Rock Me Gently (29 page)

Since I made no reply, she must have felt she was beginning to make her point, for she kept on in the same vein for a good while. She consoled herself with cliches, and more than once it was as if she totally forgot to whom she was speaking. Her small face gleamed with fierce pride as she said, ‘We couldn’t allow ourselves to be faint-hearted, you know.’

I could read the sharp disappointment in her face when I cut in at last. Now I knew why I was here.

‘You do realise you are speaking about innocent children here? Where was the justice in those two twelve-year-old girls losing their lives?’

My words touched her face like a soiled hand, dabbing her eyes and cheeks with smudges of anxiety. She tried to speak but couldn’t.

Several seconds passed before she answered. ‘Oh, I’ve had enough! I’m not going to sit here being quizzed about something that happened so long ago. The nuns loved the children, but you only had yourselves to blame, you wouldn’t come out of the sea when you were called. Yet it’s delightful to think that Frances and Janet are in heaven together.’

She let a little laugh escape between her teeth, as if a joke had been made.

I leaned forward, holding her eyes with my own as I said clearly, ‘The nuns knelt in prayer and did nothing to help us while we were in difficulties and Frances and Janet were drowning.’

A wild dilating fire appeared in her eyes. She shook her head. ‘The time had come for those two children. Besides, there was little those two nuns could do. Do you remember those cumbersome habits we used to wear? Can you imagine what it was like to be dressed in twenty pounds of gabardine and starch in the middle of August? Those habits made it impossible for the nuns to effect any kind of rescue. In any case, I believe one of the nuns was held back from entering the sea by several children.’

I became silent again. What was I hoping to hear? Even I didn’t know. What did it matter? As she said, it was so long ago. Maybe to hear a trace of real sorrow, an explanation as to why the nuns put the entire blame for the drownings on me? And why had the two girls been buried in an unmarked grave? And why had it been hushed up that Janet, as a non-swimmer, had been sent into the sea to call in the other children? And why had there been no mention of Janet’s courage when she sacrificed her life trying to rescue Frances?

The silence between us was far from empty. It was hostile. Full of unspoken words.

‘What is it you want me to say?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you really here?’

I stared down at the parquet floor and pinched my nose between my fingers. The years slipped away as I was whisked back towards the unhappy playground.

‘Look at my face,’ I said, raising my head. ‘Look closely. Take your time. It’ll come to you.’

I let my own eyes dwell on the sagging skin of the nun’s cheeks; she raised her head briefly, but then dropped it again, as if her veil had suddenly become too heavy. Go on, I silently challenged her, look at me. She then lifted her head again and stared at my face. Her face remained neutral, her eyes continuing to reflect the sunset through the window. I sensed the tension in her body, as if she felt cornered. Her staring eyes travelled across my nose. Then a violent flush spread across her face as if a warm cloth had been thrown round her head. She drew in her breath sharply.

‘It’s understandable why you don’t want to remember me,’ I said softly, ‘but I can’t forget you so easily, however much I’d like to.’

‘It all happened so long ago.’ Her words came out with a struggle, tinged with anger. ‘What’s the matter with you? Why do you need to dredge up the past in this way? What is it that you want after all this time? I suppose you’re waiting for me to apologise?’

‘What’s the point of an apology?’ I said, turning away from her. ‘You destroyed my faith, but that really doesn’t matter any more.’

‘It does. And I do apologise. Now I’d like to ask you a question,’ she said. She was flushed with distress and annoyance.

‘Are
you
free from sin?’

‘I’m as free as anyone else.’

‘Well, you’re in good company. I know I could get into Heaven any time I choose.’

I felt shattered, reluctant to delve deeper. Silence fell on me in droplets. Behind Sister Mary’s head there was a picture of the Virgin and Child in a bevelled burnished gilt frame. The Virgin looked infinitely sad, but detached. As though she knew that all the concern she felt for the pathetic human scene taking place under her calm sad gaze could not alter human nature by one iota. Her high round brow, the tendrils of her perfectly curled golden hair, gave her an implacable beauty.

