The Liberation of Brigid Dunne

by Patricia Scanlan

  It was after their second time that Armand realised the condom had burst. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered, horrified. “Oh, Keelin, I pray I have not made you pregnant.”

  Satiated, euphoric, Keelin nestled against his broad chest, loving the roughness of the dark patch of hair against her cheek. “If I was to have your baby I would think it the greatest gift I was ever given,” Keelin said tenderly, knowing that there was no going back for her now. Once the first of January came, she was renouncing the veil and taking her place in the world again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Keelin realised that she was pregnant days before Christmas. Her period was late, she felt constantly nauseous, and her boobs were sore. She knew she was pregnant. So much for her grandiose notions of a baby being her greatest gift, she thought in utter dismay. Yes, it would be wonderful to be expecting a child if she and Armand were laypeople and married, but they were nun and priest, without a penny between them. She raged at the unfairness of it all. She and Armand had only made love twice. Now what was she going to do? Where was she going to go? An unmarried mother and ex-nun hadn’t many prospects.

  The next morning at Lauds, she felt overcome with nausea and had to leave the chapel. Later, after breakfast, Mère Germaine accosted her on her way to class. “Soeur Michael, I’m concerned. This is the second time you’ve had to leave the chapel during prayers. You’re looking pale. I think we should have the doctor take a look at you.”

  “The second time?” Keelin said, confused, and horrified that the Reverend Mother was taking a keen interest in her health.

  “One Sunday at Mass,” came the stern response. Reverend Mother Germaine was an excellent administrator, but she’d no warmth, nor empathy.

  “Oh yes, I forgot that,” Keelin said, flustered, remembering her alleged “dizzy” spell. “I’m fine, Reverend Mother,” she said brightly. “I… eh… think I ate too much fruit yesterday and it had an effect on me this morning. I suffered a migraine episode that Sunday,” she fibbed weakly, wilting under her Superior’s laser-like stare.

  “Moderation in all things is advisable, even eating fruit, Soeur Michael. Remember that!” came the cold response before the Reverend Mother swept down the corridor, robes fluttering in the breeze.

  Keelin felt herself break out in a cold sweat and nearly puked on the spot. No one ever wanted an eagle-eyed Reverend Mother’s keen attention. She least of all in her present predicament.

  Armand had been visiting the outlying parishes some hundreds of miles away, so she couldn’t tell him the news. Her constant queasiness made her more forlorn, but she tried her best for the sake of her pupils to pretend to be excited and happy about their forthcoming Nativity play.

  Oh, the irony of it, she thought that Christmas Eve when young Lelia, who was playing the part of the Virgin Mary, discreetly pulled the baby doll from under the manger and placed it on the straw, signifying the birth of Jesus. If only it were that simple and that painless. Ibraham, who was playing Saint Joseph, stood proudly beside Lelia, beaming at the audience, the epitome of a proud father.

  Keelin saw Armand enter quietly and stand at the back of the chapel and her heart twisted with anxiety. She would have to try to tell him her news tonight at the Christmas Eve party, but there would be no opportunity to talk for long. He would have to mingle with the parents and children and the other nuns, as she would.

  * * *

  “Bonne nuit,” Armand murmured, coming to stand beside her at the buffet a while later. Keelin kept her head down and placed a slice of mango on her plate, although her throat was so constricted she felt she could hardly eat.

  “Oíche mhaith,” she said, trying to ignore her Reverend Mother’s sharp-eyed stare. Keelin had been teaching Armand Irish, so she added, “Nollaig shona dhuit,” to wish him a happy Christmas.

  One of the children tripped over another and a plate smashed in pieces. There were squawks of dismay and flurries to get the broken pieces off the floor, and while Mère’s and everyone else’s attention was elsewhere she whispered urgently. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Mon Dieu!” he uttered, his face turning ashen.

  For one awful moment she thought he was going to abandon her and leave her to endure the future alone and then she heard him say, “I am with you. We will face this together,” before someone came to claim his attention.

