On her first day at school, Christina Mary Costello looked Francis Xavier straight in the face and smiled. It was love at first sight. Sister Francis smiled back, suspecting danger… Christie was just four years old. Her green eyes narrowed, catlike, as she inspected the tall nun. In the dim light of the cloakroom, she liked everything she saw. Nuns today are poor creatures, covered, rather than dressed, in jumble-sale greys and blues, never the right length. They have varicose veins and straggling grey hair. In those days, all nuns were beautiful, all were mysterious, none more so than Sister Francis Xavier, elegant Headmistress of the Convent of the Holy Cross, her authority unquestioned. Except by Christie, of course, and at four, even Christie barely understood herself.

The Convent stood on a low green hill, safe within ivy-swagged walls. Richly pagan, darkly sexual, holly and ivy screened the grounds from prying eyes. Even while they played tennis or practised country dancing, convent girls were safely out of sight, disembodied shrieks and yells. It was rumoured that the younger nuns played hopscotch, kicking up dark robes in a flash of black stockings. No-one knew for sure. Boys who climbed the sandstone walls couldn’t see through all that shrouding laurel. Only special children attended the Convent. Only special parents could afford the fees. At eleven, or thereabouts, the clever went to increasingly rare grammar schools. Clever or not, the rich were packed off to boarding school.

The rich, of any faith or none, didn’t choose to live in the very ordinary suburb where Christie and her classmates were born. Christie’s parents made sacrifices to send their firstborn to the Convent. So did most Convent parents, and quite a few grandparents too. Even the richest weren’t very rich at all, including two undertakers, a bookie and a first-rate Jewish baker. Incidentally, and long before the ridiculous word was invented, Christie’s suburb perfected multiculturalism. In the days of Sunday trading laws, baker Manny Gold was a godsend to feckless Christian wives and mothers. Manny closed for the Sabbath, not the Christian Sunday. Channukah and Christmas often ran together, but wise Muslim shopkeepers always opened on Christmas Day, remembering to stock Paxo stuffing, fresh sprouts and batteries for every kind of toy. God seemed perfectly happy with these arrangements. As for the little matter of running out of bread… Laughing in Manny’s bakery, lovely Maggie Costello quoted the second chapter of Mark’s Gospel, on the subject of King David, in the time of Abiathar the High Priest. Manny laughed too, satisfied that the prophet Jesus was a wise and learned man, though not, of course, the Messiah. Manny’s three sons went to King David’s School, but for his only daughter, the Convent was quite good enough. Manny had inspected the Catholic Mass, found it reassuringly familiar, a good deal of it remarkably like shul. For now, Kay would come to no harm with the good sisters.

Christie started school on September 8th, the Birthday of the Blessed Virgin Mary, aka Our Lady, the Madonna and any number of other aliases. The nuns were giving a party for the birthday girl, a real party, complete with balloons, deafening games, a film, and a huge birthday cake, baked by Manny himself. Much to Christie’s disappointment, Our Lady herself failed to appear. Christie’s own birthday wasn’t till May 12th. (Much later, she’d discover that May 12th is Old May Day, aka Beltane)

The first day at school wasn’t perfect. Straight after falling in love with Sister Francis, Christie met her class teacher, Miss Angela Fisher. Used to her loving and good-looking parents, Christie had a rude awakening. Angela Fisher was a sour and ugly woman. The hand-knitted mustard suit didn’t help, especially with Miss Fisher’s muddy skin. At least five foot nine, she was gaunt rather than slender, but her stomach might belong to someone else. It stuck out oddly, like a five month pregnancy. Clinging knitwear did nothing to disguise this. Her breasts, firmly corseted, formed a hard shelf above a clumsy waist. Hoping for better things, Christie looked up into Miss Fisher’s eyes, but they were cold and hard as glass. Miss Fisher said, without love,

‘ You aren’t going to cry, are you? I won’t have cry babies in my class.’

