Sister Agatha

by Domhnall O'Donoghue

  (As he tried to ignore her, Fergal decided there and then that despite being in the red, he was booking himself in for a hair restoration treatment when he returned from Paris.)

  “Clearly you are unaware of the birds and the bees, and that a mother nursing her child is the most natural thing on earth. A woman’s breasts aren’t just there for your enjoyment, my good man; they’re there to nurture and to feed.”

  Fergal closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was in his happy place—or indeed any place, really, other than where he actually was: sitting beside a drunken, geriatric nun who was shouting about the machinations of a pair of tits!

  To add insult to injury, it seemed that she was in no hurry to put an end to her rantings and ravings and then proceeded to give him the A-to-Z on how people should treat others, notably new mothers (“respect and kindness,” blah, blah, blah). With the assistance of a highly vocal crowd, who had now gathered around them both, Fergal was given first-hand insights into the importance of not being a “prick” (the woman who hurled that particular insult at him looked vaguely familiar to Fergal; was she a scorned former lover perhaps?).

  Just as it looked as if the dispute would never find a resolution, the nun’s face suddenly blanched whiter than the clouds outside. Before anyone could even enquire as to her health, she vomited all over Fergal’s trousers before crashing out on his shoulders.

  Suddenly, Economy didn’t seem as unpleasant to Fergal as he had originally thought.

  * * *

  When Sister Agatha awoke some time later, a member of the Air France staff held her aloft on the back of a buggy, which happily zipped through Charles de Gaulle Airport. As her connecting flight was due to board just moments after she had landed, the ever-accommodating Jean-Pierre had made prior arrangements for his VIP passenger to get transported from one terminal to the other.

  The nun thought her head seemed a little troubled; in fact, it appeared to be pounding. She dared not imagine what it would have felt like without the assistance of her tinted glasses. Her last memory was looking out the plane’s window, quaffing some champagne and enjoying the stunning views below. After that, nothing—a complete blank. It wasn’t just upstairs that was running amok; her stomach had experienced better days, too.

  “How are you feeling, Soeur?” the staff member enquired. “Mon Dieu, I believe you put on quite a show on the flight!”

  Sister Agatha didn’t know how to reply. Should there be an admission that she was completely in the dark as to what “show’” she had performed while airborne? Or should she pretend that she was completely in control of her actions, and everything she said and did had been fully intended?

  In the end, there wasn’t any time to reply as they had reached their destination.

  “Au revoir,” the jolly, if somewhat pass-remarkable, employee yelled after assisting his passenger to one of the seats.

  Boarding was only minutes away, but Sister Agatha wished it was longer. In front of the next gate, a troupe of fabulous can-can dancers happily entertained fellow passengers as they all waited for their flight to Warsaw, a city where, all going well, Sister Agatha would be visiting in only a matter of days. Possibly still inebriated, she found herself becoming swept away by the bewitching charms of the three ladies. She started tapping her feet and shuffling in her seat, and as the music began to build, Sister Agatha felt a sudden urge to join in the merriment. Even though Doctor McManus had offered an awfully pessimistic outlook on her health, hangover aside, she felt more vital than ever.

  Her gate was now opening, so if she was going to seize the day, she needed to do it right at that minute.

  “Hump it!” she declared, before jumping up.

  But, that was as far as her escapades went; the sudden rush to become vertical did not go down well with her fragile stomach. The delicious Moët that she had devoured earlier that day made a second unexpected re-appearance, although, this time, it took a different and even more unfortunate exit route.

  Chapter Four

  On the day of her First Holy Communion, Sister Fidelma was introduced to the joys of gambling. After she and her classmates had allowed the delicious wafer to melt in their mouths, her mother went home to prepare a special lunch while her father, who owned a confectionery store, whisked her away to Navan Racecourse. Here, he hoped to sell an avalanche of chocolate bars from the boot of his car. As luck would have it, the sun was perched high in the sky on that April afternoon and, as a result, punters happily treated themselves to Mr Duggan's wares. (“Thank God,” said he, “I could almost have bought a new kitchen with the money I spent on that flippin’ First Holy Communion dress!”)

