Several mornings after Sister Hilda had confiscated her magazine, Sister Frances cornered her in the clinical room and whispered in mock childish innocence, "Will you tell me your story tonight? You're going away tomorrow," she added, pulling a wide-eyed, simpering look.
Sister Hilda had been expecting such a question ever since she had revealed slightly more about her past than she had initially intended. But, she had promised. Perhaps a little rashly on reflection, but she had promised to tell a tale she had kept close to her heart for over half her life. Her face shaped itself in an expression reminiscent of a toddler's parent conceding defeat.
"Alright, come to my cell once you've had supper," Sister Hilda whispered in reply.
Later that evening, Sister Hilda was sat propped up on her bed. An old tin tea caddy rested on her lap. From within she pulled out an assortment of things. Photographs, the smiling faces twinkling out at her from a bygone age. Several messages, most in the same hand, though they ranged from delicate cursive on Smythson's Cream Wove, to hasty scrawls on the backs of brown envelopes. There were cinema tickets, even menus and hotel receipts. Every memory kept, every memory treasured, even after almost twenty-five years.
A rapid knocking on her door snapped her mind back to the present. She quickly secreted the caddy underneath her bed and called, "come in!"
Sister Frances bounced into the room, an expectant grin upon her face. She flopped herself onto Sister Hilda's chair, and looked on in anticipation.
"I'm about to tell you something," Sister Hilda began, a hint of both nervousness and solemnity in her voice, "that I have never told to another soul. I want you to promise that what I am about to say to you will stay within these four walls. I'm telling you this for a number of reasons. I won't tell you yet what they are. I hope that they will become apparent to you."
Sister Frances' eyes widened and she became aware that her heart had begun to thud in her throat. For a moment silence descended in the room. Aware of her consoeur's apprehension, she shuffled the chair closer to Sister Hilda's bed and murmured, "you can trust me."
"I know," Sister Hilda replied. Another silence hung in the air. "I'm just not sure where to begin," she admitted.
"Begin where you left off," Sister Frances said kindly, reaching out to touch the back of Sister Hilda's hand, "I assume your last story is a prequel to this one?" she added.
"You assume correctly," Sister Hilda replied, visibly relaxing. "Now, are you sitting comfortably?" she added in her best Julia Lang impression. Sister Frances nodded in reply. "Then I'll begin."
Midsummer's Evening 1942
"Wow, Rosie, what a view," Scott gasped in awe, staring out into the sunset.
"It's the best view of London," Rosie replied, "I've been coming up onto Hampstead Heath since I was a child," she added.
The remains of their picnic had been packed back into Rosie's wicker hamper. Rosie sat upon a tartan picnic blanket, a tin mug of cider in her hand, her gaze altering between the palette of colours dancing across London's skyline, and Scott's rugged silhouette. She could not remember a time when she had been happier or more content in her life.
As the sun disappeared below the horizon, Scott returned to Rosie's side on the blanket, lying on his side so that he could stare up adoringly at her. He placed his hand on her thigh, gently caressing her. Rosie burst into giggles before leaning forward and pressed a delicate kiss onto Scott's lips. Reciprocating he took her in his arms, drawing her closer to him.
As they pulled apart, Scott whispered in her ear, "thank you for this evening, I can't imagine anything more perfect."
"We should be getting back," Rosie admitted, albeit halfheartedly.
"Must we?" Scott asked, rolling onto his back, "should we not be making the most of the longest night of the year?"
"What did you have in mind?" Rosie asked, lying on her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows.
Scott stroked Rosie's chin as one would a pet cat and allowed a broad smile to spread across his face before saying "I'm under the impression there's an old English tradition that happens on Midsummer's Eve."
Rosie's heart missed a beat, her blue eyes sparkling, even in the twilight.
"I am aware of such a tradition," Rosie replied, a mixture of nervousness and excitement beginning to course through her veins. Scott's smile broadened even further, his eyes meeting hers in mutual understanding. "But, really? With me?" Rosie asked.
