The Convent

by Maureen McCarthy

  ‘You mean … running?’ she asks. ‘I hate—’

  ‘No,’ he cuts in easily, ‘we’ll start off with a few easy exercises, then a fast walk. Build up. That’s the whole idea. Go at your own pace.’

  I get the feeling that the back seat isn’t meant to be listening to this conversation, so I look out the window even as I’m straining to hear. Stella suddenly turns around to me.

  ‘How would you feel about that, Peach?’ she asks tentatively.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me and Fluke training in the mornings.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’ I snap. Her face immediately crumples, so I mutter, ‘Whatever. Okay.’

  She nods and looks hopefully at Fluke again.‘I could try, I guess.’

  ‘So, is that a yes?’ He grins.

  ‘Okay,’ Stella smiles back, ‘yes.’

  ‘So when will we start?’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’

  ‘You’re on.’

  The Castlemaine turn-off comes into view. We exit the freeway onto a narrow road that winds west. It dips and turns over hills and through clumps of overhanging trees, lush rolling pastures on either side. What a shame I feel like throwing up.

  ‘How are you feeling, Peach?’ Det turns to me.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say guardedly, and Det grins and digs me in the ribs.

  ‘Aren’t you a bit nervous?’ Stella turns around.

  ‘Maybe … a bit.’ I smile at her.

  ‘How do you want to work this visit?’ Fluke asks, eyeing me in the mirror. It’s the first thing he’s said to me in the two hours we’ve been on the road. Then again, I haven’t been exactly garrulous.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m obviously going to get lost, but are Stella and Det going to stay?’ I panic slightly. Of course they’re going to stay!

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Det cuts in. ‘You should have time on your own with her.’

  ‘I agree,’ Fluke says.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I’m feeling a bit desperate. ‘The whole idea of you both coming was so that … you’d be there in case …’

  ‘In case what?’ Fluke says lightly, and I turn away.

  ‘It’s not like we’re going to drop you and never come back,’ Det laughs. ‘We’ll be here.’

  ‘Why don’t I drop the three of you off first, and then I’ll come back for Det and Stella after half an hour or so?’

  ‘But what will we do?’ I can tell Stella doesn’t like the idea either.

  ‘Go check out the shops.’ Fluke shrugs. ‘Or the gardens? It’s a nice town.’

  ‘Well,’ Stella looks at me,‘whatever Peach wants.’

  I shrug as if I couldn’t care less, but it’s a complete act. I don’t want Fluke to see that I am terrified to be so close to meeting this old woman. And I feel stupid. Why would anyone be scared of an old lady? It doesn’t make sense, and yet that is what I feel. Blind terror. What if she tells me stuff I can’t handle? What if she brainwashes me and I come out of there thinking that I’m someone other than who I am?

  ‘What am I going to say to her?’ I mutter.

  ‘If you want my opinion, she’ll do the talking!’ Fluke quips.

  But no one asked for your opinion.

  ‘Come on, kiddo,’ Det says. ‘You’ve got your phone. If things get really awkward then you only have to call us.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I look out the window at the town’s outskirts. It’s an old goldmining town and many of the houses are really pretty. We come to the statue of the digger and turn right into the main street as directed. Stella is first to see the big landmark church on our right.

  ‘St Mary’s,’ she says. ‘We’ve got to turn here. Straight up the hill.’

  Number 57 is a tiny house. A cottage, I suppose, but well kept. It is well back from the road with a small iron gate opening to a straight concrete path up to the verandah, which is virtually covered in pot plants. She must have been watching out for us, because the door opens before the three of us have even reached the verandah.

  ‘Perpetua!’ She is old, stooped and frail, dressed in a blue summer dress with a white collar and black lace-up shoes. She holds out both arms. ‘Thanks be to God!’ Her voice is strong for someone so slight. The others stand back as I awkwardly move forward. She grabs me and kisses me fiercely on one cheek and then the other.

  ‘You’re an exact replica of your mother.’

  ‘Am I?’

