Карен Армстронг – Through the Narrow Gate: A Nun’s Story (страница 3)

“Unpacking, I expect,” I suggested cooperatively. “General settling in. And then perhaps we get down to normal duties. Mother Katherine said that postulants spend most of the time doing housework.”

“Good God!” said my father, “do they realize how bad you are at housework? You’re always dropping things and you never seem to see the dirt. I don’t expect they’ll keep you long,” he added facetiously, but he sounded suddenly hopeful. Somehow I knew that he would actually be angry if the Order sent me home like an unwelcome parcel. But, “You probably won’t stand that for long,” he added quite cheerfully.

“Oh, it won’t be too bad,” I added firmly.

There was silence once more. Then my father cleared his throat. I knew he was trying to say something important.

“Look!” he said awkwardly, swerving dangerously round a truck. “You mustn’t be ashamed if you decide that the life isn’t for you. Don’t feel, will you, that anyone will think any the less of you if you don’t stick it out. It’ll be hard to admit that you’ve made a mistake. But if you find that you have, we’ll still be proud of you—even more proud of you, if you see what I mean.”

Lindsey shuddered as though some indecency had been spoken. The air hummed with embarrassment. As a family we just did not say that kind of thing to one another. Reserve characterized our conversations entirely. We chatted endlessly about trivia but left the big things unsaid. My father, I knew, had said something important, but none of us knew how to cope with it. How sad it all is, I thought. Each of us is locked away from the others. And now we’ll never learn to talk deeply. So many things will never be said. Because now it’s too late.

“Candy?” asked my mother again, and this time we all accepted, filling the void with the business of unwrapping and sucking.

And now here we were at Kings Cross, still smiling cheerfully, more anxious than ever not to mar these very last moments with tearfulness and grief. Five more minutes. We ought to say something memorable, something to mark the occasion as a momentous one. I should speak this time; my father had done his bit. He was glancing round the station, trying to focus his attention on something that would distract him from what was really happening. What could I say to them? “Thank you for all you have done for me"? “I’ll be thinking of you and praying for you always"? It sounded so glib and meaningless, though I meant it all.

“Well,” my mother said brightly, “the train’s going to leave on time. That’s perfect. We’ll just have time to get to the theatre.”

They were all going to a matinee performance of The Sound of Music. We had the record at home. Those pretty nuns, that irrepressible postulant, the wise superior. A good choice in many ways. The religious life cut down to fit the limitations of the stage—cozy, comprehensible, and painless. I knew that the real thing wasn’t going to be like that. The nuns I was joining in a couple of hours must smile at it. Of course it would be different.

“Got your suitcase?” asked my father helplessly, though he had put it on the rack with his own hands.

“Yes!” I said heartily. “There it is.”

“What time do you get there?” asked Lindsey, making a huge effort. She still looked at me, lost in a dream of horror.

“Four-fifteen,” I replied, though we had been through all this hundreds of times already. “I’ll be there in time for tea.”

We looked at one another.

Silence.

“I do hope you enjoy it,” I said. “The Sound of Music, I mean. You’ll have to tell me all about it when you write.”

God, couldn’t I think of anything better than that?

We gazed at one another for five long seconds. The smiles never once faltered. If only we could get this all over with, I thought sadly. It’ll be so much easier for them once I’ve really gone. I couldn’t bear what I was doing to them. In a way their cheerful bravery was a reproach. If only they’d behaved a little less impeccably so that I could feel a bit cross with them. But that wasn’t fair, I knew. The next few minutes stretched ahead like a lifetime, filled with sadness and ambivalence. After that, once the train had disappeared in a smooth curve, there would be nothing between me and the convent. These last miserable moments were the first step along the road of sacrifices that would take me to God and a happiness and significance that were too great to imagine. In the meantime my family and I stared at one another, still smiling.

Then a whistle. Slamming doors. A hiss of steam.

“Good-bye!” I screamed, and at that terrible moment a feeling of panic and grief hit me like a physical force. I really was going. I’d done it now. I leaned perilously out the window, kissing my mother, my father quickly, snatching the last moment before I was torn from their embrace by the train carrying me slowly but irrevocably away from them.

“Good-bye, darling,” said my baffled father. “I know you’ll be very happy.”

I continued to wave, fighting back the tears that stung my eyes as we pulled out. For the first time in my life my family suddenly looked very small and distant. Finally they disappeared.

How had it all begun?

I was born in Worcestershire, some fifteen miles outside Birmingham in a little place called Wildmoor. Now it has been swallowed up in housing projects. Then it consisted only of a row of small artisans’ cottages half a mile from a little shop that sold everything from fuel oil and candles to groceries and sweets. On the third point of the triangle, two suburban semidetached houses stuck out incongruously. We lived in one of these. It was tiny, but it had a large garden that backed onto a ploughed field. This was also the local cess pit, for on Mondays huge pipes conveying the local sewage flowed through our garden, filling the house with a subdued but acrid stench. It was quite primitive. There was no running water downstairs and kitchen water had to be jacked out of a little pump in the garden. Every day my father would drive off to Birmingham to work and leave my mother alone in the house.

My mother so wanted to create a happy home for me, shielded from the disturbance that had been too much a part of her own childhood. She was the second daughter of a pharmacist and had grown up in Essex. Her elder sister, Mary, was my grandmother’s favorite—not my grandfather’s. I rarely remember him as preferring anybody or anything much to anyone else. He was a quiet, scholarly man. He should have gone to college, but there was no money, and he contented himself with reading—especially history. As the years went on his reading became a retreat. He had plenty to retreat from, poor man. My grandmother, a small, vital woman, was notoriously unfaithful to him and from my mother’s earliest years had a string of lovers, one being the father of her best friend at school. When Eileen, my mother, was twelve, Granny got tuberculosis—all her family died of it—and went to live in a sanatorium in Switzerland for two years. My mother went with her, thus wrecking her education. She learned skiing and Swiss-German but little else. There’s a cartoon at home done by one of the other patients there at that time. It shows my grandmother clasped passionately in the arms of a faceless man and my mother standing looking at them, a plain little girl with a skirt far too short for her, knickers showing. The caption reads: “I think I had better go to bed now, Mummy.”

On their return to England the procession of men resumed but, an added horror, my grandmother started to drink. By the time the war broke out she was an alcoholic, secretly drinking neat gin in the bathroom. From the time she was fifteen my mother felt she was in charge of the whole mess. But she escaped. My great-uncle, with whom she stayed sometimes, used to frequent the local pub, and, after closing time, he would gather up all his drinking companions and take them back to his house. There the drinking continued and my mother played the piano for them when she was on leave. On one of these evenings she met my father, who fell in love with her while she was playing the piano and singing a song called “Little Brown Bird”. Almost a Victorian set-piece.

My father, however, was no callow romantic. At this time he was in his forties, twenty years older than my mother, and a bit of a rake. At the age of four he had come over to England from Ireland, where his father had run a village post office and was a respected member of the little community. He never made it in England, however. My father grew up in a Birmingham slum, left school at fourteen, and, after various fits and starts, eventually began a quite successful business as a scrap metal merchant.

When my mother met him there had been many women in his life, but she nailed him. He was a handsome man. Very tall—well over six feet—he stood broad-shouldered and solid, with a firm face and a lot of black, wavy hair. He loved clothes and decked himself out with flamboyance.

The match came in for heavy opposition. My grandmother refused to have anything to do with it, and her family told my mother firmly that she was neglecting her responsibilities and was mad to marry a man so much older than herself who would never, it was clear, be much of a success. She stood firm, though. My father paid for the wedding, which was poorly attended on my mother’s side. And a very successful marriage began.