God Sister Teresa

With unimaginably complex gender issues looming large, I find myself wishing that there were more people around with the strength of character and Christian single-mindedness of my late great-aunt: she would have made short work of the simpler problems.

She lived in a glorious house up on the hill above Loch Morar on the north-west coast of Scotland. She was young at heart and the soul of hospitality. Her grandchildren and their cousins loved staying with her. An excellent river was part of the attraction for some, but I, never having known any of my grandparents, treasured her because of her wit, kindness and venerable wisdom, and adored the place because of its beauty. She was a staunch Catholic, the only person I knew with serious religious books on her shelves, a brilliant organiser and active in many good works.

Sometimes, however, Aunt Peggy’s philanthropy and delegating skills could be maddening. One morning, during breakfast, her housekeeper came into the dining room and announced, ‘Mrs Stirling doesn’t want you to worry but she is tired; so will be having one of her days in bed. The boys will go fishing with a picnic, the girls [my cousin Sarah and I, both eighteen] will stay behind. They will collect Dr Marjorie [a sad, elderly spinster, sister of one of the Scottish bishops] from the station, have lunch with her and entertain her during the afternoon. Mrs Stirling will see Dr Marjorie for half an hour for tea, after which Sarah and Teresa will make themselves pleasant to her until they take her back to the station in time for her evening train.’

We knew better than to stomp upstairs and argue: this would have meant a long lecture on our deplorable lack of Christian principles, followed by a shorter discourse on not being SSS (sloppy, selfish and self-indulgent).

To make matters worse, it was a beautiful day (rare for that part of Scotland) but there was no question of taking Dr Marjorie out, even to the garden; her poor old ankles were painfully swollen, and her feet, encased in huge, pale grey, orthopaedic shoes, couldn’t walk on gravel. The whole afternoon indoors seemed endlessly dreary, but we did our best.

The next day, when Aunt Peggy had fully recovered from her alleged fatigue, Sarah and I began to moan about the unfairness of the arrangements for Dr Marjorie’s visit. Aunt Peggy didn’t point out to us that she was giving us a wonderful holiday and that the least we could do was to be kind to her (admittedly rather boring) friend for just one day without complaining. She simply lowered her newspaper, looked at us over the top of her spectacles and said very slowly and very sweetly, ‘Darlings.’

There was no arguing with that either.