by Judith Kelly
‘What?’ We flinched as her voice boomed like an organ into the classroom. It took ages to die.
She looked at us, and we stared fearfully back at her.
‘I’m going to leave you for a while without any supervision’, she rasped. ‘And I don’t want bedlam here. You are to continue doing your work in complete silence.’ She paused here to survey our faces, as though to judge our worthiness to carry out such an extraordinary task, and apparently found us up to it.
The two nuns exchanged dark, conspiratorial looks and with great solemnity walked out of the room. What a din their habits seemed to make, crackling and rasping; how their heels pounded on the wooden floor. The door’s glass rattled again as it was closed.
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ whispered Ruth across the classroom. Then there followed an instant of dead silence, ruffled by mouthed exchanges to each other behind hands, with eyes rolling. The whisperings subsided, only to bubble up a few seconds later, simmering and gradually increasing to boiling point.
‘What do you think happened?’
‘I haven’t the faintest.’
‘Did you see her face?’
A breathless discussion ensued. The consensus was that something huge, really huge, had happened. I became anxious because there was still no sign of Frances, but I said nothing.
Ruth slumped down, closed her eyes and rubbed her head animal-style on the wood of the back of her desk.
‘There’s big trouble brewing,’ she said in her husky voice. ‘I can feel it in me bones.’
Ruth had recently run away and had been caught wandering through the town. She had been brought back to the convent in a police car, making her a scandal and a heroine for several weeks. That’s why she was in the classroom again. Normally she’d be scouring baths and washbasins, polishing and dusting, and even coping with clogged-up drains. But now the nuns had to keep a close eye on her. While the nuns whacked us all, they took particular delight in the cruelty they showed towards Ruth Norton. It was all meant to make Ruth beg them to stop, beg them to leave her alone, but through it all, she never lost her sense of humour. Yet there were times, when you could see the rage welling up inside her, held in only by a fragile barrier.
‘Them nuns are all habit with no fizz in their think tanks,’ she said boldly propping her feet up on her desk.
‘Where’s Janet?’ someone whispered.
Janet was so thin, she seemed like a piece of white tissue paper and it was difficult to notice when she was missing from class. Ruth’s eyes assumed an intent scowl. I knew it well. She looked like that when a nun barked ‘four nines?’ at her; her eyebrows knitted, awaiting inspiration.
‘I think she’s in the dormitory standing with her sheet over her head because she wet her bed last night,’ said Ruth.
Janet had a weak bladder and wet her bed quite often. As a punishment, the nuns made her stand for hours wearing the wet sheet over her head. I liked Janet because I had never heard her speak badly of anyone, other than to say a nun had not been nice to her. One day in the playground she gently reached into a cardboard box and her hands emerged holding a small brown frog. The frog wriggled a little and then settled into her supporting hands.
‘I love all animals, even the fierce ones,’ she said once, ‘Do you ever feel that every animal in the world needs to be protected?’
I know what she meant and it was a terrible feeling.
As we waited for Sister Mary’s return to the classroom I folded my arms and put my head in the hollow. All the desks were scarred and spotted with ink and smelt the same: spicy, like the ground under a tree. Sometimes the wood was discoloured, bleached from the sun. There was a groove for your pens and a hole for a tiny porcelain inkwell. Ruth occasionally drank the ink and poked out her blue tongue at us. Sometimes she even ate the paste issued to us as glue. She said she preferred it to our porridge. With my head on my arms I licked the desk, but it just tasted bitter.
An ominous sound then became audible far away in the convent. We all looked at each other, listening. There was a dull rumbling, which became the sound of running feet and raised voices. I felt a kick of fear as if it were the onset of some appalling rebellion. The running feet and voices came nearer. Then the classroom door burst open and Sister Columba came running in. She was dragging someone after her by the hand. It was Frances.
‘Here she is, here she is!’ cried Sister Columba. She thrust Frances forward.
The class leapt to its feet, the wooden seat-backs clattering as they snapped back. Sister Columba looked now as if she were completely mad, her pasty large-nostrilled face twisted and almost grinning. She produced a bamboo cane from the folds of her habit. My heart hammered at the walls of my ribs.