  She stands back and holds me at arms-length and turns to the others and then back to me, smiling. Her weathered face is wreathed in wrinkles and both hands are stiff and swollen with arthritis and yet … yet there is something youthful about her. Lively, anyway. Tears glisten in the blue eyes and she blinks them away. ‘This could well be my little Cecilia standing here,’ she says softly. ‘The spitting image.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  My fixed smile starts to feel as if it’s set in concrete while she looks me up and down all over again as if I’m some kind of prize. I pull away from her and grab Stella’s hand and drag her forward.

  ‘And this is my sister, Stella.’

  ‘Stella,’ the old woman breathes the name as she takes in the physical differences between us. ‘Your sister?’

  ‘I know.’ Stella smiles tentatively, almost apologetically. ‘I’m the younger one.’

  I take Det’s arm then and pull her forward. ‘And my best friend, Det.’

  ‘Bernadette?’ The old lady smiles.

  Det gives a wry laugh. ‘Everyone calls me Det.’

  She glances down at Det’s protruding belly and then back up into her face. ‘And you’re expecting, dear?’

  ‘Yes.’ Det nods.

  ‘You keeping well?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Well then,’ Ellen whispers,‘a child is a blessing.’ She holds open the door. ‘Come in. Everything is ready!’

  Everything?

  We go into a dark hallway and she shows us into what is probably the best room in the house, but it’s dark and smells a little musty as though it hasn’t been aired for some time. It’s crowded with old-fashioned furniture and strange little bits and pieces. Small vases and china animals, strange little bunches of artificial flowers. On the walls are a few badly painted pictures of vases of flowers and young girls looking into the distance.

  ‘I have a grandchild who is very artistic,’ Ellen says proudly, pointing to the paintings. We all nod and murmur appropriately.

  There is a three-piece lounge suite in the same green as the heavy drapes guarding the windows. The wooden arms on the chairs are polished and so too is the wooden piano in the corner and the small side tables and glass cabinet where all the best plates and glasses are displayed. Cups have been set out on the top of an old autotray near the piano along with some plates covered in bright tea towels.

  ‘Sit down, girls, please.’

  We do as we’re told and she sits herself in the one straight-backed chair and simply surveys us.

  ‘Bernadette and Stella,’ she says quietly to herself, her eyes moving from one to the other as though trying to work out something. Then she turns to me with a smile. ‘And Perpetua, of course.’

  I try to smile. We all do. We smile and smile and wait for what will come next. I fold my arms over my chest to stop my hands shaking. I have this feeling that there is some strict protocol here – that I should be doing something – but I have no idea what it is.

  ‘Let me give you this comfy chair,’ Stella says suddenly, very politely, to Ellen. ‘I’ll have that one.’

  ‘No, I have to sit on this chair,’ Ellen explains. ‘I can’t get up from the couch.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I smile nervously. ‘Why not?’

  ‘No strength in my arms,’ she laughs. ‘Too old.’

  ‘Oh.’ My face floods with embarrassment and I look around at the others for help. But they too sit stiffly, knees pressed together and
hands joined on laps, waiting to see what will happen. Now we’re here, what are we going to talk about?

  ‘Well,’ Ellen jolts, ‘how about tea?’

  ‘Thank you,’ we chorus like primary school kids on an excursion. Anything but just sitting here.

  She gets up and goes for the door.

  ‘I’ll help,’ I say, getting up too.

  ‘No,’ she says firmly, ‘I can manage.’ She disappears out the door and the three of us are left looking at each other.

  ‘She seems really nice,’ Stella says encouragingly.

  ‘Yeah,’ Det concurs, ‘pretty sprightly for nearly ninety.’

  ‘And she’s so glad you’re here.’

  They’re trying to be kind.

  ‘It’s too weird,’ I mutter darkly.

  Ellen brings in the tea and milk on a tray and begins to pour it out into the delicate cups. Then she fusses around serving the homemade cake and scones waiting for us on the autotray, telling us about the recipes and how she manages her old stove.

  Although I’m not in the least hungry, I get stuck into the food along with the others just for something to do. My nerves calm down a bit.

