About Matilda

by Bill Walsh

  I get to my pew. I can move God a little with the tip of my tongue. God is loose enough to get my tongue under but He’s going to touch my teeth. Just a little, but a little is enough, now there’s a mortal sin on my soul but I can’t say it in confession because I can’t tell Father Devlin, I know you’re trying to poison me with the host.

  Things are worse. I have to get God out before he melts. I’m not supposed to touch it with my hand but what can I do? I glance around to make sure nobody is watching. Everyone is kneeling, heads bowed. I think Holly is outside someplace. The organ has stopped playing. I cover my mouth and spit God into my hand and make a fist around it and there’s two mortal sins on my soul but I burn for eternity with one so one more doesn’t really matter.

  Now what do I do? I can’t drop God on the floor because the penguins will find Him and they’ll get the bishop up to bless and lick the floor and there’ll be no end to the masses, rosaries, benedictions, retreats and penance begging forgiveness for the Body of Christ being left on the floor where anyone can walk on it and carry it on their shoe. I’ll put it in my pocket and do something later, only nobody ever said what to do with God when He’s in your pocket. I kneel to pray but I feel like a sinner. I’ve got two mortal sins and I haven’t even left the chapel. Maybe I should pray but I don’t know how to ask God how to get his body out of my pocket and anyway I don’t think God listens to someone with two mortal sins and then tells them how to commit a third.

  After mass the men in white coats come to take Holly away. Holly screaming, Mouse! The men whispering, Shush.

  A week later I still don’t know what to do with all these Bodies of Christ I’m collecting every morning. I can’t ask Mona. Not with the way she comes down to breakfast every morning with a face like a wet week telling anyone who’ll listen she’s on withdrawal.

  A big girl at the table says, That don’t work, Mona. Me older sister tried that and now she has twins.

  Sheamie has his problems too. He says he’s owed a fortune in the boys’ school but the boys up there haven’t a tosser between them. He should have more than fifty pounds saved by now but he’s only got six pounds fifty pence and, to make things worse, the headmaster is suspicious.

  Gabriel brings our group in the mini-bus to see Holly in the Red Brick. That’s what everyone calls the asylum. The Red Brick. There’s never room in the mini-bus for everyone. No matter how much we squeeze there’s always someone’s foot buried in someone else’s jaw. We can see Gabriel’s bushy black eyebrows in the rear-view mirror when she shouts from the front seat.

  Quiet back there, into your seats.

  I can’t, Mother. Molly Driscoll’s fat fuckin’ arse is taking up the whole place.

  Who said that? Who’s swearing back there?

  Nobody.

  Is that you swearing, Pippa Kelly?

  Pippa ducks down on the floor and hides among our legs.

  No, Mother, it wasn’t me.

  I want to hear it no more. I’m talking to all of you.

  Yes, Mother.

  There’s an empty seat behind Gabriel but nobody dares sit there. That’s Reverend Mother’s seat. Pippa says, The aul cow, she wouldn’t let the Pope sit on her precious seat.

  The corridor in the asylum is white. The walls are white the doors are white the ceilings are white the nurses are in white the doctors are in white Holly is in white and the two men holding her up by the arms are in white. If you weren’t already insane coming in here you’d go insane from looking at white.

  The two men let Holly’s arms go and she drops to her knees and babbles like an idiot. We stand and watch her crawl around on her hands and knees. Some girls giggle behind their hands, others stare with their mouths open.

  Now, says Gabriel, let Holly be an example to all of you.

  Sheamie says, An example of what, Mother?

  Never you mind, Sheamie Kelly.

  I won’t, says Sheamie.

  Don’t backchat me, Sheamie Kelly.

  I won’t, says Sheamie.

  I won’t tell you again.

  That’s good, says Sheamie.

  The men in white coats start to laugh. Gabriel’s red face turns redder than ever but even Gabriel will think twice before she’ll take on Sheamie when there’s anyone around. She can’t win unless she clobbers him and nuns won’t hit you when there’s anyone around.

  Sheamie’s right. I don’t know why Gabriel brought us here but I’m glad she did because now I know Holly isn’t poisoned. She’s gone mental and there’s nothing new about that.

