Last Port of Call: The Queenstown Series

by Jean Grainger

  She played the scene she imagined unfolding in her home as she travelled south on the train. Her mother would call up the stairs for her to come down and help to get the breakfast on the table for her father and three brothers, who would have been up milking since five. There would be no sound, so she would call again, sharper the second time, muttering how good Molly had it lazing about in bed while everyone else in the family was hard at work.

  By seven o’clock her mother would march bad-temperedly up the stairs and burst into the bedroom. Molly was the only girl she knew with a bedroom of her own. It wasn’t because they were wealthy – well, they were strong farmers, milking a hundred cows on eighty acres, but not gentry or anything – but she had no sister so she got the small room under the eaves to herself while her brothers shared the big bedroom.

  Mammy would let out a roar that Molly was to get out of bed that minute and then she would see it. Or would she? Molly had put pillows in the bed, so maybe her mother would be in such a rush back down to the porridge and the boiled eggs that she wouldn’t go as far as the bed. They definitely knew by now. But hopefully it was too late.

  She’d prayed most of the way on the predawn four-mile walk to Limerick Junction. Not one person passed her by, but it was so early, it wasn’t that surprising. She prayed to the Virgin Mary to protect her, and to Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers, though she’d hardly be classed as a seasoned traveller, considering she had never once been outside of the parish in all of her eighteen years. She put her finger to the medal she’d bought the day she paid for her ticket. It was a beautiful gold St Christopher medal inscribed with the words ‘may you go in safety’. She needed all the divine assistance she could get, but perhaps it was wrong to seek help to break a commandment. The Fourth Commandment said to honour thy father and mother, and this vanishing act was the very opposite.

  Waiting on the platform at the station would have been too risky, as someone might recognise her, so she waited behind the goods shed until the train to Cork was due, then scurried out like a rat up a drainpipe – or at least she scurried as fast as her lumbering frame would allow – onto the train. She knew she could buy her ticket from the conductor.

  She would return the money she took from the housekeeping jar when she wrote to them, once she was far enough away, once she reached America. Though how, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she was planning gainful employment. She felt the familiar frisson of terror mixed with excitement. She was doing it. Not just talking about it, but actually doing it. She was leaving. She was doing the right thing, she knew it, but undoubtedly her family would not see it that way.

  Imagine if Father O’Rourke had never brought Sister Brid in to speak to them? Or if she’d been kept at home that day to thin turnips or save hay? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  She fought the feelings of guilt. Her mother and father had allowed her to remain at school for much longer than any of the other girls except for Agatha Gray, the doctor’s daughter, and Miriam Woolton, who was raised Catholic by her mother despite her Protestant father. Molly had begged to be allowed to stay on at school, and while Mammy wasn’t keen, she knew her daddy could refuse her nothing. Besides, there wasn’t exactly a queue of lads at the farmyard waiting to take her out with a view to marriage. She was allowed to stay and study for her exams, and she ignored the snorts of derision from her brothers, who’d all left at fourteen to farm at home. But she wanted to be a teacher, and leaving school wasn’t the way to achieve that.

  Daddy always stood up for her and gave out to the boys for teasing her, and she knew he was happy at how well she did in her tests. The Reverend Mother had even stopped her parents after Mass a few weeks ago to tell them they should be so proud of her, that she was so diligent and studious. Daddy had blushed beetroot red at that, muttering something non-committal; compliments were not easily received or distributed in Seamus O’Brien’s world. But she knew he was pleased as punch. Neither he nor her mother had had much schooling, so knowing his daughter was as smart as paint was a source of tremendous pride to him.

  Her father’s kind, careworn face swam before her eyes, and she blinked back a tear. He would be heartbroken. But he didn’t understand any more than Mammy or Finbarr Casey or Father O’Rourke did. It wasn’t that she was being difficult; she just couldn’t do as they commanded. She had no choice but to get away.

