‘And this is the utility room. It’s quite handy, really, for the washing machine and tumble drier. And there’s another toilet just through here. Yes, that leads into the garden. Careful! The steps are rather dark.’ Hilary shivered in the draught from the back door. Autumn had been mild so far, but now they were a week into November, and the nights were turning cold.
‘We must come back in the light, Tom, see the garden properly.’
‘Yes, of course. Come any day you like. I’m always here. Just phone, or get the agent to arrange it.’
Hilary smiled, showed the couple out, then sank down in a chair and put her feet up. There’d been twelve prospective buyers this weekend, and that last unwelcome pair had turned up at half past ten, breezed in off the, street as they were passing the ‘For Sale’ boards. It wasn’t just her feet which ached – her face ached, too; ached from smiling, ached from talking, pointing out amenities, playing down the problems. Just a week ago, a new board – ‘Under Offer’ – had replaced the three ‘For Sale’ boards, but the buyer had withdrawn when his surveyor found dry rot. Liz had been appalled, had assumed her house was in very good condition, expected a quick sale, a hefty profit. It was she who’d had to soothe her, long-distance, on the phone; she who’d seen the agents once again, negotiated a lower price, approved the new euphemistic wording on the handouts.
‘Exceptionally well-appointed character residence in sought-after position. Immaculate decorative condition, excellently presented throughout, though in need of minor repairs.’
She phoned Liz every day, sometimes twice a day, to report on any developments, advise on any problems.
‘You’re a wonder, Hil, honestly. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’
She had glowed at Liz’s praises, secretly agreed with her that she had made some genuine progress in the last two months; was far less frightened of meeting total strangers, less hesitant and ignorant in discussing business matters. She had learnt a lot about property and prices – not to mention human nature – had steeled herself to live alone in a large and lonely house. Even Di had gone now, sold the dress-shop to her rivals in one of the quickest deals on record, was already setting up a new boutique in Scarborough. She herself had been invited up to join them, as soon as Liz’s house was sold: help with Stephen, help Di in the shop, find a room nearby. She had turned the offer down, even when Liz pleaded. She suspected Liz was acting out of pity, and she had no desire to accept favours based on pity, not from anyone. It was time to strike out on her own, without help from Auntie Liz or jobs from Auntie Di.
She had found herself a job, in fact – and quite a decent job, one with board and lodging; had bypassed the job Centre, found it on her own. Everyone had told her that would be impossible; bored and snooty girls at employment agencies shaking their heads, always saying ‘no’, rubbing in her lack of qualifications, reiterating the scarcity of residential posts, especially when she’d had no real experience. Then, one morning, when she’d been looking through Appointments Vacant, finding nothing, trying to quash her growing sense of panic, her eye had strayed to the Educational column. An American college for international students was advertising courses – everything from Fine Art to Computer Studies: mature students especially welcome, and those from overseas. The college was in Oxfordshire, described itself as friendly, small, and set in glorious countryside. How nice, she’d thought, to have the time and money to do a course in literature or art, get out of grimy London, meet people from a host of different cultures, five amongst trees and fields again. On impulse, she had phoned them, not as a prospective student, but to ask them if there were any chance of working there, as receptionist or housekeeper, even a gardener or a kitchen hand. An American had answered. No, he’d said, no way – though he said it not unkindly, seemed surprised she’d phoned at all. Why was she so desperate, why so keen on Roosevelt College?
In the end, she told him far more than she meant to, including the fact she’d been a cloistered nun for twenty years. He began to ask her questions, obviously intrigued. The questions were embarrassing, began to get too intimate. She returned the conversation strictly to employment. Could he possibly advise her where else she might apply to get a job? He’d laughed, seemed more relaxed and even jokey. Yes, maybe he just could. It wasn’t every morning he got ex-nuns calling up, especially not the sort who wore medieval robes and shut themselves away for half a lifetime. And he’d always heard that nuns were real good workers, never slacked or went off sick. They owned a sister college, a larger one in Hertfordshire, and if he had a word with Andy, there was just a chance he’d find her something, though it might be pretty lowly. ‘That’s all right,’ she’d murmured, with the first stirrings of excitement and relief. ‘I’ll take anything at all.’
