Chapter Twenty-four - Unfurling

Anne followed the rest to her meal and noted Sister Thecla looked even more tired than usual. After supper, she stayed in the library working with Sister Gertrude and Sister Catherine as they finalised the script for this year’s play. It was to be the story of Saint Cecilia, the Saint of Music. Cecilia was betrothed to marry but there was an angel who protected her body from befoulment.

Sister Catherine looked up from her notes. ‘The angel must be a blast of light so bright the audience can hardly bear to watch.’

‘How do we concoct this effect?’ Sister Gertrude asked.

Sister Catherine thought about the problem. ‘What say we use mirrors?’

Anne remembered, ‘In the past we used the silver plate to reflect the candlelight and make it bright into the eyes of the audience.’

Sister Gertrude recalled, ‘As the Romans used to reflect light into the eyes of their opposition.’

‘Is the performance at the time when the sun is shining into the parlour?’ Sister Catherine wondered.

This was possible if there was sun that day. Although many decisions were made, there was soon debate about casting.

‘I’d rather play an angel.’ Anne did not want to be a saint. ‘Or a tormenter?’

‘But, Anne, child, as your hair is longer you might be the most suitable girl.’

After Compline, Anne mounted the stairs to the cells with the others and entered what had been her cell in silence. She placed the candle on the little table by the bed and watched the shadows flicker over the cot next to her. She couldn’t make out any details.

At the bells for Morning, Anne got out of bed and prayed on the floor, thinking the other girl might want to kneel on the prie-dieu but she never shifted. Anne heaved a sigh and prepared to get back into bed after she heard the bells go and the rustling of movements down the hallway. She used the chamber pot and hoped she hadn’t disturbed the girl.

The first bell warning of Prime caused Anne to wake quickly. It was still dark at that time of the year and Anne forgot there was another cot in the cell. She fell hard against the soft body but recovered her balance listening to a grunt and a moan from the other. Anne stood looking down at the lump in the bed. ‘I’ll come back for you after prayers.’ Still nothing. Who was this girl? She went to prayers.

After Prime Anne went back to the cell to call the new girl to breakfast. She entered the room to find nothing had changed. The girl still lay abed. Anne stood again, indecisive. She could see the sky was beginning to brighten. There was no sign of red out of the window. ‘Good morning. Are you ready for some breakfast?’

From under the fustian blanket Anne thought she heard a muffled, ‘Merci’, but it could have been a sneeze.

‘Pardon?’ But there was silence again. Heavens. What would the Mother do? Anne knew she’d have to keep this one away from Marie Therese. Why did the girl just lie there? She crouched down to look at the bunched-up blanket where Anne suspected a head might be and thought she caught sight of a sparkle, an eye perhaps, hidden deep in the fustian cave. Anne left her to her own devices, saying, ‘I’ll return.’

As it turned out, the Mother herself had walked arduously up those ascension stairs and walked along the corridor, leaning on her walking stick, to see Anne walking towards her. ‘Not moving yet?’

‘No, Mother.’

‘You don’t know what language she speaks?’

Anne was surprised to think of a different world in her cell. What other language could there be? ‘No, Mother. Perhaps French?’

‘I don’t think so. Can you find out? You won’t have to share a cell with her for the rest of eternity, just for a few weeks until the poor child settles in, and we can plan for her.’

‘I’ll try, Mother.’

‘I want you to watch over her. Learn her language. Teach her Dutch. Find out everything you can. Especially, if she comes from a family with money.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Your best is very good, Anne de Breuil. Now, run along to eat.’

And Anne did, though turned back to see the Mother hesitate before knocking lightly on Anne’s cell door and listening before she opened it.

Anne wondered if she’d ever seen the Mother hesitate before.

Anne filled the day with wondering about the girl and thinking, or rather trying not to think, about the priest and his invasive fingers all while talking with Sister Gertrude and Sister Catherine about Saint Cecilia and whether six little boys in the orphanage could represent a garrison of Roman soldiers.

After None, the Mother joined the rehearsal committee. She held a grimy basket and placed it on the table beside the script upon which they worked. Anne was surprised when the Mother said, ‘These are the things your new companion brought with her. Not much, just some clothes and a doll. And this.’

The Mother held up a small book. She gave it to Sister Gertrude who looked through it carefully.

‘What do you think?’

‘English.’ Sister Gertrude, still turning pages, said, ‘You can see the title well enough, more or less the same in French, Revelations of Divine Love.’

‘English.’ The Mother still frowned. ‘Any concern to us?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Sister Gertrude breathed in to think. ‘Perhaps we might keep it in the library?’

‘Ah, you’re interested in it?’

‘Julian of Norwich.’ Sister Gertrude looked at the stained cover and thought, ‘Yes, I thought so.’ The senior nun looked to the Mother. ‘The writer is highly respected. We do have the French translation, Mother.’

