Punished: A mother’s cruelty. A daughter’s survival. A secret that couldn’t be told. (19 page)

I
had choir practice on Wednesdays and Sundays, and afterwards I took to spending time in the graveyard that stood between Hadzor church and St Joseph’s monastery. I liked the older parts, where slanting, lichen-covered gravestones told tales of love, loyalty and family tragedy. An ancient yew tree spread its roots, buckling graves so that you could almost imagine a skeletal hand bursting through the earth. Its dark green needles carpeted the ground and its wide branches cast gloomy shadows. Squirrels scurried around, scraping up soil to bury their hordes of nuts and seeds with no respect for the graves’ occupants.

There was one grave I was especially attached to. John Joseph Lupton, 1843–81, adored husband of Elizabeth 1845–1915, and much-loved father of seven children – Alice, Frederick, Charles, Jane, William, Anne and James. When I looked at the dates of the children’s lives, I saw that only William had lived to adulthood. Alice had died as a baby. Frederick, Jane and Anne had all died in the same year, under the age of ten – was it scarlet fever or typhoid or one of those other infectious diseases that
carried children off so readily in pre-antibiotic days? Charles had died aged fifteen and James aged seventeen. Yet their mother outlived them all, reaching the age of seventy after spending twenty-four years without her ‘adored’ husband. What a harsh life she had had with all that bereavement. I convinced myself that she finally died of grief after her only grandchild, William’s son, was killed in 1915 in the Great War. I felt as if I knew the Luptons and cared about them.

I was never visited by a spirit from their family but there were lots of other spirits hanging around that churchyard, sitting on top of gravestones or strolling along the pathways. Some liked to show me the wounds or infections that had killed them, which could be disturbing. I saw teenage boys with half their faces blown off, men without limbs, women with purply-black growths on their faces, then they’d reappear whole again to show me what they had looked like before their fatal illnesses or injuries occurred.

Sometimes I strolled through the more modern part of the graveyard, watching as fresh graves were dug and left open to await the shiny new coffins accompanied by grieving relatives. I hated to see the tiny holes, just a foot wide and two or three feet long, that I knew were for babies.

One day as I sat quietly on a bench in the shade, a monk came along the path towards me. He was wearing the brown robes of St Joseph’s and had very close-cropped silver hair.

‘Hello. My name is Father John.’ He smiled with a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. ‘I’ve seen you here before. Do you prefer the dead to the living?’

‘In most cases yes,’ I replied, smiling back shyly. ‘Actually, I’m in the church choir next door and I come in here after rehearsals if I have time.’

‘It’s very peaceful, isn’t it?’

Of course it wasn’t particularly peaceful for me with all the spirit activity but I had learned my lesson about blurting out such things to strangers.

Father John sat down beside me and asked my name, what school I went to, which lessons I enjoyed; then he asked what I planned to do when I left school.

I was nervous telling him in case he laughed or tried to put me off. ‘Well, actually I was hoping to become a nun.’

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it all. ‘What a wonderful ambition. I suppose that if you are currently a member of Hadzor church you want to be an Anglican nun.’

‘I thought all nuns were Catholic. I thought I would have to convert but I wasn’t sure how to go about it.’

‘The majority of nuns are Catholic but there are some Anglican orders. It sounds as though you need to find out more about the approaches of both religions and think through your options very carefully.’

‘Where could I find out?’

‘I’d be happy to talk to you about Catholicism, if you like, to give you an idea what you’d be getting into if you decided to convert.’

I was so unused to anyone being spontaneously kind to me that it made me feel guilty. ‘I couldn’t. I mean, I’m sure you’ve got much more important things to do with your time.’

‘What could be more important than helping an intelligent young girl to find her calling? There’s nothing I would like more, Vanessa.’

