Chapter Twenty-Seven
The small convent along the coast from the busy port of San-Pédro was nestled in a well-kept compound between the main road and the beach. Keelin loved it. The Reverend Mother was the only French nun in the convent, in charge of a small community of twenty nuns.
The single-storey house was built around a courtyard. All the bedrooms led on to the verandas that surrounded the convent. The sound of the sea was music to Keelin’s ears. The beach was a two-minute walk away. There was a much more easygoing air, which soothed her frazzled spirit and gave her some respite from her doubts about her future in the Order. She was the only novice and Mère Germaine, who was unimpressed with reforms and expected her nuns to dress appropriately in their habits, set aside two hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, after school was over, for Keelin to spend time on her spiritual studies.
How ironic it was she who was now feeling the sense of freedom to do the work she wanted to do, as Brigid once had, and her aunt had been sent home. She’d been shocked to hear of Brigid’s return to Ireland and wondered if she would ever adapt to life there after her time in Africa.
Keelin was kept busy, which suited her, and the months passed and still there was no sign of her being recalled to Nigeria. But Keelin guessed, reading between the lines of her aunt’s occasional letters, that she too was struggling with her vocation.
* * *
It was one Friday afternoon months later, and Keelin was sitting in the shade of the veranda, surrounded by her young charges. This was their favourite day of the week because after lunch there was no more schoolwork. It was a time she’d set aside for a chat about the events of the previous week, followed by Keelin reading aloud to her pupils.
They were discussing their aspirations for adulthood with great vigour and enthusiasm, and Keelin was about to end the chat and begin her story-reading when she saw the new priest, Father Durand, striding across the compound, his surplice flapping in the breeze that blew in from the sea.
He waved at the children and they waved back. They loved this new young priest who had come to assist the convent’s chaplain, Monsignor Kelly, who had developed heart trouble. Father Durand often played football with the children and drew cartoon characters on the board when he was teaching a religion class. There was something about the earnest, kind man in his thirties whom she was drawn to. He’d suggested they set up a folk group for the teenagers who came to Mass and she’d eagerly agreed.
It was a joyful collaboration. The young people loved singing and Father Durand played the guitar while she conducted their lively group. They had rehearsals on Saturday evenings, and a few of the indigenous nuns came and played some of their traditional music, and there was a lot of laughter and banter that Keelin found very enjoyable.
“Soeur, Soeur!” One of her young pupils was grabbing her arm to gain her attention.
“Yes, Sisal.” She smiled at him. The boy was one of her brightest pupils.
“I’m going to be an astronaut!”
“That’s marvellous, Sisal,” she congratulated him. He beamed proudly.
Miriam, a feisty little Serer girl, turned to her and declared enthusiastically, “I’m going to be a priest like Father Durand.” Her classmates broke into howls of laughter.
“Don’ be so silly, Miriam. You can’t be a priest; you’re a girl!” Sisal jeered.
Outraged at being sneered at, and taken aback by his response, Miriam turned to Keelin, fixing her huge brown eyes on her confidently. “I can be a priest, can’t I, Soeur Michael?”
Keelin’s heart sank as she gazed into the little girl’s eyes and saw the hope and belief shining through.
“I’m sorry, chérie,” she murmured. “It’s not possible for a girl to become a priest.”
“Only men are priests,” interrupted Sisal triumphantly.
“But why, Soeur Michael? Why?” demanded Miriam, shocked.
Why indeed? thought Keelin despairingly as all the doubts and questions she’d suppressed roared back with the force of a tsunami.
At her weekly confession she was dismayed when Father Durand and not Monsignor Kelly pulled back the curtain in the confessional. Monsignor Kelly would always say, no matter what she confessed, “You’re doing your best, my child; that’s all any of us can do,” before giving her a light penance and sending her away. Would this new priest be full of righteous dogma, unable to understand what she was about to say? Would he accuse her of lacking humility and allowing her ego to dictate?
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I am troubled, Father. I have grave doubts about my vocation.”
