I woke with such a start. The hammering seemed to come from somewhere across a river, a long way away. It took me several moments to realise where I was and that someone was knocking on my door. I leapt off the bed, black dots spinning dizzily. I know I called, ‘Who is it?’
Someone shouted back, ‘It’s Mass soon,’ and I recognised the high, quavering voice of the little monk with the rabbit. I unlocked the door and called out, ‘When? When is it?’ but he was already halfway down the path before he could answer me.
I had to sit down, still feeling peculiar after the dreaming and sudden waking. I wanted to make myself a cup of tea, but I knew I had no time and that now I had to pluck up the courage and go to morning Mass. How stupid is it that despite everything I cared how I would look? Can you believe that? But there was no time. My hair was a mess, so I just piled it up in a knot and pulled on the blue jeans and top I had been wearing the day before.
The low sun caught the edges of the tree trunks and lit up patches of grass and the tips of the rhododendron leaves. It was going to be another warm day but just then it was cool; the path was wet with dew and the early morning damp from the lawn, as I crossed it, spread dark stains on my sandals.
The French windows of the central lobby were slightly open and I had the feeling that the little monk had deliberately left them open for me. I had no idea where I was supposed to go but guessed that it was somewhere beyond the dining room. I was desperate not to be late, wanting to go in unnoticed. Then, to my relief, I saw Father Godfrey crossing the hall. He was wearing a richly embroidered green and gold cape. ‘Good morning,’ he nodded and proceeded through the door that led to the dining room, and I followed with some uncertainty, feeling a surge of anger that nobody made anything clear to me.
But outside the chapel he stopped and indicated that I should go on in in front of him.
‘Where shall I sit?’
‘Oh, anywhere, anywhere at all.’ And then added with the chuckle that was already familiar, ‘We don’t have special places any more.’
The gnome-like backs of the hooded brothers were barely lit by the flat, grey light of the early morning, which seeped through the nave windows, contrasting with the chancel’s artificial yellow light, which flooded from a circle of bulbs housed by discoloured parchment shades.
I took a place quickly in the back row, far away from everyone else, and heard the cushioned strides of Father Godfrey as he passed me. Glancing up as he approached the altar, I saw the ‘rabbit brother’ who had woken me kneeling on the right, his palms together in prayer, his head nodding every so often. I wondered what his position was in the community. From what I’d seen so far, he appeared very much to be a law unto himself. I wondered about the rabbit. It was very unusual, to say the least. And then I questioned, Are they happy here? Are they kind to each other?
I stared at the Christ figure hanging on the cross, hypnotised by those outstretched arms. Outstretched arms should mean love, welcome, welcoming love. I wanted to cry out: ‘Bollocks. It’s all a load of bollocks.’ And I felt the prickling of tears. One of the reasons I didn’t want to go to Mass was my fear of crying, of being seen to cry. I had been betrayed: those arms of welcome, of love, of help, were useless. ‘I’m not the only one,’ I thought for the thousandth time. Those arms – they had meant so much to me once. But when it came to it, when the moment came, they were powerless; I was powerless; I just kind of stood by and could do nothing. How could I have been so useless, helpless? Because there was no help. I was weighed down, drowning, sinking into the black pit of madness. That’s how it felt and there have never been any words. It’s pointless, you see. A waste of energy. It happened, and that is that.
It had been different once. Funny thing – I can still remember standing in the nursery and crying because it was the day Jesus was killed on the cross. Good Friday. I was very young, so how did I – the little girl who jumped off the dining-room table because she wanted to fly – know that? Perhaps through Granny, who had said simple prayers with me? Or, now I come to think of it, it was probably my friend, Margaret Cousins, who was very holy and took me to Sunday school. Yes, I think it must have been because of Margaret. I bet she became a nun; she was the type. But, of course, when we were moved away I lost all my friends and I never heard from her again.
I started going to church at boarding school. We walked in a crocodile down the hill to the huge cathedral. And school assemblies were religious occasions with readings, prayers and a sermon. Once a week Canon Rogers came and took the school service, his head and body jerking uncontrollably and the girls would titter and nudge each other. I was embarrassed for him; I couldn’t bear to look. All I knew was that he was very brave to stand up in front of a hall full of giggling, unsympathetic girls. It was partly for this reason that I asked to join his confirmation classes.
Then the heated debates began. Could you go to heaven without being a Christian? Was there really a life after death? Should you always turn the other cheek? What good did Jesus do by dying? I entered the debates with the fierce passion of a fervent twelve-year-old and was certain and unbending. Jesus could have prevented His own death had He wished. God could have intervened, for He did have the power to move mountains; you only needed faith. If you couldn’t move a mountain, it was because you didn’t have enough faith. It was as simple as that. Suffering brought you closer to God and if it didn’t, then you couldn’t have loved Him much in the first place. It all sounds so ridiculous now, but that’s how I was, and during our sessions and Canon Rogers noticed me. Though I was inexperienced and rather too fiery, he was patient and I could tell he thought something of me. That was important to me then. Probably still is. Now what would he say to me, this speechless, prayerless woman? What would he say to the stubborn, tearless challenge: ‘If You want me, You do something. I can do no more.’
Scilla, my best friend at school, and I went to confession in the vast cathedral on the Thursday evening before Confirmation Sunday. Everything was silent and waiting, and our footsteps echoed as we approached Canon Rogers, who had taken on an awesome presence as, dressed in long, rich clothes, he waited, solemn and still, in the little confessional room.