We agreed that we would meet regularly after choir practice, either in the graveyard or, if it was raining, in the office attached to the monastery. I didn’t tell anyone about my new friendship at first, not even Nigel, because I would have been upset if they disparaged or mocked my plans. At the same time, I decided not to tell Father John about my ability to communicate with spirits because I wasn’t sure whether the church approved of that sort of thing, and I didn’t want to risk alienating him.

Over the next few weeks Father John taught me about the importance of the Virgin Mary, the significance of the rosary, and the meaning of transubstantiation – that the wine and wafer in Communion don’t just symbolize the body and blood of Christ but that they
are
the body and blood of Christ. He taught me that every single word in prayer has a precise meaning, and that a vocation is a summons by God but that it need not lead to a cloistered life; God might have other plans for me but I had to watch and listen carefully to find out what they might be.

I learned my Catechism by heart and was utterly thrilled when Father John gave me a tiny crucifix on a chain for my fifteenth birthday. I wore it round my neck, tucking it carefully under my collar for fear that Mum would notice it. It would have given her immense pleasure to destroy something so special to me, but I managed to
keep it hidden, thanks largely to the fact that she no longer attacked me physically since Nigel’s intervention.

One day when Nigel and I were out walking in the fields, I decided to tell him about my plans. I explained about how Father John was preparing me to convert to Catholicism and that when I was eighteen I hoped to be accepted to take my vows in a convent. He was very disturbed by the idea at first.

‘Nessa, you can’t lock yourself away from the world like that. Don’t you want to travel, have boyfriends, or have children? You would only be experiencing a tiny bit of what life has to offer. It seems such a waste.’

‘But Father John says the rewards of a spiritual life spent in prayer and contemplation are immense. Being really close to God in that way must be amazing.’

‘Mum thought she was close to God – and look what that led to!’ Nigel said bitterly. ‘I don’t know how you can believe in all that.’

‘But that wasn’t really God, I know that now,’ I answered. ‘I’ve talked to Father John about it. He couldn’t believe that Mum had said the things she did about God – he’s nothing like the monster she made him out to be. I don’t know if she really thought she was talking to him or not, but I believe it was just another way of terrifying us into doing what she wanted, or justifying the way she lashed out all the time. I mean, she’s never been to church, has she?’

‘No,’ Nigel agreed.

‘And beating up young children and deliberately hurting them is nothing to do with the principles of Christianity. It’s all to do with loving other people, not trying to destroy them.’ Since Father John and I had talked, it had
become clear to me that Mum disregarded the most basic ideas of a Christian life. And I knew in my heart that the things she had done to me – and allowed others to do to me – were pure wickedness.

Nigel wasn’t convinced. ‘But you’re telling me that by becoming a nun, you will have a special relationship with God. Isn’t that almost the same thing as Mum claimed about her trips to the dining room?’

‘No, no!’ I desperately wanted him to see the difference. ‘I’m praying to God as his humble servant, asking how I can best serve him. Mum pretended that God wanted her to be cruel to us, that he hated us. It’s not the same thing at all.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Nigel put his arm round my shoulders. ‘I just don’t want to lose you when I’ve only got you back so recently.’

‘It’s three years till I can take vows. You’re stuck with me till then.’

Nigel grinned. ‘By becoming a bride of Christ, you’ll be breaking our engagement. Don’t you remember how we used to say we’d get married one day?’

I laughed. That silly childishness all seemed a long time ago now. ‘I’m not sure that would ever have been legal, even though we’re not related by blood.’

‘Probably not.’ Nigel looked thoughtful. ‘You know, it won’t be long before I’m eighteen and I’ve decided that when I am, I’m going to try and find my real mother.’

‘Really?’ I couldn’t imagine where to start, even though I’d always dreamed that I might find my mother one day.

‘Yes. Do you think you’ll try and find yours?’

‘I don’t know. Your mum always sounded nice, though, whereas mine sounds like a nightmare.’

‘We’ve only got Mum’s word for that. Which is not worth a lot.’

‘True. I’m not sure. Maybe I will.’