  Upon seeing young Sister Fidelma—or Noni Duggan, as she was known then—one of her father’s sweet-toothed customers gave her a shilling in recognition of her momentous day.

  “Don’t spend it all in one shop,” the kind man joked, before heading off to squander the best part of what he had just inherited from a late aunt.

  Taking advantage of the fact that her father was up to high doh making a killing, Noni decided to have a little adventure and disappeared into the crowds. As she wandered about, she became transfixed by the striking style on show. After endless decades cowering behind layers of fabrics, during the sixties, Irish women finally cast off the excess, revealing that these Celtic colleens did, in fact, have legs—and often quite lovely ones, at that.

  One such outfit that particularly caught Noni’s attention was a bold red pinafore, perfectly matched with cream tights and some funky platform shoes. The ensemble was worn by a trendy young woman, but she was too busy puffing away on cigarettes to notice Noni's admiring gaze.

  While she laid claim to just seven short years, Noni was worldly enough to know that the solitary shilling she clutched tightly in her hand would not be sufficient for her to afford a similar outfit. If only she had been as disciplined as her younger brother who had actually made use of the piggy bank that Santa Claus had given them each at Christmas.

  After wracking her mind for a remedy for what seemed like an eternity, Noni finally felt that she had stumbled across the perfect solution to her financial woes. Apart from the latest trends, the seemingly angelic girl also noticed that many people were scurrying towards kiosks then receiving large sums of money for their troubles. They looked too old to have just made their First Holy Communion, so why were they being gifted all those notes? Was it as easy as walking up to one of them and simply asking those within for money? “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” was something her grandmother often said, so Noni decided it was best to take heed of such sagacity, and she cautiously approached one.

  A man, whose cheeks were almost as red as his fiery hair, stuck his head out of the little window. He looked quite stressed, and Noni doubted that he was someone who would dole out money willy-nilly.

  “I would like to buy a dress, but I don't think I have enough money. May I have some?” she asked, without holding out too much hope.

  Noni’s instinct soon transpired to be spot-on. The bookmaker wasn't in any mood for silly little girls; not only had his wife burnt his breakfast that morning, but he had also lost a small fortune thanks to some gammy-legged horse defeating the odds and emerging triumphant.

  “How much do you have?” he barked, one hand outstretched, the other clutching onto a pair of rosary beads, praying that his luck would change.

  Noni held out the single shilling in front of her. While the bookmaker was disappointed that the girl wasn’t placing a bet using a large wad of cash that she might have rifled from under her father’s mattress, say, money was money and he was currently in no position to turn down a bet, regardless of the size.

  “Okay, sunshine, you give me that coin, and if French Fancy comes first in the next race, I will give you five of them in return. How does that sound?”

  To Noni, that seemed extremely reasonable, and so the pair struck a deal. Off she went to find a good spot to cheer on this French Fancy fellow—and suppo
rt is exactly what the horse badly needed, seeing as the thoroughbred hadn't won a race in over a year, as the bookmaker knew only too well.

  Feeling extremely pious, given the day that was in it, Noni thought that aside from giving her vocal chords a good workout, there would be no harm in having a little word with her new friend, Jesus. Firstly, she thanked Him for allowing her to eat some of His delicious body earlier in the day, and while she didn’t want to be too demanding, she enquired if it would be possible for Him to help her horse, French Fancy, run as quickly as her best friend Tommy O'Toole, who was, by and far, the fastest person she knew.

  “If he wins, I promise that I will always do my homework, and I’ll never smoke one of Daddy’s cigarettes again.”

  No sooner had she finished her quick prayer, the race started. Noni didn't really know what she was looking at; she was only treated to a brief glimpse of the horses before they disappeared around the corner. Behind her, people roared at the top of their voices—not in the way Mrs Ledwich did when someone misbehaved in class; no, their cries were more reminiscent of the manner in which her father listened to a football match on the radio, or when he spent “private time” with Mammy in their bedroom.

