Rock Me Gently

by Judith Kelly

  We stared at her blankly. She stopped shaking her clasped hands and putting them to her brow, looked eagerly at her listeners out of her small eyes. ‘I mean, a Catholic is more capable of evil than anyone, I think, perhaps - because we believe in Him - we are more in touch with the devil than other people. But we must hope,’ she said mechanically, ‘hope and pray.’

  Frances muttered weakly, ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘No, and life’s not fair, but I am not going to discuss the wicked, foolish things you and Dover have been up to. The nuns have a huge responsibility’, said Sister Cuthbert flicking her veil over her shoulder, ‘overseeing the welfare of all your souls. In other schools, you would be expelled for your misdeeds, but as many of you are essentially orphans, it is not possible. Therefore you should not complain. You are not really entitled to complain, because you are lucky children: think of all those orphans who have been shipped off to Australia. It’s happened here before and it could happen again.’

  We all listened to her words intently, for Sister Cuthbert was the only nun we came close to trusting. But she was a grown-up and all grown-ups were dangerous creatures at this school. She could be blunt and forceful and often she would say to us: a hard life strengthens the character. She wasn’t Sister Mary and Sister Columba, who were like the darkness when the night-light went out in the dormitory or the frozen blocks of earth I had seen one winter in a graveyard; you just had to endure Sister Mary and Sister Columba when they were there and forget about them quickly when they were away, smother the thought of them, ram it deep down. Sister Cuthbert was attempting to do away with the white cotton frocks that we had to wear in our weekly pea-soup baths, which smelt like dirty teeth, the same water shared between us all. But she made no attempt to do away with the system of spying and violence to which all the children were subjected. She lacked the desire or conviction to question it, let alone bring the abuse to the eyes of a higher authority. She had more to lose than to gain by such confrontation and would be out-nunned, out-manoeuvred and out-foxed if she dared.

  Questions surged within me as she spoke. Were we really wicked? So wicked that we had to be beaten like criminals? Did it please God to see us broken and battered? I stared at the floor, unable to ask them. Afraid to know the answers, maybe.

  Sister Cuthbert hurriedly left us alone again with instructions for us to return to the classroom, with the exception of Janet and Frances. Ruth gazed after her, her lip curling in slow scorn till her face resembled a devil’s mask.

  ‘Three chairs for Sister Cuthbert. It won’t be long before she’ll need a crowbar to help her through the door-frame.’

  I sat for a moment on Frances’s bed in silence. Her eyes seemed lifeless, stripped of their usual vibrancy, emptied of their spark.

  ‘Sister Mary had better not come and kiss me to try and make it all better tonight,’ she whispered through clenched teeth. ‘If she does, I’ll bite her lips.’

  Her head lolled on her pillow as she sank into a bruised sleep. Before I left her, I pressed my face to a window and looked across the gardens to the quiet road that ran alongside the convent. We were forbidden to play in the gardens, but I liked looking at them. A broad stretch of carefully tended green grass with winter trees beyond. The sky full of swift black-and-blue clouds, the sunlight muted. Then a fine rain began to fall from the high, veiled sky as a few gulls flapped over the ground, screaming distantly. They’re a long way from home, I thought, there must be a storm looming at sea.

  It was another planet out there. The outside world had become merely a dream, like something you read about in a book.

  * The corruption of the best is the worst.

  Chapter 9

  Mornings on the kibbutz were fast replacing night as the worst time for me. My brain seethed all night, hurling images at me, parts of which I remembered on waking.

  I dreamt that I was standing on the rocks, but I couldn’t make it on to the beach because of the see-saw sea surrounding me. An audience of not more than a few dozen people were standing on the sand. My mother was there, but she was talking to a nun whom I did not recognise. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, for the words were in a foreign language - or several languages. The nun, still faceless, turned to me, a dark shape shimmering in the heat. She came closer and said, ‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying. Why can’t you speak properly?’

  I awoke to a terrible sense of failure, my bed crumpled and undone, the very image of restlessness. I lay for hours desperately trying to find a way back into the dream to utter some words that the nun might understand.

