‘You okay, Mother?’
‘Need a hand up, Mother?’
It had been one of the sweetest moments in Cecilia’s life until she realised that Mother Bernard had been watching the whole incident from the doorway. Her face like thunder, the older nun had come pounding over, pulled both girls roughly to their feet by the hair and virtually thrown them back at the ironing presses.
‘We have two hotels to get through before the end of the day!’ she’d shrieked.
Faces dark and sour, the girls did as they were told.
‘Where is your gratitude for all that has been done for you?’ The old nun walked up and down between the lines of ironing girls. ‘Do any of you ever wonder why you are here? No? Well, let me enlighten you. Because no one else will have you! No surprise to me that your families don’t want you. No decent man would ever want to marry the likes of most of you.’
When she finally came to the end of her rant, red-faced and puffing with indignation, she began a decade of the rosary.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost …
Most of the girls answered mechanically, just as they worked, in unison, folding the freshly laundered sheets and pillowcases into the presses, checking the lists from the hotels and carting the finished piles into the packing room.
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Their voices murmured under the clanking of the machines like the low, monotonous sound of a well-oiled engine.
But once Mother Bernard had gone, the girls turned one by one to give Cecilia their shy smiles. On their way out to lunch, Mavis had apologised.
‘Sorry, Mother,’ she said as if she really meant it.
Then a few others muttered the same. ‘God bless you, Mother. God bless you.’
‘God bless you, girls.’ Cecilia’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘God bless you all.’
When everyone was gone, Mother Aloysius had come in from the mangle room to walk out with Cecilia.
‘I heard all that,’ the sweet-faced Irish nun chortled, raising her eyes to heaven.‘Mother Bernard must have got out on the wrong side this morning.’ She smiled at Cecilia and took her arm.
‘You did well, dearie,’ she whispered.
‘Oh Mother.’ Cecilia shook her head in consternation. ‘I wish I had your knack.’
The girls all loved the cheery Mother Aloysius. She was able to keep full control and get the work done without ever raising her voice or getting angry.
‘Have the girls in question been corrected?’ Mother Holy Angels was asking now.
‘Mavis said she was very sorry, Mother,’ Cecilia said. ‘I decided to leave it at that.’
‘And the other girl?’
‘Well, the other one was Faye, Mother.’ Cecilia hesitated, unsure if Mother remembered that Faye had only been back from St Joseph’s in Broadmeadows a few weeks. ‘Faye Slattery. She said she was very sorry too,’ she added quickly.
Mother Holy Angels gave a deep sigh, closed her eyes and shook her head.
With dismay Cecilia realised that she’d just lied to the Mistress of Novices. Oh dear Lord! The girl hadn’t apologised at all.
Faye had been only fourteen years old when she first came to live at the convent some months before. Her parents had asked the Sisters to take her in because she kept running away from home and had been expelled from two schools and was now completely unmanageable. No one knew she was pregnant. She was so very young, so quiet and watchful. Something about her had made Cecilia warm to her straight away.
When her pregnancy became obvious nothing was said, but she was put on lighter duties in the packing room until her time came. Then she was taken to Broadmeadows by ambulance to have her baby. Ten days later she was back again, working in the laundry. In the three weeks she’d been back she hadn’t caused any trouble at all until the fight with Mavis.
But Cecilia had noticed the heavy dark rings under the girl’s eyes, and the fact that she barely spoke now. At break times she lurked around the canteen or sat alone on the steps leading into the little chapel, just staring into space.
It was strictly forbidden for the girls to talk about their pasts to each other or anyone else. Situations that couldn’t be changed should be forgotten. Indeed, the girls were given new names to help them forget their old selves.
Cecilia knew the rules, but Faye was so friendless. None of the other girls liked her. Even those who’d had to give up babies themselves had no sympathy. She’d heard them complaining about her crying at night.
‘What’s with her?’
‘I’m going to gag her tonight.’