"I want you, my English Rose," Scott sighed, the emotion ringing on every syllable, "ever since I first laid eyes on you, you've made me the happiest man on this earth. Oh Rosie," he breathed, taking her in his arms again.
Rosie's breathing was becoming shallower with excitement, the cider she had drunk was now only one of the contributing factors to the dizzy, frenzied, feeling that was beginning to course through her. She knew where this was leading. And she knew what the consequences were. "We must be careful, Scott," she breathed.
"Of course," Scott replied, far more rationally than Rosie had anticipated, "I would not be anything else." He reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out a small tin of sheaths.
"What? You mean he had them in his pocket, all ready to go?" interrupted Sister Frances.
"Well they would have no use back at his barracks," Sister Hilda replied, "they're the sort of thing one needs to have close to hand in such situations." Ignoring the slightly horrified look on Sister Frances' face she continued, "all the GIs were given sheaths as part of standard issue, oh yes," she added in response to Sister Frances' rapidly dropping jaw.
"But why?" Sister Frances asked, "surely that would just encourage them?"
"Soldiers, sailors, military men of any sort have never required encouragement in that regard," Sister Hilda replied, "the American army considered it far more cost effective to issue sheaths than deal with the inevitable venereal disease which has ripped through the armed forces since time immemorial. Have you never had to nurse any ex-servicemen in District practice? Or any of the girls in fact?"
Sister Frances shook her head in response.
Sister Hilda pulled a face which suggested she was making mental notes before continuing "Romeo's Prophylactics they were called, presumably they were aiming for the more romantic connotations rather than the macabre. They came in a little red and white tin," she added, reminiscently.
"What did you do?" asked Sister Frances.
With a pointed glance and a wry smile, Sister Hilda continued her story.
"What if we're seen Scott?" Rosie asked.
"We haven't seen anyone for the last hour, no-one's going to come up here in the dark," Scott replied reassuringly.
"I don't know what to do," Rosie admitted, her usual bubbling confidence failing her at a crucial stage.
"I do," Scott replied confidently, "If you want to?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Yes," Rosie replied.
Scott lay Rosie gently on the picnic blanket, before throwing off his tunic and beginning to loosen his belt. The gravity of the situation suddenly hit Rosie. It was happening. And she couldn't think of anything she wanted more. A sensation, deep within her, that she'd never experienced before, gripped her, she became aware of her rasping breathing and rapid heart rate.
"Oh Rosie, I ache for you," Scott moaned, rolling his weight over so that he was lying on top of her. He ran his fingers through her hair, kissing her passionately on the mouth as he did so. Rosie ran a hand down Scott's muscular torso, stopping when she felt something below the waistband of his trousers. She looked at him, apprehensively.
"Take it," Scott breathed.
Fumbling with trouser buttons, Rosie succeeded in releasing Scott's manhood from its confines. She allowed a tentative hand to reach out and touch it. It surprised her, intrigued her, excited her. Scott moaned in pleasure in response to every touch. He propped his weight on his knees, one either side of Rosie's lower legs. He looked at her for permission, which Rosie's excited nod and smile granted. He began to slowly run his hand up the inside of her thigh, moved aside the silk of her underwear and began to touch her. Rosie gasped at the contact, but found herself raising up and parting her knees, allowing him greater access. Scott leaned himself forward, his free hand up by Rosie's head, supporting his weight, his lower half parallel to hers, resting between her knees. His other hand ventured further, his mouth pressed against Rosie's. He moaned softly, longing, aching for her. Rosie began to shuffle her panties down her legs. Realising what she was attempting to do, Scott helped her ease them slowly down, before discarding them in the vague direction of the picnic basket.
"You are sure?" he asked, beginning to prise the Romeo's tin open as he did so.
"I've never been so certain," Rosie replied.
Rosie watched as Scott positioned the sheath. She allowed her instincts to take over, as he lay across her again, she drew her knees up towards her chin.
