Obedience (26 page)

‘I feel a bit dizzy,' she said.

‘They tell me you've not been eating much.'

‘I've been praying,' said Bernard.

‘So you say. But you can pray and eat, you know.'

‘Not really. Not for this kind of prayer.'

‘Are you sure?' The nurse tidied the towel from the floor so she would not trip.

‘It wouldn't be the same.' Bernard could not begin to explain everything.

‘Would you like some breakfast?'

‘What time is it?' asked Bernard.

‘Time for lunch.'

The nurse came and sat on the bed next to her. Then he reached across and took one of the hands that were folded in her lap.

‘What's this?' he said, unpeeling her fingers.

Bernard did not know what he meant.

‘Sister?' He held something up to her face, shrunken and brown.

‘Oh,' she said.

‘What have you been… is it…?' He peered more closely at the parched string but could not make anything of it. ‘You've got yourself a bit of old rope or something,' he said. ‘We'd better dispose of it, I think. It doesn't look, you know… in much of a good state. If you want something to
hold, for comfort, we can find you something, I'm sure.' He looked around. ‘Here,' he said, giving her something from the bedside table in exchange. ‘Here's your rosary. That'll be better.'

Bernard did not see where he put the old umbilical cord. But she did not take the rosary from him, letting it fall beside her on the cover. It was not what she wanted. He took her hand again. She thought he would want to check her pulse, or perhaps examine her nails or the warts that crawled down the side of her middle finger. But he just held her hand. She liked the warmth of it and would have kept him there if she could.

The staff nurse held Bernard's hand for a few minutes and afterwards was brisk again.

‘You need to have some breakfast. As a favour – for me,' he said. ‘Please have something. I'll bring you something here. You needn't come down.'

Bernard was years away and only half-heard what he said. He wanted her to eat, she knew that. But her fast was bringing her closer to God, eliding the past, burnishing her memories until their colours sang, making them exhilaratingly real. She was trembling at the edge of the desert, believing, her trepidation mingled with hope, the expanse before her stretching away beyond sight. There was a journey ahead of her, a trial. But once she had crossed the wastelands, God would be on the other side waiting for her, speaking to her.

She agreed to a croissant and a peeled orange. She ate neither. The staff nurse brought them to her on a tray nicely dressed with a folded napkin. She smiled at him and promised to eat. Then, when he had left, she
unfolded the napkin and replaced it untidily, crumbled the croissant to create crumbs on the tray and, for good measure, crushed out a small puddle of juice from the orange. Then she took the sludge that remained, barely edible now anyway, and put it carefully under the bed, washed her hands and placed the tray on the floor by the door.

‘Thank you, Sister,' said the staff nurse when he came to take it away.

‘It was very good,' lied Bernard, because she liked him.

‘Perhaps later you will join the others for supper?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘And, Sister,' he said as he turned with the tray before moving on down the corridor, ‘pray for me.'

If she had had time, Bernard would have liked to.

The night before their holiday, Thérèse and Corinne ate early to leave themselves time to finish packing. As they were washing their plates after supper, Corinne heard the telephone ring. She went into the small square hallway to speak. Thérèse guessed it might be a call, but not having heard the ring, wanted to make sure. She strained to see around the kitchen door and, once satisfied, went back to the task of removing dried rice from the bottom of the pan. Corinne came back with a pink spot in the centre of each cheek.

‘It was Les Cèdres. They rang to say that Sister Bernard isn't very well,' she said, picking up a tea towel from the rail and making sure she spoke clearly.

‘Why have they rung
us
?'

‘I'd given them my name, and yours. Our details here. In case of problems. I didn't think it right that she had nobody,' said Corinne.

Thérèse scrubbed hard at the pan.

‘What did they say, exactly?'

‘Not a great deal. Just that she's not well. She's not been eating, apparently, and… well, they said she was depressed,' said Corinne, still speaking up.

‘Not really sick, then?'

‘I don't know. You can never tell on the phone.'

‘But they said we should visit?' asked Thérèse.

