by Janeen Brian
“Please don’t say anything,” rasped Eloise, her throat parched. “I’ll have a drink and then get on with the laundry.” However, after casting a glance over her shoulder, she added in a soft voice, “I might’ve been here helping you, Sully.” Eloise tilted her head hopefully.
“Might you then? And what might you have been doing?”
Eloise looked about.
“I suggest you might’ve been washing the dishes,” said Sully, “and look, there’s still some needing doing.”
Eloise nodded slowly and shuffled to the bench where a jumble of pots and pans teetered beside a big tub. A greasy skim quivered on the surface of the lukewarm water.
All thoughts of her ribbon vanished.
Doing the laundry was hot, smelly work. While one tub of water was heating on the wood fire, Eloise poured another into a trough and, with a short, stout pole, began to thud the soapy clothes. It didn’t take long before the harsh soap nipped her skin, leaving her fingers red and itchy.
Being on her own, however, gave her time to think.
So much had happened that morning that Eloise’s insides bubbled like the water in the tub. How could she leave the orphanage? How could she walk through those gates never to return? She felt herself adrift, needing to find a place of stillness where she could plan.
And then came another thought. A very different thought. The Littlie who departed in the cart. She was fair-haired, like Mamie. Eloise swallowed hard. That’s how it was in the orphanage. How it’d always been. And how it would continue to be.
All at once Eloise boiled over.
Biting back tears, she pounded the stick up and down. She pounded and rammed and thrashed it until finally, exhausted, she slowed down.
By the time she hung the Littlies’ drawers and tops over the drying racks, her fingers were stinging and her arms ached. Eloise tottered into the kitchen for another mug of water.
The Littlies were trailing out of the schoolroom. Several of them had fair hair. When Mamie looked up and waved, Eloise’s heart gave a sudden flip. A smile quivered on her lips.
“Eloise Pail. In my office, now.”
For a moment, she’d forgotten about Sister Hortense. But there she was, walking out of the schoolroom with Sister Bernard.
“Come along, Littlies,” said the little, dumpy sister, edging the children out the side door like a shepherd with a flock of sheep.
Eloise’s mind tumbled over itself. What had she done wrong this time? Sister hadn’t seen her when she arrived back from the pump this morning. She felt sure she had an alibi with Sully, and the laundry was all finished. What else could it be?
Eloise wiped her hands down the front of her tunic and knocked on the wooden door.
“Come!” barked the voice from inside.
Eloise steeled herself to look away from the Family Register on the desk. As she did so, she caught the flash in Sister Hortense’s eyes. She clasped her hands behind her back.
“Yes, Sister,” she said.
For several long seconds, there was silence. Then from a drawer in her desk, Sister pulled out a long, grey piece of material. She held it up and wriggled it, so the ribbon danced.
“Turn around,” she snapped.
Eloise edged slowly around.
“So,” Sister Hortense rose to her feet, “it’s true. A tatty piece of fabric, Eloise Pail, instead of a Children of Paradise Orphanage ribbon.”
The nun let the full weight of her words drip into the room.
“I lost it, Sister . . .” Eloise stammered. What could she say? Her tongue struggled to shape words. “It must have dropped somewhere and . . .”
“Somewhere?” The word hissed like steam. “This was not found somewhere. This was found on the ground . . . outside the town gates.”
Eloise turned pale. How could that be? She’d returned and searched that area. No ribbon was to be found.
“I’m waiting.” The air inside the musty room was icy.
Eloise’s thoughts rushed about like disturbed ants. “I . . . I wanted to see something,” she began. “I heard a story, Sister, about creatures who once lived near a pond and –”
“Creatures? Creatures can be seen in the market square once a month.”
“Not farm animals, Sister. Strange animals, with horns. And something about living in caves or holes and . . . I don’t know if it’s true, but –”
Sister banged her fist on the desk. “By all that is holy, Eloise Pail! First you disobey an orphanage rule on the strength of hearsay. A fabricated story, no less, that would have me understand you are a believer of ungodly things. Of magic.”
