A Whisper to the Living (39 page)

Annie stared for a long time at the single sheet. This was the first time he’d contacted her. Did he want that old flame – never more than a flicker – rekindled? What had she felt for this boy so long ago? Not love. Love was surely something bigger, greater than the childish feeling they had shared. But there had been tenderness, affection, care – and she missed those now.

She walked to the window and found herself smiling as she watched Dr Pritchard struggling to start Genevieve. That car must be as old as the hills. He stood on the pavement, his mouth moving as he spoke to this beloved object, coaxing, stroking the bonnet as if the thing could hear and feel him. She shook her head. Such a marvellous doctor, such a wonderful, lovable and sweet man.

Sighing, she turned away. Tomorrow would be another big day, another hurdle to leap, her final interview with Mother St Vincent. And these letters had unsettled her, had reminded her that there was a great big world out there ready for the taking. But first, she had to get past this tiny but commanding woman who was fighting her every inch of the way. And Annie was going to fight back. After all, life could be short – Eddie Higson’s span had covered a mere forty-three years. Again, she wept briefly, praying that she would not waste the rest of her own years hating a dead man.

Then she heard Genevieve leaping to life and she grinned through her tears. ‘Hatred is a waste of energy,’ she heard David Pritchard saying. He was right, of course. Human, lovable, but right.

They sat in their usual places, the small nun to the left and the tall girl to the right of the window, a tea-tray occupying the table between them. Mother St Vincent, elbows resting on chair arms, fingers tapping together in front of her Cross and Passion badge, stared hard at Annie. Annie played with the fringed end of her prefect’s sash, a long red strap that went over one shoulder, tied just below the waist on the opposite side, then dangled down towards the hem of her tunic.

‘Annie Byrne! Will you for once listen and pay attention? I have always hoped – no, that’s the beginning of an untruth – I have always known that you are Oxford material. Many is the day I have said to myself, “There goes a girl of high academic calibre.”’

Annie’s mouth twitched. She would miss this woman, really she would. Only Mother St Vincent could put a capital ‘I’ in the middle of ‘calibre’ and get away with it in a dignified fashion.

The nun coughed as if irritated by Annie’s faint smile. ‘And you arrive here now, at the eleventh hour, to tell me that you have the vocation?’

‘That depends what you mean, Mother. I’m going to hang on to my legs, that’s for sure.’

‘Legs? Legs? What have legs to do with it at all, at all? You see? You have me so dismayed I’m sounding as if I just now stepped off the boat with my apron full of potatoes! We are talking about your future, girl. And sit up straight would you, or you’ll be getting a curvature!’

Annie straightened her spine, wondering at the power of this frail creature who now rose from her chair, the great wooden rosary with its metal crucifix clanking and clattering as she paced the small area. After muttering and mumbling to herself for a short time, the nun stopped and faced Annie. ‘So there you sit, with the world as your oyster, telling me that you’re away to get a diploma. Not a degree, mind. A teaching diploma.’ She spat this last word as if it were acid. ‘And when I give you my opinion, you begin a conversation about legs.’ She turned away impatiently and Annie, catching a glimpse of a highly-polished black shoe, found herself assessing the size of Mother’s feet. Smaller than a ten-year-old’s, they were. Probably a size two – even a one . . . ‘I used to think nuns didn’t have legs,’ she heard herself stating absently.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry, I was thinking aloud. I had the idea, when I was a child, that there were two kinds of teachers, those with and those without.’

‘Legs?’

Annie nodded, not daring to meet Mother’s eyes.

‘And how did you imagine that the Sisters moved about?’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps I thought they floated on a cloud, or had wheels . . .’ Her voice tailed away.

‘That was a foolish concept, was it not?’

Annie sighed. ‘And a sobering one. If you’d known some of them, you would not have expected them to have simple human parts.’

‘I know all of them, Anne. And I can assure you that they are in no way different from the rest of you.’

‘I know, I know – I’m sorry . . .’

