The Convent

by Maureen McCarthy

  But Sadie had good reason not to go back to any of that. She was making hats now and proving not too bad at it. She was determined to stick it out for as long as she could.

  Today, old Dolly Simpson had kept her back out of spite. Sadie had had to go to the dental hospital and have a tooth pulled. It was Friday and she wanted to go home early to deal with her aching face, but when she got back to work her boss hadn’t even looked up from her machine when Sadie asked if she could make up the hours the next week.

  ‘You’ll stay back tonight or your wages will be docked,’ the old biddy had snapped, as if she was pleased to have a chance to say it. ‘There is a war on, in case you haven’t noticed.’

  Sadie had gone back to her table and picked up the red felt that she’d been working on for two days. It didn’t have to be done until the next week. The war! Couldn’t they talk about anything else? People made it an excuse for everything. But those lists of the dead every Monday morning were enough to sicken a saint.

  Anyway, she was home now. Bone tired and alone, her eyes sore from a day of close needlework, one side of her face swollen and throbbing where the rotten tooth had been. She flipped open the letterbox and fumbled for her key at the same time, expecting nothing. But there was a slim envelope with her name in extravagantly beautiful letters on the front. She pulled it out and stood still a moment, trying to guess who might have written. She pushed open the door and hurried down the hallway.

  There was only one thing on her mind these days. One thing. If it meant working hard for terrible money and putting up with sour old biddies who used any power they had to make life hell for her, then so be it. There would be no more pub work. No more booze and no more men either until …

  Stan had given her the idea. Stanley Kindred, a forest cutter from Gippsland down for a few days in the big smoke. She’d met him at a dance in the Collingwood town hall and they’d got on well. Poor eyesight had saved Stan from the war. He told Sadie it was the best bit of luck he’d had in his life. All these bloody warmongers needed their heads read. There was no reason to fight. None at all. He had nice hands and a gentle way with him, too, and so she’d ended up telling him about the way her little girl had been taken from her.

  For the first few weeks she hadn’t been able to stay away. She’d walked to the convent every day and simply stood there on the street next to the high walls, for hours, in the hope that some kind of miracle might be granted to her, that if she longed hard enough the child would materialise out of thin air.

  If she heard children’s voices she’d press herself up against the bricks and close her eyes and pray that her child was on the other side, pressing her little plump body up against those same thick walls. Ellen, she whispered, my little one.

  Most days she heard nothing except her own ragged breathing, but just occasionally she thought she heard the child whispering back.

  Mumma. Come and get me. I’m waiting for you to take me home.

  Those were the good days.

  The bad days were when she heard only her own dull heartbeat. At such times she searched the walls for small cracks in the cement to peer through. She half knew she was going crazy when she found herself imagining getting hold of some kind of small shovel or knife and scraping the cement away, making it wide enough for her to slip her hand through at first and then one by one pulling the bricks out. Not too many, but enough for her to be able to edge her body through. She’d wait until dark and then crawl inside and find where her daughter was sleeping. She’d pull her from her bed and wrap her in a nice cosy rug and sneak away with her without anyone seeing. They’d get on a train. Head off somewhere and never be found. Oh, if only, even for a little while. Just to have her on her knee, wrapped in a towel after her bath, to hold her there and smell her neck and hair. Kiss the rosy cheeks, the fat knees and dark curls.

  Ellen had been gone fifteen months now, and it still wasn’t real.

  Once, a junior nun came out and told her to go away. That if she didn’t stop loitering outside the premises the police would be called and she’d be locked up. Fearful and ashamed, Sadie had gone away and she’d stayed away until …

  She began to turn up again, after work and between shifts, usually with a few drinks inside her. She would stand banging her head softly against that convent door, crying. Give me back my child. I want my little girl.

  Once there’d been movement on the other side and a small square panel had slid across, creating a tiny window in the door. Sadie stopped crying. Eyes were staring out at her.

  ‘What do you want?’ a disembodied voice asked.

  ‘My child,’ Sadie gasped, ‘I want my baby.’

