A Pagan Place Read online

  There was a smell from under your arms. To bask in it you had to keep the top of your jumper pulled out. That was treachery. A taut neckline she had achieved with great pains by casting off stitches scrupulously. You tugged at it with both hands.

  The flutter of the leaves brought on your trance. Hundreds of thousands of sycamore leaves all obeying the same wind, their wide green palms opening then, tightening, letting in and keeping out the light changing the prospect from indoor to outdoor to indoor, forever altering. It was the most lonesome hour just before dusk with all the colours going, all the streamers, the pinks and reds, and violets and indigoes and blues, the lovely laneways of vanquishing light. It was weepy time. You said Hip Hip Hooray. That was your giveaway.

  She called to know if you had seen the grey hen. A particular hen courted disaster night after night, by refusing to go to the hen-house. She was a distinctive shade of grey, a nearly non-existent grey, an erratic layer, a misfit. In the henhouse when she shone the flashlamp hens began to fluster and jog their necks and move around stupidly on their narrow perches. They may have thought that it was morning or that Ambie had come back to kill them. Even the cock did not acquit himself, did not do anything about defence. It was easier to count them than search out the rebellious hen because although her feathers were unique, the light was faulty and all hens presented themselves as shapes rather than as colours.

  It proved to be nearly impossible because they started moving about, getting down and roaming all over the dunged floor. You both arrived at different figures. You counted again, slowly, and arrived at the same one which was twenty-seven. It should have been twenty-eight.

  She was both spiteful and commiserating. She went into a rhapsody about the morning, about the trail of feathers, of nearly non-existent grey. Those would be the breast feathers shed in fear while the hen was still being carried off. Nevertheless she ordered one last search. She rattled the lid of a bucket and prowled around calling Chuck, chuck, chuck, and telling you where to train the flashlamp.

  The hen’s appearance was nonchalant. It was as if she didn’t realize her error, didn’t distinguish between day and night. Her pituitary glands may have been dotty. Your mother failed to catch her, or rather failed to hold on to her. For a moment she had her by the tail and then lost her. In trying to hustle her back in, three others got out and there developed havoc and consternation, with you running round after them and she in the vicinity of the doorway to make sure the whole batch did not come out. They kept doubling back on you and twice you were running in a wrong direction, because your brain took time to record where they went. You cornered two and with your hands, legs and outspread skirt you kept them there until she came to pick them up, because picking them up was beyond you, their agitations always made you drop them again. The third got herself captive by standing on an enamel basin that tipped up. Your mother literally flung her into the henhouse and walking back to the house you were both short of breath. It was good exercise. You held the gate and lifted the strands of hedge so that her hair and shoulders did not get raindrops.

  You were not lacking in friendliness but it was not the same, there was the breach for evermore. From the top step from which he ritually peed you turned round to say good night to the night and felt a tear, tears for all the things that were beyond you.

  *

  The classroom got spruced up. There were ferns and branches in the firegrate and a smell of paraffin in the air. The windows had been cleaned with it and dunces asked to adorn themselves had douched their hair with it, for lice. The one girl that was a Protestant got sent home.

  A nun was addressing the classroom. She said she had come for volunteers. She passed a few remarks about how happy and how contented everyone looked and then she launched forth.

  She said that when the Disciples followed Jesus and saw where he lived they stayed with him all the rest of the day. She said that was only figuratively speaking and that they stayed with him all the rest of their lives, apart from Judas who betrayed him with a kiss. She was asking for followers for Jesus. She said to open hearts and minds, to consider the vast domain of his need. She mentioned places, Bethlehem, China, Burma, Korea, the Philippines, Africa, the pagan Orient. Distant places with drums and rattlesnakes. She said to think of the souls that needed saving, the children that needed baptism, the dying that needed extreme unction before being consigned for ever to the cauldron of hell’s fire. She said bonfires on the hills in summer were as nothing compared with that world of eternal flames, that Gehenna where the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched. She emphasized that fact, how the heat had been going on for thousands of years, a heat that never slackened, was furbished by each newcomer, that dynasty of writhing and roaring with the Devil and all his assistants rejoicing over each soul’s irredeemable loss.

  You could have wept for the poor Protestant girl. You stroked your arms to soothe them, to remind yourself that they were still cool, that they were still on earth.

  Those in the front row got sprayed with her spittle. The excess saliva hung in bubbles around the corners of her lips.

  The younger nun kept her head lowered and had her hands submerged in big black sleeves. Her hands may have been her vanity the way your eyes were yours and her platinum hair was Emma’s.

  Mother Baptista said that the love of Christ was the only true sweetness, the only melody, the only goal. A mother’s love, an earthly marriage, fame and fortune, these she said were as nosegays compared with the harvest of love that was Christ’s. She said he was everywhere, in the room with us, in the playground, bent down with pity over some coolie dying of dysentery in the blistering heat, in the tabernacle, as artisan, good shepherd, saviour and truest friend. Then she quoted the number of pagans in the world and everyone gasped, even the teacher who had become one with the pupils because of sitting with them at a desk, all attention, with her arms folded.