‘She acts like it’s never happened to anyone else before!’
‘Faye needs a little time, Mother,’ Cecilia said desperately.
‘I see.’ Mother Holy Angels shook her head. ‘And yet she wants to recite Shakespeare?’ A smile played around her mouth.
‘She does, Mother.’
‘Well well.’ The old nun sighed again.
Cecilia had given Faye the role of Romeo because she was tall and thin, but it was more than that. There was a fierce intelligence in her pale, solemn face, and such gravity in the deep grey eyes. Cecilia found herself thinking of the girl at odd times, wondering how she might be able to help her and saw again the sudden flush of pleasure on the sad girl’s face when told she would make a good Romeo.
‘Would you like to do it, Faye?’
The girl had nodded quickly and then lowered her eyes as though she might be going to cry.
‘You think you can learn all those lines?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘You will spend some time in quiet meditation, Sister Annunciata,’ the Mistress of Novices was saying, ‘paying particular attention to the rule of obedience.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
And then, as though she could read the anguish in Cecilia’s heart, ‘And let me remind you again that we do not become familiar with the girls in our care, nor single one girl out for special attention. It is not what we are here for.’
‘Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother.’
The novices stayed on their knees until Mother Holy Angels had swept out of the room.
‘So what are we here for?’ Sister Jane Francis said, loud enough for them all to hear.
Peach
Every time Mum and Dad ring I’m on the point of telling them about the letter and the photos and everything, but then I chicken out and tell myself it can all wait until they get home. I do tell them about Det’s pregnancy, though, and after the shock they become immediately supportive. When they ask all about her living arrangements and what plans she’s made I feel foolish because I don’t know much at all. When they suggest she move in with us I try to buy time by thinking up excuses.
‘But … there isn’t room.’
‘Nana’s room isn’t being used,’ Mum says.
‘But I don’t think she’d want to. I mean, she’s so—’
‘Try her,’ Dad cuts in dryly.
‘If she won’t move into Nana’s room, then suggest the bungalow,’ Mum persists.
‘But it’s full of junk.’ I’ve never even imagined living with Det, much less wanted to. The bungalow consists of two small rooms. One is a basic kitchen with a sink and a funny little stove, the other is a bedroom with a small shower recess and toilet off it. ‘Where would we put all that crap?’
‘In the garage,’ Dad says patiently. ‘It’s only a few boxes and cases. When I get home we can chuck most of it out. You will have to clean it out though. It’s pretty grimy.’
‘But there’s no heating,’ I protest.
‘So we get her a heater for the winter,’ Dad laughs. ‘Come on, Peach.’
‘Okay,’ I say slowly. Det probably won’t come at the idea, but still … it’s a good suggestion.
‘It won’t be forever, darling,’ Mum says gently. She can read my thoughts from all those miles away and it makes me sick with shame. ‘But she needs a secure base from which to make plans. Do
n’t you think?’
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘yeah, of course.’
‘It’s coming up to Christmas, too.’
Oh jeez.
I put the phone down. Trust my parents to suggest the obvious solution. Why wasn’t it me who came up with the idea?
In my defence, it is pretty easy to forget about Det’s pregnancy. She never talks about it and although she must be getting bigger, no one would guess because she wears these huge oversized shirts.
But two days after talking to Mum I go up to her studio after my morning shift at the cafe and knock on her door.
‘Hey, Peach,’ she says when I push the door open. She’s working at her desk.
‘Move in with us,’ I say without any preliminaries.
‘What?’ She stares at me.
‘Mum and Dad rang.’ I try to make it sound as if it’s no big deal. ‘And they want you to move in with us and … I do too.’
Her face screws up further into a deep frown. She gets up and walks to the window, and stands staring out a while, then moves back to the painting that she’s working on.
‘I’d be in the way,’ she mumbles.
‘No. You won’t.’
