Devils, for a change Read online

  Today’s Office of Readings praised Agnes’s steadfast chastity, the courageous way she spurned mere earthly suitors. ‘He who chose me first shall possess me. Why do you delay, executioner? Let this body perish which could be loved by eyes I do not desire.’

  She missed her breviary. She could remember many of the psalms, but not all the prayers and readings for specific days and feasts. She had hardly had a chance to say any of the Office today; felt deprived, excluded from the Church’s public prayer. She had always loved the thought of being part of that great work of prayer – priests and religious in every country of the world, stopping at the same set hours to recite the same words of praise or supplication.

  They are happy, whose God is the Lord,

  the people He has chosen as His own.

  She switched off the main lights, kept just the bedside lamps on – though it was more the mirrors she needed to turn off. She kept seeing her own body, walking into it, wanting not to see it, yet somehow fascinated. Whatever else, she had to see her bra – Della’s bra, a lacy one with a tiny pink rosette where the cups joined in the front. She took her dress off, stood staring at her chest. It had felt odd at Miss Pullen’s to be without her swaddlings; odder now to feel her breasts supported. She could no longer fear they’d disappeared, or been hacked off by a surgeon, when they were cradled and defined in stiff white cups. Della had asked her why she didn’t wear a bra. Had she burnt it, or was she still living in the sixties? She hadn’t understood, just been horribly embarrassed. Stephen was listening, a boy of six, a male, and they were talking about brassières. Liz had rescued her, as usual, changed the subject, come up later to her room with one of Della’s bras.

  ‘This may fit. What size are you?’

  She’d no idea. She hadn’t seen a bra in twenty years, couldn’t remember sizes from the scant eleven months she’d worn one as a schoolgirl. She fumbled for the hooks. She’d lost that knack of reaching up behind, fastening or undoing it without being able to see, which must seem second nature to most women. At last, she got it off, glanced at her bare breasts, which seemed blatant, far too large. Nuns were always warned not to look at their own bodies, almost to disown them. It still felt very wrong to be examining herself, noting the pink circle round each nipple, the way the skin was slightly puckered there, as if someone had sewn it up too tightly, then ripped the stitches out, leaving faintish marks. Her nipples were a deeper pink, standing up like tiny snouts.

  Her eyes went lower, gazed with fascination at her legs – tanned and sheeny in the sheer nylon tights which Liz had given her. The tights felt strange, confining, like clingfilm on her legs, and were also quite tricky to put on. She’d succeeded with the left leg, rolled it to the thigh, but the other one had twisted and she’d had to start again. It seemed easier to take them off, though she was terrified of snagging them. None of her clothing had ever been that delicate. Convent clothes were always thick and practical, even underwear. She removed the blue school knickers, stole a brief and guilty glance at her quiff of pubic hair. It looked fairer than her head hair, seemed alive – standing up and springy, glinting in the light. Yet she was blushing as she glanced at it, ashamed of this new interest in her body, aware still of the Abbess, as if Reverend Mother were watching through the ceiling, her face a mask of horror and distaste.

  She pulled on the pyjamas, to hide and clothe her nakedness. They felt strange, as well. She had never worn pyjamas, not even as a child. These were, in fact, a child’s pair – Della’s once again. Della had outgrown them at thirteen and a half; was now seventeen and five foot ten. Hilary stood up straighter, wished she had that height. The pyjamas were bright scarlet with a Snoopy on the front – another word she’d learnt today, along with dreadlocks and chapattis. Yet, despite the Snoopy, she was a woman, not a child; her thighs defined by the tightly clinging fabric, her breasts pushing out the dog’s droopy comic ears. The colour seemed quite startling after twenty years of black. Black for mourning, death; death to the world, death to womanhood. Red was Della’s colour, red for anger, danger. She was scared of Della’s sharpness, tried to understand it. Perhaps the girl felt neglected, with her father gone, her mother always busy. Did she resent the way Liz spread her love and time beyond the family, treated Ivan’s pupils as her daughters, or Luke as a spare grandson?

  Luke was sleeping next to her in the small room at the back. She’d been to say goodnight to him, several hours ago.

  ‘I didn’t tell them, honest.’

