‘I’m sure. What do you think?’
He shrugged unhappily and looked away. ‘Well, if it’s what you want,’ he muttered.
‘It’s what I want,’ she said. But she knew what he was thinking.
How would she go without those slow walks home after a gallop through the paddocks, the sun sinking low over the hills against a brilliant summer sky splattered in crimson and gold, the quiet of evening settling in around them like a blanket? How would she manage not watching out for the first star coming into view over the roof of their house?
‘Well then.’ He tried to smile, but she could see that her news had brought him undone in some deep and terrible way. ‘I hope that you’ll be happy.’
She was unable to sleep that night thinking of the hurt that she was causing to the people she most loved. In desperation she got up at two a.m. and read again from the booklet on the Order of the Good Shepherd’s worldwide mission. It was in the words of the Foundress that she managed to find her resolve again.
To save one soul is worth more than the whole world.
That idea had set her heart on fire the moment she’d read it and it was working its magic now. It was her life. The only one she had.
She would do what she must do.
You may find in that far-off land to which you go, sorrows which may often fill your Chalice to the brim. Yet I say to you, Go! My dear Daughters, go with great courage where God calls you!
Peach
Det is waiting for me at the bar. I’m wearing my new high heels with jeans and a loose red top, and I feel very jittery. My hair is pinned back and I’ve got on my red lipstick. When I left the house my eyes in the hall mirror looked too bright. They were glittering. And my cheeks were uncharacteristically pink.
I’m flushed, as though I might be coming down with something.
Det is pale, as usual, and is dressed in an old black trench coat. She notices my colour and mood immediately.
‘What are you on?’
‘Nothing,’ I whisper.
‘Peach!’
‘Oh, I’m just … Nothing. What about you?’ I ask in a bid to get her eyes off me.
‘Brilliant.’ She grins.
‘How come?’
‘It’s called food.’ She flips my hair a couple of times playfully. ‘I’m actually trying to cook food and it’s working wonders!’
‘God,’ I murmur and take a look around at the crowd, ‘bit dramatic, isn’t it?’
‘I chuck a lot of it up every morning, but still … Hey, you look hot, Peach,’ she teases.
‘I need me a drink,’ I say, pulling out my purse. ‘Seriously.’ I have this nervous edgy feeling in my guts that won’t leave me alone.
‘Okay,’ Det says wryly.
‘Vodka,’ I say to the young barman. ‘Double shot.’
Det tucks my purse back into my pocket. ‘My shout.’ She grins. ‘Least I can do is buy my mate a drink when she needs it. So what’s up?’
I shrug, on the edge of telling her everything, but I pull back because … well, if I start actually discussing the letter, it will become real and I might have to do something about it. Part of me thinks if I keep it private then it might just fade away.
I notice Det’s glass full of ice and a clear liquid which looks blue in the bar light.
‘Water?’ I ask disbelievingly.
‘Well, yeah.’ She grimaces. ‘H2O certainly is a new experience for me.’
‘So, not even a splash of happy juice?’
‘Just water.’ She laughs. ‘Can you believe it, Peach? Me and water? Water and me!’
‘Doesn’t sound right,’ I agree, and we both laugh.
We’re joined by Nick and two of his fellow band-members. Dicko, whose real name is Richard Head. Can you believe his parents would be that stupid?
The drummer, Kooloos, is commonly known as Screwloose. He is a forty-year-old classical guitar lecturer at the VCA, but moonlights as a heavy rocker in Nick’s band, when they get a gig.
They sit alongside us at the bar. Nick picks up Det’s glass and smells it, then pretends to fall off his chair, but she only shrugs.
‘Just trying to stay nice.’ She smiles, her eyes sliding past him to the crowd of guys who’ve just come in.
‘A first for everything, eh?’ Nick winks at me. ‘You’re looking hot, Peach!’
I slide one hand over his balding head and hug him. ‘So you’ll dance with me?’ I ask.
‘Thought you’re never ask.’
