Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  Hilary drained her oxtail soup, followed Father Anstey from cramped kitchen to plush parlour. Had the good Lord sent her, arranged this whole affair, offered her a job which included a Catholic roof above her head? She’d hardly heard a word about the job, yet. The priest was too annoyed to find his instant help had turned into just another problem, and that he had to make more phone calls, assuage a frantic Abbess.

  ‘I told your Reverend Mother you’d send the money back. She wanted you back – straight away – but I said there were no trains, either today or Boxing Day, and I’d no intention of driving up to Norfolk, just to pander to … Anyway, now you’re here, you might as well help out, at least for just a week or two, until I’ve made some other arrangements. Miss Pullen hasn’t a relation in the world, which doesn’t make it easy. She’s lost her power of speech, as well, but that doesn’t mean you have to shout. She hears everything you say. Now, about your duties …’

  Hilary felt more and more uneasy as the priest ran through the list, casually referring to cooking, shopping, washing, managing the house. All were mysteries to her. She hadn’t braved a shop since the age of seventeen; had all her own meals cooked for her, as if she were a child, all her laundry done. Cookers, boilers, washing machines, were hostile dangerous strangers, which might try to play her up. She had never run a house, never even spared a thought for what it might entail. How could she compare with Miss Pullen’s usual nurse, who was not only fully trained, but sounded a true paragon – a shrewd resourceful woman, who could turn her hand to anything; a skilled cook, a careful driver, even a devout and pious Catholic?

  The priest plumped into an easy chair, arranged his small feet on a stool. His shoes were highly polished calf, his socks a bishop’s purple. ‘I’m afraid the wages aren’t a fortune, but you’ll be getting room and board, and for someone with no training …’

  ‘Wages, Father …?’ Hilary’s voice faltered to a stop. It seemed extraordinary that somebody should pay her, provide not only food and roof, but actually give her money, when she deserved only reprimand. She had seen the job as penance, done willingly, for nothing, as atonement for her sin.

  ‘You’ll find this first week pretty painless, anyway. Miss O’Connor stocked up before she went, and did all the heavy washing – sheets and towels and so on. And she left very detailed lists for Mrs Clarke. Which reminds me – I ought to ring the hospital, find out how that wretched woman is. She should never have taken on the job, not if she had pains. I asked her how her health was, and she told me excellent, yet the doctor on the ward said …’ The priest broke off, seemed too impatient or exhausted to finish all his sentences. ‘After that, I’ll drive you to Miss Pullen’s, show you round the house, and then maybe I can get back to my sister’s – some time before midnight.’ His laugh was unconvincing, his face still cold and closed. He dragged up to his feet again, looked her up and down. ‘I’m not sure about those clothes. Miss O’Connor wears a uniform. Have you nothing else to …? No? Well, I suppose there might be something in the jumble box, at least something a bit longer. That skirt’s not decent, is it, and you’ll need some proper shoes.’

  Hilary sorted through the box of musty garments, wincing at the brilliant reds and greens, the garish flower-prints, jaunty stripes and squiggles. Was there nothing unobtrusive, nothing plain? At last, she found a prim grey dress which reached almost to her ankles, had long tight sleeves, a high and modest neck. She felt better with it on, though wished it were less flimsy, did more to bulk her out; wished it didn’t smell so, of cheap scent and nicotine.

  She limped back to the parlour in her gaping slip-on shoes, found it empty, Father Anstey already in the hall, impatient fingers tapping on the table. ‘You took your time, didn’t you? Miss Pullen goes to bed at nine, and she’s been left far too long alone. She’s just not used to that. Miss O’Connor always …’

  The drive was just five minutes, through drab South London streets. They drew up outside a narrow house, squeezed between its neighbours, with dark and frowning gables, drawn down like heavy brows; dank walls of yellow brick. She followed Father Anstey up the gloomy, ill-lit staircase. He stopped outside Miss Pullen’s door, eyes and nose screwed up. She wrinkled her own nose, drew back a step or two. They could both smell something stronger than the vague whiff of damp and cat which had met them in the hall.