The position Andy offered was less humble than she’d feared, even had a tide – assistant domestic bursar – though the title sounded grander than the job. All she really had to do was help out in the kitchen, do the washing up and cleaning, then once she’d mastered that, graduate to waitress work. In return, she’d receive room and board and a low but adequate wage. Andy also promised that if she proved reliable, she might increase her pay and status by taking on the extra job as warden to the girls; on call at nights to deal with any problems which arose among the female students. She was to start in early January, when their new college term began and one of their key kitchen staff was leaving to get married. The timing, too, was perfect, gave her two whole months to sell the house, wind up Liz’s affairs; and if the sale went through much sooner, well – she could always spend a few odd weeks in Scarborough. At least she’d be a guest there, a temporary visitor, not a permanent drag.
She eased up from her chair, moved into the kitchen to make herself a drink. She’d indulge herself this evening, had worked hard all day, tidying and cleaning, showing people round. She sat at the table sipping her hot chocolate, made with full-cream milk and frothy on the top; smiled as she remembered the bitter Brignor cocoa, always made with water, always sugarless. ‘Congratulations, Hilary,’ she murmured to herself, as she spooned half-melted sugar from the almost empty cup. ‘You’ve got your job. You’re coping.’
She washed the saucepan, put everything away, wiped down all the surfaces, removed the soggy tea towels. Liz would hardly recognise her house – no coats flung on the banisters or books left in the lavatory, no cluttered shelves or messy bulging cupboards. The huge fridge held just two small eggs, a paltry cube of cheese. All the rooms seemed larger with their furniture removed. Liz had moved out half her things, sold the rest, or passed them on to friends. Her plants had gone, her ornaments; all the family flotsam which had surged or drifted in through thirteen years. The piano was still there, though that, too, was up for sale, and at least a dozen different people had already called to try it. She found it almost painful to hear their rough and ready music, or – worse – their skilful playing. She herself had still not played a note. Just to touch the keys might undam a whole wild flood of raw emotion, prove too overwhelming. Music was something she had renounced completely, save as a rapt but passive listener. Liz had left her half her records and an ancient stereo, insisted that she keep them, since Harry had progressed to compact discs and owned a far superior system. Dear Harry had his uses, she thought, grinning to herself.
She closed the door, locked up back and front, began to feel her usual twinge of nervousness as the clock hands on the landing moved to midnight. The nights were always difficult. She was still not used to sleeping in Liz’s bedroom, which seemed too big for her, too fancy altogether, despite the fact it had been denuded of its luxuries, stripped of Liz’s frills. Liz had insisted that she move down from the top floor. ‘It’s not safe, love, with you stuck away up there. If there was an intruder, you wouldn’t hear a dicky bird.
Anyway, my room’s much nicer, much more comfortable. And you’ll have a bedside phone.’
The phone was ringing now. ‘Damn!’ she muttered, as she reached to pick it up. Surely not house-hunters in the middle of the night – though a month of trying to sell the place had prepared her for anything. One cheery family had taken over the kitchen, casually demolished her modest lunch-for-one, and a man had come just yesterday with two delinquent dogs in tow. One had fouled the garden, the other tried to maul her.
The phone lead was twisted, the line fuzzy and unclear. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Who? Oh, hallo, this is Hilary, the girl who … No, Liz isn’t here. She’s moved away. I thought you’d know, actually. She’s gone up North to Scarborough.’ Hilary sat down on the bed, thrown by the tremor in Mr Craddock’s voice. She’d met Luke’s father only twice, and only very briefly, and both times he’d been angry, bellowing like a bull. Now he sounded subdued and almost panicky.
