Sister Agatha
Page 3
At two on the dot, Pádraig arrived, although he appeared visibly nervous, something that only made him all the more endearing to Butsy.
“Hi,” he said, his voice quivering, his lips trembling.
“Hello, Pádraig,” she replied with absolute confidence, though, inwardly, she quaked in her newly-cleaned gumboots.
However, before their exchange could go any further than mere pleasantries, a roar that was on par with one of the cows giving birth was heard from the end of the lane.
“Pádraig! I want you home this minute!”
Butsy’s admirer froze to the spot, a look of abject terror hijacking his angelic face.
“Coming, Mother!” he immediately replied, and without even so much as a by-your-leave, Pádraig was gone, leaving young Miss Miller extremely disappointed, but still very much bewitched.
That evening, as Butsy cleared away the dinner plates, Mr Miller noticed his daughter was a little distracted; even though he had seen Pádraig fleeing from the farm earlier in the day, he was yet to make the connection. It was only when Mrs Miller explained the situation to him that night as she cut his toenails that the penny finally dropped for him.
While he admired his wife’s penchant for romance, Mr Miller also found it dangerous to encourage such a courtship. The whole county of Meath knew that Mrs Ita Keogh was something of a harridan, and it was guaranteed that she would put the kibosh on any dalliance between her only son and an impoverished farmer’s daughter. (Ironically, Mrs Keogh had a battalion of spinster daughters who were often confused with some of the animals they kept on their farm and, as such, the matriarch was finding it next to impossible to relieve herself of her seven burdens.)
“What do you want me to say to her: You’re not good enough, Butsy?” Mrs Miller demanded to know, waving the scissors a little too closely to the poor man’s face.
“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it’s not. You always twist my words!”
“Listen to you!” Mrs Miller continued. “Listen to how ruffled you are. Is it because your girlfriend has gone to Navan for the week?”
“Mrs Keane is not my girlfriend and, for the hundredth time, I wasn’t giving her the wrong impression by throwing a few extra eggs into her order!”
In the end, the pair agreed that it was important for their only child to learn the ways of the world on her own, even if that meant standing by and watching her pick up the pieces of her broken heart from the floor.
They also decided that there would be no extra eggs thrown into anyone’s basket in the future.
* * *
After returning to the convent, Sister Agatha crept up to her cell where she sat alone for about an hour, stupefied by the day’s tragic turn of events. She caught her reflection in the paltry mirror that hung on the wall, and while her face boasted more lines than some rock star’s bedside locker, she still felt sturdy and strapping, and far from being in extremis.
She replayed Doctor McManus’ words over and over again, each time hoping that she might have been mistaken somehow. But there seemed to be only one way that “Ye could give her a week, but I think it’s best to put her out of her misery straight away” could be interpreted. Yes, there was no doubt about it: after one hundred and eighteen years, she was finally being asked to leave the dance floor.
In the convent, Sister Agatha was affectionately known as the Dustbin, such was her willingness to polish off the leftovers that loitered about the other sisters’ plates. (“Where does she put it?” was the question that was asked every other day.) Having uncharacteristically missed lunch, a concerned Sister Josephine popped her head into the cell to ensure that all was well.
“But, it was your favourite—tomato, orange and lentil soup!” the culinary virtuoso argued, unable to accept that this food lover had suddenly lost her appetite.
Sister Agatha admitted that today’s menu would normally leave her taste buds doing a céile dance, but today she just didn’t have the stomach for it.
“I’m a little tired after my visit to Doctor McManus, Sister,” she confessed, but when her words appeared to leave her dear friend concerned and in a tizzy, Sister Agatha changed tack.
“Besides, summer is fast approaching, and I want to look as presentable as possible when walking the length and breadth of Bettystown beach in my new swimwear!”
“Is that a fact?” Sister Josephine replied, and even though she wasn’t entirely convinced by what she heard, she was desperate to continue watching last night’s episode of Ros na Rún on the TG4 Player, and so bade farewell and fled.
The brief exchange forced Sister Agatha to ruminate on the importance of keeping up her energy—at least until she found a remedy to the problem at hand. Seeing as tomatoes and oranges were ripe with Vitamin C—the perfect thing to invigorate her tired and frail body—she vowed to grab herself a bowl later on.
As her gaze wandered around the space, Sister Agatha noted, and not for the first time, how amusing it was that she slept in a cell just like a common criminal—although, over the years, there were fleeting moments where she felt as if she were carrying out a life-long sentence. Being a messenger of God was not for the fainthearted, that was for sure. But it seemed that a faint heart was exactly what she now possessed.
As of today, Sister Agatha enjoyed the status of being the fifth-oldest person in the world. She had been the recipient of much praise over the past number of years on account of her extraordinary longevity, but few people realised that the only kind words the nun was willing to embrace were those she received when standing proudly on top of that figurative podium, clutching onto gold.
To some, becoming the world’s oldest person might have seemed like a ridiculous ambition to hold, but this gal was hell-bent on realising it, and while she didn’t want to offend her Maker, she couldn’t help but get frustrated. Just as she entered the home straight, it now appeared she might stumble at the final hurdle. No epitaph ever read: Here lies the remains of the world’s fifth oldest person. No, the history books only mentioned your name if you were the best—not fifth best.
