The House Children

by Heidi Daniele

Mother Bernard continued, “You’ll have room and board with Miss Sarah O’Toole. She’s a personal friend of mine.”

  “Thank you, Mother Bernard,” I said with sincere appreciation.

  She opened the folder and removed a large brown envelope.

  “Here is your train ticket, letters of introduction, and Miss O’Toole’s address. I expect to hear from you regularly.”

  “Yes, Mother Bernard. I’ll stay in touch.”

  “And Peg, I advise you not to share with others about your rearing here, as you’ll be poorly judged.”

  I nodded. I already knew that too well.

  She opened her drawer and took out another envelope.

  “Please mail this letter. When you return from town, I’ll give you a case for your possessions.”

  “Thank you, Mother Bernard, but I’ve a satchel of my own.”

  I left the envelope containing my future in the china press and grabbed my purse. A new feeling of freedom came over me as I ran down Society Street and turned on to Saint Michael’s Square. I felt as if the barriers of my life were being lifted.

  The post office was empty. I walked right up to the counter and handed the letter and my passbook to the clerk.

  “I’d like to post this and close my savings account.”

  The clerk handed me two ten-pound notes, eight shillings, and fourpence.

  “Don’t spend it all in one place!” he said.

  I quickly returned to the convent, eager to check the departure time of my train to Dublin.

  Tucked away in the china press, I held the ticket in my hand. My journey toward a new life would begin at 10 a.m. High hopes brewed within me. Surely, living in Dublin would make me happy.

  At five o’clock I heard the nuns shuffle down the hallway toward their dining room. When the noise died down, I went to pick up my meal tray in the convent kitchen. To celebrate my last supper, I transferred my meal onto a Belleek china place setting.

  “If they only knew!” I thought to myself as I poured my tea into the delicate cup.

  That evening I knelt down in the rec room while the girls recited the rosary in a rote manner. I closed my eyes and prayed aloud with the feelings Father Doyle had instilled in me. There were only a few of us left that could recall his visit.

  Surprisingly, I slept well on my last night. The following morning, I slid my hand over the bed sheet to make sure it was dry before folding it. I rolled my blanket and neatly piled my bedding. Sister Constance slowly walked through the dorm doing her inspection.

  Wearing a bright yellow frock from America, I stood out in the line as we walked to the chapel. The mass seemed to drag on and I couldn’t pay attention. When Father Doherty gave me the communion host, I wondered who’d be serving his meal that morning. I had no idea who replaced me in the china press.

  Instead of going to the refectory for breakfast I went upstairs to pack. My satchel was roomy enough to hold my few belongings. I left the gray farm clothes marked 27 in the box under the bed.

  From the hallway I looked back and forth into the two dormitories. At least five of those beds had been mine at one time or another.

  Katie was coming up the stairs as I went down.

  “Do ya know where I can find Sister Constance?” I asked her.

  “She’s in the refectory,” Katie replied without looking at me.

  Sister Constance was standing in the doorway leading to the scullery. She watched me walk toward her. I could feel her eyes scan me from head to toe and then settle on my satchel.

  “I wish you well, Peg.”

  “Thank you, Sister Constance.”

  I handed her a ten-pound note.

  Without a word, she slipped the bill into a fold of her long black garment.

  Once, I’d overhead Norah say Dan earned nine pounds a week, so I knew it was a sizable offering.

  I stopped in the rec room to retrieve my First Holy Communion Medal out of my cubby. Fond memories of Christmas Day and dancing surfaced, but the sad memories followed. Vicious fights between the girls and Brownie’s seizure quickly came to mind. I left the rec room and passed through Saint Luke’s Parlor to leave the building.

  I looked over at the nuns’ garden and saw Sister Carmel on her knees. She was weeding around the base of the Virgin Mary statue. I walked over to say goodbye to her.

  “God bless you, Peg,” she said. “Where are they sending you?” “I’m goin ta Dublin.”

