and I had to face it. This was indeed Rebecca, but dreadfully, frighteningly altered. Quickly, I pulled my own face into what I hoped was an answering smile. ‘I didn’t recognize you for a moment in your new habit,’ I murmured, as we exchanged the nun-like kiss, pressing each other’s cheeks smartly, one after the other. I kept smiling. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’
‘And so good of you to come.’ Together we crossed the station forecourt and got into the car.
‘This is a first,’ I said, in what I hoped was a cheery tone of voice. ‘How long have you been allowed to drive? We could have done with this car in Oxford. Think of the lovely trips we could have taken!’
‘To the Cotswolds … Blenheim … how is it all? I do miss it.’ Rebecca inched through the traffic and we started the forty-minute drive to the convent.
‘Oh, it’s all much the same,’ I replied. ‘Though, of course, it isn’t the same being “outside”.’
‘You sound as though you’ve just got out of prison!’ We laughed uneasily, our eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. ‘But it’s all so different “inside” these days,’ she continued. ‘The car, the habit – those are the most obvious changes, and we have more baths, more talking. We can make our cells into bed-sitting-rooms and give each other cups of Nescafe. It’s probably a bit like St Anne’s – lots of girlish laughter; intense discussions and pop psychology. We all sit around talking about how damaged we are.’
There we were; we had arrived at the heart of what was uppermost in both our minds. There was silence, and then Rebecca said quietly: ‘Karen, thank you for not saying anything.’
‘About your weight.’ It was not a question. I forced myself to turn and look directly at her. ‘When did it happen?’
‘Very quickly.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘In London, while I was doing the Certificate of Education. I hated it, hated teaching – and I just got thinner and thinner.’
‘But what is it?’
‘Anorexia nervosa, the eating disease.’ I nodded. Besides Charlotte, a number of other girls in college had it. ‘At first the doctors thought that I might just have an over-active thyroid. Everybody was very keen on that – anything so long as I wasn’t suffering from a mental illness, an emotional disorder. Some of the community still refuse to accept it.’ Again I nodded wordlessly. I could imagine that all too well.
‘But what are they going to do about it?’ I demanded. An eating disorder required hospitalization, special programmes and expert help. It could, in extreme cases, even be fatal.
‘Nothing,’ Rebecca said flatly.
‘But you need a doctor!’ I persisted. ‘You can’t teach looking like that.’
‘Oh yes, I can,’ Rebecca spoke grimly, and I was beginning to sense that underneath the studied calm she was very, very angry. ‘I’m teaching French in the school here, and Reverend Mother Provincial says that she cannot find a replacement at the moment. And then,’ her voice took on a real edge, ‘in a few years, I am to be the next headmistress.’
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