‘What’s happened? What’s the matter? Can’t I help instead? I’m looking after things for Liz and she told me to … Rita? Oh, how awful. Is she bad? Oh, I see, they’ve taken her in. Yes, of course I will. I’ll come first thing. He’d better stay here, hadn’t he? I mean, if you’re going away and there’s no one else to …’
She heard her voice sounding calm and confident, though it was contradicted by the churning agitation in her mind. Was she crazy to have invited Luke to stay? She hadn’t had much choice. Rita Craddock was bleeding like a skewered pig, as her husband put it baldly; had thought at first it was a really heavy period, until it turned into a haemorrhage. She’d been rushed into hospital earlier that evening, and was now under observation. Joe’s middle son had offered to take Sylvie, and had just driven back to Harlow with the bewildered girl whimpering and dribbling in the back. Luke was more a problem. He’d missed so much school already that Joe was reluctant he should move away from Wandsworth. He had banked on Liz helping out, as she had before, several times, when Rita had suffered less dramatic ailments.
Hilary stood up, started pacing to and fro like a caged and anxious animal, tethered by the phone-lead. If only Liz were here to take control. She was surprised Joe didn’t know that she and Di had moved. Wouldn’t Stephen have told Luke, or Luke himself reported to his parents that Steve was changing schools? No. The boys were still at loggerheads, had kept up their long feud. And as for Liz herself, the last two months had been so full, so hectic and disruptive, she had hardly seen any of her friends, let alone the Craddocks. She, too, had quite ignored them – apart from that one visit, way back in July, when the baby had been teething. Luke had obviously resented all the attention being lavished on the screaming feverish infant, and had behaved extremely badly, breaking things and kicking at the pram. ‘I’m teething too,’ he’d whined, pointing to the gap in his front teeth. ‘And I don’t scream and shit my cot.’ She had found herself recoiling from both boy and baby, had not returned again. And since mid-September, her own problems seemed too pressing to take on someone else’s. Now she had to help. Joe was off to Birmingham first thing in the morning and the boy would be alone.
She made the last arrangements, sat staring at the carpet, the dead receiver still cradled in her hands. Could she act as mother? Luke might well be very difficult with his own mother ill in hospital, his whole home life disrupted. She’d have to cook and wash for him, take him to and fro from school, amuse him after school, keep him clean and tidy. So what? Most women did that all the time, for several different children, and often with a full-time job as well. She replaced the phone, stood frowning and preoccupied, her mind on meals and shopping lists, homework, sheets and blankets. She’d better get up early – air the bedding, prepare his room, try to find some toys for him.
She went to draw the curtains, shivering in the large unheated room, pausing at the window, to peer up and down the street. It seemed totally deserted, curtains drawn, bedroom lights extinguished, only she awake. Perhaps she was alone not just in the house, but in the whole of Cranleigh Gardens; all the other occupants packed up and moved away, their houses stripped and plucked, their silent gardens jungled. She let the curtain fall, undressed quickly, pulled the bedclothes right up to her chin. She was still not used to Liz’s double bed – to have all that space for one unimportant person, all that luxury: the goose-down duvet which Liz had left behind for her, the pile of feather pillows.
Sleep refused to come. She kept worrying over Luke. Suppose he played up, ran away from school? If he were difficult and sulky in his own home, he might be quite impossible in hers. She groped for the light switch, sat up against the pillows. She should have just said no, made some quick excuse, said the house was half-dismantled, so nobody could stay. The Craddocks had a brood of older children.
Couldn’t one of them help out, or one of Rita’s family? She had enough to do already, keeping three floors clean, coping with the garden, the constant stream of house-hunters, without a sullen and rebellious child disrupting her whole …
‘Completely bloody selfish, that’s what you are, Hilary. You may have been a nun for all those years, but you don’t really give a damn about anyone but yourself.’
She flinched, dodged back, as if recoiling from a blow. Robert’s voice, angry and accusing. She had tried to blot it out for eight whole weeks, forget that frightening outburst on the downs, but now the ugly phrases were roaring in her ears. She was completely selfish, lying in a feather-bed feeling sorry for herself, when Rita Craddock was bleeding in hospital, Luke motherless and miserable. She had realised, long ago, how serious Luke’s problems were, how much he needed help; the whole wretched Craddock household crying out for friendship and support. And what had she done? Turned her back on them, indulged in her own selfish petty pleasures, and when those pleasures ceased abruptly in September, she had retreated into herself, made Liz’s house a private sanctuary, a convalescent home with her as the sole patient. She had put her need for safety and survival before everyone and everything; creating order, organising, tidying, so she wouldn’t sink or crack. If other people cracked, too bad. She couldn’t take their problems, their messy feckless lives.
