by Anne Bennett
Lizzie was flabbergasted by the resourcefulness of her brother. ‘Johnnie, you are amazing!’
‘You have to have something to return to,’ Johnnie said simply, ‘and Violet played her part in this too, and now that’s sorted I think you had better read the rest of the letters.’
There were two letters from Steve, the first mildly annoyed that she hadn’t written to him for weeks and the second furiously angry.
You seem to have forgotten your duty as a wife, residing as you are in the bosom of your family in Ireland, while I am living daily with mud and blood, death and destruction, without as much as a wee note to say I’m even in your thoughts.
I think it’s now time for you to come home. You’ve dallied there quite long enough and your place is in Birmingham, looking after the house. With Neil called up, there’s no one to see to it. I expect your immediate return. It isn’t as if there’s any danger from bombs any more. Mom says it’s as safe as houses.
‘He was all for me to come here,’ Lizzie said. ‘And now he wants me home. Flo put him up to it.’
‘Maybe, but it’s a long time with no letters or contact of any kind.’
‘What could I do?’ Lizzie cried. ‘I wanted to send Niamh a card for her First Holy Communion and Sister Jude took pleasure in telling me the postmistress would think it funny to get a letter from Sligo.’
‘Thank God that in a city like Birmingham no one would care where a letter came from.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Look, Lizzie, we’ve had weeks to think of a plan,’ Johnnie said. ‘Or at least I have, because for the first fortnight or so, the time the first letters arrived, Mammy and Daddy refused to see there was a problem at all, never mind think up a solution. They’re hell-bent on keeping your pregnancy a secret, and couldn’t see that if something wasn’t done it was going to be blown wide apart.’
‘Johnnie, d’you believe the account of what happened to me?’
‘With all my heart and soul.’
‘Why? I know Mammy and Daddy doubt me, and Father Brady. And as for them here…’
‘You are my big sister, Lizzie, and I’ve never known you tell a lie for one thing,’ Johnnie said simply. ‘Tressa believes you too. She collared me one day and asked me point blank where you were and I told her. She’d written to the house and got no reply and was worried stiff. She was surprised you didn’t tell her everything when you arrived, but I told her you thought Mammy ought to be the first to know and that after you did that you were lifted from the house faster than the speed of light. Anyway, she knows now, so maybe you can write a wee note to her too.
‘As for the nuns, it wouldn’t suit their purpose to believe you, and when all is said and done they hardly know you. They’re all colluding anyway. I had to almost threaten the priest before he’d give me the address of this place. Mind you, I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t want to be running coach tours out to this bloody prison, would you?’
‘Oh Johnnie,’ Lizzie said. ‘I can’t remember when I last smiled.’
‘Well, all that will change, I promise,’ Johnnie said. ‘But for now I have with me paper, stamps and envelopes. I want you to write to Niamh and wee Tom. Tell them you’ve been ill, caught whatever Flo was supposed to have.’
‘But Johnnie.’
‘“But Johnnie” nothing. I haven’t been idle since you’ve been here. When I wrote to Violet I told how things were and she’s agreed to post the letters to the children from there. You can write to her too, and tell her everything so far. She seems a good friend.’
‘The best,’ Lizzie said. ‘Oh, Johnnie, you’re so good to me. It’s grand to have you here, like Christmas, but have you a magic formula for Steve and his mother?’
‘The only magic formula for that Flo is a tight gag around her mouth and her hands tied behind her back so that she can’t write or spew abuse at anyone,’ Johnnie said. ‘But since we can’t do that, this is what I would suggest. Stick with the illness. Say you were sick and then say that Mammy finds it hard coping with the two weans now that school has broken up for the summer and you feel you should stay and give her a hand and spend some time with the children too, especially as Tom is starting school in Ballintra in September. Say you’ll be home when you’ve settled him in. I’ll post those from home.’
‘D’you think it will work?’