I was literally terrified; it was like going in to see God, not someone I knew. I went in trembling and knelt before him and took out the piece of paper on which were written all my sins. At least all the sins I could think of.
‘Read them out to me.’ He didn’t seem like my friend any more.
My voice would hardly come out.
‘Speak up.’
‘I don’t always love God as much as I should. Sometimes I’m unkind to other girls. I have a bad temper and I’m noisy. Sometimes I tell lies. I speak without thinking. I’m selfish. I’m rude to my mother. My mind wanders when I’m in church and when I say my prayers. I am proud. I have stolen things.’ Then I stopped because my mouth was dry.
‘Sweets from my grandmother’s sweet tin when she is not looking.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Did I detect a twinkle in his voice? I had my head bowed.
‘And how are you unkind to other girls?’
‘I follow the crowd when they are saying unkind things because I’m afraid. And I’m not friendly to people I don’t like. I don’t fix a church walk with a girl because she has really awful spots and it makes me feel sick.’
‘Will you try to be stronger in these matters?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘You have not strayed far have you, my child? God loves you and all your sins are forgiven you and the slate is clean.’
Oh, the relief. I knew I would cry from relief. From the kindness, for the forgiveness. He put both hands on my head.
‘God have mercy upon you, pardon and deliver you from all your sins, confirm and strengthen you in all goodness, and bring you to life eternal, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’
I felt his hands on my head and then all I wanted to do was to escape. He was going to ask more of me than I could give. I knew it.
‘Rose.’
‘Yes.’
‘You are God’s child. Are you willing to give your life to Him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Always?’
‘Yes. I will try’
‘Good, Rose, and God bless you always. Now go and pray for a little while.’
I wanted to run from the room.
I walked back to school with Scilla, who went in after me. It was dark and windy that November evening. Neither of us spoke a word. I felt energised, happy. I could do anything now – except keep silent!
I whispered to Scilla, ‘I daren’t say anything. I’m frightened to open my mouth. I’ve never been so holy before and if I speak I’m sure to ruin everything.’
The monks were filing up for communion. Father Godfrey held up the silver chalice and Brother Joseph stood beside him holding out the plate. I didn’t go up. I just watched the brothers go one by one, kneel at the chancel step and put their heads back to receive the sacraments. I watched, pitying their naivety as Father Godfrey took a wafer from the plate, which Brother Joseph held, dipped it into the cup and placed it into the open mouth. I could hear the mumbling every time he did so. I had been fascinated by that secretive mumbling before I’d understood what was going on and, even now, it seemed private and mysterious. Each monk crossed himself before standing and returning to his place.
Father Godfrey turned towards the altar, the service now concluding, but the little monk remained, facing us, waiting expectantly. I dropped my head, certain he was looking for me, expecting me to go up. Please don’t make a fuss, I thought. But after a moment he, too, turned and placed the silver plate on the altar and then took up his kneeling position. I had disappointed him.
They all stood when Father Godfrey stood and the monks filed out behind him, but I stayed where I was. I sat, staring ahead, thinking I’d got to work things out. I’d got to get a grip on myself. But I didn’t know what sort of grip. After all, to all intents and purposes, I had got a very good grip on things. I was living a perfectly normal life, doing perfectly normal things, like everyone else. After all, I wouldn’t have been there except for the odd memory lapses. I tried testing my memory: phone numbers, titles of the books by my bed, films I had seen, theatres, but it was exhausting and unproductive.
‘Mrs Gregory! Mrs Gregory!’ I turned abruptly to see Brother Joseph leaning towards me. ‘It’s breakfast.’
He was serving at table and brought me cereal, a boiled egg, toast and a large cup of tea, slopped in the saucer. I smiled because he deserved a smile, I thought. Nobody took any notice: they were all too busy eating. A young brother, the one with the spotty face, mumbled from Luke’s Gospel; again, nobody appeared to be listening. I noticed the way they launched into the food. Mouthfuls of tea were gulped to wash down even larger mouthfuls of cereal and toast. They bent their heads to the task, much as they had while praying. The twanging of the metal cutlery on the white china and the clanging of cups on saucers rang in a kind of rhythmic chorus.
He was there. The man I mentioned before; the one who was not a monk. He was there and raised his spoon to me in a quick greeting. And this time I nodded in reply. But that was all. I tried not to catch his eye again, concentrating on my boiled egg and then on the view from the windows.
The garden was already filled with sunlight, which threw armfuls of shadow as its rays blanched through the trees, and I suddenly longed to be outside, to go to the walled garden and to sit and look at the lights and shades, the tones of the garden. To smell the freshness, the sweetness, away from this stuffy claustrophobia. I wanted the warmth of the sun very badly indeed. Perhaps I would paint.
After breakfast, they all disappeared, as before. No one was in the hall this time, which was a kind of relief. I noticed the rabbit as I crossed the lawn and stood watching it for a moment. It was perfectly at home hopping around on the end of the rope. I went over to stroke it, remembering the white rabbit Father had bought me in place of the dog I had really wanted. This rabbit had a far better life than my poor Bambi, which had been cooped up in a small cage, generally thick with droppings and acidly wet with urine. Father had made a run, but the rabbit always managed to claw its way out and then we had the difficult task of catching it. In the end, it was seldom free. No, it had had an awful life. This Francis, though, seemed happy, free and fat. As I approached, it stopped eating, pricked its ears forward for a moment and then quickly hopped away until it was jerked to a halt by the end of the rope. ‘All right, I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t touch you if it frightens you.’
I didn’t stay long, and after a moment of curiosity, the rabbit returned to the vegetable scraps.