Selfish? Yes, completely. She had never loved anyone, never lived close enough to another human being to nurture and support them through sickness, crisis, breakdown, or even through the endless petty daily aggravations, as most normal women did. It had been much the same with Robert. She couldn’t love him because he threatened her whole neat and tidy life, her safe and sterile order; had rejected sex because she wanted it a sacrament, a spiritual communion without noise or sweat or bodies, without any violent passion, any real abandon. She grabbed a pillow, hugged it, tried to turn it into Robert, warm and solid Robert saying she was beautiful, stroking her bare breasts. It wouldn’t work. She could only hear his fury.
‘You’ve made me look a total fool. I spent bloody hours searching for that ring, scoured every shop and sale room. You’ve just used me, haven’t you, led me on, let me think you cared, when you didn’t give a shit? Let’s face it, woman, it’s been all take and no give from the moment we first met. I tried to make excuses for you, give you time to change, but you’ll never change – you’re just plain bloody selfish.’
She hurled the pillow out of bed, leapt out the other side, stood trembling by the wall. Who was Robert Harrington to use the word ‘selfish’? He had encouraged her to be herself, then tried to change that self, mould it to his whims, replace the rules and duties of the convent with another set of disciplines: the duty to be sexy, the duty to look good, to grace his lighthouse, charm his friends. He had dismissed her own perfectionism, as well as his ex-wife’s, yet was selfishly perfectionist in the pursuit of his own ends – his work, his home, his projects. He had urged her to fulfil her needs, then ignored them all himself: her need for space and privacy, her need to choose occasionally, choose meals or books or clothes, or even a whole lifestyle. He was determined to possess her, possess her mind and body, control her tastes, her mood. Wasn’t that selfish, even ruthless? And he’d been rough in bed, insensitive, hurt her and embarrassed her, and not even had the insight to realise she abhorred it. He was generous, yes; adoring, yes; but also brash and violent. He’d attacked her on the downs – actually pummelled her and slapped her, because she’d hurt his pride. She could feel his hands stinging on her face, hear his angry ranting voice scorching the whole county.
‘I’ve met girls like you before – pretending butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but really hard as nails. Well, don’t think I’m taken in. I’m not. I’m …’
She had heard about his temper, never quite believed it till she experienced it that night; found it so unnerving, she’d done everything she could to erase it from her mind, pretend it never happened, pretend Robert was unreal. He was probably doing much the same himself, since she’d heard nothing further from him – not a letter, not a phone call, not a single word of sorrow or regret.
Impulsively, she reached out for the phone, dialled his Sussex number. He wouldn’t be asleep, rarely went to bed before the early hours. Despite the cold, her hands were clammy wet, her heart pounding through her flimsy nylon nightie. Her whole stomach seemed to heave as she listened to his number ringing out. She had no idea what she planned to say. ‘You brute, you bully, hitting me like that. I never want to see you in my life again.’ ‘I love you, Robert – truly – please come back.’ ‘I’ll never forgive you, never in my life.’ ‘I’m sorry, it was my fault. I was just too prim and scared. Let’s try again. Let’s …’
She was speaking to herself, speaking to a piece of deaf white plastic, voice desperate now, imploring. ‘Please answer, please say anything. Please wake up and hear the phone.’ The ringing tone sounded tired and jaded. She hung on one more minute, let it drag to two, to three; still sat there, hoping, pleading, clutching the receiver as if it were his arm. Perhaps he’d moved away, sold his tower – ‘Gloria’s Tower’ – bought a new folly which wouldn’t bear her taint, a water-mill or castle named for someone else.
She groped for her slippers, stumbled down the stairs into the sitting room. She had to have a drink, something to anaesthetise the seething mass of memories, remorse. The room looked bare and barren, with all Liz’s softening touches swept away. She had turned the place not into a sanctuary, but into a remand home, where everything was disciplined and stark; had become a nun again, a strict old-fashioned nun.
