Read Online Obedience by Jacqueline Yallop - Free Book Online

scant to matter. And it had been a special night, holy. The thick autumn silence had seemed to have a softness about it. With the dawn she had begun ripping down her collection. She had felt elated, renewed. She had demolished her attachment to earthly things with the fervour of those who had lived and died glorified by God and honoured by the Church.
    But then had come the Buddha, and Bernard’s confused theology. And now her courage had left her and she just felt tired and old. The wet November day was upon her. She felt trapped between one life and the next, sure of neither and frightened by both. She had never felt so helpless.
    *
    Bernard knew she could leave the sodden sheets where they were, unlaundered. It would make no difference. But she wrapped Sister Marie in her dressing gown and sat her in the chair under the window while she stripped the bed, folded the linen as best she could – it was very heavy – and took everything downstairs to soak in the sink in the scullery. As soon as the sheets were submerged, she took a dry cloth from its hook by the door and retraced her steps, bending every few yards to wipe the drips from the floor and stairs, turning her head sharply to one side to catch the glint of urine against the tiles. She moved quickly past Thérèse’s cell, keeping her eyes on the floor, and followed the trail to the end of the corridor. Marie was half-dozing where she had been left.
    â€˜Do you think,’ asked Marie, as Bernard was attempting to slide her habit over her head, ‘do you think God will still love me when I leave Him?’ She sounded lucid. It was a trick she had.
    â€˜You’re not leaving God, Sister, only the convent. God will be with you wherever you are,’ said Bernard. She had told herself this many times, but she could not believe it was true.
    Marie took Bernard’s hand for a moment. It was not a comfort.
    â€˜You will soon settle,’ said Bernard.
    They walked slowly to the refectory. The dim light was spun from the past; it had little of the morning in it. It gave an unexpected solemnity to their passage, and Marie leant more heavily than usual on the older nun.
    â€˜You can sit here, Sister Marie,’ Bernard said in the refectory, as though offering a choice.
    She pulled back the bench and held it steady as Marie shuffled in.
    â€˜If God still loves me,’ said Marie, ‘why is He sending me away? Why is He banishing me? What have I done?’
    Her voice was scratchy with tears. Bernard unfolded the napkin that they kept by Marie’s place and tucked it carefully into her habit around her neck. Then she pulled the plate to the edge of the table, reachable, and turned away to put some water on to boil. The hiss of the burning gas filled the room, and soon after came Thérèse’s footsteps, echoing down the corridor as she made her way to the refectory. It was a morning the same as all the others, indistinguishable. That was the way of things.
    â€˜I’ve cleared most of it, but I’ll need to borrow a broom, Sister,’ said Thérèse, making her way to the table and kissing Marie in greeting as she passed. ‘There’s a lot of pieces of glass which I should put somewhere safe. Do we have a box?’
    â€˜I can find one, after Sister Marie’s gone. I think there’s some in the storeroom,’ said Bernard.
    â€˜Thank you, Sister, that would be kind.’
    Bernard served the coffee. A frozen baguette was still warming in the oven. There was nothing left in the freezer now except for two small frosted bags right at the bottom, shoved into the far corners. Bernard could not see what they contained and could not reach them to find out. After taking out the bread that morning she had simply closed the freezer lid, taken the plug out of the socket, and wiped the top surface with a damp cloth. She already missed its familiar hum.
    Bernard loitered by the stove until the baguette