We then sprinted across the courtyard to the warren of dormitories and classrooms that had been used for the order’s former boarding school. Each bend in a corridor left me further disoriented, and had Sister Marjorie abandoned me right there and then, I might still be trying to thread my way back. All the while, she maintained a running commentary about the castle and its features.
Sneaton Castle had not always been a priory or a castle. It was built in 1813 as a lodge to house a seminary for young men, though the idea never got off the ground. A few years later, the stone building was sold to Colonel James Wilson, a Scottish-born surgeon and politician. Wilson plied his skills on the Caribbean island of St. Vincent and was rewarded for his services with a sugar plantation and the slaves to work it (it is a point that still makes the sisters wince). When he strutted back to England with his pockets bulging with money, Wilson decided to establish an ancestral seat. He bought the lodge and hired an architect to convert it into a castle. Two square crenellated towers were constructed to bookend the original building, and the façade was rebuilt with a castellated roofline and parapet. A stone crest was added above the front door, an enclosed garden was landscaped, twenty cannons were lined up across the front lawn and, voila!, instant castle.
Wilson became a British member of parliament and gave generously to the Whitby community, but no one shared his interest in the castle, not even his family. When he died in 1830, the place sat virtually empty for almost a century.
In 1914, along came Margaret Cope, a clever and headstrong twenty-eight-year-old geography teacher who wanted to rent it for her fledgling religious order and its boarding school.
The Archbishop of York at the time, Cosmo Lang, had patronizingly attempted to dissuade Cope from starting her order on the grounds that she was too young. No shrinking violet, she retorted that people felt he was too young (he was about fifty) to be an archbishop.
Not only did Miss Cope, soon to be Mother Margaret of the Order of the Holy Paraclete, follow through with her intention, but within a few years she had bought the castle outright.
Sister Marjorie and I stood below a large oil painting of Mother Margaret staring down her aquiline nose at us with an uncompromising and penetrating gaze.
“When did she die?” I asked.
“Nineteen sixty. Fell down the steps at one of the branch houses. Never regained consciousness.”
Sister Marjorie excused herself for a moment, so I sauntered over to a rack filled with the day’s editions of the major newspapers and picked one up. It was a perk I hadn’t expected at a convent: national newspapers delivered daily.
When Sister Marjorie reappeared, I folded up the newspaper and tucked it under my arm.
“Put that back,” she snapped.
“I haven’t finished with it.” There was still the Lifestyle section to read, the sudoku to do, the crossword to puzzle over.
“Doesn’t matter. Someone else might like to read it.”
“But there are other newspapers.”
She stared me down.
I put it back. Obviously I was not as free of attachments as I thought.
We took a back staircase to the next floor, and then wended our way up a spiral staircase in one of the castle’s turrets to the roof.
Sister Marjorie pushed open a door and suddenly I was facing a glorious panorama of pastures, the great North Yorkshire Moors, the town of Whitby, and the shimmer of the North Sea. A thrilling sight, the kind that made me want to spread my arms and yell “I’m Queen of the World!” Except that I didn’t because although it was sunny, the wind was buffeting us like boxers in a ring.
It felt as if we were going to be blown through the crenellations, so I grabbed hold of a chimney and began to emit girly exclamations of alarm. But petite Sister Marjorie was unfazed. She did not hold on to anything, and stood stalk-straight, impervious to the wind. Bring it on, she seemed to say.
Her fondness for the castle was evident, and no wonder: she had lived here almost her entire life, starting as a student at the boarding school. She had been among those evacuated in 1940 to Toronto to wait out the war.
“When I returned to Whitby from Canada,” she said, “I got a job as Mother Margaret’s secretary, and eventually I decided to join the novitiate. I’ve been a sister here for, well, it will be sixty years in August.”
There had been long, exhilarating stretches serving in the order’s various branch houses in Africa, the memory of which sent her into a dreamy reverie and brought a smile to her face.
“No regrets, then?” I asked, now clinging to a TV antenna and bracing for the next gust.
“Well, of course I have,” she said abruptly, returning from her reverie. “It’s like a marriage. You’re not always happy, but you carry on; you work through the rougher bits.”
When I returned to my cell later that day, the question of my vocation was waiting for me, hands on hips and foot tapping with impatience.
Well? Do you like this life or not?
I just got here, for crying out loud. Give me time.
But as I unpacked and arranged my books, I could not help thinking how perfect it all seemed. Yes, I could see myself in this place for a very long time.
( 5:iii )
THE FOLLOWING afternoon I attended the sisters’ weekly house meeting in the community room, a large reception room that was off-limits to all but the sisters themselves. The only reason I had been invited was so that I could be formally introduced. Sister Dorothy Stella motioned me to a chair next to her.
House meetings were held to coordinate schedules, inform each other of medical appointments and days off, and share news about events outside the convent. It was exactly like a family sitting around with a calendar and jotting down who had to be where and at what time. About twenty-five sisters, ranging in age from early twenties to ninety-plus, sat in armchairs arranged in a large circle. They all wore their habits, some with black shoes, others with running shoes. One or two wore the traditional black veil, but that appeared to be optional.
