The Convent

by Maureen McCarthy

  ‘So why don’t you do it,’ Ellen yelled, ‘if it’s so bloody easy?’

  ‘Ellen.’ Sister Patrice was leaning low, whispering into her ear. ‘Come on now, dear. This little one is ready to be born.’

  ‘But I don’t want another baby!’ Ellen shouted. ‘I don’t! I can hardly deal with the poor mites that I have already!’

  ‘Come on now, dear,’ Sister said soothingly. ‘One push now.’

  But how could she tell them how afraid she was of going back to the farm, of being lost there, smothered under the blanket of work. No friends. No time. No music. Of being subject to Kevin’s sour tempers and hot needs. No rest. No rest even in bed! To the waves of terrible exhaustion that had her going to bed each night wishing she wouldn’t wake up.

  ‘Ellen! Concentrate!’ the nun said severely, taking her hand.

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  ‘But you must!’

  Ellen sighed and gathered up her energy and pushed with all her might.

  ‘Yes yes yes.’ The nurse bent down and smiled into her face. ‘It’s crowned now. Good girl. Good girl! You’re doing well. Just one or two more.’

  ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘You can! You must!’

  And she did. She pushed the little body out into the hands of the doctor. All she saw was the top of the bloodied head before she fell back and closed her eyes.

  ‘There you are!’ the nun chortled, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘See, you did it.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ the doctor mumbled approvingly, ‘and a good weight too.’

  Leave me alone.

  Then she heard a shrill, hard, newborn baby’s cry. It was hers, she supposed, but she still didn’t open her eyes. Let someone else deal with it. They were whispering together, cooing over the baby, but Ellen didn’t really care. It was over. She vaguely knew she should be thanking God for the healthy child, but all she could feel was a profound and bitter relief. It was over … over, over, over.

  Until next time.

  ‘Aren’t you going to look at your baby?’ Sister Patrice asked gently.

  Ellen shook her head. Someone else came in and there were whispers and the clink of instruments on steel dishes. She supposed they were cutting and tying the cord. She felt the doctor’s hands on her stomach again and felt him push down firmly and then there were a couple of tugs as the afterbirth was pulled from her.

  ‘Mrs Madden?’

  ‘What?’ Ellen moaned.

  ‘Ellen, dear.’

  ‘Leave me be, please.’

  ‘Ellen, there is a surprise for you,’ Sister said. ‘Come on now, dear. Open your eyes.’

  It was the word surprise that did it. Slowly, slowly she opened her eyes. The nun was holding the baby right up next to her. Its little face had been washed of the blood and gunk and she could see the jaw working, the eyes tight shut and one tiny hand poking out of the blanket.

  ‘See.’ Sister Patrice opened up the little flannelette blanket, and Ellen’s mouth fell open. ‘See!’ Sister Patrice laughed. But Ellen didn’t laugh. She sat up a little on the pillows and simply stared at the child.

  ‘You have a girl,’ the nun whispered softly. ‘A lovely healthy little girl.’

  ‘But is it … Is she mine?’ Ellen croaked. She thought they might be playing some kind of trick on her. Either that or maybe she was dreaming.

  But the nun and the doctor were both smiling. ‘Yes,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Mine?’

  Ellen saw the tears in the nun’s eyes and it touched her. This old woman had told her once that although she’d presided over hundreds of births she always considered it a privilege and a joy.

  ‘Your first girl, Ellen,’ Sister Patrice said joyfully.

  ‘Oh!’ Ellen held out her arms for the baby.

  ‘What will you call her?’

  But Ellen couldn’t speak.

  A girl! The child’s eyes were closed tight and her little fist clutched the blanket. She held the baby close, noting the hair and the prettiness of her features and wishing suddenly that all her boys, especially Dominic, were there to see their new sister. Ah well, they’d see her soon enough. She’d be home soon enough.