  ‘Tell them what?’ she’d asked.

  ‘That you was a … a nun.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, Luke.’ She’d had to smile. He made it sound like something criminal, on a par with his own father’s spell in prison. She had wondered about that, wondered why Luke stayed here, instead of at his own home. Liz had told her, briefly, that he was the last of seven children, years younger than the rest of them and obviously a ‘mistake’, born when his mother was almost forty-four – the age that Liz was now – and Liz had already been a grandma for six years.

  ‘I married at just seventeen, you see, had Di two days before my eighteenth birthday. Then Di married at nineteen herself, and was already pregnant on her wedding day, with Stephen.’

  Liz had told her that so casually, as if she were merely describing the bridesmaids or the dress. Disasters and disgrace were shrugged off in this house as just bad luck, just life.

  ‘I suspect that’s why her husband left. He never really wanted kids at all.’

  ‘Oh,’ she’d asked, embarrassed. ‘Di’s divorced, as well?’

  ‘Well, only separated. Bill may come back, perhaps when Stephen’s older. He’s a freelance photographer, so he’s always travelling anyway. He’s in the Cameroons at present, doing some big thing on wildlife. He bought Di her shop. Bill was never mean, whatever else.’ Liz sounded almost fond of him, certainly not bitter. ‘It’s a shame for poor old Stephen, though. Maybe that’s why he and Luke are pals – Steve’s Dad seven thousand miles away, and Luke’s disappearing half the time. Luke’s in Stephen’s class, though he’s almost a year older, should be in the form above. He got a bit behind, poor lad. His mother’s always ill, and the old man’s a queer fish – runs a scrapyard, among other things. They’re Catholics – well, she is, anyway, which explains her seven pregnancies. Your Holy Roman Church has got a lot to answer for.’

  Hilary had let that pass, feeling guilty, yet disloyal for saying nothing. So Luke was a Catholic and had no idea what nuns were. Perhaps his poor, sick, worn-out mother had given up the struggle to instruct him in his faith. His school certainly wasn’t Catholic, since she’d been told already that both he and Stephen attended the ordinary local primary school.

  She knelt to say her prayers, to pray particularly for Luke, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate, felt God was no more here than He’d been at Rosemont Road. Sleep was also just as difficult. Even with the lights off, she was aware of all the colours, all the objects, clutter, clothes, not just in this bedroom, but in each and every room. Liz’s house was pretty but untidy; elegant but crowded, and all those busy objects seemed to have squeezed into her head. She couldn’t shut them out, or block out all the people who still circled in her brain – Luke and his sick mother, or Bill, festooned with cameras, tracking tigers in the Cameroons; Liz’s second husband, a tall fair man in jeans, who had popped in for an hour or so, showered Della with gifts. It seemed strange that he and Liz had once been married, intimate, in love. Liz treated him so casually, almost like another child or lodger. And yet he seemed at ease there, not so much an ‘ex’ as someone who belonged still. What happened if he met the first ex-husband? And why did either of them visit still? She had always thought divorcés kept apart, communicated only through lawyers or the courts.

  She discarded two of the three pillows, usually slept without one, as a tiny nightly penance. The duvet was too pampering, far too snug and sensuous, pressing close against her, moving when she moved. All this luxury was wrong. Perhaps Re
verend Mother was punishing her by preventing her from sleeping. No, that was quite absurd. She should be grateful that the Abbess was concerned with her at all. Ten years ago, another nun had left. There had been no farewells, no explanations, just an empty choir-stall, a spare place in the refectory at supper time. The next morning, in the Chapter Room, Mother had announced: ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Sister Mary Damian went home last night and will not be returning. Now the order of work today is …’

  Sister Damian had been professed for thirteen years; erased in just three seconds. The other nuns had been forbidden to discuss the matter, nor even mention Sister Damian’s name, except in private prayers. Hilary had struggled to obey, tried to blot out the whole incident. Only now, had it come surging back with renewed and poignant horror. She felt erased herself; nothing left of her save some brittle outward husk. That’s why she couldn’t sleep. She was trapped, not in a coffin, but in the cage of her own nothingness. Every time she closed her eyes, she seemed to tip into darkness, into void; lost any sense of self or even substance, as if she had dissolved like smoke, like vapour. She had to keep awake, in order to cling on to something else – something bigger, stronger. How did other people cope? Liz and her family had no religious faith, no God to give them hope or strength, yet seemed confident and cheerful nonetheless. Could a child make you stronger, or a boyfriend? Was that why Della was so tough, because three different boys were all in love with her; or Liz, because she had two daughters and a grandson?

