Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Hilary!’

  ‘Elaine!’

  Their voices overlapped, collided; one staring at the other, both startled, off their guard. Hilary sprang forward, almost lunging at Elaine. ‘What are you doing in my room? Get out, get out!’ She heard her voice sounding ugly, uncontrolled; heard the fury in her words – the same words she’d used to Simon …

  ‘Don’t blow your top, old girl. I’m not reading your diary or pilfering your diamonds. I only came to see if you’d like to drop in at a sort of workshop thing we’re running. I couldn’t find you, so I thought I’d leave a note.’ Elaine thrust a scrappy piece of paper under Hilary’s nose. ‘Ten o’clock tonight. The subject’s church reform. Okay? Happy now? No, you’re not too happy, are you? What’s happened, for God’s sake? You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards or ducked in the village pond.’

  ‘Nothing. I just got … wet.’

  ‘And changed clothes with Father Tovey?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, not many Catholic priests strut around with “NIKE SPORTS” on their chests, especially when the only sports they practise are strictly indoor ones. Christ! I should have warned you, Hilary. He did the same to Pat last year – or tried to, anyway. How far did he get with you?’

  Hilary sank onto the bed, stared down at her khaki chest and arms. How could she be wearing Simon’s sweatshirt, instead of her own floral patterned blouse. ‘Go away,’ she whispered – to Simon, to Elaine. She couldn’t bear her vile insinuations.

  ‘The problem with poor Tovey is he’s so hung-up on virgins, he just can’t keep his creepy hands off them. Oh, he tries to justify it. I expect you got the spiel about love and bodies, didn’t you? Pat did, anyway. It makes me mad. Celibacy for priests like him doesn’t mean resisting sex, but just avoiding all commitment.’ Elaine plonked down on the chair, crumpled up her note. ‘Pat got quite fond of him, in fact, but he didn’t want to know. He always wriggles out of any real attachments. He’s married to God, you see, which is a pretty useful let-out for taking any responsibility for anybody else – well, after just the first few thrills, of course. He’ll do anything for those, especially if he’s stalking an ex-nun. They seem to turn him on, though God knows why. Mind you, he didn’t get the thrills from Pat, but from what I gather he’s often more successful. It beats me really how he gets away with it, except he’s so devout in public, I suppose that fools a lot of people. All that “holy radical” bit, and the fact he’s done a course in psycho-whatsit. The tutor was a “Miss”, so I expect he chatted her up.’

  ‘Elaine, would you leave, please. I … don’t feel well.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you, love? I’m sorry. I’m ranting on, as usual, and you’ve probably caught your death. Which reminds me – you still haven’t told me how your clothes got so messed up, or why you’re wearing Tovey’s little number. Was it a straight swap? I mean, should we expect to see him at supper in your daisy-patterned blouse, with a gold chain round his neck? Okay, okay, I’m going. Can I get you something, though, before I disappear – tea, aspirin, some nice thick woolly socks? No? Right, see you tonight, then, if you’re feeling up to it. We’re meeting in my room, starting sharp at ten. Church reform, okay? But don’t bring Tovey.’

  The door slammed on her raucous burst of laughter. Hilary sat shivering, her whole body shaking, trembling, as if she’d lost control of it, or already caught a chill. So Simon courted nuns, had tried to sleep with Pat, wanted only thrills – and virgins. She’d imagined that he loved her, thought of her as special, when she was really nothing more than just another name on a whole list of sordid conquests. How long was that list? He’d certainly seemed experienced, at ease; not at all the nervous shy beginner. Had he slept with Elaine herself, then dropped her or rejected her, which might explain her bitterness; or with Reverend Mother Molly or …?