‘Yes, they said we should.'

Thérèse poured away the washing-up water and wiped the kitchen surfaces. She stacked the clean dishes on their shelves. She swept the floor meticulously and tied the neck of the bin bag in a neat double knot. But she could not calm the fear of going to Les Cèdres and seeing Bernard there, a judgment. In the end something had to be said.

‘If we call in the morning, on the way, it'll not be a delay. It'll be all right. We'll still be at the hotel before dark, in time for supper.'

She wiped her wet hands.

‘I know,' said Corinne. ‘That's what I thought.'

‘It seems odd though, when I should have been there anyway, looking after her.' Thérèse's voice trailed away.

She thought Corinne would contradict her somehow, as a comfort, but her friend simply nodded slowly, as though the proof of something had finally been given.

‘She told me that she could hear God, speaking to her,' said Corinne. ‘At the abbey – she said it plainly, as though it was any old thing. She wasn't pretending or boasting.
It was just, you know – a fact.' She looked for a moment at Thérèse but she could not keep her gaze steady.

‘Do you think she might be holy?' Corinne said.

‘Holy?'

‘Yes. You know – blessed.'

‘She's a nun. She's…' Suddenly Thérèse's voice glittered with spite. ‘I said, didn't I? I said she was good. I told you that. You're the one who dragged her into the past – you're the one who raked up all that stuff, who had her there in the village, like it was some kind of trial.'

‘I'm sorry about that, I really am,' said Corinne. ‘It was a mistake.' She ran her fingers down her throat, stroking at the thick contours of skin there. ‘You don't think, though, do you, that she does hear God? Did anyone ever mention it – before – at the convent? I can't believe… you don't think she really does, do you – not really?'

Thérèse did not quite turn to her friend. ‘No,' she said. ‘I don't think she's particularly special – not like that.'

‘It's funny though, isn't it? You can't be sure. You can never know. I shouldn't have – well, the war thing, that seemed clear. And it seemed like everyone knew.'

‘May God forgive you,' said Thérèse, the lightness of it bitter.

She hung the tea towel to dry and turned out the light.

When they arrived at Les Cèdres the following morning, they were asked to wait. They took one of the low bench seats in the entrance hall. The dry heat pressed around them and the drum of some kind of equipment rumbled into Thérèse's deafness.

‘I couldn't have come, could I, to a place like this? I couldn't have suffered it,' she said.

Corinne shook her head, but did not reply. ‘Do you think we should tell Bernard about her granddaughter?' she asked instead. ‘Do you think she'd like to know?'

‘I'll think about it,' said Thérèse. ‘Perhaps she wouldn't want to know – perhaps not at the moment. It might be too much for her. We can tell her when she recovers.'

‘But what if she doesn't?'

The nurse in charge, a warm, round woman with a great deal of hair, appeared from outside, tapping her hands lightly together to warm them. She sat down next to them and talked without referring to notes.

‘Sister Bernard is quite poorly. We had the doctor out last night before we called you and he's coming back this evening. It's hard to be sure what it might be at this stage. There's general weakness, certainly, and she seems low. We've had some trouble getting her to eat. But he seems to think there's probably something else, something more, well, medical. He's going to do some tests.'

‘She's an old woman,' said Thérèse.

‘That of course makes a difference. It can be hard, at her age, to have much resistance to things.'

‘Is she dying?' asked Thérèse.

‘Is she in bed?' asked Corinne almost simultaneously, allowing the nurse to ignore Thérèse's more difficult question.

‘We've got her up and about just now. We thought it best. But we'll have to see how it goes. As I said, she's weak,' said the nurse. ‘I understand that you are also sisters, from her convent.'

‘I am,' said Thérèse. ‘And this is my friend, a lay friend. We've lived together since the convent closed. Sister Bernard has no one, no family.'

The nurse nodded a series of small nods.

‘Can I ask how she was before the move? Did she seem well?'

Thérèse thought of Bernard's incessant work on small tasks.

