‘I’m sure that he was very grateful to you,’ said the Reverend Mother. There had been a pause in the flow and she understood that she was expected to put something into the conversation. The woman gave a slightly ironic laugh.
‘Grateful, well, at the time. So he said, anyway. That’s the way that it was when they were young. Ever so grateful. Going to leave me something in his will. Told me that he had left me a nice little sum. Showed the will to me. Of course he was a lot older than I was, but even so … Not much use to me, by then, why not give something to me now. That’s what I used to say to myself. Still, it would have been something. Just as well, anyway, that I was not counting on it. And then, of course, when he died, well, not a penny to me and not a penny to anyone except Betty. Well, that was a surprise, because Patsy, Sister Gertrude, well, she was always the one that he liked the best. She was the one with the brains.’
‘She was a very gifted young lady,’ said the Reverend Mother with sincerity. ‘She had great ability to deal with figures and accounts. And a very pleasant cheerful member of the convent. She will be very much missed. A shock and great sadness for us all at the convent.’ She was glad to get away from the subject of the last will and testimony of Sister Gertrude’s father, John Donovan. It was obviously a very sore subject with the woman who had looked after his motherless daughters for him. ‘It will be a terrible shock for her sister,’ she added.
‘As I say, perhaps. The truth is, Reverend Mother, well, they were quite jealous of each other. Of course, Patsy was the one with the brains and her father liked that. He’d be giving her all sorts of puzzles and asking her trick questions. Betty could never take any interest in that sort of thing, but Patsy, I mean Sister Gertrude, was always as sharp as a needle. That’s what her father used to say about her. Sharp as a needle,’ repeated the woman. ‘But then, as they grew up, well things began to change. The balance shifted …’
‘Betty grew even prettier and that gave her confidence, I’m sure,’ said the Reverend Mother. The face in the photograph and the face that she remembered was certainly a pretty one, not classically beautiful, but sweet, with widely-opened eyes and an attractive smile. A girl with a nice figure, too, slim and long-legged; she had noticed that when watching the two walk in the convent garden together only yesterday. ‘And then when Denis fell in love with Betty, that must have given a great boost to her confidence,’ she added.
This business of Betty’s elder sister, and the natural choice for a bridesmaid, persisting in entering the convent before her sister’s wedding could take place, puzzled her slightly. It was an odd choice and did not fit with her mental picture of Sister Gertrude. Could she have been in love with this young man? It would have worried her at the time if she had known about it.
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Mrs O’Sullivan. There was a hesitant note in the woman’s voice.
The Reverend Mother waited while the sorrowing aunt gulped down some more water. It would do the woman good to talk.
‘Well, yes, she did meet him there, but it was not her that he came to visit in the first place when he came to their house. Of course, you see, Reverend Mother, Patsy was the one that knew Denis first. He worked in the paint room in Ford’s Factory, was in charge of it and he’d be in and out of Accounts, because he would have been responsible for all of the ordering. You knew that she worked in Accounts, didn’t you, Reverend Mother? Of course, it was her father who got her the job. Straight out of school, she was, but he went to the manager and told him that he had been training her up for years. And, of course, he had lots of influence in Ford’s.’
‘Yes, of course,’ agreed the Reverend Mother. ‘I remember his funeral. There was a good turnout of senior men from Ford’s at the funeral, wasn’t there?’
‘That’s right.’ Mrs O’Sullivan crossed the room to the dresser and took out a yellowed newspaper clipping. ‘Betty kept the obituary notice. Look at that, Reverend Mother. That will show you how highly respected he was at Ford’s.’
It was indeed an impressive list of heads of departments from Ford’s and included the name of the managing director. The Reverend Mother scanned it for a respectful few minutes and then, just as she was about to hand it back, something caught her eye.
‘Mr Donovan was not an old man, though, was he? Only fifty-eight. One would not have expected such an early death.’
