"What can I do to help?" Sister Frances asked.
"Nothing, nothing at all," Sister Hilda replied, "excuse me," she added, getting up from her chair and swiftly exiting the kitchen.
Sister Frances knew she was powerless to stop Sister Hilda's retreat, so she sat finishing her tea in silent contemplation. Just hours ago, she had comforted Charlotte and Bob, strangers to her, somehow knowing what to say to them, how to help them begin to process the loss of their daughter. But she had no idea how to help Sister Hilda, the woman who had nurtured her and guided her since she was seventeen, who had gone through the same thing. How could she be wise to the world's problems, when she could not do anything to solve one under her own roof, in the heart and mind of one so dear to her?
The tolling of the bell for Lauds interrupted the tumultuous thoughts rolling through Sister Frances' mind. She swilled her and Sister Hilda's teacups in the sink before heading to the chapel. Sister Hilda was already sitting there when she arrived, her face sullen, the dark rings under her eyes which betrayed a night of missed sleep even more pronounced. Sister Frances, subtly enough that no-one else noticed, gently stroked Sister Hilda's back as she walked past. She allowed herself the most fleeting of glances back as she continued past, and registered the faintest brightening of her consoeur's startling blue eyes.
Sister Julienne sent both Sisters Frances and Hilda to bed after breakfast, instructing them that all but their evening rounds had been reassigned so that they could adequately recover from the night that they'd had. Despite their physical and emotional exhaustions, neither woman slept soundly. Both found themselves gripped with guilt. One for being unable to save a child, the other for being able to care for and comfort a grieving mother. Neither felt able to fulfil their vocation.
A few hours of sleep refreshed Sister Frances and the cheese-on-toast and sponge cake she'd rustled up in lieu of lunch perked her up enormously. As she washed up her plate, Sister Julienne appeared at the kitchen door, smiled warmly at her and said, "I always find cake to be a great healer."
It was at this moment that Sister Frances noticed the sprinkling of cake crumbs on her scapular. Before she had time to react, Sister Julienne had wiped them off for her and put an arm gently around her shoulders.
"It never gets any easier," Sister Julienne admitted kindly when Sister Frances made no comment or indication of wanting to speak, "however many you see, at whatever stage of the pregnancy, a stillborn child will always be a source of great pain and loss, for all concerned."
"What hurts me the most is that my best, my all, wasn't enough. There was nothing I could do to help." Sister Frances replied.
"Baby Rosen is at peace now, in the hands of Our Lord. We must pray for her and her parents," Sister Julienne suggested.
"And perhaps, for her midwives," Sister Frances added.
Sister Julienne pulled back slightly and stared at Sister Frances thoughtfully. Sister Frances took her Superior's silence as an indication to elaborate, "I think Sister Hilda could do with an extra one anyway."
"Does she blame herself for what happened?" Sister Julienne enquired.
"She knows it wasn't her fault," Sister Frances replied sincerely, "I think she." She paused, not knowing what to say next. Not knowing how to respond to her Superior with honesty without betraying her friend's greatest secret. "I think she's a little sensitive at the moment." She pulled a face, hoping the euphemism would be understood. Sister Julienne's eyebrows raised fractionally. "That," Sister Frances continued more truthfully, "and being so tired yesterday, she's allowed things to get to her, more than usual." She let out a breath of relief as she finished.
"I'm sure this can be discussed when she wakes," Sister Julienne replied, not entirely convinced of Sister Frances' explanation, "until then, we should leave her to rest, and to grieve," she added, patting Sister Frances on the back and disappearing out of the kitchen.
A knotting sensation rose in Sister Frances' stomach in response to Sister Julienne's words. "If only you knew," she thought. Twenty four years of needing to grieve would not be solved in a single afternoon. A thought then dawned upon her. She checked the time. There was more than enough time for this. She skipped back to her cell, scraped together the remains of her allowance into her pocket and then, sneaking out the front door, she headed towards Poplar High Street where she knew there was a florist. She chose a posy of whites, muted colours, and greenery and carefully carried it back to Nonnatus House, placing it into a jam jar full of water upon her return.
