Seeking Sanctuary Read online

  The torchlight wavered between them with increasing agitation, finally focusing on Francis’s ravaged and beautiful features. Not so much ravaged as scratched, the marks enhancing the planes of his cheekbones and making him look like . . . a martyr. That instant familiarity of the holy picture face, glimpsed in the chapel that morning, as if it had been transferred from the sanitised but tortured face of an apostle on the Stations of the Cross.

  ‘No,’ she shouted. ‘I didn’t break the fucking window. I came in the front door that night, you great turd, I was in the sodding chapel . . .’

  She was twisting the skirt of her dress in her fist. The statue of Ganesh that Ravi had given her fell out of the pocket with a suspicious clunk; she scooped it up and pushed it back, feeling and looking like a burglar caught in the act. Sneaking in some subversive idol, hiding an implement of harm. No one investigated it, but the noise and the flurry of movement was incriminating. The gold crucifix on the broken chain remained glowing on the ground. She watched, disbelieving her own eyes, as Francis scooped it up in one smooth, surreptitious movement.

  ‘That’s mine,’ he said. ‘You poor little girl, was that all you wanted?’

  Barbara sighed. ‘Oh Anna, how could you? I thought you had stopped hating us.’

  ‘I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  Barbara’s voice was low. In the torchlight, she looked like an elderly lioness leaning over prey, still willing to explain why she was about to eat it. Anna lost the last of her dignity and credibility by being sick. It took her entirely by surprise. Vomit splashed over Barbara’s sensible slippers and she could not hide a yeugh of disgust. It could have been deliberate, like the silly, insulting face with the tongue out.

  ‘Perhaps we should call the police,’ Francis murmured. Looking at her own feet in the torchlight made Barbara suddenly decisive. Decision making was her strong point.

  ‘No, Francis dear. That is simply not appropriate. We’ll all go inside.’ She was directing her decisions and the explanations for them entirely towards him, as if no one else was present, relying on him to carry Anna with them as she used one foot to wipe the muck on the other. Rancid smells, far removed from those of the garden, assailed their nostrils. Anna felt entirely despicable.

  ‘Anna here has a relative in the community,’ Barbara was saying to Francis. ‘It would not be kind to her sister to involve anyone else. Besides, she’s a little touched in the head. Come along.’

  Silent Matilda led the way up the path, through the open door of the parlour and into the bright light of the room. Prodded by Francis, Anna followed. On the far side of the parlour, Matilda disappeared into the other regions of the building, melting away like a ghost. Barbara had no intention of lingering either. They did not pause among the ugly chairs, but followed her down the black and white corridor to the front door, watched her struggle with the bolts and keys until the door was open. She made an expansive, sweeping motion with one hand, as if brushing rubbish out into the street.

  ‘Off you go, Anna. And I don’t think you’d better come back. Now, Francis, I’m sure I can trust you to see this child to her door. The morning is soon enough for a discussion.’

  She stood back to let them through, commanding obedience in the very rigidity of her posture, so that without a word of the furious protest that fizzed in her throat, Anna passed by and began to walk away. Don’t come back. The words ringing in her ears blotting out pain, eradicating anything else, including fear of the man who fell into step behind her and Barbara’s casual cruelty in sending her away with him. The enormity of that struck her after fifteen steps. Barbara had thrown her out into the city night with an enemy for company. A lying, creeping, dangerous bastard. She began to run, only to find her legs were made of jelly. He caught her at the corner, grabbed her elbow.

  ‘I’m to see you home,’ he said, mildly. ‘Pretty little things shouldn’t be out after dark, all on their own.’

  ‘You sod.’

  Traffic passed in the road. A couple walked on the opposite pavement, reassuringly normal, a reminder that it was not even near the middle of the night, scarcely bedtime for those who lived normally. He put his arm through hers, holding her close to his side, mimicking the couple in their affectionate stroll. They walked stiffly for a few more steps. She had the sensation that he knew exactly where she was going; just as he had known her identity long before the bizarre introduction of Sister Barbara. Anna here has a relative in the community. The things Anna holds most dear are inside those walls. She pulled herself free of him.

