whether we are both looking at it at the exact same moment. Take care of our parents and know that I love you all. I don’t say it enough but I am saying it now,
Paul
ADELINE
1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
Sister Constance approaches me as I work on the stone bench outside the door to the nunnery. Tucked around the corner, set back into an enclave, it must seem perfect for her purpose. The sun is directly overhead and her body forms a temporary shade as she greets me.
Nodding her head at the space on the bench next to me, I shuffle up in a gesture of welcome. As she moves towards it, I squint at the burst of sunlight from where she had stood.
She sits slowly, one hand on her lower back. I work the needle through the tapestry, a shock of yellow thread.
‘No doubt Sister Marguerite has told you a little of my plans,’ she states.
I lift my head and nod an acknowledgement, not wanting the younger nun to be reproached if I lied.
At this movement Sister Constance sighs and looks across the lawn, no doubt noting the uneven tufts of grass, the dozy sheep grazing in the corner beyond. She places one hand over the other, the sleeves of her habit showing off thin wrists. Her skin seems greyish-blue in the bright light.
‘There are places where I believe you might be better suited, somewhere in Toulouse that …’A pause as she worries at the bare skin of her ring finger. ‘It has been eight years,’ she says, perhaps attempting an explanation.
I move the needle through the holes.
‘Some of the community feel that a change of scenery would perhaps suit someone in your condition.’
The needle slips and I feel a sharp pain as a bubble of blood appears on my finger. Lifting it quickly to my mouth I suck at it, the metallic taste making my stomach leap and then settle. I don’t want the blood on my clothes or on the scene I am creating.
‘Your refusal to attend any of our services, to even enter the chapel … well, that is …’ She stops herself and stands.
She hovers there, once more looking to the tree in the corner, sweeping her eyes across the grounds and then down at me. When I look up at her she has cocked her head to one side, lines deep between her eyebrows.
‘I will talk to the doctor,’ she says, one hand moving to touch the chain of the crucifix around her neck.
I nod once more at her as she walks back around the corner, back into the nunnery, her footsteps on the stone there and then no more, as the heavy wooden door closes behind her.
Sister Marguerite ushers the doctor into my cell and pulls up the chair by the side of my bed. I am waiting, propped up on two thin pillows, sitting awkwardly on top of the bedclothes. I smooth my skirt down as he comes in and realize I am nervous … hopeful?
He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling to nothing, and thanks Sister Marguerite.
She leaves the room, taking one last glance back at us before she shuts the door.
The doctor gestures to the chair and sits expectantly. He doesn’t fill the silence, simply looks at me. I shift a little under his gaze, my hair brushing the back of the headboard as I turn away from him.
He goes to open his case, the ageing leather testament to his long career, and then pauses. ‘Today you look a little different,’ he announces.
I feel my eyebrows meet, lick my lips.
He shrugs and turns to reach into his case, pulling out a familiar wooden stick and his miniature torch. ‘Well, madame, let’s check your throat and we’ll do some of the exercises we practised the other day.’ He leans over me as I dutifully open my mouth. ‘OK, say ahhh,’ he says automatically, then blushes, the wooden stick still pressing down on my tongue, ‘I’m … well, yes, say, I’ll …’
I continue to look at him, my mouth still hanging open as he stutters. He returns to peering into my throat, squinting and umming as if my problems might be quickly diagnosed, treated and cured. He finishes, throws the wooden stick into
Paul
ADELINE
1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
Sister Constance approaches me as I work on the stone bench outside the door to the nunnery. Tucked around the corner, set back into an enclave, it must seem perfect for her purpose. The sun is directly overhead and her body forms a temporary shade as she greets me.
Nodding her head at the space on the bench next to me, I shuffle up in a gesture of welcome. As she moves towards it, I squint at the burst of sunlight from where she had stood.
She sits slowly, one hand on her lower back. I work the needle through the tapestry, a shock of yellow thread.
‘No doubt Sister Marguerite has told you a little of my plans,’ she states.
I lift my head and nod an acknowledgement, not wanting the younger nun to be reproached if I lied.
At this movement Sister Constance sighs and looks across the lawn, no doubt noting the uneven tufts of grass, the dozy sheep grazing in the corner beyond. She places one hand over the other, the sleeves of her habit showing off thin wrists. Her skin seems greyish-blue in the bright light.
‘There are places where I believe you might be better suited, somewhere in Toulouse that …’A pause as she worries at the bare skin of her ring finger. ‘It has been eight years,’ she says, perhaps attempting an explanation.
I move the needle through the holes.
‘Some of the community feel that a change of scenery would perhaps suit someone in your condition.’
The needle slips and I feel a sharp pain as a bubble of blood appears on my finger. Lifting it quickly to my mouth I suck at it, the metallic taste making my stomach leap and then settle. I don’t want the blood on my clothes or on the scene I am creating.
‘Your refusal to attend any of our services, to even enter the chapel … well, that is …’ She stops herself and stands.
She hovers there, once more looking to the tree in the corner, sweeping her eyes across the grounds and then down at me. When I look up at her she has cocked her head to one side, lines deep between her eyebrows.
‘I will talk to the doctor,’ she says, one hand moving to touch the chain of the crucifix around her neck.
I nod once more at her as she walks back around the corner, back into the nunnery, her footsteps on the stone there and then no more, as the heavy wooden door closes behind her.
Sister Marguerite ushers the doctor into my cell and pulls up the chair by the side of my bed. I am waiting, propped up on two thin pillows, sitting awkwardly on top of the bedclothes. I smooth my skirt down as he comes in and realize I am nervous … hopeful?
He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling to nothing, and thanks Sister Marguerite.
She leaves the room, taking one last glance back at us before she shuts the door.
The doctor gestures to the chair and sits expectantly. He doesn’t fill the silence, simply looks at me. I shift a little under his gaze, my hair brushing the back of the headboard as I turn away from him.
He goes to open his case, the ageing leather testament to his long career, and then pauses. ‘Today you look a little different,’ he announces.
I feel my eyebrows meet, lick my lips.
He shrugs and turns to reach into his case, pulling out a familiar wooden stick and his miniature torch. ‘Well, madame, let’s check your throat and we’ll do some of the exercises we practised the other day.’ He leans over me as I dutifully open my mouth. ‘OK, say ahhh,’ he says automatically, then blushes, the wooden stick still pressing down on my tongue, ‘I’m … well, yes, say, I’ll …’
I continue to look at him, my mouth still hanging open as he stutters. He returns to peering into my throat, squinting and umming as if my problems might be quickly diagnosed, treated and cured. He finishes, throws the wooden stick into
Similar Books
