Obedience (7 page)

She gazed at the wreckage on the floor. It all seemed as though it were Bernard's fault, the loss of the convent, the cramped room at Les Cèdres, the destruction of her collection.

‘I liked my things,' she said. Then suddenly she was prickly. ‘They were… you know… I liked having them here, Sister.'

She looked hard at Bernard, driving the accusation home.

‘I told you to take them with you,' said Bernard flatly.

‘Yes, but I couldn't, could I? Not
there
. Going
there
– with you – I've got to start a new life. I've got to, I don't know, do as I'm told. It's the only way.'

Bernard could hear high faint sounds now from the end of the long corridor as Sister Marie greeted the day with a hymn.

‘I didn't know, did I, when I agreed to it.'

Thérèse couldn't mention Corinne, but she already knew that she would mourn the loss of her collection for ever and this, too, seemed as though it were Bernard's fault. ‘I didn't know it would be like this.'

For the final flourish, Marie's singing was clear as birdsong, her voice trilling on the high notes. Thérèse, hearing her now, looked to the open door.

‘I should go,' said Bernard. ‘Sister Marie is at the end of her hymn. I should get her up before she starts again. Or she'll not let me…'

She turned quickly, without finishing what she was saying, and she pushed her way through the worst of the debris. She moved briskly down the corridor, her relief making her steps light.

The singing stopped and Thérèse's world was silent again. She looked around. The plain ash-coloured counterpane, the same as all the others in the convent, sagged about her. She rubbed her ears. She had been awake the entire night, kneeling sometimes on the floor, sitting sometimes on the bed, restless, unable, in the end, to ignore the old routines of observance. Alone in her cell, as some kind of compromise, she had recited rosary after rosary for the trapped souls in purgatory, hoping that her solitary prayer would not be too scant to matter. And it had been a special night, holy. The thick autumn silence had seemed to have a softness about it. With the dawn she had begun ripping down her collection. She had felt elated, renewed. She had demolished her attachment to earthly things with the fervour of those who had lived and died glorified by God and honoured by the Church.

But then had come the Buddha, and Bernard's confused theology. And now her courage had left her and she just felt tired and old. The wet November day was upon her. She felt trapped between one life and the next, sure of neither and frightened by both. She had never felt so helpless.

*

Bernard knew she could leave the sodden sheets where they were, unlaundered. It would make no difference. But she wrapped Sister Marie in her dressing gown and sat her in the chair under the window while she stripped the bed, folded the linen as best she could – it was very heavy – and took everything downstairs to soak in the sink in the scullery. As soon as the sheets were submerged, she took a dry cloth from its hook by the door and retraced her steps, bending every few yards to wipe the drips from the floor and stairs, turning her head sharply to one side to catch the glint of urine against the tiles. She moved quickly past Thérèse's cell, keeping her eyes on the floor, and followed the trail to the end of the corridor. Marie was half-dozing where she had been left.

‘Do you think,' asked Marie, as Bernard was attempting to slide her habit over her head, ‘do you think God will still love me when I leave Him?' She sounded lucid. It was a trick she had.

‘You're not leaving God, Sister, only the convent. God will be with you wherever you are,' said Bernard. She had told herself this many times, but she could not believe it was true.

Marie took Bernard's hand for a moment. It was not a comfort.

‘You will soon settle,' said Bernard.

They walked slowly to the refectory. The dim light was spun from the past; it had little of the morning in it. It gave an unexpected solemnity to their passage, and Marie leant more heavily than usual on the older nun.

‘You can sit here, Sister Marie,' Bernard said in the refectory, as though offering a choice.

She pulled back the bench and held it steady as Marie shuffled in.

‘If God still loves me,' said Marie, ‘why is He sending me away? Why is He banishing me? What have I done?'

Her voice was scratchy with tears. Bernard unfolded the napkin that they kept by Marie's place and tucked it carefully into her habit around her neck. Then she pulled the plate to the edge of the table, reachable, and turned away to put some water on to boil. The hiss of the burning gas filled the room, and soon after came Thérèse's footsteps, echoing down the corridor as she made her way to the refectory. It was a morning the same as all the others, indistinguishable. That was the way of things.