  * * *

  Later, at midnight Mass, she tried not to look at Armand as he concelebrated with the Monsignor. His lean jaw was tight and tense, and she knew he was in turmoil. If only he had been hearing confessions earlier there would have been some time to talk privately, but it had been the Monsignor who had been in the confessional and she’d said nothing about no longer being celibate.

  Keelin tried to sing the old, familiar hymns, but the memories of home that they evoked tugged at her heart and she wondered how her parents would react to the news that she was carrying a child and would be leaving the religious life. Her father would hear the news with stoic acceptance; her mother would be furious. Imelda would take a long time to forgive this transgression, Keelin knew.

  * * *

  The morning after Christmas Day she excused herself from breakfast and narrowly made it to the toilet in time to be sick. Afterwards she leaned her head against the cool marble tiles and waited for her stomach to settle. She splashed water on her face, dried it, and opened the bathroom door to find Reverend Mother Germaine outside. “Please follow me to my office,” she instructed coldly, and swept ahead of Keelin, who followed with an enormous sense of dread.

  “Sit please.” The Reverend Mother pointed imperiously to a wicker chair in front of her desk. Keelin did as she was bid. The other nun remained standing, staring at her with cold, hooded grey eyes.

  “Are you pregnant, Soeur? Is this the reason for your morning sickness, pallor, and lack of appetite?”

  Keelin’s heart thumped. She could deny it, but what was the point?

  “Yes,” she said calmly. “I wish to leave the Order and renounce the veil.”

  “Who is the father?” the Reverend Mother asked grimly.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I demand to know!” Germaine’s eyes were flashing with anger at being spoken to with such a lack of respect.

  Keelin stood up. “Reverend Mother, with respect, that is my business, not yours.”

  “Go to your room and pray and return to this office at eleven a.m. I need to contact the Mother House. I should have sent you back to Nigeria when they wanted to recall you for your novitiate, but I argued to keep you here for another six months because you’re a good teacher. What a fool I was. Get out of my sight,” Germaine dismissed her, puce with temper.

  It’s done now, thought Keelin, feeling strangely liberated, lying on her bed, overcome by weariness. She yawned and closed her eyes, her hands slipping down to her belly, hardly able to believe that she was pregnant. Her eyes drooped. She slept.

  A loud rapping on the door woke her and she sat up hastily, not knowing where she was. Flashes of memory filtered into her consciousness. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was eleven-fifteen. She was late for her meeting.

  She opened the door to find Reverend Mother Germaine standing there. “I do not appreciate being kept waiting, Soeur. Pack your case, please. You’re leaving immediately.” She handed Keelin her suitcase.

  “Leaving! Now? Where am I going?” Keelin was shocked.

  “Ismael will drive you to the convent in Abidjan. From there, you will be put on a flight to France. Please hurry. Your sinful presence dishonours our convent,” Germaine added viciously.

  “Wait a minute, Reverend Mother,” she protested. “I’ve people I wish to say goodbye to, my friends, my colleagues, the—”

  “You are allowed to speak to no one. Pack!” Reverend Mother Germaine hissed, the nostrils on her sharp, aquiline nose flaring. “Be ready in ten minutes.” She turned on her heel and stalked wrathfully along the corridor.

  Keelin was stunned. “
Horrible bitch,” she muttered, closing the door. Although she didn’t have a lot to pack, her hands shook as she folded her habits and nightwear and few small personal items and books that she owned. She hadn’t expected instant dismissal and so swift a return to France. Would the Mother General in Paris be as unforgiving as her subordinate in San-Pédro? What was to become of her? Keelin’s stomach knotted in anxiety. Was there any way she could contact Armand to let him know what was going on?

  She wasn’t a prisoner! But she’d no money, not even enough to phone her father to get him to wire some to her.