  Keeping my dreams at bay took energy that I didn’t have. I would crawl out of bed in the morning exhausted, feeling like a zombie.

  This week the morning started with Hebrew class and I was late again. Teliela stared at me pointedly and called me outside the classroom. Sudden terror engulfed me. My throat thickened as I followed her to the veranda.

  ‘What’s the problem? Why are you always so late?’ She inclined her head, waiting for an answer. She wore a faded T-shirt and threadbare shorts. Increasingly I had begun to eliminate whichever clothes I had that did not fit in with the others’ - to the first class I had made the mistake of wearing a sensible blouse in a neutral shade of beige, but I learned quickly. To prove my allegiance, I switched to a black T-shirt, but I still could not work up the courage to wear jeans. Instead I wore a dark skirt. Cydney, noticing my transformation, asked: ‘So who died?’ ‘You look like you’re in mourning.’

  In her kibbutz uniform, Teliela did not look like someone to be feared, but I stood mutely, sick with fright, waiting for the axe to fall. At best, I could be put to work scrubbing the dining hall for a week; at worst I could be thrown off the kibbutz. Behind me I could feel everyone looking at me through the doorway.

  I shook my head. I still felt drained and battered from my dreams of the night before. The craggy rocks, the ocean whipped into a frenzy at my feet, the terrible feeling of being pulled in two.

  ‘Judith!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

  Teliela tapped her fingers against her arm, contemplating me. ‘And what’s this I hear from Miriam? She tells me that you’re avoiding her.’

  A flash of anger. ‘I didn’t ask to be her kibbutz daughter.’

  Teliela shook her head, clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Look, I’m wondering if the kibbutz life isn’t too much for you.’ She leaned back against the veranda wall. ‘You’ve got to make more of an all-round effort if you want to stay on here.’

  She wasn’t throwing me out. Not yet. I let out my breath at last, but slowly, slowly. Keep calm, don’t beg.

  ‘I’ll work,’ I said. ‘I want to work.’

  Her dark eyes scanned me, weighing me up. Finally she nodded. ‘OK, then. Make more effort to be on time and more effort to get on with others here.’

  My shoulders wilted with relief. I nodded and turned to go back into the classroom. Her hand on my arm stopped me. ‘Judith ... I can’t force you to spend time with Miriam, but I wish you would. She wants to get to know you. She thinks you have a lot in common.’

  Her words froze me, an accusing finger pointing to dark secrets. ‘Why would she think that?’ I struggled to say. ‘She hardly knows me.’ My voice had a hounded quaver to its tone.

  Teliela shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But that’s what she said.’

  I stood staring at her, caught with resentment. Sunlight glinted off her dark hair and strong face. It was so simple for her.

  ‘Miriam’s life hasn’t been an easy one, you know, and she tends to be lonely. Help her if you can. She says you’re welcome to use her place at any time.’

  The idea of Miriam needing help turned everything on its head. I stared down at my sandals, scuffing them on the faded wood floor. ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘Maybe I’ll do that.’

  A few days later, I heard loud, boisterous laughter drifting through the window. Lying on my bed I could h
ear Mark, his voice raw with complaint: ‘Cydney, come on, why don’t you join us on our trip to Galilee next week? A bunch of us are getting together to go camping; it’ll be great.’

  ‘I gotta study during the vacation, and that’s the truth. I’m falling behind in class.’

  ‘You oughta layoff studying, Cyd. Screws your mind. Keep the channels open up there for more important matters.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Come on, Cyd, it’ll be a blast,’ said Rick.

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Who says?’ someone else asked. ‘Your room-mate? She’s creepier than a vine. And you know what happens when you hang around with creeps. You get creepy too.’

  ‘Hey man, do you mind?’ Cydney objected. ‘She’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘She’s a weirdo, a stuffy weirdo who sucks in all your oxygen so you can’t breathe.’

