‘Goodnight’ at home had been a cross shout up the stairs. ‘You ought to have your light out, girl’, or a tired grunt from her father. ‘’Night then, dear. You off?’ Here, she was protected, blessed by both her Mothers, guarded by an angel, surrounded by her family. Reverend Mother’s dog had wandered into the chapel. As old as Mother Benedict herself, but far less aristocratic and devout, he sat scratching his fat rump, the noise snicking through the silence. The only male allowed in the enclosure, and even he was neutered. Sister Hilary smiled. Could you pray for dogs, or for the greedy noisy Leghorns in the henhouse? She did. And also for the furled birds on the marshes, eider duck and grebe, cormorant and redshank, sheltering from the ruthless winter wind.
Sister Sacristan had extinguished all the candles. No light now, except the tiny scarlet flicker of the sanctuary lamp. She knelt silent in the darkness. She wouldn’t go to bed. It was hardly worth it. In just two hours, they would be up again for Matins, then up all night. No room at the inn. There was room here, room in every cell, in every inch of corridor, every yard of refectory and chapel. Her Saviour would be born tonight in the crooked wooden manger she had set up on the straw, polished with brown shoe-wax, filled with fragrant hay.
She was thinking of herself again, risking pride again. She fell forward on her hands and knees, then lay prostrate on the floor, nose squashed against the wood, arms stretched out each side to form a cross, toes pressed down and hurting. She would lie there for the innkeepers who had turned away their God; lie there for her father who still had not forgiven her for entering; for her mother who could find no joy in Christmas, only worry, extra work.
Even through the pain, the sickly smell of floor-polish, the forbidden joy kept leaping up again as she thought forward to tomorrow and the play. She was Mary, virgin then and always, the holy pregnant Virgin, giving birth to her Creator, while nature watched in awe.
Chapter Three
She mopped her burning forehead. Odd to be perspiring in midwinter in a cold unheated church. Stranger still to be alone on Christmas Eve, least of all in London. The church was empty, silent, seemed very much a haven. It was down a flight of steps, as if hidden in a basement, away from prying eyes: not bright and crowded like the tube, but solemn, shadowy, lit only by low lights and votive candles. She was back with her old friends, the statues of Our Lady, St Thérèse, St Patrick; a small wooden figure of St Genesius, standing on two masks of Comedy and Tragedy and with a notice underneath: ‘Patron Saint of Actors’. She tried to still the questions as she knelt there in her play-clothes. Was her whole life just a sham? Had she been nothing but an actor, taking part in some ancient mystery play? Were her nun’s clothes as spurious as her present fancy dress?
She sat back on the bench, to rest her legs. She had tramped for hours in those clumsy chafing Wellingtons, trying to keep to darker streets where nobody could see her; had stumbled on this Catholic church, which stood beside a restaurant called the ‘Greek Gods Taverna’ and opposite a public house. The church sign was like the pub sign, both swinging up above. A strange place for God’s house, its sooty brick hemmed in by worldly buildings such as betting shops and wine bars, a police van parked outside. The van had startled her, made her dart inside to the shelter of the church. Were they after her already, alerted by the Abbess?
She slumped back on the bench, too weak and sick to kneel. Crazy to trudge round all day, when she’d been told to rest, advised to stay in bed. She’d been taken ill that morning, fainted when she was laying out the vestments, and been rushed to the Infirmary. Could it really have been this morning, just thirteen hours ago? It seemed another age, a blurred and distant age; she a different person now from the quiet committed Sister slowly regaining consciousness in the convent’s cold Infirmary.
‘Don’t stay,’ she’d tried to whisper, as she struggled to sit up. ‘I’m fine now, Sister, really. And I know how rushed you are.’
Sister Infirmarian had two invalids already, both crippled over-eighties; had just flurried from the kitchen, where she’d been helping out with all the Christmas cooking.
‘But you’ve got a temperature. And you still look deathly pale.’
