Devils, for a change Page 13

  She didn’t answer. She was still dazed by that casual ‘first ex-husband’. So Liz had been divorced, and more than once. She felt a rush of pity for her, yet also deep unease. In Reverend Mother’s eyes, divorce was a sin, divorcées hard and brazen. She was also shy of Ivan, shy even of his clothes. He was dressed in the same black baggy trousers he’d worn yesterday, at supper, but this time with a green embroidered smock, which looked almost like a vestment, the way it hung loosely from his shoulders. His long untidy hair was falling in his eyes. The eyes themselves were kind – the sort of soft brown melting eyes that cocker spaniels had. Yet it felt almost dangerous to be sitting with a man alone; a man not a priest or monk.

  Somehow he had swept her into the kitchen, sat her down, closed the door behind them. She hardly dared look up, just stared into her cup, hands slowly thawing from the warmth of tea and boiler. He had made a pot of herb tea which she had never tried before – Lemon Balm with honey, which smelt sharp and sweet and spicy all at once. Should she explain about the references, or wait till Liz appeared? Suddenly, the door burst open and Di strode in, her pale cheeks flushed, her hair spilling from its chignon.

  ‘That bloody man, I’ll kill him! Okay, so he’s my father, but …’ She stopped dead, stared at Hilary with a mixture of suspicion and bewilderment, seemed hardly to remember who she was.

  Hilary stood up. ‘I’m sorry. I’m intruding. I’m the nun, ex-nun – you know, the one who turned up yesterday.’

  ‘Nun?’

  ‘Didn’t Luke tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  She wished she hadn’t spoken, though Di seemed not that interested, her whole attention focused on what was going on outside, angry taunts and yellings still echoing from the stairs. Ivan offered tea, but she poured herself a stronger drink, turned to Hilary with the gin bottle uncapped. ‘Care for one yourself?’

  ‘N … No, thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I snapped. I’ve had a real bitch of a day. It gets harder and harder to run that blasted shop. The girl who helps me has gone off sick with flu, my new stock’s been delayed, this lousy bloody weather keeps the customers away, and on top of that, I find my father here … Cheers, anyway!’ She downed her gin and grinned. ‘With that lot off my chest, I feel a whole lot better. So how are things with you, Hilary?’

  So Di did know who she was, had even remembered her name. She felt touched by the ‘Hilary’, but still awkward, ill at ease. Not only had she barged into a private family row, but Di would wonder why she’d come at all, suspect she was a scrounger, begging a free meal again. She got straight on to the references, asked if they could help.

  ‘What’s the job you’re after?’ Di refilled her glass, lit a cigarette.

  ‘A kitchen porter.’

  ‘What?

  Liz walked into the silence which followed Di’s ‘You’re joking!’ Her eyes were sore and swollen, arms hunched across her chest, as if holding in bruised or broken pieces. Di jumped up, steered her to the table, poured a drink for her.

  ‘Hilary’s just told us she’s a nun, but she’d rather be a kitchen porter, and would we write a reference for her.’

  They all laughed, even Liz, which broke the tension. Hilary let Di explain. She felt too tired herself, too scared by all the wild emotions raging in this house. Nuns were trained to hide what they were feeling, be it joy or anger, exhaustion or resentment.

  ‘Good God!’ said Liz, letting out another bray of laughter, while still dabbing her red eyes. ‘You must be kidding, surely? You don’t look like a nun – and even less like a kitchen porter. Though I must confess I’ve never met either in my life.’ She gulped her gin, lounged back in her chair. ‘Can’t you get a teaching job, instead? Nuns all teach, don’t they?’

  Hilary took a sip of tea. ‘Well, no. Not contemplatives.’ Would they even know the word, or understand that some nuns spent their entire life in prayer; that prayer was the Church’s official work, and that other jobs like pottery or printing, making hosts or vestments, were merely secondary, just a way to keep themselves, as an alternative to begging? She remembered the words written in the Community Book, justifying their role. ‘To pray for those who have no time for prayer; to believe for those who can no longer believe; to give praise for those who are lost in pain; to accept death, that they may live.’ If she recited that, they’d laugh again, or worse still, be embarrassed. Yet, they were still all looking at her, waiting for some further explanation. ‘I did mostly sewing,’ she added lamely. At least vestment-making would be easier to explain than singing the Divine Office seven times a day, succouring the world.