She poured herself a glass of Southern Comfort, another gift from Robert, sat staring at the blank uncurtained windows, trying not to think; suddenly giggled to herself as she began to gulp it down. Strict old-fashioned nuns didn’t sprawl in low-cut lacy nightgowns, knocking back strong liquor. Robert had affected her far more than she realised, given her a taste for alcohol, made her more extravagant, more worldly altogether. He’d also changed her views and her philosophy, taught her ‘God is Truth’, instead of ‘Truth is God’. She could salvage most of that, value what he’d given her, preserve the best of it, while throwing out the rest; rejecting his demands, his domination. She had chosen not to marry him for sound and rational reasons; had actually made a decision on her own, broken with her former convent habit of always seeking guidance and advice. That was some achievement. She’d also decided not to go to Scarborough – another key decision – had resisted Liz’s fussing, Di’s urgent overtures as she realised alteration-hands were as rare up North as they’d been in Wimbledon. Liz was still keeping her, paying for her services as secretary and agent, but that would end in just a month or so. And once she moved into the college, she would be entirely self-sufficient.
‘About time too,’ she murmured, as she fiddled with the bottle-cap, curled up in her chair. She had seen Robert as a teacher, Ivan as a priest, used Liz as aunt and nanny; was still searching for her real aunt, had even sent a letter to Eva’s old address in Gloucestershire, in case she’d moved back there. She’d have to change her outlook, learn to stand alone now, without priests or teachers, mother-figures, elusive Evas, sanctuaries; even do some mothering herself, offer Luke a home. She lurched to her feet, dragged herself upstairs again, bottle in her hands. She’d use it as a nightcap. Joe Craddock was expecting her first thing in the morning, so she ought to get some sleep, conserve her energies. She might need them in the next few days – or weeks.
The bed seemed even vaster, her mind more helter-skelter, as it plunged from Robert down in Sussex to the Kingsleys up in Scarborough; from Sylvie in Harlow to Rita in her ward; from Luke’s concrete-jungle playground to her job at Claremont College. She hadn’t drunk enough, was still restless and keyed up. She uncapped the bottle, filled her glass again; realised she was missing Robert, actually missing that male body she had criticised, rejected. She had allowed her thoughts to dwell on him, broken through the barrier she had set up round his name, recalled him from limbo, from the dead. She pulled her nightie up, let her hand stray across her thigh. She had never touched herself, even though he’d begged her several times; said it turned him on, said she ought to masturbate as part of being adult, being fully sexual. The hand groped lower, moved between her legs, began to stroke guiltily and nervously. She closed her eyes, tried to rock her pelvis the way that Ivan taught. It didn’t seem to work. She kept remembering sex with Robert, the way her rocking thrusting body wouldn’t link up with her mind, wouldn’t register as pleasure, refused to burst into excitement, was simply movement, simply automatic.
‘Pretend,’ she urged herself. ‘Fake it just to start with.’ Liz had told her that scores of women faked their sexual pleasure, at least in the beginning; went to bed more to please their men, or make themselves feel normal, loved, secure. She’d done the same herself, might have become a truly sensual women, if she’d only persevered, allowed herself more time and more experience. She thrust her legs apart, even dared insert a finger, tried to think of nothing but herself – her pleasure, her enjoyment, the passion which would follow once she’d shammed a bit. ‘All you need is practice,’ Liz had said so often. ‘Sex is just a skill you have to learn, like any other skill.’