They acknowledged me guardedly; I smiled back nervously.
Sister Dorothy Stella brought up some housekeeping matters and correspondence that had arrived. There was a reminder about the rule of silence in the cloister corridors. I was ruminating about the pitfalls of being the “new girl” in a convent when I noticed that all eyes had swiveled toward me. Sister Dorothy Stella was asking me to explain to the group why I was there.
I told them about the persistent call to religious life I had felt since my teens, about leaving a full-time job to explore the call in earnest, about being at the Toronto convent and about receiving instructions from the talking tea towel with the picture of Sneaton Castle on it.
Their faces remained impassive through all this, which I believe is the correct posture to assume when confronted by a psycho. That, and don’t make any sudden moves. What was that adage? If you talk to God, you’re religious; if God talks to you, you’re psychotic?
I told them that I was divorced, had grown children, and was engaged to be married a third time when this call to religious life began ringing.
A few glances were exchanged—some with raised eyebrows.
“I know it isn’t the tidiest of lives, but surely not everyone is blessed with a clean passage through this world.” I was getting sick of apologizing for the way my life had turned out.
One or two shifted in their seats.
“If it doesn’t work out, then I’ll accept that,” I continued. “But I need to settle that yearning within me one way or another.”
A couple of perfunctory questions followed: What did my children think of this? How did my fiancé feel about it? I said that my children were happy for me and that my fiancé was “understanding.”
I also told them I had been a journalist and an author, and that I hoped to write about my convent experience.
After an uncomfortable silence, Sister Dorothy Stella spoke up.
“Since you’re obviously profic
ient with a computer, perhaps you could assist us while you’re here.”
I nodded, and moved to the edge of my seat to show I was eager to be helpful.
“There is a binder containing the twice-yearly charges that our foundress, Mother Margaret, delivered to the chapter meetings in the nineteen-forties and -fifties. We need them transcribed.
“We also wondered whether you could help us update our history from the last ten years,” Sister Dorothy Stella continued. “We already have a book that was published, but we’re looking at republishing it with newer information. We’ll give you an office in which to do your work.”
This was perfect. Just before the meeting I had been thinking about small vocations. Throughout my career I had always gone after the big-bang assignments as much for the praise as for the challenge of proving myself. But lately I had begun to consider the satisfaction that could be gained from less visible work, the type of work that has a direct and positive impact on someone’s life, often someone you might never meet.
“Yes,” I told the group, pleading in my needy way. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
That opened the floodgates to more “small vocations.”
( 5:iv )
THE NEXT day, after a silent breakfast, I cleared my place, took my dishes into the kitchen, and placed them on a rack destined for the dishwasher. I ambled back into the refectory to see if I could be of use. It never seems right to accept food from people without offering to help clean up.
A sister—quiet, intense, about my age, with thick brown wavy hair kept in place with a bobby pin—seemed to be in charge of the post-meal cleanup. She moved very quickly around the refectory, directing the work of a couple of the other sisters and switching chairs among the different tables.
She saw me standing alone and snapped impatiently, “Well, grab a penny.” No introduction; no “Please grab a penny.”
“A penny? OK.” I began to look on the floor for a penny, though I was not entirely sure why she needed one.
“What are you doing?” she said, narrowing her eyes as she drew closer. “A pinny.”
Pause.
“Apron,” she said. She tugged at the one she was wearing in case I was too dim to comprehend the word “apron.” “They’re hanging on the back of the kitchen door.”
Aprons. I thought those things had been retired to the Smithsonian.
I scurried into the kitchen letting the term “pinny” roll around my brain—Was it in the dictionary?—before plucking an apron from about a dozen hanging from a hook on the kitchen door.
“Oh, I wouldn’t use that one,” murmured one portly sister who was putting away the breakfast condiments. “That belongs to Sister X, and she might get upset.”
I quickly put the apron back and pulled out another one. I looked at her and waited for approval.
“Don’t know who that belongs to, so it’s probably safe to use. I think.”
I tied it on. When I turned around Sister Margaret Anne—someone in the kitchen had by then told me her name—was standing in the doorway that connected the refectory with the kitchen. Her hands were on her hips, and she gave me a look that said What the hell is taking you so long? I was becoming a rapid decipherer of body language.
I scurried after her into the refectory. Before I could speak, she thrust a broom, two dustpans, and a table brush at me and instructed me to sweep the floors “on that side.”
I set to work with a conscientiousness I had forgotten I possessed. I swept the parquet floors around and under the large oak refectory tables, and then with the table brush I swept the tabletops of breakfast crumbs. Another sister was sweeping the other side of the refectory, so once I finished my side, I helped sweep her side, too. I efficiently gathered all the bits into the dustpan, took it into the kitchen, and proudly dumped it into the bin.
Sister Margaret Anne was at my heels.
“You’re not supposed to do that.”
“What?”
“You use this dustpan for the table, and this one for the floor. Don’t mix them up. It’s not hygienic. Besides, the crumbs from the table can be used to feed the birds. From now on, put the table crumbs in the blue bin on the ledge over by the breadbox, and the dust and dirt collected from the floor into the garbage. Food scraps go into this yellow bin for the donkeys.”