She’d murmured an apology, as she sank back on the bed, let Sister take her blood pressure. She’d no right to be ill, especially not today, when there was so much extra work. She was always needed, desperately, in such a small community, which had shrunk to only twelve; several of them elderly, two completely bed-ridden. She was able-bodied, strong, with skills – the sacristan, the vestment-maker, with a powerful singing voice. All the reasons why she couldn’t leave; hadn’t left for years and years, through all the doubts and struggles, when joy had changed to darkness, and superiors and priests kept urging ‘Carry on. Accept it. Pray.’ She’d prayed – prayed to darkness and to silence, prayed without an answer, without any consolation, yet continually assured by their chaplain, Father Martin, that this was just a proof of God’s love. ‘Those He loves He crucifies.’
She was still praying in the Infirmary when Sister Infirmarian at last went down to chapel, leaving her to rest. She didn’t rest; staggered to her feet instead, removed the small white envelope from the pocket in her habit. A kindly local farmer had left a £20 donation, his annual Christmas offering to the convent. Twenty pounds in cash. The extern Sister had passed it through to her, to entrust to Reverend Mother. She was shaking as she crept up to the attic, the money in her hand. She couldn’t steal, couldn’t even think of it. If she rested for an hour or so, she would be strong enough to continue with her duties, be in choir for Compline. She rummaged through the play-clothes, heard rustlings in the attic – a mouse, a squirrel? – smelt mould and pigeon droppings. Of course she wasn’t leaving; simply checking through the clothes in time for the next play. Except they never acted plays, not now. The community was far too small, too old for dressing up. No new recruits in five whole years. A struggle even to run the place, keep the huge house clean, weed and tend the garden. She was strong enough and young enough to hoe and dig and plant in her spare time.
She didn’t feel at all young, but as if she’d lived for aeons, or had withered like some sickly plant kept too long in the dark. Yet she was still only thirty-eighty a child compared with all those nuns who had passed their Golden Jubilee, gone on to their Diamond. She didn’t feel strong either, was often dizzy, nauseous, but those things you ignored. You could still dig with a headache, weed through pain or sickness. Impossible for someone strong to leave. She was feverish, that’s all, hallucinating. Only dreaming that she went out in the freezing cold, couldn’t find her boots, borrowed someone else’s, snatched a dirty anorak from the spidery gardener’s shed; then dashed across the orchard, past the chickens, though the gate. Still dreaming as she panted to the station, caught a train, arrived in teeming London, descended underground, then floated up again, walked and walked until she found this silent sanctuary.
‘Maiden Lane’, the street plaque said, and the church was Corpus Christi, Body of Christ. She struggled to her knees again, tried to feel His presence – failed – despite the seven sanctuary lamps flickering red above the altar. Christ present seven times, and she couldn’t feel a fragment of Him. She must stay till Midnight Mass, remain there on her knees, however ill or faint she felt; beg God for the gift of faith, keep repeating with St Thomas, ‘I believe.’ She had doubted Him before, confessed to Reverend Mother, the new glacial Reverend Mother who had replaced saintly Mother Benedict. It was a sign of mental disturbance, she was told, to doubt one’s Maker, Creator of the world. No one in their right mind doubted God.
She had redoubled all her penances, the fasts, the prayers, the vigils. ‘God is kind in allowing you your Purgatory on earth,’ the chaplain had explained. So her mother had been right about the Purgatory – her mother-in-the-world, who had died alone without a daughter’s comfort. Selfish daughter shrivelling in the dark.
She clutched the bench in panic. Someone had come in. Slow uneven footsteps were closin
g in behind her. She shut her eyes, drops of perspiration snailing down her back, as a clumsy hand landed on her shoulder. She swung round, saw a nun – a modern nun, in a calf-length navy skirt and short blue veil. She must be still hallucinating, imagining a nun because her thoughts were on the convent.
‘We’re locking up now, dear.’
‘I … beg your pardon?’
‘We’re locking up the church. I’m afraid you’ll have to go.’
‘But Midnight Mass?’ Her voice was just a whisper, hoarse and rusted up.
‘We’re not having it this year. We’ve only got a tiny local congregation. Most of our regulars are office folk and so on, who come here after work, but live out of London. They’ll have all gone off home by now. Public transport stops earlier than usual and British Rail packed up at nine o’clock. Try St Patrick’s, Soho, or St Anselm’s. They’ll have Midnight Mass.’
