August by Bernard Beckett Page B

having the nuns’ trust and if it hadn’t been for Josephine she might never have been lured to the edge of sin. The nuns discouraged friendship: human closeness was the devil’s way of tempting them from their God. Social interactions in the convent were carefully prescribed and monitored. The girls could discuss matters of theology during meeting times and each was permitted to speak quietly to one other girl during evening meals, but only for the ten minutes between service and the sounding of the prayer bell, and always with a nun hovering close.
    But the girls found cracks in the system as water finds cracks in a vase. The beds of the dormitory were tightly packed and Grace and Josephine soon discovered that if they reached out in the darkness their hands would meet. It started with them falling asleep with their fingers intertwined. From there a vocabulary developed: taps, squeezes and strokes painted the primary shades of affection and concern. Later Josephine had the idea of spelling out letters on the other’s palm, and what began as a game progressed quickly to a shorthand as efficient as any sign language. The two of them would lie awake for hours sharing gossip and dreams and theological speculations no nun would approve of.
    Convent life was hard and every girl had her favourite complaint: the endless prayers, the unsmiling nuns, the quashing of talent in the name of modesty and the constant pain from kneeling. But Grace had her garden and her secret friend, and if it had been up to her that would have been enough. Josephine, though, possessed a restless soul.
    â€˜It is your birthday soon,’ Grace signed on her friend’s palm. ‘What would you like?’
    â€˜I would like to go to a palace to watch the dancing,’ Josephine signed back. Dancing was Josephine’s obsession. She had been punished more than once for moving with a lightness unbecoming of a devout young girl.
    â€˜And if I can’t take you to the palace?’ Grace asked.
    â€˜Then I shall cry all night long and it will be your fault,’ Josephine returned. ‘And I shall hate you forever, for ruining my birthday.’
    They twisted their thumbs together, their signal for a shared smile. Josephine broke off first.
    â€˜There is one way you could make it the best birthday ever,’ she started.
    â€˜How?’ Grace asked, delighting at the possibility of pleasing her.
    â€˜You could get me a strawberry, from the garden.’
    â€˜It is forbidden,’ Grace’s fingers deftly swept.
    â€˜I wasn’t thinking we should get caught.’
    â€˜They count every bloom.’
    â€˜No,’ Josephine corrected, ‘you count them.’
    â€˜They check.’
    â€˜Not properly. What would be the point of having you count them if they checked every one?’
    â€˜I couldn’t,’ Grace signed, but already the thrill of transgression was scratching at her.
    â€˜Please.’
    â€˜I can’t promise you.’
    â€˜But you’ll try?’ Josephine’s signing grew feverish and hard to decipher. Grace felt the blunt fingernails pressing into her flesh and knew she could not deny them.
    A week later Grace spotted the perfect flower. It was the fourth of a cluster and curled back beneath a leaf, hidden to all but the most diligent observer. She would leave it off the register from the outset, figuring that if the nuns were to notice she could claim it was a simple mistake.
    They didn’t notice. Twice each day she handed over her record sheet and prayed her sins stayed secret as Sister Anne checked each figure against the garden register.
    The strawberry remained small, as Grace had hoped it would. It hung low beneath the leaves and was slow to ripen. She would need to pick it early, before it was fully sweet, if it was to remain undetected. She explained this to Josephine, but her friend’s excitement was undiminished. They agreed to wait two more