Chapter Text
She shouldn’t be here. Should Sister Julienne catch wind, she’ll be hauled to her office before she even knows it, made an example of and likely sent back to the Mother House.
Miles away from Poplar.
Miles away from her.
It had been a chance encounter; a poster hastily pasted on an otherwise barren brick wall, and a curiosity within Frances that had piqued until she could ignore it no longer.
She cowers in the back, concealed by the shadows and thick cigarette smoke, but the voice travels over all the same and she revels in it.
She has done for three whole Friday evenings.
On stage, the brunette commands an attention that has every single person in the building wrapped around the tip of her pinky finger.
Soft, silky tones curve over every bar of La Vie en Rose, the woman lost in the music yet so present, so striking as she comes to the end of the song.
Frances is entranced, applauding and cheering despite the fact she’s trying so hard to be incognito. It’s as if her body is on autopilot, refusing to do anything but give the girl on stage the praise she deserves.
Warmth fills the pit of her stomach as she watches the girl accept roses from the audience, long brown hair silky and glistening in the hot stage lamps, flowing as she tosses it over her shoulder and laughs.
Such a bright laugh, filled with joy and lightness, punctuated by a ruby red grin. The red sheen of her dress catches light, the fabric hugging her waist and falling the way it does on the models in the magazines they put out at clinic, the ones Frances sneaks a glance at when Sister Julienne isn’t looking.
She looks a million dollars up there.
The moment ends and suddenly Frances is herself again; a lonely, lowly nun, a woman covered from head to toe feeling absolutely out of place compared to the glitzy woman that’s just sauntered off stage.
The warmth leaves her body, a sudden chill in her bones, and she suddenly feels so… plain. Plain, simple, boring. Nothing much to look at, though she’s never felt anything different.
Frances balls her fists up in her coat pockets as she leaves the cabaret bar, the cold air hitting her flushed cheeks and chilling the skin instantaneously. Her order-issue laceups hit the cobbles with a dull tap with every step she takes, and she tries desperately to go back to the moment the piano faded out, to see the girl and her bright white smile and her perfect brown curls and the cheeky twinkle that entered her eyes as she played to the crowd.
“It’s not your usual scene, is it?” A voice comes from behind, echoing off the empty streets. “I feel very blessed, if that’s what ‘ya were trying to do.”
Thick Irish, a soft voice Frances is sure she knows.
She turns on her heel.
There she is, ruby rhinestones and heeled boots, a freshly unwrapped lolly in her hand, scarlet to match her attire.
Frances’ face flushes again, cheeks rosy pink and burning hot despite the chill in the air. Words scramble around in her head, none of them seeming to fit the situation.
At Frances’ confusion, the scarlet clad girl cocks her eyebrow, her face falling.
“Didn’t mean to offend, Sister. I just– I wouldn’t expect ‘ya to be in a place like this.”
She gestures at the bar down the way, both pairs of eyes taking in the ivy that climbs across the neglected brickwork, the double red doors and their flaking paint.
“I was curious.” Frances shrugs, her voice tiny and pathetic against the confidence of the girl opposite. “I saw the poster outside the village hall.”
The other girl takes the lolly from her mouth with a pop, a smudge of ruby red left on the paper stick.
“I see.”
“I’ve been here every Friday for the past three weeks. I have to sneak out after Compline, I tell them I’m going for a walk to clear my head, and luckily a lot of the nurses smoke so I don’t have to worry about smelling like cigarettes when I go back.”
Frances cringes at the last sentence, at how naive and pure it sounds.
“No offense.”
“None taken. I find it a dirty habit too.” The girl chuckles. “Habit.”
Frances giggles at this, watching the girl visibly soften once she realises it was taken in good spirit.
“You’re very good.” Frances says, kicking at a stray pebble with the polished toe of her plain shoes.
“Not too risque for you?” She smirks, twirling her lolly in her fingers.