  But it doesn’t solve my problem. I’m still stuck with loads of hosts in my pocket. It’s washday tomorrow and if Gabriel finds out there’ll be war. One host on the floor is bad enough. But pocketsful?

  I know Gabriel won’t look in my pockets. Maybe I’ll just say nothing but then they’d just come back next week, only cleaner. No matter where I leave them someone is bound to find them. There’s only one place.

  Someone is hammering at the door.

  I’m comin’. Give me a minute.

  I never saw hosts going down the toilet before and they don’t seem to want to go down either because they keep bobbing back and I don’t know what I’d do if the penguins heard the Body of Christ is bobbing around the toilet bowl.

  The door is coming off the hinges and I know it’s Mickey Driscoll looking for a wank.

  Fuck off, Mickey. I’m busy.

  Ah, Jasus, Matilda, I’m burstin’.

  Ask Pippa.

  She’s not home from school yet.

  I don’t know what to do. Mickey won’t leave and the hosts won’t flush. I don’t mind giving any of the boys a wank. Most of the girls do it for them. It’s not like kissing or anything. There’re a hundred girls and only ten boys and they always stand up for us if we get in a fight with kids from the outside. I can do it under the breakfast table with one hand while I’m shaking the ketchup bottle with the other. Boys are quicker than ketchup.

  What are you doin’ in there, Matilda?

  Never mind, Mickey. Go away.

  Ah, come on, Matilda. Please.

  I open the door and Mickey hobbles in with his trousers already around his ankles. I close the door behind him and fire in loads of toilet paper in the toilet bowl, and pray.

  Jesus, says Mickey.

  Good guess.

  The toilet is finished flushing but I’m frightened to look. I don’t want to see Christ clambering up the bowl wearing the white toilet seat as a halo telling me he’s suffered enough for the sins of the world and do you realize what you’re doing to that boy is a mortal sin?

  One quick look, the toilet bowl is empty. Mickey’s empty. God’s gone. Mickey pulls up his trousers and we’re out the door and up the corridor just as Gabriel and Doyler are coming round the corner. One big, one small – like Laurel and Hardy.

  And where are you two coming from? says Gabriel.

  The chapel, Mother.

  Praying, I hope?

  He was on his knees, Mother.

  Oh, really. That makes a pleasant change for you, Mickey.

  Sure, I’m doing so much praying, Mother, I don’t know whether I’m comin’ or goin’.

  Sheamie is outside in the playground and he waves me across to tell me the principal of the boys’ school has been to see Reverend Mother. He complained there were boys in the school walking around like zombies. The tablets are stopped. I need a new plan, Matilda.

  10

  I’m eleven. I’m standing at my bedroom window looking down at the empty playground wondering if I should help Sheamie escape. He’ll never find our mother and I’ll end up losing a brother as well and I’ll never have a family. The sky is black. No moon, no stars. The air smells of rain and thunder snarls in the distance. The playground light is on and there’s enough light to make out the tin roof of the green sheds and the long shadow of the swings stretched along the ground. My father didn’t visit this summer and I don’t know how I feel about that. I just know I feel
as lost as I did when I first came here.

  Somehow, I expect to see my mother coming around the corner. I open the window to the cold September breeze and look down. Sometimes I really see her there smiling up at me and I can’t help wondering what it would be like. Would we be strangers or be as if she was never gone? I never let myself think about it for long though. Maybe that’s why I’m scared of helping Sheamie. It scares me she wouldn’t know me, or wouldn’t want me. In my dream I just see her coming to take us home because then I’d know for sure she wanted us. We’d have a house with a chimney and at Christmas I’d pretend I was a child again waiting for Santa. I’d make myself believe in him, just so I’d know what it feels like to try and sleep so the hours will pass quickly but wanting to run downstairs with every toss and turn to see if he’d been. I have it planned. Everything will be simple. We’ll have a house on stilts. A sitting room with a glowing fire and a big white shaggy dog called Spot wagging his tail on the rug. He’d roll over when he’d see me and lie at the end of my bed at night to keep me safe. Maybe she’ll come tomorrow.

