Death of a Novice

by Cora Harrison

  Sister Bernadette had paled, but she did not flinch.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute, Reverend Mother. And I’ll send out Sister Imelda to get rid of the hens.’ With that she was gone and the Reverend Mother was left alone. For a moment she thought that she should go into the shed, should not allow the girl to lie there without company, but then common sense told her that she would have to shut the door against the hens and then she would be alone in the dark. A thought of rats, numerous here around the river, crossed her mind and she mumbled a call to the convent’s tabby cat while despising her cowardice. Still, she told herself, she had to gather her wits and her courage. There would be much for her to attend to once the body was removed. The nuns, professed and lay nuns, would all be in need of reassurance and opportunities to talk over the matter. The other three novices would be appalled and tearful. She would have to deal with them, especially with Sister Catherine who was a sensitive little soul. And then, of course, she would have to summon a taxi and break the news to the young nun’s sister. No parents. At least, they were spared that. The mother had died about ten years previously and the father only some weeks ago. A heart attack, or was it something internal? She couldn’t exactly remember. Sister Gertrude had been very upset, understandably, as she had been very close to her father. But she was a sensible girl and had soon regained her equilibrium.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a noisy spluttering of a car driven down the lane beside the convent. It drew up at the chapel gate. A last stutter from the engine and then a loud bang. For a moment the Reverend Mother thought that it must be a shot, one of those frequent Republican and Free State encounters, but then she realized that it was a backfire from the old car outside her gate. A door banged, the gate pushed open and slammed closed and then the appearance of a very young man, carrying a bag.

  ‘I’m the doctor,’ he announced in a strong North of Ireland accent. ‘Where’s the corpse.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Reverend Mother icily. Young, she thought, young and brash. Tired, too. Up all night, in all probability. No excuse for bad manners, though. And he could take his hat off when he spoke to her. Her gaze went to it and was fixed so immovably on that object above his own eye level that he shifted uneasily and, after a moment, removed it, held it uneasily for a moment but then after a quick look around for a handy table or windowsill, he replaced it.

  After all, it does make sense to keep his hat on; he will need both hands free, thought the Reverend Mother, trying to feel charitable and only succeeding in wishing desperately for the calm, gentle and supportive presence of Dr Scher.

  ‘Sister Gertrude is in here, in the shed. I’ve been trying to keep the hens out. Come in, doctor.’

  He aimed a couple of kicks at an inquisitive hen which fled, squawking its indignation. They would be back soon, thought the Reverend Mother and was pleased to see a young lay sister, one of Sister Bernadette’s assistants from the kitchen, approach with some corn.

  ‘Here, chuck, chuck, chuck; here, chuck, chuck, chuck,’ she called melodiously. Sister Imelda was a country girl, the Reverend Mother remembered gratefully, and she knew how to handle hens, dropping the odd few grains of corn on the ground until she got them within reach of the gardener’s shed whereupon she opened the door, waited until the gardener, looking injured, came out with a paint pot and large brush and began slapping paint on the fence. Then, in a series of rapid movements, the efficient girl tumbled out the rest of the corn over the floor, waved her apron at the hens and then shut them all into the shed.

  ‘Thank you, Sister Imelda. Now, doctor, come with me.’

  He was indignant when she set the shed door ajar and then moved aside for him to proceed her.

  ‘Here! You’re expecting me to examine her here!’ He was as incredulous as though he had never seen a shed in his life, though she would be willing to lay a considerable bet on the fact that he was a farmer’s son.