"I'll be gentle," Scott promised.
At that moment Rosie felt Scott begin to enter her. She flinched and squeaked in surprise.
"No, no, don't stop," she gasped as she felt Scott begin to pull away, "I just need to get used to you," she added.
Scott breathed an audible sigh of relief, and resisting every urge that was coursing through him to thrust as hard and as deeply as he could, he edged slowly, softly, inside her, filling her. He held his position for a moment, waiting.
"Don't stop," Rosie assured.
"Now, move with me," Scott insisted, before pressing his mouth to hers, his free hand tracing every accessible contour. Rosie soon found her natural rhythm, and herself in a state in which she never knew could exist. Sensation on top of sensation. Pleasure without bounds.
The two broke apart and lay on their backs on the picnic blanket, panting for breath, staring into the starry sky above them. As they lay there Scott gently took Rosie's hand in his. Rosie's face glowed, a smile beaming from ear to ear.
"I love you Scott," she whispered.
"You're a wonderful girl Rosie," he replied, taking her once again into his arms.
Sister Hilda finished her story there. She sat, trying to avoid Sister Frances' gaze, anticipating something, she didn't really know what. Judgement, criticism. She didn't know.
"What did it feel like?" Sister Frances eventually asked.
"The first time did hurt a little to begin with," Sister Hilda admitted, "I was very nervous and I think I tensed up. But once I'd relaxed, without meaning to sound crude, it was like an empty space had been filled, physically and metaphorically. Like something I didn't know was missing finally slid into place. And then, the most wonderful sense of pleasure and contentment. I've never known any other feeling like it."
"The first time?" Sister Frances asked, curiously.
"Once you've done it once you lose your inhibitions," Sister Hilda replied, matter-of-factly. "It wasn't always on Hampstead Heath mind," she added, "we couldn't go to each other's lodgings so we used to book hotels for a night, whole weekends if we both had leave, we pitched an army tent on Southend Beach one night and made love beneath the stars."
"It must have been wonderful, to know that another person loved you that much," Sister Frances mused.
Sister Hilda shifted awkwardly on her bed, not wanting to acknowledge what the young nun had said.
"It's strange in a way isn't it?" Sister Frances continued to muse as if she had been told of nothing more scandalous than the contents of the church newsletter, "when a woman is pregnant, they trust us to know exactly what is going on, every step of the way, and what to do if something goes wrong. Yet, of all the women in the world, we nuns are the ones who never will truly know what they've been through to get to that stage. Or what they're going through at that point. Even if we've known a man..." - Sister Hilda allowed herself a smile at the Biblical nature of the phrase - "...we'll never know what it's like to give birth, or feel those first kicks, or see the joyful look on the father's face when we tell him, or even realise we are expecting. We just watch from afar, oh Sister, what's wrong?"
Sister Hilda's composure had shattered like fine glass. She began to sob and hid her face in her scapular. Sister Frances got off her chair and had started to climb onto the bed, but Sister Hilda pushed her away, hard enough that she nearly toppled backwards.
"I want you to go," Sister Hilda sniffed between sobs.
"Please, let me, I'm sorry," Sister Frances stammered, tears beginning to well in her eyes, reaching to take her Sister's hand which was not holding her scapular.
"Go! Now!" Sister Hilda shouted at her, a ferocity in her voice the like of which Sister Frances had never encountered before. She didn't need to be told again, and scarpered as fast as she could, shutting the door with a thud behind her.
Once she could no longer hear footsteps, Sister Hilda allowed nearly twenty-five years worth of tears to floor down her face. She wiped the worst of them away and shuffled down her bed so that just her head was resting on the pillow. Staring at the cold, hard, ceiling above her, her hands instinctively found their way to the cradle of her hips, her fingers touching but motionless, her thumbs remained apart, but making the softest, warmest, of movements upwards against the folds of her habit. Tears continued to trickle down her face.
"Oh love," she whispered, "dear, sweet, love."