Chapter Eight

THE SERVICE OF THE MASS was so familiar that Murdoch had stopped listening. The Latin words slipped through his mind in a meaningless flow. He had been directed to the small chapel, where there were three other communicants, all women, all with black shawls covering their heads, almost indistinguishable from the nuns themselves. On the other side of the altar, out of sight, were the sisters. Susanna’s coffin was on that side. He had not been allowed to see her body, and he’d had to say his final good-bye through the grille.

HOC EST ENIM CORPUS MEUM.

The priest genuflected then stood and elevated the host. At this point in the Mass, the faithful were expected to say, “My Lord and my God,” but Murdoch was silent. He was close enough to the altar that the priest probably noticed, but Murdoch didn’t care. The priest, Fr. Proulx, had spoken to him directly after Susanna died, but he didn’t have much English and they were awkward with each other.

It was left to Sister Agnes to instruct Murdoch on the procedure of the funeral. A High Mass was to be held at seven o’clock. Susanna’s body would be buried in the little cemetery behind the convent, but this, too, was enclosed, and he would not be allowed to visit the grave. “Monsieur Lavalle will take you to the station. Our Reverend Mother wishes me to extend to you her sincerest condolences. She also would like to inform you that Sister Philomena died shriven.”

Murdoch bit back a retort. He wouldn’t have expected anything else given she was a professed nun. God had called her and now had claimed her. He felt a momentary pinch of fear at his own thoughts, which were approaching the blasphemous.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the extern had ushered him into a tiny room adjoining the parlour where there was a couch. He hadn’t expected to sleep, but fatigue won out and he had actually fallen into a restless sleep, disturbed by dreams of pursuit and a monster that changed its shape every time he thought he had escaped. At six-thirty the convent bells began to peal. Sister Agnes returned, bringing him a slice of bread and a cup of strong, bitter coffee. She made no attempt at conversation, but her expression was kind. Shyly she indicated that there was a commode behind a screen in the corner of the room. On the washstand was a jug of tepid water and a razor and soap. When she left him alone, he felt an intense and childish pang of loneliness.

The priest had uncovered the chalice and was consecrating the wine now.

HIC EST ENIM CALIX SANGUINIS MEI NOVI ET AETERNI TESTAMENT …

Again Murdoch’s thoughts drifted away. The chapel was austere enough, but the chalice was of an ornate gold and there was a life-sized crucifix hung above the altar. He wondered what Mrs. Enid Jones would think about such adornments. As far as he knew the Baptist Church wouldn’t even allow a wooden cross in the church, and the ministers wore black suits. He sighed. It was at times like this that he had to face how far apart they were in their respective faiths. Suddenly, he heard his sister’s name, her religious name that is. Fr. Proulx was reciting a prayer for the dead.

Memento etiam, Domine, famulorum tuarum. SOEUR PHILOMENA, qui nos praecesserunt cum signo fidei, et dormiunt ni somno paces. He looked in his missal, although he knew what the words meant. In spite of his anger, they gave him comfort.

Remember also, Lord, your handmaiden, who has gone before us with the sign of faith and rests in the sleep of peace.

In a brief conversation with Sister Agnes, Murdoch realised that they believed him to be the sole remaining member of the family. In fact, he hadn’t heard anything of his father for many years, but he assumed he was still alive. He didn’t know if Susanna had deliberately chosen not to tell the nuns or if it was a misunderstanding. Neither he nor his sister had seen their father since Bertie’s death. A few days after he’d gone, Murdoch and Susanna, afraid of what could happen between him and his father, had fled. He was just thirteen; she was nine. They had made their way to their only aunt, their mother’s older sister, who lived forty miles away up the coast of Nova Scotia. Aunt Weldon was a spinster, a teacher who took them in because she had to – because our Lord commands us to have charity or we are as nothing. She had repeated this many times.

The priest was breaking the Host over the chalice, and the flat piece of unleavened bread made a snapping sound. Fr. Proulx was grey haired, well past middle age, and stooped. He had to peer shortsightedly at the book his server held in front of him.

The priest turned to face the communicants and held out the Host. One by one, the three women stood up and went to the communion rail. Murdoch followed them and they knelt together at the altar rail. He opened his mouth, and Fr. Proulx placed the bread on his tongue.

Corpus Domini nostri Jesus Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen.

He then turned to the side of the altar to offer the Host to the nuns. They were all hidden from view, and Murdoch could see only the priest as he reached forward to the invisible woman at the prie-dieu.

Murdoch went back to the pew, trying to swallow the wafer of bread, which stuck to the roof of his mouth. The nuns were singing a Miserere. He knelt down and tried to say the Paternoster.

He heard a sniffle beside him. One of the women was weeping. At what? She couldn’t possibly have known Susanna. It was pure sentimental rubbish that she was crying like that. Murdoch’s own eyes were dry. He was too angry to cry.

The singing ceased and the priest completed his rituals at the altar, wiping the chalice with the cloth and replacing it in the ciborium. He kissed the altar and turned to face the four of them.

Dominus vobiscum.

“And with thy spirit,” replied the crying woman, her Latin somewhat indistinct.

Both priest and server made the sign of the cross, and Murdoch did the same. The mass was over. Fr. Proulx and the server disappeared into the sanctum, and the three women slipped away without any talking or acknowledgement of each other or him. He sat for a moment longer, the pungent odour of the incense tingling in his nostrils. The candles in the sconces flickered. It was daylight outside but another snow-filled grey morning, and the light in the chapel was dim.