Читать книгу Boy in the World - Niall Williams - Страница 10

SEVEN

Sister Bridget was late. A small nun, twenty-three years of age, with a furrowed brow and kind deep-set brown eyes, she was flustered by the time. There was no reason why it should already be two o’clock. She had not intended to delay at the convent, but Sister Agnes and Sister Cecelia were so insistent, they wouldn’t think of her simply saying hello and goodbye. It was a full year after all, a full year since she had lived there among them before she headed off to what she had thought would be Africa but had turned out to be Birmingham. Because she had taken ill even before her course of injections had finished, and because in the end Mother Clare had decided that perhaps her talents lay best in working in the Sisters’ office and not in the missions in Africa. It was not how things were supposed to turn out. But the good Lord has his plans for each of us, Sister Agnes had written to console her at the time, and we hardly ever get to know them. Or at least not for a very long time. And she kept saying the same thing today when Sister Bridget stopped in to see them and show that she was well again and to tell them that she missed all in the community.

‘Indeed He does, the good Lord has His plans,’ Sister Agnes repeated for the fourth or fifth time, her old green eyes content in the wisdom of this and the certainty that over numerous cups of tea and shortbread biscuits you couldn’t say it often enough.

But what if you disagree with His plans? thought Sister Bridget. What if you have your heart set on something completely different? What if the thing that you want doesn’t seem to be in His plans, what do you do then? She wondered these things but she didn’t speak them. The two elderly nuns in front of her were pleased to see her looking so well. For some moments they seemed happy just to sip their tea and gaze over at her. And when she glanced at her watch and tried to say that she had to be going she did so in the gentlest way, for the idea of her leaving so soon seemed to hurt their feelings. It was as though now that she was back there they realized just how much they had missed the liveliness of her presence, and about the two nuns there was a frail shell of loneliness. So, yes, another cup of tea would be all right. And another of the biscuits, and yes, Sister Mary really did have the recipe just right now after all her attempts.

And maybe Sister Bridget could have left soon then but Sister Agnes brought up the subject that was most on her mind.

‘We were all praying for your father, Bridget,’ she said after a while.

‘I know, thank you, Sister.’

‘He passed peacefully in the end.’

‘Yes.’

A cloud passed across the face of Sister Bridget and left her eyes dull. ‘I was sorry that I wasn’t there,’ she said.

‘You were on your way. You mustn’t blame yourself.’ Sister Agnes leaned forward with concern for the young nun.

‘No, no,’ agreed Sister Cecelia, her voice thin and throaty, cords in her neck moving with the words, ‘you were on your way, and you were praying for him, and Our Lord took him when he was ready to go.’

‘That’s right, Bridget.’

‘I wish I could have seen him one last time, just to talk to him.’

‘Of course.’ Sister Agnes nodded. ‘Of course you do. But you can still talk to him.’

Bridget took the words as they were intended, as a kindness and a comfort, and did not reply that she could not be sure her father could hear her, or that she could ever again hear him. She sat and drank more tea with the two old nuns and thought of the graveyard in the middle of the country where her father was buried now beside her mother and her only brother. She thought of the moment she had left it, of going out through the black iron gate the last time and looking back at the headstones, at that strange silent population of the dead, and how terrible it had felt to walk away. The loneliness was a fierce hurt. Even though she had not seen her father in six months, now that he was gone the world seemed so empty and so huge.

‘But you look so well,’ Sister Cecelia was saying, ‘you really do.’

‘And so do you, Sister,’ Bridget smiled.

‘Oh now, not too bad for a pair of old ghosts, I suppose, isn’t that right, Sister Agnes?’

‘Indeed it is. Ghosts who like tea and shortbread biscuits.’

‘Oh now, Oh now.’ Sister Cecelia laughed and brought long thin fingers to her mouth to hold her teeth.

The afternoon sunlight flooded in the big windows. Down the long avenue chestnut trees in first leaf were catching the small quick May breezes that came and went, and still the three nuns sat there in the front room of the old convent. Sister Bridget delayed when she knew she shouldn’t have. She stayed when she knew it must be getting late, because there was comfort and consolation there. It was still and peaceful sitting with the elderly nuns in the early afternoon. And Bridget knew that once she left she was on her way back to England, to her work; once she got up and left the convent the rest of her life was waiting for her, and it was a life without the presence in it of her father. From now on she would be on her own. And although she was an adult of twenty-three, and hadn’t seen her father that much since she had entered the convent from school, still she was going to miss him. It was hard to explain to anyone who hadn’t suffered that loss. It was like some part of a familiar painting, a painting that hung on your wall and that you saw day in day out and to which you didn’t pay that much attention, now was erased. It was just not there, and suddenly you felt its absence terribly.

So the time had run on, and Sister Bridget had kept postponing standing up and saying goodbye. She had glanced at her watch from time to time, had watched the light changing in the trees, but not found it in herself to stand up.