Christie swallowed the hardness in her throat. With half a dozen other little girls, she followed Miss Fisher to the Kindergarten cloakroom. Here she must hang her coat and change her shoes. This changing of shoes was one of many distinctions that marked out convent girls from the common herd. Adult and an icon for lesser women, Christie remembered the convent whenever she kicked off dusty shoes, in Umbria or Cumbria or anywhere else. Kicked off, because she never did get the hang of laces. In a cloakroom smelling of floor polish, little Christie untied the laces of her brown outdoor shoes. How to manage the retying troubled her a good deal, but first things first. The shoes were unlaced, placed side by side in the shoe-rack below her peg. From the cloth shoe-bag, she took out her indoor sandals, and after a brief struggle, managed the buckles. She hung up her blazer, pausing for a moment, to memorise the picture that marked her peg. In the Kindergarten cloakroom, there was nothing so crude and unwelcoming as numbers. Every peg was marked with its owner’s name and a picture. Christie’s was a lady in a hooped skirt. A young lady, smiling and pretty, but her hair was white, tied with bright ribbons. Christie said, eagerly,

‘ I’ve seen ladies like that in a play called ‘She Stoops to Conquer’ It’s by Oliver Goldsmith. We went to the theatre this summer. Afterwards, the lady’s white hair came off and it was brown underneath.’

Miss Fisher stared. Four years old, Christie shouldn’t know about She Stoops to Conquer or any other play. It would be the parents’ fault, not the child’s. Forewarned and on the lookout for trouble, she said, sourly,

‘ Hang up your hat, and go to wash your hands with the others.’

At the end of the day, Christie counted up how many times she’d washed her hands. Once, on arriving at school, then before and after break, twice more at lunchtime, and of course, after every visit to what she must now call the lavatory. Such details were part of the package her parents had paid for. A lady must always have clean hands. This was an excellent rule for life and would prevent any number of stomach-bugs too. Half a mile down the road, classes of forty jostled for space and the teacher’s attention. Children who shared bedrooms huddled out in the rain to toilets that froze in winter, leaked all the year round, and smelt of pee. Both basins had no plugs. The soap was grey with dirty cracks. In Kindergarten, eighteen tiny boys and girls used a dozen child-sized lavatories and basins, washed with Pears and dried their hands on spotless white towels…

Christie learned many things that morning. One piece of news was important, and a huge relief too. After Christmas, the older children and anybody who could read would move up to Sister John Vianney. The androgynous nature of the nuns wasn’t a problem. Christie understood perfectly. With their flowing robes and manly names, they weren’t men or women or even angels. They were magical otherwordly creatures, nothing to do with messy human sexuality. Christie discovered Sister John during her very first playtime, learned the hard lesson that all good things come through suffering. After sour Miss Fisher, she could have sweet Sister John. But what was the point of suffering? No-one explained. Why should there be any Miss Fishers in this world? In the playground, she sucked bravely at her bottle of warmish milk, wondering if it tasted nasty because of the waxy straw, or simply because it was milk? At home, her gentle, feckless mother enforced nothing. Maggie knew her small daughter hated milk. Christie drank orange juice or Vimto or water. At Christmas, she’d been offered a sip of wine. Miserably, she swallowed one more mouthful of the nasty warmness, handed the carton back.

Sister Vincent the cook was shocked. ‘But you haven’t finished.’, she protested, placing it back in Christie’s small hands. Christie pushed it away, said, politely but firmly, ‘ I’ve had enough, thank-you.’ Sister Vincent tried again, pleading, ‘ But you must finish it, like a good girl. Or you won’t grow up big and strong. All children should drink milk. One pint a day.’

Being only four, Christie suspected she was beaten. The laws here came thick and fast, wash your hands, change you shoes, drink your nasty milk. Unhappily, she wandered off, milk carton in hand, towards the poplar trees that grew beyond the hopscotch pitch. Little groups of children stood about, noisily or quietly drinking their milk. The girls came in all sizes up to eleven. Too young for real sin, all the boys were under seven. Then Christie spotted her salvation. Awestruck, she watched, as a boy with auburn curls knelt down by a grid near the tallest poplar tree, deftly pouring his milk away. Looking up, he grinned at Christie, said, ‘I’m feeding the fishes.’ Christie came closer, for a better look. All she could see was darkness, milk spattered leaves, and, far below, a murkiness of water. She said, cautiously, ‘ I can’t see any fish.’

The auburn-haired boy glanced about, a quick, expert movement, for he did this every day. Sister Vincent was safely occupied, counting money and counting the biscuits left in her box. They had nothing to fear. The boy said, helpfully, ‘ Don’t you like milk? ‘ Christie shook her head. The milk she’d drunk so far and the strangeness of the day were making her feel a little sick. Before she knew it, the boy was pouring her milk away. He spilt two drops, scuffed them away with seconds to spare. Miss Fisher was advancing on them. Christie, never slow on the uptake, grabbed the empty carton and followed the red-haired boy. No more milk, and she wouldn’t be sick after all. The boy was called Simon Barlow. Already, at four, she’d found a knight in shining armour. Then he said, warning her off, ‘You can’t use my grid every day. It might fill up and they’d find out. Another day, you’ll just have to drink it.’