It was now almost three o'clock, and Sister Frances concluded that if Sister Hilda wasn't already awake she would need to, otherwise she'd never get to sleep tonight. She made a cup of tea and carried it and the posy of flowers up to Sister Hilda's cell. With a bit of a balancing act, she managed to knock on the door without depositing water or tea down herself or onto the floor. Her knock was not immediately answered. She listened at the door, endeavouring not to lean on it lest she fell through it again. Someone was definitely inside. She managed to turn the door handle with a couple of spare fingers and began to creep inside. The sight that greeted her pained and shocked her to the core.
"Oh Sister," she breathed.
Sister Hilda was sitting motionless on her bed, dressed only in her underwear and cotton slip. Her damp hair was limp against her face, her blue eyes bloodshot, framed with blotches. A towel and various items of clothing lay strewn around her, as though she hadn't been able to face going any further down the path of normality and expectation. On any other day, walking in on one of her consoeurs, or indeed anyone, in a state of undress would have left Sister Frances cringing with embarrassment. But today all she could focus on was the woman in front of her. It had never occurred to her that Sister Hilda might have blonde hair. It wasn't until she registered her pale bare arms and usually-hidden collar bones, protruding markedly above her slip which clinged limpet-like to her slender torso, that she realised how slim Sister Hilda was. She looks so small. Vulnerable. Forlorn. Waves of pity washed over Sister Frances. She walked over to Sister Hilda's bed, put the flowers and the cup of tea on the bedside table and sat beside her, resting her head against her shoulder, taking her nearest hand in hers. After a moment, she felt Sister Hilda squeeze it.
"You must think me an awful fool," Sister Hilda murmured.
"You know that I don't," Sister Frances replied, handing her the cup of tea.
Sister Hilda sipped at her tea and continued, "everything just got too close to home last night. I wouldn't have got so upset on any other day."
"However many we see, at whatever stage of the pregnancy, the death of a baby will always be a source of great pain and loss, for all concerned," Sister Frances replied, reiterating Sister Julienne's observation, "but it must be so much worse if it's your own. I can't begin to imagine."
"I thought I'd put all of this behind me," Sister Hilda sniffed.
"You don't need to," Sister Frances replied kindly.
"But now all I want is to hold them in my arms." Sister Hilda's voice cracked and she began to cry into Sister Frances' habit.
"I thought," Sister Frances began, "we could go together, and place these on their grave." She reached over, picked up the posy-filled jam jar. Sister Hilda took it in her hand and breathed in its scent. A few fresh tears began to leak from the corners of Sister Hilda's eyes, but they were accompanied by the slightest traces of a smile that began to wrinkle the corners of her mouth.
"You are an angel," Sister Hilda whispered before pressing a kiss onto the top of Sister Frances' head, "but I can't, not today."
"You can," Sister Frances confirmed, "I have faith in you. Trust me. Come on," she added, picking up Sister Hilda's habit off the floor and making to throw it over her head.
Reluctantly and apprehensively, Sister Hilda allowed Sister Frances to help her dress. The younger nun then sponged the tears from her consoeurs face and carefully combed out the tangles in her hair. At the front doorway, Sister Frances helped Sister Hilda into her coat and led her by the hand out into the street. The two nuns walked in silence, hand-in-hand, as far as the gate to All Saints' Churchyard. There, Sister Frances wiggled her hand free, opened the gate to let Sister Hilda pass, and waited for her to take the lead. Sister Hilda managed a weak smile before beginning to pace slowly across the graveyard.
"Here we are," Sister Hilda whispered, coming to a halt in front of the corner of the church.
Sister Frances held out the posy, motioning encouragingly to Sister Hilda to take it from her. Sister Hilda leant to place the flowers over her child's grave, stepped back as she straightened up, crossed herself after a moment of silent prayer, and burst into tears once more.
"You're safe," Sister Frances whispered, putting her arms round Sister Hilda and drawing her to her, "and you are both so very loved."
Sister Hilda reciprocated the embrace and snuggled her face into Sister Frances' shoulder and whispered "thank you, so much."
"It was the very least I could do," Sister Frances replied. "Actually," she admitted, "it was the only thing I could think of to do." She allowed herself a smile as she felt Sister Hilda chuckle softly against her.
Sister Hilda pulled out of the embrace enough to be able to look directly at Sister Frances and said, "one who is wise of the ways of the world is not someone who has travelled it, or mingled in every strata of society, or even someone who has led a long, a varied, or a challenging life, but someone who knows her own capabilities and can use them to their full potential in every situation that she is presented with. But above all, like you, she knows how to love."