The Comforters

Seeing Mrs Hogg’s expression at this moment, Caroline thought, ‘Now it has struck her that I’m an enemy of the Faith.’

But Mrs Hogg righted herself; her mechanism was regulated for a chat.

‘I’ll tell you how I came here — it was a miracle. Our Lady sent me.’

But Caroline’s mood had changed again. Her sophisticated forbearance departed and constriction took its place; a pinching irritated sense of being with something abominable, not to be tolerated. She had a sudden intense desire to clean her teeth.

‘Oh tell me about the miracle,’ Caroline said. Her tone was slightly menacing. ‘Tell me all the details.’ These scatty women with their miracles. Caroline thought, ‘I hate all women and of all women Mrs Hogg. My nerves are starting up again. The next few eternal minutes are important. I must mind what I say. Keep aloof. Watch my manners at all costs.’

‘Well,’ Mrs Hogg was saying, ‘I was of two minds whether to take a post in Bristol with a lady who was having her baby at home — I’m a registered midwife, you know, although most of my experience has been as a governess. One time I was housekeeper to a priest for two years. That was in Birmingham. He was sent to Canada in 1935, and when we said good-bye he said, “Well, Mrs Hogg —”‘

‘What about the miracle?’ said Caroline, and to cover up her testiness overdid it and added, ‘I can’t hear enough about miracles.’

And, privately she consoled herself with the words, ‘Little dear —for that was how she spoke to herself on occasion — ‘you will receive letters tomorrow morning from the civilized world.’

‘Well, you know,’ Mrs Hogg was saying, ‘to me it was a miracle. I was debating whether to take the job in Bristol or a permanent place in the north with a deaf lady. A letter arrived, it was a Tuesday morning, to say that the lady in Bristol had gone to hospital because of some complications, and was having her baby there. The husband sent me a week’s money. Then in the afternoon another letter arrived from the other place. No, I’m wrong, it was the next morning. The deaf lady had died. So there I was without a job. So I said to Our Lady, “What am I going to do now?” and Our Lady said, “Go back to St Philumena’s and think it over.” I’d already stayed at St Philumena’s on one of the big Retreats —’Did you actually hear a voice?’ Caroline inquired.

‘A voice?’

‘I mean, when you say, “Our Lady said”, do you mean she spoke audibly to you?’

‘Oh no. But that’s how Our Lady always speaks to me. I ask a question and she answers.’

‘How do you hear her answer, then?’

‘The words come to me — but of course you won’t know much about that. You have to be experienced in the spiritual life.’

‘How do you know the words come from the Blessed Virgin?’ Caroline persisted relentlessly. Mrs Hogg moved her upper lip into an indecent smile. Caroline thought: ‘She desires the ecstasy of murdering me in some prolonged ritualistic orgy; she sees I am thin, angular, sharp, inquiring; she sees I am grisly about the truth; she sees I am well-dressed and good-looking. Perhaps she senses my weakness, my loathing of human flesh where the bulk outweighs the intelligence.’

Mrs Hogg continued: ‘I know it was Our Lady’s message because of what happened. I came to St Philumena’s, and saw Lady Manders who was here just at that time. When I told her the position she said, “Now, there is a job for you here, if you like to try it. We want to get rid of the Catering Warden, she isn’t strong enough for the job. It’s hard work, but Our Lady would help you.” So I came for a month’s trial. That was in the autumn, and I’m loving it, every minute of it.’

‘That was the miracle,’ Caroline said.

‘Oh, it was a miracle. My arriving here just when Lady Manders wanted to make a change in the staff. I only came, really, to think things over. But I can tell you, I don’t have much chance to sit on my behind and think. It’s hard work. And I always put duty first, before everything. And I don’t mind the work; Our Lady helps me. When the kitchen girls grumble about the work, I always tell them, “Our Lady will do it for you.” And she does.’

‘In that case, there’s no need for them to do it,’ Caroline said.

‘Now listen to me, Caroline,’ said Mrs Hogg. ‘You want to speak to a priest. You haven’t really got the hang of the Catholic Faith. You want to speak to Father Ingrid.’

‘You are wrong,’ Caroline said. ‘I’ve heard him speaking once from the pulpit. Once was enough. I must go now.

The bell was ringing for Benediction. ‘That’s not the way to the chapel,’ Mrs Hogg called after her as Caroline walked swiftly along the green-walled corridors.

Caroline did not reply. She went to her room and began to pack her things, neatly and calmly. St Philumena’s was a dead loss, Caroline told herself; ‘For one who demands much of life, there is always a certain amount of experience to be discarded as soon as one discovers its fruitlessness.’

She excelled at packing a suitcase. She told herself ‘I’m good at packing a suitcase’, forming these words in her mind to keep other words, other thoughts, from crowding in. The three days of St Philumena’s were bleating to high heaven for formulation, but she kept them at bay as she muttered, ‘Shoes there. Books here. The comb-bag in that corner. Blouses flat on the bed. Fold the arms. Like that. Then fold again. This way, that way. Hot-water bottle. Nothing rattling. Crucifix wedged in cotton wool. Catholic Truth Society pamphlet to read in the train. I am doing what I am doing.’

In this way, she subjugated St Philumena’s for half an hour. She had devised the technique in the British Museum Reading Room almost a year ago, at a time when her brain was like a Guy Fawkes night, ideas cracking off in all directions, dark idiot-figures jumping round a fiery junk-heap in the centre.

In the train Caroline swung her case on to the rack and sat down. The case jutted out at an angle. Caroline got up and pushed it straight. She had the carriage to herself. After a while she rose again and moved the case to the middle of the rack, measuring by the mirror beneath until there was an equal space on either side. Then she sat down in her corner-seat facing it. She sat perfectly still while her thoughts became blind. Every now and then a cynical lucidity would overtake part of her mind, forcing her to comment on the fury of the other half. That was painful. She observed, ‘The mocker is taking over.’