‘And what’s the urgency now?’
‘Time.’
‘But for what?’
‘A more valuable life. Which is spiritual and useful.’ Stella shrugged her shoulders. ‘How can we make the world a better place? To make a contribution, however small. Despite what the Church thinks about women.’
‘I once knew a wonderful nun who said that the last Vatican Council was attended solely by the Bishops of the Church. But at the next the Bishops would be there with their wives. And the one after that, the Bishops would be there with their husbands.’ Stella laughed. Kathleen sat back in her chair and clapped her hands. ‘We have that to look forward to.’ She offered the plate of biscuits. Stella took a digestive.
‘I used to love making butter sandwiches. Squeezing them and watching the butter come up through the wee holes.’
‘I wish I’d known to do that.’ Their laughter slowly ebbed away.
Kathleen crunched her biscuit then wiped her mouth and said, ‘I know you didn’t come for flippancy. How much do you know about us?’
‘Not a lot. I’ve heard some things, seen some things on the internet.’
‘Well, we go back as far as the twelfth century, a time when everybody was Catholic – including the Protestants. The whole thing started off as a group of women who prayed and looked after the sick. Later they decided to live together in a community. They weren’t exactly nuns – they didn’t take vows and were a lot less strict than other orders – although the “no men” rule was sacrosanct – they had to be prepared to live by themselves. Not as anchorites, not in the desert – but in the everyday.’
‘And now?’
‘That’s all gone. There’s no religious order now. But there’s still about a hundred or so apartments and very occasionally one comes up. Everybody has to pop their clogs eventually. And that leaves vacancies.’
‘What happened to the nuns?’
‘The last nun in the Begijnhof died in 1971.’
‘So I’ve got this all wrong?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Kathleen. ‘I don’t know where you’re coming from.’ There was a moment of hesitation before Kathleen went on, ‘I was a nun in Ireland – the Sisters of Mercy – but I left and ended up here. This halfway house suits me better.’
Stella didn’t know what to say. The silence seemed long. It reached a point of embarrassment – so she said, ‘And why did you leave?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story.’ Kathleen smiled. Stella knew to go no further.
‘And is your woman – the one I’m going to see – is she . . .’
‘She’s more of an estate agent.’
‘What kind of women live here now?’
‘Anyone single who can afford it. A well-heeled cross section, really. A well-high-heeled cross section. Although there’s precious few of those to be seen in here.’
‘And you – what do you do?’
‘I’m a teacher.’
‘And so was I. An Irishwoman in Scotland teaching English.’
‘I’m an Irishwoman in the Netherlands teaching Comparative Religion and Maths.’ They laughed aloud. ‘The school is ten minutes away. Mondays I work from home. So we were lucky to meet.’
‘Can I ask?’ Stella hesitated. ‘Do you still practise?’
‘Oh yes. My religion is very important to me. It’s what made me want to come here in the first place. I was taught by nuns in Waterford and liked the most of them. But nowadays the spiritual side of things is up to yourself. Having a chapel on site makes things easier.’
‘And what about prayer?’
‘That’s entirely your decision,’ said Kathleen. She smiled. ‘The volume, duration and intensity.’
‘But the sisterhood is a figment of my imagination?’
‘No, the sisterhood is very real – a lot of great people. But the religious thing has largely disappeared.’
‘My crest has just fallen.’ She smiled. ‘Like an old waxwing.’
‘Oh, you poor thing. But it’s still possible for women to live here. Although the waiting list is very long.’
‘How long is long?’
‘Years, I’m afraid. Maybe five or more. Worse than any golf club. The only criteria are that you must be a woman who is prepared to live by herself. And you must be anywhere between thirty and sixty-five. And you have got to be able to afford it.’
Stella sat for a long time digesting this. She tightened her lips and her whole face sagged.
‘Well, that’s that. I’m too old.’
‘You’re not over sixty-five, are you? You look ten years younger.’
‘I certainly don’t feel like it at the moment.’ Stella couldn’t think of anything to say for a long time. Then she asked, ‘Is there anywhere else? That has a similar set-up?’
‘In Belgium there are some places. In Bruges. But there are no sisters. Just buildings. The Benedictines took them over, I think. Kind of spiritual squatters.’
‘Are there any in Britain?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘English-speaking Beguines would be good. Like you.’
‘Prayers don’t need translation.’
Stella smiled. ‘The other hitch is that I’m married.’
‘Any children?’
‘A boy, Michael – a man now. And a grandson called Toby. But they live in Canada.’
‘And do you go out to see them?’
‘Oh yes – we went to see Toby when he was a year old.’
‘I’ll bet that was lovely.’
Stella nodded. ‘If there’d been a place here,’ she said, ‘I’d have found a way around the husband issue. There’s not that much marriage left in us.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I was just reading the other day that older couples are more prone to war with each other – when the children have flown the coop. They’ve too much time on their hands.’
‘Don’t take what I say as official. There may be ways around things. Hurdles turned sideways, if you like. Talk to herself when she comes in. This is obviously something you have thought about.’