  She tried to fight the pictures in her mind – Simon tangled with a score of women and still not satisfied; Simon in his parish, wooing all the single females; Simon with that pigtailed girl, plying her with alcohol, so she’d submit to him more easily. Greedy? Yes, he was. She could see his face again as he pulled back from her nipples, slavering yet solemn. And she could see that Easter egg, half-eaten on his desk, a huge milk chocolate one with caramels inside – or their empty wrappings, rather. It hadn’t really registered before, but now all her hurt and anger seemed to centre on that egg. How could he have sat guzzling in his room, pretending to a headache, while the other priests shouldered all the services – and on Good Friday of all days? That egg was far too big for him, in its gold and scarlet box, gaudy with a ribbon and a bow; showy and specious like all the showy chalices and patens back at Brignor, the heavy jewelled monstrances adding weight and mystery to a religion which was hollow like an egg.

  How could she have swallowed all that cant about him caring, when he hadn’t cared at all about the fact she might get pregnant; hadn’t even broached the subject, except to say how many in America disobeyed their priests on contraception. No wonder! What were priests except frauds in fancy dress; sweating, panting, unconsecrated frauds. She stared out at the lawns, the riot of spring flowers; trees and shrubs in bud, burgeoning into life. She had actually desired his child, believed it would be sacred – a bastard child, with a liar for one parent, a cretin for the other.

  The sky had cleared, a shaft of late bright sunlight knifing through the window, carving up the floor. Sun, not storm. So God hadn’t sent a sign, wasn’t angry, wasn’t there at all. And if there wasn’t any God, could she really be so angry with a priest? After all, it was her fault as much as his. She could have refused him, simply left the room. And whatever else, Simon had been gentle, hadn’t forced himself upon her, either physically or mentally. It was she who’d been the violent one, breaking a glass, actually kicking out and wrestling when he’d tried to stop her leaving; she who’d given in, let him touch her, take her to his bed. And why believe Elaine at all, when she was anti-priest on principle, an evil-minded gossip who thrived on lies and slander? She was probably slandering her now, telling all her cronies that a woman still a nun had just been coupling with a hypocrite who called himself a priest. Except it wasn’t slander, was it? That’s exactly what they’d done.

  Slowly, she got up, removed her skirt, Simon’s clammy sweatshirt, examined her body in the mirror. It looked completely different now – bloated and disgusting. She ought to take a shower – a hot shower to wash his smell off, a freezing one as penance – but she dared not leave her room. She might bump into someone en route to the bathroom, and she couldn’t face more questions or more lies. She soaked Kleenex in cologne – a recent gift from Di – scoured her breasts and body, stared in shock at the ooze of blood dribbling down her thighs. She was bleeding, bleeding from inside; not menstrual blood, but a brilliant crimson trail, like the clotted plaster gobbets which trickled down the Brignor crucifix. She dabbed between her legs, kept dabbing with the Kleenex, until she was surrounded by a scum of bloodstained tissues. The cologne stung against her … her … She still had no word for that shameful private place which she had ignored throughout her life, but which seemed now to be screaming out in pain, as if it were bruised and raw, exposed. Had Simon injured her in some way, done some lasting damage? Too bad. She’d have to live with it, could never admit to anyone what had happened, and who with. Even the smell of the cologne seemed a reproach – the clean fresh scent of lilies of the valley, flowers which symbolised virginity and innocence.

  She went to fetch clean pants, clean clothes; her drabbest skirt, her plainest high-necked blouse. The skirt was steely-grey with a matching leather belt, another gift from Di. Almost without thinking, she removed the belt, stood naked in the centre of the room, whipped the belt hard across her shoulders. The metal buckle stung. She made no sound, just hit herself again, again, lashing harder with each stroke. You could ask for extra penance, if you felt that it were warranted, or your sin were grave enough. They were usually such small
things; petty misdemeanours, minor breaches of the Rule.

  ‘I confess to you, dear Mother, and to you, dear Sisters, that I have failed in obedience by opening a window without first asking permission; I have failed in silence by letting a door slam; I have sinned against my vow of poverty by spilling half a cup of tea, then made it worse by failing to report it.’

  She was back at Brignor, lying on the floor, face down, the hard and musty wooden floor of the tomb-cold Chapter Room, which had no heating even in December, her arms stretched out like a cross. ‘I humbly beg God to forgive me for all the faults and negligences I have committed, for the bad example I have given to you, my Sisters, and for any pain I have caused you, dear Mother.’

