Rock Me Gently (7 page)

I stared at the floor, pinned to the spot by her words. I did; I coveted my neighbour’s goods. I thought of the way I felt if one of us got any pocket money on Sunday. We should have received sixpence each, but a black mark against our name in the nuns’ little black books meant a deduction of one penny. By Sunday, most of us had received at least six black marks. I decided that, between one thing and another, I must have broken everyone of the Ten Commandments.

I scrambled to my feet with the rest of them, making my way out of the tick-tock musty room as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself. I had a strange, giddy feeling that after making my First Communion I would never see Mum again. Never grow up, but be trapped here for ever ...

Frances and I dropped behind the other girls as we headed down the long, draughty corridor towards the priest’s quarters. Both of us were quiet, lost in our thoughts. All at once I decided: I had to summon up the courage to tell Father Holland that I could not possibly make my First Communion because my Mother was Jewish. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to go to hell.

I looked at Frances to see if she was still as afraid as I was, but she gave nothing away. She bounced along as usual, her hands deep in her tunic pockets. When she saw me looking at her, she grinned as though she had never been afraid at all. ‘Well, what do you make of all this?’

‘All what?’

‘Well, you’re not really a Catholic, are you?’ Frances had a mature voice, soft and calm.

I frowned. I didn’t want to be different. Frances helped me. ‘I mean you have been baptised, haven’t you?’

‘Well -’ I ... hesitated, ‘I think I was years ago.’

‘You only
think
you were? Never mind, it’s never too late, but you’ll have to repent your sins first. Who knows, you may end up understanding it all better than us lot.’

‘But, I thought you ...?’

Frances lifted her thin shoulders. ‘I’ve known all the prayers and hymns off by heart for years, but I still don’t understand them. I’ve been here since I was two. I’ll never get away now. I don’t think I want to, either.’

‘Really?’ I stared at her, appalled, as we walked down the corridor. Shafts of dusty sunshine slanted through the windows, so that shadows and sunlight alternated across her face.

‘No, why should I want to leave? I was sent here years ago because my mother was too ill to look after me, and
that
hasn’t changed. She lives in a mental hospital. An asylum called Netherne. It’s in Surrey. I can only remember seeing her once, a long time ago. She was wearing a red dress.’ Frances trailed a finger along the wall as she spoke, her face creased in thought.

I took a deep breath, and checked to see that the other girls were still far ahead of us. ‘Frances ... do you think the nuns are too strict?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Too strict? They only lose their tempers with us because they care.’

‘They’ve got a funny way of showing it,’ I said. ‘All they do is shout, shout, shout, yet we’re told to speak in lowered voices.’

‘That’s to keep us out of trouble. I’ll tell you a secret, if you promise not to let on to anyone else. I mean, sometimes when Sister Mary loses her temper and hits me, she tries to make it up to me afterwards and says things like, “Did I hurt you much?” and “I’d like to be your mother and kiss away all your tears.” She kisses my forehead and sometimes she kisses my hands. Once she kissed me for a long time on my mouth. I don’t like it much, but I don’t dare stop her.’

I tried to think of the right thing to say. Was it right for a nun to kiss you? Was it like when I put my face up to Mum to say goodnight and then she put her face down? That was to kiss. Mum put her lips on my cheek; her lips were soft and sticky and they wet my cheek; they made a tiny little noise: plock. Is that the way Sister Mary kissed Frances? Why did she do that? She wasn’t her mum.

For some minutes I walked deep in thought, and the only sound our footsteps on the creaky wooden floor. The air in the corridor chilled me. It was wettish.

Then I burst out: ‘No, I’m sure it’s not right. I’ve never seen such horrible treatment of children in the other schools I’ve been to! If a nun hit me with a cane the way you told me they hit Ruth, I - I’d snatch it out of her hand and chuck it out the window!’

Frances smiled knowingly. ‘No, you wouldn’t. What good would that do? The nuns would just get another cane; they’ve got dozens of them. It’s much better to put up with the punishments they dish out - that way you keep everyone else out of trouble.’

I remembered the sound of Sister Mary’s cane when she was giving the order for the girls to move to church: whistle, crack. That was the sound you heard but if you were hit then you would feel a pain. I wondered what the pain was like. It made me shivery to think of it, and cold.