  Would she ever again see her home, that little village of Ballymichael, with one shop, one pub, a church, a convent and a primary school? It might mean nothing to someone passing through, but to her it had been her whole world. She walked from the farm to Mass every Sunday, and every day in Lent, and she had memories of the town from even before she went to school. The church was her favourite place, so peaceful, and as a girl she would often duck in after school or if she’d been sent on a message just to say a prayer or to be still and feel God’s presence. When her friends got older and became less interested in the liturgy and more interested in the boys that were loitering down the back of nine o’clock Mass, she’d felt profoundly sad. She loved everything about the Sacred Heart Church of Ballymichael, the beautiful altar, the smell of incense and polish, the sound of Miss Devine playing the organ in anticipation of the three Masses on Sunday morning. Sometimes if one were lucky they would hear the choir practising. The nuns had their own choir and the parish had another, both wonderful.

  Her whole life had been punctuated by the events of her faith. The four weeks of Advent, each one marked by the lighting of the candle on the Advent wreath as the entire parish prepared for the birth of Jesus, then Christmas itself and all that entailed – midnight Mass, the carols, the life-size crib in the corner of the church. Then Lent, in preparation for Easter, and Ash Wednesday, when the priest marked every forehead with ashes with the words, ‘Remember that thou art but dust and unto dust thou shalt return’. It had frightened her as a child, but her mother had explained that nobody she loved would be returning to dust for years and years and she need not worry about it. Palm Sunday brought the palms to be blessed, then Holy Thursday, and then the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday. The other girls in school would complain that during those days around Easter it felt like they were never out of the church, but Molly loved it all.

  One of her favourite feast days was Corpus Christi, right after Easter. The weather was usually nice and there was a procession through the town, the children spreading petals and the altar boys carrying the Blessed Sacrament under a canopy. The local confraternity band would play, and there was such an air of joy and reverence combined.

  She never knew why she had been slow to reveal her vocation. She’d foolishly assumed they all knew and took it for granted. Perhaps, if she’d been more forthcoming earlier, she wouldn’t be in this mess now.

  When the nuns at school talked about other religious people having a vocation, it was always something dramatic like a dream or a vision, or they were after doing a terrible thing and realised that they needed to repent and then dedicated their lives to God. But Molly didn’t have any of that. She just knew from as far back as she could remember. She knew it as sure as she knew the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening. She was going to be a nun.

  In first class, aged only seven, as the girls and boys were prepared for their first Holy Communion, she knew that one day, such days would be her life. Praying, meditating, working for the Lord – it was all she ever imagined she would do; nothing else ever entered her head.

  Her family knew she was devout. Her brothers had to be hunted up the road, complaining and giving out, to Mass every Sunday, and Daddy nearly murdered Kevin when he heard that he and the Casey twins were smoking in the churchyard instead of inside praying. Mammy was mortified as well, thinking the whole place was talking about them. But Kevin couldn’t give a hoot. Billy and Pius couldn’t either. They were just obsessed with farming and land and thought anything that distracted from that was a waste of time. Not that they’d dare say that out loud – there would be a
queue of people lining up to give them a hiding for such sinful thoughts – but she knew how they felt.

  The Caseys owned the farm beside theirs, and the twin boys, Finbarr and Con, were great pals with her brothers. They were nice lads, and good-looking, she supposed, average height and broad, with sandy hair and green eyes, but she never considered for one second that they would be anything but her brothers’ friends and neighbours.

  When the girls at school talked about going to dances, or liking this lad or that one, she never joined in. She knew they thought her a goody two shoes, but she couldn’t help it. She felt her faith in every cell of her body, and for her only one life was possible.

  She’d never said it outright, in their defence, but how could they not have known?

  She’d never forget the look on Mother Raphael’s face when she went to her two weeks ago to tell her about her desire to enter the convent and begin her postulancy. The school principal had looked shocked, then troubled. Molly had never had cause to be in her office throughout her time in the school for any reason, but now, instead of the warm welcome to the religious life she’d fantasised about, she was met instead with confusion and a furrowed brow.