  Could there be any better place than resting in a quiet ward of new mothers? Could there be a better feeling than being put into a bed that someone else had made with clean, fresh sheets? Could there be anything more welcome than that first cup of hot, sweet tea?

  Edna sipped her tea and returned the smile of the woman in the bed alongside hers.

  ‘What did you have?’ the woman asked.

  ‘A girl. A girl after six boys.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Well done!’

  Edna lay and watched the light change through the three long windows at the end of the ward. And when the nurse brought the baby back for nursing, she felt a fresh spurt of joy as she held out her arms for the pink-blanketed bundle.

  It was while she sat there with the babe in her arms that the music began to play. She looked around. Where was it coming from? Oh, but Ellen knew this music so well. It was Bach’s St Matthew Passion and she hadn’t heard it in years. The woman in the bed next to her had a little radio.

  ‘Not bothering you?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no no.’ Ellen smiled. ‘No, not at all.’

  Just at that moment the child’s eyes opened and Ellen laughed with delight. The little girl had lovely blue eyes like her brothers, and she seemed to be listening to the music too.

  Ellen closed her eyes and tried to conjure up the mother she’d never known. She imagined her coming in through the door of the ward to see her granddaughter. How would they greet each other? What would they say?

  Oh, St Cecilia, she prayed, patron saint of music, let goodness flow through this little girl like the sweetest song! Let her voice rise up to the heavens every single day! Keep her away from men and marriage and babies and manual work. Take her into a life of holiness with you and all the other saints.

  When Sister Patrice dropped by later that night with a pair of booties knitted by one of the old nuns, she found Ellen lying quite still staring into space.

  ‘So do we have a name yet?’ the nun asked.

  ‘Cecilia,’ Ellen said with a tired smile.

  The nun nodded approvingly. ‘Let’s hope she will sing.’

  Ellen put the biro down. Even if that granddaughter of hers never found out about the circumstances of her own birth, at least she’d know how much her own mother was wanted that first day on earth.

  Cecilia 1972

  It was her last night in Paris, and they walked back to the convent together along a winding narrow street. People stood respectfully aside for them to pass. After all, she was a nun in the full habit and he was a priest and they were in one of the most Catholic countries in the world.

  Cecilia was very aware of being alive, of walking through that soft dark evening in the most beautiful of cities.

  ‘I believe you have eight brothers, no less?’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed.

  ‘I’m an only child,’ he told her.

  ‘Then we’ll never see eye to eye,’ Cecilia said quickly, and then wanted to bite out her tongue. Why had she said such a stupid thing?

  He was silent for a while. Then he turned to her with a soft smile. ‘I think we see eye to eye, Sister.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cecilia felt her face grow hot.

  ‘After the seminar the other day, I noticed when someone came up to you and said something, and you started laughing, and you bent from the middle like you really meant it. You were really laughing and I thought … Well, after that, I was unconsciously looking around for the Sister who knew how to laugh.’

  Cecilia took a deep breath. This was not an appropriate conversation to be having. ‘You’re going back to the Philippines tomorrow?’

  He smiled. ‘I am.’ He slowed his pace and sighed, ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll stick it
?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The convent?’

  Cecilia opened her mouth but nothing came out. She clasped the silver heart in her hands and thought of the solemn vows rolled up inside, how dear they were to her.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I have my doubts that you will,’ he said simply.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Cecilia was stunned.

  ‘There is too much going on in here.’ He pointed to her head. ‘There is only so much bullshit a smart person can take.’

  She was shocked, completely unused to anyone swearing in her presence, much less a priest. But she was flattered too, in an odd way. He was treating her like an equal. No one had called her smart for a long time.

  ‘What about you?’ she managed.

  ‘I’m in the right place.’

  Cecilia laughed nervously. ‘And I’m not?’

  He shrugged. ‘Far be it from me to tell anyone where their place is.’

