The Slow Natives by Thea Astley Page A

done—say—superlatively well?”
    â€œIt’s quite possible.”
    â€œThat’s good then, Sister Beatrice, for I’ve decided thatEva will have to continue her musical studies elsewhere. She is leaving soon, any way. And I’m afraid I could not consider her returning here for lessons next year.”
    Sister Beatrice rose in her instant indignation, but subsided under the surprised eye of the other.
    â€œBut why?” she asked. “Why?” She noticed how Reverend Mother’s lower jaw fitted in front of the upper and reflected on the hopelessness of argument.
    â€œI am not satisfied with her behaviour.”
    â€œI see. Has she done anything specifically terrible?”
    â€œAre you making fun, Sister Beatrice?”
    â€œNo, Reverend Mother. Not at all. But you can’t expect me to be overjoyed at losing a pupil into whom I’ve put so much work.”
    â€œWe all have to make sacrifices.”
    â€œYes. But who is being sacrificed? Eva or me?”
    Reverend Mother breathed heavily and the finger-tips of each hand sought and rested against each other for more than physical support.
    â€œReally, Sister Beatrice,” she managed after an almost asthmatic pause, “that strikes me as rather impertinent.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Reverend Mother,” Sister Beatrice said without in the least meaning it. “But the child still has one more year before matriculation.”
    â€œYes. Well, that will no longer be our problem.”
    â€œI think it is our problem. If we have any influence for good, surely it is worth helping her.”
    Reverend Mother put down her pen (To dear Sister St Jude from Senior 1948) with which she had been doodling and said firmly, “What I am afraid of is that her influence may take effect on other pupils before ours does on her. Now, Sister, that is all I have to say on the matter.”
    Sister Beatrice waded through a neap tide of indignation on her way to the door which she might wish to slam but would not.
    â€œOh, and one more thing . . .”
    They faced each other, but Sister Beatrice retained hold of the doorknob and endured.
    â€œHow did Sister Matthew acquit herself, do you know?”
    â€œQuite well, I should imagine.”
    â€œNow she would be more nervous than Miss Kastner, I think.” When Reverend Mother “thought” it was not to express doubt—it was a pronouncement, entirely dogmatic. “Did she mention any particular difficulties?”
    â€œNo, Reverend Mother. None at all.”
    I shall not ask you why, decided Sister Beatrice. I will not give you the satisfaction of refusing to say. And thanked God for the little sins that acted as release for her.
    In her cell that night sleeplessness and a cold moon in the full drove her to the rear window that opened out on the courtyard and the practice-rooms. A diffusion of light appeared to come from the end room where the dumb piano was kept, but she could not be sure, for the rimy glass glittered cruelly and tree movement tumbled papery shadow. She began a Litany, sky-gazing as she had not done since childhood, returned to her narrow freezing bed, and fell asleep half-way through, conscious of a few bars of uneasy music as they entwined dream images; but she did not wake until the five o’clock bell that Sister Matthew rang on the guillotine stroke of the hour.
    Make me more kind, she begged during Mass, and added hopefully, or perhaps less intolerant. Perhaps that will do.
    The day was to be waded through as well, tides still in and beating about Convent Primary School, music appreciation classes, and an almost biblical battle with the senior choir after school as they pounded through a four-part version of “Nymphs and Shepherds” and a Dom Moreno Mass.
    â€œFake Gregorian. Tumtittitum! I love it,” she had said, to Mother St Jude’s disapproval. (Dufay? Palestrina?)
    â€œToo arty,” she