  ‘I’m the king of the castle, you’re the dirty rascal,’ he taunted. ‘But you’re even prettier than your sister. I wouldn’t know which to have first.’

  He pulled her towards him by the hair and ignoring the sour taste of her mouth, kissed her. Then pushed her away from him, so that she nearly stumbled again. She heard him laugh as he turned and left.

  ‘You heard what she said,’ he shouted after her. ‘Don’t come back. No one will let you in.’

  And those were the only words that echoed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Therese was wide awake.

  She had sensed the disturbances of the early part of the night, rather than heard. She kept to her room in obedience to the general rule made for the good and the peace of them all.

  Hers was on the first floor, at an angle of the building facing the roof of the opposite house, with a limited view of the road. The other Sisters on this floor included the habit-wearing seniors of the sorority, which long ago she and Anna described as penguins. Most had a TV or radio, and although the rule of respecting personal privacy was not written in stone, it was followed out of preference. Each room was sparse without being spartan, equipped with a washbasin; there was an amicable sharing of one bathroom and two lavatories and an unspoken agreement of silence at night. None of the rooms had a mirror.

  Therese had heard the swish of Matilda’s robes down the linoleum corridor as she began to contemplate sleep, guessed who it was by the footsteps, which she knew by heart. Matilda stayed awake late and when Agnes sometimes wept at night, it was Matilda who went to her. There would be brief, soft murmurings, followed by silence, occasions when Therese realised that she could never quite share their thoughts or their preoccupations, because she did not know what they were. They might share a set of circumstances and a code of behaviour, but they were old and she was young.

  Sister Joseph’s room was immediately above Therese’s on the next floor, with an empty room on either side, an unplanned isolation occurring by accident after one Sister had moved to another convent and Sister Jude had died, leaving Joseph almost exclusive use of the bathroom on that floor, which suited such an assiduous washer who insisted upon doing her own laundry instead of putting it in a laundry bag for Sunday night collection like all the others. The old partition walls were solid enough to deaden most sound, except cries, the loudest of snores and the most persistent of coughs, which Therese could hear now as a long night moved towards dawn.

  The sound of it vexed her beyond endurance and she blamed it for her inability to pray. By the weak light of her reading lamp, she had read again the advice of St Therese of Lisieux on how to turn an irritating noise into a sacrifice. I set myself to listen attentively as though it were delightful music, and my meditation was passed in offering this music to Our Lord.

  Therese found this exercise impossible and so she tried the comforting, formulaic prayer of the rosary, skipping the beginning, going on to the Lord’s Prayer, followed by ten, whispered Hail Marys, while she tried to keep her mind fixed on the Joyful Mysteries of the Annunciation of the Conception of Jesus and His Nativity, her mind slipping constantly into the present. There were spells of blissful silence between the distant coughing; in each pause, she would hold her breath and pray it had finished. Then it started again.

  Therese gritted her teeth and thought about faces instead, which put the origin of the cough int
o perspective. Poor Joseph. Surely, when you were as old as Joseph, you had got life sorted. She lay back in her bed and stared at the ceiling, seeing, in colour, Joseph’s mottled face in the stark white of the paint, finding that her contemplation of that face lessened her irritation with the owner of it, realising, not for the first time, that she was merely a practical person without the makings of a mystic. She was better at doing than thinking: she would never be able to make her mind transcend the interruption of sound, or the memory of a face.

  It had never really occurred to her before seeing Joseph in the chapel that a person with their profound and all-encompassing belief in God could be lonely. They could be unhappy, from time to time, yes; troubled by events, and personal inadequacies, beset by challenges, often ashamed, but never lonely. It was impossible to comprehend, because it was the very essence of her belief that God and his saints never slept, that they never failed to listen and always forgave. God was a father, tied by an umbilical cord to all his children. Forgiveness was natural; His face was never turned away from an apology. Saints did not sulk and take umbrage like parents even if you disappointed them; they were constant companions, friends and family for life and beyond. So how could anyone be lonely, even if they were sad? Repentance for failures always equalled forgiveness.