  The door creaked open and she was brought inside

  Within a few moments she was being ushered into a huge room with very high ceilings. The young nun, who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, left her there to stew as she hurried off to get the one in charge. Afraid, Sadie began to shake as she looked around at all the polished wood, the tables and chairs and windows, the sombre religious paintings.

  As soon as the old nun swept in, done up in all her white starch and fancy long robes, Sadie’s heart fell.

  ‘What did you want, dear?’ The nun didn’t bother to soften her voice.

  ‘My child,’ Sadie said, too desperately.

  ‘Name of child?’

  ‘Ellen Reynolds,’ Sadie whispered.

  ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Mrs Sadie Reynolds. Her mother, Sister.’

  ‘Please rest assured, Mrs Reynolds, the little girl is perfectly well.’

  ‘I’m her mother,’ Sadie began to sob.

  ‘I am well aware of that.’The iciness in the woman’s voice made Sadie stop crying. ‘But you have no claim to her.’

  ‘I’m her mother,’ Sadie said again hopelessly.

  ‘Mrs Reynolds.’The Sister took Sadie’s elbow and sat her down in one of the straight-backed chairs and then sat down herself in a similar one a couple of feet away. ‘It usually takes mothers some time to adjust, and that is why we’ve shown you leniency up to now. But this loitering outside our gate has got to stop. If it happens again, the police will be called.’ Her eyes bored into Sadie’s, not letting up for even an instant. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  Sadie nodded. Such was the older woman’s power that within a few minutes Sadie was allowing herself to be led to the door, her elbow held in a vice-like grip.

  She nodded meekly when the nun said that she should be grateful that her child was well and happy, and no, she would not make a nuisance of herself again. But at the doorway she suddenly realised that she was being dismissed, got rid of, thrown aside like a piece of rubbish, and that made her forget about the formality of the situation. The high ceilings, the paintings, the polished wood and the formidable woman herself ceased to exist.

  ‘Give me back my baby!’ she yelled. ‘Give her back, you heartless bitch! You have no right!’

  It ended badly, of course. She was dragged kicking and screaming onto the street and the police were called and she was locked up for two hours until she calmed down.

  But then here was Stan telling her that he knew of a woman who had got her kid back from the babies’ home in Broadmeadows, and Sadie was all ears. It was a matter of ‘cleaning up her act’, he told her. She needed to put a bit of gloss on things. First off, she’d better give up the pub work and take on something more respectable. Chuck away the make-up and wear dowdy clothes and make damn sure no male ever darkened the door of her house because they’d have the spies out. Then she should write to the kid’s father. Tell him that she’d turned a new leaf, beg him to meet with her so he could see for himself. Then she should write to those nuns, whoever they were, apologise for all the trouble, tell them she’d seen the light and changed her ways. If Sadie couldn’t write the letter then he had a sister who’d help.

  Sadie decided that she’d give it a go. She would do all Stan told her and more. She’d become a paragon of virtue. She’d w
rite to Frank, tell him she’d changed her ways, beg his humble forgiveness for whatever it was that she’d done wrong.

  She was a month into her new life, with the job making hats and the loneliness every night, when she got the letter. To save power she lit the fire with the matches that she always kept in her coat and laboriously read her letter by the red, flickering light.

  Dear Mrs Reynolds,

  After the last unfortunate visit we contacted the child’s father and told him of your distress. He has agreed for you to see the child. Please be at the convent at two o’clock sharp on Sunday the 30th.

  Yours sincerely in Christ, Mother Mary Help of Christians

  Sadie stared at the letter and read it again and again. Finally she dared believe that what she had in her hand was real. It had come by post, hadn’t it? It wasn’t some trick. And look, there was that woman’s signature. Sunday was Sadie’s birthday. That meant something, didn’t it? Maybe Frank had remembered and relented. She’d begged him enough. Begged him and those sisters of his to have mercy. So … maybe it had come to pass.

  But how would she ever be able to wait till then?

  On Sunday morning she was up at six, dressed and bathed by seven and walking the streets trying to fill in time by nine.

