Sister Augustine's Visitor. Sister Augustine could still hear Father Woodworth's homily in her ears as she walked steadily along the cloister towards the refectory after Mass. It had been better than his usual half-hour long dirges; it had stirred something within her: a memory almost forgotten. "There’s a visitor wishing to see you in the visitor's parlour, Sister Augustine," said Sister Gregory as she approached the septuagenarian nun as she neared the refectory. Sister Augustine, her recollection disturb, stopped and frowned at the portly nun standing before her, breathing heavily as if she'd trekked miles instead of yards on her mission. "Me? A visitor for me?” Sister Augustine queried sceptically. "Yes," the Portress said," a man." The senior nun pulled a face and snorted mildly. "What man?” Sister Augustine asked brusquely. "He said his name was Miller," replied the portly nun. She turned and gestured for the other nun to follow her. "Elderly gentleman, neatly dressed," Sister Gregory added. The two nuns walked the short distance to the visitor's parlour where a man stood the other side of the grille gazing at a copy of Raphael's The Ansidei Madonna. Sister Augustine entered the parlour with uncharacteristic unease. The man turned and momentarily they stood and stared at each other in silence. Sister Augustine moved to the seat on her side of the grille and sat down; she gestured to the man to do likewise. "I thought you were dead," Sister Augustine said solemnly. The man sat down without taking his eyes away from the elderly nun. "Reported missing, presumed dead," the man said gravely. "You still have those deep eyes, Monica," he added, attempting a smile. Sister Augustine did not smile; she stared at the man with a sense of bewilderment. "Fifty-six years is a long time to suddenly reappear from the dead, Leonard," she said. Leonard gestured with his head as if agreeing, but said nothing. "Anyway, the Monica you knew is dead, dead to the world at least," she added, looking away from him. Silence came between them for a few minutes and they sat looking at each other in an uneasiness that seemed to fill the parlour like an unpleasant odour. Then Leonard spoke and Sister Augustine answered. The conversation went from one to the other like a disagreeable game of tennis between two players, each wanting to defeat and dismiss the other as soon as possible. The conversation drew to a close and the man rose from his chair, nodded politely and walked away without turning round for a final look. Sister Augustine watched him go, and then, shaking her head, she walked slowly out of the parlour and made her way back towards the church for the office of Terce, just as the bells were tolled. * "A visitor for Sister Augustine?" said Sister Henry, holding her mug of coffee and slice of brown bread, uncertain which to consume first. "Yes,” Sister Gregory replied," a man." "What man would Sister Augustine know, she's been here since 1946," informed Sister Perpetua, slicing the loaf of bread vigorously. "We all have past histories," exclaimed Sister Luke. "One of the missionary sisters I worked with in Africa had once been an unsavoury chorus-girl, her words not mine, I may add." "I can't see Sister Augustine as a chorus-girl," said Sister Martha. "Unsavoury or otherwise." "Perhaps he's a man friend she had years ago," mused Sister Rose audibly, nibbling at her brown bread, like a timid field mouse. Sister Elizabeth began slicing some bread, but didn't comment on her novice sister's suggestion. She looked innocently at the assistant infirmarian who stood next to her pouring herself a mug of coffee. "Maybe it's her brother," suggested Sister Scholastica soberly. "She doesn't have a brother," Sister Henry informed, looking at her mug momentarily as if it might have a clue to the mystery man. "Well, Sister Augustine's visitor is no real concern of ours, unless she wishes to inform us,” Sister Scholastica stated gently, gazing at each of the sisters in turn. The small group of nuns nodded, but didn't comment. Each thought their thoughts and kept them, at least momentarily, to themselves, as they silently consumed their coffee and slices of brown bread. * The morning seemed to drag by and Sister Augustine couldn't get the memory out of her mind no matter how hard she tried to engage herself in reading. Leonard Miller's return, even if briefly, had disturbed her more than she was willing to admit. She slammed the book down on her desk in her cell and sat looking at it as if it had somehow, directly or indirectly, defeated her. Looking away from the book, she stared at the crucifix on the wall above her bed and sighed." So long ago, yet, deep down, the pain and guilt are still there," she said to herself in a voice just above a whisper. And for a few minutes she recalled the young girl she had been and the mistakes made. She stood up from her desk and