The Magdalen Girls

by V. S. Alexander

  Teagan extended her hand so the tips of her fingers touched his. A charge coursed through her body, and she relished the thrill of it.

  “Your mother contacted me,” he continued. “We met in secret. The whole business is crazy, but I was willing to do anything to find out what happened to you. I felt like a spy. My mother and father don’t even know I’m here. I skipped morning classes.” He swirled his fingertips over hers. “I wanted to see you so much that I went to Reverend Conry and asked him if he would help me, because I knew I couldn’t get in here by myself. I told him the truth—your mother wanted me to give you a Christmas gift and your father wouldn’t let her. I didn’t tell him about the rumor. I don’t think you need to worry about Anglican circles. I’m doing an early Christmas favor. I had to tell the Reverend something, sweeten the pot for him. Frankly, I think he was more interested in getting a good look inside the convent than in my visit. If I were eighteen, I’d get you out of here—at least I’d try.”

  Her heart raced, knowing Cullen had taken a huge risk for her.

  He inched his fingers over hers. “I heard something happened with a priest. The rumor going ’round is that a girl threw herself at Father Mark. Because you were sent away, you became that girl. One of my mates heard you had sex with him.”

  Teagan shuddered and withdrew her hand. Sex? The joy she’d experienced a few moments before fell away in a dizzying spiral. The rumor was uglier than she had imagined, and her suspicions about why she had been sent to the convent were confirmed. She looked at Cullen. “It’s not true—I never had sex with Father Mark.” She wanted to say that she had never even thought of such a thing, but that wasn’t true. “You can’t believe my father or any of his drunken friends.”

  Cullen’s lips parted in a half smile. “I never believed it from the beginning.” His smile drifted away. “I didn’t know where you were. No one would say anything. It was like you died and there was no burial. It was awful.”

  She looked at the lace-mending tools spread out across the table. “It’s been terrible here. This is my life, but I’m going to get out.”

  Sister Mary-Elizabeth appeared at the door and addressed them. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave now. Teresa is needed at her duties.”

  Cullen nodded, got up from the table, and whispered, “I’ll come back for you. Count on it.”

  Teagan smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. Any hope for happiness seemed far away.

  The Reverend Conry walked toward them. He extended his hand and said, “It was nice to meet you”—he lowered his voice—“Teagan.”

  “Thank you, Reverend,” she said. “You, as well.”

  The nun escorted them out, leaving her alone with Lea. She hated her strange friend at that moment. Look at her, scribbling on her papers as if nothing in the world is wrong! She wanted to wrench the brush from her hand and smear it across her precious “Christ Enthroned.” What good was her artwork? What difference would it make to the world? It was nothing but busywork, concocted to appease the Mother Superior and keep Lea out of the laundries.

  Sister Mary-Elizabeth reappeared and motioned for Teagan to follow her back to the laundry. Teagan placed a large piece of lace over the box, with the gifts still in it, and brushed past the nun. The stout nun gasped in surprise and clambered after her. Teagan darted down the stairs toward Sister Anne’s office.

  Sister Mary-Elizabeth trundled after her. “Come back!”

  Teagan neared the door.

  “Teresa! Don’t!”

  Sister Anne lifted her head as she rushed in. The nun gave her a cruel smile, as if she enjoyed seeing her penitents crumble under intoxicating draughts of freedom. She raised her hand, signaling her to stop. “Whatever you have to say, I’ve no time to listen. Don’t waste your breath.”

  Teagan slammed the top of the desk with her hands, sending the LOVE blocks skittering across its top.

  The Mother Superior’s eyes flared with anger. “How dare you! Another outburst and it’ll be the Penitent’s Room for you—overnight and without tea.”

  Teagan stepped back from the desk, as Sister Mary-Elizabeth rushed in behind her. After a few deep breaths, she said, “You’re holding me through a veil of lies fabricated by a priest.” She tried to remain calm. Maybe Sister Anne would listen if she showed some restraint. “Let me clear my name. I’ve done nothing wrong. Let me phone my mother, it’s the least you can do.”