  Midday came and went and then she was waiting in a little sitting room in the convent. She could hear children’s voices, chattering and crying and it made her edgy. How long were they going to make her wait? How long before she could gather her little one up in her arms?

  The door opened and there she was – her own wee girl – wearing a little dress with a blue pinny over it, held in the armsof a young nun. Just behind came the older nun who Sadie had met in the night. Sadie stood nervously and watched as the young nun set Ellen down on the floor. Tears rushed into her eyes and her throat jammed as she knelt down and held out her arms.

  ‘Come to me,’ she said. ‘It’s your mumma.’

  But the little girl only stared at her and clung tightly to the young nun’s skirts. When Sadie spoke again Ellen hid her face in the nun’s apron.

  ‘As you see, Mrs Reynolds, the child is well.’

  Sadie could barely breathe. She edged a little closer and the child edged back.

  ‘Does she look neglected in any way?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘She loves her food.’ The young nun smiled kindly at Sadie. ‘And she’s growing well.’

  There was a pause while they all looked at the child, who was coming back out from the nun’s dress and staring hard at Sadie.

  ‘Come to Mumma,’ Sadie coaxed, trying not to sound as desperate as she knew she looked, with her hat askew and her face still swollen where the tooth had been. ‘Come to Mumma.’ Oh if only she hadn’t worn her good clothes. The silly new hat and the gloves and the special suit made her look like someone else. ‘Ellen, darling.’

  But the child slunk further into the nun’s skirts.

  ‘Ellen is quite happy where she is, Mrs Reynolds,’ said the older nun. ‘Aren’t you, Ellen?’

  The child stared out at them both, her deep eyes as round as little blue plates.

  ‘All the Sisters tell me you’re a very happy little girl.’ The older nun smiled. The little girl put her thumb in her mouth. ‘Are you a happy girl, Ellen?’

  The child’s big blue eyes moved over to the nun. She nodded.

  The two nuns looked at each other and then at Sadie.

  ‘You see, she is happy with us.’

  Sadie stared at the nun in shock. Whatever was happening, it was happening too fast. She couldn’t keep up.

  ‘Do you want to go with this lady?’ the nun asked the little girl.

  This lady?

  Ellen shook her head slowly.

  ‘No. You see?’ The nun gave the younger nun a dismissive wave. ‘Thank you, Sister.’ The young one nodded and took Ellen’s hand, leading her out the door.

  ‘No!’ Sadie clambered to her feet. ‘Please don’t take her.’

  The young nun stopped and looked at her Superior for directions.

  ‘I’ve got a new job now,’ Sadie babbled desperately. ‘I make hats with a Mrs Simpson in Pigdon Street, Carlton. Mrs Simpson and Miss Valerie Wilson. Just the two of them, and they’re very reputable women. It’s above a shop. Number 507. She has written me a reference.’ Sadie fumbled in her bag for the envelope. ‘Please, Sister, you can check. I’m never out at night now. I lead a very quiet life.’

  ‘My dear,’ the nun cut in, a faint smile wavering on the edge of her mouth, ‘on the child’s father’s advice she is now a ward of the state. As such, she will continue to reside here.’

  Sadie gulped and knelt down at the Reverend Mother’s feet.

  ‘Please.’ She reached for the edge of the nun’s habit, and bowed to the floor. ‘I’ll do anything.’

  When she looked up they were alone. She was on her knees in front of the senior nun and the young nun had slipped out with her little girl.

  ‘We must act in the best interests of the child, Mrs Reynolds,’ the nun said in her quiet, cool manner. ‘You have seen for yourself that she is well. Come now, dear.’ Pale hands came out from under the habit and fluttered abstractedly in the air. ‘Get up now.’

  Once Sadie had stumbled to her feet, the nun went to the door and opened it.

  ‘Now I’ll get Mother Sebastian to see you out.’ Her face moved into the shape of a smile. ‘God bless you, dear.’

  Sadie watched mesmerised as the figure in black glided out of the room. She thought of the spiders crawling up the walls of the outhouse at home. So big and black it didn’t matter that everyone said they were harmless. They terrified her.

