The Memory of Us: A Novel (11 page)

I turned the questions to Kyle, and asked him about school.

He sat back. “Well, being in seminary in Durham isn’t quite as exciting as swinging in London dance halls, but I am enjoying it. The town is well known as the final resting place of Saint Cuthbert and Bede the Venerable, so we get a lot of visitors. As I’ve assisted with Mass, I’ve met people traveling from all over Europe, making a pilgrimage. There’s one old man who comes up once a month from Leeds to pray for the soul of his dead wife. He’s been doing that for twenty-six years.”

“Wow, that’s dedication!”

“It is. I get to witness so much devotion in people. Last month, I met a woman who claims to have been cured of epilepsy after praying to Saint Cuthbert. We get a lot of people looking for miracles. There is so much sadness in the world. But pain and sadness have a way of drawing us closer to God if we let them.”

I listened intently, not just because I loved the sound of his voice but because he had so much to say that was different from what I knew.

“I love meeting the people,” he continued, “but most of my hours are spent in school or studying. It’s still fairly introductory at this point. Some philosophy, early church history, and lots of Latin. I was put in upper-level Latin class.”

“I’m sure your father is very proud of you.”

“He is. It was my mother’s dream to have at least one child enter the religious life.”

“I’ve never heard you mention your mother.”

“She died along with my two sisters during an influenza outbreak when we lived in Wicklow. Paula and Catherine, although I don’t remember them. I was two years old. My sisters fell to the illness first, and from what I’ve been told, it tore my mother apart. I got sick next, and my parents prayed to John Vianney, a well-known priest from the last century. They told him that if he would spare my life, they would do all that they could to foster a vocation in me.”

“And their prayers worked.”

“Yes, but my mother died before I recovered, and she pleaded with my father to continue the prayers for me after her death.”

“He obviously did.”

“Oh, yes, and very ardently. He had not been a very spiritual man before that, but it became his sole mission to fulfill my mother’s request. After her death, he moved us out of Wicklow because it held too many memories for him. Once we settled here, he started taking me to Mass on Sundays and on all of the feasts, and signed me up to be an altar boy.”

“So your destiny was laid out for you long ago, and you didn’t have a choice?”

“No, I had a choice. I don’t want to make it sound like this was forced on me. If I were unwilling, I know that my father would understand. But it was so thoroughly encouraged that I suppose it was natural for me to pursue a vocation.”

The Christmas program on the radio had ended, and the warbles of another crooner came on.

In the glow of the candlelight, by the light of the moon,

All I can do is dream that we will be together soon.

I tried to expel the lyrics from my thoughts.

Kyle glowed when he talked about this life that he had set upon, and I could see that he was, at least, content. I didn’t understand it, though, and felt compelled to probe a little more.

“Kyle . . .” And I couldn’t get the words out. How do you say the words that are so pivotal to your life?

“What is it?” he asked, concerned.

I took a breath. “Forgive me if I am being offensive, but please know that I just don’t understand. Why can’t Catholic priests be”—I almost said “married,” but that would lay my hopes too bare—“in love?”

He put down the fork that had been idling on his plate and sat back. He sighed, as if he were looking for just the right words. My own words had set my face aflame, but I wasn’t sorry to have asked the question. Without great risk, there is no great reward.

He leaned forward, and a serious expression came over his face. He took my hand in his and held it, looking at me with a gentle intensity. I quivered at his touch, as if we were on the precipice of something we couldn’t turn back from. I didn’t feel anything like this when Roger held my hand.

“Julianne,” he said softly. “It’s not that we can’t fall in love. We are only human.”

He continued, as if he were convincing himself as much as me. His thumb circled over my skin, and I felt every movement. “But how can I give myself entirely to God if I am also the head of a household? How can I lead my congregation if I have a wife and children who need me, too?”

“But other ministers are married, and they seem to do just fine!” Part of me wanted to fight for him, to take on a millennium of tradition.

“Their calling is different from that of a priest, even though it can look like the same thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I guess the best way to put it is that a priest takes vows that are modeled after the life of Jesus. We take a vow of poverty, to live simply as he did. We take a vow of obedience, since he was obedient to his father. And, as he was unmarried, we take a vow of celibacy.”

I had no response to that. It was so disparate from anything I’d known. I had been brought up to be a good person, and to follow good examples—just not so literally. I supposed you had to respect someone who could be that scrupulous about it.

“That’s very—admirable,” I said, restraining myself from so many other words I was thinking. “I don’t know that I could do it.”

Squeezing my hand, he said, “There are times when I don’t know how I’m going to do it, either.” And he let go.

It seemed to be the end of the conversation for him, and I wasn’t going to push it. I bit my lower lip to prevent me from saying something I would regret, and I let my eyes wander over the triple molding that framed the ceiling of the restaurant.

