WAITING & SERVING.

A NUN WAITS IN THE REFECTORY TO SERVE THE OTHER NUNS.

Sister Bede stirs the soup simmering on the stove. The steam rises upwards like incense. She can hear her mother saying, you got a degree to stir soup? Three years at Oxford to waste away in some convent with a honours degree stirring soup? She can hear her mother’s words cackling like hens. Beef soup, thick and hot. She watches it go around in the huge saucepan. Clockwise then anticlockwise. Slowly stirring. Mother never wanted me to be a nun, she mutters to herself, looking over her shoulder at Sister Frances cutting the meat, her eyes focussed, her hands busy. Her mother had threatened to cut her off, but she never did, she always had to have a dig, always say things about the nuns and her favourite saying was, shutting yourself away with all those queer old women. They’re not all old. Some are my age, some younger. She looks back at the soup. She pauses stirring. Nearly ready. She spoons out a small drop and tastes. Just right. She puts the spoon in the sink. Sister Frances brings the trolley with meat, vegetables, gravy and helps Sister Bede lift the huge saucepan on to the trolley and pours some soup into smaller tureens. Not a word is exchanged; just gestures with hands and fingers and facial expressions. Ready. She pushes the trolley into the refectory; the nuns are all there. Waiting. The abbess is at the far end waiting, her eyes downcast in prayer or deep thought, Sister Bede muses, pushing the trolley to where Sister Joseph waits ready to help serve. Mother would find this so inexplicable. A room of women standing waiting in silence. Her scornful voice ghostly echoes in her ears. She stands and waits. Sister Leo stands to her left. She tries not to gaze too obviously. So tall. So elegant. The robes make her look so saintly. Sister Leo smiles discreetly. Flutter. Her heart flutters. Sister Bede looks away; pretends to be busy, shifting spoons quietly. She’s still looking. Smiling still. Her eyes dark as rooks; her lips open just enough to allow air in. The hands crossed, slim fingers touching. Sister Bede hears the tap and nod from the abbess. Time to begin. The nun on the platform begins to read from a book. All others are silent waiting for food and water. She lifts the tureen of soup onto the nearest table and places a large ladle beside it. She looks up and Sister Leo is busy pouring water for a nun next door to her. Thoughtful. Charitable. Sister Bede carries another tureen of soup to the next table, knowing eyes were on her now. Sister Leo watches as she passes by. Flutter. The heart catches in her breast. She moves on to the next table and lift the tureen onto the top. She waits now. Stands still; eyes downwards. She catches the odd phrases from the nun reading. Not the word of God; some book on Cromwell, she believes. Her mother would shake her head at this standing around. What a waste. Time waits for no one, she often said. Time is no one’s servant. Lifting her eyes she gazes at Sister Leo spooning soup slowly to her lips. Those lips. Soft spoken. Words flow from them like a Mozartian melody. There was that kiss. Kisses. She puts the thoughts away. Tries to catch more words from the nun reading, pushes the images from her mind, sees sunlight make a straight piercing ray of light onto the refectory floor. Warmth. A trickle of perspiration runs down her spine. She wants to mop her brow; senses beads of sweat clinging there. Such a waste Mother would say, all those old queer women thrown together behind high walls. She pushes her mother’s words away; lift her eyes to the crucifix above the abbess’s table, the Christ staring down, the dark eyes searching, the arms outstretched, beads of sweat and blood hang on His brow. Love is all there is to know; she knows that now.