  But the conversation is still really all about the trip up, the weather, how old we all are and what courses we’re doing. I’m finishing off my second cup of tea, wondering how much longer we’re going to have to stay, when Stella points to a black-and-white photo sitting on the piano.

  ‘Is that … your daughter?’ she asks shyly.

  ‘Yes.’ Ellen gets up and hands Stella the photo, and we all crowd around. It’s a full-length black-and-white shot of a girl who looks a lot like me but in 1960s clothing, leaning on a verandah post, smiling into the camera. She is dressed in a sleeveless dress and high-heeled sandals. She carries a large white handbag and her hair is tied back with a bow.

  ‘How old is she here?’ I ask.

  ‘It was taken the day she entered the convent. So, eighteen,’ Ellen says softly. ‘Eighteen years and three months.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Younger than you are now,’ Ellen says to me with a smile.

  ‘Have you any more?’ Stella asks.

  ‘Of course, dear.’ Ellen gets up, throwing a tentative glance at me. ‘But … I didn’t want to crowd you.’ She goes to the piano stool, opens the seat and pulls out a few more framed black-and-white prints. ‘Evie told me, “Gran, you mustn’t overdo the photos!” So I put them in here in case you felt it was too much.’ She’s holding the photos close to her chest. ‘Evie is Declan’s girl. You might meet her one day.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, taking a photo.

  There are nine children standing in a line up against a fence. The eldest boy is about fourteen, the first of six boys, all of them sturdy and nice-looking, dressed in long shirts and boots. Then one little girl in a cotton dress with her hair in pigtails. After her come two young boys.

  ‘So this is …’

  ‘Your mother, with all her brothers.’

  ‘Wow!’ Stella exclaims. ‘What are their names, Ellen?’

  ‘Dominic, Brendan, Patrick, Rory, Michael and James.’ Ellen points to them one at a time. ‘Your mother. Isn’t she a darling? And the twins, Declan and Sean.’

  ‘Your uncles!’ Stella digs me in the ribs.

  ‘That’s right,’ Ellen smiles at her, ‘and every one of them wanted to come today to see you.’

  ‘Really?’ I gulp.

  ‘Yes, especially Pat. He’s down from Darwin, and he was so keen. They all wanted to come and see their sister’s girl, but I put my foot down. Not today, I said. It wouldn’t be fair. It would be too much.’ She looks at me anxiously. ‘I hope that was right, Perpetua? Evie was the one to tell me. She said not to frighten you off or you’ll never come back.’

  I nod and try to smile, staring down at that row of boys, my mother in the middle of them all. How innocent that little girl looks with her bright smile and pigtails. Yet she grew up and gave her child away … And all those sturdy handsome brothers will be middle-aged men now.

  ‘This one is … Dominic?’ I point to the eldest boy.

  ‘Yes,’ she says stiffly. She reaches out and takes my hand in her old rough one, and squeezes it and lowers her head and closes her eyes. ‘Your mother loved Dom.’

  For a few moments she stays like that, quiet, with her eyes closed, both hands now holding my hand. Disconnected thoughts surge and swell inside my head until my skull feels ready to crack open. The air around us is heavy, holding its breath with all the unspoken things. I have a weird impulse to spread both hands over my head to hold everything in place. Oh God, why did I come here?

  I look around at Det and Stella for help, but they seem struck with the same dull sense of blank helplessness. None of us knows if we should speak or not.

  Det eventually reaches out and touches my other hand. ‘You okay?’ she whispers. I nod.

  Eventually Ellen seems to pull herself from her slide backwards into the past.

  ‘Would you like to see a few more of your mother?’

  Not really.

  ‘Okay, thanks, Ellen.’ What I’d really like is to get up from this couch, say a few quick goodbyes and go home.

  The first one is Cecilia in her postulant’s dress, black and simple with a very white collar. She has a small veil on her head, but her neck and ears are visible, and a belt holds in the dress at her slim waist. She is laughing, pretty and young.

  ‘Her entry into the noviciate,’ Ellen says, pointing to the next photo, where her head and face are encased in white. The dress is voluminous with wide sleeves. Her hands are hidden under a long apron-like thing hanging down from the shoulders at the front and back. In spite of having seen her in a similar dress in a photo in the archivist’s office, I find it strangely shocking.