‘Yes. These things that are on the back burner of your life, nobody sees them – when you pray or go to Mass, you take them out and give them a polish. Nobody knows. That first time after I came back from Amsterdam we went for a Sunday run in the car – somewhere just outside Glasgow – the Campsies. It was an accident in a way because the weather was beautiful and that doesn’t happen too often in Scotland. My husband fell asleep on the grass and I went for a walk. I’d seen a little white church down the road. It turned out to be a German order of nuns and I got into conversation with one of them – she was changing the flowers on the altar. She said that their movement – Schoenstatt, I think she called it – was made up of ordinary people seeking to live their faith in the modern world.’
‘Yes, yes. I know of them.’
‘I told her I was just back from Amsterdam and talked about this place. She knew all about it. She had the loveliest face and a disposition to match. I must have talked to her for the best part of an hour. I’ll never forget her. Gerry was still asleep when I got back. That night he was badly sunburned. The side of his face and the tops of his feet – he’d stupidly taken off his shoes and socks. I felt very like Mary Magdalene – putting cream on his feet.’
Kathleen lifted the teapot and gestured towards Stella’s cup.
‘No, thank you. I’m sure you’ve plenty to do which doesn’t include listening to the likes of me.’
A phone rang and Kathleen picked her mobile from the sideboard.
‘Hallo met Kathleen.’ She nodded, listening. Then switched off. ‘That’s Astrid now.’ Stella looked at her, not understanding. ‘Astrid Hoogendorp. In her office.’
‘Her ladyship.’ Stella nodded and stood to shake her hand. ‘No matter what the outcome of all this is, it was great to meet you.’
‘And you too.’
Stella held onto her hand.
‘I’ve been askin
g all the questions but . . .’ Then she let go of her hand. ‘You are very easy to talk to. And I want to tell you something about myself before I go. Something I’ve left out.’ Kathleen gestured that Stella should sit down again.
‘Thank you.’
Stella began, and she did not begin. The words were inside her head but she could not translate them onto her tongue. Her mouth opened and closed. She met Kathleen’s eyes, now smiling in anticipation.
‘What is it?’ said Kathleen.
The breath Stella took in was shallow, insufficient for what she knew was coming.
‘You’re a stranger . . . I was involved in something a long time ago, an accident. And I made a vow . . .’ Stella let her eyes fall to her hands. ‘You know how vivid things are in extremis. There’s something going on in the brain. Chemicals. They make the moment indelible. But I have never been able to keep it. The vow.’ The pause lengthened until Kathleen tried to help her.
‘What kind of accident?’
‘I was pregnant.’ Kathleen continued to gaze at her but there was an aura of surprise on her face. Stella smiled. ‘No, not that kind of accident.’ The older woman’s face straightened. ‘I was married. It was our first summer together. I was very, very pregnant.’ Kathleen stared, waiting. ‘I was shot. In the stomach. I lay there on the street and I said a prayer. Spare the child in my womb and I will devote the rest of my life to You. But I failed. Here I am, at my age, looking to pay a debt. But . . .’
‘What happened?’ Kathleen’s eyes were wide and her mouth open.
‘It was Belfast. In the early seventies. That’s what happened. Somebody was ambushing somebody else. Anyway I was left lying on the pavement. And the only prayer I could remember was an Act of Contrition. But that was not what I wanted. That’s to save yourself. I wanted to save my baby. How could it not be dead? I needed some kind of a miracle.’
Kathleen shook her head, seemed lost for words.
‘I didn’t know whether I’d wet myself, or my waters had broken or I was just bleeding. But it wasn’t the physical things. It was what I was saying to myself. The prayer. The bargain I was striking. Lord, let my baby live and I will be in your debt for the rest of my life. And that’s the way it turned out.’ Kathleen reached over and took both of Stella’s hands in her own. ‘I’ve never breathed a word of this . . . this pledge to anybody. Not even to my husband. Nobody. It seemed the bullet had passed through me. In one side and out the other.’
‘Oh, you poor thing. How awful.’
‘It was a miracle or else the wee one must have ducked. The only damage, the doctors said, was that I would not be able to have any more children. My son Michael’s an only child.’ Instead of saying something Kathleen squeezed Stella’s hands. ‘It was in all the Irish papers. Not my name, just the incident. Pregnant woman shot – blah-blah-blah, that kinda stuff. But when we moved to Scotland nobody seemed to know. And I didn’t bother to announce it because, if I did, it was all people wanted to talk about. So it became, if not a secret, then something which wasn’t mentioned.’
‘If you’re upset . . . if you want me to come down with you . . .’
Stella sighed and gathered herself.
‘No. I’m all right. What I’m talking about happened a long time ago. I’m a different person now.’
Kathleen helped Stella to her feet and put her arms around her. She patted the older woman’s stooped back. They extended their arms to look at each other again, hugged once more and then Stella left.
It was Stella who’d noticed the first snowflakes outside the hotel before reaching the taxi. Large wet ones landing on her face and overcoat out of the darkness. She had to step around the abandoned block of ice still sitting there like a lump in the throat of the street. Some snow lay on top of it. Gerry shoved it with the sole of his shoe and it slid to one side, allowing them access to the door of the taxi.
‘That wind would cut you in two,’ she said.