  “Sit,” Sister Anne ordered.

  Teagan took a seat in front of the desk.

  “Sister Mary-Elizabeth, leave us and close the door. I’ll return Teresa to you in a few minutes.” The Mother Superior repositioned the LOVE blocks as the other nun slipped out of the office. Sister Anne folded her hands.

  “Hear me out,” the Mother Superior said. “Your parents want nothing to do with you. I have papers signed to that effect.”

  Teagan started to object, but thought better of it. She knew her mother missed her and wanted to see her, although the letter did ask for her repentance. If she showed Sister Anne the gifts as proof of her mother’s concern, she was certain they would be taken away.

  “I have it in writing, and by word, that you are here because you seduced a priest. You had carnal thoughts regarding him, which led to actions—”

  “What actions?”

  The Mother Superior held up her hand. The sleeve slipped from her wrist, revealing the underside of her arm. Red slashes cut horizontally across her white skin. Sister Anne grappled with her habit. She glared at Teagan, daring her to defy her again. “Touching, initiating intimate conversations, inducing erotic thought . . .”

  Teagan blanched at the Mother Superior’s words, but refused to cower; instead she said, “If I must, I’ll go to every authority I can to secure my release from The Sisters of the Holy Redemption.”

  Sister Anne laughed. “Who would take the word of a Magdalen over that of a priest? The Archbishop? The Holy Father? Write to the Pope, see how far you get. And in case the thought has crossed your mind, don’t try to escape. You’ll have no place to go, no one will hide you. When you’re found—and you will be found—the Guards will return you to the convent. You’ll be back, but in worse shape than when you left.” She pointed to the LOVE blocks on her desk. “Once you stop struggling, life will go much more smoothly.”

  Something snapped inside her—a distinct pop and the world went red. She grasped the arms of her chair, for what she really wanted to do was crawl across the desk and strangle the Mother Superior. She forced herself to remain sitting long enough that her vision began to clear. Sister Anne’s form reappeared surrounded by a reddish haze. Despite the Mother Superior’s admonishment, she would write the letters, and if those failed, she would escape with Nora.

  Sister Anne leaned forward and, in a chilly voice, said, “Your attitude is atrocious. Back to work.”

  A series of loud knocks interrupted them. They had an urgency, as if the matter could not wait.

  “Come in!”

  Sisters Mary-Elizabeth and Ruth, looking pale and drawn, stood at the door.

  “What’s wrong?” Sister Anne asked.

  Sister Ruth stared at the floor. “It’s Monica, Holy Mother.”

  “Well, go on,” Sister Anne said, exasperated.

  “She’s gone,” Sister Mary-Elizabeth said. “She’s escaped.”

  Sister Anne hissed and sank back in her chair.

  A wave of despair, like a cold dampness, washed over Teagan. She brought her hands to her face. Her best friend at the convent, the one most likely to escape with her, had vanished. Now she was alone and, worst of all, she had doubts that Nora would ever fulfill her promise to return. She sat, silently, shaking in her chair.

  CHAPTER 8

  Everything around her was gray. She couldn’t believe what she had done. She’d seized the opportunity, taken the chance, and now she was—she didn’t know exactly where—on the byways of Dublin.

  Nora imagined Sister Ruth’s shame, Sister Anne’s anger
at her escape. The Mother Superior would be furious with Sister Ruth, who had drifted off reading a magazine when the hotel delivery van arrived. It was one of those Hollywood gossip magazines, filled with handsome movie stars and buxom starlets in glittering low-cut gowns. What I wouldn’t give to be there now—away from Dublin, away from me stupid ma and da, giving Pearse the two-finger salute across the Atlantic. Think of it! On the Pacific shore, drinking champagne and smoking cigarettes, having a date with an actor who was starring in a picture. There must be millions of them to choose from.

  The van hit a pothole. The jolt knocked Nora’s head against a shelf. She stifled a cry, hoping to keep her presence a secret. She knew the driver didn’t see her sneak inside. The tablecloth she’d pulled over herself slipped, allowing her to see the road out the rear windows.

