The Wright Sisters - Kicking the habit: From Convent to Casualty in 60s Liverpool

To the memory of Sister Antoinette Maleuvre, s.c.e Novice Mistress 195265 and to all those sisters of the Congregation of the Sisters of Charity of Our Lady of Evron, with whom I shared eight wonderful and enriching years.

Text copyright 2013 Eleanor Stewart
This edition copyright 2013 Lion Hudson

The right of Eleanor Stewart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Lion Books
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Lion Hudson plc
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Oxford OX2 8DR, England
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ISBN 978 0 7459 5611 4
e-ISBN 978 0 7459 5770 8

First edition 2013

Acknowledgments
Scripture quotations are taken from The Jerusalem Bible, published and copyright 1966, 1967 and 1968 by Darton, Longman & Todd Ltd and Doubleday and Co. Inc, and used by permission of the publishers.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Cover image: Liverpool Cameron Davidson/Getty; Author Picture Eleanor Stewart

PART 1

Would you like a drink? Susans question to me, in the roomy Caravelle aircraft that brought us to France on a sunny September day in 1961, was posed in the lofty tones of the seasoned air traveller.

A drink? I said uncertainly. I was beginning to feel a bit unsure of myself, despite my self-conscious sophistication. I had never been on an aeroplane before. Did one pay for drinks? What sort of drinks did one have? In the end, she took pity on me, although I had been so cocky up until then she could have been forgiven for taking a slightly malicious satisfaction in putting me on the spot.

Im going to have a sherry, she said at last. Gratefully, I accepted one too.

I was nowhere near as confident as I looked; uncertainty about the drink had rattled me and I began unexpectedly to have an overwhelming feeling of general apprehension. What the devil am I doing? I thought. And where the devil am I going? Its one thing to think about becoming a nun in the abstract, to stun your friends with your announcement, to decide to take the plunge when you are sitting at home with the reassuring support and pride of your mother, and quite another to find yourself literally flying toward it. My hands felt clammy. I hadnt even looked up my final destination on a map, for heavens sake; I only knew that the Mother House was in a small town in the heart of rural France. What had seemed a lovely adventure when I first set off was becoming frightening. I looked at my companion out of the corner of my eye, wondering if I wanted a drink at all.

Following Susan, I stumbled out of the Arrivals hall. A young, slim, and very pretty nun was waiting for us. With admirable efficiency, she collected our suitcases and shepherded us outside. She was supremely aloof, and ignored the low catcalls she got from the assembled taxi drivers. Summoning one with a raised hand, which I noticed had beautifully cared-for fingernails, she bundled us into the cab.

Isnt she elegant! I whispered, looking at her black habit, snow-white headband, and neat but floating veil. My companion was silent. There is something very unsettling about a comment being ignored. I barely knew Susan, who was going to enter the convent with me; I did hope she was not going to remain quite so distant.

Paris was shimmeringly hot and unbelievably exotic. The traffic, the buildings, the crowd, the noise and chatter crowded in on me. It was a barrage of sound, and all of it incomprehensible. I was a small-town girl and the panic attack on the plane was forgotten. I might never be here again. I mustnt miss anything, I thought. I offered up a quick prayer: Thank you, dear Lord, for helping me to choose this French congregation. I remembered some of the grim English ones I had met on exploratory visits to other convents. Certainly my proud sophistication began to slip a bit; I was as excited as a schoolgirl, which was what I was! Susan and the pretty nun exchanged a few words as we drove through the streets, the former translating as we went along.

Were going to have lunch in the Sisters convent in Rue de Roule, and then perhaps go out to see a bit of the city, said Susan. Our train isnt until this evening. She gave me a thin smile, which I returned, determined not to be put off by her coolness. It was understandable; we had no common ground apart from entering the same religious congregation as postulants at the same time. If I was horribly brash and affected, then she, older than me, had all the reserve that foreigners associate with the English. She was a highly qualified music teacher and I a barely educated teenager. Propinquity made us friends in the end; our Englishness allowed us to present a united front against some of the more arcane customs that we would meet during our noviciate.

The convent was a tenement flat in a narrow street behind the recently demolished market Les Halles, leaving, I was told, the biggest hole in Europe. The sisters ran an inexpensive canteen for local people, distributing any leftovers to the homeless. It was all so different from England, where nuns ran schools and hospitals, in the main for the affluent. This convent was small, and so was the community: just four nuns. Inside, it was oppressively claustrophobic, but the welcome was warm and a smiling nun came bustling toward us, wiping her hands on her apron.

Sister Superior, said Susan.

The bedrooms, where we stowed our cases, were also very small, a couple of narrow beds in each. I was initially charmed by their austerity, although even then, when I had begun to find asceticism quite appealing, it did occur to me that living in such very close proximity, in the intimacy of a bedroom, might give rise to more than a few difficulties. My bedroom at home was my own personal bolt-hole; there didnt seem to be anything very personal here.

Are the bedrooms as small as this in the Noviciate? I asked Susan. It had not occurred to me that I might have to share.

Im not sure; I havent been upstairs in the Noviciate. She had visited the Mother House the previous summer. I think there are dormitories. I slept in a guest room. It was bigger than this.

Dormitories! Once again, under all my excitement, there was a pang of trepidation and my hands felt clammy. I had not shared a bedroom since boarding school.

All activities in that small convent meals, recreation, and work seemed to take place in the kitchen. Apart from the bedrooms, where was the rest of it? The Sister Superior took us along a passage and opened a door.