About Matilda

by Bill Walsh

  On the third day I’m like Jesus. I’ve risen up from the basement to the laundry itself. The old woman, whose name I now know is Mary, is sent with me to the pressing and folding room. There are three other old women here ironing sheets and they smile when they see me, and I smile back. Great metal pressers along the wall hiss clouds of dry white steam around them and they spend all day pressing sheets and wiping their foreheads with hands wrinkled from years of water and steam.

  At the break, I sit on the step with Mary sipping her tea from the little cup and holding the saucer on her lap, frightened in case she spills any. Across from us is a building with yellow brick around the windows where the old women live. It’s between the chapel and the penguins’ mansion and Mary shows me her window on the third floor where she looks out at the laundry and the stone wall. She knows me from the chapel and asks about my family, because she’s missed seeing Mona and Sheamie and Pippa in mass. It’s sad I spent all those years nervous of the old women, and nice Mary knows who I am. I tell her about my mother and how I haven’t seen her since I was four. Mary stares at the wall without talking and her tiny brown eyes seem sad and far away. She looks around to make sure Madeline isn’t near, then tells me in her voice that’s almost a whisper that long ago she met a boy and got in trouble. She doesn’t say what kind of trouble but looks at me to see if I understand. I give a look back that I do and I see how easily it happens – you don’t have to talk when you do the same thing with the same people all your life and never hear or see anything else.

  When Mary is happy that I understand, she tells me how her family sent her to the nuns to have her baby and she could never go home because of the sin and the shame of it, so she’s been living with the nuns and doing the laundry since she was a young girl, and I know by the way she can press and fold sheets without looking she’s been here a very long time. She ran away once and slept in a ditch, but the gardaí found her and brought her back. The nuns locked her in her room for weeks and I can’t help wondering what was so wrong about what she did.

  I look at her beside me on the step, her thin grey hair, her face wrinkled, her old eyes turned downward, scared of everything and everyone. I try to take away the wrinkles and the hump from her shoulder and see her as a young girl in love, but I can’t. I want to ask about her baby. Was it a boy or girl? Does she miss never seeing it again? About her boyfriend, what did he look like? Were they in love? Did he ever come looking for her? Did she ever see her family again? Or even if she’d like to leave here? But I know by the lines of washing on her wrinkled cheeks, all Mary knows now is the linen and the starch and how many folds go in a double sheet.

  *

  In the morning Gabriel tells me Reverend Mother needs help and, when Gabriel says Reverend Mother needs help, you don’t ask what kind of help then decide if you want to do it. You go straight across to the penguins’ mansion and knock on the door of Reverend Mother’s office and when she’s good and ready to come out you say, Sister Gabriel said you need help, Reverend Mother. And that’s all there is to it.

  Reverend Mother locks her office door from the great bunch of keys around her waist. I’m not as scared of her now as I was when I was young but she still manages to make me feel small. I follow the swish of her starched white skirts up the grand stairway to the nuns’ cells. That’s what they call their rooms. Cells. It makes them feel they’re suffering.

  The cells are small. Small enough for a single bed and a single wardrobe. Reverend Mother tells me the nuns are starting retreat for two weeks. Start in the morning, a spring clean. All thirty cells.

  Yes, Reverend Mother.

  I start early. Take the heavy drapes from the windows, the sheets from the beds, carry them downstairs and leave them at the door. I get on my two knees to polish the floors till I can see my face. I clean the windows, frames, ledges and sills. I wax the dressing table. The days go quickly, but November mornings can be dark and I don’t like it in the penguins’ mansion on my own. They have the best of everything but the living rooms are big and hollow and even my own footsteps seem to creep up behind me when I walk down the corridor past the dead nuns staring at me from the wall in their brown wooden frames.