  Ten minutes later, to the second, Germaine knocked peremptorily on the door. Keelin picked up her suitcase and with her head held high marched past her Reverend Mother. Because it was the Christmas holidays, the usual hustle and bustle was absent. No children in classrooms. No patients in the small clinic on the compound. The convent was silent, none of her colleagues walking hither and yon as they normally would on a busy weekday. She heard laughter from the common room where some of the Sisters were relaxing. She would miss the friends she’d made, and she’d miss her beloved pupils. A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She wouldn’t let Germaine see her distress. She had some pride.

  The young Ivoirian driver was waiting on the wide front step and he took her case and put it in the boot of the car. “Drive directly to the convent with Soeur Michael, please, Ismael,” Germaine instructed. “I’ve left instructions that you be fed and rested before you make your return journey. I will see you anon.” She glanced at Keelin. “You have let your God, your Order, me, our community, your pupils, and yourself down.”

  “And you don’t have one ounce of Christian charity, and that is your shame!” Keelin retorted, and felt some satisfaction when she saw the nun flush crimson with anger.

  Ismael’s jaw dropped, his brown eyes darting from one to the other. He couldn’t believe a nun had just cheeked Mère Germaine. Keelin walked around to the passenger side of the car, got in, and stared straight ahead. When they drove through the wrought-iron gates, she never looked back.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “You cannot stay here in Paris for the remainder of your pregnancy. You understand that we have a duty to our postulants and novices. You would be a bad example to them, Soeur Michael,” Mother General Perpetua said in her soft voice that was, nevertheless, steely firm.

  “Where can I go?” Keelin asked wearily. She was exhausted after the long, bumpy flight from Abidjan.

  “I’m arranging for you to be sent to a mother-and-baby home in Cork. They will also arrange for the adoption of your baby. As you have not taken final vows, you will be leaving our Order. Your family will have to assume responsibility for you.” The Mother General looked at her appraisingly. “I’m sure you would like to rest after your journey. You will be taken to guest quarters; please remain there. Your meals will be brought to you and you will be collected for your flight home tomorrow, when the arrangements are made.”

  “I’m not to contaminate the community with direct contact, is that it?” Keelin said bitterly.

  “Something like that, yes, if you wish me to be blunt.” The nun did not dodge the question.

  “I’d like to make a phone call to my parents and my aunt Brigid, please,” Keelin said firmly.

  “Very well. You may use my phone. I will provide Mère Brigid’s number for you, or do you have it?”

  “No, Mère,” Keelin said.

  “Dial zero for the receptionist and ask her to put you through.” She flicked through a Rolodex on her desk and wrote the number on a notelet.

  “I’d like to speak to my relatives privately,” Keelin said politely.

  “Ten minutes,” Perpetua instructed, sweeping out of the room.

  Keelin swallowed hard when she finally heard her aunt’s voice on the crackly line. “Auntie Brigid, Mère, it’s me, Keelin. I’ve something to tell you: I’m pregnant.”

  “Oh Lord, Keelin.” Brigid couldn’t hide her shock. “You weren’t raped, dear, were you?” The dismay and anxiety in her aunt’s voice almost brought Keelin to tears.

  “No, Mère. Nothing like that. It was consensual. With a man I love and who loves me,” she assured her aunt.

  “Well, that is something to be thankful for, I suppose. Who is this man, may I ask?”

  “His name is Armand. He’s”—now that she had to tell her aunt she found it awkward— “he’s a priest,” she murmured.

  “A priest!” Keelin cringed at the shock and dismay in her aunt’s voice. “He’ll never leave for you. I know that. I’ve seen it too often out there!” Brigid exclaimed.

  “He was going to leave anyway, before he met me,” Keelin said, almost in tears.

  “Ah, they all say that,” Brigid sighed. “Have you told Germaine?”

  “Oh yes, she knows. I’m actually in Paris—she got rid of me the moment she heard,” Keelin said bitterly. “And the Mother General has said I can’t stay here or in any convent. She’s sending me to a mother-and-baby home in Cork, and she told me the family have to take responsibility for me. I can imagine Mam’s reaction to that!” she said despondently.

