The bell rang and I got up to go.
“God bless you, dear.” Her voice was affectionate, almost tender. I walked to the door.
“Karen,” she said suddenly. I turned to look at her. Her face was solemn now and her eyes steadily commanded full attention. “Karen,” her voice was quiet. “Remember that blank check, won’t you?”
For a long, long moment there was silence. Mother Katherine was looking hard at me, trying to find the words—for what? I waited, looking at the apprehension in her face, wondering what was in her mind. Finally she spoke.
“It’s a very austere order, you know.”
“I want to be a nun.” Once more the words were out. But this time they fell into no welcoming acceptance. My parents froze with horror.
It was the summer holidays. We were sitting in the living room waiting for supper. Outside the hot sun blazed through the thin silvery curtains that softly muted its glare. My parents each had a drink.
“Have a sherry, Karen!” my father said. I refused emphatically. I could never be persuaded to drink. My ideas about Granny were more clearly formulated now. I was too like her ever to dare to take one fatal step down the liquid path to alcoholism. She had ruined her life by not becoming a nun, I thought. That too was a factor in my decision.
I had not intended to broach the subject that evening. We had been discussing my future. My mother asked me whether I was still thinking of staying on at school an extra term after taking my A-levels.
I knew only too well how much my parents longed for me to go to Oxford. Nobody in my family had ever gone there before and it seemed a paradise to them, a fairytale world of intellectual perfection.
“No,” I said slowly. It was no good allowing them to cling to this hope. I felt their disappointment sharply fill the room. “No, I don’t think I want to do that now.”
“But what do you want to do?” my father asked unhappily.
“I want to be a nun.”
In the silence that followed, I sat, trembling slightly, feeling sick and excited. I had dreaded telling my parents, but now, for good or ill, the die was cast.
“But why?” asked my mother. The question came out in a bewildered wail.
“I want to give my life to God,” I answered shakily. These answers had seemed quite in place in Mother Katherine’s study, but here they seemed thin and unreal.
“But you can do that quite as well in the world!” snapped my mother briskly. She had obviously decided on the no-nonsense approach.
“No, you can’t,” I said, “not really. I mean, honestly, how much time do we all have for God at the moment? Oh, I know we’re good Catholics and all that. We go to Mass every Sunday, we don’t eat meat on Friday, we go to Confession twice a month. But that’s not enough for me. We fit God into our lives but they’re crowded with other things.”
“But there’s nothing to stop you from going to Mass every morning if you want to,” my mother said. “You often do, anyway.” My father just sat there, turning his glass round and round.
“But even that’s not really enough,” I said. “Seeking God has got to be a full-time commitment. A profession, if you like. He’s too important for half-measures.”
“But why not think about it again after you have been to Oxford?” asked my father miserably. “You’ll be a bit older then, you’ll have had a chance to look around a bit and see …” he trailed off.
“See whether it is convenient for me to enter a convent,” I finished for him. “Put the world first and give God second option.” I was determined to counter this approach. It seemed so reasonable but was, I felt, quite wrong.
“If you’ve got a true vocation it will last a few years,” said my mother rather crossly. I could tell she was feeling that she was losing control of me. I had never really argued with her before. She was so firm and definite in her views and needed so much to impose them on me so that I should be exactly what she wanted. If I argued with her, such an uncomfortable atmosphere ensued that it just wasn’t worth it. She was astonished and hurt, I could tell, by my obstinacy.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “You can throw a vocation away, you know, just like everything else. I might get to like the world too much to want to put God first.” I could see that happening. Once I was at Oxford the world would beckon with all its seductive wiles. I could not imagine what these might be. The world seemed futile and trivial now, but human nature was weak. I could easily persuade myself that the sacrifice I had decided on was not for me. “After all,” I added cunningly, “look what happened to Granny.”
It was a direct hit. My mother gave a start and looked moodily at the fireplace. My father shifted in his chair, which squeaked uncomfortably.
“But you can’t mean to go now,’ my mother said despairingly. “You’re much too young. You’re only sixteen.”
“No, but I can go next year when I’m seventeen,” I replied firmly.
“It’s ridiculous,” said my mother hotly, “quite ridiculous. A child of seventeen—oh, I know you don’t think you’re still a child, but you are. Anyway, it’s quite out of the question. They’d never accept you as young as that.”
“Mother Katherine said they would,” I replied, watching them carefully. It was another hit. They both stiffened. They respected Mother Katherine. I knew that. They were also just a tiny bit in awe of her. Whenever my mother protested against school policy she had been gently and with considerable charm put firmly in her place. Mother Katherine was the only person I knew who could do that to her.
“You’ve already talked to her, then, have you?” asked my mother. I could tell that she was hurt. “How long have you been thinking about this, then?”
“Oh! quite a time now,” I replied vaguely. It was true. The decision had been quietly growing for years, now that I looked back over my life.
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” asked my father. “Did you think that we’d be so much against it?” He sounded aggrieved.
“Well, you are against it, aren’t you?” I countered.
Impasse. My mother waved her empty glass at my father, who, glad of something to do, leaped up and busied himself with the ice; he poured out large measures of gin, I noticed. I was sorry for them. They seemed out of their depth.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” my mother said impatiently. “What about all the things you’re going to miss—the theatre, books? How the hell do you think you’re going to adapt to community life? You haven’t even been to boarding school. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Life in the forces was hell. Endlessly cooped up with other people—all their annoying little habits get on your nerves till you could scream.” Her voice had risen now as the objections came tumbling out.
“Look,” I said quietly, amazed at my calm. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. Of course it isn’t. Mother Katherine has told me how hard it will be sometimes. But if it’s God’s will for me to become a nun, then my whole life will be ruined if I don’t. God has a special plan for each one of us. You don’t want me to mess up my whole life, do you?”
There was another