  The Abbess rose slowly to her feet, her thin face pale and closed. She would now mete out the penances, public penances, such as kissing every Sister’s feet, or missing a meal, lying prostrate– and hungry – on the refectory floor, while the other Sisters stepped over your slumped body on their way to table; private penances which Sister Mary Hilary practised anyway – wearing the armlets all day long, instead of just three hours, their sharp raised metal points piercing and pricking with any slightest movement; or adding a wooden cross strapped around her waist or thighs, and studded with blunt nails which pressed into her naked flesh.

  She could feel them now – the points, the nails – tearing, jabbing at the skin, but still not sharp or fierce enough for the sins she had committed; flagrant sins she hadn’t even mentioned yet, hadn’t dared to mention. If you hid a sin, suppressed some fault or negligence which others had observed, then another nun was permitted to accuse you, though only for your good, and in charity, humility. She could see Sister Gerard rising now, kneeling on one knee, eyes down, hands clasped, bony hands twisted with arthritis.

  ‘Sister Mary Hilary stripped naked with a priest. Sister Mary Hilary had congress with that priest. Sister Mary Hilary has lost her faith in God. Sister Mary Hilary doubts His goodness, doubts His whole existence.’

  Even in the silence, she could feel their sense of outrage, though no one moved, no one said a word, not even Reverend Mother meting out a penance. How could any penance be heinous enough? She already used the discipline twice a week, or more; a whip of thin waxed cord with nine separate knotted tails. If you were tempted to indulgence, or some sudden longing sprang up to distract you – a craving for a slice of beef, or an unbroken night in bed, or to hear a piece of music, or simply curl up with a book and be alone, you must lash and beat it out of you with ten sharp strokes of the whip; must scourge yourself for laziness, for greed, for disobedience; above all, for concupiscence, since the body must be punished for the body’s lusts. She had been too lax recently, must use the whip more often, use it every day now, use it longer, harder; use it till she bled.

  She slipped back to her cell, unclipped the soft black cover which she had sewn herself, embroidered with her number, removed the discipline. She stood hunched in the corner while she whipped her thighs, her shoulders; building up a rhythm. She thrashed harder – this was nothing. St Rose of Lima had carried a heavy wooden cross for hours and hours on shoulders already raw and bleeding from the discipline. And St Margaret Mary had carved ‘JESUS’ on her bare breast with a knife, then burned the letters in with a lighted candle. Those were straight historical facts, not pious fabrications. And both those saints were nuns – devout and faithful nuns, who had never sinned as she had, yet still felt the need for penance.

  Again, she raised the belt, brought it down across her breasts, as she heard the Abbess’s voice: ‘You must scourge and wound your flesh, as your Holy Saviour’s body was also scourged and wounded.’ She knew the ruling, didn’t she? Each Sister in good health was obliged to use the discipline in the privacy of her cell, at least once or twice a week; offering the pain in reparation for her own sins and the world’s. Those who had been longest in religious life were expected to inflict more and harder strokes. She had never shied away from it; had indeed regarded flagellation as a means of crushing not so much her body, as her rebellious doubting mind. Why stop now, then, when both mind and body had so flagrantly rebelled?

  The heavy silver buckle was tearing at her skin, marks and weals rising on her body, blood flowing to its surface like the tide of scarlet anger surging in her mind: anger with Simon, with Elaine; fury with God for not existing, fury with the Abbess for pretending that He did; contempt for herself for being so passive and accepting, for wasting half her fife. Things might have been so different if she hadn’t been a Catholic, hadn’t been a nun. She could have married and had children, lived a normal happy life, clocked up some small achievements, instead of twenty years of penance, deprivation. She was whipping not herself now, but all those who had crippled her – Mother Mistress, Mother Abbess, her father, Father Martin, even God the Father – thrashing really wildly, tears of pain and anger streaming down her face.

  Suddenly, she stopped, stood paralysed a moment, her right arm raised above her head, frozen in mid-air. Someone was outside. She’d heard a sudden knock, and now the door was opening, opening very slowly. It must be Simon – Simon come to get her. She rushed to shut him out, force and wrest the door shut. He mustn’t find her naked, see her bleeding body.