“Not at all. I never get bored, even though it’s the same songs. You sing them differently every time, not like the records the nurses are obsessed with, they’re the same no matter how many times you play them. You always make it new.”
Frances is well aware she’s rambling now, and she’s also dangerously aware that the clock is ticking on the longer she speaks to the mysterious performer she’s been entranced by for nearly a month.
“Well, it’s nice to hear some good reviews. Good reviews that don’t come from pissed up old men looking at me whatsits.” The girl scrunches her face up. “Look at me, talking to a nun about me whatsits, and cursing like a sailor while I do it.”
“I like to think I’m not a boring nun.” Frances shrugs, although it’s a total lie. She thinks that and more, every single day.
“I’d say.”
“I’d better get going.” She says.
The girl smiles and nods at her, flashing that white grin again, the grin that has Frances’ face flushing rose again.
“Nice knowin’ ya, Sister–“
“Frances.” She smiles. “Sister Frances.”
“Nancy. Last names don’t matter much.” She grins again, popping her lolly into her mouth and stretching a hand out.
“It was lovely to speak to you, Nancy.”
She takes Nancy’s hand in her own, so soft and warm against her own cold hand, rough from her life of bleach and scrubbing brushes.
“Ditto.”
Frances sighs as she turns over underneath cotton sheets that still haven’t warmed despite how long she’s been lying there. Sleep won’t come no matter how hard she tries; there’s only one thing on her mind. One person.
In her minds eye, Nancy is there again, a vision in ruby red, and once again her entire body fills with that warmth. She can’t pinpoint the feeling, can’t explain what exactly drags her back to that bar every single week, when she should be devoting her time to her studies.
There’s no doubt in her mind that she likes her life, that she finds peace in the prayer and the hymns, because when she is with Him, she doesn’t have to be herself. Rosemary vanishes, replaced by this reinvented sense of self.
Regardless, she’s a moth to the flame when it comes to Nancy. Sure, she’s an incredible performer, with stage presence like no other, but Frances isn’t entirely sure what leads her through those double doors every Friday, into the cloud of smoke and fleeting freedom.
Nancy can’t be much older than herself; perhaps there’s comfort in seeing how she could have been, while still having a safe haven where she can be invisible, where she doesn’t have to cause a splash.
Whatever it is, the following Friday can’t come quick enough.
“Paypackets, the only reason you’re hanging around still.”
A cigarette dangles precariously from the painted ruby lips of the tall redhead as she saunters into the dressing room, sifting banknotes between slender, manicured hands.
Nancy acknowledges her presence before continuing her nightly ritual, running a cotton pad over her shimmering lids, watching the pigment lift off.
“Franklin.”
She holds a note out to the small blonde sitting atop one of the vanity tables, watching as she switches her drink in her hand to take it.
“Go easy on those, won’t you? I know they’re complimentary, but Christ.”
Trixie grimaces, before she plasters that perfect smile back on.
“Live a little, Patsy.” She smirks. “At least I bring my own cigarettes.”
With that, she slides one from the packet lying beside her on the table, lifting it to her lips and lighting it with a rehearsed ease.
“Now you’ve mentioned Christ– that nun came back tonight. Did you see? Hidden right at the back, likely so we couldn’t see her clenching her bible to her chest.”
Nancy pauses.
“I did see, yes.” Patsy shrugs, taking a seat at the vacant vanity table and leaning over to Trixie’s to ash her cigarette. “As long as she’s not causing any bother. Welcoming everyone quite often does mean everyone.”
“I think it’s quite cool.” Nancy says after a brief moment of silence. “She can’t be much older than me, and she’s– well, she’s a nun.”
“Poor lamb. It must be so boring being so saintly.” Trixie grins, shivering at the thought of a life of wimples and prayer.
“You would say that.” Patsy rolls her eyes. “Nancy, here’s yours.”
Nancy takes the note, furrowing her brows as she realises it’s doubled since last time.