Mrs O’Sullivan gave a deep sigh. ‘No, indeed. And he hadn’t a notion of retiring, not to mind ending his days so soon. Poor man. Liver, it was; that’s what killed him,’ she explained.
‘Liver!’ The Reverend Mother was immediately on the alert. That had been mentioned by the young doctor. Odd that daughter and father should have died of the same condition within weeks of each other. ‘What caused that?’ she asked.
Mrs O’Sullivan hesitated a little. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know,’ she said. Then with a burst of confidentiality, she said in a whisper, ‘Liked the drop of whiskey. You know what men are like, Reverend Mother. Always had a glass of it every night. I’d say it would have been that. That’s what my husband thought, anyway.’
‘I see,’ said the Reverend Mother. She was puzzled though. A glass, or even two glasses of whiskey in the evening didn’t amount, she thought, to a sufficient intake to damage the liver. Her cousin’s husband, Rupert, regularly consumed a couple of glasses every evening judging by what Lucy related. And yet he was fit and healthy, played golf every Saturday, ran the foremost legal practice in Cork, was alert and trim in appearance.
And, after all, Mr Donovan, also, from her memory of him, was slim and healthy in appearance and doubtless was capable for an onerous and responsible job, one that would require a sharp brain – if he were not, she doubted whether the managing director, who had the reputation of ruthlessness, would have kept him on. It was unlikely that he consumed enough alcohol to damage his liver, while at the same time being responsible for the accounts of a big, prosperous business like Ford’s Factory. Nevertheless, she decided that she might have a chat with someone at Ford’s about the possibility of raising money to resurface their playground. A good project for a prosperous firm. Showy enough to warrant a few paragraphs in the Cork Examiner. It would, she thought, be easy then to lead the conversation around to the recent death of one of their staff.
‘He was attended by his own doctor, I suppose,’ she said aloud.
‘Well, to be honest, I don’t think he ever went to the doctor, never known him to do a thing like that. Never missed a day’s work, anyway. This was a Saturday night. He just fell ill, was vomiting and then, he just died. A terrible shock for poor Betty. He was alone in his house. She hadn’t seen him for a few days. He was just able to stagger into the house next door and get someone to run down to Turners Cross and find the doctor there. They got him into hospital but it was no good. He died in a couple of hours. The doctor told Betty that it was his liver. Signed the death certificate.’
It would, of course, be feasible that a middle-aged man had a bad liver. Middle-aged men living alone might well be prone to drinking too much. The unlikelihood of a nun drinking heavily had forced the young doctor who attended Sister Gertrude to agree to an autopsy, but a bewildered and sorrowing girl like Betty would hardly have argued with a doctor. Especially if the word ‘liver’ and not the word ‘alcohol’ had been mentioned.
The coincidence, however, set the Reverend Mother’s brain working actively. Father and daughter both dying from liver problems. It did seem strange and unlikely. She turned her attention back to the loquacious aunt.
‘So once Sister Gertrude left school her father persuaded the manager of Ford’s to give his daughter a job,’ she remarked.
‘That’s right, but it wasn’t long before she was making her own way. Doing really well, too. Lots of compliments. Her father was ever so proud of her. He was telling me all the nice things that people were saying about her. Calling her efficient and saying that she never made a mistake. He said to me that she halved his work, started a new filing s
ystem and went around to all of the departments and gave them a typed-out sheet for their orders. None of this popping their heads around the door and asking for this or that. Her father said she was a boon to him.’
‘Sister Gertrude was a talented girl.’ But already the Reverend Mother, mentally, was calling the girl by the name of Patsy. Patsy the clever, though plain, one of the two sisters, the one who was valued the most by the widower, the one who went to work with him every day. And the one who knew the handsome Denis first of all. The Reverend Mother knew little about the running of a factory, but guessed that there would be lots of contact between the paint stockroom and the accounts department.