  “You are not going to any mother-and-child home, Keelin; I can tell you that right now,” Brigid said grimly. “Leave it with me. I’ll ring Perpetua myself. I’ll phone you back, dear,” she assured her niece.

  “Can you give it ten minutes? I’m in her office. I’ve to ring Mam and tell her. I wanted to ring you first. I’ll ring you back when I’ve spoken to her.”

  “Keelin, I hate to say this, but be prepared for your mother’s wrath. I don’t think Imelda will take your news well,” Brigid said matter-of-factly. “And perhaps don’t tell her yet that the baby’s father is a priest. She has a dislike of them.”

  “I know that. It will be bad enough telling her I’m pregnant—then again, she might surprise us…,” Keelin said hesitantly.

  “She might indeed,” Brigid replied with false optimism. “I’ll talk to you after you’ve spoken to Imelda.”

  “Thanks so much, Mère.” Keelin hung up the phone. Her aunt’s concerns about Armand leaving the priesthood for her had shaken her to her core. Brigid had been on the Missions for years. She knew what went on. She was far more of a realist than Keelin had ever been. With trembling fingers she dialled the international code for home and followed it with the telephone number she knew so well.

  Keelin felt a knot of apprehension. She hoped her father might be home from work to take the call. She longed to hear his comforting, reassuring voice and feel his arms around her. Then she needed to find a way to contact Armand.

  She had to know what his intentions were towards her and their child. Everything had happened so quickly since her confrontation with Germaine.

  Keelin’s heart sank when she heard her mother’s, “Hello.”

  “Hi, Mam, it’s me.” She didn’t even bother to put on a cheery façade.

  “Keelin! My goodness, I wasn’t expecting a phone call from Africa. How are you? Is something up? You wouldn’t be ringing home otherwise,” Imelda asked immediately.

  No flies on her mother, Keelin thought ruefully. “Actually, I’m not phoning from the Ivory Coast; I’m in Paris.”

  “Paris! What on earth are you doing there? You’re not sick or anything, are you?” Her mother, picking up on the despondency in Keelin’s tone, was instantly alert.

  “I’m pregnant and I’m coming home tomorrow. I was wondering if you’d collect me from the airport?” Keelin said, figuring it might be good for her mother to have twenty-four hours’ notice so that she could be over the shock before they met face-to-face.

  “What!”

  “I’m pregnant,” Keelin repeated dully.

  “Was it your own doing?”

  “Yes!” Keelin sighed, imagining Imelda with pursed lips and narrowed eyes standing in the hall at home.

  “I knew nothing good would come from you entering the convent. I said it. I said it would end in tears and no one
would listen to me,” Imelda ranted. “You won’t be coming home here in that state. I’m telling you that straightaway. Pregnant! And you a nun! How could you, Keelin? Have I not got enough to put up with, without this? I won’t have disgrace brought on the good name of the family. I’m not going to be standing in the shop having the gossips in the town talking about you. Absolutely not. You go to your aunt and let her look after you. It’s all her fault that you went traipsing off to Africa. Let her deal with it, Keelin, because I’m not having anything to do with it.” Imelda slammed down the phone, leaving Keelin staring at the handset, tears sliding down her cheeks.

  * * *

  “Mère Brigid, I was expecting to hear from you.” The soft, birdlike tones of Mother General Perpetua came down the line. Perpetua might be tiny and birdlike, but she’d a will of iron and ruled the Order with a steely determination that bordered on tyranny.

  Summoning all the courage she had, although inwardly she was quaking, Brigid said coolly, “I’ve just spoken to my niece.”

  “Ah yes, Soeur Michael. Very unfortunate indeed. Luckily, she hasn’t taken her final vows. That would be an even greater disgrace.”

  “And it would be our disgrace, Mère Perpetua, if she was put on the street. Her mother won’t let her come home. She has nowhere to go.”

  “She’s not a professed nun. She can leave at any time,” Perpetua said icily.

  “Nevertheless, she’s a nun of our Order and in our Order she will stay until she decides what to do after her baby is born.”