  Noni found the furore infectious, and the next thing she knew she was being taken over by some outside force, clambering onto the railings and cheering louder than anybody else around her. She felt her belly was about to burst; her cheeks were on the verge of flames!

  “French Fancy, French Fancy, French Fancy!” she repeatedly screamed with complete abandon.

  Some of the other punters took Noni's lead and jumped up onto the railings—Navan Racecourse had rarely seen such excitement! For the third time since the race commenced, Noni caught sight of the horses, but she didn't know which one was her sweet French Fancy, so she decided to shower them all with her love, hoping that a dollop of it would land on the right one.

  The four-legged warriors were now on the home straight, and Noni could see that three of these mighty steeds were neck and neck; whether French Fancy was amongst them was yet to be determined. As if her little life depended on it, Noni let out an almighty cry that was so powerful, she with her dainty communion dress fell off the railings, landing on the muddy ground with a thud.

  And with that, the race was over.

  Ill-prepared to allow a little accident to stand in the way of her new pinafore, Noni jumped to her feet and started pulling at the coats and dresses of those around her, pleading with them to tell her who won.

  “French Fancy, that's who fuckin’ won,” replied some loutish man, almost on the verge of tears.

  Noni couldn't believe her ears: her darling horse had risen to the challenge and won! She was going to get her pinafore after all! It was the most extraordinary feeling in the entire world; one that Noni would spend the rest of her life trying, unsuccessfully, to replicate.

  After she had collected her winnings, Noni proudly marched over to her father to tell him of her adventures. Not knowing whether to be proud or ashamed, Mr Duggan bent down and held his daughter's cherubim face in both his hands.

  “Noni, promise me that you will never do that again. Gambling is the worst vice there is, and it will destroy your life.”

  Noni couldn't understand why her father said such a thing, given the ecstasy of what had just occurred. Without a doubt, the past fifteen minutes had been the best of her life and, in a few days' time, she would be the proud owner of a beautiful, red pinafore.

  But it seemed easier to agree with her father than trying to make him see sense, so Noni sweetly told him that she would never do it again. After all, she had only promised Jesus that she would complete her homework and stay clear of her father’s John Player Blues; there was no arrangement concerning telling the occasional fib.

  Forty years later, Noni, now Sister Fidelma, only wished that she had kept her word. The otherwise devout nun lived nothing short of a double life. By day, she was one of the most committed members of the Order of Saint Aloysius; by night, she was a hardened criminal, struggling to pay off the mushrooming debts that she had accumulated as a result of her addiction to gambling.

  From the convent, Sister Fidelma had already flogged jewel-encrusted crosses, gold-coated chalices, precious artwork, and historic bibles to dubious pawn dealers who, conveniently, never asked any questions.

  But the money she received for the loot wasn’t enough to satiate one particularly unscrupulous loan shark, Dennis, who demanded to be repaid the full ten thousand euro she owed before the end of the week. (On a whim, his Russian girlfriend decided to build a patio just in time for barbeque season, and bricks and mortar didn’t come free—although Dennis did know a hardware store in Robinstown where he could easily pinch them, so maybe they could. Even still, he wanted his money back!)

  And so, Sister Fidelma was left with no choice but to take a loan of the convent's debit card and pilfer some of its funds. Besides, she had just been given a sure-fire tip for an upcoming race so, at long last, Lady Luck was going to pay her a most welcome visit, thereby putting her in a position to replace what she had borrowed without anyone being the wiser. The plan was bulletproof.

  Except for one thing: when she went to root out the card, it had vanished.

  Later that afternoon, which was the same day that Sister Agatha had set off on her travels, it was Sister Fidelma’s turn to take some of the elderly nuns on a drive to Townley Hall, a beautiful wooded park on the border of County Meath and County Louth. At their robust age, exercise and fresh air were of the utmost importance.