She licked the finger, tried to push it deeper, explore herself, get to know her body. She’d read the sex books, knew what was expected. It was important to relax, they urged, maybe even fantasise. She tried to think of Robert, a different Robert, gender, less explosive; a man who didn’t sweat or swear, didn’t boast about the prowess of what he called Big Bob, didn’t have genitals at all; a man who had no body-hair, only long blond ringlets falling to his shoulders. She sat up with a jerk, snatched her hand away. She’d turned Robert into Jesus, and still it hadn’t worked. She was still dry, still tense and squeamish. She tugged her nightie down, wiped her finger on the sheet. They didn’t write sex manuals for women like herself, eccentric semi-nuns who weren’t sexually frustrated, as single manless females were expected invariably to be, but spiritually frustrated. The craving was still there, the craving for a God, a faith, a meaning to her life. She smoothed her tousled hair, let out a sudden laugh. She was spiritually randy, to use Delia’s word, and Robert’s. It was a randiness – a constant urge and restlessness, an aching rutting search. Did no one else experience it? There were so many other urgent hungers in the world, for food, success, achievement; hungers on the television – complexions craving moisturiser, digestions lacking fibre. Could she really be so unique in panting after angels, searching in the supermarket for spiritual adventures in convenient packet form, bottlesful of grace?
She reached out for her glass. The only bottle in her grasp was Robert’s Southern Comfort. She had bid goodbye to grace, would have to settle for good old-fashioned liquor. She’d drunk only one small glass, so far; not enough to anaesthetise so many different worries. She tucked the duvet round her shoulders, lolled back on the pillows, kept sipping steadily; pausing for a moment to swill the amber liquid round her mouth, relishing its warmth, its kick, as it tingled down her throat. If she couldn’t find her God, at least she’d find whisky-flavoured oblivion.
The alarm clock and the doorbell shrilled at the same time. Hilary struggled out of bed, a foul taste in her mouth, a cruel relentless hammer banging in her head. She had been dreaming about wounds; her whole body a deep wound, a red and pulsing opening. Still dazed, she took the parcel from the postman, a pile of bumph, two letters – one addressed to her, with a smudgy Norfolk postmark. Her entire attention focused on that postmark, on the neat and spidery writing, Reverend Mother’s writing, which acted like a dose of Angostura bitters; cut right through her hangover, jolted her to wakefulness, even to alarm. She plunged into the kitchen, collapsed on a chair, heart pounding now, as well as just her head. The envelope was bigger than the usual small pale blue ones the Abbess always used, looked quite fat and bulky, as if it held more than just a letter. She tore it open, found the letter, and another envelope – an important-looking white one with an Italian stamp. She closed her eyes a second, as if to blank it out. That second stiff white letter was from Rome, from the Sacred Congregation for Religious, their name spelled out in Latin on the envelope; Citta del Vaticano screaming from the postmark. It could only be one thing: the formal dispensation from her vows.
She picked it up, put it down again, longed for Liz, for Robert – somebody to help her slit the envelope, face those chilling phrases. Already she could feel a wave of loss, regret, a sensation of near panic. Right up to this moment, she had been officially a nun – even with a hangover, even making love to Robert, or driving his red sports car – could still return in theory, take up the life again, re-enter the safe Brignor womb. Now the cord was cut and she was thrust gasping, blinking, into the harsh glare of the world, with no way back, no bolthole or emergency escape. A dispensation was final, absolutely final. If her faith returned, or even her vocation, she would be cut off from the convent, permanently, completely; all legal and religious ties severed by that document for ever. She fiddled with the other mail, tried to read a catalogue from Comfy-Fit Footwear, concentrate on arch supports and slingbacks, but her mind refused to shift from the white official envelope which contained her fate, her future. She reached out for the sheet of pale blue paper, Reverend Mother’s letter. If she couldn’t face the document itself, at least she could read that, take one thing at a time, ease and spread the shock. She unfolded it, hands clammy, glimpsed just the first two lines.
‘Dear Sister Mary Hilary,
I regret to inform you that …’
She dropped the letter instantly, as if it were scorching hot and had already burnt her hand; pushed it to the far end of the table, trying to ignore the sudden queasy churning in her stomach, far worse than any hangover. It was not her dispensation. She was still Sister Mary Hilary, and Reverend Mother Abbess was writing to inform her that the Sacred Congregation had refused her application, refused to release her from her solemn vows. They had that right and power, though they used it very rarely, and only in cases where the reasons given for requesting dispensation were judged frivolous, unworthy, or when the applicant’s Superior had serious reservations of her own. She had heard of just one case before – a Trappistine who had applied for dispensation in 1959, and had died of cancer twenty-two years later, still under vows and buried in her habit.