Sister Mary arrived at the doorway, studying her fingernails as though she had just discovered them, a crooked smile on her face. Behind her stood Janet Dover. She looked so chalky pale and stiff I thought her blood must have turned white. Tear tracks ran down her face. She was sent to stand beside Frances. What had they done?
Sister Columba tapped her cane against the palm of her hand. I had learnt by now that a cane could lacerate the skin. It caused severe black and scarlet bruising that took two weeks to disappear, and all the time during those two weeks, you could feel your heart beating along with the wounds.
Turning to Janet and Frances, Sister Columba said, ‘You girls are the lowest of the low. Guttersnipes. What do you have to say for yourselves?’
Frances said in a soft whining voice, ‘Me and Janet are sorry, Sister, we promise we’ll never do it again.’ Her hands twisted in elaborate shapes of pleading. ‘We only climbed through Sister Mary’s cell window to get our letters. We weren’t going to steal anything.’ It was like the plaint of an animal.
Sister Columba stared at her for a few seconds and said, ‘You have both behaved deceitfully and you know it!’ She moved towards Frances and dealt her a savage kick in the side which briefly tumbled her over on to the floor.
Then, turning to Janet, she tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the end of her cane, a broad smile on her face. Janet looked straight ahead, her hands twisting her handkerchief round and round unhappily. I saw a muscle jump in her jaw.
‘And what do you have to say for yourself, Dover? Are you ever going to be saved from the hot nook of Satan?’ she asked, the smile still on her face. ‘It doesn’t surprise me that your mother never wanted you. You filthy slut, always wetting your bed.’
Janet’s jaw twitched again. She scratched her nose.
‘Don’t pick! Don’t fiddle!’
‘Yesssister,’ Janet mumbled. She began to wheeze, her breath coming in small bursts. I saw Frances shut her eyes.
Sister Columba then advanced on them screaming, ‘We do not tolerate such goings-on!’ Her words were slathered in spit as she lunged at the two girls. Snorting with effort, she raised the cane high above her shoulder. It made a loud swishing sound, and there was a piercing crack as it struck each of the girls in turn. The blows immediately caused red marks to appear on their legs and arms and their eyes welled with tears. With every blow, the nun’s rosary beads clinked together, making a noise like gnashing teeth; her face was red and quivering.
Sister Mary stood beside the door, her eyes opaque and glinting like steel, her tongue licking at her lips.
Both girls staggered. The thin muscles of Janet’s legs buckled under her and she then crouched on the floor, hands over her head, but Frances stayed upright, parting her feet for a better grip. The nun’s stick streaked back and forth in a rain of blows, again, again, again, again, again. With each swipe Frances’s dark hair jumped, but her body and head hardly moved.
Janet, whose face had been pale then red, burst into high-pitched hysterical sobs. She howled half-angry, half-frightened, wailing ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ She then staggered to her feet and fell against the wall with her hand over her mouth, biting her palm in an effort to stop herself from screaming. Sister Mary hurried forward and, grasping Janet b
y the hair, dragged her into the middle of the classroom. Sister Columba was instantly behind her, taking a thick cloth from her pocket, wrapping it around Janet’s mouth and knotting it secure from the back.
Sweating profusely, her hot hue reflected in her white wimple, Sister Columba resumed the flogging of the two girls. But just as the beating had begun to take on a rhythm, Frances slowly straightened to her full height. Head up, chest out, she seemed to tower over Sister Columba even though the nun was taller than she.
Turning, the nun concentrated her cane on Frances alone. Frances stood very still, glaring at her, until with a cry of fury and her jaw hanging wide, Sister Mary ran forward again and pushed Frances to the floor.
‘Get down, you little tyke!’ she screamed.
Her eyes glazed and lips trembling, Frances immediately struggled to her feet again.
A gasp of dismay ran across the hot classroom. Some of the girls were crying. Ruth, as always, was stiff as a statue, her face twisted into a mask of hate. I kept my head tilted upwards, my eyes on the ceiling. My ragged fingernails gouged into my palms, willing Frances to stay down.