  ‘Unfortunately, that is where she is, just in the spot where I found her and I haven’t meddled with the body,’ said the Reverend Mother dryly. ‘I’ll stand aside and hold the door open and allow as much light as possible to come to you.’ He had already produced a powerful pocket torch but she was glad of an excuse to move away from the dead body and any violation of it. Perhaps she should have told him about Sister Gertrude’s collapse the evening before, but she salved her conscience by telling herself that he had asked for no information. She rolled a stone to hold the door open and then moved a little further down the garden, ignoring the wet grass at her feet and going on until she could glimpse the river through the thick yellow veil of the morning fog. Not a healthy place, Cork city, she thought. She had often noticed the superior health and vigour of girls like Sister Imelda who had come from the countryside, as compared with girls of the same age who came from what, in Cork, was called ‘the flat of the city’. Of course, nowadays, it was mainly the poor who lived here near to the river and who were subjected to the flooding and the bad sewerage system and to the almost constant choking fogs. The wealthy and even the moderately well-off had moved out to the suburbs. Montenotte and Blackrock for the wealthy. Turners Cross and Ballinlough for the office workers.

  Sister Gertrude, she thought, came from Turners Cross. Her father had been the accountant in Ford’s motor factory which was turning out tractors and now cars. Her father had started as an office boy in a shop, gone to night classes to learn the skills of typing and bookkeeping and eventually qualified as an accountant. A hard-working man, like his daughter, he had, single-handed, with only such help as his older daughter could give him, managed all the accounts and paid all the wages of the couple of thousand workers in the factory. A clever man, Mr Donovan, a man with a keen eye to profit and a knowledge of stock markets. Rumour said that he had accumulated a tidy fortune by buying shares in the Ford Company at a favourable rate.

  Why had Sister Gertrude, with an absorbing and interesting job, a father who thought the world of her, plenty of money for anything that took her fancy, not noticeably pious, why should a girl like that have entered the convent?

  The Reverend Mother had often asked herself that question soon after the arrival of the new novice. She had even asked Sister Gertrude that question and had been glad to see that the girl had considered it carefully and had then given a sensible answer. Marriage and children did not attract her. She wanted to use her skills and to be in a position where she could do some good with her abilities. She was ambitious, but saw no future for herself, other than as her father’s helper in Ford’s Factory. When he retired, she had ascertained, there would be no hope that she would be appointed to his position. The managers of the company would not brook having a woman in such a senior position. On the other hand, in a convent full of women, she did see prospects of rising in the hierarchy through her skills and her intelligence. The Reverend Mother had been somewhat taken aback by that frank confession and had wondered initially how long the new recruit would endure the restrictive life of a novice in a convent. But the beaming cheerfulness, the sound of a laugh that rang the rafters of the corridor, the healthy appetite and the zest for any task that had been given to her; all these had allayed any slight concerns that the Reverend Mother might have felt initially. And then there was her wonderful way with figures and her magnificent efficiency. Sister Gertrude, she felt, could well become Superior General of the order.

  But now she was dead.

  The Reverend Mother turned back to face the young doctor who had emerged from the shed, stamping his feet to get rid of the sawdust and coughing noisily to attract her attention. Calmly she crossed the grass and joined him.

  ‘Well,’ she asked, feeling pleased that she now had herself under control and that her voice was steady.

  ‘She’s dead,’ he replied, the harsh, clipped accent of the North of Ireland making the words sound ominous.

  The Reverend Mother waited. Twenty or perhaps thirty years ago she would have said, I could have told you that, but o
ld age brings patience and so she merely looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘Looks as though it might be liver failure,’ he said casually, though with the air of one who likes to display his esoteric knowledge.

  ‘Liver failure!’ The Reverend Mother was taken aback. There had been a ninety-year-old nun in the convent who had been fading away for years and eventually died of liver failure, or had it been kidney failure? She wasn’t sure. ‘But what could have caused liver failure?’ she asked. ‘She was only twenty-two years old and seemed very healthy.’

  ‘What was her name?’ He produced a notebook and pencil.

  ‘Sister Gertrude. She was a novice in the convent. She came here six months ago.’

  ‘Did she drink?’ He asked the question abruptly and she stared back at him incredulously.

  ‘Alcohol, I mean. Heavily,’ he added in explanation.