“You’ve overpaid me, Pats. Here–“
“The place has been packed like a tin of sardines ever since you arrived, Nancy. Every tuppence of that is yours.”
Trixie feigns offense, reaching her leg over and jabbing Patsy in the back with a stocking clad toe.
“Where’s my pay rise?”
“Filling the wardrobe in my spare bedroom, Franklin.” Patsy rolls her eyes. “Does one woman really need so many fur coats?”
“Yes! What a ridiculous question.” Trixie seems to be offended for real this time. Patsy just sighs, taking another drag on her cigarette.
“Do you know, I think it’s Nancy’s fault we’ve got nuns hanging around now.” Trixie says. “You truly must be ungodly.”
Nancy freezes, her blood suddenly running as ice in her veins, a familiar clenching in her chest.
Patsy’s eyes dart to the younger woman, watching her already milky complexion as it turns paler still.
“Trixie, behave yourself for once.” She says quickly, lighthearted in tone and yet carrying a warning that Trixie can feel through the jest.
Trixie shrugs and stubs her cigarette into the ashtray before lifting herself from the dressing table, slipping her feet back into wildly impractical shoes that cost her at least a paycheck and a half.
“The night is young, girls. Anyone care to join me?” She flashes a sweet smile, collecting her scarf from the coathook.
“No, ta. I’ll be off to bed, I think.” Nancy smiles back, her heart still pounding from the previous remark.
“Trixie, it’s almost one.” Patsy sighs. “How about following Nancy’s lead?”
“Are you suggesting I join Nancy in her bed?” Trixie grins. “I’ll pass. For now.”
She slips out of the door with a last wink.
Patsy buries her head in her hands.
“She’ll send me to a premature grave one day, Trixie will. Either that, or she’ll bankrupt me with the amount she drinks.”
“You don’t think it’s really my fault, do you, Patsy?” Nancy’s bottom lip finds itself drawn between perfect white teeth.
Patsy’s face falls as it finds familiarity in Nancy’s tone.
“No, darling. Even if it was, it would be a good thing. You’re drawing half of Poplar here every night.” Patsy slides onto the bench beside Nancy.
“I don’t want to cause ‘ye any bother now.”
“You aren’t. Trixie is ridiculous at times, especially when she’s had a drink or four. You have nothing to worry about.” Patsy squeezes Nancy’s shoulder lightly, giving her a warm smile that lifts the tightness in her chest. “Would you like a lift home?”
“I’m quite alright to walk, ta.”
Patsy cocks an eyebrow.
“Walk?”
“I can handle myself. Promise ‘ye.” Nancy grins.
“Now that I don’t doubt for a moment, but it’s positively baltic out there. Let me know when you’re ready to up sticks, I’ll see you get home warm.” One last firm squeeze of Nancy’s shoulder, and Patsy stands to leave.
Frances awakes with a start the next morning, suddenly bolt upright as Hilda lets herself into the room.
“Goodness me, poppet, you frightened the life out of me. You’re almost late for morning prayer.”
“No! I’m not, oh– goodness me.” Frances darts out of bed.
“Don’t worry, I shan’t look. I’m just on very strict orders from yours truly to ensure you’re in the chapel before six thirty.” Hilda folds her arms as she stands by the doorway, eyes fixed firmly on the plain wooden door.
“I don’t know what came over me. I’m normally out of bed and ready, you know that.” Frances scrambles into her habit. “I’ll have to bathe later.”
“I know that, yes. That’s why I insisted it was myself that came to see you. You are feeling alright, aren’t you?”
“Yes, right as rain, if a bit flustered.”
Truth be told, there’s a nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach, not through ill health, rather it’s a sensation that hasn’t left her body since she left the cabaret the night previous.
As she adjusts her cap, stuffing her straight brown hair underneath the pure white fabric, all she can think about is Nancy. Her own brown curls, that fell so perfectly in the dim streetlights, that Frances just knows are so soft.