  The priest knocked, strode in, let out a little throttled cry, as he flapped back to the door. Miss Pullen had her eyes shut, was slumped on her commode, pink bloomers round her feet – bloomers, stockings, floor and feet, caked with excrement. She had tried – and failed – to wipe herself, transferred the stuff to face and hands, daubed it on three towels. It was crusted on her bottom, clinging to her clothes. Father Anstey plunged straight back downstairs. She hoped he’d gone to find a bucket, fetch some disinfectant. She herself got to work immediately, running water in the basin, removing the soiled clothes. Miss Pullen’s eyes were open now, the cold blue stare swivelling round to face her. Her right arm and leg looked stiff, seemed joined on to her body at slightly the wrong angle. Her face was thin and sallow, drooping to one side; the skin flabby and unhealthy, as if it had been left in a cellar with neither light nor air. Her hair was dry, discoloured – permed and dyed so often it had faded to a dingy yellow-grey, the wispy strands straggling down her neck.

  Hilary forced her mouth to smile. ‘I’m your new …’ She faltered, couldn’t truly call herself nurse, or cook, or housekeeper. ‘Helper,’ she said softly, as she soaped the flannel, made a timid start on cleaning up that bleak and bitter face.

  Miss Pullen swatted at her, with a frightened whimpering sound, as if to pull the flannel from her hand. Hilary tried to reassure her, smoothed her hair, stroked her arm, then reapplied the flannel, keeping her touch as gentle as she could. She had never had the job of Infirmarian, but she knew the principle – care for every invalid as if she were Jesus Christ Himself.

  She kept running more clean water, wringing out the flannel. The stench was overwhelming still. She needed Dettol and detergent, more rags, a few clean towels; couldn’t understand why the priest had not located them, not reappeared at all. She crouched down on the floor, sponged Miss Pullen’s lower parts, trying to ignore the sudden raps and hangings, as her patient used her good (left) hand to ram the wood of the commode. She was obviously frustrated, and probably embarrassed to be found in such a state, treated like a baby, cleaned up by a stranger. Hilary understood; could imagine the sheer terror of being trapped, without the power of speech, in an old and useless body. She tried to make some recompense, put mercy in her hands, keep her voice as soft and kind as possible.

  ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it? Though you do need some clean clothes; I can’t seem to see them in any of these drawers. Perhaps you’d show me where they are. Just point or …’

  Miss Pullen sat immobile, though she must have heard quite clearly.

  ‘Well, I’d better go and ask, then. Will you be all right alone for just a moment?’

  Miss Pullen’s strangled cry seemed to pursue her down the stairs. But she had to find the priest, find out where things were, ask him if Miss Pullen could be moved. She could hardly spend all night on a commode. She checked the kitchen – empty – knocked shyly on the closed door of the sitting room.

  ‘Yes. Come in, come in.’

  Her hand froze on the handle. Father Anstey was reclining on the sofa, his pipe smoking in the ashtray, a tumblerful of whisky cradled in both hands.

  Hilary eased up from the lino, where she had been lying prostrate with her arms out in a cross. She heard the clock downstairs strike two. Night Office would be finishing at Brignor, the nuns returning to their cells to sleep. She still always said the Office, prayed for the depressed, the indecisive, the terrified, the sleepless. She could rarely sleep herself, these days, felt frightened in her room, claustrophobic somehow – though it was far larger than her Brignor cell, and had a window with a view, a grey-rinsed panorama of streets, shops, buildin
gs, roofs. And yet she felt closed in, particularly at night, as if the bedroom were her coffin and she were wrapped in a black shroud. Miss Pullen’s house seemed far too small, despite its three bedrooms, its square of concrete garden. She had become so used to the space and breadth of Brignor, its old grey stone softened with wisteria, its high ceilings, lofty rooms. Though everything was convent-plain – no carpets on the wooden floors, nor curtains at the windows – it was still a mansion, however much they kept it bare and poor; a mansion with extensive grounds, rolling fields beyond. Miss Pullen had her pot plants, her floral curtains, her rugs across the lino, yet the house seemed bare and grudging, didn’t welcome strangers.

  She still felt a total stranger, though she’d been there ten long days now; should feel more at home. Had she ever felt at home, even in her parents’ house? Brignor was her ‘home’ – at least legally, officially – but it had become a place of suffering, her land of bitter exile.