She swayed slowly to her feet, still clinging to the pew. Their own Order hadn’t modernised – no hair on show, or leg. This nun had thinning greyish hair, thick and swollen ankles. But she was still sacred in her habit, protected by her rosary, defended by her crucifix. The habit kept you safe: sound-proofed, world-proofed, endowing you with dignity and status. How could she have thrown hers off so lightly? The act seemed sacrilegious, almost unbelievable – stripping off the robes she’d worn for over twenty years. Yet she had blanked it out completely. All she could remember was standing semi-naked in the attic, pulling on her play-clothes.
‘You should be careful on your own, you know. There’s a lot of funny types about, and it’s even worse in Soho. A girl was knifed there just last week, and in broad daylight. I’ve got my car outside. I’ll drive you to St Patrick’s, if you like.’
She fought the tears back as she tried to mouth her thanks. Every kindness made her weep.
‘That’s it – mind the step. It’s a bit gloomy down here, isn’t it? I’m Sister Pauline, by the way. What’s your name?’
‘Sister Mary Hila …’ She stopped abruptly, gagging on the ‘a’. That couldn’t be her name – not now. Sister Mary Nothing. Twenty years ago, she had changed her name to Hilary. A man’s name, a fifth-century Bishop’s name: Hilary of Aries, an over-zealous prelate who had quarrelled with the Pope. She hadn’t chosen it; had wanted to be Sister Anne, the mother of Our Lady who was mother to the world. She had never felt much sympathy with Hilary of Aries, an apparently high-handed man, from a rich and noble family in Northern Gaul, who had made a lot of enemies, was even excommunicated at one point in his career. He had been removed from the calendar in 1969, along with better-loved saints, such as Christopher and George. She kept his name and feast-day, but felt somehow disappointed in him; prayed to him only as a duty.
The nun drew both the bolts. ‘I didn’t catch, I’m sorry.’ They were out in the cold again, cold and glare and fear again.
She didn’t answer, couldn’t. She was a nothing with no name. She’d been christened Gloria, because her father was a fan of Gloria Swanson, and had called his crumpled infant daughter, with her bald head and scarlet face, after an exotic femme fatale. The name had been a burden. Swanson was sophisticated, glamorous, every inch a star, with a voluptuous figure, wavy warm-brown hair, whereas she was flat – both sides – with hair so straight and heavy it wouldn’t hold a curl, and a fairish wheaty colour. Swanson wore a different gown each day, all of them sensational, dripping fur and jewels; she wore boring blue school uniform five days a week, a bargain basement grey skirt most weekends. All they had in common was their height – or lack of it – both only five foot tall. At school, they’d laughed at Gloria, shortened it to Gee, but the femme fatale returned again when she entered as a postulant and became Sister Gloria. It sounded so pretentious, as well as inappropriate, but at least no one knew the Swanson connotation. Gloria in Excelsis rather than Gloria from Hollywood. And with names like Seraphina and Agnellus all around her, she was really not conspicuous. Twelve months later, Gloria was dead; reborn as Sister Hilary.
Should she resurrect the Gloria, placate her father who had chosen it himself? She stared down at her clothes. How could she be Gloria in a dirty anorak, with an inch of hair, cropped ragged, and the boots?
‘Er … Hilary,’ she muttered. At least it didn’t sound male. Hilary was either, male or female. She didn’t feel a female, didn’t have the parts required. Her breasts had grown at last, at the advanced age of sixteen, but two years later had been flattened by the stiff and swaddling bodice which went beneath her habit; her newly rounded hips lost in three serge underskirts. For twenty years, she’d been shapeless, breastless, spayed; a sexless neuter in service to her God.
‘Well, happy Christmas, Hilary. My car’s just round the corner.’
Hilary. The nun had christened her. Her new name in the world. It seemed too brief, too crude, without the ‘Sister’; without the holy middle ‘Mary’ to uplift it.
She was nervous in the car. Only the two extern sisters drove – Sister Mark and Sister Bernadette, their link between the convent and the outside world, who ran the errands, answered phone and door bell, and so allowed the other nuns to avoid all contact with secular distractions which might interrupt their life of constant prayer. Only those two Sisters could venture out beyond the convent walls, contend with shops and traffic, handle money. The nuns in the enclosure never left it, save for hospital and dentist, flood or fire. One silent annual car trip to the dentist – an aged lady dentist who practised in a sleepy country town; one brief stay in hospital in her whole long twenty years.
