Pat looked up at Wolf. “No,” she said. “And look, I have to go now. I really do. Let’s talk some other time. Later.”
Wolf opened his mouth to protest, but Pat had turned away and was already walking along the corridor, following the nun.
Wolf took a step forward, but stopped himself. “I won’t give up,” he muttered. “I won’t.”
The Ethics of Dumping Others 105
Pat followed the nun through the glass door and out into the purlieus of George Square. It had been raining when she had entered the lecture theatre that morning, but now the weather had cleared and the sun was bright on the stone of the buildings, on the glass of the windows. She saw the nun ahead of her, making her way towards Buccleuch Place, and she quickened her step to catch up with her.
“Excuse me.”
The nun turned round. “Hello.”
The response was friendly, and Pat continued. “I’ve seen you around,” she said. “I mean, I’ve heard of you.”
The nun smiled. “Gracious! Are people talking about me?
What have I done to deserve that?”
Pat had already placed the voice. One half expected nuns to talk with an Irish accent – the stereotype, of course, but then stereotypes come from somewhere – and yet this nun was Glaswegian or from somewhere thereabouts – Paisley, perhaps, or Hamilton, or somewhere like that.
“Is it true you’re a nun?” asked Pat, and added hurriedly: “I hope you don’t think me rude.”
“Not at all,” said the nun. “I don’t mind being asked. And, yes, it is true. I’m a member of a religious order.”
The older woman – older by ten years, perhaps, if that –
looked at Pat. She was due at a tutorial in five minutes, but something told her that she should not go, that she should talk to this rather innocent-looking young woman. At any time, in any place, a soul may be in need of help. She had been taught that, and she had learned, too, that the requests of those in need often came at the worst possible time.
“Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?” she asked.
“If you wanted to talk, then we could do that over coffee. It’s easier that way, isn’t it.”
“The Elephant House? “ said Pat. “Half an hour’s time?”
“Yes,” said the nun. “Deo volente.”
34. In the Elephant House
They sat in the Elephant House, Pat and the nun, who had introduced herself simply as Sister Connie. They were at the very table which Pat had occupied with Wolf on their first proper meeting, and as Connie waited for the coffee at the counter, Pat thought about the strange turn of events that had brought her to this. One day I was here with a boy called Wolf, she said to herself, and now here I am with a nun called Connie. Why is that so strange?
Sister Connie brought over the coffee and set the two mugs down on the table. “I suppose you’re wondering about me,” she said. “I suppose you’re asking yourself about how I can possibly be a nun.” She paused, stirring her coffee with the tip of her spoon. “Am I right? Are you wondering that?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “It had crossed my mind.”
“And quite reasonably,” said Sister Connie. “After all, how many members of religious orders do you see these days? Very few. I believe that it was very different not all that long ago.
There were several convents in Edinburgh. More in Glasgow.”
“I suppose it seems unusual,” said Pat. “At least, it seems unusual to my generation.”
Sister Connie nodded. “And why do you think that is?”
Pat shrugged. “Because . . .” She did not know how to say it. It was because of the me factor, she thought; because of the fact that nobody now was prepared to give anything up for the sake of . . . well, what was it for the sake of? For the sake of a God that most people no longer believed existed? Was that it?
She noticed that Sister Connie had blue eyes, and that these eyes were strangely translucent.
“Why don’t I tell you what happened?” said Sister Connie.
“Would you like me to do that?”
Pat nodded. Lifting her mug of coffee to her lips, she took a sip of the hot liquid. The feeling of strangeness was still there, but she felt comfortable in the company of Sister Connie, as one feels comfortable with one for whom the demands of ego are quiescent. “Please tell me,” she said.
In the Elephant House 107
Sister Connie sat back in her chair. “I was a very ordinary schoolgirl,” she said. “Just like everybody else. When I was fourteen, I wanted to be a dancer. I used to go to a modern dance class, and ballet too, and I was serious about dancing exams. I thought that it would be a wonderful thing to do. I imagined being picked for the Royal Academy of Dance, or somewhere like that, and appearing in London. I really thought that it would be that easy.
“But then something happened – something which changed the direction of my life – changed my life, actually. It’s odd, isn’t it, how one little incident, one conversation, one experience, one thing you see or hear, can change everything? That’s odd, don’t you think?”
Pat thought of her own life. Had there been something which had changed the whole course of her life? Yes. There had been.
There had been something on that gap year, something which had happened in Australia, which had done that. If she had not gone to that particular interview, if she had not seen the notice in the West Australian, then she would not have met . . . Well, it would all have been so different.
“We were from Gourock,” said Sister Connie. “We lived in a flat which looked out over the Firth. We were on the top floor, right up at the top, and there were one hundred and twenty-two steps from the ground floor up to our landing. I counted them. One hundred and twenty-two.
“On the floor below, there was a woman who lived by herself.
She wasn’t particularly old – I suppose she was hardly much more than sixty, but at the time, when I was a teenager, that seemed old enough. She was a nice woman, and I liked her. I used to get messages for her from time to time, as she had difficulty with those stairs. Her breathing wasn’t very good, you see.
People like that should live on the ground floor, but ground-floor flats are more expensive and I don’t think she could manage it.
“She was frailer than I had imagined. She had given me a key to let myself in when I helped her, and one Saturday morning I used this key to let myself in when she did not answer my 108 In the Elephant House
knock on the door. I went inside and found her on her bed, half in, half out. Her feet were on the floor, but her body was under the sheets. I thought that she was dead at first, but then I saw that she was watching me. Her eyes were open.
“I rushed over to her bedside and looked down at her. I saw then that she was still alive, and I reached out to take hold of her hand. It felt very dry. Very cold and very dry. Then she pointed to a piece of paper on the side of the table and whispered to me. She asked me to phone the number on the paper and . . .”
Sister Connie’s narrative tailed off. She had noticed that Pat was no longer looking at her, but was staring in the direction of another table, one closer to the door.
“I don’t want to bore you,” said the nun. “Perhaps I should tell you the rest of the story some other time.”
For a moment, Pat said nothing. Then she turned back to face her companion. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just seen somebody I’m trying to . . . Well, I suppose I’m trying to avoid him.”
Sister Connie looked in the direction in which Pat had been staring. “That young man over there?” she asked. “That handsome young man?”
Pat lowered her eyes. Wolf’s presence could have been a coincidence, but that seemed unlikely to her. “Yes,” she said.
Sister Connie frowned. “Is he bothering you?” she asked.