slowly walked to the window and glanced down into the cloister. She suspected that her visitor was known to all of the community now, if Sister Gregory was up to her usual standard. The tongues would wag, oh yes, she admitted to herself, even here, tongues could wag, and eyes would turn on her out of curiosity when she entered the church for the office of Sext. But what could she tell them? It was too long ago and too painful to recount to the mere curious. Yet she felt she had to confide in someone. But to whom could she confide? She sighed again and hearing the bell tolling for Sext, she steadily made her way from her cell, along the cloister to the church, with her mind trying to drive back the memory to the dark corner it had been drawn from some hours before. The way Sister Augustine looked during Sext and lunch, made Sister Scholastica seek her out after they had left the refectory. She found her wandering round the cloister garth in deep thought, stopping now and again to stare at the flowers. "Am I disturbing you, Sister Augustine?” Sister Scholastica asked as she came beside the senior nun. Sister Augustine looked up from the flowers and gazed at the sister by her side. "Do I look disturbed?" the septuagenarian nun replied, searching the eyes of the younger nun before her. "Yes," Sister Scholastica said," you do." She paused for a few seconds. "Anything to do with your visitor this morning?” Sister Augustine frowned and sniffed. She turned her gaze back to the flowers. "I see Sister Gregory is as good as ever," Sister Augustine said sternly. "I suppose everyone is intrigued by my visitor and full of ideas as to whom it may have been?” Sister Scholastica nibbled her lower lip for a couple of seconds as she looked at the back of the elderly nun. "That’s human nature, I suppose. Even here, we do not cease to be human, although we may endeavour to escape its limitations and errors with the grace of God," Sister Scholastica informed quietly. "Some may do, Sister Scholastica, some may do," Sister Augustine stated cynically. She looked up from the flowers again and stared at the young nun. "You are one of the few," she added a little warmly. She moved forward ploddingly as if pondering on a profound philosophical question or theological mystery. Sister Scholastica moved on beside her in silence. After wandering round to the garth entrance, they walked along the cloister and sat down in a secluded area in strained silence. After a few more seconds, Sister Augustine sighed and laid her hands on her knees. "I need to confide in someone," she said suddenly. "You are possibly one of the few I could really trust to say nothing afterwards," she added gravely. "Should you not confess to Father Woodworth?” Sister Scholastica said. "No," the elderly nun replied firmly. "It’s not absolution I require, but a human being who may have the depth of understanding and love to share the burden of another." Her words were passionate and came from deep within. "Will you be that human being, sister?” Sister Scholastica nodded and smiled. "Of course. Whatever you confide to me will remain with me." The elderly nun stared at the young sister and smiled. "My visitor this morning was a man named Leonard Miller. In 1943, he was a G.I. over here in England and we became very fond of each other. My parents had been killed in an air raid in 1940 and I lived with an aunt until I joined the Land Army. We met when he was stationed nearby..." She paused for a few moments. Then hesitantly she continued with her story, stopping only now and again for breath. After she had confided all that she needed to relate she sat hunched as if drained of all emotion and physical strength. The two nuns sat in silence and watched as birds hopped on the grass of the garth. Sister Augustine placed the book back on the shelf of the library. She could not concentrate. Her mind was running over and over again the visit of Leonard Miller that morning. What he didn't know wouldn’t harm him, she mused darkly, moving slowly across to a window that was near by. Only the priest whom she had confessed to fifty-six years before and Sister Scholastica now knew about the baby she had lost. A miscarriage had come as both a relief and a shock. She had only just heard a few days before, that Leonard had been reported missing presumed dead. And I felt such guilt and grief, Sister Augustine confessed to herself as she looked down from the window into the woods below. Sister Scholastica seemed to taken all this in without judgement or any sign of condemnation, she mused, letting her eyes run over the scene beneath her. I could have told no one else, she added to herself, closing her eyes momentarily, no one else. And she stood there in the library with her eyes closed, her hands hidden away beneath her black habit and her lips mouthing a silent prayer. * Sister Scholastica knelt down in her place in the