  ‘Sewing?’ Di was on her feet. ‘Why ever didn’t you say so? I’m desperate for someone who can sew. My alterations lady is really almost past it. She’d got arthritis in her fingers, and must be pushing eighty, though she swears she’s sixty-five. I’ve had three complaints already, just this week, and a pile of work mounting up. If you need work, my love, I’ve got it – loads of it – and you can do most of it at home, without having to trek out to some bloody great hotel where they’ll probably only treat you like a skivvy.’

  Hilary flushed. It would sound just too pathetic to say, ‘I haven’t got a home.’ She thanked Di instead, told her she’d love to have the work and could fit it in in her spare time, evenings and weekends.

  Di frowned. ‘No, the shop’s shut then, and I’ll need you there occasionally – you know, for fitting customers. Anthea and I do the simple things like pinning up hems, but if someone wants a garment more or less remade, then we need an expert on the premises. Even fitting can be tricky, as I’m sure you know, judging where to make a tuck, or when to take a seam in.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She hesitated. ‘But I’m afraid I need a live-in job as well, something residential. I could try to do them both, but …’

  ‘Are kitchen porters residential? Surely not?’

  ‘Well, no …’ Hilary pushed her cup away. There was so much to explain. Miss Pullen, the Job Centre, her lack of any training or experience, her need to rent a room. She tried to compress her whole dismal endless day into just a few brief words. Di cut through them.

  ‘Don’t worry. You can have my old room here. I hardly ever use it any more. It’s full of junk and stuff, but we can soon shift that. I’m sure Mum can find you some work as well – you know, instead of rent, maybe. And what I pay you for the alterations will be cash in hand. Okay, it won’t be a fortune, but at least you needn’t declare it, or pay tax or anything.’

  Hilary sat silent. She knew nothing about tax, felt highly nervous of moving to this household, meeting fussy wealthy customers in a fashionable boutique. And why had Liz said nothing? She probably didn’t want her there at all – was annoyed with Di for putting up the scheme – if she’d even heard it. She wasn’t listening any more, had moved to the far end of the kitchen where she was standing by the cooker, tête à tête with Ivan. She was obviously upset, still reeling from the quarrel, and probably hoping for a private word with Di. They’d all heard the front door slam, the shell-burst of an engine as Di’s father drove away, the car horn like a final jeering taunt. She ought to leave herself, still felt in the way, someone who had walked into an explosive situation and was now preventing it from being sorted out. She leaned towards Di, kept her voice as low as possible. ‘But how about your mother? She may not want me here. I mean, even now, I feel I’m …’

  ‘You’ll be doing Mum a favour.’ Di crunched an ice cube, wincing as the cold shocked through her teeth. ‘She’s got far too much to cope with. She helps out at the shop at least three days a week, takes Stephen to and fro to school, has him half the evening, if I’m working late, and a good chunk of the holidays, as well. Then there’s all the housework and the cooking. I mean, you could help with that, to start with. Do you drive, by the way?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I …’

  ‘You can cook, though, I presume?’

  Hilary flinched at all the questions starting up a
gain. Why were contemplatives so useless? ‘No, I’ve never really …’

  ‘Well, at least you can sew, and frankly I’m quite desperate. Some of my customers drive me almost mad – want something taken up, then immediately let down again, or keep fiddle-faddling about every tiny detail. If you’ve been making clothes for twenty years, your God must have sent you here on purpose.’ Di laughed, nicked her worm of ash into a saucer.

  Hilary sat silent. Had God sent her here? Was this her new mission, to help this family, pray for it, try to reduce the strain on Liz? She wouldn’t mind the housework, it was the shop which frightened her. When she’d made vestments, she’d never met her customers, just worked from measurements, and she’d always viewed her handiwork as something quite impersonal she created for the Church, not individual garments for individual vanities.

  ‘Good God!’ said Di, glancing at her watch. ‘Is that the time? I promised Madge I’d pick Stephen up by nine and it’s already quarter past.’