  ‘Doctor,’ she said, just biting back the words ‘young man’, ‘this is a convent. We don’t drink alcohol here.’ He was probably a Protestant, or a Presbyterian, she thought. Nevertheless, she would have expected him to know that.

  He shrugged, looked around at the low iron fence and the laneway that ran to the side of the convent and then looked up at the windows, unbarred. His eye went to a drainpipe and despite her misery, she suppressed a smile. No doubt, he had a mental picture of nuns climbing out of their dormitory windows and seeking out some public house in order to quaff large glasses of Murphy’s Stout. He saw her suppressed amusement and reacted angrily.

  ‘I know alcohol poisoning when I see it. It destroys the liver. This city is full of alcohol. I could tell you some tales—’

  She interrupted him quickly. ‘But in the meantime, what is the next step?’ And then, when he looked indecisive, she asked, ‘When does Dr Scher return?’

  ‘Should be back this evening,’ he said, and now his manner was sulky. ‘Won’t say any different, though. I can assure you of that. I see enough of that sort of thing in this city. Terrible place for alcoholic poisoning, Cork. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘And Sister Gertrude’s body?’ Definitely a Presbyterian was her thought. There had been a note of almost hysteria in his voice when he spoke of the evils of drink.

  He glanced towards the small chapel next to the lane and then appeared to think the better of it. He sighed heavily and looked exasperated.

  ‘I suppose that you’ll want an autopsy. Won’t take my word for it. I’ll send an ambulance. Dr Scher will probably do it tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And you’ll send the ambulance immediately, won’t you? It isn’t suitable for her to stay here. I’m sure that you can understand that,’ she said quietly and noticed that he looked a little shame-faced. Young, she thought. Young and insecure. Trying to cope without the reassuring presence of the deeply experienced Dr Scher.

  ‘It will be here in ten minutes. I promise you that,’ he said in more subdued tones and she thanked him.

  She would keep vigil, she thought. It was the least that she could do. The hens would have to put up with the gardener’s shed for the moment unless the efficient Sister Imelda could devise some way of keeping them away from her. The girl was coming out now, sent by Sister Bernadette, whose kitchen commanded a view of the road and who would have seen and heard the departure of the young doctor.

  In any case, Sister Imelda was now carrying a light canvas chair with a warm cloak, folded carefully over one arm and the Reverend Mother blessed the kind thought. Sister Bernadette, who always knew everything that was going on in the convent, would have known that she would stay with the dead body.

  ‘I’ll take it from you here,’ she said as the young girl approached, but Sister Imelda shook her head.

  ‘I don’t mind seeing Sister Gertrude, Reverend Mother. And, I’d like to say a little prayer.’

  So Sister Bernadette had told the lay sisters. For a moment she felt contrite that she had not included them in the instructions to Sister Mary Immaculate, but then dismissed the thought. Sister Bernadette was practical and sensible and not one to take offence needlessly. The distinctions between ‘choir nuns’ and lay sisters didn’t trouble her unduly. In any case, Sister Bernadette might make a better job of telling the young lay sisters the tragic news. Sister Imelda didn’t seem distressed.

  The girl offered the cloak to her superior and arranged the chair with its back to the shed wall, quite near to the body, cleared away some soiled sawdust, scattered a fresh supply just where the Reverend Mother’s feet would rest and then, quite unselfconsciously, she made a sign of the cross and murmured a prayer.

  The Reverend Mother felt ashamed. She had not prayed yet. More of a Martha, than a Mary, she reflected with a sigh. But Martha, she thought, remembering her bible, was cumbered about much serving and came to him, and said, ‘Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone? Bid her therefore that she help me.’ And Jesus answered and said unto her, ‘Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things: But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that better part, which shall not be taken away from her’.

