Sister Frances sat for a moment in Sister Hilda's arms. She found her gentle touch and the warmth of her body against her own soothing, her frayed nerves seemed pacified, and a sense of security enveloped her. Sister Hilda remained silent, patiently waiting for the child in her arms to bring her troubles to her.
Eventually Sister Frances caught her consoeur's eye and asked, in a voice barely above a whisper, "what does, love, feel like?"
Sister Hilda pulled Sister Frances closer to her, and in a gentle lilt, began to recite, "'The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides. Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamell'ed stones.' It's from Two Gentlemen of Verona," she confirmed, "I can't remember the rest of the speech."
"What does that mean?" Sister Frances asked.
"It means," Sister Hilda replied, knowingly, "that if one is unable, or unwilling, to express one's feelings on such matters, nothing good will come of it. Whilst if one admits those feelings, goodness will flow from it."
"But I don't know what I'm feeling," Sister Frances admitted.
"Can you tell me what's caused this feeling?" Sister Hilda asked, "something is clearly troubling you," she added, kindly.
Sister Frances spent the next few minutes recounting the tale of her trip to the Buckle's paper shop, her previous acquaintance with Dr McNulty, and the conversation that she had had with Sister Julienne. "I think this whole thing was a bad idea," she concluded with a slight whimper, "I want to forget everything that has happened."
"Hiding from the world, your fears, your past, will be of no benefit to you at all," Sister Hilda replied firmly. "You are a woman," she continued more gently, "any feelings that you have for Dr McNulty or any other man, are perfectly normal and natural, and nothing to be ashamed of. Our emotions are what makes us human."
"But it feels so sinful, I'm a nun," Sister Frances replied.
"God has called us to live the life we are living to serve him and his people. A task that would have been impossible if he had not also blessed us with the gift of being able to love," Sister Hilda remarked.
Sister Frances stared thoughtfully at the wall in front of her, drinking in her consoeur's words of wisdom. She was right, of course. Though her original question remained unanswered. Had she loved Dr McNulty? Was that the explanation for the slight flutter in her stomach when she saw him? Was that the reason she could be so more open and honest with him than she had been with any man before or since?
After a moment, she hazarded a question, "Did you love Lt. McBride?"
A small smile wrinkled the corners of Sister Hilda's mouth, "I did," she sighed.
"How did it feel?" Sister Frances pestered.
"Well," Sister Hilda began.
April 1942
On a bright, early spring evening, a group of WAAF girls were crowded around the window of their dormitory which looked out onto the street below. Excited anticipation buzzed through the air. Each girl clamoured for a look between the gaps in the criss-crossed tape stuck to the pane. Each girl wishing they were the lucky ones that evening. At last, they caught a sight of the ultimate prize. A few gasped and clapped in delight, others stared in awe.
"He's here Rosie!" Moira called down the dormitory.
"How do I look?" Rosie asked, straightening the shoulders of a borrowed, floral-patterned dress.
"That fits you better than it fits me," Lucy remarked, "though it's perhaps a little bit short," she added, eying the taller girl.
"Come off it, she's got legs to die for, get'em out lass!" came Judy's reply in a thick Geordie.
Rosie began to strut down the dormitory, her long legs, sleek in seamed nylons, flicking like a racehorse's, her shapely figure swaying as if caught in a breeze. Her gently powdered face glowed, her lips were tinted scarlet. She put in a twirl and then dissolved into a fit of giggles.
"Be off with you," Helen exclaimed, handing Rosie the pillbox hat she was allowing her to borrow, "you shouldn't keep a gentleman waiting."
"I was rather hoping that he wouldn't be a gentleman," Rosie replied, placing the hat upon her pin-curled hair with a mischievous smirk. She picked up her handbag and gloves from her bed, and began to head towards the door, but not before flashing a saucy look back at her friends over her shoulder.
"Rosie!" the assembled girls chorused in horror.
Rosie guffawed in response before skipping down the dormitory, the high heels of her shoes clattering on the wooden floor, sending echoes round the room. She bounded down the stairs, stopped briefly at the front door to compose herself, aware of a knotting in her stomach and a flickering of her heartbeat, before taking the heavy doorknob in her hand, swinging the door open, and stepping out into the golden evening light.
"Rosie!" Scott called in his deep, richly warm voice as he saw her skip down the steps. He eyed her for a moment before remarking, "you look, radiant."
Rosie beamed with pride as she greeted her partner. He took her in his arms and pressed a kiss upon her lips. Parting her lips slightly, Rosie allowed their tongues to flicker together. She ran her fingers up the back of his neck, into his hair. His hands traced the length of her spine, terminating just below where her dress began to flare.
"Good evening!" they said, simultaneously as they broke apart, before exchanging glowing smiles.
"Shall we?" Scott asked, taking Rosie's hand in his.
Rosie's heartbeat switched into overdrive as she and Scott walked hand in hand through the streets. Her smile stretched from ear to ear and her glowing visage advertised to every onlooker that at that moment, she could not have imagined how she could possibly have been happier. Her, little Rosie, on the arm of a handsome, American, soldier. Her teenage years in a Catholic girls boarding school had hardly presented the opportunities for dating and romances. Having joined the WAAF at eighteen and worked in the East End through the worst of the Blitz, the security of a relationship seemed something far too distant to even consider pursuing. Why plan for the future when one never knew if you would survive the night? But now, nearly a year after the last bomb was dropped on the city, Rosie was going to take advantage of every opportunity that life presented her with.
They spent the whole evening talking. Although never one for shyness, Rosie found an overwhelming sense of contentment in Scott's company. He was gentle, kind, sensitive, willing to listen, intelligent, engaging, alluring beyond measure. She found herself pouring the contents of her heart to him, losing herself in his charm. As he kissed her goodnight on the steps of the lodging house, promising that he would call her to meet again, Rosie could barely contain her brimming passions. Retelling the tale of their evening together to the other girls in the dormitory who had waited up specially, fired up the entire fabric of her being.
"I love you Scott," she whispered to the darkened room later that night, "I love you."
"Wow!" came Sister Frances' reaction to the tale.
"Love is," Sister Hilda began, before allowing herself a gentle sigh.
"Love is something to cherish," Sister Frances finished the sentence for her, now understanding something about what she herself had been experiencing, "and be thankful for."
Unable to formulate a verbal reply, Sister Hilda wrapped both arms around Sister Frances, pressed a delicate kiss onto the top of her head, before adding with a smile and a half-heartedly suppressed yawn, "now, off to bed, we do not know what challenges the Lord will have us face tomorrow and we must be found ready and alert."
"Yes Sister."