The owner laid the bill on the table. As this evidently was not a romantic occasion, I reached for it—Kyle was on an errand for my mother, and it was only fair that we pay for supper. But he stopped me, insisted he be allowed to pay, and handed the money to our host.

As we prepared to leave, Kyle helped me with my coat, and his scent and closeness made me swoon. A new song assailed my ears.

I thought for sure that you were mine,

The way you made me feel so new.

But you’ve chosen another love.

And I don’t know how I’ll ever live without you.

That bloody radio was playing like a movie soundtrack to my life.

I fell asleep on the way home, despite the truck’s jostling. I was so tired after a night without sleep and drained from the daylong emotional tug-of-war. It was just as well, because I didn’t know what I had left to say.

I dreamed, although in flashes instead of complete scenes. I saw glimpses of us together, but the settings were too unclear to make out. I woke up just as we approached Newsham Park, but kept my eyes closed, not wanting the moment to be over. “Kyle?” I was imagining us in a four-poster bed, with billowy white linens. My head lay on his bare chest, and we were sleeping.

“Hmm?” In my vision he looked down at me, and I saw that I had interrupted his own thoughts.

“Are we allowed to be friends?”

I opened my eyes then and saw that precious grin that I had missed for the last few hours.

“Of course we can be friends. I would really like that.”

“Me, too.”

He pulled up to the house, where Mother greeted us. Being more than a little deliberate, we stood at opposite sides of the truck bed as we began to pull the boughs out. She instructed us to put them in the cellar. Under her stare, we carried them, speaking only words of direction, belying the understanding that we had begun to touch upon. Whether it was due to her presence or an attempt to suppress the hint of desire in ourselves, I didn’t know. But he did reveal the trace of a smile as I walked him back to the truck. And he promised he’d be by tomorrow.

Abertillery

Agnes Campbell gasped, and I lifted her head to dab water on her parched lips. She tried to speak.

“Ho—”

The whisper escaped, and the word disappeared. I dampened her lips again.

“I ho—” she tried again. A cough arose in her throat, and I felt her body go limp as I laid her head back on the pillow. Her head turned to the side, and the last of her breath wisped out. She was gone.

I was aware, suddenly, that I was alone in the room with the priest, whose voice had jarred me but whose face I had not yet seen. Silence descended upon us, and my heart beat rapidly in my chest.

The priest spoke from behind me, returning to English. “Did you hear her last words? Her husband may want to know them.”

“I did not.” I didn’t recognize my own voice, entangled as it was in the strangeness of the feeling taking over me.

“I think she said, ‘I hope.’” He sighed and spoke without looking at me. “Do you believe in hope?”

“I don’t,” I responded after a moment. “It’s hard to believe in hope with so much sadness in the world. And what about you?”

“I used to believe in hope,” he said. “But not any longer.”

We reached forward at the same time to cover her eyes, and I flinched when our hands brushed each other, as if a flame had singed my skin. I felt the blood course through my fingers as I withdrew them. He placed his hand over her eyes, closing them for the last time and drawing a cross on each of them with his thumb. I caught a glimpse of gold on his left hand. That seemed odd to me, for a priest. Although it wasn’t as if I’d known many of them in my lifetime. It was ordinary, just a plain gold band with a line of silver running through the middle. Like the one I’d slipped on Kyle’s finger. But surely there were hundreds of rings just like it.

Chapter Eleven

I was only able to get away once to see Charles, on a Wednesday, as there were so many preparations to make for the wedding. He did indeed look tired but seemed greatly bolstered by my visit. The absence of Kyle at Bootle was agonizing to me, but the sting was mollified by the fact that he stopped by Westcott Manor on several occasions to oversee the hanging of the boughs, even though they looked perfect to my untrained eye. I deluded myself into thinking that he was there to see me, but the constant presence of my mother made conversation impossible.

The wedding of John and Maude was lovely, just like the couple. Even with Mother’s grandiose schemes, it retained a restrained elegance. It was touching to see them recite their vows, led by John’s father as the minister. To promise to love for better or worse. A string quartet played during the ceremony, while a live jazz trio alternated with holiday mummers afterward. I received a stream of offers to dance, but bowed out after a few and retreated to my bedroom until it was time to cut the cake.

Christmas afternoon was a quiet affair, with just the three of us sitting at one end of a dining table designed for eighteen. In deference to the women of the household, my father refrained from any talk about business, and Mother made a series of poorly veiled references to her high hopes for my association with Roger. I kept quiet by exaggerating my enthusiasm for Betty’s plum pudding.

My salvation came on New Year’s Eve when Lucille stayed over, and we talked through the midnight hour. I shared with her everything that had transpired with Kyle, and she listened with the heart of a friend who adopts your feelings as her own.