Eloise drew back. How could she have been so foolish as to mention what Mr Jackson told her? Especially about the horns. The Devil had horns. That was sure to upset the sister. But what else could she have said? That she wanted to step outside the gates for once in her life? That she didn’t want to stay at the orphanage as the eldest child, growing older, with not even lessons to look forward to. Never understanding why Sister Hortense found reasons to keep her there, never giving her the chance to please her. None of these thoughts were new. But they sprang into Eloise’s mind in that one moment when Sister Hortense said the word magic and a fleck of spittle flew from her mouth. Eloise stood now, dumb as to what else to say.
Sister Hortense snorted. “Get rid of that rag.”
Hurriedly, Eloise fumbled with the strip that still held back her hair.
“Give it to me. And put this on.”
Shakily, Eloise fixed the ribbon and waited, heart throbbing. She still didn’t know how Sister came to have the ribbon or how she knew it might be hers.
“Now come with me.” Sister picked up a Bible and marched out of the office, the crisp swish of skirt and the faint rattle of rosary beads resonating in Eloise’s ears.
By now she could barely put one foot in front of the other. The extra water carting that morning and the laundry had squeezed her dry.
The nun stopped in the middle of the hall. “Put out your hands,” she said, “and hold this.” She gave Eloise the Bible. “Think on that book, Eloise. Think on what is worthy and godly. The church teaches honour and obedience and I find you wanting in both aspects. And as a disciple of the church I will not tolerate it.” She paused and then added, “Do not speak to anyone until I return and do not lower your hands. This is for your own good.”
It wasn’t long before Sister Bernard trooped the Littlies back inside to wash their hands before dinner.
Forty pairs of eyes stared at Eloise as they passed by.
Wilfred paused. “You can see the clock from there, can’t you, Eloise?”
“No speaking, Wilfred,” said Sister Bernard. “Get a move on.”
Wilfred’s comment warmed Eloise’s heart. But she couldn’t look at the grandfather clock. The rhythmic swing of the pendulum made her eyes droop. Instead she thought of the little fair-haired girl who’d stepped up into the cart. She had a new life. What would it be like? Eloise closed her eyes for a second, just to wish her well. The Bible slipped from her hands.
With a jolt, she grabbed it in time. Just as the office door opened.
Next morning, Eloise sat at the long dining table, spooning the watery gruel into her mouth. Around her came the clicking of spoons on metal plates and the murmurings and sighs from the Littlies. Meals were carried out in silence under the watchful eyes of the three sisters, who sat at the head table.
Eloise sipped carefully. A loud clatter, a dropped spoon, or even a cough meant a reprimand from Sister Hortense. More unwanted attention.
Eloise disappeared into herself.
She was in a different room, her dog Dunlevy at her feet, a plate of eggs and a slice of bread on the table. “Don’t you go giving any of that breakfast to Dunlevy either,” said her imaginary mother. “I’ve seen you do it before, Eloise, so don’t think I haven’t. Mothers have eyes in the back of their head, you know.” But her voice carried a smile and Eloise went on eating.
; A loud scraping of chairs shook her from her reverie. The Head Sister had risen and left the room. Only now could everyone else move. In a silent, straggly line, the Littlies filed past a bench where they placed their empty bowls. Eloise then collected them and carried them to the kitchen.
Holding the heavy Bible out level for several hours the previous day had been agony. Almost as bad as a double or triple lot of water carting. At times Eloise had clamped her teeth and squeezed her face tight to help push down the scream that kept rising in the back of her throat. That night her arms twitched and disturbed her sleep.
By morning, the pain had vanished. Eloise sent a silent prayer of thanks to her stars, invisible now in the cloud-patchy sky. After picking up the water buckets, she headed outside, her tight boots scuffing the stone steps. A butterfly fluttered past. A smile broke out on Eloise’s face and she followed the insect’s golden flight until it disappeared, leaving her gazing at the tree far back by the town wall.
Her heart fluttered like the butterfly.