‘I've cleared most of it, but I'll need to borrow a broom, Sister,' said Thérèse, making her way to the table and kissing Marie in greeting as she passed. ‘There's a lot of pieces of glass which I should put somewhere safe. Do we have a box?'

‘I can find one, after Sister Marie's gone. I think there's some in the storeroom,' said Bernard.

‘Thank you, Sister, that would be kind.'

Bernard served the coffee. A frozen baguette was still warming in the oven. There was nothing left in the freezer now except for two small frosted bags right at the bottom, shoved into the far corners. Bernard could not see what they contained and could not reach them to find out. After taking out the bread that morning she had simply closed the freezer lid, taken the plug out of the socket, and wiped the top surface with a damp cloth. She already missed its familiar hum.

Bernard loitered by the stove until the baguette was warm, unready to begin the ordinary, everyday, unremarkable breakfast that would be their last together. Finally, though, it could not wait any longer without spoiling. She took the long loaf from the oven on its flat tray and broke it into pieces with burning fingers. She slid them onto a wide plate which she carried to the table, putting it carefully in the middle, where they could all reach their share. Steam rose into the cold air, and the smell of sweet dough and the years that had gone before. They waited for a moment, as Bernard made her way back to the bench, and then Thérèse said grace; she had not quite finished before Marie, grinning, made a grab for the largest piece of bread. Thérèse took another piece and dipped it in her coffee. She held it up to drain, the colour seeping through it like old blood. It dripped onto the table. Bernard made a note to scrub down properly when they had all finished. There was so much to remember, even now.

Thérèse began tentatively, still letting the bread drip.

‘So… our lives are changing, starting afresh.'

She paused.

‘There're a lot of memories here to be leaving behind – our whole lives are here.'

‘You've been here fifty years, Sister,' said Bernard.

‘Fifty-two. It's a big change for me.'

‘Yes.' Bernard dipped her head low over her plate, breaking the bread into tiny pieces, and slipping them into her mouth from her open palm.

‘And you, Sister?'

Bernard looked up from the ritual, her hand flat out to Thérèse as if in some sort of supplication, the crumbs
on it sticky. She did not know what Thérèse wanted her to say.

‘God tests us, Sister,' she tried.

Marie took the last piece of bread.

‘You must have lived through many such tests, Sister Bernard.' Thérèse looked straight at her, pressing so much curiosity into the question that her mouth hung open slightly.

‘No, Sister,' said Bernard. ‘None like this one.'

And now it came to it, this seemed enough. Thérèse nodded, letting her eyes fall gently from Bernard's small, flat face; allowing the revelations to remain hidden there in its openness.

‘We should thank God for all His gifts, Sister,' was all she could say.

Bernard rubbed her hands together and reached for the empty plate in the middle of the table. Marie belched. There was a clatter at the front door.

‘That'll be the men.' Bernard let the plate drop back onto the table. ‘For Sister Marie. They've come early.'

Thérèse had only heard the noise faintly. She was surprised. It was actually beginning. They looked at each other for a moment and Thérèse raised her eyebrows. It was the only sign either of them was ever to give that they might have wished this parting to be different. Then together they heaved Marie up from the bench, pulling the napkin bib from her as two young men appeared at the door to the refectory, pushing an empty wheelchair.

Bernard and Thérèse went to the porch and stood in its shelter, watching. Marie was carefully seated in the minibus and the wheelchair folded away. The rain, falling
lightly, obscured the windows and made the driveway dark. They did not wave as the minibus pulled away but remained outside until it had turned out of sight and the sound of it was gone.

Bernard shook the damp from her veil. ‘I'll fetch the box,' she said.

‘Yes, Sister. Thank you. If you leave it by the door, I'll empty everything into it.'

‘You should mark it, too. So that when they come to collect the rubbish, they'll know to be careful.'