‘Think about it. If you can face it, then I think you should.’

O
nce I’d turned fifteen, I’d had quite enough of school. I was never going to be university material and the teachers didn’t seem interested in what I did with my life. Not one teacher had so much as asked what career I had in mind. My classmates were all boy-crazy and interested in fashion and pop music, and although I was quite fond of some of them, there was no one I would miss. All in all, I was looking forward to hanging up my blazer for the last time, even though I had no idea what I would do with myself.

Then Father John came to me with a very appealing offer.

‘We’re looking for someone to help out in the monastery office. I know you are planning to leave school soon and I wonder if you might be interested? It’s not very well paid.’

‘I’d love to!’ I was immediately eager. ‘But what would I have to do? I can’t type or take shorthand.’

‘It’s just answering phones, managing the mailing list, taking money for cards and pens, nothing too taxing.’

‘When can I start? Next week?’

‘You are enthusiastic! Well, that’s good. Yes, by all means, start as soon as you can.’

I was delighted to have found a job, and in a place that held so much meaning for me. I rushed home to tell everyone. Mum seemed happy for me to have a job, although she told me that I’d have to hand over most of my salary to pay for my keep.

‘At least you’ll be doing something useful for a change,’ she told me.

Dad wasn’t so happy, though. ‘Why does it have to be there? It’s hardly the start of a great career. You could do a lot better.’

I didn’t listen to him. It sounded just what I wanted and the following week I started work. There were only two of us in the office – an older woman called Maggie, and me – but one of the monks would come and help us when we were particularly busy. It was routine work but I loved it. I had my own desk with a typewriter, a calendar, pens and a notepad, and I kept it scrupulously tidy. When members of the public came in to purchase memorabilia, I felt very proud to represent the monastery. I wrapped up purchases with especial care and smiled shyly as I handed over the change.

Father John often came to sit with me in the graveyard at lunchtime and one day he broached the subject of my conversion. I still felt passionately that I wanted to be a Catholic nun – it was as though I had discovered what my whole life was meant to be about – and I had been urging him to tell me how to initiate the process.

‘Before we go any further, I think I should talk to your father. Is he sympathetic?’

‘Not really,’ I said. The few times I had talked about it with Dad, he hadn’t been at all enthusiastic and had just tried to brush off my ambition. ‘He’s Church of England
and I don’t think he likes the idea of me becoming a Catholic. But he hasn’t objected to me working here so I hope he’ll come round to it.’

‘Would you ask him to come and see me some time so that we can have a chat?’

With hindsight, it was ridiculously naive of me to think Dad would give permission for me to convert, but I was in no way prepared for the strength of his opposition when I brought it up. He raised his hand and slapped me across the face for the first and only time in his life.

‘How dare you!’ he demanded, utterly incensed, his face scarlet with rage.

I clasped my hand to my cheek. It hadn’t hurt – not like the slaps I got from Mum – but I was hugely shocked that my gentle, gentlemanly father would do such a thing. I felt as though the bottom had fallen out of my world.

‘No daughter of mine will ever join the Catholic Church. And that’s an end to it.’

‘But Dad, I told you years ago that I wanted to be a nun. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

‘Absolutely not. I forbid it.’

‘Please just come and talk to Father John. He thinks I have a calling. I’ll be doing good for the community so does it matter which church I am working for?’

‘Of course it matters. It makes all the difference in the world.’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘Where did I go wrong? You came to church with me for all those years and I thought you believed – but now you want to reject your religion wholesale?’

‘They’re not so different, I promise you. Please just meet Father John and listen to what he has to say. He’s a decent man.’

‘He’s been corrupting my daughter and you call that decent? You’re only fifteen years old, for goodness sake, and he’s encouraging you to throw your life away. That’s it! You are giving up that job at the monastery. We’ll find you another, more suitable job in due course.’

I started to cry. ‘Please don’t do this. I love my job. It’s my whole life.’