But each day felt harder than the one before. Even when she was younger, Sister Hortense’s word was law. And she’d obeyed without question. Every “Yes, Sister”, “No, Sister”, meant swallowing pain or hurt, sorrow or humiliation, but she did it. Perhaps her chores were less. Perhaps her school lessons brought her such joy they mended her broken parts. But lately each problem seemed weightier. Each problem added another layer of discontent and restlessness. And yet, somewhere were tiny, brighter openings, like the eyehole in the wall behind the tree.
Eloise hugged that secret tight. Never would she tell anyone about that. Only the stars had heard her whisperings.
One bucket clunked clumsily against the side of her boot. However, Eloise was so caught up thinking of ways to sneak another look at the outside world, she barely noticed. That view was hers alone. A peep into an unknown land. A pond. Trees. And a road on which she’d never stepped. Then, to her surprise, Eloise found herself close to the wigmaker’s shop. Although the door was shut and the sign hung straight down in the still morning, Eloise glanced at the place with new interest. The wigmaker suggesting she cut her hair! It was another strange, but bright event in her dull, daily routine.
And always and ever, there was Dancy. A short trot and he was up close to the fence.
“Good day, young filly,” called Mr Jackson from the forge. “Look at that horse of mine. I don’t reckon he comes to anyone like he do with you. If I didn’t know better, I’d be saying you work your magic on him.”
Eloise beamed from right down deep inside and went to reply. But now two men had approached and were speaking to the blacksmith. She wouldn’t interrupt when he had customers. Instead she went on feeding Dancy and patting him. When he lowered his head, she laughed. “You don’t have to bow to me, boy. I’m not a princess.” And she stroked the very top of his forelock between his ears.
Her hand halted. What was that? Eloise parted the white shaggy locks and there before her was a small lump. Why was it she’d never noticed or felt that before? Her heart gave a jolt. It was as if a shooting star had flashed past. She reached up and gently touched the lump on her forehead. They were roughly in the same place. Her breathing quickened. Dancy raised his head and looked at her. Eloise looked back. She had no words.
Did it mean anything or nothing? As clouds shifted about above her, Eloise trudged back to the orphanage in a daze. She badly wanted it to mean something. But what? Once past the lion statues, the orphanage with its grey bricks, stones, privies and laundry room took over. It crowded out other thoughts. Eloise halted. “Forget it, Eloise!” she said in a cross voice. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”
Grimly, she set the buckets in the kitchen and turned around.
“Oh!” She gave a cry.
“I’m sorry, Eloise dear. I startled you.”
“It’s all right, Sister Genevieve.”
“Eloise, I am not at liberty to explain, but what with the Littlies and . . . other situations, you have not had lessons for some time.”
Eloise stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her. Her feet continued to throb – they had not yet realised the walk to the pump and back was over for another day.
“Do you have a task right now?” the nun continued.
“No, Sister.” Eloise glanced uneasily towards the hall. And the office.
“Then right now is perfect. Sister Bernard is with the Littlies. I believe there’s more marching practice in store for them, so that should give us enough –”
The grandfather clock chimed.
At the same moment, the office door opened. Sister Hortense strode out.
“So,” she said, making the word last until it had snared Eloise and Sister Genevieve in the doorway, “time is running away with us. I hope, Sister, you were about to offer Eloise Pail her next chore.” The nun’s shiny forehead crinkled as it rose.
“As a matter of fact, Sister, I was about to give Eloise a lesson. We have missed so much lately.”
“Dear me,” said Sister Hortense in a toneless voice. “And yet, have you seen the state of the chamber-pots, Sister?”
“Not today, Sister, but –”
“We are mindful of cleanliness, aren’t we, here at the orphanage? It is one of God’s lessons to us.”
“Yes, Sister. However –”
“Then we are agreed. And, as we also know, idle hands make Devil mischief. I’m sure you don’t want that either, do you, Eloise Pail?”
“No, Sister.”
Saddened, Eloise trod the twenty steps to the first of the two bedrooms and clutched the handles of pots, four in each hand. At the sound of footsteps, Eloise glanced up to find Sister Genevieve approaching.