“Can you tell me your doubts, Sister?” came the calm response from the other side of the confessional.
“It’s like this,” she said, and in a torrent of words, sometimes in English if she couldn’t remember the word in French, Keelin unburdened herself to a stranger, a young man not much older than her, who too was in the service of God.
When she finished, a long silence pervaded the confessional and she almost held her breath waiting for words of derision to come her way. Eventually, she heard the priest say with a deep sigh, and in a sad, grave tone, “Sister, I cannot help you. I am not the right person to hear your confession. I too have doubts. I agree with all you say. You have come here and mirrored my beliefs and brought up my reservations. Reservations I have struggled with since before my ordination. I too have been told it was ego. But, in truth, I don’t agree. Suppression by the Church is, as I see it, a form of control. If it is any comfort to you, you are not alone,” Armand Durand said quietly, and she raised her eyes to his and in that moment felt a connection so deep and true, it took her breath away.
“Thank you, Father,” she whispered. “I should leave now. I’ve been in here too long. My Sisters waiting outside will think I’ve committed many mortallers.”
“Mortaller? I do not know this word,” he spoke in English.
“Mortal sins,” Keelin explained. “It’s what we Irish call them.”
Father Durand smiled, making his lean, austere face look years younger.
“Indeed,” he agreed. “But we will talk of this again, soon. Try to be unperturbed.” He raised his hand and murmured a blessing and she was sorry to leave the place where, for a few brief moments, peace had embraced her.
“You are not alone,” Father Durand had told her. He too had doubts. It couldn’t all be ego.
Unable to sleep that night because of the turmoil she felt, Keelin put on her swimsuit and wrapped a towel around her and slipped down to the beach below them. It was dark, but a million stars sparkled in the sky and a small sliver of moon threw rays of silver onto the shimmering sea. In the cove where the nuns bathed privately, Keelin padded barefoot over the sand to the sea and felt the waters embrace her—warm, soothing, ethereally welcoming. She floated on her back, looking at the stars, and felt at one with God and nature. If only she could always feel this peaceful, she reflected, but she knew that she could no longer carry on her life as a nun.
Her mother would be horrified now. Imelda hadn’t wanted her to enter a convent, but she was now quite happy to boast about “my daughter the nun.” Her father only wanted Keelin’s happiness; he would support her whatever she decided. The least surprised person, Keelin felt, would be Brigid. Her aunt had tried to stop her from entering, knowing her niece and knowing the pitfalls ahead.
She would stay until after Christmas, and tell her Mother Superior on the first of January that she was leaving the Order, Keelin decided.
Relieved that she’d finally made her decision, Keelin swam in the star-lit sea for a while longer, knowing that she should make the most of such delightful pleasures for her final months in the Ivory Coast.
* * *
A month later, Father Durand was again hearing confessions. Keelin’s heart thumped. They had become very friendly, making the most of their snatched conversations at the folk group rehearsals, discussing their doubts and reservations about the religious life and the inco
nsistencies of the religion they both practised.
Armand drew back the curtain in the little window between him and Keelin. She immediately dispensed with the formalities and blurted, “I’ve made my decision, Armand. I’m leaving after Christmas.”
“Keelin, you’re so brave,” he whispered back. “I wish I had your courage.”
“I can’t do it anymore. I can’t live a lie. It all makes me so unhappy,” she confided.
“I wish I could talk to you properly, unafraid that Germaine will chastise you. It’s so frustrating.”
A brainwave struck Keelin. “I often go swimming in the cove at night. It’s beautiful. Why don’t we meet there tonight soon after lights out at ten? We can talk about everything.”
“It would be a great cause for scandal if we were caught,” he said doubtfully.
“Well, I’d better get out of here or we’ll be the subject of scandal in the confessional, too,” she said crossly. “I’m going swimming tonight, if you’re there you’re there; if you’re not, you’re not. Adieu, Armand,” she said, not even bothering to make a confession.
“It’s you and your good name I was thinking of,” he said quietly.