  She said nothing, just walked along stiffly beside him, but tears came to her eyes. He was right. And yet … he wasn’t. The convent was changing. It was more inclusive and more open. The Magdalen laundry was going to be phased out. When Cecilia got home she’d be part of all that. Things were changing. ‘How do you know you are in the right place?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘You know, Sister, I thought when I was first ordained that I knew something.’ He stopped and touched her hand briefly before going on. ‘I had a couple of degrees under my belt, and I was ready to take on the world. Then I got sent first to that little remote mountain parish and I consoled myself with the idea that I would be bringing God’s word to the ignorant poor, the illiterates. But … I was so wrong.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘They taught me.’

  ‘What did they teach you?’

  ‘That I knew nothing …’

  Her skin was burning from the brief touch of his hand.

  ‘My first job as a priest was to bury a newborn baby. The young couple didn’t have money for a coffin, so they decorated an old shoebox with Christmas paper that someone else had found and the whole village came to that Mass. We carried that tiny box three miles up the mountain to where the hole had been dug in the hard soil, and as I looked around at those patient, weathered faces who’d known nothing but injustice all their lives … I don’t know how to explain it, but I knew I was in the right place.’

  ‘Because they needed you.’

  ‘They needed someone on their side. Why should their lives be blighted by sorrow and hardship for want of food and medicines and all kinds of rights that we take for granted?’

  She shook her head and sighed and wished that she could sink down onto the pavement. That they both might just sit there all night and talk, talk through it all so that she would understand and by morning … by morning she’d have it all worked out.

  He put his hand up to ring the bell but stopped and turned back to her.

  ‘I’m going to miss you, Sister,’ he said quietly.

  Cecilia was glad for the dark night, because her face was hot with a rush of conflicting emotion.

  ‘I’ll miss you too, Father.’

  ‘I’ll pray for you,’ he said seriously.

  They shook hands formally.

  ‘Good luck with all your work, Father,’ Cecilia said.

  ‘Thank you, Sister. You get home safely now.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  That night Cecilia hardly slept. The turmoil inside felt like some kind of build-up to an explosion. At three a.m. she took a small torch from out of the broom cupboard, and although it was against the rules to read at night, pulled the Holy Bible from the shelf near her bed. She closed her eyes and let the book open anywhere. It fell open at St Matthew’s Gospel.

  Enter by the narrow gate, since the gate that leads to perdition is wide, and the road spacious, and many take it. But it is a narrow gate and a hard road that leads to life, and only a few find it. Matthew 7:13-14

  She had her answer; had known it all along.

  There would be no easy way for her.

  Peach

  ‘What a complete and total piss off,’ Det snarls under her breath, walking into the kitchen where I’m at the stove cooking paella. She has paint all over her hands, and her boots are completely inappropriate for the summer and her belly is protruding like a beach ball, but she looks well, better than I’ve ever seen her, in fact. The pink in her cheeks makes her look pretty, but if I told her that she’d probably tell me to go stand under a cold shower.

  ‘Well, hello, Det,’ I say. ‘How come you’re so happy?’

  She leans up against the fridge and looks at me. ‘It’s just plain shit behaviour,’ she spits out, glowering across the room at Cassie, who’s sitting at the dining-room table looking fabulous in red with dangling gold earrings, watching Nick and Dicko making up the granita.

  ‘Are we still going to go?’

  ‘How can we go now?’

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘I dunno,’ I mutter.

  Det groans, wanders over to the small sofa under the window and slumps down to watch the others make the drink.

  I’ve never made paella before so I thought I’d give it a go and invite Cassie and Stephano along with Nick and Dicko and Screwloose to come try it out. I suppose I was imagining a nice relaxed night, kicking back before the visit with the old lady in the country the next day. Nick and Dicko volunteered to make granitas and Det offered to grab a big tub of the best ice-cream from Carlton on her way home from the city. Cass has brought guacamole and bread. Screwloose said he was definitely coming but wasn’t bringing anything because he was broke.