Bewildered, I shook my head. Frances seemed to understand it all so much better than I did. ‘What about your father?’

‘I don’t know. I ... well, I haven’t got one.’

‘I haven’t got one either, not now,’ I said to make her feel better. ‘My mum brought me here by train. I was really pleased, I thought it was a surprise holiday.’

I heard the resentment in my voice and a sudden flood of anger arose in me as I fought back the tears. I looked away from Frances to hide them. I wasn’t sure how Mum had planned everything to be. All I knew was that those plans had seemed to go terribly wrong. After I’d been at the convent a couple of weeks, I’d begun to realise that something big and irreversible had taken place. Life had stopped in its tracks, without explanation.

I’d now been at the convent for a full month, and still hadn’t heard from Mum. Nothing that had happened during that month at the convent had helped ease my anxiety. The food was tasteless, the rat-ridden dormitories horrid and the atmosphere everywhere charged. There was always a sense of impending danger and I couldn’t bear to live my life in such a way for much longer.

Frances stopped walking and touched my arm. ‘Judith? What’s wrong?’

I shook my head, but the emotions overwhelmed me. I turned quickly away, pressing against the wall and burying my head in my hands as I burst into tears.

‘Why doesn’t my mum
write
to me?’ I sobbed into my hands. ‘I’ve written to her twice already, and she hasn’t sent a word ...’

Frances put her arm around my shoulders. ‘She probably has, Judith! Listen, Sister Mary always holds on to our letters for ages. I’ll make sure you’ll get them soon, all right?’

I looked up, my tears still wet on my cheeks. ‘Will you? How?’

Frances shook her head. ‘Wait and see, but I do promise it. Look on the bright side.’

I took a deep breath, wiping my eyes. ‘Oh, well ... that’s all right then.’

I said it offhandedly, trying to be brave. Crying didn’t go over too well here; I had already found that out. I had cried on many occasions during my first days at the convent. Lonely. I felt it all the time, down to my toes. The other girls, who looked on crying as a weakness, ignored me. Ruth called me a grizzle-guts, telling me I’d end up with water on my brain.

Now Frances rewarded my show of bravery with a smile. I managed a smile in return.

‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see. Now come on - let’s hurry, or we’ll be late for Father Holland.’

‘What’s he like?’ I asked as we arrived at a carved wooden door.

‘Oh, he’s a completely different kettle of fish to the nuns,’ she said. ‘You’ll see.’

Father Holland, inky in his cool parlour, cooed rather than spoke. He allowed us to wander around his spacious rooms, gasping at the crowded clutter of gold-framed pictures, glittering statues and candles. His rooms had a bedroom smell of ancient fabrics and dust. When we got bored with gawping around, we slid over his polished wooden floor between one magic carpet and the next. He smiled at us and waited patiently, crooning a hymn to himself.

‘Shall we start?’ he said finally. ‘You, my child - what’s your name?’

One by one, we told him our names. He sat back in his armchair, his hands behind his head, his colourless eyes looking at us over his half-moon glasses. Beside him on his desk stood a teapot, a plate filled with biscuits and a fruitcake. We sat on the floor at his feet and fixed our hungry, mournful gaze on the cake.

He pulled out a large white handkerchief and blew his nose energetically. ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘I am going to tell you about the charity and unselfishness of Jesus, about the Lamb of God and about mercy and forgiveness.’ He plunged into a lecture, his gentle voice quivering with emotion.

I sat very still as he went on, my forehead drawing together in concern. I knew very well that the nuns showed neither forgiveness nor mercy to Ruth for being left-handed. None of it made any sense to me.

‘Now, the catechism,’ he urged us, busying himself with the teapot. He poured the milk in a thin high stream and dropped three lumps of sugar into his teacup. Picking up his cup, he jiggled it in his hand before taking an enormous mouthful and swishing it around his teeth.

We chanted the lines of the catechism in bored, singsong voices, our attention focused wholly on the cake as he brought out of his pocket a big penknife. He couldn’t resist displaying its beauties to us - the corkscrew, the tweezers, and the blade that shot open and locked when he pressed the catch with his red bulging fingers. Then he cut himself a slice of cake and ate it, spewing out crumbs as he chewed.