She apologised, wishing she hadn’t snapped at him. “I’d better go.”
She was on tenterhooks all day. Would Armand join her in the cove? Or was she fooling herself that feelings had developed between them?
That night, wrapped in her towel, she slipped like a wraith down to the cove. Her heart sank when she saw Armand wasn’t there, and Keelin cursed herself for behaving like a love-struck teenager. She dived into the glistening sea and swam parallel to the shore, feeling alive and unrestricted, her hair stuck damply to her face, unhindered by the veil. As she turned on her back to float under the stars, she caught sight of Armand’s shadowy figure striding along the beach. She waved and he waved back and her heart lifted with happiness. How lovely to be able to speak in peace at last. They had so much to talk about.
She heard the splash as he dived in and swam towards her. “I came,” he murmured, his white teeth glinting as he smiled in the semimoonlight.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Keelin threw her arms wide, encompassing the magnificence around them.
“I brought some wine and bread and cheese,” he said, floating beside her. She had never felt so happy in her life.
“Have a swim and then we’ll have our picnic,” she said. “Race you.”
He beat her easily, his long, powerful strokes slicing through the water. She was breathless and laughing when she caught up with him. “This is such fun.” She grinned. “I feel like a child on the mitch.”
“The mitch? What is that?” he asked, smiling back at her.
“Skipping class.”
“It’s so sad. We’re adults and something as natural as this makes us feel like naughty children.” He looked stern in the moonlight.
“I know; I can’t stand not being treated like an adult anymore. I can’t go on with this. Germaine chastised me today for having a stain on my habit. One of the kids knocked over my juice by accident. I’m a teacher, for God’s sake, not a mannequin!” Keelin exclaimed irately. “It’s a load of nonsense.”
Armand laughed. “ ‘Nonsense’! I love it. Could you imagine the RM and the bishop if we said that to them?”
“He’d have us excommunicated immediately and Germaine would have me packing so fast I wouldn’t have time to bless myself!” Keelin remarked, laughing.
“I love you,” Armand said, staring at her intently.
“I love you, too,” she said simply, smiling at him, utterly carefree and joyful.
He reached for her and drew her to him and under the African moon they kissed so tenderly and lovingly that Keelin knew with every atom of her being that she and Armand were meant for each other.
“Now it won’t be hard for me to leave the Church,” he murmured as they held each other tightly. “This feels so right. I thought I would be consumed with anxiety, guilt, and doubt, even shame. I feel none of these emotions. I simply feel happy.”
“Me too,” Keelin agreed with heartfelt empathy. “I think our theological discussions have made it much easier for us. Or it could be that I’m just not a very good nun.”
“You’re a great nun,” he assured her, kissing her neck and shoulder. “But I’m not the ideal priest.”
“You’re my ideal priest, Armand,” Keelin murmured. “So kind and compassionate and unjudgemental. You know the kids love you and so do your parishioners. You never scare them with talk of a wrathful God; you only talk about the love of God.”
Armand sighed. “The bishop told me off about that. He’s advised me that my sermons should focus more on the commandments and the severe consequences of breaking them.” He took her hand and they walked out of the sea to where their towels were laid. He wrapped her towel tenderly around her and set out their picnic. They devoured the cheese and bread, hungry after their swim, and then she lay her head against his damp chest, loving the sound of his heart beating so steadily beneath her cheek.
“This is paradise,” she murmured.
“Some would think that you and I will go to hell for committing this mortal sin of being happy in each other’s company.” Armand gave a wry smile, his arms tightening around her.
“I don’t think we’re committing sin. This feels so loving, so peaceful. In your arms, I feel I’ve come home,” Keelin said, stroking his jaw, which had a hint of bristly stubble.
“That’s exactly how I feel, Keelin. You have put it into the most perfect words!” Armand exclaimed, and they stared at each other in the darkness before they kissed with a passion that left them both breathless.
“I should go.” Armand drew away from her. “If I don’t, you know what will happen.”