‘It’s better than doing nothing,’ Johnnie said. ‘As for Steve, unless he has leave, and let’s pray to God he doesn’t, he can’t check for himself and I don’t think his mother will. So all they can do is write and make demands and castigate you, and judging by the general tone of your mother-in-law’s letters, you’re well used to that.’
‘Oh, I am,’ Lizzie said. ‘You’re right of course. It is far better than saying nothing. And Johnnie, will you come again?’
‘Aye,’ Johnnie said. ‘This will be ongoing now, for I’ll have to bring you the replies. I think it would be better if I come every fortnight until you’ve had the baby and can come out of this place.’
‘Oh, Johnnie, you don’t know what this means to me.’
‘Don’t cry. Please, Lizzie, don’t.’
‘I’m crying because I’m happy,’ Lizzie said. ‘Happy and relieved.’
As Johnnie put an arm around his sister he dislodged the cap, and when he saw the front of her hair was shorn he pulled out the kirby grips and removed the rest of it gently. Then he just stared at the brown stubble, appalled.
‘Why?’ he said simply.
Lizzie tossed her head and replaced the hat, knowing she’d be in trouble if she was spotted without it, ‘There’s no place for vanity here,’ she said. ‘That’s what they say.’
‘God! It’s inhuman!’
Lizzie was tempted then to tell him everything, but she resisted. What could he do but fret, and if he spoke out about it and made waves while she was still here, things might be worse for her. If, for example, she was spirited away into some asylum, maybe even the influence of a brother wouldn’t be enough to effect her release, and that didn’t bear thinking about. So she shrugged as nonchalantly as she could and said, ‘You get used to it after a while, and every one of us is the same.’
‘Oh God, Lizzie,’ Johnnie said. ‘I’m sure Daddy and Mammy didn’t know it would be like this.’
But even as Johnnie spoke the words, he doubted it would have made any difference to the outcome if they had known. The secrecy, to protect their selfrespect and standing in the community, seemed to be all they cared about. In their heart of hearts, Johnnie knew they blamed Lizzie, even if they believed her; and he thought his mammy did believe her, but she still blamed her, as if she could help a violent attack and rape. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured Lizzie, ‘I’ll come for you when it’s over.’
‘I can’t go home. Daddy and Mammy won’t let me,’ Lizzie said.
Johnnie hadn’t known this, but Lizzie went on, ‘I don’t mind. Well, I’d like to see the children, especially as I’ll want nothing to do with this child. I’ll go back to Birmingham to the house and Steve, if he survives this war.’
‘Write your letters now.’ Johnnie said, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘I’ll go outside and walk around a wee while. This place is making me feel claustrophobic.’
Lizzie watched him go, this youngest brother, the one she’d helped rear, the one she’d played with and protected as well as she was able, and her heart was full of love for him; love and gratitude.
When Lizzie returned to the laundry she was the subject of speculation—silent of course, but many had glimpsed Johnnie walking the grounds as they worked in the laundry, the doors open because of the heat, or took washing in and hung out more. Celia mouthed to Lizzie as they worked at the sink. ‘Who?’
Lizzie glanced across at Sister Carmel, but she was bent over some intricate embroidery and she mouthed back, ‘My brother.’
She saw the look of envy flood over Celia’s face and could well understand it, for Celia had no brother taking any sort of interest
in her.
And Johnnie’s influence went further. That night, being Saturday, was bath time, and as usual as they filed before the nuns naked to have their hair cropped. Sister Maria said almost mockingly, ‘Your brother has asked for your hair not to be cut any more. He is to take charge of you afterwards and says it will be difficult for you to take up the threads of life again marked in such a way.’
Her lip curled, and Lizzie knew that she didn’t think any of these girls should ever be forgiven for whatever reason they were in this place; that they should never have a chance to start to live in the world again as if they were part of the human race. But she was to have that chance, and just the fact that her hair was no longer to be clipped close to her scalp gave her an absurd lift. She was still three months from the birth: three months when she would see Johnnie regularly and her hair would grow again and would curl and shine like a beacon towards her freedom.