Christie shivered inside, appalled by the thought, but at least today’s milk was down the drain. Tomorrow could look after itself. She lined up for class when the bell rang and never spoke to Simon Barlow again, or at least, not at the convent. She was learning, already, about the transience of human relationships. For one brief moment, Simon had been her saviour. There’d been a flicker of something, but from now on, he was merely a boy of six and three-quarters who would leave the school at Christmas, having reached the mysterious age of seven.

Christie had known the Convent by sight all her short life. It was set back from the main road to Town, only five minutes walk from her own house. She couldn’t read, yet, not quite, but she’d known for months what the gold letters said. In curling sub-Gothic, the board proclaimed:

Convent of the Holy Cross, Girls aged 4 - 11 years, Boys aged 4 - 7 years.

She’d asked her mother about this blatant discrimination. Why were the boys sent away? The answer was thoroughly unsatisfactory. Boys are different. How were they different and why? Even at the ordinary school, it seemed to matter. At seven, boys filed upstairs, on the right, to the Boy’s Juniors and girls turned left, into the Girls’ Juniors. Fate and the Education Committee would reunite some of them at eleven. Only some… All the brightest would stay apart, star at single sex grammar schools, but why? Men and women seemed to like being together, even in the same bed. Why keep boys and girls apart? Though still an only child, Christie knew of one trivial difference. In sticky August, paddling with a small male cousin, she’d seen for herself. Such a fuss about nothing.

After break and milk, they returned to class. In the light and airy classroom, eighteen children sat at five tables, in chairs designed for their tender years. School fees bought teachers from the best colleges, trained in the most enlightened methods. Self-absorbed rather than shy, Christie hadn’t taken in the names of her classmates yet. Now, replete with two Malted Milk biscuits, she looked about with more interest. There was Colin Barlow, suspiciously red of hair, a smaller version of her saviour. Four on the 3lst August and small for his age, Colin qualified for school by the skin of his teeth. He didn’t know the alphabet, couldn’t even count to ten, skills Christie had mastered ages ago. The two other children at her table were girls, though Helena Clancy’s dark hair was cut exactly like a boy’s. Sitting next to Christie, Kay Gold wept in silent misery, two handkerchiefs sodden already. Presently, though, there was another dampness, in the form of a pool of water spreading slowly under the table. Seeing and smelling the pool, Christie checked her own knickers. Quite dry, thank God, the Blessed Virgin Mary and any saints on offer. Colin lay his red head down on the table and wept bitterly.

Miss Fisher swept towards him. Christie closed her eyes, twisted her hands, almost crying herself for the shame of it. From a drawer in her desk, Angela Fisher produced a pair of blue knickers. They were girls’ knickers, trimmed with a blue satin bow. Christie glimpsed two more pairs, pink with pink bows. Did girls wet their knickers more than boys? Colin was removed. Around ten minutes later, he returned, red-eyed and dressed in his shirt, school tie, school jumper and girls’ knickers. His grey shorts and Y-fronts had been washed and spread on the radiator to dry. Christie grieved for him. Miss Fisher reinforced an earlier lesson. Hands must be raised, permission asked; please may I be excused?

When the bell rang at last, for the end of the morning, there was a frantic stampede to the lavatories. Christie resolved to drink nothing at school ever again. That should cut down the risk. Then, suddenly, this day that had begun so cruelly turned into a glorious party. All through the miserable morning, she’d forgotten about the birthday. The Mother of God was thoroughly confusing. Apart from all that mysterious stuff about conception and virginity, she had far too many names. Queuing patiently for the film they’d watch in the Hall, Christie considered a few. Queen of Heaven, Star of the Sea, Our Lady of Lourdes, of Walsingham, of Fatima, of Mount Carmel, of somewhere in Yugoslavia. Why couldn’t she stay in one place?