  She sat down on the bed, uncomfortably aware of the picture of Our Lady, whose sad eyes seemed to watch her from the wall. She ought to feel relieved to have such a sheltered job, in a safely Catholic house, where she could still keep her silence, still live as a nun, instead of being plunged into a bustling shop or office. She’d hardly had to venture out at all, yet, save twice to Mass, and once to the small corner shop, which was mercifully self-service, so there was no need to speak a word. She’d tamed the ancient boiler; washed everything by hand, so she didn’t have to grapple with the moods of the machine, and Miss Pullen ate so little, her cooking was confined to making porridge or mixing mugs of Complan. No one ever bothered her, no one knocked or visited, except Father Anstey on his brief twice-weekly calls, which he spent mainly with Miss Pullen, only speaking to her afterwards in the bare and draughty hallway. ‘Do you understand the cooker?’ ‘Are you managing all right?’

  She said ‘yes’ to everything, tried to make as little fuss as possible, yet the terror was still there – that overwhelming feeling of being the only one in charge. Supposing something should go wrong, a gas leak or break-in, or Miss Pullen have another stroke, or heart attack? She’d been so totally protected in the convent. Reverend Mother, however strict and cold, had been a genuine mother, in the sense she took control, made all the decisions, coped with any crisis. Each nun had her job, her own ‘obedience’, as they called it, but only as part of some larger system, which, carefully controlled, shielded them from all the myriad concerns, all the other jobs and worries, she realised now were part of normal living.

  There was also God – Father God – who, like any decent father, took responsibility for His family, allowed them all to lean on Him. God would provide – and did. She remembered times when there had been bills they couldn’t pay. Sister Procuratrix had taken the bills to Him, literally stuffing them in the pocket of her habit, then hastening to the chapel, kneeling by the statue of the Sacred Heart, begging instant succour from that Heart. The next day, a cheque would come, an anonymous donation, the exact amount they needed; or someone leave them money in a will. If a nun were ill, she had God as specialist as well as just the local Brignor doctor. God could deal with strokes and heart attacks, gas leaks, break-ins; everything. He was always there, taking on their worries, acting as their bulwark and their bank.

  So why was he not here, in Rosemont Road? God was omnipresent, didn’t confine Himself to Norfolk. And yet she couldn’t find Him, couldn’t make Him hear. She had never felt so totally alone. She was living now in London, a city of nearly seven million people, if you counted all its suburbs; hemmed in by close-packed houses, a thousand other dwellings massed outside her window, and yet it felt as if no one else existed in the world. At Brignor, there were just twelve nuns, twelve nuns in a wilderness – no other house within twenty miles or more – and it had seemed like a metropolis, an empire.

  She had still failed to reach her aunt, though she had phoned her three more times. Phoning wasn’t easy. She had to ask the priest’s permission to use Miss Pullen’s phone, and he seemed always disapproving, as if he imagined she were wasting time and money on idle chats with friends. Friends! She hadn’t any. She’d had to give up friendship when she took her vows. But she longed to hear Aunt Eva’s voice, her mother’s sister, next of kin; family, real family.

  No reply. Even when she hung on fifteen minutes. Was her aunt away, in hospital? Or dead? Please, God, not dead. She had hoped so much to reach her before New Year’s Eve, so at least they could exchange greetings, maybe even see each other. She had never spent a New Year’s Eve alone. At Brignor, they didn’t break their silence, said the Midnight Office the same as every other night, but it was special, nonetheless. They added extra bidding prayers, thanking God for all the joys and sorrows of the old year, begging Him for peace throughout the new: peace at Brignor, peace to all the world. The next day was a holiday – Exposition in the morning, pink ice cream for pudding, a beetle drive or puppet play to enliven their free afternoon, even extra talking.

  This New Year’s Eve, she had spent up in her room. Miss Pullen seemed especially irritable, had fussed and squirmed and fretted, until she subsided into exhausted sleep at nine. She should have slept herself, but the night seemed too important. A new year was struggling to be born, a year she feared and dreaded more than any other in her life; a year which couldn’t bring her peace, however much she prayed for it; a year beginning without the blessing of her aunt, without even the comfort of her voice.

