Sister Agatha

by Domhnall O'Donoghue

  “Of course I will come, of course I will,” he reassured her.

  His mother looked up at him, her face filled with an unusual type of tenderness, something Pádraig had never seen before.

  “After I’m gone, which probably will be quite soon, you can come back for Butsy. And, if you make her half as happy as you have made me over the years, she will be a lucky woman.”

  At once, Pádraig found himself heartbroken at the state of his mother’s health, but also giddy at the thought of Butsy being his wife. And rather than living hand to mouth in some godforsaken hovel, they would be able to create a family in the home he had loved so much.

  “I must wait half an hour to tell her—Butsy will understand. You go home, and I will join you shortly, and then we will make tracks to Aunty Jean’s,” he instructed her.

  Just then, with the precision of a theatrical show, a troop of horses sounded, and a set of lanterns emerged from a carriage.

  “We have to go now, Pádraig. Time isn’t on my side—I’m not even sure if I’ll have the strength to make it there, as it is.”

  And to corroborate her argument, another coughing fit presented itself, forcing her to the ground and on all fours. Pádraig lifted her up and helped her over to the carriage.

  “I will write to Butsy,” he decided. “As soon as we arrive, and I will tell her that I will return to Kilberry in no time at all.”

  Except he didn’t return to Kilberry in no time at all because, funnily enough, his sick mother didn’t surrender to her terminal illness as promised, because there was, in fact, no illness to which she could surrender. Mrs Keogh would have stood in front of any jury in any courthouse in any city and argue that, sometimes, mothers must act in extreme measures to protect their offspring, something she was convinced that she was doing by keeping him away from that peasant, Butsy Miller.

  To add insult to injury, Butsy never received the letter from Pádraig explaining why he had failed to show up as arranged, as well as all of the other letters that he had written to her on a daily basis, because Mrs Keogh had given the postman a couple of bob to ensure that they never reached her “poor and dirty hands.”

  When the clan returned to Kilberry a year later, Butsy had joined the convent, much to Pádraig’s dismay. It was only after a night mixing her brandy with some of the new sherry she had won after a successful night playing bridge, that Mrs Keogh gave away the game. On hearing the revelation, he was just short of doing what Crazy Curly Weldon had done to his dog the week before: tying a rope around her neck and throwing her off a bridge. (But unlike Crazy Curly Weldon, Pádraig would ensure that he tied the knot properly around the neck and succeed in the terrible act.)

  He decided that such an end would be too good for the evil beast, and instead, vowed never to set foot in County Meath ever again. And sure enough, he remained true to his word.

  Rather poetically, Mrs Keogh was killed the following Christmas when the inebriated woman had become captured in one of the many booby-traps that Crazy Curly Weldon randomly placed around the community. A herd of cows, who were being taken in from the cold by one of Mrs Keogh’s seven unappealing—and still unmarried—daughters, trampled over her. There was singing and dancing and merriment that night, not only in the local pub but also in the Keogh residence.

  However, it was several years before the natural heir to the property heard about the bovine butchering, because it seemed that Pádraig had completely disappeared into the ether.

  * * *

  As Riccardo slept soundly, Sister Agatha, perched at the bottom of his bed, finished her story. Her audience, which comprised of a mixture of residents and staff, wiped away its tears—poor Ludovico was nearly submerged in his. (What he would have done to that wretched Mrs Keogh if those heroic heifers hadn’t gotten there first!)

  “Why didn’t you leave the convent?” one of the younger chefs, who was completely captivated by the tragic tale, demanded to know, before being berated by an older colleague for questioning the commitment Sister Agatha had made to God.

  One of the residents then interjected; his husky voice suggested that, like the late Sister Eithne, he had also enjoyed the odd cigarette or two over the years.

  “How did you hear about the story?” one of the nurses asked, translating on his behalf. “Did his letters make it to you in the end?”

  Sister Agatha shook her head. “No, I never received any of his correspondences—if I had, God only knows how different our stories might have turned out. I only heard what Mrs Keogh had done many years later—and by chance, if you can believe it.”