  “Well, keep in touch,” she said. “We’ll want to know how you make out.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  I stopped in the convent kitchen to see to Sister Rita. She had a sandwich all wrapped up for me.

  “Tis a long ride ta Dublin,” she said, “Ya’ll need a bite ta eat.” “Thank you, Sister Rita.”

  “Now, don’t ya forget us!” she said.

  “How could I?”

  Sister Rita rested her hands on my shoulders and smiled at me. This gesture of affection was the closest thing I’d ever had to a hug in this institution. I held back my tears.

  “Godspeed Peg, I know ya’ll do well,” she said.

  Two nuns stood in the convent foyer, so I was reluctant to leave through the main door. Instead, I went down the hallway to the blue service door used by the house children and their visitors. I stepped out onto Society Street holding my satchel and red purse. The tears I’d been holding back trickled down my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if I was happy, sad, or scared.

  Filled with mixed emotions, I boarded the eastbound train. I sat down beside an elderly woman.

  “Where would a young lady like yerself be travelin ta?” she asked.

  “I just completed my Intermediate Cert,” I said proudly. “I’ve got a position in Dublin.”

  She raised her eyebrows, looking impressed.

  “Well, yer family must be quite proud!”

  I hesitated before responding. “Yes, they are.”

  “So is it Ballinasloe yer family is from?” she asked.

  I thought about Mother Bernard’s words of advice.

  “No, no. I was visiting a friend. My family is from Galway.”

  “Sure, I’ve got family in Galway,” she said. “Do ya know Moloney’s Sweet Shoppe?”

  I felt a surge of panic rise inside me. “No, no, I’m not familiar with it.”

  The old woman made me nervous. I stood up and reached for my satchel.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve got ta move to the rear of the car, I’m feeling a bit ill.”

  I took a seat beside a gentleman reading the news. He nodded to me and returned to his paper. I closed my eyes, and tried to nurse my remorse for lying to the old woman. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to do that again.

  The train ride was much longer than the one to Galway. I ate my sandwich and watched the passengers get on and off at the many depots along the way. When the train arrived in Dublin, I clutched my satchel nervously and followed the crowd into the Kingsbridge Terminus.

  I showed the address of my destination to a garda. He directed me to the queue for bus 145. From the upper level of the bus I looked onto the bustling street. I could never have imagined so many vehicles and people in one place. The city’s energy was exciting and frightening at the same time. I got off on the northwest corner of Saint Stephen’s Green. I walked along the perimeter of the park and scanned the numbers on the doors across the street.

  A two-story brick building with a bright yellow door displayed the number 76, that I was looking for. I pushed the ringer and waited. Miss O’Toole answered the door and welcomed me into her home. She was a petite, well-dressed woman. I couldn’t guess her age, but imagined she was quite old. I followed her as she gracefully ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  We stepped into an elegantly decorated parlor. I handed her my letter of introduction, which she placed on a small table.

  “Let me show you to your room,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said nervously.

  “This is my niece’s ro
om,” she said as we passed the first door. “And you will be in here,” she said, opening the second door. She stepped aside and gestured toward the dresser.

  “Why don’t you put your things away?”

  “Thank you, Miss O’Toole.

  I tried to contain my delight at the sight of my new living quarters.

  “When you’re settled, come out to the parlor.”

  I stood in the center of the room, absorbing my new environment. The pink walls matched the roses in the carpet that covered most of the wood floor. The bed had a dark wood headboard and a mint-green bedspread. A lace-covered table held a lamp and clock at the bedside. A small oval mirror hung above the dresser against the side wall. I dropped my satchel and pinched myself to be sure this wasn’t a dream. I walked over to a small desk tucked into an alcove and sat down.

  I gave myself a few minutes to take it all in. Then I put my clothes away, filling one of the four dresser drawers. I placed my rosary beads on the desk and checked my appearance in the mirror before going back into the parlor.

