IP Creotine

Sister Anne was still smiling. The tables were usually down the sides of the room for meals in the refectory, but they’d pushed them together to play Scrabble. There were only Sister Agnes’s long drawn out sighs and the click of the pieces marking the board, knitting the longer words together, growing like a word tree in her mind. She was almost shocked when the bell rang, which was the end of their free time. She did not hurry, but walked in the way that she’d been taught to her office.

After Vatican II wearing a religious habit was no longer necessary in their order of Poor Clares. Some thought it a hindrance. Feelings had run high. But they’d spent far too much time in the community of 12 nuns and a postulant debating the issue. Sister Anne had been unanimously elected as Mother Superior had made the decision to let God guide them, which some in their community she knew, thought was a cop out. She wore a plain skirt and blouse. Her brown hair firmly clasped to her head like a helmet, but with a yellow scarf blossoming at her neck and a hint of perfume She knew that she could be abrasive, but hoped that God would guide her. The parishioners and the public were at first shocked by her unveiled appearance. But the gentrification of the surrounding area had sneaked up and overwhelmed their convent so that it was only ever shown by a visitor’s twitch of the eye, or a frown replaced by Bell’s palsy type smile that only reached half their face and never their eyes.

Creotine had arrived first in Mother Superior’s office. She had not yet progressed to the black habit and still wore the virginal white veil, which made her look even younger. Because of her background as a nude model, Croetine, was forced to spend an extraordinarily long time as a novice before being allowed to proceed to final vows. And she tended to be more conservative than the others in their community. Creotine’s forehead was pressed up against the cool of the window, looking out to the grounds. There was too much land and not enough hands, but they did their best. Sister Rose was hovering over the gardenia jasimondes, with a pair of green handled secateurs hanging in the air, as if she was talking to them, breathing in their language. Sister Rose seemed to have her own poetic idiom even when speaking to Creotine. She addressed her as ‘pure-child’ when they worked together. Because of Sister Rose’s age, Creotine was meant to do the heavier work. ‘Do a little. Let God move through you and do the rest. Don’t do too much,’ Sister Rose would warn and warm Creotine, in her Letterkenny accent, whilst doing twice as much, despite being the size of a leprechaun. Sister Rose’s hands, fat as a summer caterpillar, held onto Creotine’s when speaking to her, before handing her a hoe or spade as if they were weapons, her eyes twinkling and laughing out of her white wimple that seemed to repel the dirt of a mopped brow, even in the hottest sun.

Creotine’s skin carried the warmth of sunshine and smell of damp earth and iris root into the office She had left her rough yellow leather work gloves outside, but she’d taken them off, for some reason and lost one of them. Creotine’s fingers were still bleeding from the briar she’d been trying to pull out at the back end of the convent wall and she’d put them in her mouth to suck them. They were white and delicate, the nails polished ivory, like a cast model of hands at prayer that were sold in worthy shops and cloisters, but the knuckles on one hand were red and raw as a pugilist. Her face was soft, unmarked and unmarred. Her eyes, brown almost black as her curled eyelashes, encouraged a child’s frankness; boldness even in adults.

‘Have you lost something?’ Sister Anne asked gently, loathe to bring Creotine back from her reverie.

‘No Mother Superior…Yes Mother Superior, a work glove.’

Sister Anne smiled. Creotine’s hair had been cut, but a gold tendril spun out of her coif, seeming almost to tickle and frame her face, accenting the way that she curved her neck and held her head, the tip of her ear and the red blush that crept into her cheeks.

Sister Mary banged the door behind her not seeming to notice anybody else’s presence, pulling herself up short, before she sat in the Mother Superior’s chair. She stood quietly waiting as Sister Anne settled herself in her old chair, behind her old desk. She couldn’t get used to Sister Anne being in charge. She was too wishy-washy. Sister Mary had very strong views of right and wrong and thought it was wrong, an anathema, like Mother Superior’s brown shoes with a heel in them, not to wear the black veil and white coif; the woollen belt tying the holy habit and capacious sleeves where she could modestly tuck her hands. She believed in the primacy of Catholic carbolic soap and that here was something, maybe not butch, but offputting, about nuns trying to be too feminine and dress as normal married woman.

‘I’m telling you this in confidence, in the same way that it was told to me. And it was a sore affliction for Father Bowles to break that confidence and tell me. But needs must. And I’m telling you and I want you to treat what I tell you with the solemnity and sanctity of the confessional.’

‘Yes, Sister Anne’ whispered Creotine.

Sister Mary waited for her to get to the point. She saw no need for these types of melodramatic outbursts.

Sister Anne leaned across the desk. ‘It’s about Mrs Parker, you know the one that lives on the hill with her little dog.’

Creotine remained standing by the window, waiting to be invited to sit, but sister Anne had temporarily forgotten about her in her attempt to make Sister Mary bend a little.