  In one of the cells, in a drawer of the bedside chest, there’s a photograph of a young red-faced girl with bushy black eyebrows and braces on her teeth. She’s standing on a railway platform with a man wearing a sad face and a soft hat, and there’s an embroidered handkerchief in his top pocket. There’s a bundle of letters tied in a bow with pink string and another photograph of the same girl in a habit. I never imagined Gabriel being anything but a nun. I never imagined her with a family of her own. Her photograph makes me curious. I always wondered what I’d look like in a habit. You can’t help it when you live in a convent. Sometimes I look at Gabriel and I wonder if the habit makes her how she is. Her uniform shows she’s a Soldier of Christ. Is that all she is? What happened to the girl in the photograph? You’d think I’d know her after all these years. You’d think I could sit and talk to her. Sometimes I think I know Gabriel, then other times I can’t figure her out at all. How vows come first. Maybe it’s like Sonny would say, maybe she’s doing her best.

  There’s a habit in the wardrobe I could try. It’s one of the older ones that come right down to the floor. I take it out and leave it on the bed; that way if someone comes in I can say it was in my way cleaning inside the wardrobe. There’s a girdle in the drawer and a bra so big that, if I catch one end, I’d have to stand on the bed before the other strap cleared the floor and the cups are so huge Mona and Pippa together wouldn’t fill them. I’ll try that on first. No one will come in. The nuns won’t leave the chapel when they’re on retreat but I’ll peek outside, just in case. The corridor is empty, only the dead nuns staring at me from wooden frames.

  I have to wrap the bra straps around me twice. Maybe if I try the pink girdle it’ll fit better. There’s a pair of frilly pink bloomers. Might as well keep going.

  I get everything on and look in the mirror. The skirts are bunched on the floor, my hands have vanished inside the wide black sleeves and my face is lost inside the crooked veil, yet for some reason I feel strange. The room seems peaceful and holy. The habit is heavy, responsible. You could see yourself running around trying to save souls, tearing off to Africa and countries all over the world.

  How simple everything would be if I became a nun. I’d have no father tormenting me, no worries about how I’ll live when I leave. I’d be taken out of the Mad School. Danny would be certain of a good job; the nuns would see to that. I’m just going to see what the habit looks like from behind when I hear the clank of keys. I stop and listen but there’s only that peaceful silence. I imagined it. No, I didn’t, there it is again. The door opens and the crackle of white skirts is gliding towards me looking an awful lot like Reverend Mother. It has me by the neck, down the stairs and in her office before I’m certain it is Reverend Mother. She stands me in the corner beside the filing cabinet while we wait for Gabriel. There’s a painting over the mantelpiece of a nun in a habit from olden times. There’s a plaque on the picture frame telling you she’s the Founder. She has a face that would crack eggs. I can feel her black eyes on me and all I want is for a slit to open in the carpet so I can slide down into it.

  Gabriel is here flicking snowflakes from her shoulders. One minute she’s staring at me like she’s trying to be certain it really is me in the habit. She peeks, blinks, peeks a little closer, then turns her face to the wall. Reverend Mother’s face is a flame. She barks at Gabriel, Is this how you’re rearing your children, Sister? Will you just look at this specimen?

  Then she turns on me. What have you to say for yourself, rooting through Sister’s drawers?

  I wasn’t at her drawers, Reverend Mother.

  You were.

  I was at her bloomers.

  She springs from her chair holding the stick over her head warning me, Don’t you be cheeky with me.

  I wasn’t cheeky, Reverend Moth
er, honest. I ah, I just wanted to, ah…

  Stop blabbering. Stop looking to Sister Gabriel. She can’t help you now.

  I was thinking about becoming a nun. And I wanted to see what I’d look like in a habit.

  Gabriel lets out a scream and collapses against the table holding her hand over her mouth. Reverend Mother tells her, Compose yourself, Sister Gabriel. Compose yourself. Perhaps this child has had the call. She sits down again and she’s nearly smiling at me while she wonders if I’ve had the call. I look at Gabriel and she looks back as if to say, You’re the one who said it. I can feel the Founder’s eyes all over me. Like I’m being measured for a habit. Reverend Mother spreads her hands on the desk.