Sister Columba stood still for a stupefied moment, her beady black eyes gleaming. She opened her prim, rather savage little mouth and was about to say something, but before she could, Sister Mary grabbed Frances and pinioned her arms from behind. She then bent her double with her backside uppermost, holding her against her chest. I could see the top of Frances’s white legs shining under the glare of the outside light.
‘Give her a good hiding!’ shrieked Sister Mary.
With a whistle of wind, the blows of the knotty cane lashed against Frances’s buttocks with such strength that it almost knocked Sister Mary off her feet. Each blow brought muffled gasps and low moans from Frances’s mouth like those of a sick animal. Smarting under the blows of the cane, she began to buck desperately.
Sister Mary’s face was gleaming with sweat, her eyes alight with glee. The blows finally stopped after a dozen shots had found their mark.
Puffing and blowing, with white saliva dotting the corners of her mouth, we heard Sister Columba say: ‘I think you have both learnt your lesson now.’ She nodded to Sister Mary who released Frances and untied the gag around Janet’s mouth.
‘This class is dismissed!’ Sister Mary screamed.
Then both nuns swept out of the classroom tossing their veils and slamming the door behind them.
Frances sagged to her knees and toppled over. A few of us rushed forward to help her and Janet to their feet. With great presence of mind Frances delegated some of the girls to help Janet to the dormitory.
‘But keep your voices down and make sure you’re not seen,’ she told them through dry and puffy lips. Her eyes looked mad, scared and sticking out, her pupils huge as though she’d been in the dark and the light had been turned on.
As the girls left, she buried her face in her hands. I put my arm around her shoulders, and she seemed to lose consciousness for a moment. Her body felt so light it was like hugging a bamboo chair. Very far away, I heard children moving, heard someone whispering, heard a door shut.
When at last she raised her head, I said, ‘It’s all over. It’s all over.’ I repeated it again and again, in a soothing, almost hypnotic voice, rocking her back and forth. That was when she let go and wept.
We sat like this for a long time, until Frances’s tears were almost spent.
‘My head hurts,’ said Frances finally. ‘And I feel really sick.’
‘You’d feel better if you lay down upstairs,’ I said. ‘There won’t be any nuns around for a while. You know they always make themselves scarce after a flogging.’
‘Yes, they get upset,’ said Frances. ‘If we’d hit someone like that we’d get upset too.’
‘I don’t think I could ever hit anyone,’ I said.
‘Nor could 1.’
When we reached the dormitory, she entered like a heroine, to a soft fluttering of applause from the other girls. She drew a finger over her lips, and told one of the girls to keep a lookout at the door for the approach of any nuns.
In silence, we fetched wet towels and dabbed water on Frances’s swelling scarlet wounds. In between them lay mottled purple bruises. I winced feeling the blazing warmth from the swellings. Janet sat on her bed, eyes closed, arms around her shins, rocking and rocking, crooning to herself in a soft nasal tone. Frances lay unmoving, eyes closed, breathing deeply. I blew into her hair.
‘You were very brave,’ I whispered, squeezing her hand, ‘but you should have stayed on the floor when Sister Columba pushed you down.’
‘Yeah, then Sister Mary wouldn’t have had to squash you against her titties and shown us your bare bum,’ said Ruth. ‘She’s dead kinky. Do you think she’s going through her mental pause?’
Frances’s eyes flew open. She lifted her head. The other girls hovering around at once began telling her to lie back. Instead, she half sat up.
‘Shut up, Ruth,’ she said in a low, serious voice, gasping a little as she spoke. ‘It’s not fair, it’s your birthday, Judith. I saw three letters for you from your mum in Sister Mary’s cell, and a birthday card. They had all been opened.’
‘The sly old dirtbag!’ said Ruth.
‘You did it for my sake?’ I gasped. Pride swelled within me for having such a friend. At the same time a tidal wave of relief almost knocked me off my feet. Mum had written! She had been in touch with me after all, she hadn’t forgotten me. I squeezed Frances’s hand, unable to thank her.