Mother returned to her seat, pushing away the small table so that cups and saucers rattled, the sound seeming to reflect her impatience and displeasure. She smoothed the heavy black skirt. ‘I do not know what to say to you, Madam Byrne. But then I have seldom known what to say, for haven’t you always been the difficult one, giving me desperate trouble half the time, then affection and respect for the rest of it? Your teachers here have all convinced themselves that you would be doing the medicine. That’s a fine analytical brain you’ve been blessed with, a mind that could get you into the business of helping the sick, of healing bodies . . .’

‘I see, Mother.’ Annie’s eyes flashed, showing an odd mixture of amusement and anger. ‘You’d rather I dealt with bodies and left the minds alone? I’ve been accused in the past of being a – what was it now? – ah yes, a disruptive influence. Are you afraid that I might cause children to think for themselves, that I won’t let them be a herd of sheep guided and forced along against a will they’re not allowed to have? Was it St Francis who said “Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man”?’

Mother bristled visibly and Annie studied the three perfectly placed round-headed pins which kept a waist-length black square fastened to the miniature head.

‘I am not telling you not to teach! Don’t be trying to twist the words before they’re ever out of my mouth! Get a good Honours, teach a subject . . .’

‘No. I don’t want to work with older children, those who’ve already had their indoctrination one way or another.’

‘You are impertinent, child!’

‘I am eighteen years old, Mother!’

‘And I’d surely put you over my knee this very minute, only I’d need a crane to lift the size you are!’

Both women were now perched on the edge of the chairs, each breathing heavily and staring hard at the other. Annie leaned back slowly and deliberately, stretching out her long legs and crossing her ankles. ‘We must agree to differ, I’m afraid. I’m going to Manchester. In two years I’ll be supporting my mother. I shall be attending college, learning the principles and practice of education with Scripture and Comparative Religion as part of the course.’

‘Defiant to the last! You’ll need a dispensation from the Bishop to attend a non-Catholic college.’

‘No. I am not a confirmed Catholic.’

‘And if I refuse you a reference?’

Annie shrugged her shoulders lightly. ‘Then I’ll have to write and explain such bigotry to the college principal. And you and I would not part the best of friends.’

The ensuing silence was short, because next door in the practice room, someone began to play the piano very badly, like a mouse running up and down the keys. From time to time, the music teacher bawled loudly at the poor sufferer at the keyboard. Unable to contain herself, Annie began to giggle while Mother’s shoulders shook with ill-contained mirth. ‘Sure, that’s nothing,’ the nun finally managed. ‘You should hear Katie Maher at the violin. I always do school inspection during her lessons, for I cannot bear the agony of hearing a cat being strangulated.’

‘Haven’t you . . . oh what a din . . . haven’t you any earplugs?’

‘Indeed I have not. Do as I do, endure it and offer up your suffering for the souls in Purgatory . . .’

‘Except for Katie Maher. You don’t offer up Katie Maher . . .’

‘Anne, there is a limit to every mortal’s endurance. Katie Maher’s fiddle is my personal limit.’

‘Oh, Mother, Mother . . .’ Annie cried, reaching for a handkerchief, her face suddenly sober. ‘I shouldn’t be laughing.’

‘Why not? Laughter never did harm.’

‘Well, it’s just that my . . . stepfather died a few days ago. Laughing seems wrong.’ She paused and glanced at Mother St Vincent. ‘You see, Mother, I hated him. He was cruel and hurtful – once, he kicked my mother so hard that she lost her baby. I have been . . . filled with hatred for years and years.’

Mother St Vincent stared hard at Annie. ‘I thought I detected a note of hysteria. And yes, yes, this explains a great deal about you.’ She fingered the edge of her stiff white collar as she pondered, repeating slowly. ‘This explains a great deal, Anne Byrne. So. Perhaps you’re relieved that he’s gone?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘No doubt God will forgive you for that. But I’m disappointed that you never told me these troubles. I might have helped.’

‘Some things are too bad to talk about.’

The nun sighed deeply. ‘I suppose you’re right. It’s not all of us can do the dirty washing in the street now, is it?’ She paused and studied Annie for several seconds. ‘Alright then. You can have your reference. I wish though . . . still, no matter. Perhaps you’ll come back to the Faith in your own time. I’ll . . . I’ll miss you, child.’

‘And I’ll miss you too.’

‘Like you’d miss the toothache? Go on with you. Write to me sometimes, Anne Byrne.’