Sister Agatha reached over to the wooden locker that was, along with the mirror, her lumpy bed and simple wardrobe, the only piece of furniture in her cell. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a collection of newspaper cutouts, and with delicate precision she laid the clippings out in front of her. Some were from Tunisia; some, America; some, Poland; while others, Italy. These various articles all made reference to the only four people older than Sister Agatha.
Since she had made her decision to become the world’s most aged person, the nun had developed a fascination with her four rivals—the convent’s makeshift library, along with its barely functioning computer, became a home away from home for her. (“Isn’t this WWW lark an absolute marvel?” she repeatedly said to herself.)
Sister Agatha had become obsessed, discovering who they were; where they were from; what their long lives were like. Most importantly, she continuously wondered who was most likely to shed their mortal coils first—but by the look of the photographs that accompanied the most recent pieces, it was evident that none of them had just been told by their equivalent of Doctor McManus that their health was going the way of the Roman Empire. They weren’t leaving anytime soon, she deduced—not in the next week at least.
Her busy mind then raced ahead to her impending passing, and she started conjuring up vivid pictures of her funeral and burial. Irish people were known for the hijinks that took place at their wakes, where drinks ran free, and tongues even more so. Except, that wouldn’t be the case in approximately one week’s time—or one hour’s time, if that wretched Doctor McManus had his way. The final goodbyes for members of the Order of Saint Aloysius were private and unfussy affairs—a few prayers, a few hymns, a few sods of earth on the coffin lid, then business as usual. Unable to rein in her morbid pessimism, Sister Agatha even suspected that neither The Meath Chronicle nor LMFM radio station would give a nod to her extraordinary lifespan.
No, everybody wanted to be top of the pops, and none more so than Sister Agatha.
As she returned her gaze to the clippings, a mischievous idea manifested within her mind but she dismissed it almost immediately: it was too sensational; too ridiculous; too impossible.
Or was it?
* * *
On the first day of May every year, the festival of Bealtaine took place to mark the beginning of summer, a time when the cattle were driven out to stretch their legs and have a spot of fun in the pastures. As a way of protecting the livestock and crops, and to ensure that everything grew as it should, a multitude of outlandish rituals were carried out across the country, such as the lighting of bonfires or the placement of yellow flowers on these cows. Not only did the community of Kilberry perform all of these age-old traditions to a tee, but they also went one better and organised an impressive fair, complete with singing, dancing, and plenty of nighttime tomfoolery. (Folk often whispered that numerous pregnancies, therefore marriages, had their genesis behind the bike shed that evening each year.)
Festivities were due to kick off in the specially-erected marquee at eight, so at seven, Butsy got dressed to the nines. Since Pádraig had been abruptly summoned from her house the week previously, he had proven himself to be remarkably adept at keeping details of their tryst away from his mother. In the intervening days, Liam, the kind owner of the local creamery, would deliver Pádraig’s romantic—if, at times, incomprehensible—love letters when visiting the Millers’ farm to collect milk. He had assured her that Mrs Keogh would not be within a stone’s throw of the dance because she had an important engagement in Dublin that night. (The dutiful mother was expected to meet Lord and Lady Dunsany to investigate if their bachelor son had any interest in taking one of her seven daughters as his bride. That he was forty years older than her youngest and looked like the Wreck of the Hesperus was inconsequential, she assured them.)
Pádraig’s final correspondence to Butsy stated that he and his beloved were to meet under the large sycamore tree in the field behind the church. They would then walk into the marquee “to getter”.
With the help of a bright red bow her parents had gifted her for her last birthday, Butsy managed to bring a little order to her wild curls. She had also borrowed a simple lilac dress from the mother of her friend, Sissy Stapleton, and attached to the lapel a bunch of pretty bluebells that she had picked from the garden. Mr Miller thought she was the most delightful thing he had seen since Mrs Miller had walked up the aisle all those years ago; Butsy herself thought she looked presentable— nothing more, nothing less.
As she ran towards the sycamore tree, deftly sidestepping the mounds of manure that littered the field, she was unable to prevent herself from imagining all the different outcomes of the night. In one fantasy, she and Pádraig left everybody speechless thanks to their stirring rendition of Ionsaí na hInse. In another, he told her that her beauty surpassed that of Maud Gonne!
Her favourite role-play, however, was the one where they both stood in front of the refreshment bar. As soon as they finished some drink or other, he would take the empty glass from her hand then swoop in for a passionate kiss. Oh, if only a wind would introduce itself and help her get to the sycamore tree a little bit quicker! (Actually, maybe just a light breeze; anything stronger would wreak havoc with her hair, she suddenly realised.)
When she finally neared the meeting point and saw him, kitted out in a ridiculous, ill-fitting suit, Butsy knew that she would never love another man as much as she loved Pádraig Keogh. She stopped in front of him and this time it proved to be her turn to be stumped. Being the gentleman she knew him to be, he saved her from her blushes and simply held his hand aloft and asked, “May I dance with the most beautiful girl in all of Kilberry?”