“Happy New Year, Jul,” she said, when we realized that it was forty minutes past the magic hour. We had been too wrapped up in our conversation to notice. “Nineteen thirty-eight is going to be a great year for you—I know it.”

“You, too.” We clinked our mugs of apple cider and toasted what we hoped the year would bring.

I didn’t see Kyle again before leaving for London. I heard that he went back to Durham right after Christmas. There was no good-bye, but I supposed I wasn’t really entitled to one. Nor was there an occasion that would have brought us together again. I wished him well, but once again, I would be leaving Liverpool and trying to erase a memory.

I enjoyed an enthusiastic reunion with Dorothy, Abigail, and the other girls from our floor when we all returned to school, though the tone was clouded by a recent announcement from the government that all schoolchildren were required to carry gas masks. Classes were being held and home visits scheduled to educate parents in the use of the fearsome contraptions, as there were reports of babies nearly suffocating when they fell asleep wearing them. No significant harm had come to the country, but the government placed a high importance on preparedness.

It wasn’t long before Roger telephoned. He wanted to take me to dinner, but I asked him if we could take a walk instead. So I bundled into my wool coat and met him at the dormitory door.

He was standing under a black umbrella, although the showers from earlier in the day had relaxed into a drizzle.

“Julianne,” he said as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Roger. I hope your holidays were good.”

He slipped his hand into mine, and my cowardice didn’t allow me to pull away. As we strolled along the weeping reflections of lights in the rain-soaked street, he recounted his meetings in Belfast in wearisome detail.

“We met with their PM, Lord Craigavon. He’s a staunch loyalist to the king, as you know, and he’s been instrumental in appointing only Protestants to key positions in government so as to counteract the traitorous notions of the southern Catholics. Lord Baylon came to help support that, especially with the upcoming general election there next month. He’s asked me to write up the report that he will present to Parliament.”

“How wonderful for you. Your parents must be proud.”

“Oh, they are. Pops especially. I run into him in the halls sometimes, and he’ll smile and introduce me to whichever colleague he’s with.”

“Well, I don’t know much about politics, but I think I can safely say that on this subject, you and my father would be in agreement.”

“That’s good news. And perhaps in time I’ll get to meet him and see if I can’t convince him of Chamberlain’s peace plan as well.”

“I think you’d be well advised to leave that topic alone, I’m afraid. Over Christmas break, he seemed very hopeful over some of the opposition from Sir Winston Churchill. At least that was my impression.”

“You just leave it up to us men, and we’ll get it all sorted out. Don’t worry your pretty head.” He tousled my hair, which was hanging outside of my woolen hat.

When we paused to hear a flutist who had attracted a respectable crowd, Roger put his arm around me. I welcomed his warmth. But despite the romance of the surroundings, Roger was only a substitute for the one I truly wanted.

The double faces of Big Ben shone down on me like two eyes in the night, condemning me right there if I did not confess to him the insufficiency of my feelings.

“Roger, listen.” I released myself from his arm and turned to face him, then took a deep breath before launching into the speech that had been delivered countless times by countless hopeless lovers: “You are wonderful. You are going places and making your mark on the world. Some girl is going to be very lucky to have you at her side. But I’m not that girl.”

He moved in closer and put his arm around me, pulling me in to him. I put both of my hands against his chest and stepped back.

“No, please. I’m serious, Roger. I need to concentrate on my studies. I’m afraid that there’s no room for anyone else in my life right now.”

The umbrella cast a shadow over his face, but I could still see his look of chagrin. “You’re making a mistake, Julianne,” he said. “Just think about it. I’ll be a young MP. You’ll be at my side hosting parties, charming everyone. I’ll start heading committees, and London will be at your feet.”

My stomach lurched as I envisioned myself as a duplicate of my mother.

I shook my head. “I know it’s hard to understand, but that’s not the life I want for myself any longer.” I started to walk away, and he followed after me. I let his words hit my back, and they became more faint as my steps hastened back to the school.

“The world is changing, Julianne,” he shouted. “If we do go to war, I’ll be exempt from service. You’ll be protected.”

If he said anything after that, I couldn’t hear it. I hated to think I’d hurt him. But when he said my name, it carried none of the music that stirred me when the same word left Kyle’s lips. Surely, in the end, Roger would see that this was right.

School resumed, a welcome distraction. The intensity of the studies and the demands of our hands-on work in the hospital left me too tired to think about Kyle or Roger or anything but making it through the day.

Our care for the patients involved giving sponge baths, cleaning bedsores, changing soiled linens, and the like—distasteful but necessary tasks that grew easier with practice. On the days we had hospital duty, we worked twelve-hour shifts. Dorothy, Abigail, and I sometimes just passed each other in the hall, one coming in, one going out, mere ghosts of the dancing girls that we had been just weeks before.

