Vespers that evening was neither as spiritual nor as fulfilling as Sister Frances usually found it to be. She found her eyes flickering between the text of the Psalms that she was supposed to be chanting and Sister Hilda who was sat opposite her. Sister Hilda's revelation of a past romance intrigued her greatly, but saddened her to an even greater extent. Safe within the confines of the convent, she'd assumed that all her consoeurs were like her, or that she was like them, in their experiences with the male sex. The male sex was something to respect, to admire, to observe from a distance. With this revelation she suddenly felt even more unworldly than before. She focused on the crucifix in front of her in an effort to erase the image in her mind's eye of a girl now known as Sister Hilda, younger, poised and elegant, on the arm of a handsome stranger. These thoughts persisted as she cycled through Poplar on her evening rounds. There seemed to be couples everywhere, round every corner, at every doorway. Were they always there? Or had she just never noticed them before?
After the evening meal had been clearer away, Sister Hilda's blue eyes flashed in Sister Frances' direction, motioning her to follow her up the stairs. The two nuns walked along the corridor in silence. Sister Hilda turned the doorknob of the heavy wooden door, leaning into it with her hip and giving it a shove to get it to open.
"Been meaning to ask Fred to sort this door for months," she admitted as she beckoned Sister Frances into her cell.
A nun's cell is not designed for comfort or social calls, and in the two years that she had lived at Nonnatus House, Sister Frances had never been inside another Sister's cell. Sister Hilda's was slightly bigger than hers. On the bed was a throw made of embroidered pattern squares which was by far the brightest thing in the otherwise spartan room. There were books dotted about the place, her latest embroidery project spread out on her writing desk and a chair with a slightly frayed cushion resting upon it. Sister Hilda gestured to Sister Frances to sit upon the chair, whilst she herself kicked her shoes off and flopped onto her bed, hitching her skirts, and maneuvering herself so that she was sat with her back to the headboard. Aware of the look on her consoeur's face Sister Hilda said.
"You really do have an aversion to knees don't you?"
"Um, uh," Sister Frances began to protest, but Sister Hilda couldn't stop herself chuckling.
"You are a funny little thing aren't you? The world really has passed you by hasn't it?"
"I was born during the War, I was too young to understand what was going on. And even if I wasn't, we were so far away from the worst of it in Yorkshire that I wouldn't have known what it was really like anyway. And then even at school, I knew I wanted to be a nun, so I kept myself away from anything that might distract me from my vocation. Since I entered the Order, the world has changed so fast that, even if I were out and a part of it, I don't think I would have kept up."
"The secret to life, I think anyway," Sister Hilda mused, twirling the cross which hung from her neck with her long fingers, "is to embrace every opportunity you are given. Every opportunity to learn, to give, to receive, to see, to hear, to touch, to risk, to dream, and." She paused for a moment and continued with a sigh "and to love."
"Have I wasted my life?" Sister Frances asked, "I think I've spent my life hiding away from all of those things."
"Don't be daft," Sister Hilda replied, a hint of both scolding and teasing in her voice, "every time you meet someone, read something, I don't know, eat something, new, I discovered after I'd delivered Mrs Singh's baby last week that I have quite a fancy for samosas and daal," she mused with a fond expression spreading over her face, "you are learning and experiencing, even if you don't yet realise it."
"What I don't know is," Sister Frances continued, "is what I should know and what shouldn't I know, being a nun? What should a nun know of, certain matters?" she added as a colour began to rise in her cheeks.
"I don't think there is anything wrong with a nun knowing the ways of the world," Sister Hilda continued, "she just needs to know how to deal with them when she is faced with them. But that is not a virtue confined to those who have taken Holy Orders. Naivety and ignorance rarely lead to a favourable outcome for anybody."
At this point Sister Frances noticed a darkening of her consoeur's demeanor. Sister Hilda stared at the bare wall to the side of her, quite still, no longer fidgeting with the cross which hung from her neck. Remember the original purpose of this meeting, Sister Frances hazarded a question.
"What do you know about, men?"
"Well, that is a question," Sister Hilda admitted, "but I suppose I can tell you what I know about one man."
March 1942
The day had been one of those typical of the time of year, not cold enough to be considered wintery but cool enough to warn off any hopes of a forthcoming summer. Two WAAF girls, their uniforms still prim and neat despite the lateness of the hour, walked wearily to their barrack-like accommodation through the dark streets of East London. Heaving open the heavy door, they trudged in silence to their shared sleeping quarters. As they approached their quarters, the shorter, plumper, darker-haired of the two girls said.
"Oooh look Rosie!"
The slim, fair-haired, blue-eyed girl called Rosie turned her elegant head towards the noticeboard where Moria her colleague was pointing. Attached with a brass pin was an advertisement for a military services dance, arranged for the following weekend.
"Shall we go?" Moira asked, "it's ages since I've been to a dance."
"It's been too long!" Rosie replied, her long arms stretching in front of her, her hands, worthy of any concert pianist, extending to the beat of an imagined tune as she put in some steps down the corridor.
"What have you got to wear?" Moira asked, "I don't have enough clothing coupons for a new frock." They'd reached their adjacent beds, but a pair of twenty or so that stretched the length of the cavernous hall. Moira opened her wardrobe door and, pushing her spare uniforms to one side, pulled out a couple of well loved frocks.
"You could jazz that one up with some new ribbon around the waist, perhaps on the neckline too," Rosie suggested.
"What have you got?" Moira asked.
Rosie turned to her own wardrobe and pulled out a mid-blue dress, with shaped sleeves, a rounded neckline and a cinched waist. Moira eyed her, jealously.
"Twenty-first birthday present from an aunt of mine," Rosie said proudly, "not quite this season, but we can't have everything, there is a war on," she added.
Moira laughed, "You'll be the belle of the ball Rosie, every man will be looking at you."
"And I at them!" Rosie added with a smirk.
Ten days later the venue hired for the occasion was brimming with people. Punch was flowing as liberally as times and rations would allow and a band was playing the latest music from both sides of the Atlantic. Rosie and Moira entered the room, their heads held high, confidently scanning the room for potential partners for the evening. As they were helping themselves to a second glass of punch, a tall, dark haired, muscular, well chiselled man approached them. Without any exchange of pleasantries or introductions, he took Rosie's hand in his, placed a kiss on her knuckles and said with a deep, smooth, yet, Rosie thought, strangely alluring, American twang.
"May I have the pleasure, ma'am?"
"And that," Sister Hilda concluded her monologue, "how I met my GI, Lt. Scott McBride."
The bell tolled for Compline and it, and the subsequent great silence spelled the end of the social gathering. Sister Frances' mind was swirling with questions. Things she wanted to know but did not dare ask, things that she wanted to ask, but did not dare to know. They continued to swirl as she tossed and turned in her bed for most of the night.