‘She’s almost without life as it is. I wondered,’ said the Mother, ‘if she should transfer to the infirmary and have Sister Matildé look after her. What do you think, Anne? You’ve seen how she does not stir.’

Anne had been imagining what it must be like for an English girl, away from anyone who could speak her language, away from her friends or family. ‘Could she keep the doll? Until she feels more at home here?’

Now it was Sister Catherine’s turn to frown. ‘But that’s against the rules.’

Anne looked at the dirty clothes and basket and shook her head. ‘They’re not worldly goods of much worth.’

Sister Gertrude, still intrigued by the book, continued to flip pages.

‘What harm can there be if the doll brings her comfort for a time?’ The Mother picked up the doll in question. It was dressed in red silk, decorated in gold lace, and had a funny fabric face. The hair was pinned with tiny pearls. She offered it to Anne. ‘Take it to her, Anne. I fear that child has suffered much. Perhaps her little friend may bring her strength.’

Anne took the doll, about the height of her forearm, and wondered at the skills that had created the fabric and embroidery. Even the muff hiding the hands was decorated with fine work. The hair looked real. What sort of girl lay in despair in her bed?

Anne came softly into the cell and propped the doll before the lump in the bed, calculating that that might be the way she faced. But there was no movement, and Anne could not think of what to say so she left and returned to the library. Time would tell.

It was not until the dark of the night that the girl got out of bed and came to church. She wore a piece of fabric pulled out over her face, not the veil as known in the priory but more like the kind of sun protection workers wore in midsummer fields.

Anne felt too restless to go back to bed and went out to the gardens. As she walked in the chill night, hoping for an owl or even a bat to fly past, she saw the girl also walking in the grounds. It was awkward at first. Anne would have liked to greet her, but every time Anne thought their paths would cross, the other girl seemed to glide to the opposite side of the grounds. The two girls walked around the cloisters until Prime. But they didn’t speak. Anne returned to the choir. The other girl stayed out.

When the girl eventually came into the refectory, Sister Matildé took her aside and placed her at a small table just around the corner from the kitchen door to eat by herself. She was not easily seen by the rest of the community, but all were trying to catch a glimpse of this mysterious newcomer.

Anne had grown used to being a single entity much faster than she had thought she would. Why did she have to share? Why not some other nun?

Sister Blandine brought the girl to the wool room. Anne, working at the loom, stiffened, hoping she would not have to talk to her, but the nun said, ‘Anne, I believe you know Winifred?’

Anne sighed, and said, ‘We haven’t been introduced.’

Sister Blandine laughed, and replied, ‘Come, come, you share a cell. No need for formalities. Could you please direct Winifred to the drop spindle and carded wool?’ Without waiting for a reply, she left the room.

Anne regarded the loom she had just prepared and looked up, ready to greet the stranger. Then she saw Winifred. Really saw her. She wore her head cover as a shawl draped over her shoulders and her face was bare.

Anne’s heart missed a beat. She’d never seen anything more disgusting. She tried hard to control herself but could not help a gasp of horror escaping through her lips. Winifred’s red scarred face looked as though it had melted. It was a mask of nausea. Anne couldn’t help her obvious reaction. Horrible. Horrible.

Winifred stood still. She spoke in Latin. ‘I am grateful.’

Anne stood quickly and went to the wool. Soon she discovered Winifred had no idea how to clean and comb or even spin. Anne did find patience although she was filled with restless questions. Was she born looking like that? Did it hurt?

The relationship between the two girls in the cell didn’t improve as the days passed. The doll was not in evidence, Anne supposed it hidden under the bed. They didn’t speak except when necessary. Anne began to instruct Winifred in the art of spinning, but the student was quick with her hands, and soon overtook her teacher.

Their work for Sister Blandine was soon interrupted by preparations for the play. Because Cecilia, Saint of Music, was a heavenly lily by cleanliness of virginity there was a need for lilies. Due to the season, Sister Matildé could offer the necessary roses from the garden, but not white lilies. There was nothing to be done but make them from linen. Sister Blandine fashioned one or two awkward attempts, but it was Winifred who managed to twist the yellow woollen-tipped rushes into the centre of the white petals with the best appropriation of the flower. It turned out she shone at making things, and most particularly, in painting. She painted a beautiful curtain of the heavens, painting the sun, moon, and stars depicting wisdom, faith, and diversity of virtues. Anne was surprised how swiftly Winifred’s skills and disregard for the opinions of others meant children and servants alike accepted her for her capabilities and not her hideous appearance.