  Nora gave herself a mental pat on the back. How kind she had been to step up and help when Sister Ruth was indisposed. The nun had been strict lately, but this mistake was going to cost her. Nora had put a finger to her lips and urged the driver not to wake the slumbering Sister Ruth. “She’s had a rough night,” she told the short man with thinning hair, who looked bored with everything around him, including the Magdalens. “Female trouble.” The man was unmoved. Perfect, Nora thought, he couldn’t care less about the goings-on at the laundry.

  As Sister Ruth snoozed and the others went about their business, they ignored Nora when she helped the man pull the return laundry down the hall and onto the truck. He was happy for the hand. All she asked for in return was a cigarette, even though she had Lea’s stashed in her apron pocket. He gave her one at the delivery door, and when he climbed into the cab, she opened the back, crawled in, and hid under a clean tablecloth. The cab was separated from the rear of the van by a metal partition. He could neither see nor hear her.

  From its movement, she knew the van had turned left from the gate. That was good, because it was headed north, toward her home. She’d heard Mr. Roche, the old caretaker, say good-bye. Now that she was a safe distance away, she planned to get out of the van, before it made any more stops. Sister Anne would have the Guards searching for her within minutes of the discovery of her escape.

  The day was draped with rain and spits of snow. The gray cocoon formed by the tablecloth was oddly comforting, almost like being in a warm cave. She peered through the windows. Unfamiliar buildings swept by on both sides of the road. The van stopped. She heard the driver cough.

  The vehicle began moving again, then turned right and swung Nora back toward the shelf. He was now headed east, toward the sea. Time to get out.

  She stuffed the tablecloth in a bag, crawled to the rear, and waited for the van to stop.

  When it did, she opened the doors and stepped out, much to the surprise of the driver behind, who honked his horn and smiled broadly. She closed the doors, ran to the nearest footpath, and, looking up, found a road sign mounted on a wall. She was in a residential tract on Northbrook Road, an area of older homes with wide stairs and arched doorways. Instinct told her to hurry back in the direction from which she had come. When she was a good distance from the van, she slowed down. The cold air bit at her, but it was good to breathe outside, away from the stifling atmosphere of the convent.

  She reached Charlemont, a busy road with residences and some businesses. She peered in windows, trying to act nonchalant, but people were staring at her. Eyes. Eyes everywhere. Everyone was looking at her—a girl in a plain gray dress covered by a white muslin apron. And, my hair. What must everyone think of her prison-maid bob? The few women who had ventured out in the cold carried umbrellas and wore heavy coats to stave off the elements. Their hairdos were perfect. Pert cuts with tips curled behind the ears, or layers of hair piled upon their heads. She shivered and rubbed her palms over her arms. She hadn’t had time to grab a coat during her quick escape. A blast of wind flung rain against her body.

  The realization of what she’d done hit her. She was without money, without a change of clothes, and a good distance from home. She darted into an alley, plastered herself against a damp wall, and took a few deep breaths.

  Teagan. Teagan would hate her, as well, thinking that she had broken her promise. However, she’d made a vow and she would keep it. How and when that would happen she didn’t know.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, and she kept out of sight in the alley. Perhaps they were already after her. She peered down the road and spotted two Guard cars weaving through traffic, blasting their way past her. She waited a few more minutes before stepping out of the alley and then walked on the footpath that led north.

  People stared at her. A few snickered; most raised their eyebrows in derision as if they had seen a circus freak. Then she saw a man sitting next to an iron grate for warmth. His legs stuck out into the sidewalk, forcing passersby to step over them. He wasn’t old—probably in his twenties—but his face shone beet red from drink and the cold air. She wondered if he might be drunk and approached him tentatively.

  “Pardon,” she said.

  He pushed his wool cap back and stared at her with drowsy, bloodshot eyes.

  “I’m in need of food and a change of clothes,” Nora said. “Is there a mission nearby?”

  In a thick brogue, he answered, “Yer in luck, me lay-dee.” He pointed north, gave her a few simple directions, and then asked for money. Nora laughed, not in condescension, but at the irony of his request. She was as broke as he was.