She picks up a knife and starts scraping the paint from one corner of the picture, still frowning hard.
‘Where would I sleep?’
‘The bungalow. We’ll clean it out.’
‘Hmm.’ She throws down her palette knife, flops down onto the desk chair and closes her eyes.
‘What about Stella?’
‘She loves the idea. She’s head-over-heels excited.’
Det draws her knees up and wraps both skinny arms around her legs and buries her face.
‘Okay,’ she says softly.
It’s at that moment I understand she is terrified. That the frantic work pace is all about keeping the terror at bay as much as preparing for her exhibition. I want to grab those thin shoulders and tell her everything is going to be fine. But I hold back. Det doesn’t take kindly to sympathy, and if I’m being honest … I’m not sure things will be fine. In fact, there is a lot to worry about. This is a gamble that might well not pay off.
As soon as I tell Cassie the plan she moves straight into action mode as only Cass can. Det has to go to a landscape painting class in the country for five days, but Cassie comes straight around with piles of cleaning equipment and all sorts of plans about how we’ll do the place out. I stand there listening to her, amazed by her energy and focus. Hang on … I want to remind her, this is just the bungalow, a place where we dump stuff.
But over the course of few days, Cassie transforms the two little rooms. I help, of course, but she is the brains behind it. First off, we move all the boxes into the garage, then we roll up our sleeves and get stuck into the cleaning. It takes the two of us about three hours. Stella, who never gets her hands dirty if she can help it, brings out drinks and makes us food and acts like she’s got all kinds of important things happening inside the house when there is anything serious to do. Still, she’s helpful in her own way.
I’m at work when Cassie and Stephano paint the place with some white paint his father had left over in his garage. When I come home the two coats are already finished. The next day Cassie brings around bits and pieces of furniture and household stuff that she’s begged and borrowed from her relatives. There is a good bed, a small table and chairs, a desk, even a small sideboard, curtains, table linen and a few vases. Most of it arrives courtesy of a trailer hooked to Stephano’s car, but one little bookcase comes on the back of a mate’s motorbike, and a little table is walked around on a trolley by someone who lives nearby.
By the time Cassie is finished, our little junk room looks fantastic.
When Det arrives a few days later, with a couple of battered suitcases, a mini fridge that doesn’t shut properly and a box of household stuff, she is totally amazed. She stands in the doorway and looks around.
‘Who did this?’ she mutters suspiciously.
Cassie and I laugh, and I point at Cass. ‘She did.’
‘She helped me!’ She points back at me.
Det flops down on the rug, and lies out flat on her back.
‘What do you think, Detto?’
She moans, putting both hands up over her eyes. She sits up to take another look, then buries her face in her knees, wrapping her arms around her legs.
‘It’s totally fucking brilliant. You two are the best mates anyone could have. I mean it. The best.’
She holds out her arms and Cassie and I lie down on either side of her on the rug.
‘I thought I was going to move in on top of a heap of dusty boxes!’ she whispers hoarsely. I hear the tears in her voice but pretend I don’t. She hates nothing quite as much as she hates gush.
‘We couldn’t have that,’ Cassie says crisply.
Det and I laugh.
From the very start it works perfectly, almost as though Det has always lived with us. Three in a house works better than two. Somehow Det’s bluntness and brand of dry humour evens Stella and me out. We’re not under each other’s skins as much.
And I rediscover my love of cooking. With Mum and Dad away and Stella being such an erratic eater, I’d stopped cooking proper meals. But with Det here, shopping for food and cooking suddenly becomes something I want to do again. Det doesn’t cook herself but she is very appreciative of anything I manage to pull together, and she always cleans up, and insists that Stella do her share too, which is nothing short of a miracle.
Cassie drops in all the time, sometimes with Stephano – more often than not with delicious leftovers from his mother’s kitchen. Nick and Dicko are regular visitors and even old Screwloose comes every now and again with baguettes he buys on his way home from the city.