‘No,’ she mouthed in horror. ‘You can’t refuse. You can’t!’ It was only at this moment that she knew suddenly, indubitably, that she could never be a nun again, that the life was wrong for her, had been always wrong, even from the start. She’d been ambivalent about seeking dispensation, but now she craved it; realised that it spelled relief and freedom, not remorse and shame. It was total folly to imagine that her old faith would return. Robert had shown her a much wider and more complex world, displaced her simple vision of God and Satan, heaven and hell, her one narrow rigid Truth. She had rejected Robert’s ring, but she could still respect his views. It didn’t even matter that they had gone their separate ways. There were other options to being Robert’s wife, different sorts of future. She required her formal freedom so she could search those options out, learn to find and be herself. ‘I won’t go back,’ she whispered. ‘It would be absolutely crazy. I know that now. I’m certain.’
She must ignore the letter, flout it, tear it into pieces, go her own way anyway, regardless of the Sacred Congregation. If she had no faith, then they were just a group of bureaucrats; Reverend Mother Abbess not reverend at all, but a rigid martinet, clinging to old outmoded standards. Except it didn’t feel like that. Reverend Mother’s sanction, the Congregation’s permission and release, seemed desperately important. Without them, she was tied-legally, symbolically – would always be a misfit in the secular world; someone who was barred from it officially, belonged back in her cloister. She picked up the envelope blazoned with the Congregation’s crest. She’d better read their letter, face their petty cavilling about frivolity, light-mindedness, their relendess admonition that she go back to her convent.
Still she hesitated, scared of her own anger, of all the difficult decisions she would be forced to make once she’d read their case. Did she appeal against their verdict, or ignore it totally? Should she return to see the Abbess, or cut all links with Brignor? Might it not be easier just to burn the letter, pretend she’d never seen it? She sat staring at the Italian stamp, which showed a crenellated building, with solid foursquare walls, lowering battlements. She envied it its strength, while blenching at the words which ran beneath it: Poste Vaticane. Could she really burn a letter which had come from Rome, the Pope’s own Holy City? Mixed in with her anger was a whole morass of fear, an instinct to surrender – a remnant from the past, when the Pope had towered above her life for nearly forty years, insisting on obedience and submission. The hall clock struck the hour. She dropped the letter on the table, dragged herself upstairs. She’d been lost in her own problems, while ignoring Luke’s completely, forgetting he was waiting. Selfishness again. She washed and dressed in under fifteen minutes, returned to the kitchen, gathered up the mail, to sort out on the bus, grabbed a few stale biscuits from the tin, in case Luke, like her, had found neither time nor appetite for breakfast, then stepped through the front door.
It was still half-dark outside, a glaze of silver covering the grass, etched across the privet hedge: the first frost of the season. She shut the gate, turned the corner and walked down Atwood Avenue into Marefield Crescent, a tree-lined street, unlike Cranleigh Gardens – stopped in sudden shock. The trees had lost more than half their leaves, which were lying on the pavement ankle-deep; the trees themselves skinny and denuded. Yesterday, the weather had been mild: blue sky, weak shafts of sunlight, a golden glow at dusk. Yesterday, the plane trees still had leaves, brown and sapless leaves maybe, but still bulking out the branches. She knew it happened sometimes – an almost instant leaf-fall, when a sharp and unexpected frost followed on a mild spell, but it still seemed quite traumatic, as if the trees had been bereaved, suffered a sudden jolting shock. Winter had arrived – arrived this morning with the post – come in cold and grey.
Impulsively, she rummaged in her handbag, took out both the letters, stiff white and flimsy blue. She had to face her own shock, not run away from it, or try to fool herself that things were bright and sunny. She was no longer angry, merely numb, resigned; no longer even scared. If she had to appeal, so be it. She could get advice from someone, maybe consult a lawyer or a priest. She checked her watch. She wasn’t late; had washed and dressed so quickly she’d left earlier than she’d planned, could easily read two letters and still be at the Craddocks’ at the time she had arranged. She shivered suddenly, moved closer to a plane tree, as if seeking shelter from its dark and solid bulk before unfolding the blue paper – Reverend Mother’s letter.