The film itself hardly mattered… Christie had only been to the cinema twice, seeing Snow White and Cinderella, not even Bambi. The rustling darkness was thrilling. Nuns wasted nothing. Leftover from a long ago war, ancient blackout curtains transformed the hall into a convincing cinema Sitting between Lennie and Kay on the shiny parquet floor, Christie mastered a new word; projectionist. The film was black and white and ancient. The Song of Bernadette. The plot was quite easy to follow. It was all about a beautiful lady, magic water, and girl who wasn’t believed. Bernadette was the handmaid of the beautiful lady, goddess of the rocks and healing waters, and all the grown-ups were wrong. In holy darkness, Christie believed every word. A lifetime later, on her way back to England after leaving CERN, Christie the physicist found herself with time to kill. Walking in the Pyrenees, a brief detour brought her to Lourdes. Just before nine o’clock on a frosty autumn morning, every souvenir shop was stuffed with magic ladies and Bernadettes. The town itself was deserted. She couldn’t see a single pilgrim, sick or well. Perhaps they were all eating breakfast in the hundreds of pilgrim hotels? Or at the busy airport? At least the shops were opening, handy, because she’d left her bottle of Evian on the train. In the shops of Lourdes, water bottles stamped in blue with the Virgin and Bernadette were astonishingly cheap. She bought one, had it filled with water from the shrine, supposedly quite safe to drink. Christie, faithless, added two Aquapure tablets.

Four years old, watching the Lourdes film, she’d known perfect happiness. It couldn’t last. In the corridor, just outside the hall, Miss Fisher said, ominously,

‘ Christina Costello. Come here, child. Sister Francis Xavier wants to see you.’

Christie hung her head, knew, from one morning of Miss Fisher that nothing good was on offer. Singled out and scared stiff, she stood by the door as the entire school filed past. Staring eyes turned on her. Shivering, she began to worry about her small and not yet wholly reliable bladder. Goddess in flowing robes, Sister Francis Xavier had better be quick. And quickly she came, a miasma of darkness, the form of a woman, towering far above. Francis Xavier touched Christie’s crown of red gold hair. She said, in a voice of honey and love,

‘ Christina, dear. Your hair. Miss Fisher mentioned it this morning. Have you no ribbons? Or even a hairband?’

Christie began to jiggle from one foot to the other. The niggling suspicion became certainty. If Sister didn’t let her go, now, there’d be a second disgrace, another shame, more knickers from Miss Fisher’s desk. Sister Francis had been Head of the school for five years. She said, crisply, ‘ Do you wish to be excused? ‘ Christie nodded, dumb with misery. Washing her small and unexpectedly grubby hands afterwards, she reflected on the different kinds of soap people had brought. Lennie had a heavy soap lemon that looked more than real. Kay washed in something finer still, Roget et Galet, rose-geranium. Colin Barlow of the wet pants had Knight’s Castile. Meg, whose brown pinafore dress hung inches too long, washed in a cut half of Fairy, the kind of soap Gran Costello used for washing socks and scrubbing collars at the sink. Fairy smelt domestic and far too clean. Grateful for her own decent Pears, Christie dried her hands, read her own printed name on the tape sewn to her towel. Christina M. Costello. Clean and full of courage, she went to confront the tall nun.

In five short minutes, everyone had vanished. Mothers at the gate collected daughters and a handful of sons in uniform brown and gold. Dr Clancy was the only father, collecting Lennie on his way home from house calls. All alone, Christie stood before the tall nun, gazed up into eyes of startling blue. The wimple is a trick older women might use to advantage. The full headdress hides scraggy necks and rolling chins. Light reflects kindly from white linen, far more reliable than Touche Éclat. Plain women are adorned, the beautiful revealed in all their sculpted purity. Beautiful and mysterious, Sister Francis Xavier might be thirty or fifty or older still. At her breast hung the crucifix, Christ, in ivory and silver, on a cross of ebony wood, arms outstretched, dying to redeem mankind. Christie stared at this cross, larger by far than any of her mother’s necklaces. Then, greatly daring, she stared at Sister Francis Xavier. The nun said:

‘ Christie, dear, it’s about your hair.’

‘ My hair?’

Christie touched the brightness, knew there must be something wrong. The colour, perhaps? Apart from the auburn Barlow boys and a scatter of blonde and black, most of the children were decently English mouse. Her own hair was red as flame, but what was she supposed to do about it? Imelda Rocca’s hair was jet black, but she hadn’t been summoned to Sister. Sister Francis relented a little. Touching the red-gold waves, she asked, sweetly, ‘ Have you no ribbons?’

Christie shook her head. Penny-bright, her wayward hair cascaded right down to her waist. Every other girl in the school had a pudding-bowl bob or ugly plaits tied with brown or bottle green ribbons. The nuns were almost bald under their veils. The flowing hair of womanhood had to be destroyed, or at least, kept out of sight. Aware of dangerous beauty, Sister Francis touched Christie’s hair again. ‘ It would be so much tidier, dear, in plaits. Give this note to your mother.’