  And yet that was what Joseph had been; gut-churningly, utterly lonely, beyond the reach of any intercession, beyond asking. The thought of that frightened Therese because she could not see how it could happen. The coughing resumed. This time it was more pitiful than irritating. If Joseph did not seek help, it was not for her to interfere, other than to tell her superiors and let them, in their wisdom, find solutions. To act otherwise was to compound yesterday’s disobedience.

  And then, other favourite words swam into mind. Love is patient; love is kind and envies no one. Love is never boastful or conceited, nor rude, never selfish, not quick to take offence. Love keeps no score of wrongs . . . I may speak in tongues of men or angels, but if I am without love, I am a sounding gong or a clanging cymbal . . .

  Therese buttoned her heavy nightgown up to the neck, slipped out of her room, down the corridor towards the stairs. Light framed Matilda’s door, but if she was awake, she would not hear. Therese had not needed to learn the art of quiet movement; she had seemed to know it in advance of living here, could not remember ever making a noise. The door of Joseph’s room was also framed in light. She was relieved about that; at least she was not saving electricity by sharing her misery with the dark. Therese knocked softly and entered without invitation. There was a fusty smell to the room, although the small window was open wide, and Joseph was hunched over the washbasin. She turned a baleful glare on her visitor and began to splash water on her face. The front of her white nightgown was splattered with blood.

  Therese swallowed. The splatters of blood were brilliantly red against the white of the old gown, which Joseph would have cleaned herself. She finished washing her face. The vomiting spasm had passed and her skin was as pale as plaster. Therese stood awkwardly, staring at her as she wiped her face dry. Joseph smiled. There was always something sardonic about Joseph’s smile, as if she had to force it into operation.

  ‘Hello, little Therese. Come to help again? Could you reach me my other nightgown – from the cupboard, there. If I don’t soak this one, it’ll stain.’

  Therese did as she was told. There was a folded nightgown, identical to the one Joseph wore, on the top shelf of the tiny wardrobe, which was otherwise occupied by nothing but a coat, a blouse and a pair of shoes. She reached down the gown and stood holding it until Joseph snatched it from her hands.

  ‘Turn round, child.’

  Therese turned her face to the door, heard the rustle of cotton as Joseph pulled the soiled dress over her head, and replaced it with the clean one. Only in the event of illness were the Sisters ever on such intimate terms as this. Therese knew she could cope with a dead body, but she had a horror of seeing Joseph naked.

  ‘There, that’s better.You can turn round now.’

  Therese turned. Joseph bent to collect the nightdress crumpled at her feet, groaning as she did so.

  ‘Here, let me—’

  ‘No!’

  She watched as Joseph began to rinse the bodice of the gown in the washbasin, which was too small to accommodate it. Everything in the room was small. Therese felt she fitted into her own, identical space as neatly as if it had been made for her, but could imagine that Joseph, tall, gaunt, clumsy and twice her weight, would bruise herself in the restricted space as she prepared for bed. She watched, mesmerised by the pink water, as Joseph rinsed. Cleanliness is next to godliness, but it seemed strange in someone who was content to poison her own body, to say nothing of her own mind. Perhaps the washing was a secret penance; maybe it had a purpose. Joseph began to shiver.

  ‘Get into bed, Sister. I’ll finish that.’

  Joseph lurched the two steps to the bed, which also seemed too small for her. The window was alongside, curtains drawn back, showing a shiny new catch, which kept it propped open. For Therese, obedience from someone so much older was a disturbing novelty. She wrung moisture from the nightgown and spread it over the basin. Then she took the cushion from the single chair and placed it behind Joseph’s head to supplement the single pillow.

  ‘Thank you, child. You’re very kind. May your reward be on earth, rather than in heaven.’