“I want it to happen,” Keelin sighed, bereft, as they stood not touching.
“It will, when the time is right,” Armand promised her. “I am on my parish visits for three days; I’ll see you when I get back. Bonne nuit, chérie.” He kissed her chastely on the cheek and then he was gone, loping up the beach, disappearing into the darkness.
The loneliness Keelin felt watching him go was indescribable. Three days seemed such a long time when they had so much to talk about, and so much to plan. She tightened her towel around her and hurried back to the convent, alternating between moments of great joy and loss.
How her heart lifted when she saw him striding across the grounds to say Mass the following Sunday. The Monsignor was feeling poorly and Armand was taking his place. But once in the small chapel, with the Reverend Mother, her fellow Sisters, and the lay congregation, she felt a strange disquiet. Armand was about to say Mass and she would have to take communion from him. It seemed so hypocritical to pretend she was devout and demure when she was neither. Keelin knew she couldn’t do it.
“I feel a little dizzy. I have to leave,” she murmured to the nun beside her, who stood up to let her pass. As discreetly as possible she walked quietly down the side aisle as everyone stood to welcome Armand to the altar.
For form’s sake she should go to the infirmary, she supposed, and wait for Sister Frances. Reverend Mother would want to know why Keelin wasn’t at Mass.
“I think I have a migraine coming on; may I go to my room and lie down for an hour?” she said dolefully.
The nun took Keelin’s pulse. “Racing a bit. Show me your tongue,” Frances ordered. She was a wiry little Scottish woman who had worked in Africa all her life.
“It’s only a dizzy headache, Sister. A cool cloth and a dark room will help.”
“If it doesn’t clear, come back to me. And drink plenty of water,” her colleague instructed, and Keelin hurried along the arched corridor and crossed the courtyard to where her room was. She could hear the singing in the chapel, and tears came to her eyes.
* * *
By Friday of the next week, Keelin still hadn’t seen Armand. The Monsignor had recovered enough to say their daily Mass and Keelin went about
her duties heavy-hearted, wondering had she dreamed the encounter in the cove. She was angry with Armand that he wouldn’t make an effort to see her. Perhaps he was rethinking what had happened. Maybe he was overpowered by guilt.
She was sitting on the steps, reading aloud to her pupils as usual, when she saw him walk across the lawn with the Reverend Mother. He glanced in her direction and he seemed to be shaking his arms as if they were caught in his surplice and then she realised he was giving her a subtle sign. Swimming, that was it; Armand wanted to meet her at the cove. She nodded her head but barely glanced at him. Reverend Mother Germaine was as sharp as a tack.
The day seemed to go on forever, but Keelin put on her best façade while inwardly sizzling with impatience. She made herself lie on her bed after lights-out, so thankful that in this convent she didn’t have to share or sleep in a dormitory.
At ten-fifteen she was on the beach, wrapped in her towel, and Armand was waiting for her. He took her hand and led her to a small sheltered stretch of beach behind some rocks and wordlessly they kissed and caressed, holding each other tightly, whispering words of love.
“I want us to make love,” Keelin whispered.
“So do I,” Armand murmured against her ear. “But this will be the road of no return for us. Are you sure?”
“Very,” she said emphatically. “Are you?”
“Very,” he echoed smiling at her in the moonlight. “I found some condoms in my predecessor’s bedside locker. Perhaps he left them for me,” Armand said awkwardly. “You know some priests don’t keep their vows of celibacy.”
“Well, here’s one nun who won’t be keeping hers,” Keelin teased, touched by his embarrassment, drawing his head down to hers before sliding the top of her bathing suit down to her waist.
“I will have no shame with you, Armand. I give you my love and my body freely,” she whispered, placing one of his hands on the round curve of her breast and gasping with pleasure when his thumb caressed her hard nipple. He pressed her body close against him and she felt a wild and wanton surge of delight at his arousal. This was what her body was made for, Keelin thought, exhilarated, as they lay down together on his towel and brought each other to heights of pleasure neither of them could have imagined.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 17