This car was very different from Sister Mark’s genteel aged Humber – smaller, more bad-tempered, as it jerked and whined through traffic lights, neon lights, Christmas lights, and flashing lights on hoardings. She kept her eyes cast down. It was Advent still, and her mind should be on the four Last Things: heaven, hell, death and judgement. She shivered – judgement – couldn’t block the lights out. They were still flickering on her hands, tigering her clothes – lights from theatres, lights from dazzling windows. How did London nuns survive, drive in all that traffic, pray through all that din?
St Patrick’s looked enormous. The nun had parked, walked her to the door. ‘You’re very early, dear. I’m afraid I’ve got to drive to Bath, otherwise I’d stay and keep you company. Don’t trail around – it isn’t safe. Just wait here till the Mass begins. At least it’s nice and warm.’
Hilary faltered in the porch. This church was far too big, too grand; imposing vaulted ceiling arching over rows and rows of pews; pomp and pillars; gold and alabaster; huge statues frowning at her shabby clothes. She glanced at the Pietà, Mary holding Christ’s dead body, her marble face a mask of pain. She searched round for the crib – needed Mary joyful – found it in an alcove at the back. Not as nice as their crib. They had precious ancient figures brought from France a hundred years ago, carved in wood, dressed in silks and velvets, the Mary with real golden hair. These figures were just crudely painted plaster, which seemed cheap and out of place against their background of white marble.
She stared at the hollow in the yellow painted straw. No Christ in the manger, no God in His church. Mary still looked anguished. How could she not, when Bethlehem prefigured Calvary, birth leading on to death? The death of God. She fell onto her knees. No one in their right mind doubted the good God. Good God? Who let people jump from platforms, left broken bodies on the line, tiny babies screaming in the ruins?
She turned back to the altar: another dying God. A huge Crucifixion hung above the tabernacle, Christ’s limbs starkly white against the rich gold of the frame.
‘I believe.’
‘Take this, all of you, and eat. This is my body.’
All heads in the church bowed low, as the priest recited the words of consecration; then held up the host – Christ’s Body.
She couldn’t eat it, couldn’t receive Christ’s Body, not in mortal sin. It was a mortal sin to leave one’s convent, break one’s solemn vows. The punishment was excommunicat
ion: exclusion from Communion and community, from the communion of believers in this world, and from the Communion of Saints in the next. It was an even graver sin to doubt God’s goodness. If His world were less than perfect, then man’s own free will had spoilt it. Free will in a baby who had perished in an earthquake? She tried to quash the thought, joined in with the prayers again, the eucharistic prayers. No unison in this church. Men’s voices boomed, children’s shrilled and wavered, everybody gabbling out of time. She had forgotten how distracting a congregation was – all those startling clothes and colours, coughs and fidgets, infants wailing, people dropping Mass-cards. Back in Brignor, the extern chapel was separate from their own, and set behind it; closed off with a grille. They rarely saw the villagers, and the few who came were always quiet and prayerful. Families and babies went to St Augustine’s in the town. So many here were foreigners – black hair, dusky faces. Yet she herself felt more foreign than them all: someone who had strayed into an alien land and didn’t know the rules or speak the language.
The priest was speaking now again, as he prepared to distribute the Communion. ‘Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.’
God couldn’t heal her, wouldn’t say the word. She had sinned too gravely this time. She had never missed Communion before, had received it every day from the age of seventeen, and twice a week before that, since her First Communion at seven and a half. That had been traumatic. They had been strictly instructed not to touch the host. You didn’t touch Christ’s body unless you were a priest. And they were not to leave the altar rails until they’d swallowed it right down. The problem was she couldn’t get it down. It seemed to block her throat, stick just above her windpipe. She’d coughed, panicked, stared blindly round at the throng of nuns and parents just behind. No one helped, or told her what to do. She was alone at the altar rails, which was also forbidden; the priest tutting at her, angry, motioning her to go. She touched the host with just one finger, managed to dislodge it.
Devils, for a change Page 3