  Miss O’Toole was sitting in a rocking chair. I noticed she’d opened my letter of introduction.

  “I hope you find the room suitable,” she said.

  “It’s lovely, thank you.”

  “Let’s have a cup of tea,” she said.

  We went downstairs into her kitchen, where the table had already been set. She laid out her house rules while we had tea and scones.

  “Breakfast is served at 8 a.m. and supper is at half six. During the week, I’ll give you a bag lunch to take to work. Kerrigan’s News Agent is one block over on Leeson Street.”

  She recommended Marist Church for mass, also on Leeson Street, where her nephew, Father John O’Toole, was the parish priest.

  “Carolyn and I attend 9 a.m. mass on Sundays,” she said, “You’re welcome to join us.”

  As she spoke, a young girl entered the room.

  “This is Carolyn. She attends Loretto College.”

  Carolyn was petite like her aunt, although she appeared to be quite shy. She said hello and then left the kitchen.

  “She keeps to herself,” said Miss O’Toole.

  When we were done, she gave me a house key and suggested I take a walk before supper to familiarize myself with the area.

  I walked the block over to find Kerrigan’s. I stood on the opposite side of the street and watched a steady flow of customers go in and out of the shoppe. Then I wandered into Saint Stephen’s Green and walked along the meandering paths between the flowerbeds. The park was busy, with children feeding the ducks in the pond, older people sitting on the benches, and groups of students spread out on the lawn. I looked at the fountains and sculptures and stayed within the wrought-iron boundaries of the park. It was a beautiful place and it made me feel safe and surprisingly peaceful in the midst of this big city.

  At 6:20 I returned in time for supper. Carolyn was already seated at the table. Miss O’Toole served us boiled sausage, bacon, and potatoes. She engaged me in pleasant conversation about Ireland’s history, boasting that Michael Collins, the great Irish revolutionary, was a relative of hers. Carolyn showed no interest in that or any other topic. No questions were asked of me, and I wondered if Miss O’Toole knew where I came from. I left the table well-fed and grateful.

  I felt like a rebel that night when I said my rosary while sitting at the desk, but I knelt at my bedside for my nightly prayers. Exhaustion overtook my excitement and put me into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  E xcited and nervous about my first day of work, I kept looking up at the wall clock during breakfast. I clutched my letter of introduction in one hand and lunch bag in the other as I walked to Kerrigan’s.

  A pretty red-headed girl stood behind the counter completing a sale with a customer.

  “Can I help ya?” she asked me.

  “I’m here ta see Mr. Kerrigan.”

  She opened a door behind the counter and called for him. A few moments later, a tall man with tousled hair emerged.

  “Ya must be Peg. Come on in.”

  I followed him into the back room. He quickly reviewed the letter from Mother Bernard.

  “Well, ya come highly recommended, so let’s put ya ta work.” First, he introduced me to Marion, the girl at the register. Then he brought me into a storage room. I spent the morning unpacking boxes and logging inventory into a ledger.

  At half one, Mr. Kerrigan told me to take a break in the room behind the counter. Marion was already in there, eating at the small table. She was very friendly. During our brief time together, she told

  me what seemed like her whole life story. Then she wanted to know mine.

  “So where are ya from?” she asked.

  “Galway,” I replied.

  “Ya came all the way from Galway ta work here?”

  Before I could answer, Mr. Kerrigan appeared in the doorway.

  “Back ta work, girls.”

  I was grateful he interrupted our conversation. Talking about myself was difficult. I didn’t like to lie, but I couldn’t tell anyone I was an illegitimate raised in an industrial school.

  Thankfully, Mr. Kerrigan sent me to the storage room and Marion took her position at the counter. We were quite busy for the remainder of the day and had no time to talk.

  I left work that evening feeling stressed. I tossed and turned that night trying to anticipate the questions Marion might ask me.

  I felt nervous when I sat down to eat with Marion the following day.