  Well, child, have you received the call?

  I didn’t hear a voice now, Reverend Mother, if that’s what you mean.

  You wouldn’t. That would be the Carmelites. She smiles, telling me what wonderful times lie ahead. I look over at Gabriel again. She’s looking straight ahead but I know her ear is cocked and loaded underneath the veil.

  Did you get the call, Reverend Mother?

  Of course, Matilda.

  Matilda? She never called me Matilda before. What the hell’s going on here?

  The Lord called me when I was eleven. I’m surprised it’s been so late in your case. But, it seems God has chosen you, Matilda. You will take your vows here with us. Do you know the most important vow, Matilda?

  Ah, keepin’ away from men?

  Reverend Mother gasps and falls back in her chair clutching her throat. Out the corner of my eye I see Gabriel’s hand going up to her face. I don’t know what to do. I try folding my arms but the sleeves of the habit are longer than my arms and they flop like flippers. I feel like a fuckin’ seal.

  Reverend Mother composes herself and sits forward in her chair and knits her fingers together under her chin.

  Tell me, how old are you now, Matilda?

  Fifteen, Reverend Mother.

  She stares right at me and I turn my eyes down to the table.

  The Lord moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, surely. The most important vow, Matilda, is the vow of obedience.

  You mean do what I’m told?

  At all times.

  Even if I think something is wrong?

  Especially if you think something is wrong. That’s why it’s called obedience. Don’t worry about it now, it will all become clear in time. But, tell me, did you find yourself being drawn, Matilda?

  Drawn, Reverend Mother?

  Like a thirsty man crawling through the desert is drawn to water?

  All the time she’s talking, she’s closing her open palm, slowly, carefully making a fist. It’s as if she’s crushing a flower.

  That’s it, Reverend Mother. I was drawn.

  Towards God, Matilda?

  Towards the wardrobe, Reverend Mother.

  Reverend Mother bangs her fist on the table so hard the typewriter clacks. She moves books, papers, pens, rosary beads around her desk and finally lifts the Bible, ready to throw at me, till she realizes what she has in her hand. Now she’s screaming at me to leave that habit and veil on her desk. She never saw such a sacrilegious act. Now, here I am standing in bra and girdle and pink bloomers and that’s more than she can take. She tells Gabriel she wants my case packed. That girl will be on her way to Cork within the hour. I’ll make the arrangements personally.

  Gabriel’s face is redder than I’ve ever seen it. Her mouth tightens and her eyes narrow and she stares hard at Reverend Mother. She puts her arm around my shoulder and walks me to the door and tells me to wait outside.

  What about the bloomers, Mother?

  Later, Matilda.

  I’m out in the corridor in the pink bloomers, where passing nuns lift their eyebrows and cup their hands over their mouths before slipping into a side room each one telling the other, Wait till I tell you what I’m after seeing outside in the corridor, Sister. Every time the door opens I see them rocking back and forth on the sofa, tears running from their eyes. Helpless with the laughter.

  Through the window I see Sister Rose in the garden burning weeds and twigs. Raised voices come from behind Reverend Mother’s closed door, but I don’t know what they’re saying. I don’t even have time to worry. Gabriel comes out and closes the door gently. She stands in front of me like a woman who’s just gotten something off her mind.

  What’s happening, Mother?

  Nothing, Matilda. Nothing at all.

  Will I come back in the morning, Mother?

  Do. But for God’s sake, Matilda, try leaving things alone.

  I look up at her and smile. All right, Mother.

  There’s a smile on Gabriel’s lips because, this time when I called her Mother, she knows I meant it.

  She cradles my face in her warm hands and kisses my forehead. She puts her arms around me and hugs me tight. I hug her back and it feels right. I feel like I imagine any girl with a mother would feel. I know Gabriel isn’t my real mother but right now that doesn’t matter. She’s the only mother I’ve known, and for that I love her.

