The Spiral Staircase. Karen Armstrong

autumn of 1967, she was in her final year at St Anne’s, reading French and Italian, and because we were the only two student nuns in the community, we were thrown much together. We went to the convent chapel together after lunch every afternoon to perform all our spiritual duties, one after the other, in a soulless marathon of examination of conscience, rosary, spiritual reading and thirty minutes of mental prayer. The idea was that we should get these ‘out of the way’, so that we could spend the evening studying. When we had finished praying, we took a forty-five minute walk. And we talked.

      Although we were not supposed to form friendships, Rebecca and I were so isolated from the other students and from the rest of the community that inevitably a relationship developed. We both loved our work but had nobody else to discuss it with. I would tell her all about Milton, and she would impart to me her latest discoveries about Dante or Proust. But the conversation did not always remain on such an exalted level. I was beginning to rebel. The Oxford community was not an easy one. Most of the nuns there were adamantly opposed to the reforms, about which both Rebecca and I were excited. The evening recreation would often consist of long communal lamentations about the abolition of the old ways, and Rebecca and I would exchange sardonic looks. I discovered that beneath her apparently perfect exterior, Rebecca had quite a sharp tongue and a salty turn of phrase, though she was unfailingly sweet to the older nuns and never showed her irritation, as I so frequently did.

      During our walks, Rebecca had listened to my growing saga of frustration with the religious life. She had been a lifeline in that last difficult year, but she had not shared my disenchantment. Why had she summoned me? I wondered, as we pulled into the station. Was she in trouble? We had arranged that she would meet my train with the convent car, but I did not see her on the platform; nor was she in the entrance hall after I had handed in my ticket. Then, suddenly, I caught sight of a nun standing beneath the old-fashioned wall-clock, wearing one of those modern habits that gave her the appearance of an Edwardian nurse. There was something familiar about her but she was far, far too thin. That could not be Rebecca. I looked around again, but found my gaze drawn back to that modest figure, whose eyes were meekly cast down on the tiled floor. The nun looked up, and her face brightened with delighted recognition, as she gave me a small, discreet wave. And for a moment, my heart stopped.

      Gone was the serene Madonna. This nun looked as though she had just been released from a concentration camp or was in the final stages of cancer. Her face had shrunk, so that she looked all eyes, which now seemed huge and protuberant. There were cavernous hollows beneath her sharply-etched cheekbones. As she crossed the hall towards me, I was appalled to see how skeletal her legs were. She was about five foot ten inches, and could not have weighed more than eighty pounds. But when she spoke, her voice was the same 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.’