At last, after their umpteenth cup of tea, Sister Agnes had sensed this hesitation in the young nun and brought the meeting to a close.

‘Well, we have delayed you long enough,’ she said. ‘You have been so kind to visit us.’

‘Perhaps you will stay for supper?’ Sister Cecelia had suggested.

‘No, Sister Bridget has a boat to catch, haven’t you, Sister?’

Bridget knew the moment was upon her, and rose and thanked the nuns and Sister Agnes walked her down the corridor to the door.

‘You will be fine, Bridget,’ the old nun told her as she took the small wheeled suitcase from where she had left it by the door. ‘Really, you will. You are very special, I have always thought so, you know that.’ They paused on the threshold. ‘You have a light in you,’ said Sister Agnes, and she touched the younger nun on the forehead. ‘God bless you.’ Her eyes smiled with kindness and wisdom, and then – perhaps because Bridget might not have taken the first step away – Sister Agnes stepped back inside the doorway so that it appeared Bridget was already on her way, and softly she closed the door. Click.

And almost at once, as if she was just then returned to the real world of time and schedules, Bridget had realized that she was late. Very late, in fact. She hurried down the avenue wheeling the case behind her, pebbles in the driveway catching in the wheels and making a dragging noise then freeing again as she went. At the end of the avenue she passed through the gates of the convent and out into the din of people and traffic and the whirl of ordinary life.

Hurry up, Bridget, hurry up. Oh for goodness sake.

She waited at the bus stop with a mother and two little girls that kept stepping down off the path on to the road and had to be screamed at and jerked back every two minutes. No sooner were they back by the mother’s side then one of them grinned and stepped out again. Bridget tried a prayer, Patience O Lord. But she was useless at prayers and wanted to just reach out and grab the child and give her a good shaking. I’ll personally throw you in front of the bus when it comes if you step out again, all right, dear?

Patience O Lord.

When the 77 bus came it was full and the driver only pulled over because two tourists wanted to get out at the wrong stop, thinking they were by the sea.

It moved off like an elephant along the road. Bridget checked her watch. Late, I’m going to miss it. I am. Come on, come on. She urged the traffic in front of them to part like a sea, but nothing changed. She was useless at miracles too. One of the girls with blonde ringlets and a blue dress pressed the snap on the nun’s case so it popped open. Bridget closed it. The girl opened it again. This time when she closed it she kept her hand over it as a guard and stared hard at the demon. The girl smiled back at her, then stuck out her tongue.

Dear God, please get me out of here.

The bus turned left around a corner and there suddenly was the sea. At the next stop half the passengers got off. As Bridget climbed backwards down the steps, getting her case caught on the handrail, the two girls tried to follow and were almost off the bus before their mother realized and came after them, yanking each one back by an arm with yells of protest. As the bus drove off their two faces were pressed against the back window, and when they passed Bridget they each stuck out their tongues at her. And, quickly, sure that no one could see, she stuck out hers back at them.

Bridget had returned from England for her father’s funeral by aeroplane, but some severe turbulence in the air and a sense that a plane made of metal could not and should not really fly, had convinced her that never again would she choose that mode of transport. There was something about being up in the air, she had told Sister Agnes, which didn’t agree with her. She would not fly again until she was on her way to heaven she had joked. And so now, she arrived at the ferry port at Dun Laoghaire in Dublin, and bought a one-way ticket to Holyhead in Wales from where she would travel by bus back to Birmingham. It would take a little longer, but she had time. Besides, she was not convinced that the work she did at the office, arranging the practical business of the movement of missionary nuns to and from various parts of Africa, was all that vital. It was hard for her to believe that this was what God had intended for her when she felt she had a vocation to join the nuns. A desk in a small office in Birmingham. She shook her head slightly to dislodge any such doubts and stood before the glass panel and paid for her ticket.

For foot-passengers on the ferry there was a metal gangway that rose upward with thin rubber bumps across it. As Sister Bridget ascended she suddenly heard a clunk and felt the case twist about on its handle. A wheel had broken off. As she turned she was in time to see it roll down the slope and vanish. Thank you, O Lord. There was nothing Bridget could do but turn and drag the case awkwardly the rest of the way.

Once on board she moved inside the large seating area of the ferry, intending to find a place where she could stow the case and come and go as she pleased during the voyage. But because she was so late, almost the last foot-passenger of that sailing – there was only one more person coming after her – all of the seats were already taken. There were knapsacks, handbags, suitcases, plastic carrier bags of all descriptions stacked on and about every seat. There were people too of every description, from happy teasing tourists already drinking beer to women with worn-out looks, as if their faces had been used up, and only one expression was left. Some children sat with their eyes fixed on Game Boys, thumbs working. Others licked at mango-flavoured icepops from the shop and stared into space where privately they watched their dreams.