Donkeys? What donkeys?
I flushed with confusion.
“Furthermore, when you sweep the refectory you are only supposed to do the side you’ve been assigned; another person does the other half. Did you notice there were two of you with brooms? You might very well be faster, but that’s not the point. We share our tasks, and it is important to make others feel valuable, even those who are slower.”
I flushed again.
Sister Margaret Anne had seen right through my so-called diligence and to the heart of one of my major flaws. I’m competitive, and I have a tendency to go overboard when given a task just to prove my capability and efficiency. I call it value-added; others call it sucking up. Ask me to do dishes, and I will wipe down the countertops and kitchen cabinets, too. Ask me to change a bed, and I will gather the linens, put them in the wash, and iron them afterwards. I don’t know where this compulsion came from, but somewhere along the road of life I became an approval whore. I swept the other side of the refectory because I wanted to prove my indispensability; I collected the crumbs and dumped them in the garbage to show I didn’t need to be told what to do. I hate this too-eager-to-please part of my personality, I really do, and yet whenever I have tried to correct it I end up disappointing people. Flaws: can’t live with them; can’t live without them.
Next, I was asked to set the tables for the noon meal.
Meals at St. John the Divine in Toronto were served buffet style; at St. Hilda’s in Whitby, things were far more formal. A full complement of cutlery was employed—eating and serving utensils, water glasses, coasters, placemats and trivets, various bowls for discarding fruit rinds, and other bowls for collecting certain pieces of used cutlery.
In my previous life as a wife and mother I had set lots of tables—for evening meals, dinner parties, family celebrations—and I had also been fortunate to dine at a few rather fine restaurants in my time, but never have I been confronted with so much hardware as I was at St. Hilda’s. It was like ground zero for cutlery fetishists.
My acumen for table setting must have taken a sabbatical without warning me because it became quickly evident that I was incapable of handling anything beyond placing the knives and forks, and even then I got that wrong, having transposed them while struggling to get my flustered state under control. Thank goodness Sister Margaret Anne was there to correct my error.
“We prepare our refectory and set the tables as if Christ was coming as a guest,” instructed Sister Margaret Anne, as she swiftly circled the tables and changed the position of the cutlery. The urge arose to mention that Christ might find this layout daunting, but Sister Margaret Anne might have considered the comment irreverent.
I could hardly wait to get out of the refectory that morning. Once the tables were set, I scrambled out of my “pinny”—Must check the dictionary for that one—and made a beeline for the sanctuary of my cell so that I could collapse in a heap of pity on my bed.
En route I was intercepted by Sister Katherine Thérèse.
“Can I interest you in a job?” she asked with a smile.
“Sure!” I said with guarded enthusiasm. I did not want to come across as a grumpy-guss, but at the same time I did not want to cultivate a reputation as a doormat.
I made an exception for Sister KT, as she was known, because she had a spark to her. She was in her mid-forties, slender, with shoulder-length brown hair worn in a ponytail. She was from Lancashire and had a cheerful, slightly rough-and-ready quality.
“You see,” explained Sister KT as she steered me toward the chapel, “Grace got her foot in a garden pot, so she’s off chapel duty. I need someone to take her place.”
I had
no idea who Grace was or how she got her foot stuck in a garden pot, but I kept my questions to myself. I was still trying to work out how I could have forgotten how to set a table.
“Now,” said Sister KT as we walked toward the sanctuary, “all you do is vacuum and dust the Lady Chapel, the sacristy, and the sanctuary. Just clean out to the edge of these steps.”
I had never been given a task that brought me so close to an altar.
“Is there a special way to clean the altar, a ritual I should follow?”
“Nah. Just like cleaning your house. I mean, don’t go knocking things about, but just clean it, normal like. Here’s where we keep the supplies.”
Behind a dark brown wooden door at the entrance of the Lady Chapel was a collection of the most basic of cleaning tools: an old Henry canister vacuum cleaner, a couple of thick dusting cloths, an extension cord, and a bucket. There were no cleansers, no furniture polish.
“We don’t worry about that,” Sister KT replied in answer to my query.
“Do I clean every day?”
“No, silly—once a week. Friday mornings once you’ve finished in the refectory after breakfast.”
Could I do it instead of the refectory? Visions of Sister Margaret Anne flashed to mind.
I took off again for my cell but this time I bumped into Sister Dorothy Stella.
“What are you doing after lunch?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure whether to say “Nothing,” tell her I was busy, or scream.
“I have to go into Whitby to buy a train ticket,” she continued. “I was wondering whether you’d like to come along. It would be fun for you to see the town and...,” she lowered her voice before adding, “to get out of here for a while.”
( 5:v )
WAS THERE such a thing as spiritual jet lag? I was sure feeling it. Three convents in three weeks, all with different landscapes, schedules, customs, routines, and even faiths. If it’s February, this must be Whitby. Plus, there were new names to learn, which was complicated by the fact that 75 percent of the sisters at St. Hilda’s seemed to be named Margaret or a variation of it, or their names began with M. Who could keep up?
And Then There Were Nuns Page 16