  ‘Quarter past nine?’ Hilary sprang up. In twenty-two years, she’d never once been late, or not without a really good excuse. Yet, in just the last two days, she’d twice kept Miss Baines waiting – and waiting hours and hours – with no real reason save self-absorption, thoughtlessness. She’d also broken the Great Silence once again.

  Di was dragging on her coat, searching for her car keys. ‘Are you late yourself? Well, don’t look quite so frantic. I’ll just fetch my poor kid, who must be longing for his bed, then run you back, right to your front door. And on the way, we’ll talk about that job.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Is that all your luggage?’ Liz picked up the two carrier bags, strode out to the car.

  Hilary followed, nodding. It seemed a lot to her. Father Anstey had brought her round another jumble box, let her take her pick: his farewell present to her. She now had two good skirts, half a dozen jerseys, some matted, some quite reasonable; even a green mac which came right down to her ankles.

  ‘Right, in you get. Chuck that clutter in the back and you’ll have a bit more legroom. Sure there’s nothing else to bring?’

  Hilary wished there were, fought a sudden craving to rush back to the house, barricade the door and stay behind it. However much she’d hated Rosemont Road, it had been somewhere safe and sheltered, where she’d been free to hide away, avoid a lot of problems, including other people. The car swept round the corner and onto the main road, turned left for Wandsworth High Street. Was she a fool to stay at Liz’s, with all those raucous voices, all those complications? Did they even want her there, or was Liz simply being kind, or giving way to Di’s continued pressure? Whatever else, Di required her sewing skills, and had overridden all the other factors, including her own fears. She’d called round twice, once with Stephen, adding lures and bribes. She could have her own television, she needn’t work weekends, except in real emergencies. Hilary felt embarrassed, over-cosseted. Were people who could sew so truly rare? Couldn’t Di find someone else, someone much more suitable, who could cook and drive as well, and had somewhere of her own to live? Apparently not.

  I should never have agreed, she thought, as they drew up outside the tall brick house, which looked bigger now, and somehow even threatening. She hadn’t had much choice. She had phoned about the kitchen porter job, but it had gone already, taken by a male – and one who had two references, presumably. Father Anstey had found a worthy Catholic lady who’d agreed to take her in, but couldn’t offer work. She’d be a charity case, eating someone’s food, but giving nothing in return; still tied to a priest who saw her as a renegade. Yet she ought to live with Catholics, stay in touch with priests. Reverend Mother had just written to her again, a less stinging angry letter than the first, but pointing out that if she wished to take formal leave of absence, then she must be very careful how and where she spent it. It should be a time of prayer, reflection; her most important task to discover what God planned for her, and she must therefore shun all company which might mislead her as to the value of her faith. She must also remain faithful to her vows. She was allowed to work, to keep herself, pay her bills, but must still observe the spirit of the vow of poverty, not deviate at all from her vow of chastity, and observe her vow of obedience in informing her superior of any changes in her lifestyle or her plans.

  But did she really want just a leave of absence? She was almost sure already that she would never return to Brignor; couldn’t face that life of ceaseless prayer again, when she had lost her sense of God; been tempted by such doubt and desolation, that every hour in chapel seemed a mockery, every act of faith a blatant lie. So why live as a nun still – least of all a hybrid nun, who had left the cloister, didn’t wear a habit, but was still bound by ties of steel?

  She must obviously go further still, ask for dispensation from her vows. No! Impossible. It was just too terrifying, painful – above all, far too final. Supposing she didn’t make it in the world? She hadn’t done too well yet, and things could get still worse. Di might find her hopeless with the customers, or Liz resent her presence in the house. She might fall ill again, or even have a breakdown; be out of work or starving, forced to change her mind, crawl back to Brignor on her knees, and beg for readmittance. Even well and working, she couldn’t seem to break the tie with Mother – who’d been not just mother, but God’s deputy, His whip; the superior you knelt before, to confess your faults and failings, the mistress you obeyed, instantly, invariably. She longed now to kneel in front of her, be forgiven, back in favour, an obedient child again. Yes, too much a child. She seemed to need approval for everything she did, still dreaded Mother’s anger, knew she’d disapprove of this move to Cranleigh Gardens, were she aware of all the facts.