‘Patsy had her father’s brains,’ said Mrs O’Sullivan thoughtfully, ‘but Betty was more like her mother, more like my sister. Nice girl, but not interested in figures. Worked in one of those houses in Newenham Terrace, looking after the children, she liked that, was sorry to give it up after she married, but there you are, now she’s got a darling little fellow of her own, fast asleep now.’ And Mrs O’Sullivan sent a glance up to the ceiling.
The darling little fellow would probably wake up soon and make all further conversation impossible, thought the Reverend Mother, and quickly phrased a question.
‘And so, Sister Gertrude, Patsy, knew her sister’s fiancé first,’ she remarked.
‘That’s right. Great friends, they were. She brought him home for tea one day. I was there. To be honest, Reverend Mother, I thought that there might be something going on between them at that stage. My brother seemed to like him very much. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear of an engagement being announced between the two of them. Great friends, they were. Of course, that was all that there was to it. Just friends.’
‘But Betty was the one who took his eye.’ Prettiness would, of course, win over mathematical intelligence, thought the Reverend Mother. She got to her feet. Time to be going. She hoped that this Denis was a good husband to poor Betty. The girl had lost her mother at an early age, had been brought up in a household where her sister was valued by her father more than she. And now both father and sister were dead. Aloud, she said, ‘I mustn’t keep my taxi waiting any longer. I will be in touch, Mrs O’Sullivan, about the funeral arrangements. Please give my sincerest condolences to your niece. And thank you for your kindness and hospitality. And I am sorry that I have left you with the task of breaking the sad news.’
Still, she thought, as she took her seat in the taxi and waited while the driver hastily extinguished his cigarette and economically placed the stub behind one ear, still, she had troubles of her own. Even if a lot could be discounted from the sensitive Sister Catherine’s account of the undercurrents within her novitiate, nevertheless, she would have to question Sister Joan and Sister Brigid and ask for an explanation of those cryptic words overheard by their fellow novice: ‘Sister Brigid said that she would kill Sister Gertrude. And Sister Joan said that she would help her!’
SEVEN
St Thomas Aquinas
… oportet in intellectualibus non deduci ad imaginationem.
(… it is important when dealing with matters of the intellect not to be led away by the imagination.)
But before the Reverend Mother could send for the two young novices, Sister Bernadette, unsummoned, was knocking at her door. The Reverend Mother, recognizing the distinctive double knock, sighed silently. It would be another crisis. Sister Bernadette set herself very strict rules in her position as guardian of the Reverend Mother’s door. Unless it was something serious she would not dream of intruding until the Reverend Mother had a chance to divest herself of her outdoor cloak, perhaps change her shoes, straighten her veil, look at her letters, communicate with God, look through the Cork Examiner or anything else that was appropriate to a Mother Superior who was resuming command over her little kingdom after an absence.
However, there Sister Bernadette was, hard on the Reverend Mother’s heels, standing outside of the door and it was imperative to see what now required attention.
‘Come in,’ called the Reverend Mother in a pleasant tone. She lowered herself into her chair and turned a placid countenance towards the keeper of the convent door.
‘It’s Denis Kelly,’ said Sister Bernadette apologetically. ‘Young Denis Kelly. He’s asking for you. Very upset, he is. In a terrible state, walking up and down the parlour, pouring with sweat.’
‘Denis Kelly.’ The Reverend Mother hesitated. Who was Denis Kelly? And why should he pour with sweat on this foggy morning? The name was familiar, but for the moment she could not place the man.
‘Him that married Sister Gertrude’s sister. Works at Ford’s Factory. In charge of the paint department, if you please. His father was a coal man for Suttons on George’s Quay. Married that daughter of the floor manager in Dowdens. Just had the one boy, Denis. Did well for him.’ Sister Bernadette, like all good Cork people, not only knew name, breed, seed and generation of most of the inhabitants of the city, but was able, with a few economical words, to convey the whole history of a family. This Denis, the Reverend Mother understood instantly, was the son of a man who had married above his station and, having but the one child, had educated that boy to a degree that, instead of the back-breaking, filthy work of delivering heavy sacks of coal to households and seldom appearing in public without a coal-black face, young Denis had been sent to school, raised above his father’s station in life and had got a good job in Ford’s.