  Ludovico, who had initially been so overwhelmed by Sister Agatha’s arrival, not to mention the revelations that then followed, eventually found himself in full voice again and had little interest in trying to keep his enthusiasm in check.

  “I was certo that you would come for him—and I know he was sure that you would, too,” he gushed. “Every day, without fail, he kept a faithful watch at that window, as if he was just waiting for the hour that you would be reunited! It’s the most beautiful…”

  His voice trailed off as the tears and emotions took over once again. Following a brief moment of being comforted by those around him, he staggered to his feet. Just like a new-born fawn, he then slowly made his way over to their guest of honour before throwing his arms around her and embracing her so tightly that one of the other staff members had to coax the nurse away.

  Just as Sister Agatha felt she was out of harm’s way, Ludovico released a roar that nearly had the VIP reaching for her earplugs once more.

  “Eureka!” he screamed, nearly deafening all and sundry in the process, including those at the front who were dependent on dodgy hearing aids.

  Having experienced a rainbow of emotions since the news had broken of Sister Agatha’s arrival, Ludovico was now a man with authority and confidence, because the most extraordinary plan had just hatched in his mind. He was positive that it was the perfect finale to the remarkable tale of the two star-crossed lovers.

  “Don’t move a muscle, Sorella! I have an idea!

  * * *

  On the day of Sister Agatha’s visit, Paolo Scarpa, the director of Stella della Laguna, would not have looked out of place in an ashtray. Both his wiry hair and scaly skin were all shades of grey; his mouth had long since disappeared into the crevices of his stubbly chin; his bloodshot eyes battled to remain open. Overseeing a struggling nursing home did not encourage sleep-filled nights.

  When he was younger, Paolo had dreams about uprooting to Rome and opening a trendy bar or club. Unfortunately, when it emerged that his pillar-of-the-community father had been secretly battling a midlife crisis by living a double life as a night-time graffiti artist, vandalising almost every wall that Lido possessed, Paolo was forced to rethink his plans in order to keep his defacing hoodlum of a parent away from the courts.

  For years previously, there had been high demand in Lido for a place to send those pesky, ageing in-laws, and when Paolo and his family were obliged to restore harmony on the island after the patriarch’s wreckful indiscretions, they reluctantly agreed to take on the thankless challenge. (“No art, inside or out, permitted” was Rule Number One on the off chance that a certain someone fell back on old ways.)

  And now, thirty years later, not only was Paolo divorced, stressed and miserable, he was also stony-broke, mostly thanks to the deviousness of some Australian charlatan called Vivienne. Unless he transferred the dregs of his bank account over to her, the vile opportunist had threatened to make ridiculous allegations that he’d acted improperly. (Ironically, his lack of mental wellbeing meant that Paolo had been uninterested in any type of horizontal escapades for years now, but he remained haunted by those revelations concerning his father, and knew only too well that people would be sure to say that the apple didn’t fall far from that lawbreaking tree.)

  So, when one of the nurses approached him with a ridiculous plan, he immediately said yes—not because he was a big softie, as the nu
rse thought, but because that one-hundred-and-twenty-one-year-old codger had overstayed his welcome in Stella della Laguna by an odd thirty years, and his pathetic insurance policy barely covered his breakfast.

  “Buona idea! Bravo!”

  And so it was agreed. Even though Riccardo—or Pádraig as he was now being referred to—was far from a suitable candidate to make such a taxing journey, Ludovico had just been given the go-ahead to overlook the shortcomings of his woolly plan and organise a return to Ireland, where the sweethearts would finally get the opportunity to meet under the sycamore tree and undo the terrible treachery that Mrs Keogh committed over a hundred years earlier.

  Truth being told, Paolo wasn’t too fussed where exactly the pair ended up, so long as it meant that he had a free bed to sell at long last.