Sister Mary’s brow on the other hand was not visible beneath her veil, and no strands escaped from that prison. Any hair that did show would be grey and wispy, if not white. Nuns’ hair had been a fixation when I was at the convent. The thrill when Sister Cuthbert had appeared in class with a distinct curl of brown hair that had the nerve to emerge from its captivity. As nuns were not allowed to look in the mirror, she was probably unaware of her mistake. Another thrill at the idea of Sister Mary’s tart scold when the rogue wisp was glimpsed. It all added up to the fact that the nuns were not bald and did not shave their heads; they simply cut their hair conveniently short.

Looking at Sister Mary now, beneath the tumble-locked Virgin, I found that I had not altogether lost my fixation with nuns’ hair. Or their appearance in general.

Finally I said, ‘I was given to understand that you were in touch with some of my friends from the convent. I would very much like to have their addresses or ‘

I was interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Yes, come in,’ said Sister Mary impatiently. ‘Well, Sister, what is it?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sister, I didn’t realise you had a visitor -’ A slightly breathless voice behind me. I turned round and saw a young nun with a wide ruddy face and intense eyes. She scrutinised me with unsmiling objectivity for a moment or two. I turned away and I could hear her muttering something in a low voice to Sister Mary, who gazed over my head at her visitor with barely concealed annoyance. I could feel myself becoming red with embarrassment and I twisted round, trying to see what it was that the nun was saying.

‘As you can see, Sister, I’m rather busy at the moment,’ said Sister Mary quickly.

The nun departed and Sister Mary frowned. I noticed that she suspended speaking until there could be no question of the recent intruder overhearing us.

Then at last she said, ‘Unfortunately, I lost my address book in one of the many moves I made over the years from convent to convent.’ Her voice sounded weak and slightly hoarse. ‘I used to have a lot of photographs of the children as well, but they also got lost in the moves.’

Just circles and more circles. And endless unspoken questions. My head ached, and my eyes felt strained and sore. Nothing was resolved. I slipped into a morose silence. Her fire had faded, and she sat looking tired, old and vulnerable. The sight of her almost moved me to pity. But I had to be careful in my compassion, for vulnerability can be like snow on a sharp rock, and melt away at the first sign of a thaw.

My voice was low and tense as I asked her again: ‘So you have never been referred to as Sister Mary?’

And she denied it a third time.

I stood up abruptly, looking at my watch. ‘I’m afraid I need to go now. I’ll come back if I may another day.’

She looked up in surprise, her eyes vague. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort! Another day I may be underground. I’m dying with curiosity to know the real purpose of your visit today. I shan’t sleep tonight unless you tell me. Sit down and relax.’

I sat down again and looked at her doubtfully.

‘I’m trying to contact Ruth Norton,’ I said. ‘That’s why I came.’

‘Ruth Norton,’ Sister Mary repeated with careful diction. As she spoke, she grimaced and delicately rubbed the tips of her fingers together as though she had been dabbling them in something unpleasant.

‘I wondered if you might have her address. I believe she may live somewhere in Guildford.’

‘Ah!’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘And why, pray, would you want it?’ she added, still staring at me.

I held her gaze determined not to be intimidated.

‘As you know, we were friends ...’

‘And all these years later, you intend to ... what? Drop her a line? Turn up on her doorstep? Gossip about the old days and cause trouble for me? You two were always trouble together. Ruth Norton in particular was a rebel. Has she ever contacted you?’

I couldn’t take her staring eyes any longer. I looked away from her and concentrated on the view out of the window.

‘Well, has she?’

‘No,’ I replied, but the word came out so quietly that even I couldn’t really hear it.

‘Let me give you a bit of advice ...’ To my surprise I discovered that she had risen from the settee and was standing beside me. I turned my head to look at her. I saw her now as an elderly woman. I wondered why I was still wary of her. She paused; she was gazing out the window and seemed unaware of my attention.

‘I just want her address,’ I said eventually, breaking the silence.

‘Well, I’m giving you some advice instead,’ she said. ‘Everything that happened in the past should be laid to rest and not dragged into the daylight after all these years. If I knew Norton’s address - which I don’t - I wouldn’t dream of giving it to you.’