  Therese sat on the edge of the bed, gingerly. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked bluntly. She had been considering the wisdom of asking, Do you want me to call Barbara, the doctor, anyone? but she knew the answer would be no.

  ‘Cirrhosis, dear. Acquired in the service of Jesus, in foreign parts.’

  Therese understood. The medical dictionary had once been a Bible for herself and Anna as they looked up their own symptoms without ever finding any real answers. They began with A and went on to Z. Mother had encouraged it.

  ‘So drink could kill you.’

  ‘Will kill me, with a bit of luck.’

  ‘Is that why you want it?’

  Joseph fiddled with the neck of the gown. The brown liver spots on her hands were like extra large, misshapen freckles.

  ‘Possibly. Mostly I want it because I want it, and life is completely meaningless, dull and futile without it. Not worth having. Don’t worry your head, child. You couldn’t possibly understand.’

  ‘No, Sister, I don’t understand. I can’t—’

  ‘Sister Jude understood,’Joseph went on. ‘But then Jude understood everything, that old fraud.’

  ‘Fraud?’

  ‘Such a liar, that woman. I never knew one half as good at keeping opinions to herself, which is the same as lying. No one’s interested in my opinions, she would say. I write them on the back of holy pictures to keep them short and stuff them in my missal, she said.’

  ‘And what do you do with yours, Sister?’Therese asked, trying to lighten the tone.

  ‘Swallow them whole and cough them up.’ She laughed drily. She was beginning to become sleepy; it softened the lines of her face.

  ‘You seem to have forgotten to ask God to help you.’

  Joseph’s eyes shot wide open. She was terrifyingly amused. ‘Oh, Him? My dear, we parted company a long time ago. No more transmissions. Over and out. Neither giving or receiving. The radio bust. Knock, knock, nobody home. I told him, God, you’re so boring. He left.’

  If Joseph had spat or peed,Therese could not have been more shocked. She struggled with the very idea of believing that God the Father would simply go away, like her own parent had done, leaving behind a great big space. She knew such a prospect would make sense to Anna, or someone like Kim, who had never crossed that barrier or felt that presence, like a pair of enfolding arms, but for an old woman who was a lifetime servant of the Lord, it seemed an obscene admission of negligence. One who knew God could never send Him away; He would not allow it. It was impossible to lose something that was essentially yours and as much a part of you as
the blood in your veins. The martyrs had preferred to die rather than take that risk; so, she thought, would she.

  ‘Inconceivable, you think? Faith might be a gift, Therese, but don’t bank on it being permanent. It can leave you just like that, or you leave it. And once it’s gone, you can’t nurture it back into life, whatever St bloody Therese says. Once you start to realise the possibility that man made God for his own convenience, rather than the other way round, you’ve got Him on the run. Let in the light of logic and He goes to ground. As unreliable as anything else synthetic and man-made.’

  She laughed again, humourlessly. Therese kept her gaze fixed on the bedspread, to avoid scrutiny and the pounding of her own heart.

  ‘How many of us have real belief,Therese? How many of us here? We, the quintessential believers? What do you imagine we think about? Agnes dreams of the bastard son who was taken from her. She sees him in every young man she encounters, although he’d be old himself, now. Barbara thinks of the Lord as an occupational hazard. Poor Father Goodwin continues with what tattered remnants of faith he has left. My dear Matilda, to whom I dare not speak in case I spread corruption . . . Matilda spends all day chatting to St Michael, who probably resembles someone she once saw in a film. He is, after all, the patron saint of policemen and other fascists. It isn’t worship, it’s idolatrous hero worship. Everyone has their own God. We make the one that suits us.’

  Therese wanted to scream at her to stop. It wasn’t true, any of it. It was the drink talking, even if Joseph was sickly sober. Drink made people mad: it made Anna nasty, her father pathetic, it was the stuff of devilment. Tomorrow, she was going to get Francis, tell him what he had done . . . For the moment, she was angrily calm.

  ‘If you don’t believe, Sister, and you feel God has deserted you, why do you stay?’