  She turned the other way in bed, removed the last remaining pillow. Liz had borne a child at seventeen, the same age that she herself had entered Brignor. How stubborn she had been then, seeing herself with what she called humility, as God’s base instrument, required to do the work He wanted, ignore all other needs or obligations. In obeying God, she had disobeyed her parents – worse than that, had hurt them. And now it was too late – too late to make amends, tell them she was sorry, admit that they’d been right, that she’d made a huge mistake, wasted her whole life.

  She remembered their first visit to the convent. They hadn’t seen her for a whole six months, yet were allowed to stay for only half an hour, and couldn’t take their tea with her; were ushered to a separate chilly parlour. Nuns must never eat with seculars, not even their own parents. Her father had been shocked by that, more shocked by the grille; said it reminded him of monkeys at the zoo – no, worse than monkeys – he was obviously a wild and dangerous animal, if he couldn’t see his only child except through wooden bars. She had tried to laugh it off, told him it had been far stricter in the old days, when they’d had double grilles, two sets of bars, as well as a thick curtain, dividing nuns from visitors. It had been hard to say too much at all, with Sister Edwin sitting just behind her, acting as her chaperone. Chaperones had lasted well into the seventies, by which time her father was dead, and her mother’s few brief visits were sadly silent anyway.

  She sat up, put the light on, startled by the scarlet arm reaching for the switch. Did Della mind her wearing her pyjamas? She was still too preoccupied with Della, who seemed like the model for another sort of life – a life in the world, with lovers, clothes, possessions, a career. Della was training to be a beautician, hoped one day to open her own salon, rival her sister in running her own business, attracting wealthy clients. She’ll succeed, thought Hilary, with a sudden stab of envy. She was old enough to be Della’s mother, yet felt little more than seventeen herself – a shy and awkward teenager wrestling with the adult world. She’d never had a boyfriend, never tasted gin, knew nothing about make-up, fashion, business; had almost no experience of life. She had tried a drink this evening – not gin, but sherry; found it bitter and unpleasant, was relieved to change to Stephen’s Seven-Up. She must have drunk too much of that, felt a sudden urgent need to find the bathroom. She got up very quietly, scared of waking anyone, though only she and Luke slept on this top floor; Liz and Della just below, Ivan in the basement.

  She was surprised to see a light on in the bathroom; stopped outside, uncertain what to do.

  ‘Who’s that?’ a scared voice called – Luke’s voice.

  ‘It’s only me. Can I come in?’

  He didn’t answer, so she pushed the door, saw him standing in the middle of the room in his stripey blue pyjamas, as if he’d been frozen there, rigid, for some time. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s something in my room.’

  ‘What? Spiders?’ She remembered now he didn’t like them.

  ‘No. Something big.’

  She hoped he hadn’t found a rat. Surely not, in such a well-kept house. ‘Shall I come and look?’

  He nodded, followed her. The room looked much the same as it had done earlier – toys piled on the floor, posters on the walls, Luke’s bed rumpled, Stephen’s neat, unslept in. Stephen had gone back with his mother to their Putney flat; spent many evenings here, but rarely stayed the night.

  ‘Where is it, Luke, this thing?’

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing to an empty patch of floor.

  ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘No, you never see it, but it’s there.’

  Both of them were whispering. It felt sinful, almost wicked, to be talking in the early hours. She had grown so used to the Great Silence, that all this evening, after nine, she’d been fighting guilt and habit; kept wishing she could slip up to her room, escape the noise of television, radio, laughing chatting people. Silence seemed more natural – or had done back in Norfolk, where everything was hushed and calm at nightfall; birds no longer singing, fields and marshes muzzled by the darkness. But London was so different, lights blazing everywhere, traffic hooting through the night, six million television sets blaring out till closedown. She had envied Luke when he went off up to bed. Now she wondered if he’d slept at all. To be insomniac at thirty-nine was one thing, but at only six years old … No, he must be seven. Liz had said he was nearly a year older than Stephen. Yet he was smaller by a head. She wondered if he minded. She’d hated being small herself, called ‘Titch’ and ‘Shrimp’ at school, envying friends like Katy who could reach apples on the tree, ride a grown-up bike.