Anne was terrified. She struggled to the surface and woke screaming. She vomited sounds, her jaw open, her face clenched and hot. The blue doll. The red bed. She began to realise Winifred was beside her. Whispering calming words in Latin. Anne could not see her face. Winifred said, ‘Hush now, you’re safe now. It was a dream. You’re safe here.’

Anne confused and upset, brushed her sweaty hair back from her face. She denied the horror of it even though her heart was pounding so she could be sure Winifred could hear it. ‘It was a dream.’ She remembered and spoke Latin also. ‘Just a dream.’

‘It was a bad dream,’ repeated Winifred.

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve had them before,’ said Winifred in a matter-of-fact tone.

That surprised Anne. ‘I have?’

Winifred whispered, ‘You’ve cried before. This time you screamed. They’re getting worse. What worries you?’ When Anne said nothing, Winifred continued, ‘Is it me? Are you having nightmares about my face?’

Anne was sorry that Winifred could imagine such a thing. ‘No!’

‘I might ask the Mother if I can go elsewhere. I don’t want to cause you distress.’

‘Winifred. No. You don’t have to do that. It’s … another problem.’

‘Will you tell me?’

‘Only if you tell me about you.’

Anne could feel the girl hesitate. The bells for Morning went.

‘I’ll tell you because you brought me Charlotte. I thank you for that.’

For a moment Anne wondered who Charlotte might be but realised she must be the doll. ‘After the service, then.’

The two girls rose and prepared for prayers. They went silently down the corridor and entered the choir. Anne wondered if Winifred could possibly feel the same intensity of curiosity about her. Surely not. She hoped she could talk to her. She prayed so.

After the service was over, they went down to see Doudou the donkey, in the dark, keeping to the path for fear of walking in manure. Doudou had been a friend to Anne but now he was growing old and bony, his fur wiry and tough. The young nuns talked as they walked, and the moon rose, gold scything into a clear crisp sky. With a sense of relief, and deep gratitude at finding empathy, Anne told Winifred about Father Cornelis and her fears he would find her alone once more. She also warned her about Marie Therese, and Winifred nodded, absorbing the information.

When it came time for the other’s story, both girls walked close together, their heads bent, and they whispered. Winifred came all the way from England. Her mother wanted her to marry a rich elderly man who liked her, the way Cornelis did Anne. He was repulsive; always touching her and saying crude things. Winifred had watched her cousins and older sisters married off, and seen the strain of childbirth tell on them. She had no truck with children. She wanted to be a painter. Anne agreed, her talent was prodigious, and she should be able to continue to work for the glory of God. So, Winifred tried to get out of the marriage. But to no avail. The elderly man liked nothing better than getting her alone and squeezing her. Her mother, loving the idea of the wealthy estate the man represented, encouraged these clandestine meetings, thinking it would soon bring her daughter over to her way of thinking. Winifred believed her mother thought if she got pregnant, she’d have no choice but to marry.

She did the only thing she could think she could bear. She splashed herself with boiling water.

Anne could not help gasping with horror as the reality of what that must have been like sank in. How did she manage it? Yet she could not bring her mind to ask Winifred questions. What a dreadful thing to have to do.

Winifred explained the sickness after the initial burn nearly killed her. Her family disowned her. Her mother wanted to hold the old man to the marriage, but the old man refused. Luckily, Winifred had a grandmother who loved her, and sent her away to her friend who was an abbess in Brussels. But that convent had been closed, and the friend was gone. So, Winifred had been trying to get to France, to a convent she had heard was founded by English women. She found her way to Templemars, sleeping in ditches, stealing food, on her way to the French border, and thanks be to God who had guided her to this priory.

It was cold and the two girls were almost touching as they walked. There was comfort in listening to Winifred’s troubles although Anne felt sorry for her. She couldn’t imagine the desperation that caused her to burn her own face, the agony that must have been. Anne had once burned herself accidentally in the kitchen and was wary of the fire there. Burning yourself on purpose sounded vile and desperate. Then she stopped in the path and turned to Winifred. ‘Saint Cecilia!’

Winifred looked at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She didn’t burn!’

‘Ah, but she found the flames cold, comfortable even. That’s not my experience.’

‘Then you wouldn’t want to play the Saint in the play?’

‘No, Anne, I most certainly would not. Imagine me playing a beautiful saint with a sack over my head. And I’m most definitely not musical.’

‘Then it has to be me.’

‘You don’t sound pleased.’

‘I’m not. For it’ll only draw attention to me, and I’m scared he’ll see the play and make comments about me.’

‘He? You mean Father Cornelis?’

When Anne nodded, Win advised her to tell the Mother about him. ‘It’s not only you, Anne. There’ll be others, I’m sure.’

‘What if the Mother doesn’t believe me? He’s a priest. I’m only a postulate.’

‘You think the Mother would believe him rather than you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then we need evidence.’

‘Evidence? How do we get that?’