I scull my double vodka and we walk through to where the band is playing. I’m feeling very cool, very sharp, very much on top of things. Admiring eyes run over me and I know I must be a little inebriated, because for once in my life I like it.
‘Great arse,’ someone murmurs into my ear.
I toss my head and think, Yes. I do look good in jeans. Hey, this might just be fun. Better than being a fucking nun anyway! I wonder how old she was … when she became one. I pull out my long blonde hair and fluff it out with both hands, and I feel every male eye around me taking it in. Nick is right behind me, calling out to people he knows. He is proud to be with me, and I like that too.
The music blasts into my head like steam, setting my blood alight. Tonight I don’t care who the hell is watching. Nick grabs my hand and we let rip. He’s a good dancer too, and I’m so far gone with that quick double shot on an empty stomach that I figure I am too. By the end of the set I’m wrecked, drenched in sweat and loose, and I’m not thinking about nuns or brides or old women, or babies either. I don’t see much of Det until midnight when Nick’s band comes on. She and I dance for about another hour, then I remember I have to start my new job in the morning.
‘I’d better go home, Det.’
‘Me too,’ Det says.
We edge our way through to the bar and then over to the corner where we left our coats with a couple of girls.
‘Stay at my place?’ I suggest, putting my coat on.
Det pauses. ‘Okay,’ she says, which surprises me. She is usually so determinedly independent. Never needs a ride; won’t stay overnight; doesn’t want a meal unless she is bringing half of it. Then you find out later that she had to catch a taxi or she had no food in the house. It’s almost pathological. Det is the quintessential loner.
‘Good.’
At the door someone yells goodbye. I turn around and lock eyes with Fluke, who is standing at the bar. Was it he who called? But he gives no indication. We stare at each other for a couple of seconds before I turn away. I walk out into the wet night feeling oddly pleased that he would have seen my raunchy dancing.
The rain has stopped and the streets are gleaming, but it’s not cold.
‘So how is … everything going, Det?’
‘I gotta get out of my place,’ she mumbles, ‘find somewhere else. The guy bought another dog yesterday. I just can’t stand it. I’m the only one who cleans up the fucking shit.’
‘That is still going on?’
‘Oh yeah.’
Det has lived in some crumby places, but the current one is the worst. The backyard is the size of an envelope and the kitchen is disgusting. She lives with two guys who simply don’t know the meaning of a clean sink, and one of them has some miserable mongrel who not only whines and barks day and night but shits everywhere. The other guy,Travis, isn’t so bad, but he has a demented girlfriend virtually living with him who is constantly pissed and who doesn’t know how to clean up either.
‘Cassie is seriously bugging me too,’ Det complains. ‘She called me this afternoon, after she stormed off. I don’t mind her opinion, but I don’t want orders.’
‘Fair enough,’ I mutter.
‘She thinks the only reason I’m keeping the baby is because I feel guilty about the other two abortions.’
So why are you having it? I want to ask.
She must know what I’m thinking, because she stops to look me squarely in the eye. ‘I don’t care what anyone says, Peach. I’m going to have it.’
>
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Just okay?’ She grins.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Okay.’ I can see her determination. It’s the same as when I first met her. She told me then that, yes, she had a family, but she sincerely hoped she’d never see them again. It was there when she insisted on doing Fine Art against the wishes and advice of everyone. Det is so tough that it’s scary. Maybe I’m still a bit drunk, but I am suddenly genuinely glad for her. One way or another, she will pull this off. I take her by both shoulders and shake her gently.
‘Good for you,’ I say.
‘Yeah?’ She searches my face for any hint of sarcasm or dishonesty and when she sees none her face relaxes. ‘I’ll probably be a terrible mother!’
‘Yeah,’ I agree. I’m not going to start lying to her just because she’s got a kid on board. ‘But I reckon if you can just keep it alive for, say, three or four years, maybe till it gets to school, then I think you’ll be okay.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So … have you got any hints?’
‘Hints?’
‘On how to keep it alive until I get it to school?’
