This novel took me many years to write, and because of the polyphonic structure it took, there are quite a few extracts which I decided to cut from the final manuscript. Many of them I remember quite vividly still – partly because of the way the characters appealed to me so strongly. Some incidents are well-known, and some less so. Some are made up with artistic licence. I thought I could publish some here in case anyone is interested. This short section does refer to a real moment, and a real piece of ‘vandalism’ committed by Therese, such was her love for the Jesus who was her everything. (I also have a poem about the incident in my Paraclete collection Therese: Poems)
In this extract, Therese’s sister Celine (Sister Genevieve of St Teresa) is speaking.
1898
I walk with Sister Teresa of Saint Augustine along the dormitory corridor to Saint Eloise, Therese’s last cell before her move to the infirmary. It is a spring day, and lemony sunlight pours in through the cell windows and pools in the corridor beside this now vacant cell door. We are taking the last of the moveable items down to the little room next to the sacristy, where Pauline has persuaded Marie de Gonzague to allow us to store mementos of our dead sister. Down there already are her habit and veils; her workbasket with its little spools of thread, needles, and stubby scissors; the cracked oil lamp she stubbornly preferred to newer versions, and the old writing desk she retrieved from herself from the attic a few years ago, insisting I take her better one myself. Housed there also are letters and manuscripts; these manuscripts there has been endless discussion about. Therese’s book. Her poems and playscripts. Her hair even, saved from her novitiate scalping nearly ten years ago.
But she is not there.
Today we collect the items from the entrance room where I joined the novices to be berated. Pauline has asked for the little booklets describing our rule to be collected and preserved; as well as any almanacs, holy cards, or little devotional items we may have missed. ‘Take Sister Teresa,’ Pauline had said. ‘She misses her too.’ Indeed. This sister of whom I was stupidly jealous until Therese herself told me how uncongenial she really found her: this was the reason for her efforts to be loving. Always the last are first in her heart.
Sister Teresa moves ahead of me into the cell. She turns, touches me lightly on the forearm and indicates that she will gather the booklets in the little cabinet to the right. I nod, do not manage to smile, and gesture with my head towards the farther room, the cell proper with its mattress and little table. It will be bare of course, but Sister Teresa does not remonstrate with me.
Entering this cell, the light seems to intensify. I close my eyes for a moment. My body fills with an infinite vacancy, then contracts to the simple pains of grief. Wanting to shut off the sounds of shuffling paper from the anteroom, I push the cell door shut. Have I ever been in the cell with the door closed? Perhaps when I gave her those terrible horse hair rub downs. I doubt I saw anything around us due to my tears. Now though, I see there are marks carved on the inside of the door. What is this? I go closer to examine it. The light coming through the window plays on the door, and though my shadow obscures it, it keeps dappling the wood and its inscription. But this is no nicely turned Scriptural quotation. This is Therese’s own childish scribble! And I stare at what she has seen fit to have written.
Jesus is my only love.
It is scored into the wood. She must have used the blunt point of a scissor blade. I put my finger to the door and trace the etched words. Like a child exploring a new medium. A lover carving the beloved’s name on a tree.
My eyes are stinging. But I am not purely overwhelmed with joy. Something in me is hurting.
What about me?
All those years from the belvedere evenings to the day of her death. All those years, I was the echo of her soul: but there is no echo of me here. I gave up my life in the world for her, but she left me again, and there is no echo of our twinned souls here. All I see is the prodigal act of a child; a best friend pulled away by romance.
I pull the door open again, obscuring what I have seen, and set my face into what I hope is competent authority. I indicate to Sister Teresa of Saint Augustine that I must speak to communicate an instruction. She bows her head, booklets gathered in her arms. ‘Sister Teresa, please fetch a plaque of blank wood and some nails, and the little hammer from the sacristy cupboard. There are some marks behind the cell door which I wish to be covered.’ I indicate the dimensions of the plaque I require; the size and shape of a large book. ‘Thank you.’ Sister Teresa’s eyes widen but she does not presume to argue with me.
While I wait I sit on the chair I used to occupy as an angry novice, and stare at the emptied bookshelves beside me.
Sarah Law 