Like stray cats, we piled ourselves around Frances on her bed. Others had made Janet’s bed into a cradle and were gently rocking her. With her eyes dry now, Frances outlined what had happened.
‘It was like this, see,’ whispered Frances cautiously, looking over her shoulder at the dormitory door. ‘I knew Janet was in the dormitory doing wet-bed punishment and I knew she would help me. I sprinkled a bit of sugar I’d taken from the kitchen over the dormitory floor leading up to Sister Mary’s cell. Then me and Janet climbed through her porthole window. We managed to look through a few letters. We saw one for Janet from her brother. Then Janet found some long woollen bloomers that smelt of mothballs. We were doubled up laughing at them when suddenly from the dormitory came a loud sound, crunch! It sounded like a giant was walking on stones. Then we heard the high-pitched voice of Sister Columba in the distance. “Who did this?” she was shrieking. She went crunching through the dormitory. “Where are you, Dover? Own up immediately! Step forward now or woe betide you!” Then she saw us through the window. She looked like she had steam coming out of her nostrils.
First she made us sweep up the sugar and then she marched us to the classroom, and brought out Sister Mary. She just glared at us.’
‘Sister Mary called Janet a slut,’ I said. ‘Do sluts live in slums?’
Crows of stifled laughter.
‘Shut up, Sister Cuthbert’s coming!’ hissed the girl on lookout. We all leapt off the bed as Sister Cuthbert entered the dormitory quietly on her fat little buttery feet. Frances and Janet were too given up to misery to move.
The nun said in a calm voice, ‘So this is where you’re all hiding out.’ She looked first at Janet and then at Frances, and smiled, a full flat mouth on a chunky chin. ‘It saddens me to see you looking so distressed, but one day I hope you will appreciate the importance of the punishments you have to undergo.’
None of us replied. Scanning us with her small fat-encircled eyes, Sister Cuthbert went on with a chirpy wag of the head: ‘I know you must be thinking that the punishment meted out to Janet and Frances was not warranted. But you must understand that only through suffering can goodness be achieved.’
We stared at the nun, flummoxed, not daring to interrupt. She came forward and rested her plump pink hand on Janet’s forehead.
‘I can see that it’s hard for you to bear each other’s pain, but suffering is the only means of salvation. The sisters here are only trying to do their best for you, even though at times
our treatment may seem a little harsh. Vere dignum et iustum est - It is indeed fitting and right. To learn, one must be humble. But life is a great teacher. I won’t ask you the reason why you were beaten, but I am sure you must have deserved it.’
The nun turned to Frances. ‘Many things must have happened to you here at the convent, which have seemed unkind, unfair even. But very few things have happened by accident - I am telling you this for your own good. McCarthy, the fact that you are gifted with a wonderful singing voice is going to your head. You’re all puffed up with conceit. Tell me, what on earth do you think you will do when you leave the convent?’
Frances said she wanted to be an opera singer.
Sister Cuthbert tutted. ‘Your attitude only confirms what I have said. Puffed up with conceit. Yours is strictly a bathroom voice. Learning classical singing is not an option for you. We like our opera stars to have studied music at a very high level. The way you’re going it’s the sweetie factory or work as a shop assistant for you, my girl.’
Frances shrugged, tears in her eyes. ‘Well, you asked what I wanted to do. I want to be like Maria Callas.’
‘Opera? Maria Callas? I’ve heard some things in my time, but that takes the biscuit. You need to be rich to be an opera singer. Don’t you know that opera is the most expensive noise known to man? However, there is one feature of your character that could be an asset to you in the future and that is your candour. However, candour like honesty is not only admitting our faults, but also thanking God for our talents and then using them for Him and for the good of everyone else.’
‘But Sister Cuthbert, it’s not fair, we didn’t deserve to be so badly beaten,’ Frances choked out suddenly.
The nun appeared to think for a moment. Then shaking her clasped hands before her, went on: ‘No, I don’t want to hear any complaints from our little opera star. You must have deserved your punishment. Forgiveness is for Almighty God, who sees into every heart, not for me. Corruptio optimi est pessima.* Hands up anyone who knows what that means.’