  Mother Baptista said to cast one’s mind over it, that figure, that outrage, that lamentable state of affairs. She said not to shrink from it, not to turn away from God’s question, not to put it in the back of the mind like an awkward question but to look at it and to pray to God for guidance in answering it.

  Out of habit you started to pray and she caught your eye and seemed pleased by what you were doing. She said they were not extortioners and that she realized you were all very young but to remember that there was nothing so dear in the sight of God as children and to remember the example of Jesus who said Suffer the little children to come unto me.

  Some of the infants who had been sitting on a bench took it that she was talking to them and rose to go to her. That caused another bit of laughter.

  She showed photos of the mother house, the house where girls went and trained. It was in Belgium. The photos were passed around and girls were frantic to look at them. It was an old rambling chateau with shutters and creeper along the walls, a haven garrisoned by angels. She said they grew nectarines and that in season they had them for breakfast. Girls licked their lips when they heard that.

  Then she got very down to earth and asked what was a vocation. She posed the question three times before answering it. She said it was no angel appearing in blinding splendour, it was something deeper than that, more inherent, a desire to serve Jesus, to love Jesus, to be the spouse of Jesus. She said to think of the opportunity of being militant for Christ, of being humble for Christ, of bringing pagans the happiness he merited for them. She said we ought to make sure that there was not one soul on earth for whom the blood of Jesus had been shed in vain. She said in his time only male disciples were allowed to follow him but that too had changed and women could take up the cudgel on his behalf. She said yes, it was a marriage to God, she admitted that most girls wished for a marriage to someone but in that union of God and woman there was something no earthly ceremony could compare with, there was constancy.

  In a more matter of fact voice she listed the standard requirements; intelligence, of sound health, and of good
moral character. She explained that if girls went they were educated for free with a view to becoming novices. It was like a summer’s day inside, your head.

  She got very declamatory, she said Who is for Jesus, who is for Mary the darling of Heaven and then she quoted St Paul, Come over to Macedonia with me.

  No sooner had she stopped than you raised your hand and said you would go.

  The girls in front of you turned round and let out different sounds but mainly ones of dismay. You were the focus of attention.

  She said there was no need to decide there and then as she had not expected to be taken so literally. You said you had decided a long time ago. The teacher nodded, said she had thought as much, said you were a paragon and that temporal considerations were not yours. The others got sent out to the playground.

  The younger nun was twittery, asked what your name was. She couldn’t stop smiling. The elder nun said what did your parents think. You said they didn’t know as yet. She said parents had the crown of authority and how you must be guided by them in all matters. You nodded. You would go away from them, far, far away, where no conveyance could bring them to you.

  Going through the town you were waylaid by people, shopkeepers who had always shunned and slighted you. It was as if you had already entered, so shy and respectful were they. It was like winning a trophy. You refused the various offers of tea and lemonade, the tactics so as to delay you, to stop you in your tracks. Girls tagged along to partake of your glory and asked if you would send them scapulars and medals and things.

  No one knew anything about Belgium except that lace was made in Brussels and that in the field of Flanders there were poppies and soldiers. In your mind they were interconnected, the scarlet poppies and soldiers’ blood. The dressmaker said you would have to hold yourself better as you were inclined to slouch. She never liked you, she had favoured Emma.

  The first thing your mother said was to give her a chair. She was alone in the kitchen pulling a sock together. The hole was too vast to be darned. She said what, what were you saying.

  You told her again. She looked through the window at a rainbow, the so-called prelude of joy, and she said never would it summon up anything for her but sadness and dire news. Your father came in. She was off in a canter about Ellis Island and how she nearly got stranded there with all sorts of people speaking divers tongues. He said there was no connection between a religious vocation and Ellis Island. She said he hadn’t heard the worst yet, that this particular convent was in Belgium, in the maelstrom of war and want.

  You were trying to comfort her by stroking her hair lightly, by saying wheedling things. There was a lot of electricity in it and single ribs clung tenaciously to your fingers. You told him the education was free. He liked that. He said good, good. He said to give it to him step by step, the proceedings. You said first you would have schooling, then noviceship, then take your final vows and go somewhere, anywhere, maybe to Africa.

  That was the last straw. She said weren’t there cannibals in Africa and you said, quoting the nun, that you would be fishing for Christ. He said it was very nicely put, estimably put. She said her heart was finally broken, in pulp, pulped. That was how she used to refer to the doctor who’d crashed, the one they kept the souvenirs of. Yet the moment she heard the nuns were coming to discuss things she was up off her chair and feeling the oven door to see if the temperature was hot enough for a sponge cake.

  Mother Baptista said what a promising postulant she thought you would make. Neither of them ate. It was part of their regulations. Your mother instanced your willpower by telling of a time when, still a child, you were given seedcake and you employed yourself to removing each seed separately and methodically. They did not know what to make of it and your father made some joke about your mother being distrait. He plied them with questions. He wanted to know where they lived and what sort of furniture they had in their parlours and if they got big endowments from people.