‘In three,’ Gerry said. ‘It would cut you in three.’
As the train moved on the exposed parts of the track the snow streaked horizontally past the windows. Then the train stopped. The snowflakes melted and slid down, leaving wet trails. Once or twice she caught Gerry looking at her. He seemed afraid to ask how things had gone. When the train started again it passed slowly over a road. They saw, under the street lights, that the roofs of cars had become white. All the way to the airport the snow kept falling.
Gerry pulled their big case. It rattled or purred according to the type of Lego pattern on the station flooring. He had his shoulder bag slung halfway round his back and was stooped forward to counteract its weight. Stella followed him at a little distance. There were very few people about.
He waited and let Stella onto the escalator first and stood behind her as they ascended to the airport. She seemed in a dwam as she was being carried upwards, one hand resting on the black rubber banister. She wasn’t good at these things – her hand–eye co-ordination was a lot poorer than his, so generally he travelled behind her in case she stumbled. If they were descending he would go in front. When she reached the top she stepped off and Gerry passed her. Her gaze remained on the escalator as it went on and on rising, continuing to bring nobody. It had a dream-like rhythm, hypnotic, lulling like a pendulum. But Gerry was away like a greyhound towards check-in. He looked over his shoulder to see what was keeping her.
The queues were short and they began to hear familiar words and accents, see styles of clothing they knew. They looked at one another, raised eyebrows enough to know they were among their own again. Once they had checked in and deposited their large bag, Gerry said, ‘Wouldn’t mind a drink.’
At the next opportunity she steered left into what looked like a British pub and sat down. Gerry set his shoulder bag on the bench seat beside her.
‘Fizzy water,’ she said. He went to the bar and ordered. Stella sat still, listening to the muzak without being aware of it. ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ segued into ‘All Shook Up’.
He came back to the table and pushed her bottle of water and a glass across to her and set down his whiskey.
‘Where do they dig up these ancient songs?’ he said. ‘It’s the kinda thing we used to dance to in Fruithill fifty years ago.’
Stella agreed. Gerry sat down.
‘So. How did your meeting go?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it was a complete failure.’
‘How so?’
‘I’m too old,’ she said. ‘If I want to be a religious I’ll have to do it on my own.’
‘You planned this whole thing.’
‘It was a notion I had,’ Stella said quietly. ‘I had to look into it.’ She cleared her throat and began, her voice on edge. She said that a religious order in that place was a thing of the past. She’d missed the boat. The last Beguine died in the 1970s. But women still did come to live special lives there although she herself was too old. And that was it.
Another song came on. ‘I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus.’ Even though it was well after Christmas nobody seemed to care. Maybe it was something to do with it being in a foreign language – it meant nothing. Maybe it was the barman’s own tape. The voice was a nasal American kid.
‘D’you think we’ll get away?’ she said. She looked all around for a window but couldn’t see one.
‘It’s not too bad,’ he said. ‘It’s only been going about an hour.’
‘I think they’ve heated runways here,’ said Stella. ‘The bruise on your chin is changing colour.’
‘From what to what?’
‘Purple to black?’
‘No green?’
‘That comes much later.’
‘Thanks. Who needs a mirror?’
Gerry’s hand came up and he fingered the bruise as if it was a beard.
‘Can you remember the day you twigged what that song was all about?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘although I must
say, it created a certain amount of eye-rolling in our house.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Mammy always shouted, “Turn that thing off!” Even though we hadn’t a clue what adultery was.’
‘But that’s the whole point,’ Gerry said.
‘What?’
‘It’s not adultery. It’s her husband.’
‘Santa Claus is her husband?’
‘Yes. Dressed up on Christmas Eve. Like an American magazine cover. Putting the presents round the tree. And a little touching love scene ensues between husband and wife. And they kiss. And the child sees them.’
‘I can feel my face going red. I never even thought about it. I so believed in Santa Claus.’
Gerry laughed. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. And there was me thinking it was the real Santa Claus.’ She sipped her glass of water. ‘What age would we have been?’
‘God knows.’ He drank off what remained of his drink. ‘The early fifties.’
Gerry went to the bar and got another large one. He complained to Stella about how expensive it was here at the airport. He picked up his shoulder bag.
‘Listen,’ he said. He rocked the bag to and fro. There was a liquid noise. Stella shook her head.
‘I can’t hear a thing.’
‘It’s the Traveller’s Friend. I miscalculated. Over-provided.’
‘They’ll not let you take that through security,’ said Stella. Gerry shrugged. ‘You should have packed it in the case. Wrapped it in your noir pyjamas. They’ll confiscate it.’
‘They’ll not get the chance.’ Gerry checked where the barman was. He was serving a family who had just come in. Gerry produced the duty-free bag and, without removing the bottle, poured himself a substantial dram. ‘There’s no way I’m going to let somebody in uniform pour this down the plughole.’
‘So you’re going to pour it down you?’
‘Exactly. I was behind a guy once – a full bottle of vodka down the sink. And a pot of jam straight after it. Glug.’
‘Shame about the jam.’ She nodded to Gerry’s bag. ‘How much is left?’
Midwinter Break Page 17