  * * *

  Sister Agatha had always given praise when it had been due, and sometimes even when it had not. For instance, she always gave two thumbs up every time Sister Ursula had presented a new piece of artwork. She even found some kind words to say during Sister de Lourdes’ short-lived phase when she had convinced herself that she was a modern-day Estée Lauder and painted her well-worn face with whatever makeup she could find, before strutting around the convent, complete with orange skin, lipstick-stained teeth, and a figurative rod, fishing for compliments. (The glamour puss was always at a loss as to why the others weren’t as forthcoming with their kind words.)

  Fortunately, there was no call for telling little white lies to the staff of Stella della Laguna, who deserved every kind word that she said about them. They treated their guest of honour to the most delicious menu of food imaginable—but so much of it!

  Sitting at the top of the dining room’s large oak table, they placed course after course in front of her—from cured meats and olives to risotto and pasta, from sliced artichokes and roasted aubergines to grilled fish and steak. While she prided herself in having a vigorous appetite, even the Dustbin had her limits, but the manner in which the staff waited eagerly for her verdict on each and every plate meant that she had no other option than to force the lot down her gob! From what she knew about the Italians, they were very proud of their food—and for good reason, she soon discovered—so she wasn’t willing to run the risk of insulting them by showing restraint with her mouthfuls.

  But after working her way through a mountainous portion of delicious tiramisù, Sister Agatha was forced to confess that tiredness had finally gotten the better of her. (They had earlier insisted that she stayed with them at Stella della Laguna—an offer that the penny-pinching nun wasn’t going to refuse.)

  “Would you mind terribly if my bloated belly and I retire for the night?”

  Apparently, there had been a suggestion earlier from Ludovico that Sister Agatha might like to spend the night in Riccardo’s bedroom, that an extra bed could have been brought in and placed next to him if she so desired, but the God-fearing kitchen porter had, thankfully, put the kibosh on that idea somewhat lively. Was Ludovico not aware that Sister Agatha had been married to the good Lord for a hundred years?

  Even though she would have slept at the bottom of a well at that stage, such was her tiredness, the nun was relieved to hear that this room-sharing idea had gone no further than that. She had clocked that Riccardo had dreadful digestive troubles that sounded very like those blasted roadworks that had gone on for an eternity outside the convent towards the late eighties, and those interruptions proved most unpleasant then, they were sure to prove similarly now.

  Instead, the kind staff had arranged for Sister Agatha to get a good night’s sleep in Signor Scarpa’s office, where they placed a large, if bumpy, camping bed in front of his desk. (There was an avalanche of “scuse” made about a lack of available beds, thanks to their patients’ frustratingly good genes.)

  But Sister Agatha was more than happy with her temporary lodgings; given the week that was, she simply wanted to hightail it to the land of nod and remain there for as long as possible.

  “Buona notte!”

  “Dorma bene!”

  “Sogni d’oro!”

  After this seemingly endless series of emotional goodbyes and farewells, Sister Agatha carelessly placed her fabulous new frock across a chair, hastily deposited her teeth in a glass of water, then promptly crawled under the sheets and closed her eyes.

  Much to her dismay—and surprise—sleep would not come, and some twenty minutes later, Sister Agatha was still tossing and turning. She attempted to count sheep but such was her irritation, those carefree woolly animals went from hopping over little wooden fences to becoming entrapped in reams and reams of barbed wire—an image that didn’t promote rest, she soon realised.

  Shut-eye did not elude Sister Agatha because she was the victim of some troublesome indigestion like a certain patient down the hall. Instead, it was due to the kaleidoscope of thoughts that were whirling around her mind, and they were mostly guilt-related. Sister Agatha had come to Stella della Laguna that day with one intention: to become the oldest person in the world. The next thing she knew, her visit was assumed by those working there to have had a whole different purpose, leading her to receive the most extraordinary hospitality imaginable. And now, sprawled out on the fold-up bed, Sister Agatha was livid with herself for reciprocating their generosity by taking full advantage of their confusion.

  Simply put: Pádraig was not Riccardo, and Riccardo was not Pádraig.