  All very well, and a typical reaction from a man, the Reverend Mother had often thought while listening to sermons on that theme. The Lord and his followers would probably have been rather shocked if no meal had been put in front of them after a busy day preaching. However, now was a moment for prayer and the well-practised words came fluently to her lips: ‘Requiem aeternam dona ea, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat ea …’

  Nevertheless, once she’d finished the prayer, her busy mind could not leave the matter of this strange death. What had happened to Sister Gertrude? She had been unwell yesterday at supper. And then a terrible thought came to her and she trembled slightly. Could she have been poisoned? And if so, were others in the convent at risk. Her mind went to the boxes of rat poison that she kept to hand out to desperate parents of the school children. She always made sure that the poison was safely concealed within a sealed tin and that the opening was big enough for a rat, but too small for children to get at the deadly substance. An obliging hardware merchant made these up for her and only charged a small sum for the service. But what if one of them had become flooded and the substance had contaminated the food in her kitchen? Sister Bernadette kept a spotlessly clean environment, but, nevertheless, always had a tin of rat poison in the pantry. It was kept on a top shelf, well away from food. However, an accident might have happened. She would have to nerve herself to check the pantry. Something she must do herself. It was not a message to give to the young lay sister and perhaps spread panic through the congregation.

  And, at that moment, Sister Imelda, as unselfconscious as a young child, bent down, signed the dead girl’s forehead, lips and breast with her thumb and then rose up and turned back.

  ‘Reverend Mother,’ she said. ‘Sister Mary Immaculate has told everyone what has happened. Sister Catherine is ever so upset. She’s crying and Sister Mary Immaculate is being very angry with her. She’ll throw a fit of hysterics in a minute.’

  The Reverend Mother admired the accuracy of the prognosis. The convent kitchen, she thought, was a place where all was known. Many a discussion there would have been about Sister Mary Immaculate and her effect on the sensitive young. She suppressed a nod of understanding and said quietly, ‘Please send Sister Catherine to me, Sister Imelda.’ She would not be able to stir from here until the ambulance arrived to take away the body. But in the meantime, she thought, the time could be well spent if she might manage to calm Sister Catherine and listen patiently to whatever was upsetting the girl.

  FOUR

  St Thomas Aquinas

  … impossibile est felicitatem humanam consistere in delectationibus corporalibus, quarum praecipuae sunt in cibis et venereis

  (… it is impossible for human felicity to consist in bodily pleasures, the chief of which are those of food and venal.)

  Sister Catherine took some time to obey the summons. The priest arrived before she did and was in the middle of the la
st rites when she came hesitatingly to the door of the shed. Her face still bore the traces of tears and she gulped noisily as she stood at the entrance. Unlike Sister Imelda, she did not offer to say a prayer, but stared, white-lipped, down at the body. And then, predictably, she burst into violent sobs. The elderly priest, chaplain to the convent, flinched perceptibly, but forced himself to go on anointing the dead girl’s hands and feet with the holy oil, murmuring the Latin words: ‘visum, auditum, odoratum, gustum et locutionem’ as an undertone to the violence of the tempestuous weeping from the fellow novice. When he stood up with a creaking of stiff joints there was a look of relief on his face. The Reverend Mother hesitated for a moment. Her sense of propriety dictated that she and the priest should accompany the body to the ambulance, just as they would escort it to a hearse, but she did need to hear what Sister Catherine had to say. And all in all, it would probably be best to hear it in private.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ she said gently, allowing him to depart before readying herself to listen to Sister Catherine. There was a moment’s silence after the priest departed, but then the sobs broke out again.

  ‘I should have told you. I might have saved her. Oh, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’

  ‘Calm yourself, my child,’ said the Reverend Mother wearily. She seemed to have said those words about a thousand times to this girl. When would Sister Catherine be brought to realize that convent life was not suited to a nervous and scrupulous nature? She got to her feet, brushed the sawdust from her skirt and moved the canvas chair invitingly. ‘Here, sit down, sister, and dry your eyes. Let’s say a rosary together.’