  ‘Is that thing an apron?’

  ‘No … it was part of the habit. A scapular.’

  ‘Did they wear all this in the summer?’ Det asks.

  Ellen nods. ‘So hot and impractical,’ she mutters and hands me another photo. It’s of Cecilia sitting next to a couple of women in ordinary dress, looking down at something. This time her veil is black and she has a ring of flowers on her head.

  ‘She made her final vows that day,’ Ellen says. ‘The ring of flowers was put on their heads during the ceremony. Of course it all changed not long after this …’

  ‘When did it change?’

  She frowns and gives a deep sigh. ‘I’m not much good with dates, love, but it wasn’t long after she made her final vows that they changed the habit.’ She hands me another photo. There is Ellen alongside her daughter the nun. Both of them looking cheerful.

  ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ Ellen says, looking at me shyly.

  ‘She looks happy,’ I say.

  ‘She was happy.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  But Ellen just smiles and hands over a picture of a closed door set into a black granite wall.

  ‘See this gate? It was the only way into the convent. Cecilia asked me to take that picture when she’d been a novice for a couple of years. See, here is the grille. You had to ring the bell and someone would open this and talk to you.’

  ‘Checking you out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like a jail?’

  Ellen smiles again.

  ‘She asked you to take a picture of the gate?’ Det asks. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because for three years she never went outside the walls of the convent,’ Ellen laughs.‘She said she’d forgotten what it looked like!’

  Oh God. There is a pause. I think they’re all waiting for me to say something, but I can’t. It’s too weird. I’m thinking about this young girl, younger than me, willingly putting all this stuff on. Willingly shutting herself off from the world, behind a big thick wall. There are so many questions that I want to ask. So much I want to know. Det and Stella are hunched over the photos, smiling and intrigued. All very well for them, but this girl was … my mother.
r />   ‘Have you heard from your mother, Perpetua?’

  The question jolts me into the present. I look at this old woman and know that of course she is talking about her own daughter, not the mother that I spoke to on the phone last night. ‘No, I haven’t,’ I say.

  ‘So you have no idea if she is in the country?’

  ‘No.’

  And that is when Det makes her move. ‘Stella and I are going to go now. We’ll find Fluke,’ she says firmly, ‘and give you and Ellen some time.’

  Det is digging Stella in the ribs, making her get off the couch. I can see Stella is reluctant to leave me, and I love her for it.

  They turn in the doorway. ‘Thanks for the delicious tea, Ellen. See you later.’

  Ellen closes the door behind them and we are left looking at each other. It is only politeness that stops me from running out after them.

  ‘You can help me clear up the cups,’ she says.

  The kitchen is a small yellow room at the back of the house, freshly painted, bright and cheerful, full of things like the other room, but much nicer. I go to the window and stare out onto the small back garden. There is a lemon tree in the middle and a plum in the corner. Two rows of tomatoes line the fence.

  ‘You said in your letter that you never knew your own mother, Ellen?’ I say, putting the cups in the sink and turning the water tap. Washing up will give me something to do. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I was put in the convent by my father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We didn’t ask questions in those days,’ she says.

  ‘And you never saw your mother again?’

  Ellen sits down at the little table. ‘Only the once,’ she whispers. ‘My memory is very faint, but they told me what happened.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘One of the nuns who was there that day told me years later, and I’ve felt guilty ever since.’

  Guilty?

  ‘Silly, isn’t it? I was only four years old.’

  An eighty-eight-year-old woman feels guilty about something she did when she was four? I sit down on the opposite side of the table and take her hand.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ I say.

  Sadie 1916

  All the way home Sadie thought about how much easier it was working with men. They might pinch you and touch you and put their dirty hands where they shouldn’t, but most of them knew how to have a laugh, which was more than you could say for the sniping old bats she was working for now. Men didn’t trick you with smiles that meant the exact opposite of what was coming out their mouths. Bar work was better pay too. Give out a bit and you got it back in tips. Simple.