  ‘You oughta get off her back,’ said Cydney. ‘She’s got enough problems.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  More laughter. My heart went down an octave or more. A film came between me and the bright morning, and I felt hotter and crankier than I had ever been in my life.

  I slammed out of the room and strode through the kibbutz to the orange groves, where large weasels lived in the bushy growth. I saw them in the distance in the road. Luckily they were far off. The day had become a scorcher, with a ticky breeze that burst out of nowhere, funnelling along the kibbutz valley, whipping me along so that I could feel the dust stinging my legs. Every gust was a blow.

  I trudged along the road, angry with myself for the words I kept finding for the wind. Like ‘the breath of hell’. But the only hell I had ever known was the dank environment of the convent, so what did I mean? Like ‘opening an oven door’. But it was nothing like opening an oven door. This was not a wind that was going to be disciplined by words. I hated the way it hurled itself at me in raw gusts of heat. I hated the grasshoppers, humming hoarsely in the grass. Anyone with any sense was inside at this time of the day, behind closed curtains, stretched out on a bed. Except that you heard things stretched out on a bed, didn’t you? Through treacherous windows. Spoken by treacherous people.

  ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen,’ I sang half-heartedly.

  I was the mad fool, inching along a dusty road towards the citrus groves. Serves me right, I thought grimly. My fury mounted - fury at my own cowardice for not confronting Mark and the others for their remarks about me. Anger muttered in my stomach as I strode along, in the way water mutters as it reaches boiling point. I began walking fast, gesticulating and talking aloud, my thoughts raging to and fro in a continual din. The heat seemed to have done something to the way I was walking. My arm, swinging out in front of me as I strode along, seemed too big - or was it too small? I was aware of my knees going up and down, ludicrously like a high-stepping horse.

  I checked my thoughts and came to a standstill, aware of a sound, an intense resonant hymn of insects, small movements punctuated by the quick whomp and flutter of a bird’s wing rising. Awkwardly, I sat down on a pale rounded stone with my legs sticking out stiffly in front of me. The soil was loose and soft under a citrus tree that cast thin patches of shade. Many of the trees were still unharvested and bent, thick with lemons as dense as stars.

  Sweat had stuck my T-shirt to my back. My toes felt slimy in my sandals. In the thick hot air, a fly hovered near my eye and I flapped at it irritably. It circled back and tried the other eye. I flapped it away again. It avoided my hand, lazy, carefree. It could do it all day, circle and land, circle and land. It could go on for ever. Like a bad memory.

  Trying not to remember was harder than you would think. It took up a great deal of energy, and even then, memories sliced through the not-remembering, as sharp as ever. I felt I was spinning and wanted some great hand to emerge from the sky and lift me up and send me further and further to some anonymous place where memories could be erased. There were times when I could still smell their mustiness; in the shower I heard their murmurings, in my food I tasted the mould. This heat, too: It was the reason why the nuns had taken us to the beach that day. They always letup on bashings and floggings during the summer break. They didn’t want us exposing our welts and bruises to the outside world when we changed into our swimming costumes.

  Guilt about Frances roved sharply inside me. I must, I thought, somehow switch off the black-and-white film in my head that tried to re-enact certain scenes. I rubbed my face with the back of my shaky perspiring hand.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said aloud, and shouted at the citrus grove: ‘Ridiculous! Ridiculous! Ridiculous!’ I hung on now, pressing my hand lightly against the bleached stone, where even in the shade, the heat beat down. I waited for the familiar arrow of fear. Only there was none. Instead a wave of calm flooded over me, sliding back, slowly. It was a first. I could feel emotion and everything was still in place, as it was before. Obscured at once by my awareness of it, the moment blurred. I could not reach beyond it. I mentally waved to my own childhood - a yearning child kneeling in church, peering into the future in which I now sat, yet unable to see me.

  If we met now, would I like what I saw of myself? Was this the person I’d guessed I would become all those years ago? I was trying not to live out that child’s prophecy as best as I knew how.