‘Dear Sister Mary Hilary,
I regret to inform you that the Order will not be able to grant you any financial assistance for your return to the secular state, since the circumstances of your leaving were …’
Incredulous, she checked the words again. ‘Your return to the secular state.’ That must mean … She clutched at the tree trunk, steadied herself a moment before ripping open the stiff white envelope. Two dozen lines of typing on heavy bonded paper, with an insignia above, a long impressive signature below. She tried to read, realised with a shock that the typing was in Latin, and her own knowledge of the language appeared to have completely disappeared. She was gazing at a tide of foreign words – no sense to them, no meaning – just empty mocking hieroglyphs. She shook the paper angrily. Crazy to communicate in a dead and arcane language, which most normal people couldn’t understand. She had loved the Latin once, revered it as precise and universal, but now it seemed a symbol of all that was wrong about the Church – its archaism, its rigid hidebound pedantry.
She took a deep breath in, tried to exhale her anger; tried to make some sense of the still baffling alien words. This must just be tension, or temporary amnesia. The Latin would come back, if she calmed down, took her time. She forced herself to concentrate, picked out her own name: Soror Maria Hilarius. No, that wasn’t her. Why should she be Latinised and fossilised; men keep forcing names on her – Hilarius and Gloria – names she didn’t want? She struggled with the next line, face screwed up in effort until she spotted a key word – the one word she was looking for: ‘dispensationem’. She repeated it aloud as her eye went racing on, the lines now making sense, instantly, dramatically, as if the word had brought her skills back, restored her to her powers. She could translate now quite effortlessly, the once obdurate Latin slipping, smiling, into English.
‘Having given due consideration to the aforesaid documents forwarded to us at …’ She skipped a line, plunged on – on towards that magic word, ‘dispensationem’, repeated further down the page and yoked this time to her name. She translated once again without the slightest hesitation. ‘This Sacred Congregation is willing to grant to Sister Mary Hilary dispensation from her solemn vows.’
She was still clinging to the tree trunk with one hand, her palm hurting on its rough uneven bark. She rubbed it on her skirt, let the letter drop back in her bag, as she tried to take it in, tried to still the wild emotions welling up inside her – a heady mix of triumph, shock, relief. ‘I’m free,’ she mouthed. ‘I’m free!’ A bird napped up, a lean black cat jumped a fence, streaked across a lawn. Free like them, with no cages and no walls. Free to be a normal human being, free to find a role– not as femme fatale or collector’s acquisition, but a role she’d choose herself. She could be scruffy if she wanted, celibate if she wanted; a tomboy or a tearaway or a pillar of society. It was up to her alone now. She no longer had a Superior, no longer had a fiancé, had cut all ties, finished with all gurus. She’d make her own rules, if she needed rules at all. So the Order couldn’t grant her financial help? No problem. She hadn’t expected any help; didn’t need it anyway. She had a job, a future, could be truly self-supporting for the first time in her life. Her headache had quite gone, even the foul taste in her mouth replaced now by the honied tang of freedom.
She glanced down at the pavement. Every autumn as a nun, she had fought a childish urge to shuffle through the fallen leaves, as she’d done as a young girl, hear them scrunch and crackle underfoot. Instead, she’d had to sweep them into neat and tidy piles, work in silence, with her mind on God alone. She broke into a run, kicking up a storm of leaves, brittle crackly leaves, like the stiff and crackly paper which had granted her release. She zigzagged up and down, jumping windblown drifts, paddling though the tide of brown and yellow. She’d bring Luke here this afternoon, so they could play leapfrog with the leaves together, then pick out a few perfect ones, brilliant coloured specimens, she would press and keep for ever. She needed a memorial, something to preserve this day, save it from oblivion.
She stopped a moment, looked up at the sky. It was light now, fully light, the first weak sunlight breaking through; the first frost of the season melting, vanishing. With any luck, it might be quite a good day, even bright and sunny. She’d been wrong about the season. It wasn’t winter yet.