“Monica’s not going anywhere!” Nora plastered herself against the door.
“We’ll see about that,” Sister Mary-Elizabeth said, and grabbed her by the arm. The stout nun swung Nora around her.
To Nora’s amazement, Sister Mary-Elizabeth had forced her arm behind her back. She set her heels against the tiles, but the slick surface prevented her from getting any traction. She screamed as she slid down the hall. She had no idea where she was headed—double doors loomed in front of her as if leading to a chapel. Another door, sunken and heavy in the granite, was set into the wall to its right. Sister Mary-Elizabeth pushed her toward that door as the Mother Superior followed.
“You’re hurting me,” Nora yelled.
“Sorry,” Sister Mary-Elizabeth shouted in her ear. “God will forgive me. I can’t say the same for you.”
The Mother Superior opened the door. Sister Mary-Elizabeth shoved Nora inside.
“Take time to reflect upon your sins, Monica.” Sister Anne said. Her face shone red with anger. Nora wondered if the Mother Superior was so upset she might actually hit her. The door slammed shut, the key turned, and darkness covered her.
Nora’s fingers crept over the door. She stood, gulping in air, trying not to panic.
“Oh God,” she whispered. Her heart raced and her legs stiffened in fear. “I’ll kill him when I get out of here. I swear I’ll kill him.”
She stuck out her hands like a blind person and stepped tentatively back from the door. In two steps, her feet struck something that scudded across the floor and then tipped over with a thud. The sound faded and there was nothing more—only the dark and the deathly quiet. She reached down, groping in the void, unsure what her hands would find. They found a round wooden rod, and then two more attached by stretchers. She turned the rods upright and her fingers brushed over a circular wooden seat. She was certain it was a stool, like the one farmers used to milk cows.
For a moment, she pondered whether to sit or stand. How many hours would she be confined in this dank chamber, to stand in the dark with her arms by her side? It wouldn’t take long to be uncomfortable. Sitting, with her knees close to her chest, seemed safer, more like huddling against a storm. She lowered her body to the seat, placed her arms under her knees, and pulled up, bending her back toward her legs. She rocked on her feet and stared into the blackness. The darkness never fled. If anything, it seemed to intensify. She moaned and blinked, hoping some light might seep into the room, but, despite her efforts, none came.
* * *
The hours passed—how many, Nora couldn’t be sure. It was certainly more than two, but it could have been three or four. Without any way to gauge time, she couldn’t tell. Something scuttled past her. She screamed, fearing it might be a rat. No one came to her aid. The silence worked on her imagination. Skeletal fingers emerged from the walls. Thin white bones reached for her. An old crone’s face with glowing eyes and yellow teeth leered at her. The faint sound of the nuns’ voices in prayer, a singsong melody, drifted into her ears and then evaporated into nothingness. She closed her eyes and prayed, something she hadn’t done in years. The fingers receded; the horrible face vanished along with the voices.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that her body had needs. How much more of this torture would she have to endure? Even the nuns must have known that a penitent would have to use the toilet after hours of confinement.
Thoughts of revenge came into her head. How would she kill her father? Poison was too slow, a knife too bloody. I’ll shoot him when I get out! Her mother would make a fuss, but maybe Nora could convince her it was for the best. After all, her mother had turned into a drudge, a pouty, sullen woman, after she married her father. Nora only had to look at the family scrapbooks to prove that.
She thought about the morning. Her father had grabbed her early, his rough hands leading her to a curbside car. Nora didn’t put up much of a fight, because she wanted to get away—to a better life—free from her mother and father. Perhaps her father was dropping her off at Pearse’s flat with wishes of “good riddance.” Could she be that lucky? Little did she know they were headed to The Sisters of the Holy Redemption.
The waiting car sputtered as Nora climbed in the front seat. The beat-up hulk belonged to a drinking buddy of her father’s whom Nora had met a few times. Her family didn’t have a car and that added to her shame. Her father’s friend, equally as burly as her da, chuckled like an idiot as he drove them to the convent. He played with the radio and puffed on a cigarette. Nora, pinned between the two men in the front seat, couldn’t escape. Her father had offered only two words of explanation as he unlocked her chained bedroom door—“slutty bitch.” Nora shook her head. All this was happening because she’d wanted to escape her dreary life.
