“We advise you that you should not contact X about this matter.”
She looked at Wolf. He was, she realised, more beautiful than anybody she had seen for a long time. He could step into a Caravaggio, she thought, and go unnoticed, and for a moment her determination somehow to make herself immune to his charms faltered. Most girls confronted with an approach from Wolf would consider themselves blessed; and here she was spit-ting in the face of her luck. And yet, and yet . . . He was the property of another, and one did not trespass on the property of another unless one was prepared for conflict, which was exactly what Pat did not want.
A nun walked past. Pat had seen this woman before, and had been told by somebody that she was studying at the university and was in the second year of her degree. She did not wear a full habit, but had a modest black dress and white blouse, a uniform of sorts that set her apart from the run of female students, with their faded blue jeans and exposed flesh.
Pat looked up at Wolf. “No,” she said. “And look, I have to go now. I really do. Let’s talk some other time. Later.”
Wolf opened his mouth to protest, but Pat had turned away and was already walking along the corridor, following the nun.
Wolf took a step forward, but stopped himself. “I won’t give up,” he muttered. “I won’t.”
Pat followed the nun through the glass door and out into the purlieus of George Square. It had been raining when she had entered the lecture theatre that morning, but now the weather had cleared and the sun was bright on the stone of the buildings, on the glass of the windows. She saw the nun ahead of her, making her way towards Buccleuch Place, and she quickened her step to catch up with her.
“Excuse me.”
The nun turned round. “Hello.”
The response was friendly, and Pat continued. “I’ve seen you around,” she said. “I mean, I’ve heard of you.”
The nun smiled. “Gracious! Are people talking about me?
What have I done to deserve that?”
Pat had already placed the voice. One half expected nuns to talk with an Irish accent – the stereotype, of course, but then stereotypes come from somewhere – and yet this nun was Glaswegian or from somewhere thereabouts – Paisley, perhaps, or Hamilton, or somewhere like that.
“Is it true you’re a nun?” asked Pat, and added hurriedly: “I hope you don’t think me rude.”
“Not at all,” said the nun. “I don’t mind being asked. And, yes, it is true. I’m a member of a religious order.”
The older woman – older by ten years, perhaps, if that –
looked at Pat. She was due at a tutorial in five minutes, but something told her that she should not go, that she should talk to this rather innocent-looking young woman. At any time, in any place, a soul may be in need of help. She had been taught that, and she had learned, too, that the requests of those in need often came at the worst possible time.
“Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?” she asked.
“If you wanted to talk, then we could do that over coffee. It’s easier that way, isn’t it.”
“The Elephant House? “ said Pat. “Half an hour’s time?”
“Yes,” said the nun. “
They sat in the Elephant House, Pat and the nun, who had introduced herself simply as Sister Connie. They were at the very table which Pat had occupied with Wolf on their first proper meeting, and as Connie waited for the coffee at the counter, Pat thought about the strange turn of events that had brought her to this. One day I was here with a boy called Wolf, she said to herself, and now here I am with a nun called Connie. Why is that so strange?
Sister Connie brought over the coffee and set the two mugs down on the table. “I suppose you’re wondering about me,” she said. “I suppose you’re asking yourself about how I can possibly be a nun.” She paused, stirring her coffee with the tip of her spoon. “Am I right? Are you wondering that?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “It had crossed my mind.”
“And quite reasonably,” said Sister Connie. “After all, how many members of religious orders do you see these days? Very few. I believe that it was very different not all that long ago.
There were several convents in Edinburgh. More in Glasgow.”
“I suppose it seems unusual,” said Pat. “At least, it seems unusual to my generation.”
Sister Connie nodded. “And why do you think that is?”
Pat shrugged. “Because . . .” She did not know how to say it. It was because of the me factor, she thought; because of the fact that nobody now was prepared to give anything up for the sake of . . . well, what was it for the sake of? For the sake of a God that most people no longer believed existed? Was that it?
She noticed that Sister Connie had blue eyes, and that these eyes were strangely translucent.
“Why don’t I tell you what happened?” said Sister Connie.
“Would you like me to do that?”
Pat nodded. Lifting her mug of coffee to her lips, she took a sip of the hot liquid. The feeling of strangeness was still there, but she felt comfortable in the company of Sister Connie, as one feels comfortable with one for whom the demands of ego are quiescent. “Please tell me,” she said.
