Hope
There were three of them, sisters — or at least, as good as. Faith and Hope were definitely of a brood; identical twins, indistinguishable from the moment they were born. Charity was their ‘sister from another mister’ — and another mother, for that matter. Their next-door neighbor and an inseparable best friend forever to them both since Infants-1 sometime long ago.
Collectively, and tongue in cheek, the girls were called the ‘Three Graces’. People will try to tell you that two is the perfect number: that it only takes ‘Two to tango’; or that ‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd’ — but that, as anyone who ever had a gang, a group or a get-together will tell you, is simply cobblers. ‘The more, the merrier’ is also, quite honestly, cobblers as well. Throw together four or more people and it’s soon clear that little cliques and clusters glom together pretty damn quickly. No, I’m sorry, but the right number, the perfect number for a friendship circle, is three. Think about it, you need three for a game of jumping rope: two to swing and one to jump. Yes, I know, you can get all creative and tie the rope against a lamp-post or whatever, but it simply isn’t the same as three happy-with-each-other besties playing a giggling high-stakes game of ‘My mother said, I never should…’ Or throwing games with a bean bag; or hopscotch; or tig. They’re all better with three to play.
Unlike almost everyone else in their class, all three of them, all through their schooldays, held on tight to their given names. They were always Faith, Hope and Charity; they shunned nicknames with a sharp hostility. ‘Fatty, Hoppy and Charlie’ (as one unfortunate boy in Infants-3 discovered) sounded too much like names given to a litter of pet rabbits. To the fierce punctuation of well-kicked shins he and his classmates were persuaded to give the girls the honour of their christened names untrammeled in any manner whatsoever.
And perhaps because of that, it wasn’t long before nominative determinism slipped stealthily into their world.
Faith, time and time again, demonstrated confidence in another person’s trustworthiness that bordered on the delusional. She believed with all her heart that toys (and later, money) would be returned, that the boys (and later, men) whom she adored would, in time, adore her back, that the job (the car, the house…) she wanted was indeed hers for the asking. She sailed carelessly through her life with the forthright expectation of plenitude and reward — and a privileged determination not to settle for anything but her (rather extravagant) dreams. And was naturally but inevitably disappointed when reality failed to go along with that expectation.
The pious might indeed believe that faith alone can move mountains, but in truth, the mountain is under no obligation (and is, in fact, exceedingly unlikely) to comply.
For her part, Charity was equally often disappointed. Not because she had unrealistic expectations, nor because she was forever optimistic about somebody else’s motives, character or action. She knew full well that she was often lied to and exploited; she knew full well that she was perceived as credulous and that the gullible are easily gulled. But she was always prepared to offer the benefit of the doubt; always prepared to reach out a helping hand, always prepared to hear (and appear to believe) the sob story. She was, she claimed, much happier to be seen as the soft-touch than to be seen as tight-fisted, selfish or uncaring. She felt that she was never actually fooled; and with that proviso was prepared to be seen as the fool.
Of course, fool or not, the end result was the same. She drifted inevitably into a career in the voluntary sector, moved in with an uncaring brute of man, found her charitable nature trampled all over. The brutes in this world see nothing of merit in the vulnerable; they see only the absence of a threat and the presence of an opportunity. The ‘bad boy’ is very, very seldom a heroic soul hidden beneath a layer of false bravado; the bad boy (Charity discovered more than once) is simply bad. Full stop.
Life was very different for Hope — who (true to her name) always hoped for the best but then soberly planned for the worst. Yes, that exam might be as easy as she hoped, but it didn’t hurt to revise a little more, a little longer. Yes, she might hope to ace the interview, but a little more careful preparation wouldn’t harm her. Yes, there might be a bloke who’s an 8 or even a 9 walking into the bar later that evening, but for now, it wouldn’t harm to flirt cheerfully with (and in time date, marry, and live happily thereafter with) the approachable chap who’s a more attainable 6…
And so that’s who they were and how they grew the Three Graces. Where Faith might be buoyed by entirely unjustified confidence and Charity unselfishly and willingly giving of herself (notwithstanding easily foretold disappointment), Hope met the world with a composure based on careful planning and realistic expectations. She found her life’s path and followed it, each step supported by a gentle optimism tempered by rehearsal and projection.
So if there is to be a moral lesson from this tale of the three graces, it is surely this: that faith unfettered from commonsense and charity unfettered from a gentle suspicion are neither of them a recipe for success. You might have faith that your empty glass will be refreshed by your drinking buddies; you might, out of charity stick down the cash for one or two more than your fair share of rounds… Or you might hope that others will naturally step up when it’s their turn. But best catch the barman’s eye in anticipation and announce who’s got the shout this time, just to be on the safe side, eh!?