‘The Jack Russell?’ Sister Mary tilted a little forward in her chair, like an ironing board. She liked the idea of dogs, especially little ones, as long as they didn’t bark and carry on.

‘Yes, a Jack Russell. Mrs Parker’s Home help, God forgive me is worse than useless. A big- fat- stout woman.’ Sister Anne was set to just mouth the unfortunate’s name, but stopped herself as it was on the tip of her tongue.

‘She’s no doubt a Protestant,’ said sister Mary right on cue, the tip of her tongue blunted through over use. She had a tendency not to like fat people, Protestant or Catholic and didn’t believe there was such a thing as a glandular problem. ‘We’ve all got one mouth,’ she’d been prone to say, ‘and what we put in it is up to us.’ When pressed she allowed children to have glandular problems, but not adults.

‘Every day Mrs Parker crawls out of her bed and on her hands and knees she dusts and cleans to make the house presentable…She makes that woman, porridge, boiled eggs and toast, a kipper.’

‘A kipper Sister Anne?’

‘Yes a kipper.’

‘Where do you think she got a kipper at this time of year sister Anne?’ Sister Mary’s interest was piqued. They reminded her of long childhoods and home, but they were over 100 miles from the sea and the local shops didn’t sell anything but sardines.

‘Never mind the kipper.’ Sister Anne waved at Creotine, motioning her into a seat beside Sister Mary. The important thing is she’d seen terrible things when she was younger.

Creotine watched as Sister Anne nodded, an affirmation that at last they’d reached some kind of agreement. She continued speaking, but seemed to look at the ink blotter on her desk for further inspiration.

‘Mrs Parker has seen things no eyes should see. And tasted things no mouth should be forced to eat. In the midst of all that starvation and death she clung onto God like, like…’ she tried to thing of the right word, looking at Sister Mary for inspiration, but then sinking a little settled on..’ a life buoy and after the war was finished she vowed to become a Catholic and vowed never to eat alone, always to share her bread…not metaphorically, literally.’

Sister Mary’s slow handclap echoed around the room.

‘That was ok when husband was still alive and her two daughters were unmarried and living at home, but one is in Canada now and one in Scotland.’

‘Scotland’s not far,’ pointed out Sister Mary. ‘Creotine’s from Scotland, aren’t you?’ she asked, as evidence of how close it was.

‘How close, or how far away, are Mrs Parker’s daughters?’ asked Sister Anne asked Creotine, making it sound like some kind of arithmetic question.

‘It’s probably about a nine hour drive, dependent on what part of Scotland you come from. In the more isolated parts it’s probably quicker flying from Canada.’ Creotine’s answer seemed to satisfy Sister Anne. She hesitated before nodding in agreement.

‘So I’ve agreed with Father Bowles that we’ll sit by her, make her something and take a little bite to eat.’

Sister Mary remained tight lipped before she spoke. ‘I thought the days of doing priest’s bidding was over.’

‘Under the circumstances.’

‘It’s Saint Bartholomew’s day, our patron Saint, a day of prayer and fasting. We keep our Rule and the Rule keeps us. Don’t you agree Sister Anne?’

‘Under the circumstances…’ Sister Anne wanted to get away from that kind of regimented mentality

‘…I’ll sit by her bed,’ Sister Mary offered as a concession she seemed happy enough to make, but she could see from Sister Anne’s face that it wasn’t exactly what she wanted. ‘We make vows as well,’ she said, sweeping her hands up, but stopping at Croetine. ‘We all die,’ she added, ‘we come into the world with clenched fists and leave with open hands, with the Lord waiting for us.’ It sounded convincing. She could see Sister Anne wavering. ‘You’ll prolong the poor woman’s suffering unnecessarily.’

‘There’s only one rule and that’s compassion and love,’ said Sister Anne.

‘Fiddley-sticks’ said Sister Mary, ‘and that sounds very much like two rules to me.’

‘I could sit with her.’ Creotine’s knees were pushed together and her foot started tapping out a beat. She longed to be out in the garden and away from she didn’t know what.

‘She’s only a child,’ said Sister Mary.

‘You do know how to cook?’ She tried to thing of something simple, ‘beans on toast, perhaps?’ Sister Anne couldn’t help smiling at Creotine.

‘Yes, I know how to cook.’ Creotine smiled back and there was laughter in her words and in the air.

Sister Anne added in a more sombre, administrative, tone added, ‘You’ve not taken any formal vows yet so you won’t be breaking any rules. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll send for you later and give you the details. Sister Anne marvelled that Creotine made everything so simple. She’ll make a marvellous nun she thought. ‘You can go now,’ she said.

‘You can go as well Sister Mary,’ she said tersely to her old adversary,

‘She’ll make a marvellous nun,’ mimicked Sister Mary with a hollow laugh, ‘just the same as she made a marvellous stripper,’ the last part was said with a leer in auld Nick’s cackling voice.