He must have been aware of us watching him like waifs peering at a glutton through a restaurant window, because he smiled.

‘Can I press you to a slice of cake?’ he said. He gave us each a piece.

As the others munched, I thought my chance had arrived to have a private word with him. Quickly wolfing down my cake, I stood up and sidled around the side of his desk.

‘Father, can I ask you something?’ I whispered breathlessly.

‘Well, now.’ He turned his round, sleepy face to me. ‘And what do they call you, again?’

‘Judith Kelly, Father.’

‘And what’s troubling you, Judith?’

‘Forgive me Father -’ I glanced at the others, and then hissed quickly in his ear, ‘I don’t think I should be making my Communion because I might fall down dead.’

His head jerked back as he stared at me.

‘My goodness,’ he said at last, ‘that’s an odd thing to say. Who put that in your head?’

‘Also Father ...’ I looked down, my voice dropped even lower as I mumbled. ‘I can’t take Communion because my mother’s Jewish.’

He frowned and patted my arm. ‘Very good, my child, very good,’ he murmured. Clap went his hands and he told the others to leave and to take the remainder of the cake with them. ‘I’ll eat it otherwise,’ he said, patting his big stomach. ‘Go on, now. I’ll remember you all in my prayers.’

There was a general hubbub as the girls walked out the room carrying the cake. Frances looked over her shoulder at me as she left. I had already confessed my fears about Communion to her, and I nodded in answer to her unspoken question.

When everyone had left, Father Holland leaned back in his chair and picked at a tooth with the tweezers from his penknife, his breath whistling slightly between the gaps in his teeth.

‘Now then, young lady. As a Jewish child, your mother has loved you enough to place you in a Catholic convent. I know it must be a huge leap of faith for you - right over the edge of reality. You’d do better if you accept the Communion. That’s what you need. No matter how hard an uphill climb you may find it. God has not chosen an easy path for you, Judith. Being a convert, you have to make more of an effort than the others.’

‘That’s what Frances said,’ I blurted out.

His pale eyes clouded. ‘Frances?’

‘McCarthy.’

‘Ah, yes. Well, she’s quite right. And making your First Communion will be your first step along the path to goodness, won’t it? You’d have the sacrament inside you. That would be something, eh? Your mother will be most pleased.’

I nodded doubtfully, still seeing the dancing flames of hellfire. ‘Perhaps I needn’t take the host on my tongue. I’ll make sure it goes underneath.’

‘Oh dear, dear me,’ he groaned. He rubbed his hand through his silver hair. ‘Judith, when you make your first confession, you must confess to these sinful fancies and all the sins of your past life. Meantime, I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. It’s for your own good, that’s all.’

The room was very quiet as he spoke of the nuns’ goodness towards the children. It was impossible to repay their years of selfless devotion, but I could show my appreciation of them by making my First Communion without any fuss. I didn’t want to argue with him because he was the kindest grown-up I had met in a long time.

He packed some biscuits into a serviette for me and we walked together out of the chapel building. As he left, he touched my head. ‘Bless you my child, I shall pray for you. And don’t worry, because it’s all part of God’s mystery. As the dove alighted on the ark after the flood, bringing hope to those within, so too he settles our fears and calms our troubled thoughts.’ I was genuinely sorry to part from him.

After the shadow of his room, the sunlight outside dazzled me. With the heap of biscuits clutched in my hand, I thought maybe I wouldn’t die after all if I made my Communion. But even so, I decided to write to Mum and ask her.

As I headed towards the convent front door, I placed my prayer book on top of my head. I had to walk to the front door without it falling off. It was a small, shiny book, not the best kind for carrying on your head. I imagined that there was a bomb in the book and if it fell off my head I would explode. Steady was best, not too fast, not too slow. I knew that, but as I approached the front door my steps quickened, trying to get to safety. Panic. The book slid off my head; I caught it.

Uh-oh! Death.

Frances was perched on the front steps, waiting for me. I grinned happily when I saw her. My feeling for her was one of pure admiration. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had never spoken or even looked at me, provided I could bind myself to her by private allegiance. But she seemed to be seeking out my company more and more and I was grateful.