‘It is so. Fornication.’
I kept quiet. I didn’t know what fornication was, so she might be right. I felt I needed education, needed it very badly.
‘Stop that giggling and messing, Carmel,’ my mother said. ‘You ought to be thinking about what lies before you.’
‘I am,’ I said.
I had been thinking about it for weeks, months. Sister Monica, when she broke off her disquisition about the laundry-room at St Theresa’s, would address the subject of the Holy Redeemer; like Sister Basil, she seemed to know everything about it.
‘The girls’ skirts are measured each week with a dressmaker’s rule,’ she would say, ‘to see that they conform to the length prescribed. Woe betide any girl whose skirt does not.’
Woe betide. But I did not see much to fear. They wouldn’t go shooting up and down, would they, your hem- lines, unpredictable, beyond your control?
‘No jewellery is allowed,’ Sister Monica would say, ‘but a wristwatch of the plainest type. Hair is to be worn neat at all times and off the face. The speech of the girls is never careless and always refined.’
Then, a little later, while we were labouring over our fractions or decimals, she would begin again, her long, pale, acned face turned up to the spring sunlight, her pointer tapping the blackboard for emphasis. ‘Periods of silence are observed, and running in the corridors is utterly forbidden. Footwear is to be of the approved type, and a fringe, if worn, should be above the eyebrows.’ Her eyes, shining beneath the limpid pools of her spectacles, fell on myself and Karina, isolated in a front desk. ‘There’ll be none of your nonsense should you be among the fortunate few who find a place at the Holy Redeemer. Let any girl step out of line and she is put up at the morning assembly to apologize to Mother Superior before the whole school and the staff, both nuns and lay teachers.’
My finger and thumb squeezed my pencil, rolled it back into my palm and clenched it there. What would I say? I was bound to step out of line, if only because I did not know where the line was: if only because I did not know anything. ‘I’m sorry, Mother Superior. I apologize.’ Would that be enough? Sister Monica approached and stood over us. ‘And if that girl does not speak clearly and distinctly, or employs a poor accent, they will mock her and ridicule her until she mends the fault.’
Forty minutes into our journey to the entrance exam, the bus ground into a bus station, and we disembarked. Mary followed my mother, lugging with her the grimy tartan shopping bag she always carried. It was windy in the bus station, oily underfoot, pigeons swooping low under the shelters; my mother shielded her eyes with her hand as if she were looking into the sun, as a way of showing Mary that she was in charge and she would soon hit upon our next bus. ‘Over here,’ my mother cried, and marched us across the litter-blown tarmac, ducking round the big frames of panting buses, through the diesel fumes and a smell of boiled onions. But it wasn’t over there, and she marched us back, and marshalled us into line to wait for the Number 64. ‘Oh, if only it were to get a cup of tea,’ Mary said, breaking her accustomed silence.
‘No time. No time. Tea later,’ my mother yelled. I thought I had been to this place before – its name was the Victoria bus station – but I hardly knew what lay beyond it; I was beginning to feel very far from home. When the 64 juddered to a halt before us, I felt a moment of panic. My mother seized me by the arm and I tore my arm away. ‘For heaven’s sake, just look at you,’ she said. She took out her handkerchief, licked it, and worked it round and round on my cheek. It came away filthy; I had been baptized in flying smuts. Two by two, we mounted the 64.
‘Since you are the only two girls from your area,’ the nun said, ‘a special arrangement has been made for you. The entrance exam proper was held last month, but Sister – Monica, is she called? – couldn’t seem to complete the paperwork on time.’ The nun sniffed. Her speech was certainly never careless and always refined.
Outside the studded door of the convent – ‘It’s medieval, isn’t it?’ Karina whispered – we had lurked fearfully, until the bell was answered. ‘Come in, we are waiting for you,’ the nun said. We stepped into a wide corridor that smelt of incense and custard. There were red tiles underfoot, and I stepped on one that was loose or broken; the tile gave under my foot, and made a little sound, tock-tock.
For the entrance exam I was wearing my Scotch kilt, and a white lacy sweater with a frill for a collar, and a narrow scarlet ribbon piercing in and out of the frill’s edge. Sometimes my hand would go up to touch it, to feel the confiding smoothness against the bobbly wool; my mother would slap my hand away and snap, Stop that, you’ll get it filthy. Karina wore one of her royal-blue pleated skirts and a fluffy jumper made by a factory. It was tighter than it should be, and seemed pasted across her protruding stomach. And – I looked hard – could it be? On her chest there were two pouches, twin flaps where there should be nothing but smoothness, nothing but chest. The nun looked down at us. ‘You could have worn school uniform,’ she said. ‘That is usual.’
‘Sister, we don’t have a school uniform,’ I said.
‘Don’t you? Oh, dear me. Now that is a sad state of affairs.’ She switched her attention to our mothers.
‘Please wait here. Tea will be provided.’ My mother glanced at Mary, as if to say, I told you so. ‘You little ones come with me.’
She led us through that first corridor, and round corners, down three steps and up two, by a drawing-room where we glimpsed a cheerful electric fire twinkling in a grate: under pale arches, by windows and glazed doors that looked out on to lawns, to a fine cedar of Lebanon which acknowledged a light breeze. We had left home in rain and wind; here the sun was fighting through, and the skies were patchily blue. The nun turned to us, and almost smiled: ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘this is not the school. This is the House, where we live.’
Our voyage ended in a long cool room, where two desks, widely spaced, stood waiting for us. Sometimes in dreams I’d been in rooms like this, rooms full of pallid light: the floor of blond wood, the walls as smooth as the icing on a wedding cake. Every movement echoed in its vastness, every breath seemed consequential; I turned my eyes to Karina, to see how she liked it, but as usual her face yielded nothing.
We were standing close together; we continued to stand, stupidly, because we did not know if the desks had been designated to us by name. ‘Each sit where you please,’ the nun said, recognizing what was the matter: said it not unkindly, not at all how Sister Monica would have said it. We took our places. Above us was infinite air, the ceiling gilded, high high above us; from the great windows, lawns ran away into a misty distance. I could see a flight of stone steps flanked by cold graceful urns; closer at hand, turned not quite in profile, a statue of Our Blessed Lady, a white statue shining as if in the dusk. Her palms were uplifted, and her robes fell away from them, into a U-shaped valley of compassionate folds.
The nun took two papers out of a big brown envelope and laid them face down, one on Karina’s desk and one on mine. My fingers played with the pin of my Scotch kilt; my mouth was dry. ‘Sister Gabriel?’ the nun said. ‘Oh, there you are.’ From a door I had not noticed, tucked away in a corner of the room, a young nun appeared, and