Soon, she realized they weren’t going by her boyfriend’s house. As far as she was concerned, Pearse could be damned to hell with the rest of them. If he hadn’t jilted her, none of this horrible business would have happened.
In fact, she had no idea where they were going. The car traveled south, over the River Liffey, past Dublin’s city center. They drove for what seemed like an eternity until they pulled up at the convent gates and an affable old man let them in. Sister Anne had swooped down upon them when they arrived. Her father signed papers and the transaction was done. His buddy sat like an accomplice in the car smoking cigarettes and listening to the radio. A cigarette! My God, she had no cigarettes and there would be none to be found here. What use was plotting revenge upon her father when she couldn’t even smoke, eat, or pee? Think, think, think. She needed to come up with a way to get out of this hellhole and fast.
Something scraped against the lock. A key? The door opened, light flooded in, and she shielded her eyes. Strong hands gripped her arms and pulled them away from her body.
Sister Mary-Elizabeth leaned over her. “Have you had enough for one day? I suppose you need to visit the jacks. I hope you didn’t wet yourself.” The nun shook her head. “Mind you, this is what you’ll get if you don’t behave. We call it the Penitent’s Room.”
For the first time, Nora was able to see it, almost square, its four walls only two yards wide on each side. The high ceiling seemed to stretch into infinity. The only thing inside was the stool. Long white scratches cut across the walls, as if the penitents before her had scraped their fingernails against the granite—no doubt from the madness spawned by the room.
“Time to eat,” Sister Mary-Elizabeth said. “Don’t give me trouble, because I’m in no mood. You’ll eat, have your hair cut, and be given your uniform.”
“Uniform?” Nora asked. Her back ached and her legs wobbled as she got up from the stool.
“This isn’t a holiday camp,” the nun said. “You’re here to work. I’ll give you instructions after you get settled.”
Nora looked down the long hall to the closed door at the end—the door her father had pushed her past. How she hated him. She saw him standing there, a grinning apparition, mocking her, blocking her way out. She gave the ghost the evil eye. He had always blocked her from doing anything she wanted to do.
There was no use making a break for it—the door was probably locked. Even if she escaped, she didn’t know where to go. She decided to change her strategy. She folded her hands and said, “Yes, Sister.”
The nun squinted, looking as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “That’s more like it.” Sister Mary-Elizabeth pointed to the stairway leading to the second floor and then locked the door to the Penitent’s Room.
Nora climbed a few steps.
“Hold up,” the nun ordered. “I don’t trust you as far as I could throw Jesus.”
You’d be right about that. Nora smiled at the nun, who quickly caught up with her.
Sister Mary-Elizabeth took her by the arm. “Luck is with you. We had room for one more bed. It’s under the eave, next to the new girl, Teresa. You’ll like her.”
Nora rolled her eyes as they walked arm in arm up the stairs. Yes, how lucky I am
to be next to the “new girl” when I don’t give a shit about anybody.
* * *
Sister Rose appeared in the laundry with a penitent who looked as if she had been roughed up by a prison warden. Teagan hadn’t seen this new girl at bedtime or at breakfast. The old nun chatted with Sister Ruth as the arrival glared into the room, red-faced and fidgeting with her closely cropped black hair. Apparently, anyone who dared approach her did so at their peril.
She figured they would be working next to each other and turned back to her sorting, occasionally looking over her shoulder. The anger emanating from this girl ignited the air. Teagan could feel the hatred pouring from her across the room. She had always wondered what it would feel like to be really mad, because she wasn’t allowed to be angry, particularly when her father was drunk. He was the only one who was allowed to make an ass out of himself. She and her mother had to sit—and take all that he dished out.
She spotted Sarah out of the corner of her eye. Her sorting companion was fifteen, maybe younger, and Teagan had no idea where she came from or how she ended up at The Sisters of the Holy Redemption. Now, she thought, there would be three of them standing at the bins. Or maybe Sister Ruth would move Sarah to a new station because she was the veteran.