I stared at her helplessly for a moment and wondered what she was afraid of, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. The smell of beeswax, the denials, the lack of success in discovering the whereabouts of Ruth - all combined to give me a feeling of nausea. It reminded me of the nausea of jaundice. I dream of it sometimes and awaken with a start, thankful to find myself with no yellow aftertaste.

‘I’ll go then,’ I said. ‘Thank you for giving me your time.’

‘No, no. Let me show you the church. The Lord has been very good to me. He has allowed me to spend many years taking care of it. I cannot complain if now He feels that my work here is over.’

She took me along a plain corridor with a series of alcoves containing garish statues of assorted saints. When we reached the church she turned to me and whispered, ‘Remember to cover your head.’

‘I haven’t got anything,’ I said with annoyance.

‘A hanky will do,’ she said, smiling encouragement.

I fumbled in my pocket and found a small, not very clean tissue, which I laid on top of my head. Sister Mary looked at me with amiable satisfaction and opened the door to the church. Several small children who were kneeling in prayer turned to look at us. Sister Mary dipped her fingers in the holy water.

I felt overwhelmed with concern. ‘Do those children board here?’ I was aware of the palpable dismay in my voice.

She shook her head. ‘They’re day pupils.’ She genuflected to the altar. When she raised her head, she added in a whisper: ‘We have to use a good deal of discipline to keep order.’

On our return to the front door, the nun at the reception desk glanced up at us furtively as she took another swig from her flask. Sister Mary opened the door on to the Hammersmith Road where, for some reason, she touched me, a hand on my elbow, and the touch startled me. Her fingers were cold on my skin.

‘I have to get back to the church,’ she said, guiding me towards the door.

That unwelcome touch made me eager to get away, to be gone from the dark memories. She then shook my hand. Her palm felt dry and cold against mine as I held it for a moment, looking into her pale eyes. What was that strange sense of unity against the outside world that I felt with her? I was overwhelmed with a mysterious gratitude that I had survived the threat she once posed to my sanity and my life. I had been spared, and as I faced her finally, I bore no hatred, only pity.

Yet if she had been candid, we could perhaps have built a mutual empathy in order to bury the ghosts, not the truth, from the painful past. Filled with sadness, I bent down and made a pretence of kissing her cheek.

‘It’s all right,’ I said to her. ‘You can go back to your church now.’

She seized my wrist in her sinewy hand and in a lowered voice said, ‘You obviously have no clear memories of those times and that’s understandable, for children forget very easily, don’t they?’

Emotion rose up into my mouth, pounded against my skull. Rage. I suddenly felt I was being monstrously put upon, that the whole thing was an outrageous farce, designed to humiliate me.

I looked into her eyes and, with a wicked surge of pleasure, said thickly, ‘Oh no, Sister Mary. You see, I kept a diary when I was here. So I shall always remember.’

Epilogue

12
July
I998.
I find their grave with the help of the cemetery officer. As I expected, there is still no gravestone to commemorate their short lives. It is simply a small mound of purple heather and weeds. Yet the memory of this place stops me still. Time shatters around me as I stand motionless amongst the graves. No one has been here before, of that I am sure. Time, like an ever-rolling concrete mixer, has left the graveyard an island entirely surrounded by DIY mega stores, video factories, fast-food joints and suchlike cultural boons. It’s just another high street facility. Where once it had been surrounded by green fields, it’s now a place, as Ruth would say, you’d not want to be caught dead in.

I don’t know what to say, or do, or think. So I stand and recite the poem that Frances wrote for me all those years ago. The words are of little comfort.

It is time for peace; time to give things a rest. Find a spot where I can shut my eyes and not have to revisit the places I’ve been. Maybe I could get lucky and forget I was ever there.

I reach in my bag and bring out a small white stone I brought from the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem years ago. I place it on their grave.

The poem that Frances gave me. Although I cannot think how Frances would have known it, ‘A Dream’ turns out to be strikingly similar to a poem by Avraham Koplowicz, a Polish child who was killed in Auschwitz. The poem is now held in the archives of Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Remembrance Authority, in Jerusalem.