choir stalls of the silent church and breathed in the peacefulness of the late afternoon. She recalled the conversation she had had with Sister Augustine after lunch as they sat in the cloister. Her mind sieved through the words that the elderly nun had confided to her, selecting certain aspects of the conversation and contemplating upon each in turn with her own compassion and understanding. It must have taken considerable courage for her to confess all this to me, Sister Scholastica said to herself as she lifted her eyes to the coloured-glass windows of the abbey church. She wondered how the senior nun had managed to come to terms with the apparent loss of the man she had loved in the war and the miscarriage of their baby a few days later. And then to carry this burden around with her all these years and, then, suddenly, the man whom she thought was dead comes back into her life fifty-six years later having no knowledge of the pain that had been endured. I hope, Sister Scholastica mused gravely, that she can now let all this rest with God and let this Mr Miller return to the world from where he came. She hoped so. She was sure the elderly nun would, in her own way, place the burden of grief and guilt into the hands God and resume her vocation with her usual tenacity and courage. * Sister Augustine left the refectory after supper in a slow ponderous manner. She walked along the cloister huddled against the cold evening air that blew across the garth. "May I walk with you, Sister Augustine?" said plump young Sister Elizabeth from behind her. Sister Augustine turned round and looked long and hard at the sister who had spoken to her. "If you wish," Sister Augustine said with a mild sigh. The two nuns walked on in silence for a few minutes each with their own thoughts and moods. After standing by the cloister wall for a couple of seconds gazing up at the evening sky, Sister Elizabeth said, “Do you think I’ll ever make a good nun, Sister Augustine?” "Depends how you utilize the graces of God," Sister Augustine said brusquely. "If you've come here with the notion of becoming a saint or obtaining perfection, then you'll be sorely disappointed and will probably leave. However, if you realistic and understand your limitations and faults, then you may, with the grace of God, and the determined courage of a gladiator, become a reasonably good nun, I expect." The elderly nun resumed her silence as if the words were not hers but had come from another person. Sister Elizabeth nodded biting her lower lip. "Is that how you became such a good nun?" she asked in childlike innocence. Sister Augustine tut-tutted quietly and turned and gazed at the plump sister beside her. "Am I a good nun, Sister Elizabeth?" she asked. "Of course you are, Sister Augustine, even I know that," Sister Elizabeth informed a little proudly. "And so motherly," she added in a gentle voice. The senior nun closed her eyes. She could sense a deep emotion rising within her and tears sat on the edge of her eyes. Her breathing, momentarily, became heavy and she placed her hand on the wall in front of her. "And you're so grand-daughterly," Sister Augustine stated warmly, opening her eyes again and looking once more at the darkening evening sky. The young nun smiled and she too looked up at the growing darkness above them with only a faint moon as witness. * Climbing into her bed, Sister Augustine mused on the tiring day. She had learned things today. About Leonard Miller, about her sisters in Christ and about herself. Leonard's words had angered her and still she did not confide in him about the lost baby. Sister Scholastica had shared her burden with compassion and understanding in a way that she herself had began to doubt existed any more. And young Sister Elizabeth had granted her a glimpse of what it may have been like to have been a grandmother and an understanding of herself that only a childlike perceptive mind could convey. Am I good nun? she asked herself as she pulled the bed covers to her chin. God alone knows, she reflected closing her eyes, He alone knows us better than we do ourselves. Far better, she sighed, far better. * Sister Scholastica switched off the lamp by her bed and closed her eyes to the darkness. She sensed she understood Sister Augustine better than she had before. There was a depth to her and deep love which too often lay hidden behind a gruff exterior. But maybe now may become less hidden, she mused as she recalled seeing the senior nun with young Sister Elizabeth after supper and both smiling at something with a warmth seldom seen between young and old. Maybe, she mused, her burden is a little lighter now and her past can be left behind with the young Monica who had departed from the world fifty-four years ago and died to all its claims and promises. Only God in His wisdom knows, she whispered in the dark, He alone knows.
Copyright © 2000 Terry Collett |