  ‘I thought I might like to join the Ursulines because I would like to become a teacher. And while I’d be happy to remain in Ireland should the Order so wish it, I would also welcome the opportunity to work on the missions.’ Molly had progressed with her prepared speech, trying not to focus on the Reverend Mother’s face. She stopped talking then, and the silence was heavy and awkward.

  ‘And your parents, have they said anything about this?’ the Reverend Mother asked.

  Molly had always seen Mother Raphael as a benign force in the school. She wasn’t one for giving out slaps or admonishing anyone too harshly, though Deirdre Kelleher was sent to her for being cheeky to Sister Rosario and did come out in tears, so perhaps there was another side to her.

  ‘Er…no, Mother Raphael, I haven’t told them yet, but I’m sure they’ll be delighted…’ Molly had replied.

  ‘And have you been thinking about this for long, Molly?’ the nun asked kindly.

  ‘Well, I always knew, I think, but the day Sister Brid came in, when she was home from Boston, and she was talking about all the good work she and the other sisters are doing in America, that really made my mind up.’

  ‘I see,’ the Reverend Mother said, but the words seemed to mean more.

  That evening, on the Reverend Mother’s instructions, Molly waited until Kevin, Billy and Pius were outside pitching hay, taking advantage of the fine dry spell, and she caught her parents together and alone. Daddy was reading the paper beside the fire, enjoying a cup of tea and a slice of apple tart, his boots off and his stockinged feet crossed on the rug before the hearth, and Mammy, sitting opposite him on Nana’s old rocking chair, was pulling out her knitting.

  Her father grunted in displeasure as he read about the Home Rule Bill, and she knew she would need to pre-empt any tirade on the folly of the current political plan. Her father’s favourite topic of conversation was how it would be much better if fellas above in Dublin minded their own business and didn’t give their lives trying to change everything when it was working perfectly well. It wasn’t awful being ruled from England, and sure maybe the crowd in England were doing a better job of it than the hotheads in Dublin, demanding Irish sovereignty, could ever do.

  Pius and Billy were forever arguing with him over it. They loved the idea of Irish independence, but their father was having none of it. Mammy had banned the subject at the dinner table.

  ‘Mammy, Daddy, could I talk to you both about something?’ she began, feeling nervous.

  Looking back now, she must have known on some level that there was going to be a problem, but for the life of her then, she couldn’t imagine what it could be. Surely they would love the idea of a nun in the family? They were good people, they said the rosary every night, making the boys kneel down and say the responses properly, they never ate meat on Fridays, and they went to Mass every morning during Lent. Inside the front door was the St. Brigid’s cross Molly had made from the rushes growing in the bottom field; beside that was the dried palm from Palm Sunday. Her parents lived their faith properly and devoutly. Having a priest or a nun in the family was every Irish mother’s dream. The boys certainly showed no sign of interest in the priesthood, so all the more reason to be happy that she wanted to devote her life in that way. God knew, Mammy moaned often enough, how difficult it would be for them to find her a husband, looking as she did, so maybe her becoming a Bride of Christ would be weight off their minds. Maybe if they accepted she was going to be a nun, her mother would stop looking disapprovingly when she went for another potato and mashed a big blob of yellow butter into it, or poured cream and honey all over her morning porridge.

  Her mother put down her knitting, her face pale. Her father was engrossed in the paper, and his wife had to pull it down to get his attention.

  ‘What is it?’ her mother asked, looking worried.

  ‘I…’ She swallowed and tried to force a cheeriness she didn’t feel into her voice. Maybe God was making it difficult for her to test her vocation? If so, she would not let Him down. ‘I spoke to Mother Raphael today about wanting to enter the convent as a postulant, and she said I should talk to you both first.’