‘I'll do that,' said Thérèse.

But for a moment neither of them moved, surprised by the sound of their voices in the cavernous building and unwilling to step away alone.

‘I'll bring it up,' said Bernard at last, drawing back.

She went down into the storeroom and picked out a box for Thérèse. She brushed it clean and took it through the hall, leaving it on a small table by the door. But even with her task finished, she was drawn back, and she returned again to the earthy damp, descending the narrow steps and spending a long time in the dim brick cellars, letting the dust cling to her habit, treasuring it, as though it was all she had left now.

Later, when Corinne found her, Thérèse was kneeling on the floor of the corridor writing in large red letters on the box of shards.

‘There was no one around downstairs,' Corinne said loudly, making sure she was heard. ‘So I came for a wander to see what I could find. I hadn't realized – it's big this place, isn't it?'

Thérèse sat back on her heels. ‘Too big for the three of us,' she said, her voice hard.

Corinne nodded. She looked over her friend's head into the stripped cell, but said nothing. Thérèse bent forwards and finished writing her warning on the box. When she looked up, her smile was fixed.

‘I've been cleaning out,' she said. ‘I used to, you know, hoard things. Collect things. I thought, with everything – well it shows, doesn't it, that I'm making an effort. That I'm trying.'

Corinne held out a hand and pulled Thérèse up from the floor. Then she pushed the box to one side with her foot.

‘Let's go outside,' she said. ‘It's a nice morning. We could walk.'

Thérèse hesitated. ‘I don't know. I should pack.'

‘You look pale. You need some air,' said Corinne, matter-of-factly, setting back off down the corridor.

‘It was All Souls,' said Thérèse.

It was drizzling still; they stood under the porch. The bread van sped across the end of the drive, hooting, sending a pair of deer leaping into the trees.

‘Have you decided, then?' asked Corinne, when the quiet had resettled.

‘I can't come. I can't.'

‘Thérèse, think about it. You can come and live with me and continue your life of prayer and devotion exactly as before, but comfortably. I can give you a good home.'

‘I'm not a stray dog.'

Corinne did not laugh. ‘It will be a change, that's all. But I'd like the company; I need someone now, around. And for years, we've said… We always talked about how
it would be, if we lived together – always.' She pressed her foot against the wall and Thérèse noticed for the first time that she was wearing red shoes. ‘Besides, it's different now. The vocational life is different in the modern world. You don't have to – I don't know – you don't have to punish yourself.'

‘It's my duty to stay with Sister Bernard,' said Thérèse.

‘Until now, it's been your duty, yes. You've been keeping the convent, sustaining its presence here, the three of you. But now – now… it's not your fault. You didn't ask to change. You didn't ask to move. They made you.'

‘I can't help feeling it would be wrong.'

Corinne stepped out onto the gravel and looked at the sky. ‘Why?' Her frustration made the question sharp. ‘Why on earth would it be wrong?'

She wiped the rain from her face and came back under the porch. She went to take her friend's hand again, but Thérèse pulled away.

‘Look, I'm sorry,' said Corinne. ‘I don't mean us to argue – it's just…'

‘I think it has to be a question of duty. In the end,' said Thérèse. ‘That's all I can think. When I pray about it, all I see is Sister Bernard, left alone, cared for by strangers.'

‘But that's what's happening to Sister Marie.'

‘Yes, yes, I know. But she'll hardly realize what's going on. And I can't be everywhere, can I? I can't do everything. And I should look at it as… as duty, as penance. As something I've given my life to. As a prayer.'

Corinne did not reply for a moment. She took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose noisily, taking her time to fold it carefully afterwards.

‘Couldn't life with me be a prayer of some kind?' she asked at last.

Thérèse smiled sadly. ‘It would be too much a pleasure,' she said.

Corinne pushed back through the door without saying anything more, walking quickly across the entrance hall. Thérèse followed. They were stopped by Bernard, emerging into the corridor from the storeroom steps, an apparition, sepia from the dust.