  “So how’d ya wind up working here?” she asked.

  “The Reverend Mother in Ballinasloe knows Mr. Kerrigan. She referred me.”

  I realized I spoke too quickly. I didn’t want to mention Ballinasloe at all.

  “I thought ya were from Galway.”

  My heart began to race. “I went ta Secondary School in Ballinasloe.”

  “My cousin lives in Ballinasloe. Her name is Molly Tobin. Do ya know her?”

  The surname Tobin wasn’t familiar to me.

  “I was only there fer two years. I was a boarder, so I don’t know many of the locals.”

  Marion looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I wasn’t sure if she was impressed or if she didn’t believe me.

  “So, ya come from money?” she asked.

  It sounded more like a statement than a question.

  “No, I had a scholarship,” I said.

  Then in an effort to change the subject I asked her, “Marion, do ya have a beau?”

  “No, but there’s a fine fella I’m interested in,” she said.

  Then Marion told me all about him.

  I realized the best way to handle Marion was to get her talking. Each morning on my way to work, I’d think of questions to ask her.

  I spent the rest of the week working in the storage room. From there I could see the customers come and go in the shoppe. Maybe it was because I was on my knees emptying boxes, but I couldn’t help but notice everyone’s shoes. I hated my shoes. They were standard issue, black, no heel, laces. I no longer had the metal bits on the bottom, but I felt they were clearly institutional.

  On Friday, Mr. Kerrigan handed me an envelope with my wages at the end of the day. Proudly tucking my first earnings into my purse, I ran to my room in Miss O’Toole’s house. I sat at the desk and separated my money into three piles, room and board, savings, and pocket money.

  During my first Saturday in Dublin, I dared to explore beyond the park. I wanted to be a part of this big city. I walked down Grafton Street admiring the lavish displays in the shoppe windows. Everything appeared to be expensive and beyond my means. I looked with envy at the groups of students going into Bewley’s Cafe. All of the people appeared to be full of confidence. I felt self-conscious and fearful of not acting properly. Fearful of not fitting in. Fearful that I was obviously a house child. I looked down at my shoes.

  On Sunday morning I walked to church with Miss O’Toole and her niece. I wore the prettiest dress I owned. It was one
Hannah had given me. Carolyn had on a plain dress, but it was obviously of good quality. She also wore a pair of lovely slip-on shoes with heels.

  We sat in the second pew in church. The smell of incense, the sound of the organ, and the words of the hymns comforted me during mass. The familiarity gave me a sense of belonging. Even the parishioners seemed less intimidating. I prayed for the strength and courage to survive in this big city.

  That afternoon I emptied my dresser drawer and looked over the clothes I owned. I felt grateful for the few nice dresses I had. The two sweaters Norah made for me would be fine for September and October, but I’d need to buy a coat for the winter. My undergarments were terrible, gray from the industrial washings. I had no idea where to buy these items. I surely couldn’t afford the shoppes on Grafton Street; they were too intimidating to go into anyway.

  I wrote to Mother Bernard and told her everything was fine. I also wrote to Connor and gave him my new address. Unsure of what to say, I decided to wait a bit before sending a letter to Auntie Hannah or Norah. I sat on my bed trying to think of something to do. I wondered what kept Carolyn busy behind the closed door to her room.

  In an odd way, I began to miss the house children and the industrial school. I went into the parlor where Miss O’Toole was relaxing in her rocking chair.

  “Is Saint Vincent’s Hospital nearby?” I asked.

  “Why, it’s just around the corner on Saint Stephen’s East. Why do you ask?”

  “I believe a friend of mine is working there,” I told her.

  I walked over to the hospital and stood outside. Many people went in and came out of the building, but there wasn’t one familiar face.

  During the next few weeks, things got better. Marion eased up on the personal questions and I began to enjoy our lunches. She asked if I’d like to go shopping with her on Saturday.