  Gabriel comes in carrying a new grey uniform and tells me I’m starting a new school tomorrow.

  Why? Where?

  Never mind why or where.

  But… Mother…

  But nothing. Come away from that window and take that mournful look off your gob. If God sees you with an expression like that he’ll make you wear it for ever. Say your prayers, thank God for your blessings, and go to bed. Goodnight, Matilda.

  Oh, goodnight.

  What?

  Goodnight, Mother.

  In the morning Gabriel drives me in the mini-bus to this new school on the Mall. It’s sunny, just a little cold, and I’d rather walk but Gabriel says she needs to speak to the principal, Sister Joan. This must be her flapping down the corridor toward us like a big black mother hen.

  The two nuns whisper to each other in the corner. There’s a girl in a wheelchair coming down the corridor and I wonder is she lost? She stops halfway and turns into a classroom and the corridor is empty again. Sister Joan comes bearning over and when she talks she clucks like a hen too.

  Oh, Matilda, how delighted I am to have you here. Sister Gabriel has explained everything, but don’t worry. I’m certain you’ll be excellent now you are here with us. I’m putting you in classroom five. It’s the last door on your left at the end of the corridor. Miss Brown is your teacher. Do you know your left from your right yet, Matilda?

  Of course I do.

  That’s a great start. Remarkable. You can go on up on your own so, while I finish here with Sister Gabriel.

  When I walk in I want to die. Miss Brown is standing by the window playing an iron triangle. She tells me to come in and close the door. Instead, I turn and run back the way I came. Some of them are in wheelchairs. A boy in the front row has twisted hands and can’t wipe the snot that trickles. Some have little bodies and big heads or mouths with thick lips and make gaga noises from the sides of their heads because that’s where their mouths are.

  I search the corridor for Gabriel, but it’s empty. I’m goin’ to puke. I try to find a bathroom. I feel tears coming but I have to hold them too because if I let go I’ll be sick right here on this empty wheelchair. I run to the front door and bang at the glass to Gabriel as she’s driving away. The red lights at the back of the bus come on. I pull at the front door but it’s locked. I bang at the glass again but Gabriel drives on; she only stopped to roll up the window. I run again. I find a door but it’s a closet with sweeping brushes and a mop in a plastic bucket. I bend over and hold on to my stomach and run again until I find the bathroom door across from the stairs. I close the cubicle door and pull the clasp across. I throw up in the toilet bowl and sit on the floor wiping the tears from my cheeks. My father must be right. I must be stupid. Why else would they send me here?

  Sister Joan comes in. I know it’s her because I can see her black skirts under the cubicle door.

  Are you in there, Matilda? You’re not being sick?

  No, Sister Joan.

  I hear her at the sink washing her hands and humming to herself and I wish she’d go but she raps on the door again.

  Don’t be long now. Miss Brown will wonder where you are.

  Coming, Sister.

  I’m afraid to look in the mirror above the sink. Afraid I’ll look like them. My hands shake and my knuckles are white when I turn on the taps. I look up a little. I see the grey V-neck of the jumper, the grey tie. I’m wearing them but I don’t belong in them. They belong to them. The Mad People.

  I wash my mouth out under the tap. The water is cool and takes away the stench of puke. I know I have to look at my face now or I never will again. I look in the basin, white and hollow. The black plug on a silver chain. The plug-hole, where everything washes away and I can believe it never happened. I wash my face and with the water still in my hands I look up. I see my hair on my shoulders. It’s black. It’s mine. I see my chin, small and dripping wet. My small mouth. My eyes, blue, just like my mother’s. That’s me in the mirror but there’s something missing. This is the worst thing that ever happened to me. Worse than my mother leaving. Worse than our grandmother turning her back on us and being sent to the convent. I can’t hide this. I can’t say this isn’t real. Not when it’s staring me in the face.

  I go home to the convent and tell Doyler. She turns to the sink and says it’s out of her hands. She wouldn’t have any say. Gabriel waves me away and says I’m going and that’s all there is. You go where you’re told. Your father is in full agreement.

  What’s my father got to do with it?

  She doesn’t answer.