  Later, I go to my room and take the blue poncho from my locker and walk over to the nuns’ garden. The garden is like a Christmas card, snow on the tree branches and the windowsills. Sister Rose has gone inside but the bonfire is going strong and the heat dries the tears on my cheeks.

  I leave the poncho burning on the flames, and walk away.

  20

  I’ve never been this scared walking through the wicket gate. I’m in a world I know nothing about. Cars seem to pass quicker than before. They honk their horns and screech their tyres when I cross the road with my empty suitcase. People on the pavement hurry past with their umbrellas up. They stare at me, walking along with the suitcase over my head, trying to keep dry. Their eyes say it all. You don’t belong out here. Go back where you belong.

  Sister Kathleen is the matron in St Mary’s Hospital. My hands tremble knocking on her office door, while an old man with a walking frame shuffles down the corridor. The nurse beside him tries to hurry him.

  Come along, Brendan. We don’t have all day.

  The old man shuffles over to me. Where’s your ticket? Who left you in here?

  The nurse tells me to take no notice and rolls her eyeballs under her eyelids as she leads the old man away by the elbow.

  That girl should have a ticket. This place is gone to rack and ruin.

  It is, Brendan. Now come along, there’s a good man.

  Matron calls me into her office. It’s a strange office, but then it’s a strange hospital. It’s small and gloomy with just a crack of light through the yellow Venetian blinds and smells of old leather shoes. I expect to see Humphrey Bogart sitting there in a hat, smoking a cigarette and calling me Punk. There’s a picture of Jesus hanging on the wall, his heart pumping red and his head tilted to the side so you pity his sad face. Sister Kathleen is sitting behind the desk in a navy uniform. Her eyes dart from me to the empty suitcase.

  I hope you appreciate the opportunity we’ve given you. I’ve told Sister Gabriel I’ll take you for the summer. On trial, so to speak. If you work out I’ll consider making you permanent.

  Yes, Sister. Sorry, Sister. I mean Matron, Sister.

  You are sixteen, I take it?

  I am, Matron.

  I don’t know what to do with the suitcase. Leave it down or hold on to it. If I leave it down she’ll know it’s empty and think I’m a right oddball walking around with an empty suitcase and send me back to the convent for being demented.

  I hang on to it and lean a little to one side and put on a painful face as if the thing weighs a ton and hope she doesn’t ask me to leave it down or say, Oh, that suitcase looks terribly heavy, give it to me. Then what would I do?

  You start at seven and finish at four. Under no circumstance bring anything from outside to any patient. It’s a rule.

  Yes, Matron. Already there’re rules. I should have known.

  Wages are paid on Thursday. Fifty pou
nds a week, less ten for your keep.

  Thank you, Matron.

  What size are you?

  Five feet seven.

  I meant your clothes.

  Sorry, Matron. Size eight.

  She hands me a blue smock from the drawer under her desk that she tells me belonged to the girl had the job before me. Another hand-me-down.

  Change it in the laundry for a clean one every Tuesday.

  Yes, Matron.

  You’re a religious girl. You say your rosary every day, do you?

  I did in the convent, Matron.

  Just because you’re out here with the rest of us is no reason to change. Now come with me.

  I follow her flat white shoes moving quickly up the corridor. Her arse is wide in the navy uniform and the cheeks sway from side to side but she walks straight and swings her arms like a soldier and moves as silently as the tick of the silver watch pinned to her breast pocket. She leads me to an old dormitory in the attic. Another dormitory. I should have known that too.

  The room smells of stale cigarettes. It has five iron beds along the wall and it’s just bright enough to see mine in the far corner, where the roof slopes to meet the wall. There’s a girl sleeping in the first bed but the others are all made, white, neat and tidy. Matron tells me to unpack; I can have the rest of the day to myself. Start in the morning.

  The mattress is thin and the bed squawks when I sit down and I get such a fright I jump up, so the sleeping girl won’t wake up roaring abuse and what the hell do I think I’m doing causing a racket at this hour?