Even though there were only about twenty girls in the entire village, seven of whom were his unsightly sisters, she thought it best to take the compliment rather than question it. “Yes, you may.”
And with that, Pádraig and Butsy raced over to the dance, hand-in-hand.
As expected, the marquee was black with people, some of whom were behaving like the beacons of society; some of whom were not. But, as soon as the young lovebirds took to the floor, the large crowd did like Moses and the Red Sea and parted to the sides so that they could have a good gawk at love’s young dream. (Liam from the creamery had not been as discreet as Pádraig might have hoped and had told the whole village about the romance that was cultivating between the pair.) But, at that moment, the two darlings could have been all alone, such was the enchantment between them, and just like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers would do some years later, the duo danced as if they were beating from the same heart.
But, the heart belonging to Pádraig's mother, who had just arrived at the marquee unannounced, did not beat. Instead, it was like a gigantic iceberg similar to the one that had transpired to be rather bothersome to the Titanic some three years earlier. And just like that ship’s fateful night, Mrs Keogh was there to ensure that any designs the peasant girl had on her darling son sank without a trace. (Yes, it became indisputable that Liam not only owned the biggest creamery in the parish, he also lay claim to its biggest mouth.)
“Get your greedy hands off him!” Mrs Keogh roared at Butsy, standing on the threshold of the entrance.
When the teenager refused to obey—out of shock rather than insolence—the furious woman bolted across the wooden floor with such speed that many were convinced a belligerent beehive had taken up residency in her bloomers.
“Are you deaf as well as dirty? Get off him, I said!” she shouted, while pulling the couple apart with unnecessary force.
“Mother! Stop, please!” Pádraig pleaded.
His attempts to diffuse the situation were in vain, however; as most people knew, once an Irish mammy had gotten something into her head, her children would be best served to save their breath to cool their potatoes because, more times than not, there was absolutely no talking to her.
“Don't you dare question me, ye pup. Just wait until I get you home!” she bellowed, leaving most people in the hall feeling rather uncomfortable—although there was a handful who salivated at the mouth, relishing the only bit of drama to grace the village since it emerged that Mrs Maguire’s newborn baby bore a striking resemblance to the local bachelor schoolteacher.
Ill-prepared to discredit the good family name any longer, Mrs Keogh grabbed Pádraig by the ear and dragged him towards the exit. He may only have had twenty short years behind him, but the chap was convinced that should he live until the age of the Hill of Tara, he would never face anything so embarrassing or distressing as that moment ever again.
Butsy, on the other hand, only wished she had someone to drag her out of the marquee as she feared her legs were about to collapse from under her. Thankfully, Ms Geoghegan, who couldn’t bear to watch the embarrassment to which Butsy was being subjected to any longer, threw her a lifeline; the septuagenarian marvellously pretended to have a heart attack as a way of diverting the attention away from the poor girl. (Ms Geoghegan had been a fool for love many times in her early days, so she had a good sense of how the seventeen-year-old was currently feeling.)
When Butsy finally returned home, she slumped onto her bed and curled up into a ball; the tears she had been battling since her humiliation in the marquee exploded from within. Just as she was about to berate herself for being so naïve and silly, a series of pebbles suddenly crashed against her window. She jumped up and pulled the curtains, not sure if she had been imagining things. But, there in front of her stood the last person she expected: Pádraig. Sweat dripped from his brow while he struggled to catch his breath, having run all the way from his house, several miles away, he soon explained.
“You shouldn’t be here, Pád—”
“Shhh, just listen,” he ordered. “If you took ev
ery star from that sky tonight and multiplied them by every blade of grass in this field, that figure would only be a fraction of how much I love you, Butsy Miller.”
He placed both of his clammy hands against the window pane. “Pack a bag and meet me under the sycamore tree at six o’clock in the morning. Liam is going to drive us to Dublin where we will marry in the afternoon. And, after our vows are said, we will be able to dance forever and always. Well, until we tire of it, I suppose.”
He moved even closer and, despite the fact that his heavy breathing on the glass now clouded the visibility between the pair, she saw that his eyes were so impassioned she suspected that they could set fire to a barn full of hay. From his pocket, he then removed the most magical ring she had ever witnessed (not that she had seen many, granted), complete with the brightest and largest emerald that she was sure ever existed. Butsy prayed that her racing heart wouldn’t burst from within and sully the moment.
“I’m told that this jewel was Cleopatra’s favourite, and is known as the stone of successful love,” he revealed.
“Is that so?”
“I’ve also heard mention that the emerald is a symbol of growth and the future.”
And with that, Pádraig got down on his knee.
“Butsy Miller, will you do me the honour of growing old with me every single day into the future?”
The idealistic farmer’s daughter had entertained many fantasies as to how the night would play out, but a marriage proposal was a little ambitious, even by her romantic standards.
“Well?” he asked, seeing as Butsy hadn’t said a word for almost a minute.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she roared, nodding her head so furiously it was a miracle that it didn’t fall off.
She hopped out of the window, and there followed a passionate embrace, and this time, no interfering mother appeared to rudely interrupt them.