And that’s when we both crack up laughing. Giggling and snorting, we continue along the wet footpath towards my home.
‘Sorry, Det. I failed Babies 101 first year uni. Forgot to turn up for the exam. Hey, where did you go for your examination?’
‘The Women’s.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘Just to look after myself. Try to eat and all the rest of it.’
‘Fags, drugs, alcohol?’ I say softly.
She shrugs ruefully. ‘I told them everything.’
‘And?’
‘They were so nice. No sermons. Just told me to do the best I can. So I will …’ Her voice catches in her throat. ‘I really appreciate how nice those nurses were. They did preliminary tests, but it’s still too early to tell if something is wrong. They’ll do more tests later.’
‘What will you do if … they find something wrong?’
‘Have it anyway.’ She shrugs.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I don’t care if it’s got flippers. I’m having it!’
‘Flippers!’ I burst out laughing again. Trust Det to think of flippers. She gives me a dark look.
‘Don’t tell anyone yet, okay? It might decide to check out early when it realises who it’s got as a mother.’
‘But if it does manage to hang in there it will have a good mum,’ I say quietly.
The one thing Det hates more than bullshit is sentimentality. But I know my words have touched her because she goes quiet. Then she pulls a hanky from her pocket and blows her nose. It’s very dark, but it’s actually nice walking along in the day’s leftover heat. I feel like we might be in Singapore or Bali.
We turn the corner into my street and walk in silence, arm in arm.
A baby!
There is a note from Stella on the table when we get home.
Oh Sister Peach!
Queen of my heart, mistress of my soul! I’m in bed pining but where are you, luscious one? (Please accord me absolution. I have seen the error of my ways. I promise. As proof of this I hearby swear to clean out the cupboard under the stairs tomorrow morning. Notice that it smells of rats! I kid you not.)
You missed Mum and Dad, you total absolute wanker! They hung on for as long as they could but when you didn’t turn up … they had to go. Anyway, they send their love and lots of kisses and will try again in a couple of days.
But I need to know if it happened! Tell me!
Oh pleeeese, Peach, don’t leave me in the dark, you blonde goddess! I know you’ve got to leave in the morning for your job so tick the box below, else I’ll come and haunt you in your sleep. I’ll pester you in your new job.
With love from your biggest fan,
Sister Mary Stella of the fat Arses! XXX
There are two crudely drawn boxes under her name with yes under one and no under the other.
Det reads the note over my shoulder. ‘What the hell is she talking about?’
I shrug dismissively and go out into the hall to grab bedding from the cupboard. Det is already pulling out the sofa bed.
‘There’s a spare toothbrush in the downstairs bathroom. You want a nightie or something?’
‘No, I’ll sleep in my undies.’
While she is brushing her teeth I run upstairs and grab the envelope from my wardrobe. Then holding it carefully as if it might contaminate my fingers I rip it in half and take the two halves out the back and dump them into one of the big green recycling bins. The council rubbish truck will take it soon and then it will be gone for good. Not very nice, I know, but I can’t let it happen. I won’t let my life be blown apart.
Det looks at me from the open bathroom door, her mouth full of toothpaste.
‘So tell me what Stella was on about,’ she mumbles.
‘She said something momentous was going to happen to me today.’
‘And did it?’
I straighten the freshly made bed
‘What do you think?’ I wave at the same old room, and Det gives me her famous raised eyebrow which tells me that she knows something else is up but that she is deciding not to push it. She climbs into the bed.
‘You want a drink?’ I ask. ‘Hot milk or something?’
She bursts out laughing. ‘Yeah, hot milk and a water bottle and fluffy slippers!’
‘Really?’
‘On the double!’
I go to the door and we smile at each other before I switch the light out. Then I remember Stella’s note. So I sneak back into the room and pinch her note and take it upstairs with me. Once in my room I take a pen and tick the yes square and then slip the note under her door.
