The Religious Body

The unmistakable sound of dentures being seized from a tin mug.

Pause.

Then, triumphantly, “God bless you, Sister.”

Knock, blessing, response. Knock, blessing, response.

In a way the formula made the job easier. “Half past five on a November morning and all’s well” doubtless would have its uses, but hardly in a Convent. She drew back yet another set of landing curtains and was glad she didn’t have to say something about the weather fifty-five times every morning. It wasn’t a particularly nice morning but not bad for November, not bad at all. It looked as if it would stay fine for tonight, which was Bonfire Night. Sister Gertrude had not been so long out of the world that she couldn’t remember the importance to children of having a fine night for their fires. Besides, a damp November Fifth was a sore trial to everyone—then you never knew when they would let their fireworks off. She wondered what the students at the Agricultural Institute were planning. Last year they had burnt down the old bus shelter in the centre of the village. Not before time, she had been told, and now there was a brand new one there.

Knock, blessing, response. Knock, blessing, response.

The older the Sister, the quicker the response. Sister Gertrude had worked that out long ago. She called the older ones first—partly because they slept on the lower floors, partly because she could still remember how much those extra minutes’ sleep had meant when she was a young nun. Sleep had been a most precious commodity then.

Knock, blessing, unintelligible response. That was old Mother Mary St. Therese, aged goodness knows what, professed long before Sister Gertrude was born, with a memory like a set of archives. Woe betide any Reverend Mother with an eye for innovation. Mother Therese had outlived a string of Prioresses, each of whom, she managed to infer (without any apparent lapse of Christian charity), was not a patch on their predecessor. There were days now when she was not able to leave her room. The Reverend Mother would visit her then, and listen patiently to interminable recitations of the virtues of Mother Helena of blessed memory, in whose time it seemed life in the Convent of St. Anselm had been perfect.

Knock, blessing, response.

She turned back into the corridor where Sister Hilda was the soundest sleeper. The snore was still rising and falling “like all the trumpets,” thought Sister Gertrude, before she realised that it was an irreverent simile, and that custody of the mind was just as important as custody of the eyes even if it was half past five in the morning and she was all alone in the dim corridor.

Knock, blessing, response.

That was the door next to Sister Hilda, Sister Jerome. Sister Gertrude wondered what sort of a night she had had. Perhaps the snore didn’t bother her, but if it did, she couldn’t very well say, not after solemnly undertaking to live at peace for ever with her Sisters in religion.

Knock, blessing, response.

Sister Hilda’s door.

The snore ground to a halt, there were a couple of choking snorts, and then the pleasant voice of Sister Hilda sang out warmly, “God bless you, Sister.”

It was strange but true that Sister Hilda had one of the most mellifluous speaking voices in the Convent. Sister Gertrude shook her head at this phenomenon and passed on to the next door.

Knock, blessing… no response.

Knock (louder), blessing (more insistently)… still no response.

Sister Anne’s teeth were her own. She could think of no other reason for delay in answering and put her hand on the door: the room was empty, the bed made. A very human grin spread over Sister Gertrude’s face. Sister Anne hadn’t been able to stick another minute of that snore and had crept down early. Strictly forbidden, of course. So was making your bed to save dashing up before Sext. She made a mental note to pull her leg about that later, and, taking a look at her watch, hurried along to the next door. There was still the entire novitiate to be woken, to say nothing of a row of postulants—and they never wanted to get up.

At ten minutes to six Sister Gertrude slipped into her stall in the quiet Chapel and went down on her knees until the service began. There was no formal procession into the Chapel for this service. Each Sister came to her own stall and knelt until the stroke of six. She heard the crunch of car wheels on the gravel outside. That was Father MacAuley come to take the service. She lowered her head. She was glad enough to kneel peacefully, her first task of the day completed. Gradually in the few minutes before the service she emptied her mind of all but prayer and worship, and as the ancient ritual proceeded she was oblivious of everything save the proper order of bidding and response.

Until Sister Peter moved forward.

Sister Peter was Chantress, which office weighed heavily on her slight shoulders. She was young still and inclined to start nervously when spoken to.

After the Epistle she stepped into the aisle and walked up to the altar steps for an antiphon. Her music manuscript—hand-illuminated and old—was there, ready open on its stand.

The Sisters rose, their eyes on the Chantress, waiting for her to start the Gradual.

Sister Peter’s voice gave them the note, and the antiphon began. The Sisters sang their way through the time-honoured phrases. On the steps of the altar, Sister Peter put out her right hand to turn the music manuscript over, touched it—and shot back as if she had been stung.

The nuns sang on.

Sister Peter’s face paled visibly. She stared first at the manuscript and then at her own hand. It was as if she could not believe what she saw there. She went on staring at the manuscript. She made no attempt to turn the page over but stood there in front of the stand, an incredulous expression on her face, until the nuns had sung their own way to the end of the Gradual.

Then she genuflected deeply and turned and walked back to her stall, her face a troubled, tragic white, her hands clasped together in front of her but nevertheless visibly trembling.

The congregation settled themselves for the Gospel.

Convent life, reflected Sister Gertrude, was never without interest.

They filed out of the Chapel in twos, hands clasped together in front, bowing to the altar. They proceeded to the refectory where they bowed to the Abbatial chair and then stood, backs to their own benches, while grace was said.

“Amen,” said the Community in unison.

There was a rustle of habits and then the nuns were seated. One sat apart on a little dais, a reading desk in front of her. When all was still she began to read aloud from the Martyrology. The Refectarian stood by the serving hatch, her eye on the Reverend Mother. The Reader started to retail the sufferings of the early Christian martyrs. At the end of the first page she paused. The Reverend Mother knocked once on the table. The serving hatch flew up and the Refectarian seized an enormous teapot, set it down at a table and went back for another. A younger Sister appeared with the first of several baskets of bread. This was passed rapidly down one of the long tables.

The incredible tortures inflicted on the martyrs were obscured by the crunching of crusts and the sipping of hot tea. The Reader raised her voice to tell of boiling oil and decapitation. The teapot went on its second round, the bread baskets emptied. Only little Sister Peter seemed to be with the Reader completely. Her expression would have brought satisfaction to any torturer.

It was at this point that Sister Gertrude noticed the empty place. It was between Sister Damien, angular, intense and exceedingly devout, and Sister Michael, plumpish, placid and more than a little deaf. Sister Anne’s place. She must have been taken ill in the night and whisked off to the Convent’s tiny sick bay. Sister Gertrude’s glance slid along the bench to where the austere figure of Sister Radigund, the Infirmarium, was sitting. She would ask her at the end of the General Silence.

The morning’s quota of bread and tea came to an end. The Reader was tidying up the remains of the dismembered martyrs in a general “And in other places and at other times of many other martyrs, confessors and holy virgins to whose prayers and merits we humbly commend ourselves.”

“Deo gratias,” responded the Community.

At this moment Sister Peter rose, bowed to the Mother Superior and went slowly round the table to stand in front of the Abbatial chair. The Mother Superior looked up at her and nodded. Sister Peter went down on her knees and clasped her hands together in front of her.