  She mentioned some famous people who had been sheltering there, incognito, members of a Russian noble family whom you had never heard of. He told her about his sojourn in the potato pit. She hinted about the persecutions in China but didn’t harp on them, just referred to her dead sisters. She had photos with captions written in ink under them:

  AH THANK YOU SISTER

  TREATING THE SICK

  CHATTING WITH THE FAITHFUL

  IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER

  EXAMINING A SORE LEG

  SISTER WITH MEDICAL KIT

  The younger nun was confabbing with you, about your best subjects. She taught you the Act of Contrition in French and gave you a present of a little French missal that was exactly the size of a matchbox. It had a gilt clasp.

  You were in love with her. The radiance that was hers would be yours. You kept thinking towards a distant moment with you on a prie-dieu and nuns all around you, singing, and your parents and Emma in the gallery crying. You wanted to go there and then.

  *

  This is to warn you. Read this carefully.

  You received two anonymous letters. One said that a letter had been sent to inform the mistress of novices of the type of family you had come from, e.g. your father a drunkard and your sister Emma a harlot. The other begged you, implored you not to go, said you would rue it, you would not stick it out, you would come home in disgrace and go mad the way women did who came home from convents. They were in different inks and the handwriting was different and yet you felt it was from the same source and your mother felt so too and they were not shown to your father.

  He had to sell the proceeds of a field of corn while it still stood. It was a question of guessing the yield, of taking a gamble on it. He and Manny Parker stood there deliberating. It was more grey than gold. That grey did not stand in its favour, meant an excess of rain had gone into it, meant a lot of husk at threshing time, meant trouble. Here and there a patch had lodged, formed a bed big enough for a beast or a couple to lie down in. That was something that would never happen to you.

  For an absentminded person Manny Parker showed a vein of shrewdness, felt the ears, walked back and forth with his head down emphasizing the fact that it wasn’t a transaction he was pleased to take on, hinted at it being charity. A pig in a bag Manny Parker called it and quoted the price that he would pay. Your father said if that’s what you say. He didn’t haggle. He was beholden. He needed it.

  They repaired to the far side of a tree so that the notes could be counted cautiously, out of the way of the wind. You counted also. There were all kinds of notes, crisp ones that could cut, tattered ones, stained ones, and even one that was held together with elastoplast. Notes from all and sundry, paid to Manny Parker’s sister for commodities.

  He handed them to you. She said he got diddled. It was for your fare and for your uniform. You got togged out. You had to get shoes, stockings, three gym frocks, three blouses, a raincoat, an overcoat, goloshes, a shawl, two navy berets, vests, combinations, nightgowns and a white divided skirt for tennis. When you fitted on the dark clothes it added years to you. You could have been in mourning.

  She turned and asked if you were sure what you were doing and you said Yes, yes, and repeated one of those aspirations that were supposed to keep doubt at bay.

  You gave up sweet things. You set yourself tasks, penances. When you were moved to speak you held your tongue. Everything you did was the opposite to what you wanted to do. You stood around the butcher’s, watching them chop, chop, chop, until the axe got right down to the fat and he had to give a few last vital blows, watching the bluebottles, watching things you hated. You cooked sheeps’ heads for the dogs. Their eyes gazed back at you as you put the lid on the saucepan. When you decided to go to a dance they thought that a streak of devilment had got into you but it was so that you would have to cavort with and be clutched by men who repelled you.

  The young nun wrote. She used violet ink. Her letter was chatty. It was about the recreation they had on a Feast Day and the long walk they took. Your mo
ther said it might not be as grim as she imagined. You ticked off the days in your head not on the wall calendar.

  You tore up your autograph book. You wrenched the pages apart and then threw the tiny bits in the air, the pink and yellow and white and aquamarine fragments that were like bits of tropical birds, fluttering and falling. You parted with your trinkets. A yellow bone bracelet of yours on one of the tailor’s twins looked particularly fetching as she twirled it round and round on Sundays during Mass.

  People asked how long more you had, asked you every time they saw you. No one referred to it directly, it was just referred to as the place. Only its corridors could you envisage. You knew there were bound to be lots of them where you would slink quietly in your house-shoes smiling at nuns and answerable to God.

  *

  Lizzie had good-bye in pink icing on a cake. Sacco came specially for the occasion, quoted Alfred Lord Tennyson, treating the matter as if you were going to your deathbed, said,

  Sunset and evening star

  And one clear call for me

  And may there be no moaning at the bar

  When I put out to sea.

  The Nigger had taken it upon himself to make you a little trunk and your mother whispered to you that it would be so profane you would have to have it blessed when you got there. It was new wood, the same kind as they made butter-boxes with, and it smelt like that. Ever since the day you heard him talking to himself you were more lenient towards him and he seemed to sense it because he had a conversation with you about the equinox gales. Hilda, who had got over her tantrum, gave you a pair of linen sheets, big enough to fit a double bed. You got slippers, a propelling pencil, handkerchiefs, a crochet set, and a boot-polishing outfit from the dummies. To thank them you separated the brushes and then joined them together again and the hairs cleaved to one another as if they were magnetic.