its meaning. The whispering and the secrecy gave it a powerful, seductive quality. The only person who seemed to know anything was Diana Delfosse, who got off the school bus among much activity and excitement at Siloah. Miss Casserly was in love.

  CHAPTER 31

  What did it mean? Boyd sat at his desk watching for Miss Casserly, hoping she would take the class so that he could look at her with inquisitive eyes. Miss Casserly was in love. The September breeze whispered it. But, as he craned his neck to look, he saw Sister Margaret Mary in conversation with a man partly hidden at the door. Boyd sat bolt upright. It was Papa, standing by the steps like a schoolboy, attentive and respectful.

  ‘Boyd will need a sailor suit,’ Sister Margaret Mary was saying. ‘All the children taking part will need sailor suits, sailor hats and black shoes. Mr Burton will make the suits. The costume list was sent with my letter.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Papa said. ‘Boyd brought it straight home. He hasn’t stopped talking about H.M.S. Pinafore.’

  ‘He knows all the songs,’ Sister Margaret Mary said with a restrained
smile. ‘Boyd really gets involved at rehearsals. If he wasn’t so tiny, we’d make him Sir Joseph Porter or Ralph Rackstraw, Able Seaman.’ And Sister laughed, not like other people with a loud roar and a throwing back of the head, but with a few soft hmm hmms from between closed lips.

  Papa laughed too, thinking that that was the right time to take the small brown envelope out of his pocket and hand it to Sister, the real purpose of his visit.

  ‘My contribution,’ he said, one hand behind his back.

  Sister smiled like the full moon. All her ships had come in now. ‘We are very grateful,’ she said. ‘God bless you. Thank you for taking time out from your important job at Appleton Estate to drive up here with your gift. It will be put to very good use. The teachers are so excited. Our midterm production will be magnificent, God willing. We look forward to seeing you and Mrs Brookes.’

  Papa was walking away when Sister called him back. ‘Any news about little Susan Mitchison?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing, Sister.’ Papa hung his head.

  ‘The poor thing, so sickly.’

  ‘Yes,’ Papa said. ‘I think it’s asthma. She’s recuperating in Mandeville, I believe. The air is cooler up there.’

  ‘Well, we’ll be praying for her,’ Sister said.

  Reeling with the news, Boyd saw Papa walk off in the yellow sunlight. Sister Margaret Mary entered the building, face in shadow, her rosaries playing the music of a hundred and sixty-five tiny chained black balls. He was in extremis. Everyone knew that Mandeville was where the hospitals were. Susan was there and growing weaker every day. Everyone was hiding the news. She would die suddenly, just like Little Nell, the girl he read about in The Old Curiosity Shop. They would receive a telegram and the sun would stop shining, the music would end. She couldn’t last. Everything comes to an end.

  * * *

  That evening, Boyd and Yvonne sat with Papa in the Land Rover speeding towards Balaclava and Mr Burton. Every face that Boyd saw in every car they passed belonged to Susan, returning home from Mandeville at last.