“If you can work quickly, Eloise,” she said in a low voice, “we might still have time for a brief lesson. I’ll be in the classroom. Come if you can.” Sister Genevieve’s smile was not wide but it carried a warmth that shone in both eyes, even if her lazy eye slid at times.
Once all the chamber-pots had been scrubbed in the privies and returned to the resting place beneath each bed, Eloise slipped into the classroom. At times like this she barely noticed her cramped feet.
Sister Genevieve drew up a chair. “As you know, Eloise, I have that new book and I thought you might like to hear the story you asked for last time.”
“The one about the unicorn?”
“Yes.”
Eloise took in a breath and then gripped her arms. “But is that all right?”
Sister frowned. “Of course. Why do you ask? Unicorns are wonderful creatures. They’ve been created from myths and legends. Stories handed down by word of mouth or written about from time way back.”
“But is it wrong?”
“Wrong?”
An image of Sister Hortense’s face appeared in Eloise’s mind. Small eyes narrowed to pinpricks. Words spat out.
“It’s not wrong, Eloise. How can it be wrong when stories of all kinds fill our hearts and minds?”
Eloise’s shoulders lowered. She blinked and, remembering the shooting star, added in a hesitant voice, “Could they be, are they, are unicorns . . . real?”
Sister folded her long, slender hands together. “I don’t think that is for me to say, either way, Eloise. But,” she added, “perhaps some people believe in them.”
Eloise looked down. Sister’s words were not spat out. Her question was not trodden on and ground down. Urging herself on, Eloise said, “Do you, Sister? Do you believe in them?” She let her tongue find the small gap in her front teeth. Had she gone too far, asking Sister such a personal question? Would the nun snap the book shut? Or end the lesson with a tight-lipped expression?
With the tips of her fingers now beneath her chin, Sister Genevieve said quietly, “Best we get started, dear, or Sister Bernard will have marched the Littlies’ legs off and we’ll be out of time.” She grinned. In that moment Eloise felt a sharing of sorts. It filled her to the brim, but she curled her toes tighter to hang on to that special feeling
. And also to remind herself that things had a way of turning upside down.
Why, oh why couldn’t Sister Genevieve be her mother?
As Eloise sat in the wicker chair, listening with rapture to Sister reading, she let the words float and glisten in her mind.
I believe in them. I believe in unicorns.
When the story was over, the nun closed the book. Tilting her head, she smiled. “I see you enjoyed the story, Eloise. But perhaps we’ll work now on spelling. And maybe several mathematical problems after that.”
“Yes, Sister.” A change in subjects wasn’t what Eloise wanted, but to be with Sister and to have lessons was the best thing about the orphanage.
Eloise was still thinking about the story after lunch. The taste of turnip soup lingered in her mouth as she swept the hall floor.
Three of the Littlies wandered inside.
“Sweep us up, Eloise,” giggled Mamie.
“Like we’re a big bit of dirt,” said Polly. “As big as this!” She stretched her arms wide.
“Like we’re going on a ride on your broom,” said Wilfred.
Eloise rolled her eyes. “Come on, out of the way, you three pests.”
“Make us,” teased Mamie. She leaned over and thrust her hands on her hips.
Polly took up the chant. “Yeah, make us.” The girls looked at each other and laughed at their brazen threat. “Make us! Make us! Make us!”
Eloise shot a glance at the office door. “Shhh,” she said. “If you get out of the way and go and wait by the storeroom, I’ll come and tell you a story.”
“Now?” said Mamie.
“When I’ve finished.”
“When’s that?” said Polly.
“In twenty-fourteen-thirty,” said Eloise.
Polly looked taken aback. “Is that a short time or a long time?”
“Go,” breathed Eloise. “Or I won’t do it at all.”
The three exchanged looks and scurried outside.
And they were there, on a small patch of grass, waiting with expectant expressions on their faces, when she walked out the side doorway a little later.
“Tell us,” began Mamie, grinning at Polly again.