  She glanced at him again. He looked so crushed and weary, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises on the pale and fragile skin, a Band-Aid on one thumb, the hands themselves half-lost in drooping sleeves. She longed to comfort him, find the magic words, those powerful mother’s words which could banish spectres, horrors. Yet all she could recall were a few stern and stoic lines from the Office of St Agnes. ‘She chose to love the Author of life alone; in the full flower of her youth she died and found life.’ Agnes was always pictured with a lamb, the emblem of purity, virginity. ‘Agnus Dei,’ she said suddenly, out loud.

  ‘What?’ said Luke.

  ‘It’s Latin.’

  ‘What’s Latin?’

  ‘It’s a language. They used to speak it long ago, in Rome. Agnus Dei means lamb of God. It’s the beginning of a prayer for peace and mercy.’ Would he know what mercy was – or even Rome? ‘Agnus Dei,’ she repeated to herself. ‘Qui tollis peccata mundi …’ How could she translate that? A lamb who took away the sins of the world would sound peculiar to a child, unlikely to a lot of people. ‘Miserere nobis.’ She realised only at this moment that she must have repeated that ‘Have mercy’ several times a day for twenty years. Had no one heard? Have mercy on this child, she begged again, in silence.

  Luke was staring at her. ‘Do nuns speak Latin all the time?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she laughed. ‘It’s what they call a dead language.’

  ‘Dead?’ He looked alarmed.

  ‘Not really dead.’ She reassured him, reassured herself. She had hated it when they had swept away the Latin, changed to the vernacular – though unlike most other Orders, they still sang Vespers in Latin, still retained it for several of the anthems and the hymns, still had a Latin Mass each month. She had come to love the language; its economy, tradition, the sense of dignity and dr
ama some words seemed to carry, which were only thin and flimsy in the English. Even nobis had a certain weight.

  ‘Nobis means “us”,’ she explained to Luke, hardly knowing why, except she longed to share the language with him.

  ‘How d’ you mean, “us”?’

  ‘Well, you and me.’

  ‘We’re “nobis”?’

  ‘Yes.’ That wasn’t quite correct. She should tell him about cases – genitive and dative – but would he understand? He’d probably never learn Latin in his life. If not dead, then the language must be dying; almost no one left who would value it as she did: a doomed species, like most nuns.

  She started to explain about declensions, heard herself sounding stilted, even boring, no use to him at all. This child was frightened, needed love and comfort, not some lecture on stuffy Latin grammar. He was still standing very stiffly, casting nervous glances round the room. Had he always had these fears? Did he miss his mother, worry that she’d die, or not return? Perhaps he’d had a nightmare and was still half-trapped in its clutches.

  ‘Did you have a nasty dream, Luke?’

  He shook his head, started pulling at the Band-Aid, gnawing his sore thumb. The silence seemed unkind. Liz would hug him, cuddle him against her. She herself stood rooted where she was, realised with horror that she had forgotten how to touch, couldn’t even hold a frightened child. Another complex skill she didn’t have. Her arms felt stiff and heavy, as if she were made of wood, not flesh. Could she actually be scared of a small boy? She was aware of the glass wall again, rearing up between her and other people, preventing any contact, even with a child. Her own fear was infecting him, as they both stood tense and silent. Now she, too, could feel that ‘something big’, that something black and dreadful, which you couldn’t see, but was somehow always there. Everything looked menacing. The toy monkey on the bed seemed to be screwing up its face in pain; the lorry on the floor had crashed, lay bleeding on its side. She jerked to the window, drew the curtains close, eclipsing the thin moon, the slice of angry sky. She must pull herself together, try to act the mother. Liz might be annoyed if she encouraged Luke to stay awake or give way to his fears.