  Very soon another nun appeared, older and more kindly. When Sadie slumped forward as though about to faint the nun took her arm to help her stay upright and held it all the way out to the gate.

  ‘Now now, dear, take heart,’ she murmured in her thick Irish brogue. ‘All is not lost. Our Lord is with you.’ Sadie let herself be led out the way she’d come, a weird rushing sound in her ears. Almost as if someone had left a tap on full bore.

  The old nun saw her out on the street. ‘Now you’re not to be coming back, dear,’ she said gently. ‘It’s over now, you understand? Over.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Peach

  ‘Will you have another cup of tea, Perpetua?’ Ellen digs in the pocket of her dress and wipes her eyes.

  ‘Yes, please. But I’ll make it.’ I get up and switch on the kettle and then get the cups out again. The yellow kitchen is darkening in the late afternoon.

  ‘What happened to her after that?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her voice is tired now. ‘But I would like to see where she is buried before I die.’

  ‘Do you know where that is? I can try to find that out for you, Ellen.’

  ‘Would you do that?’

  ‘We could go there together.’

  Her face breaks into a warm smile; her weathered hand sneaks across the table towards mine.

  ‘I’m just a sentimental old fool, Perpetua, but I’d like to tell her I’m sorry I didn’t rush into her arms that day.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘Every Sunday, hail or shine, he came to take me out.’ Ellen smiles. ‘I was devastated when he died. He was all the family I had in the world, you understand, except for his sisters, but … they didn’t accept me.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask him about your mother?’

  ‘We didn’t ask questions in those days, love,’ she says for the second time, shaking her head as though the truth of it is baffling to her as well. ‘Not like now. People didn’t talk about such things. He just gave me to believe that there was something not right about her, and as much as I longed to know, I couldn’t ask.’

  We are silent on the way home, sitting in our allotted seats. I stare at the back of Fluke’s head again.

  ‘Are you glad you came, Peach?’ Stella asks.

  ‘Oh, I dunno,’ I say, tr
ying to sound normal, ‘suppose so.’

  ‘Did she tell you stuff?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I smile, ‘a bit.’

  ‘Are you going to see her again?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘When?’ Fluke’s voice.

  I thought you said you weren’t going to talk to me, dickhead!

  ‘First, I’m going to try and find her mother’s grave,’ I say, looking out the window, ‘then I’ll take her there.’ I don’t turn around, but I have the feeling that they are a little shocked by what I just said.

  ‘Why?’ Det groans.

  ‘Shut up, Det,’ from Stella.

  ‘What do people expect to find at gravesites?’

  I am on the point of reminding Det that she’d told me once that when her father died she used to hitch rides to the local cemetery where he was buried and stay there for hours.

  ‘She’s nearly ninety,’ I say instead, ‘and she wants to see her mother’s grave before she dies. There is nothing wrong with that. Where do I start looking for it?’

  ‘Have you got her full name?’

  ‘No,’ I say, feeling stupid, ‘but I will.’

  ‘She should be easy enough to trace.’

  ‘I really wish that your birth mum would go and see her before she dies,’ Stella moans. ‘Doesn’t anyone know where she is?’

  ‘Nope,’ I say, ‘none of the brothers know.’

  ‘Can we stop soon, Fluke?’ Det asks sharply. ‘I mean, when it’s safe?’

  ‘You need a wee?’

  ‘And a cigarette.’ She turns to me defensively. ‘I haven’t had one all day.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ I say irritably. ‘I’m not your conscience.’

  ‘Ah,’ she laughs softly, ‘but you are, Peach.’

  Fluke pulls over and Det jumps out and disappears down the slope to pee. The rest of us get out and lean against the car. Fluke goes up the front and leans against the bonnet, leaving Stella and me at the side. When Det gets back she plonks herself next to Fluke and starts rolling the smoke. The day is closing down around us. We’re out in the country, and despite it being the freeway with cars roaring past, it’s kind of nice.