  Well, at least she had survived that night, survived a whole fortnight without any major crisis, which was something to thank God for. She offered up a prayer of thanks, then settled down in bed. She had to sleep tonight, or she would be ill again and no help to Miss Pullen. She reached to switch the light off, was plunged instantly in fear. The dark was solid, like black and smothering earth being heaped on her live body. She tried to slap it off, but her hands seemed paralysed, sucked into that blackness as if they had no more weight or substance than her frantic choking prayers. God couldn’t help her, couldn’t even hear. Nobody could hear. She was totally alone, buried underground, where the earth itself acted as a muzzle, deadening every sound, pressing on her eyelids, filling up her mouth.

  She sat bolt upright, ramming on the light switch, grinned in sheer relief as she saw the pale blue nylon sheets, the old-fashioned satin eiderdown, not a winding sheet or shroud. She was still dressed in her old brown frock, not swaddled in her grave-clothes. She hadn’t worn a nightie since the age of seventeen. Most Orders wore a high-necked, long-sleeved nightgown, but the Brignor Sisters preferred to be ‘in uniform’ every minute of their lives, never off-duty, even in their beds. They slept in a night-habit, which was identical to the one they wore all day, except older and more shabby; the one they also used for gardening or rough chores. They changed at nine p.m., so that when they rose at midnight for the Office, they were already girded for God’s service; had only to remove the shorter softer night-veil, replace it with the choir-veil.

  She had become so used to sleeping in a habit, it felt strange and quite immodest to slip into a nightie. She had found two among the jumble, silky sheer creations with lace panels and pink frills. She had tried them on, even tried to sleep in them – felt exposed and almost naked, as well as freezing cold. She had rifled through the jumble box again, found another dress: a good plain boring brown, and safely long and thick. That was now her night-habit.

  The habit was your bridal dress, so that if your Bridegroom called you in the night, you were ready to accompany Him to heaven. Every evening’s Compline was an immediate preparation for that death. After Compline, the lights were all extinguished, and the Great Silence of the night began, unbroken till the morning. She had never feared the dark before. Nuns developed a sixth sense, found their way like cats, along corridors, round corners, and upstairs to their cells. Nor had she feared death before. Death was welcomed by a nun as her reunion with God, the completion of her goal. The corpse was crowned with a wreath of pure white roses, buried i
n their flower-filled private cemetery. There was chocolate cake for tea, and extra recreation – a day of joy, not dread. But now death meant damnation, a going down to some black and fearful region, where she would be dead and yet still conscious; dead and yet still screaming in the dark.

  Shivering, she clambered out of bed, ransacking the psalms again, as she knelt to pray this time. ‘Deliver me, O Lord, from everlasting death … from the pains of hell, the deep pit. Deliver me from the mouth of the lion, that hell may not swallow me up …’ She tried to keep her eyes closed, but lurid images still surged beneath the lids. She could see funerals, damned corpses – not roses round their heads, but black and stinking weeds. She jerked out to the bathroom, found Miss Pullen’s sleeping pills, old ones in a bottle with a faded smudgy label. It seemed wrong to help herself, like another form of stealing. They had to ask for everything at Brignor. ‘I humbly beg, Mother, for a sheet of writing paper.’ The same formula for toothpaste, or for soap, even for their sanitary towels, or more than two clean handkerchiefs a week.

  She unscrewed the bottle, shook out just one pill, sat on her bed with the tablet on her tongue, too scared to swallow it. It might be even worse to sleep, than not to. Suppose she never woke again, wandered for eternity in that black pit beyond God’s mercy, caged in the dark jaws of the lion?

  She spat the pill out, hid it in a Kleenex. Must keep awake, keep conscious. She was alive, alive, still loved by God. She drifted to the window, pulled the curtain back. It wasn’t even dark. Traffic lights and car lights were flashing through the night, shops and houses still fit up. London didn’t sleep much, burnt the midnight oil. And yet she couldn’t feel a bond with any of those other sleepless souls: all those people working, reading, driving; maybe even weeping in their cold and lonely rooms. It was as if she were shut off from them by a rigid wall of glass, far thicker than the window pane she stood at; a wall which closed her off from everyone. She could see them, hear them, but she couldn’t touch, reach out.