Dad ignored me. ‘I suppose you’ll have to work a week’s notice, just to be fair, but I want you to tell them first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll come in with you to make sure you do it.’

No amount of pleading would change his mind. The very next morning, Dad drove me to the monastery and led me into the office, holding my hand as if I was a naughty child. Maggie was the only person there so he explained to her that I was giving a week’s notice. I stared at the ground, unable to speak. Dad had no idea how much he had taken away from me. I had never seen him so angry until now – all through the years of torment and abuse, he’d never been half as furious as he was when I’d told him what I truly wanted. It hurt so much that instead of supporting me, he’d destroyed everything in life that meant anything to me. Without my dreams of the future, I couldn’t see anything else worth living for. I felt utterly bleak and defeated.

That lunchtime I went to the chemist’s shop in the village and bought a bottle of aspirin, telling the assistant they were for my mother. Back at the monastery I took a glass of water into the tiny cubicle toilet and sat down on the seat. One by one I tipped the tablets out of the brown bottle, put them in my mouth and swallowed. They were quite big and got stuck in my throat so I refilled the glass at the washbasin and swilled them down.

When I’d taken the whole bottle, I sat and waited for them to take effect. I was in a deep black pit and the only light I could see was the light of Heaven, which I hoped was waiting for me. By slapping me, Dad had transgressed a boundary that I couldn’t tolerate. I had taken that and more from Mum, but never from Dad. I felt totally alone and tired of living. The struggle just wasn’t worth it any more.

Maggie knocked on the door. ‘Are you all right in there?’

‘Just coming.’ I unsnibbed the lock and went back to my desk, where I sat poring over the mailing list. It was maybe about twenty minutes later that I began to feel woozy. Maggie didn’t notice at first because she was talking on the phone. I laid my head down on the desk and nodded off.

I don’t remember another thing until I awoke in a hospital bed with a tube coming out of my arm, leading up to a bag of clear fluid on a stand. Just beyond it, Dad was sitting watching me. I closed my eyes again. Why was I still here? I didn’t want be alive.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

I had a poisonous headache and felt very nauseous but I just said ‘Fine.’ It seemed simplest.

‘The hospital are going to keep you in for seventy-two hours for observation but they think you’ll be all right. You didn’t take a lethal dose.’

Some kind of response seemed to be required from me but I couldn’t think what it was so I just said ‘Oh.’

‘Why did you do it? What happened?’ His voice sounded very old and tired.

I opened my eyes and looked at him now. ‘I wanted to go to Nan Casey. I don’t want to be here any more.’

‘Oh, Vanessa. Is it my fault? Is it because I said you can’t be a nun?’

‘No.’

‘Did the spirits you talk to tell you to do it?’

That question made me realize that I hadn’t spoken to spirits for days. Where had they been when I was sitting on the toilet gulping back aspirin?

‘No,’ I said again. ‘I’m sleepy, Dad. Do you mind if I have a rest?’

‘Your mum’s going on holiday with her sister next week. I’m going to take the week off work so we can spend some proper time together and have a talk about everything. Let’s leave the explanations till then.’

I pretended to be asleep but as soon as he had left the room I began to focus on opening what the Clown called my ‘third eye’.

‘Where are you?’ I asked. ‘Where were you when I was trying to kill myself?’

‘I was there,’ the Clown told me. ‘You just weren’t listening.’

‘I wanted to die. I still do.’

‘You’re not going to die for a long time yet,’ he told me. ‘You’re going to have a baby, a little girl, and you’ll call her Samantha. She’ll be beautiful and loving her will help to make you whole. This is all I can tell you for now. First of all you have to make yourself healthy again.’

The Clown faded away, leaving me filled with a strange new emotion – a mixture of hope and bewilderment. A
baby of my own! How could that be? I thought of holding a little one in my arms and feeding and cuddling and loving her – someone who was just mine and I was just hers – and I decided that would definitely be worth staying alive for.