MAY WRITE by Penny Dolan

Today is the first day of May, always a happy month for me, partly because of family birthdays, partly because the warmer weather is here and partly because of my memories of secondary school.  After my life in an ordinary North London state primary school - and not even a Catholic - the month of May at my convent grammar school was a heady celebration indeed . . .

                                            

May was Mary's month, which meant extra prayers, longer choir practices and a ripe spiritual fervour sweeping through the school until the special feast day itself arrived. The nuns from the convent were there, even those so ancient they might not last the hour.  The all-woman staff in their flowing, freshly-dusted degree robes took sentinel positions, while all the pupils - from coltish, cross-legged eleven-year olds all the way to the bosomy sixth formers now seated on the chairs at the back - waited, breathing in the scent of lilies and lilacs.

The nimblest nun lit the fine wax candles on the silver candlesticks, setting thin smoke trails winding up into the air and a group of squabbling complainers was briskly hushed.  At last, the piano struck up and we - the ordinary, non-chosen pupils - sang the old familiar hymns.

Slowly, a dozen more-than-specially chosen handmaidens, with neat white dresses and wreaths in their hair, filed reverently up on to the stage where a large statue of Our Lady of Lourdes waited on a wide dais, surrounded by a flurry of flowers and blossoms. As instructed, the special girls stepped up onto benches and posed behind the statue, their white-gloved hands joined in prayer.  

On and on we sang. 'Bring flowers of the fairest and blossoms the rarest from something and something and hillside and dale . . .' And then, at the very ultimate moment, the two oldest handmaids reached out and placed a crown of flowers on Our Lady's statue, at as simple and reverent an angle as was possible.  Once, the wreath slipped so the statue, artificial roses across one eye, wore a distractingly jaunty appearance for the whole of the afternoon.

As the service continued, and we - the ordinary pupils  - sang, prayed and half-hoped for better selves  the wisest teachers kept watch for any accomplished fainter, ready to step in and catch the the girls before they dropped to the floor. 

Afterwards  . . .

                                            

 But what did happen afterwards? Or even during?  And which of these words are really true? As I started on this unplanned piece, which grew from a now-deleted opening about May and flowers and lilacs, I 'watched' myself writing, if you understand what I mean.

I found that the doing of it - the task - and the listening for the words themselves did slowly bring the event back into my mind, even giving it a shadowy life of its own. The actual work of writing was what was releasing the details that I needed to tell, retell and edit into this scrap of memoir.

The piece is not right. Typed it into being, I realised there are facts that I'm no longer sure about as well as other moments not yet completely visualised, a line where an empty space stands waiting to be filled. Although I cannot remember my side-thoughts, I grew aware of them and all the fleeting ideas, and felt that some might be sharp enough to shape into a story, if I was interested. 

Yet there are gaps and lapses that can't, in truthfulness, be ignored. For example, was it possible that this convent school held this service without any priest present? He - whoever he was - did not appear among my words nor in my memory. Clearly, my thoughts might be wrong. Would a priest really let mere girls do the crowning, way back then? And talking of 'crowns', might some other unconcious 'coronation' vibe have been influencing my mind right now?

Writing is a complex, layered process at heart but, even so, I'm glad that they - whoever they are - won't be creating a machine to do it for us.  Will they?

Meanwhile, I'll be dancing on. Have a Happy May Day!

Penny Dolan