  No matter what I say they won’t answer so I stop talking to them altogether.

  I pray to every statue in the convent. St Joseph. St Theresa, the Little Flower, St Bridget, the Madonna, Our Lady of Knock, Our Lady of Lourdes, Our Lady of Fatima, Our Lady of the Rosary. I go to the chapel and pray to Jesus suffering up there on the cross for the sins of the world. But the statues aren’t listening.

  I do what my father says. I stand in the playground looking up to Heaven talking directly to God. I climb the wall to the nuns’ garden and talk to the trees and the plants till I realize if I’m seen I’ll be carted off to the asylum where I’ll go insane from looking at white. None of it matters. God’s not listening.

  I’m ashamed of the grey uniform. I smuggle my own clothes out in my schoolbag and change in the toilets under the chestnut trees before I go out on the road, then change back to the grey uniform when I get to the Mad School. I sneak to school through back lanes hiding in doorways and behind parked cars so nobody will see me and report me for not wearing a uniform or, worse, figure out I’m hiding it in my schoolbag because I’m a retard, a spa.

  I won’t do anything for them in Mad School. I won’t sing their songs or listen to their stupid triangles. I’ll cause so much trouble they’ll kick me out and I’ll be sent back to my old school. I sit behind Mad Michael in the wheelchair eating his snot from the back of his hands and I stick pins in him because it’s the Mad People’s fault. If they weren’t born then there wouldn’t be a Mad School.

  I can cut him like two pieces of a jigsaw with the pin. I start behind his right ear then go down in a straight line to the knuckle at the top of his spine. Then keeping just to the left until I’m halfway down his back then out in a half circle to the cheek of his arse. It’s a waste of time. I could stick pins in him till I’m an old woman of thirty. He never fuckin’ budges.

  Miss Brown struts around the classroom with her model walk and her infant teacher’s voice wanting everyone to play triangles.

  Listen to the triangle, boys and girls. Listen to the different sounds, everyone. And how many sounds did you hear, Matilda?

  None. I’m deaf.

  Now, now, Matilda, we know you’re not deaf.

  What?

  Matilda doesn’t want to play today. All right, Matilda. Maybe tomorrow?

  I feel like t
elling her to shove her triangle up the highest part of her hole but that wouldn’t help either. They’d say I was being disruptive, part of my condition. Condition. That’s how they talk in a Mad School.

  Doyler comes up to my bedroom looking over her shoulder to make sure Gabriel isn’t behind her. She sits on the bed with me and asks why won’t I talk? She stares at my lips so she’ll understand everything I say, but I won’t talk to her.

  It’s a terrible thing what’s been done to you, Matilda. That father of yours coming in here complaining about your education every chance he gets hasn’t helped. Reverend Mother rang to tell him your bad results and he agreed you needed help.

  What results?

  With Mister O’Donovan.

  The fella with the purple head and the bricks?

  That’s him. I’m trying my best to get you out of that place but I have to do it quietly. Try and put up with it for now.

  I can’t, they’re all screwballs in there.

  I’ll talk to Gabriel again. Maybe she’ll talk to Reverend Mother. God knows, I can’t. No matter what I say she’ll do the opposite.

  How come you stay here, then, Doyler? Why don’t you just piss off? I would.

  It’s my job.

  You could get a proper job. Like in a hairdressin’ place.

  Hairdressing? What would I know about hairdressing, Matilda?

  That’s the first sensible thing Doyler’s said and I have to straighten up to look at her. Now we’re staring at each other like we’re both deaf.

  But that’s what you are, Doyler. A hairdresser. Isn’t it?

  What on God’s earth gave you that idea? I’m a social worker.

  Doyler puts her arm around my waist and I put my arm around her shoulder and it’s a strange feeling sitting beside a grown-up smaller than you. We both start to laugh and for a little while I feel better. I don’t even know why we’re laughing. I ask Doyler what a social worker is and she falls back on the bed rocking and laughing like a woman gone insane and stays like that for five minutes till she can’t laugh anymore because of the pain in her back. She sits up, dries her eyes with a corner of the bed blanket and holds her hand to the pain.