  She left him sitting there, his head lolling. A few blocks away she found the mission.

  The printed sign over the door read HOME AND HEARTH in bright yellow letters, cheerful on the raw day. The building was narrow but long, and near the back, Nora saw a score of men and women eating at a table. She opened the door and a bell overhead tinkled.

  A woman with an angular face and silver hair looked up from her tasks. She neither smiled nor gave a greeting. She looked at Nora as if she was expecting her next crop of indigents to walk in the door at any minute. The shelter was warm and smelled of damp coats curling by the steam pipes. The aromatic odors of a spicy beef stew also drifted through the air.

  The woman sat stoically behind her desk. Something in her eyes gave Nora a chill. It was hard to tell what it was, but if she had to guess it was recognition. The woman knew, or suspected, where she came from. Only her need for a change of clothing kept her from running out the door.

  The woman dropped her pencil on a pile of papers and eyed her with distrust. “May I help you?”

  “I ran into a man down the road. We’re both homeless and he directed me here.”

  “Really?” the woman countered. “How long have you been homeless?”

  “Going on four months.”

  The woman opened a card file on her desk. “What’s your name?”

  Almost without thinking, Nora said, “Monica.” There was no reason to give her real name.

  The woman tapped the file. “Last name?”

  “Tiernan.” She said it straight-faced and with no hint of guilt.

  “Monica Tiernan.” She flipped through the file, stopping at the “T” and inspected the cards behind the divider. “I have no record of a Monica Tiernan. I know every needy person in the neighborhood. We make it our business to know everyone, you understand. We don’t serve those of low moral character.”

  Nora understood the implication. Home and Hearth was no sanctuary for drug dealers, drunks, pimps, prostitutes, or others of questionable morals like the Magdalens.

  “Oh, believe me,” Nora said. “I’m of high moral character, just fallen on hard times. Me parents died and I lost me home.” The truth of her statement was enough to bring a teary glaze to her eyes. Nora hoped the woman would notice.

  “Do you have identification?”

  “None,” Nora replied. “Not even a bag to put anything in.”

  “That’s an unusual dress you’re wearing,” the woman said.

  “Found it and the apron in an alley not long ago. It was better than what I had on, and wa
rmer, too, which is the reason I’m here. I need a change of clothes and I’d like to eat a bite.”

  “Where did you find this clothing?”

  “On Northbrook Road, not far from here.”

  The woman pursed her lips and handed Nora a card. “Fill this out. We need some information for our mission. You’re welcome to food. I’ll look for clothes. I think we might have something in your size.”

  As she filled out the card, Nora made up the answers to the questions as she went along, all the time keeping an eye on the woman. There was only one telephone in the room that she could see, and it was on the front desk. She feared the woman might call the Guards.

  The woman returned with her arms piled with underthings, a plain blue dress, and a warm gabardine coat. Nothing about the outfit was fashionable, but she accepted it gratefully. Everything she wore could now be changed, except for her shoes, the black flats the Magdalens wore. They weren’t really suitable for the weather, but they would get her by until she could find a suitable pair.

  “You can change in the ladies’ room in back,” the woman said, “then have something to eat.”

  “Thank you,” Nora said, and exchanged her card for the clothes. The woman took it, sat again at her desk, and read the information.

  On her way to the ladies’, the powerful smell of the stew called to her stomach. She opened the door to the toilet, and kept it slightly ajar as she changed. She left her old clothes in the corner. Through the crack, Nora saw another woman, who looked as if she worked at the mission, approach the desk. The two looked over the card and conferred.

  Nora took a few minutes to change, making sure to take the cigarettes from her apron. Unsure when her next meal would come, she scooped up a large bowl of stew and a piece of bread. She sat with other men and women, but said nothing as she ate, positioning herself so she could watch the two women.

  As Nora gobbled up her meal, the second woman left the desk, seemingly satisfied by her conversation with the woman in charge. An old man in a shabby coat sat next to Nora, slurping his soup and chomping bread with dentures, which slipped in and out of his mouth. Two one-pound notes stuck out of his coat pocket. They would be so easy to lift, she thought.