  ‘No, Simon, no. Please, no.’

  ‘Simon?’ said a voice. ‘Who’s Simon?’ Then, ‘Oh, my God! What’s happened?’

  Everything was blurring – words, walls, the man himself – a tall and startled-looking man she wasn’t sure she knew. She took a step towards him, to tell him he must go. It was Passion Week, Good Friday, a day of total silence. They couldn’t speak till Sunday, joyous Easter Sunday, when Christ their Saviour would have risen from the dead.

  ‘No,’ she sobbed, as two arms closed around her, seemed to drag her down into Christ’s dark and endless tomb. ‘That’s all a lie. There is no Saviour, is no Resurrection.’

  Chapter Twenty

  No curtains. Light nudging at her eyelids through small and naked windows, throwing patterns on the bare stone walls. Where was she? It must be Brignor. There were never any curtains in the convent. You didn’t need them when you lived so far from any other house, with four high walls to screen you, and when you got up every morning in the dark; winter, summer, winter. Except it wasn’t dark, wasn’t winter, but bright full-bodied morning, with eager sunlight flickering on the counterpane. Hilary tried to sit up – worried, yet still dazed. She’d overslept, missed the bells, missed Office. She could hear the other Sisters chanting in the chapel, somewhere far below. ‘This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad.’

  That was from the Easter Sunday Mass, the most important joyous Sunday of the entire Church year. She should be down in choir. Why had no one woken her, or come to fetch her when they realised she was missing from her stall? And why were her cell walls that roughcast sallow stone, instead of smooth and whitewashed plaster? Round walls, very thick walls, with bars across the windows. She must be in a prison cell, not her Brignor one. She’d done something very wrong, though she couldn’t remember what, couldn’t remember very much at all. It felt rather peaceful really, not to have a mind, to be just heaviness and warmth, as she slumped back on the pillows, turned her head a fraction so she could see the Easter flowers – not simple Brignor daffodils, but majestic trumpet lilies.

  ‘The Lord has brought us to a land which flows with milk and honey. Alleluia!’ Male voices now, mingling with the shriller female ones, a loud full-throated organ booming out behind. Could that be the prison choir, singing so professionally? She made herself sit up again, struggled out of bed, hobbled to the window. It was difficult to walk, as if her legs were someone else’s, someone very old, who’d just recovered from an illness. She peered out through the pane, astonished when she realised how high up she was, as if she could reach out and touch the sky. There was only sky and downs – hills in folds, clouds in furrows, a brilliant sun enamelling greens and golds. It was as remote and quiet as Brignor. No roof, no house
, no curl of smoke or sign of human habitation. Was she all alone, alone in some high tower? Had they left her here as punishment, and she’d merely dreamt the music? It had stopped now, anyway. But she could hear another noise – heavy male footsteps on a staircase made of iron. This must be her gaoler. She’d find out what she’d done now, why they’d locked her up.

  ‘Hilary, are you awake? You’re up, for heaven’s sake! How are you? How you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Suddenly she was. This was somebody she knew, not a prison guard, or stranger, but someone kind and solid connected with the Kingsleys. He was smiling, knew her name, though his was still eluding her.

  ‘Thank God you’ve woken up. I was getting rather worried that I’d overdone the sedatives. You’ve slept for hours and hours, you know, missed lunch and dinner yesterday. You must be ravenous.’

  She tried to think of food, recall what hunger felt like. No, she wasn’t hungry, but full and fat and satisfied, as if she’d been stuffed with soft white feathers.

  ‘Well, how about a cup of tea?’

  She nodded. Tea would be quite perfect – real tea with tea leaves in, not just tepid water; tea to slake the dryness in her mouth.

  ‘Strong or weak? Milk or sugar? Both?’

  How strange he didn’t know. She felt she’d known him years, remembered he’d been with her in a dark and endless dream, where she’d been trying to climb to safety on the frail and slippery deck of some black ship. He’d been captain of the ship; saved it, saved them both.