  The silence of the citrus grove was suddenly soothing. It was as if I was the only living creature in the world. Alone had always seemed like freedom. But I didn’t want it to become a life sentence. A life sentence of self-reproach.

  Before class that afternoon, a familiar voice called out, ‘Hey Jude!’ Cydney cornered me at the door.

  ‘What happened?’ she said, biting the corner of her thumbnail. ‘I thought we were going to lunch together. You disappeared.’

  I nodded curtly.

  ‘Why?’

  The classroom was teeming with people. Mild hubbub. Two minutes to go before class.

  I didn’t look at her. ‘I decided to skip lunch. Too hot.’ It was true that I hadn’t eaten: I couldn’t face the idea of kibbutz institutional food: chicken, boiled in its skin, sitting upon waves of mashed potatoes and surrounded by shores of rice and gravy.

  A streak of anger still flew through my mind at those tactless remarks I had overheard. My old restless moodiness had surfaced, as it had done on my first evening here. All morning the stream of gloominess within me had turned in on itself in dark streams and whirlpools, wearying me.

  Cydney leant against the wall and lit a cigarette, squinting at me through her gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Well, thanks for telling me. I hung around waiting for you. What’s your problem?’

  I bristled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged her shoulders, looking worried. She was the sincere type. She became quiet, lost in her own thoughts and I gnawed the pad of my thumb, lost too.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ Cydney said after a while, breaking the silence.

  ‘Nothing’s new, nothing’s on my mind. Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s crap. Gimme a break. You’re so out of focus. What’s happening with you? You’re acting - I don’t know - sort a weird.’

  It tripped the lever on the thing I meant not to say. ‘Cydney, take my advice. You hang around with creeps, you get creepy too.’

  She slapped her thigh in irritation. ‘Goddam, I knew that was it. Well, why are you pissed off with me?’

  ‘I’m not pissed off with you. I just feel hurt by the remarks I overheard.’

  ‘Like hell you’re not pissed off with me.’ She tried to grin.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. Those guys are full of shit. Relax. It’s no big deal. Not everyone thinks like them. I talked to Rick and he said ...’

  ‘I don’t care!’ I snapped. My nerves were raw and throbbing. My eyes felt as if they had sunk back into my head, pulling the flesh down. ‘Drop it ... leave me alone!’

  The wellspring of anger erupt
ed, engulfing us both. I tried desperately to keep my face impassive, my emotions under control.

  ‘Aw, fuck you!’ snarled Cydney fixing me with a look of utter fury. ‘You can be such a goddam pain in the ass.’

  And then she was gone, her feet pounding over the wooden veranda into the classroom. I imagined taking off my sandal and throwing it in her direction. Yet all I felt was a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if I had been punched: the blows of misery, remorse and rage. I had no weapons with which to fight them off. No comforting catchphrases. All my fault. I had behaved like a petulant child. I now saw what I ought to have said to Cydney, what tone I should have adopted. I had pushed her away and everyone else who tried to help. All my attempts to befriend people resulted in failure, loss. I was the outcast, the one who stood outside the circle of safety.

  As I entered the classroom, all faces turned towards me. I scowled back at them. I knew that as soon as my back was turned they’d be making rueful frog-faces at each other, faces that said: What is it with her? I was a ninny, a laughing stock that’s how the nuns had always described me.

  As I sat at my desk the person sitting behind me leant over and whispered, ‘Take no notice, those guys can be complete assholes sometimes.’

  I knew who he was - I’d seen him around. His eyes locked on mine. I turned away from him. I willed my face to stay calm, but the colour was rising and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. Then slowly I let myself turn and look at him. It was a test of some kind, and I would make my face stay calm no matter what.

  ‘They’re all right,’ I said aloud, because I wanted them all to hear, ‘It’s me who’s at fault.’

  He laughed and his whole face changed with that laugh. The curled corners of his mouth were amazingly expressive. His clear skin smoothly taut over the bones of his face, his cheeks faintly flushed, his eyes the colour of honey. Just looking at him made me feel better somehow. A face that definitely needed to be avoided.