‘He’s in charge of the whole department, does all the ordering and all that, got two men and four boys working under him; doing very well for himself,’ supplemented Sister Bernadette. ‘Then married the Donovan girl, the sister of our Sister Gertrude. Good match that. I did hear tell that they were moving house, now. Moving out to St Luke’s Cross. Of course, the word is that the girl’s father was very warm, very warm indeed, and I suppose it will all go to the younger sister now. Would you like to have a cup of tea before you see him, Reverend Mother?’
Amazing how Sister Bernadette always knew everything, reflected the Reverend Mother after she had declined the tea and removed her cloak. ‘The word’ was true if it told that the late Mr Donovan had accumulated a tidy sum of money during his hard-working life, all of which he had invested in Ford’s as soon as he had found out about the move from Southampton to Cork. Had lined up a good job for himself once the factory opened and, doubtless, had done well. Had been paid a good salary, and had seen the value of his shares rise month by month. It was indeed true that John Donovan had amassed a considerable fortune. The solicitor who had regretfully informed her that Sister Gertrude had been cut out of her father’s will once she had entered the convent, had hinted that the money accumulated by the old man had been considerable and all of it had been left to his younger daughter. She and her husband were now rich young people and no doubt a car would soon follow the purchase of the house at St Luke’s Cross.
Half of that money would have been very welcome to the convent and would have made the task of feeding, clothing and educating the slum children to be a little less ‘hand to mouth’ as Cork people said. Nevertheless, she thought as she called an invitation to enter, it was very understandable that the late John Donovan should want his fortune to go to a daughter, and grandson, rather than to an institution such as her convent.
‘You’ve heard the sad news,’ she said to the young man as he entered, cap in hand, well-dressed, she thought. A very white well-starched shirt, a good black suit, trousers neatly narrowed with bicycle clips and a pair of well-polished black leather shoes. Shoes, not boots, she noted. This was a young man on the rise, a young man who might well aspire to a managerial position in Ford’s. Especially if he followed his father-in-law’s example and invested in the company.
‘My wife’s aunt sent a message to me at work,’ he said. ‘She wanted me to find Betty and tell her. I thought I’d come here first. Come and find out what had happened to her.’ To her surprise, his voice cracked on the last words and he sank down onto a chair and
hid his face in his hands. His shoulders were trembling and sobs seemed to shake his whole frame. The Reverend Mother thought about sending for tea, but then decided against it. A young man like that would not want a weakness exposed. She just sat very still, relaxed and allowed herself to think of Sister Gertrude, not as a problem to be solved, but as a tragedy. A young life, a life of promise, suddenly and abruptly snuffed out. Someone to mourn. To her surprise she felt tears well up into her own eyes. She would miss the girl. And she caught herself thinking of all the elderly and bedridden nuns to whom death had showed its face for many a long year, but still lingered over the final blow. Sister Gertrude had been vibrant with life and with energy. Her brain and her body had been bubbling with youth and vigour. Her laugh rang out in the corridors. Quickly she banished thoughts of her own loss and set herself to deal with his.
‘We will miss her terribly; we were very fond of her,’ she said with sincerity and saw him struggle to control himself. He took out a well-laundered handkerchief and mopped his eyes.
‘I loved her. Loved her very much.’ The words came out in a sort of wail, slightly shocking the Reverend Mother and making her feel glad that she was the only witness to this outbreak of sorrow. What, she wondered, would the pretty, rather childish-looking Betty think of her husband’s declaration of love. A sister-in-law, yes, but not a true sister. A wife’s sister, but not a wife. There was something about those sobs, those words that almost seemed to negate that relationship; seemed to hint at a warmer and more intimate one.
Death of a Novice Page 7