‘She was always energetic, always busy,' she said. ‘I'm sure she was well enough, for her age.'

‘Perhaps that's what she misses,' suggested Corinne. ‘Being busy.'

‘There's always a period of transition,' admitted the nurse. ‘But usually, by now, things are beginning to settle down. She never complained of any pain? She never took any pills?'

Thérèse could be sure about that. ‘Never.'

‘She never got bad headaches that you know of? Never struggled with her breathing? It will be helpful if I can give the doctor some information. He seemed to think there might have been a long-term condition of some kind.'

‘She was always just normal,' said Thérèse, knowing how inadequate this sounded. ‘She never seemed ill.'

‘Nuns don't complain much, you know,' chipped in Corinne, smiling.

The nurse smiled back.

‘What about depression? She's never been treated for depression?'

Surely Thérèse would have heard. ‘I don't think so,' she said. ‘Would I have known?'

‘Well, no, not necessarily. I just wondered. It usually shows up, one way or another. It can be physical as well as
mental. I thought you might have noticed something. But the symptoms can be confusing.'

‘I didn't know her that well,' said Thérèse, and was sorry, immediately, that she had admitted this.

The nurse stood up.

‘Well, if you think of anything, you could let me know. Any little thing might be helpful. Sister Bernard's not really talking to us. We can't discover much about her past, her medical past.'

‘I'll ask her now, if you like, when I see her. I can ask if she remembers anything,' said Thérèse.

‘You can try. She's in the chapel. Go down the corridor and it's right at the end, facing the garden.'

‘Thank you. I visited once before. I remember it being a lovely chapel.'

‘It's very well used,' said the nurse. She got up to go. ‘I'll talk to you later, perhaps,' she said.

Corinne leant back against the wall and looked at Thérèse. ‘She'll be better if it's only you. She'll be more comfortable. She'll talk more,' she said. ‘I'll wait.'

‘No, it's all right. Come with me.'

Corinne picked a magazine at random from the small pile scattered across the table.

‘I don't think I can,' she said.

Thérèse did not press it. She moved away. The corridor was darker and narrower than she remembered, the small circles of the floor tiles more insistent. The air was too thick, the sticky loneliness too palpable. She walked slowly, as if nothing else were possible.

The chapel door was made of glass, coloured at the top and edges but with a clear panel in the middle. Thérèse
looked through it for a long time, watching Bernard's veiled head, waiting for some movement which might suggest a good moment to disturb her. But the head was still. Thérèse looked back the way she had come, imagining Corinne there, waiting for her, their holiday almost begun, and she took a couple of steps away from the chapel before she closed her eyes, offering a desperate prayer that seemed to swirl back to her on the dense rest home air. When she opened her eyes, she still was not ready but she pushed the chapel door as quietly as she could, and stepped into the invitation of lilac light.

She genuflected quickly at the back of the short aisle and moved up to Bernard's side, where she stood with one hand on the end of the pew. She hoped Bernard would sense her there and look towards her. But Bernard continued to look straight ahead. Thérèse could see her lips moving in prayer. Ignoring the nag of impatience and not wanting to interrupt, she sat down directly across the aisle and waited.

For a few minutes Thérèse attempted to pray. She bent her head in her hands and tried not to think about Bernard. But she was strangely distracted by the stillness of the head alongside her. She closed her eyes, meaning to concentrate, but her thoughts were heavy with regret; she saw in glimpses, unwilling, the night walk down the unlit corridor that had ended in Bernard's cell and the blood radiant there. She recited the Lord's Prayer twice. Its familiar rhythms helped calm her. She rested her forehead gently in her hands.

Then she heard Bernard cry out. Echoing from the concave wall behind the altar, the sound was clear, hollow, returning stronger. Even in her deafness, Thérèse heard
it plainly and started. She opened her eyes, expecting something to have happened. She looked over her shoulder for other people, intruders even. She could feel her heart flicker. But everything was still. Bernard was kneeling, her eyes fixed on the altar, and the rest of the chapel was empty.