Yet she knew in all other ways she had to continue to toe the line. Johnnie could do little to alter the day-to-day regime, and if she were to complain at all and he was to tell Sister Jude, it might be worse for her afterwards. Anyway, she didn’t want to spoil his visits by carping and moaning about things he could do nothing about. She would ask about news from the farmhouse and about the children and her parents and Tressa.
The second time he came, as he spoke of these things, tears ran down Lizzie’s face. Not for herself, for she knew in that moment she was possibly the most privileged woman in that whole convent, but she cried for the other girls, trapped and hopeless, those with no future at all. Johnnie seemed to understand her need to cry and he didn’t urge her to stop, but clasped her tight in his arms until she was calmer.
The letters became easier to write, though Flo still grumbled. Steve, once it was explained to nim, could see that Lizzie would miss the children and quite understood that the two at home all day could be a handful for Lizzie’s mother. If the situations had been reversed, much as he loved her, he couldn’t see his mother taking full control of two boisterous children. It was odd to think of wee Tom nearly old enough to go to school. It would all be strange to him, Steve guessed, and he’d want one of his own there beside him. He wrote and told Lizzie to stay where she was for the time being.
His understanding made Lizzie feel worse in a way. It wasn’t her fault, she knew, but she had betrayed Steve. He was her husband and yet she carried another man’s seed in her womb. ‘I’ll make it up to him when this is all over,’ she promised herself. ‘I’ll be a model wife. I’ll not complain if he drinks too much or even if he stays out all night a time or two. It will probably take me a lifetime to make it up to him.’
The children’s letters she found easier to write. She told them about life in Birmingham, relying on memory and the snippets Violet spoke about, and tried to make them funny. Niamh’s replies often reduced her to tears, and also the kisses Tom made on the bottom of the letters. She longed to see them and hold them and was heart-sore that it would be some time before she could do that.
By September, Johnnie had made three visits. After each one, always on Saturdays, the nuns taunted and mocked her, but their scorn didn’t touch her, for Johnnie, a real-life flesh-and-blood brother, would hold her tight and kiss her cheek as he left. ‘I wish I had a brother like him,’ Celia had said more than once, ‘or an uncle. Anyone to take an interest in me.’
‘I’m sorry, Celia,’ Lizzie said, and she was sorry. ‘I wish I could help.’
‘Och, I know you do, and I know too you can do nothing. Jesus Christ, you have troubles enough of your own. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be grand.’
But it was hard not to worry when later Lizzie would often hear the muffled sniffles coming from Celia’s bed and know she was crying. She didn’t get out to comfort her, for Celia had no need of sympathetic words or pats on the back; she wanted a way out of that hell-hole and Lizzie was unable to help her there.
But despite Johnnie’s visits, as her pregnancy progressed she was finding the work hard-going, especially as the heat was prodigious. So one day, just after Johnnie’s visit and just before the bell for tea when she was asked to take the vestments across to the sacristy, she was glad to be out of the heat and steam of the laundry, even for a short time. Celia was going with her and as they walked along the corridors, their arms laden with vestments, Celia said, ‘God, my clothes are sticking to me.’
‘And mine. I’ll be glad of the bath tonight.’
‘The bath’s all right. It’s the nuns, poking and prodding and making fun of us, I can’t stand.’
‘Aye, and if you cry like Queenie did last week, it’s worse for you.’
‘Aye. Still, it can’t stay as hot as this for too much longer. It’s September now, it’s got to cool down eventually.’
‘Then we’ll be complaining of the cold, no doubt. We’re never satisfied,’ Celia said, and then went on, ‘Everything all right at home?’
‘Aye, so Johnnie says. Tom starts school next week, and I’ve told him in the letter I’ll be thinking of him. Mammy has bought him the copy books and jotters an’ all, and he’s had new clothes and a brand-new pair of boots now he’s almost a schoolboy.’
There was a catch in Lizzie’s voice and Celia said gently, ‘You’ll see them before too long, Lizzie, and you can make it up to them.’