After a few minutes, the new girl arrived at the bins. Teagan and Sarah stood behind her while the nun explained how to sort the clothes. “You’ll work next to Teresa,” Sister Ruth ordered with wine-filled breath. “Watch Sarah carefully because she won’t be on the bins much longer. Learn well or you’ll get the rough edge of the stick.” The nun turned away.
“That’s it?” the girl asked.
Teagan looked at the bins.
Sister Ruth turned back. “What did you say?”
The girl didn’t have time to answer. Teagan heard a hand swish through the air and the blow of a hard slap.
“You bitch—”
The words were cut short by another slap. “Do you have any other questions?” came the mocking reply.
The girl shuffled next to Teagan and gazed into the bins.
The nun returned to her chair.
Teagan shifted her eyes slowly and looked at the girl to her left. The hardness in her face had fallen away as if it was all a façade. Maybe she wasn’t as mean as she seemed. In fact, tears were running down her cheeks.
“Get busy, you two!” Sister Ruth yelled from behind.
Sarah continued her work, ignoring all that had gone on. Teagan rummaged through the pile of clothes on the floor next to her and sorted. She had made a game of her job: W.L.D.S. Whites, lights, darks, special. Whites, lights darks, special. She kept repeating those four words in her head as she worked, until she thought it would drive her mad. And it was only her second day! No sane person could endure such monotony.
The girl, unsure what to do, locked eyes with her. Teagan pointed to the bins, picked an article of clothing for each and threw them into the appropriate container. Whites, lights, darks, special. One didn’t have to be a genius to get the hang of it. The key was to resign yourself to the situation, as Sarah must have done. She’d once read about men who could walk on hot coals by ignoring the pain.
They kept at their sorting for an hour. Sarah and the others ignored them. Teagan looked over her shoulder. Sister Ruth was slumped in her chair, her head hanging over her lap. The wine had worked its wonders.
She turned to the new girl, took a chance, and asked, “What’s your name?” She had to talk over the whir of the machines.
The girl looked at her, surprise filling her eyes. She, too, looked back at the nun.
“Nora. Nora Craven,” she said, and grabbed a pair of black pants. She rummaged through the pockets and then threw them into the “dark” bin.
“I’m Teagan, although they want to call me Teresa. I’m not having it.” She looked at Sister Ruth, who had slipped back in her chair, eyes closed, head snug against the wall. “She has a wine bottle somewhere.”
Nora smirked. “Glad there’s someone who thinks like me, even if she is a bitch.” she said too loudly. Sarah eyed them both suspiciously.
“Ssshhh,” Teagan cautioned. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want to get a crack on the head. Look busy. Keep sorting.” She picked through the clothes.
Nora did the same. “They want to name me Monica because of some saint. They’re daft. I’ll be damned if I’ll be one. Who needs that?” She tossed two white shirts into the bin.
Teagan wanted to laugh. “Let’s make a pact, then. We’ll use our real names when we talk to each other—Sister Anne can keep her saints to herself.”
Nora grinned. “Well, I’m game.” She picked up a tablecloth and wriggled her nose in disgust. “Oh, benjy. Smells like horse droppings.” She threw the cloth into the “whites” bin. Sarah let out a little squeak.
“Wait, that’ll get you in bad with Sister Ruth.” Teagan gathered the tablecloth and dropped it in the “special” bin. “That’s silk, from some fancy hotel. If it gets washed with the whites, you’d be done.”
Sarah nodded and turned back to her work.
“She’s a talkative one,” Nora said.
Teagan leaned against a bin. “It’s like being in gaol and no one seems to care. All the Magdalens are brain-dead.”
“I didn’t know there was such a proper name until I came here,” Nora said. “Imagine comparing us to a whore. I guess being horned up is as bad a sin as being knocked up.” She looked at Teagan with sad eyes. “What are you in for?”
“I’m not absolutely certain, but it has something to do with a priest.”