  Yes, various journalists discussed in great detail the uncertainty that clouded Riccardo’s early years. And yes, there was a striking resemblance between a younger Sister Agatha and his sculptures. And yes, she could easily have been the missing piece of the fantastical puzzle that Ludovico had invented. But no, it was all just a remarkable coincidence, and she should have told them so.

  Instead, having been too taken by the charms of her surroundings to concoct a proper plan (“If you had witnessed the sun setting over the lagoon, you would have been a little distracted, too!” she would have argued), Sister Agatha had happily allowed them to believe that he was the Pádraig in her story and the pair were old sweethearts, reunited at long last. And now, the deceiver was at loggerheads with herself because she knew that it was a silly thing to have done. It wasn’t going to make her task of killing Riccardo any easier; after all, Butsy Miller was now expected to love this Pádraig Keogh substitute and not smother him with one of his pillows (an idea that she had been entertaining earlier).

  Maybe her duplicity was down to the fact that she wanted to share her story at long last. While such a tragic, short-lived romance was a great yarn that most people would have relished telling for years, ever since Sister Agatha had discovered how Mrs Keogh had played such a hand in Butsy Miller’s fate, she had chosen to keep it to herself. What was the point in dwelling on the past? She had followed a different path in life, and that was that. Then, today, an opportunity had presented itself to give voice to that hugely important episode of her life once and for all, and she nabbed it.

  As she tossed and turned, and cursed the inbuilt corset on her dress for leaving her ribs fit only for the scrapheap, Sister Agatha wished she had not been so self-indulgent and had kept things to herself. It was a nonsensical, egotistical, and unhelpful thing to have done and, more importantly, it was certainly not going to see her ascend that final step on the podium.

  Before she could continue with her self-flagellation, there came a gentle knock on the door.

  “Come in,” she called out, after returning her false teeth to their rightful position (while also hoping that it wasn’t one of the canteen staff with more food).

  It turned out that it wasn’t someone bringing her a midnight snack; instead, her late-night guest was Ludovico.

  “Might I come in for un secondo, Sorella?”

  Before Sister Agatha could answer in the affirmative or otherwise, he sat at the foot of the bed, about to burst.

  “I have a big surprise for you,” he whispered, his voice filled with dramatic and conspiratorial ton
es. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others because, well, selfishly, I wanted your reaction all for myself!”

  Sister Agatha had hoped that the day would not get any more difficult; it seemed that her relentlessly effervescent friend seated in front of her had other ideas.

  “I have agreed on everything with Signor Scarpa, and I have just made all the other necessary arrangements.”

  When he revealed the ins and outs of his big scheme, Sister Agatha could hardly believe her ears. Maybe she was, in fact, in a dreamlike state, and the words that were being unleashed from Ludovico’s mouth were just a figment of her imagination.

  “Could you repeat that once again, my darling?”

  According to Ludovico, she and Riccardo were to be escorted back to Ireland first thing in the morning and then whisked away to that old sycamore tree in Kilberry where, after all these years, Butsy Miller and Pádraig Keogh would finally get to meet.

  “I don’t—” Sister Agatha tried to argue, but before she could even begin to explain how ridiculous the idea was, the nurse gave her a big kiss on the cheek, then rushed towards the door.

  Of course, Sister Agatha realised that it was a beautiful and charming gesture—and she genuinely hated to disappoint this adorable, if somewhat unhinged, teddy-bear of a man—but she only had three days left to live, and if she had to play the reluctant hostess to Riccardo—under constant surveillance—how on earth was she going to kill him? She only had herself to blame for this sorry mess! Why hadn’t she come prepared?

  Sister Agatha decided that it was for the best to come clean, cut her losses, and flee back to the convent, content that she had almost achieved her one true ambition. Yes, there would be a handful of souls laughing at her from beyond the grave, but she had given it a damn good shot, she would dispute, and that deserved some praise.

  “Ludovico—”

  “By the way,” the nurse interrupted. “Because of Pádraig’s condition, the journey will probably mean that he will pass away as soon as we arrive at the tree in Kilberry. But I think that’s what he would have wanted: to slip away in the arms of the love of his life, don’t you?”