  She felt worse as she walked in, met Della in the hall, her hair a different colour from a week ago, but the eyes as cold and piercing as before. Even here, she was still a charity case, whatever Liz pretended, still one of her lame ducks, at least in Della’s eyes.

  ‘So you’re our fun new lodger?’

  Wrong on both accounts. She’d forgotten what fun was, and lodgers all paid rent – a lot of rent in London, so Father Anstey said. Liz hadn’t mentioned rent, and Di had simply shrugged it off, said they’d talk about it later. She followed Liz upstairs, noise and voices fading, as they reached the top floor of the house.

  ‘This is your room, love. I’m afraid I haven’t cleared it out yet. I’ve been up to my eyes this week, but at least the bed’s made up, and I’ve turned the heating on. It’s really nice and warm now.’

  Hilary stood, marvelling, at the door. A large untidy room, with real carpet on the floor, and wallpaper, not paint, the sort of formal stripey wallpaper you only got in sitting-rooms. And two lamps with frilly shades, and mirrors, mirrors, reflecting three or four of her. She tried to dodge their stare. This couldn’t be her room. Even as a child, bedrooms had been plain – plain and simple, plain and cold. This room was tropical.

  ‘Di’ll be round tomorrow and she can sort out all this clobber. I don’t know why she leaves it here, when she’s got her own big flat. Mind you, that’s choc-a-block as well. She always was a hoarder.’

  Liz was opening all the drawers, trying to find one empty, squashing up the dresses in the wardrobe, to make an inch of space. Hilary followed, dazed. She’d never seen so many clothes – clothes of every sort and style, from boiler-suits to evening gowns, fur coats to bikinis. It felt wrong to hang her sludge-green mac beside a lurex cocktail dress, to put her blue school knickers in a drawer with satin briefs.

  Liz was handing her some towels, huge coloured towels with ships on; fetching soap and toothpaste. ‘If there’s anything else you need, just shout. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ The word was difficult, not one she’d used before. But she’d have to change, to modernise, if she was going to live in this house.

  ‘Ciao, then. Come down when you’re ready and I’ll show you round the house.’

  The house-tour hadn’t started until midnight. Too much else had happene
d in between: a constant stream of visitors, including Della’s father; two meals, one cooked by Liz, one an Indian takeaway; and a crisis at the shop, when someone rang to say the burglar alarm was wailing and had there been a break-in? It was now after one a.m. and Hilary exhausted. Even talking was an effort, the constant need to think up things to say, or find answers to their questions – though there hadn’t been as many as she’d feared. Liz had probably warned them all to keep off dangerous subjects, not mention nuns at all. Was she a joke to them, a weirdie, someone even threatening, a sort of witch or killjoy? It was so hard to un-become a nun. She’d spent years and years becoming one, going through the training, studying the Rule. Now she had to undo it all, but without the help she’d had before, without a Mother Mistress to provide the guidelines, correct her every lapse. She had also learnt to smash her personality, erase every thought or fancy which might distract her mind from God. The process had been arduous, demanded total concentration and commitment. But now she needed thoughts and viewpoints; required a personality, a ‘self’; was expected to contribute to every conversation, have ideas on every subject. The reversal was confusing, left her floundering and dazed.

  She’d gone pretty wrong already, not known who people were – pop singers and sports stars, whom everybody else knew, everyone save nuns. It was also odd, apparently, to have never tasted Indian food before the age of thirty-nine, to think poppadoms were flowers. The day had seemed so long, so totally unstructured. She’d kept fighting down the urge to creep away, obey the bells she still heard in her head, follow her own timetable, as she had done at Miss Pullen’s, even say each Office. Today was January 21, the feast of St Agnes, Virgin and Martyr, a young girl of only twelve or so, who’d been stabbed in the throat for standing up to Roman persecution, refusing to yield the treasure of her maidenhead. She had acted out her life when she was a child of twelve herself – had loved that strange word ‘maidenhead’ – played all the parts in turn: the cool and saintly Agnes, the mocking Roman soldier with the knife, the shocked and weeping parents. They hadn’t mentioned parents in her Children’s Book of Saints, but she’d invented them herself, making them quite different from her own; the mother noble-born, the father quiet and gentle, both idolising, devoted.