That night I dream that I am lost in the convent. I am hurrying along dim corridors and pushing open doors into dusty, empty rooms, trying not to panic, desperate to find someone who can tell me the way out, but there is no one. Occasionally I hear the faint sound of furniture being moved, occasionally the soft murmuring of female voices and then a telephone ringing. But as soon as I turn towards the sound it fades.
I come to a wide wooden staircase leading down. At the bottom is a huge stained-glass window of Jesus holding a small lamb. It frightens me for some reason, but I descend slowly. I am aware that I do not belong and the longer I stay the more afraid I am that I will be caught here. When I’m halfway down the stairs there is a sudden loud, terrible scream.
I wake up terrified, my heart beating like crazy, my pillow damp with sweat.
Sadie, Ellen, Cecilia.
They are uninvited guests trying to set up camp in my head. Strangers. Why should I care about any of them? Stella’s words from the morning come back to me, sending an eerie tingle down my spine.
Things can be one way in the morning, and by evening they’re another.
I climb out of bed and creep downstairs, past the still-sleeping Det, and out the back door. I retrieve the letter from the recycling bin. I find sticky tape in the kitchen and join the pages together again. Then I take the letter upstairs and lie on the bed and I read it again.
My mother was a nun for ten years.
I have a grandmother who is desperate to see me.
Sadie, Ellen, Cecilia… and me.
Cecilia
Cecilia came through the sliding door into the crowded airport lobby and looked around. It was like every other such place in the world. Loose groups of people were lined up with expectant faces, waiting to connect eyes with loved ones coming in on the evening flight. There were a few welcome-home placards, and someone had a string of pink balloons. Children, some in pyjamas and propped on their parents’ hips, were looking around sleepily. One by one they found each other and the tired, anxious faces broke open in relief. The couples and little family groups moved away from the strangers to embrace each other in a little huddle, to kiss and laugh and talk excitedly.
Cecilia moved
through the crowd towards the doors, dragging her luggage behind her, telling herself she was lucky. She had Breda’s address in the pocket of her coat. She would catch a taxi straight there. The key would be under the clay pot on the right of the front door. She was to go inside and make herself comfortable. There would be bread on the table, fruit and cheese and even wine in the fridge if she felt like it. She could go to bed in the spare room if she wished – everything would be ready for her – and Breda would get home from work just as soon as she could. All would be well. And yet …
And yet, after all this time, not one person to meet her. She had told no one but Breda that she was coming home, and yet the terrible feeling persisted as she made her way outside. I am alone in this world. The same feeling that had dogged her in those last difficult years of being a nun, struggling with her faith and having nowhere to turn. I am alone, so alone, and it is terrible.
It didn’t matter that she was the one who’d burnt all the bridges with family and friends. If she’d taken a risk, lifted the phone and rung one of her brothers before she left London, there might well be a contingent to meet her. Maybe not. Maybe she’d have been met with silence, coldness and accusations. She took her place at the end of the long taxi queue.
‘Hey!’
Cecilia turned around. Some crazy person was bounding towards the line of tired, patient travellers, waving frantically. As she got nearer, Cecilia saw it was a stocky, badly dressed woman with grey hair.
‘Hey! It’s me. I made it, kid!’
Cecilia dropped out of the taxi line and stood looking down at the small, excited woman in dazed wonder.
‘I couldn’t stand the idea of you catching a taxi!’ The bright eyes shone exactly the same.
‘Oh, Breda.’ Cecilia fell into her arms. ‘Thank you. Thank you! You shouldn’t have, but … thank you.’
‘Come on.’ Breda was laughing. She grabbed the big case. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Once in the car, with Cecilia’s luggage in the boot, they turned to each other again.
‘You’re the same.’ Cecilia smiled. ‘Exactly.’
‘You too!
In fact, Breda’s face was lined and her dark hair was streaked with grey. She’d put on a bit of weight and her clothes were very ill-fitting and ordinary, but the essential her was very much there. The liveliness of her mouth, the quick smiles and wonderful eyes, dancing under the black lashes, were as bright as ever.
The Convent Page 14