She tucks the strap of her wimple under her chin and wonders what shampoo Nancy uses.
The pale scent of her perfume comes into Frances’ memory as she pulls her cross over her head and ensures it falls in the middle of her chest.
“Ready and proper?” Hilda asks, rousing her from her daydream of the mysterious singer.
“Yes, just about.” Frances replies, weaker than she intended, still caught up in the mirage of floral perfume and cherry flavoured lollipops.
“Come on then, lest Sister Julienne have our guts for garters.”
Any faith that she can make it through the day and suppress the twirling in her stomach is soon squandered, as she kneels in the chapel and focusses more on not spilling what little is in there than she does her prayers.
She knows she should be praying twice as hard given what she’s done.
The nausea lies heavy and it makes her palms sweat and it turns the fabric of her habit to lead as it sits on her shoulders.
It still hasn’t lifted by breakfast.
Val’s spreading way too much raspberry jam on a slice of toast, having actually rescued the jar from the clutches of Sister Monica Joan, as she peers over at the newspaper Phyllis is reading beside her.
Barbara and Lucille stand in the kitchen, stirring their tea with the delicate clink of stainless steel against porcelain, engaged in some sort of conversation that Frances is likely far too out of touch to even consider joining.
“Tea, Sister?” Lucille calls over to her, reminding Frances that she’s still in the room.
“Please!” She calls back, trying so desperately to pretend to be normal.
“Well, you’re on time for one thing, Sister Frances.” Hilda grins at her from the far end of the table, patting the empty seat to her right.
“Well, I never, the tables have turned this morning have they?” Phyllis peers over the rim of her reading glasses, “If I recall correctly, it’s normally you rushing about like a headless chicken, Sister Hilda.”
“I just slept in a little. Yesterday was a rather long day. May I have the jam, please, Valerie?” Frances shoots quickly, trying desperately to avoid this conversation.
“I’d be quick. Sister Monica Joan will have that from you quicker than anything, so get your fill.” Val grins as she passes the jar over.
“With a drop of milk, just the way you like.” Lucille places a cup of tea in front of Frances, giving her a warm grin before she takes the seat on the other side of Hilda. Barbara joins her at the table in the seat opposite.
Before any of the women can speak again, Sister Julienne appears in the entryway.
Frances stares down at her toast, biting the insides of her cheeks even though she knows she shouldn’t.
But then, there’s a lot she knows she shouldn’t do.
“Good morning, ladies.” She addresses them all, her tone warm and light, and Frances is on tenterhooks waiting for the dressing down.
She forces a bite of toast down, grimacing as it scratches at her throat on it’s descent, the nausea worsening.
“Sister Frances, is everything alright?” Barbara asks her suddenly, her face a canvas of concern.
Frances nods hastily.
“If there is any concern regarding this morning–“ Sister Julienne begins, “then consider it forgotten. You are usually punctual and brilliantly attentive. So long as it is not repeated, we can consider today’s beginning simply water under the bridge.”
Frances lets out the breath she’s been holding onto, but the gripping nausea doesn’t relent, rather, it worsens.
“Thank you, Sister.” She manages to force out, dropping the slice of toast, letting it fall jam side down onto her plate in a crash of crumbs.
Sister Julienne simply nods, before taking the newspaper Phyllis has offered her.
Everyone’s back to their business; Val is asking Lucille if she’d be interested in seeing the latest movie that’s being released on their next night off; Barbara is telling Phyllis about her last delivery (sparing the gory details, thankfully, given the location of the breakfast table); Sister Julienne is entranced by the newspaper.
“Eat up, poppet, we’re on the district roster for today, and one certainly can’t cycle on an empty stomach.” Hilda nudges Frances lightly, before returning to her own breakfast.
Frances forces down another bite, and she swears to God she can hear the opening bars of La Vie En Rose playing faintly in the distance.