Lizzie struggled to control herself. She knew this day would come with Tom, so why was she making such a fuss? Hadn’t she the best outlook of anyone there? And here she was accepting sympathy from Celia, who’d change places with her tomorrow. ‘I know that,’ she told her. ‘It was a momentary pang, that’s all.’
‘Atta girl,’ Celia said, and they laughed together, but gently, lest any of the nuns hear.
Father Conroy was in the sacristy writing something at the desk and surprised both girls. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Celia said. ‘We’ve brought over the vestments. Sorry to disturb you.’
The priest looked up. He barely saw Celia. His eyes were drawn to Lizzie. The curls had now grown a little and wouldn’t fit snugly into her cap. Tendrils framed her face and these were set aglow by the slanting September sunlight coming through the window.
The priest watched the girls as they busied about the small room, hanging some garments and folding others into drawers in the chest, and he felt his innards grip him so tight he bit his lip to prevent a cry escaping him.
She looked, he thought, like one of the cherubs, and yet she was alive with sin. It must be writhing inside her, for she was a harlot and whore or she’d not be in this place. One who enjoyed sex and gave herself freely to men, any man. Oh, they came with their stories of innocence, of rape and all, but he knew what these women were, flaunting themselves, even before him, a priest.
He felt a stirring in his loins that he’d fought and prayed to control for months, but this girl was so affecting that he could feel his penis getting harder by the minute. The two girls had finished. He could let them go, and no one would be any the wiser. He’d cope. God, he’d done it before. But at the door the girl smiled at him and he knew he was lost.
He got up from the desk. ‘Go on now,’ he said to Celia, ‘but not you, my dear.’ And he put his hand on Lizzie’s arm as he spoke. ‘It’s time you and I had a little chat.’
Until then, Lizzie had had no feeling of alarm. She didn’t disbelieve the things Celia had said about the priest, but he’d done or said nothing untoward to her and so she’d pushed it to the back of her mind and thought, in a way, her advanced pregnancy protected her.
She saw the priest’s brow glisten with sweat and the fingers holding her arm tremble slightly.
Her startled eyes met those of Celia’s. ‘You poor sod,’ Celia’s eyes said, almost as if she had spoken the words, and the roof of Lizzie’s mouth felt suddenly very dry.
Celia closed the door behind her and the priest released his hold. Lizzie told herself to act normally. ‘What is it, Father?’ she asked, and her dry mouth made her voice husky. ‘What do you want
?’
The priest was mesmerised. First the smile and then the husky voice. The girl was coming on to him, gagging for it most likely. And Lizzie saw the look on the priest’s face and every nerve in her body urged her to run from the place, whatever the consequences later. But, as if the priest knew of her intention, he was in front of her, blocking her way to the door. He turned the key in the lock and smiled. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he urged, and Lizzie, not knowing what else to do, sat on the edge of her seat and the priest sat opposite her, the other side of the desk. He mopped his face with a large handkerchief and tried to control his breathing.
‘What do I want, you ask?’ he said. ‘It’s what anyone wants, what you want too, for you’ve shown me as much.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Father.’
‘You do know what I am talking about,’ the priest said contemptuously. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. You are a whore, up for it at any time, night or day.’
The priest looked at her and thought it sacrilegious to look so soulful when she was so sinful. Girls such as this one needed no consideration, no respect, for they had none for themselves.
‘No, Father.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘I’m not like that, Father.’
‘What sort of girl are you then?’ the priest said mockingly. ‘One who’s pregnant, but wears a wedding ring. Did your husband send you here?’
‘No, Father. We lived in England then and he’s in the army overseas.’
‘And you opened your legs for another,’ the priest said, his breath coming in short pants. ‘How many men? Did they pay well?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Oh, you gave it them free, did you?’
‘No, Father.’ With horror, Lizzie saw the priest’s hands were between his legs, rubbing himself, and her mouth filled with sour-tasting saliva. She must make the priest see what sort of woman she was. She must stop this nonsense.