  Her parents exchanged a glance, and she knew instantly there was something they weren’t telling her. Her father threw another block of timber on the fire, the sparks flying up the chimney. It was summertime so not really cold, but there was always a fire in the hearth, all year round.

  Seamus O’Brien was a man of many words on the subject of politics, but when it came to his daughter, his only girl, he was dumbstruck. Molly watched her mother plead with him with her eyes, but he looked away, poking the fire instead.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Molly asked. ‘Surely you’d be happy?’

  Her mother inhaled, as if to speak, then opened her mouth and closed it again. ‘We would be, of course, and you’re a very good girl, never gave us a moment’s trouble, not like those three eejits out there.’ Her mother rolled her eyes and nodded in the direction of the yard, where her brothers were now kicking a football instead of working. Molly knew her mother adored her sons, but she was never done giving out about them all the same. She paused and Molly fought the need to urge her on.

  ‘And God knows you have great faith, so you do, never had to get you out of bed for Mass or a bit, always first up, and praying and the choir and all the rest of it. You’re a great girl, Molly, and we couldn’t have wished for better, sure we couldn’t. Seamus?’ Nora O’Brien made a face at her husband, one that said, ‘Help me out here.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a grand girl, right enough, never a minute’s trouble,’ Seamus concurred, and Molly wondered what on earth this had to do with anything. They were hiding something, but what?

  Her mother swallowed conspicuously and darted another glance at her husband. Realising he wasn’t going to help her, she spoke again. ‘It’s just that, well, we have some great news for you. We were not going to say anything until it was all finalised, but it’s as good as done now, so you might as well know. Your father and I were thinking, and… Well, it was Donal Casey actually suggested it, and it would be really good, you know, because our bottom ten acres are boggy, as you know, so the top would be much better. We wouldn’t rely so much on it. And with five boys between us to try to fend for… And we thought you might have trouble finding a man, but this is a perfect solution really…’

  Molly had no idea what her mother was going on about. She was wringing her hands on her apron and her face looked pinched. Her father continued to poke the fire.

  ‘And sure he’s a grand lad – there’s plenty would be delighted to have him. And sure you’d be right beside us here and it would be fine, and it would mean the boys could farm the land between them. There’d be enough for the two families. And then if Donal Casey buys the Quinlan place, and the widow has i
t promised to him, ’twould make a fine job of it altogether…’

  ‘What are you talking about, Mammy? Who is a grand lad? And what has Donal Casey’s or Mrs Quinlan’s farm got to do with me entering the convent?’ Molly had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Ah, Nora, we should have just said it outright,’ Seamus interjected. ‘Look, Molly, you’re to be married to Finbarr Casey when you finish school next month. The match will join our farm to his, and then he’ll buy the Quinlan’s, and between us we’ll have enough land to keep the Caseys and ourselves in work.’

  Molly could hardly formulate words. Her brain was refusing to cooperate and come up with an appropriate response. Before she could object, her mother spoke again, soothing this time.

  ‘I know it’s a bit of a shock when you had thought you might do something else. But sure you were only thinking of the convent because… And you’re a fine girl and we’re very fond of you, of course, but ’tisn’t every lad would like a girl so big and strong, but Finbarr Casey doesn’t mind a bit. He’s a grand boy and he always liked you growing up, and his father agreed to the match, so it’s great news really.’ She smiled, too brightly. ‘And we’ll go to Limerick and get you a lovely frock to wear and we’ll have a fine big spread on the day, invite everyone, and there’ll be cake and everything. And you’ll be the belle of the ball.’

  Molly shook her head and said quietly, ‘But, Mammy, I don’t want it. I don’t want to marry Finbarr Casey, or anyone.’

  ‘Ah, hush now, Molly. That’s only the surprise talking. You were wise to have a plan for fear the marriage thing didn’t work out, but now it has, and sure you’ll be all excited like any bride next month when it’s all arranged –’