  Sister Fidelma was so distracted by the impending threat of Dennis that she failed to notice that the convent’s oldest residence wasn’t present. What’s more, during the afternoon stroll, Sister Fidelma, who had only one ear in reality, misheard a conversation about sinus-suffering Sister Imelda and the news that she had gone to wipe away the tears of her grieving cousin following a misjudged haircut. And so, later that evening when the alarm was raised that Sister Agatha was missing, Sister Fidelma informed the Mother Superior that there was no need to panic as the Dustbin had simply gone to visit a relative for a while.

  Under normal circumstances, the Mother Superior might have questioned this following a good night's sleep, seeing as Sister Agatha didn't have any relatives—in mourning or otherwise. Instead, she spent the day helping the Gardaí ascertain which hooligan had smashed numerous windows the night before, and which degenerate had left human faeces on the chapel’s altar. Whoever the culprit (it was, of course, Dennis, giving Sister Fidelma a final warning), the Mother Superior concluded that he or she must also have been responsible for plundering the convent’s most coveted possessions, such as their collection of crosses, chalices, artwork, and bibles. If she had noticed that the Debit Card had also vanished, along with a healthy portion of the convent’s savings, she would probably have placed the blame on the same hooligan, too.

  Superintendent O'Shea had suspicions that both the vandalism and theft were the work of a gang of youths who had been terrorising Navan of late, or the Meath Mafia, as they had been christened.

  And so, for the time being, the dubious deeds of Dennis, Sister Fidelma, and, most importantly, Sister Agatha went unnoticed.

  * * *

  Seeing as Rita was so accommodating in Dublin Airport, Sister Agatha wondered if lightning might strike twice. As soon as she set foot in the Tunis-Carthage International Airport, she made a beeline for the Information Desk. This time, she was no better than poor Wayne, almost breaking out into a sweat while conversing with the extremely friendly and forthcoming young assistant behind the counter.

  Gifted with the most beautiful almond-shaped brown eyes she had ever seen, Sister Agatha was firm in her belief that should Wassim, as his name badge indicated, uproot to the Emerald Isle, Jean-Pierre would be forced to up his game in order to prevent Rita from falling for this man’s beguiling charms.

  “You have two options,” he advised, his voice reminding her of the smooth and d
elicious chocolate ganache Sister Josephine had once made for Christmas dessert.

  “As there's only one train going from Tunis to Kebili, and it left two hours ago, you can either wait until the next one tomorrow morning or, alternatively, you can join the Sahara Explorer tour now, which will bring you to some of our country's most beautiful attractions along the way.”

  “I see. And at what time will that option have me in Kebili, dear?” she quizzed, trying, unsuccessfully, to emulate his dulcet tones.

  “It won’t be until tomorrow afternoon either, I’m afraid.”

  Rather than becoming annoyed at the prospect of losing a day in her ambitious quest—a day she really didn't have to spare, given what that rotten Doctor McManus had revealed—the old gal decided to make lemonade out of lemons, which was particularly apt seeing as her host country was ripe with the fruit.

  "Where do I sign up?"

  North Africa had always enchanted Butsy Miller. When she left Kilberry to pursue her vocation as a nun, her parents had bought her a collection of books to mark the occasion. (Knowing their daughter to have an inquisitive and active mind, they had been a little concerned that the Holy Bible might prove repetitive after a while.) One was a splendid picture book that showcased a selection of exotic destinations from around the world, and even though photography had its limitations at that time, the young postulant got a wonderful sense of countries like Tunisia. With its vast Mediterranean coastline, soaring Atlas Mountains, unique salt pans, and the sublime Sahara Desert, she thought it seemed only enchanting! Should the rest of Tunisia prove half as pleasant as her brief exchange with the dashing Wassim, Sister Agatha was sure that her short trip to North Africa’s smallest country would prove to be quite memorable.

  She was also certain that the champagne from earlier hadn't properly worn off.