Suddenly Christmas is on us. Stella and I try to talk Det into coming with us to our aunt’s for the day, but she flatly refuses.
‘Det, you can’t be alone on Christmas Day,’ Stella protests. ‘We can’t have it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Christmas is … serious.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I want to be serious by myself.’
We’re not a religious family, but Christmas is special and we always spend it together. So when I wake early on Christmas morning it all feels a bit sad not to have my parents around.
I lie in my bed watching the light flickering through the blinds, thinking of them and Christmases past, and then Fluke wanders into my head. Instead of immediately shutting the door on him I let him stay. Maybe Christmas is the time to … to do what? What would I say?
I lean over and grab my phone and then remember that I deliberately wiped his number weeks ago. No problem. I know it off by heart. How tragic is that? After six months I still remember his phone number. I tap in the numbers just for the hell of it and stare at them, marvelling that I am just one small movement away from hearing his voice. Do I dare? My finger hovers over the buttons, but before I can do anything, the phone starts ringing and I almost drop it in surprise. It’s an unknown number. What if he’s at his mother’s place and thinking of me too? Against my better judgement the idea of him remembering me at Christmas makes me feel mushy.
‘Hello?’ I say tentatively, my heart pounding.
‘Peach! Happy Christmas!’ Mum’s voice crackles down the line and I’m both glad and deeply disappointed. ‘Happy Christmas, darling.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I reply, more heartily than I feel. ‘Happy Christmas to you too! Where are you?’
‘Waiting for our flight to London.’
‘So you’ll be with Dad’s mum, I mean Grandma, for Christmas Day?’
‘That’s the plan.’ Mum pauses. ‘You sound a bit …’
‘I’m fine, Mum. It’s early here. Your call startled me.’
‘I knew my early bird would be awake,’ she says warmly. ‘Was I wrong?’
‘No.’
‘So did you both go to the carols?’
�
�No.’
‘Oh.’
I can tell she’s disappointed. The four of us always go to the local park and sing carols with Mum’s sister Claire and her kids. We take a picnic, light our candles and sing. We always enjoy it and I suddenly can’t believe that I forgot all about even ringing Claire back to arrange it.
‘Oh well, tell Stella I’ll ring later. I knew she wouldn’t be awake yet.’
‘Okay … so tell me about Paris.’
‘I spent yesterday walking around my old university, and it was so wonderful, but I want to know how it’s all going at home,’ Mum says. ‘I mean with Stella?’
‘Still the same,’ I say quickly.
‘What time do you think she might rise?’
‘Around noon,’ I say, and we both laugh.
We chatter on a bit and then she puts on Dad and we go through the same Christmas palaver.
‘Send Grandma our love,’ I say when we’re saying goodbye. But I’m only going through the motions.
Dad’s mum came out to visit when I was about twelve and stayed for a month and that was the last time I saw her. We were so excited to be meeting our other grandmother. But she was nothing like Nana. Everything was wrong from the beginning. The new bed that Dad had bought especially for her was too hard, the heat and the flies were unbearable and the Aussie accents indecipherable, and Stella and I were way too noisy. After she’d gone, Stella and I confessed to each other that we were glad she’d gone. We felt bad about saying anything to Dad until he confessed he’d come to Australia to get away from his uptight parents. And fifteen years on he still reckoned it was the best decision he’d ever made.
Det strolls into the kitchen at around ten with two gifts under her arm wrapped up in brown paper and tied with bright string.
‘Happy Christmas.’ She kisses me briefly, plonks herself on a stool and puts her two presents to the side.
I get down another cup and go on making the tea. ‘For me?’ I point at a present.
‘Yeah.’ She looks around. ‘So where is mine?’
‘Wait!’ I pour the tea and hand her one. ‘How are you?’
She cups her belly and nods. ‘Okay … I guess.’
‘Merry Christmas!’ Stella enters with an armful of presents.
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