  I’d gone to the market in the morning and bought up big. Seafood and greens and spices. Then Cassie rang to say that she had to pull out of the trip to my grandmother’s tomorrow because Stephano wanted her at some big family do for his grandparents. She’s the only one with a car, and from the beginning the plan had been that she drive us up there. It was extra annoying given that she’d been the one to convince me to finally see my birth grandmother. Peach, if we all go together it will be fine. All along Cassie was much keener than Det about the whole enterprise and now she’d decided to pike out the day before we’re due to go.

  ‘Sorry, kiddo,’ she’d said, ‘you’re going to have to find someone else with a car.’

  ‘But who?’

  ‘Well … if you can’t find someone to drive you, then you’ll have to go by train.’

  ‘She lives too far out.’

  ‘You can catch a local taxi out to where she lives.’

  ‘I’m not going by train,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t want to be caught there.’

  ‘What do you mean, caught there?’

  ‘I mean hanging around for hours waiting for the train back.’

  Cassie gave a deep sigh as though I was being obdurate and childish. ‘Then you’re going to have to hire a car.’

  ‘I need a full licence for that, Cass.’

  ‘Det has a licence.’

  ‘Okay, but … she is almost eight months pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant women still drive,’ Cassie snapped.

  But it turned out that Det only had a P-plate licence, too, so neither of us could legally hire a car anyway.

  Without a driver or a car I figured I was going to have to call the visit off, and I was not looking forward to ringing that poor old lady with the news. She’d already written twice to say how much she was looking forward to it. Apart from that, underneath I was curious to meet her too.

  As I shelled the prawns, made the stock and chopped up vegetables I racked my brains trying to come up with some way of getting there. But neither Stella nor I could think of anyone.

  By the time everyone had arrived for dinner and the food preparations were more or less done I was in a bit of a state, furious with Cassie and wishing like crazy that I’d never agreed to go see th
e old lady in the first place. The whole enterprise had become one big headache.

  ‘You feeling okay, Det?’ Cassie calls, but the edge in her voice gives her away. She knows we’re both pissed off with her.

  ‘Fine,’ Det calls back coldly. She puts her feet up and, with both hands on her belly, closes her eyes. The edginess between them tells me that this dinner that I have been working on all bloody afternoon is going to self-destruct. Probably within the next ten minutes.

  ‘So where’s the boyfriend?’ Screwloose asks Cassie.

  ‘Can’t come,’ she explains defensively. ‘He’s got a big job on.’

  ‘Cooking this meal was a big job, too,’ Det yells from the couch without opening her eyes. ‘Ask Peach.’

  Cassie ignores Det and looks at me. ‘He’s really sorry to miss this dinner, Peach. I told you that.’

  ‘So you speak for him now, do you?’ Det says belligerently. ‘The way he does for you?’

  ‘Meaning?’ Cassie replies coldly.

  ‘Just a question.’

  ‘No. I don’t speak for him.’

  ‘So how come he can’t ring Peach himself and give his own apologies?’

  I come out of the kitchen and see that Det is on a roll and she won’t let up until there is a showdown.

  ‘I didn’t know this was a formal occasion,’ Cass says in her best I-am-being-reasonable tone, ‘otherwise he would have.’

  ‘It’s not a formal occasion,’ I interject. ‘Come on, for Christ’s sake, cool it. It’s just bad luck. Stephano’s got this thing on and …’;

  ‘So how come you were so keen for her to go meet the old duck,’ Det shoots over at Cassie, ‘and now you can’t even get it together to come and support her?’

  ‘But you can! And I’ve already said I’m terribly sorry that I have to pull out,’ Cassie counters passionately. ‘I’d rather come with you guys, believe me, but …’;

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Stephano’s parents insisted I be there and—’;

  ‘So not just the boyfriend now but his fucking parents as well! Listen to yourself, Cassie!’

  ‘Det,’ I say warningly, ‘cool it.’

  ‘Well, she sounds like his fucking wife!’