‘I shall. Goodbye, Mother.’ Annie rose to leave.

‘God go with you.’

Annie left school by the front door that afternoon, marching out through the teachers’ entrance in a last silly act of defiance. She took the horrible brown hat and flung it into a bush as she walked towards the bus stop. By the time she reached home, her brown and yellow tie was adorning a lamp post in the town centre, while the ribbon with which she had been forced, for seven years, to tie back her hair, was fastened to a used ticket box on the bus. It was over. Over and just beginning.

Simon had scraped by sufficiently to gain a place at the art college in Manchester where he intended to qualify as an illustrator. Annie received one distinction and two credits, thereby ensuring her entrance to teachers’ training college in September.

They sat now in Simon’s recreation room, talking about their respective futures, though Annie was doing most of the talking. Simon seemed distant, often making inappropriate responses to Annie’s questions.

She waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Hello! Anybody in?’

He stared at her for several moments.

‘What’s the matter, Simon?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can’t talk about it,’ he muttered.

‘Oh. Would you like me to go?’

‘No! No, don’t go – look, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit . . . preoccupied . . .’

‘Preoccupied? You’re absent without leave, Simon. I’ve been talking to myself for the last ten minutes.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Stop saying that! Look, either you tell me what’s wrong or I go.’

He jumped up quickly, the flimsy canvas chair falling back as he rose.

‘Oh God!’ He put a hand to his face. ‘She knows!’

‘Who knows?’ Annie stood and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Who knows what?’

‘My mother! She saw us . . . in here . . . she saw . . .’

Annie picked up the chair and forced him to sit down again. ‘Start at the beginning, Simon.’

‘I don’t know how. But I can trust you, can’t I? It’s not really a secret any more, but at least you won’t spread it around. How though, how do I tell you?’

‘With words, Simon. You can tell me anything – I won’t be shocked.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

He swallowed audibly. ‘Do you know . . . what a homosexual is?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Seconds passed. ‘I’m one,’ he declared finally, his voice deliberately steady. ‘I used to wonder why I was never jealous of you and Martin. One time, I saw you kissing and half of me wished I was in Martin’s place, but the other half . . . I was so confused.’

She took his hand. ‘Oh Simon, Simon . . .’

‘I had one experience with a girl – Susan Birchall. It was horrible.’

‘But . . . but you may be ordinary after all! This could be a phase because of that bad experience . . .’

He shook his head vehemently. ‘No. I have a friend, someone from school. I am fond of him and I believe he cares for me too.’

‘But is it so terrible?’

‘Yes! Yes, it is! Everyone will expect me to marry and have children – especially my parents. Though my mother . . .’

‘What about your mother?’

‘Last night,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘she found us in here. She is the last person in the world who might accept. What we were doing must have seemed so awful to her . . .’ He broke off, his voice cracking with tears.

‘She’d have to know sometime . . .’

‘Yes! I suppose she would have to find out that her son is a pervert!’

Annie thought briefly about the real pervert she had known, the one who had been buried some weeks ago. Between Eddie Higson and Simon, there was no comparison. ‘You’re not a pervert! You’d never inflict pain or force your attentions. You’re just . . . different, that’s all.’

‘Yes – different. I’ll be an outcast unless I live some sort of pretended life, force myself to marry and have a family.’

‘That wouldn’t be honest, especially for your wife.’

‘I know! I know I can never be normal.’

‘You’re still the same old Simon.’

‘Yes. Salmon Pilchard, Old Fish Face.’

‘I never called you Fish Face.’

He smiled sadly through his tears then went to stand, hands in pockets and with his back towards her as he stared through a window.

‘Has she told your father what she saw?’

‘I doubt it. They don’t communicate. On the other hand, with a thing of this magnitude . . .’

‘Don’t you think you should talk to him first?’

‘I can’t. Except for Paul – he’s my friend – you’re the only one I’ve spoken to.’

They remained in the room for an hour or more, sometimes sitting silently, often pacing together as they tried to talk their way through to a solution.

Later on, Simon became even more agitated. His father had been out for some time, but was expected back shortly for evening surgery. There had been no sound in the house, no sign of his mother going through her customary tea-making ritual.