“A priest!” Nora’s voice spiked with excitement. “That’s one for the books. You’re a bad girl. Doomed to hell, you are!”
Teagan looked over her shoulder in alarm. Sister Ruth napped in her chair. “For God’s sake, keep it down. Take a look at the girls here.”
Nora nodded. “It’s sad, but I don’t have to. When that old nun, a poor excuse for a beautician, brought me in here, I saw their faces. All washed out. Dead with nothing to live for. And some of them are old. I don’t understand why they’re still here? I’m not going to be here until I die and they haul me out in a coffin.”
“You can’t run away. Sister Mary-Elizabeth said there’s no place to hide. She’s right. The Guards will bring you back.”
“I’ll be out of here by the next moonrise and won’t anybody stop me.”
Teagan reached for the pile next to her feet. A silver crucifix cut across her right hand. She winced.
Sister Ruth glared at her. “That’ll teach you. You both deserve it, carrying on like two magpies.” The crucifix, hanging from rosary beads, swung from her palm. “I saw you talking. You thought I didn’t notice. You won’t get away with it, so you better not try. Teresa! Come with me.” She put the beads in her pocket, pulled Teagan away from her station, and dragged her toward the chair. “Wait here.” The nun shoved her down and walked out.
Knowing Sister Ruth was gone, the other Magdalens stared at her, some tittering at her shame.
Nora continued to sort, but looked back a few times, her eyes blazing.
Several young girls were stationed at sinks. Their scrawny hands worked like pumps, pushing and kneading the fabrics they worked on. A few worked with steam irons. The older women were placed next to the whirring washers and dryers. They stared at the machines, apparently looking for any imperfection in the process. They hardly gave Teagan a second glance.
She looked down at her hand. The cross had opened a thin cut, oozing crimson. It was nothing, really, but in addition to its burning sensation, the wound elicited a visceral reaction. I hate her. She shook off the thought, not wanting to accept the voice in her head. She had disliked many of the nuns at school, but everyone loathed a teacher now and then.
She had never hated anyone—not even her father when he was so drunk he belittled her and her mother. The Commandments said to “honor your father and mother.” She was a good girl, but her father had often told her otherw
ise. “You’re both no good,” he had shouted at them when he was deep in the bottle. But she didn’t hate her father; she pitied him. She cringed at the thought of hating a nun. She couldn’t believe how twisted her mind had become in only a few days.
Sister Ruth returned carrying a white cloth bandage and a bottle of purple antiseptic. The nun swabbed the liquid over Teagan’s hand. A fiery burn settled across the cut, and she clenched her teeth. The nun covered it with the bandage and secured it with medical tape.
“That’s that,” Sister Ruth said. “Now, get back to your station. And no talking.”
She walked back to the bins. Sarah continued to work and didn’t look at her. Teagan could feel the Sister’s eyes following her every move. Nora said nothing, as well, but caught her attention once in a while. There was a look about Nora, one of rage and indignation, like someone about to explode.
Teagan feared that Nora might do so. She tried to calm her down in a way that Sister Ruth wouldn’t notice. She raised her eyebrows and directed her gaze to the bins. They were in enough trouble as it was. They worked, saying nothing, until it was time for tea.
* * *
Lightning flared in the western sky. Teagan saw the flashes through the garret window as the sun disappeared behind towering clouds.
So, this is how it’s to be. My life—dull as mud—watching storm clouds. At least the rain will wash away the day’s warmth.
No one had spoken at tea or prayers. She listened as the nuns whispered their vespers, mouths moving like puppets. Lea, of course, joined in, right at home with the Sisters. After prayers, they had filed silently out of the chapel, up the two flights of stairs to their beds, while Sister Mary-Elizabeth and Sister Rose watched over them like stern parents. Not one girl talked, not even in the showers. The two nuns finally turned off the lights and closed the doors. The room was plunged into gloom.
Teagan heard a far-off rumble of thunder. Her body ached and she was ready for sleep. She lifted the bandage on her hand. The cut hadn’t caused much pain during the afternoon and a scab had already begun to form.
The Magdalen Girls Page 8