It felt good, despite the hours, to be gaining real experience. And I loved working with many of the patients. The sick children were, of course, heartbreaking, and the nurses with even an ounce of theatrical talent could perform little ditties in exchange for a smile.

Though most student nurses clamored for the activity in the labor and delivery wing, I preferred the nursery myself, as the mess of childbirth was woefully unappealing to me. Mothers were usually sedated during delivery, but there was a growing movement toward labor without medication. I witnessed both and wondered which path I would choose should I ever have a baby of my own. Both seemed appalling.

When it was possible, I continued to go out and enjoy the city of London. On one unusually sunny Sunday morning, late in February, I walked through South Kensington, with the intention of visiting the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Heading down Cromwell Street, I saw a courtyard, and beyond the courtyard, a church. Built with gray marble, its columns towered over me. The exterior was simple, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. The doors of the church were open, no doubt to bring in the refreshing air, and emanating from them was the most exquisite music. A plaque near the entrance read: “Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary.”

I had never been inside a Catholic church and had not previously felt a desire to do so. But I didn’t know Kyle then, and now I did. This was what possessed his attention, his very life. This was why he couldn’t love me. My initial instinct was to be jealous, to see this ancient faith as a competitor, but I dismissed that temptation and found it replaced by a burning curiosity to know more.

My eyes were first drawn to the breathtaking stained glass windows pointing toward the dramatic Gothic arches. Color was everywhere—not only in the glass but also in the checked mosaics on the floor, the reds and blues of the frescoes, the height of the domes, and the many icons of saints that lined the church, framed in gold. Tall candles adorned the altar. From somewhere, I smelled the sweet, smoky scent of incense. The congregation was kneeling, heads bowed. I could see only the back of the priest, and his clothing was as ornate as the interior of the church. Purple, trimmed with gold braid, atop his black cassock.

At the same time, my ears were enveloped by the choir music that had caught my attention in the first place.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus Sabaoth.

I had no idea what it meant, but it was entrancing.

Pleni sunt caeli et terra Gloria tua.

I found a seat on the end of a pew in the middle of the church. An old woman holding beads in her hands scowled at me. I supposed it was because everyone else was kneeling, so I did the same. The kneeler was made of hard wood, and I covered my knees with my skirt so as not to tear my stockings.

After ten minutes, they shuffled out of their seats, row by row, and knelt again, this time at a railing in front of the altar. The priest paused in front of each person, mumbled words that I couldn’t hear, and then dipped a host into a gold cup. It was not dissimilar to the Anglican services that our family occasionally attended, but I had never given the ritual such rapt attention. A boy who looked like a miniature clergyman held a golden plate under the chin of the person, and the priest fed the white host to him or her. As one person left the railing, the next one in the queue would take his or her place—a precise, solemn choreography.

The people in the rows just ahead of me stood to get into position, and I was keenly aware of my intrusion. I sat down and shifted my legs so that the family to my left could get past me. When they returned, I bowed my head to mirror their look of devotion. I had no conversation to make with God, so my eyes were distracted by the succession of shoes from the people in the rows behind me who were now walking past me on their way to the front.
Purple velvet buckles. Woman. In her twenties.
I peeked up to see if I was correct. I was.
Scuffed brown leather lace-ups, small. Boy, around six years old.

The choir chanted a descant that consisted of four notes and sounded like an elegy. I gathered my handbag and slipped out of the pew before the song was over, avoiding eye contact with any soul who might glance up from their reverent pose.

Outside the church I squeezed my eyes shut and let the sunlight warm my face. As Lucille might say, twenty thousand questions entered my mind as I tried to make sense of what I had encountered. The music, the language, the trappings, the clothing—they were so unfamiliar to me, but it was the world that Kyle inhabited. Perhaps I could ask him about those things next time I saw him, whenever that might be.

My musings were interrupted as I took a step beneath the arched doorway at the school. A young boy on a motorbike pulled up. The engine sputtered and he lifted his driving goggles over his leather cap.

“Is this the girls’ wing, Miss?” he said.

“Yes. How may I help you?”

“Might you be able to deliver a telegram for me? I’m not supposed to go in there, but I can’t wait around. Too many deliveries today.”

“Certainly. I’ll take care of that.”

He handed me a parchment-colored envelope and drove off with puffs of brown smoke following him. I turned it over in my hand. It read,
Julianne Westcott, King’s College, Hampstead Residence, London.

Who could be sending a telegram to me?

I ripped it open, not bothering with clean tears, and pulled out the card. It had been sent five days before.

Charles taken ill. Telephone Bootle when you can. Kyle