A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Bridget listened carefully as she ate and drank her tea, as it was one of the books she really enjoyed. She liked hearing about the young French girl, known as The Little Flower, who had overcome various obstacles in her life – such as serious illness and losing her mother at an early age – to become a nun.

  When breakfast was over and they had said Grace, Sister Marie Claire led them in a prayer of thanks for the beautiful sunny morning, which made their gardening chores so much easier. The girls went outside to the yard and over to one of the outbuildings where all the garden tools and implements were kept. Sister Bernadette gave each girl a pair of gloves, then she dispensed the rakes and the hoes to the girls who were working on clearing the leaves from the lawns, and the trowels, small forks and kneeling pads for the ones who were weeding the flowerbeds. After three quarters of an hour, they would change over tasks.

  Bridget was with the group of girls who were clearing the leaves, which she felt happy enough to do on such a lovely morning. There had been plenty of mornings in the winter when they’d had to do tasks around the farm in the rain and the wind and they were told to offer up their discomfort for the Holy Souls in Purgatory.

  They were allowed to choose their own patches to rake, so she decided to start over at the far corner of the top garden which overlooked the gardens below and the small, manmade lake surrounded by tall, swaying pine trees.

  Bridget always had a feeling of contentment when she paused to look at the beautiful scene in front of her. At certain times it reminded her of the days her father had come to visit or collect her, and they had walked around these gardens together. It was one of the few times she’d had her father to herself. They would walk and talk about everything and anything, but eventually, he would get around to asking her if she was happy in the convent and if she was still sure she was doing the right thing by becoming a nun. He always made it plain to her that, if she was at all unhappy with her choice of being in the religious order, she would be welcomed home with open arms.

  “I had an aunt,” he told her, “who was a great nun altogether – and very happy being a nun. She occasionally came home on holidays, and I can remember one time that I overheard her telling my mother about some of the poor nuns who had been made to go into the convent from a very young age. She said they were not the same as the nuns who had a vocation – that the poor girls were never truly happy. And yet, they went ahead and sacrificed their chances of getting married and having a family, because they were so terrified of their parents’ disapproval if they left. They lived their whole life to please a family they hardly ever saw.”

  Bridget could picture him now, taking both her hands in his and saying, “If you ever feel like that, promise me you’ll come back home?”

  “I promise I will,” she had told him. “But I can honestly say that my vocation is getting stronger the older I’m getting. I’m very happy in the convent school, and I’m looking forward to being a postulant and then entering the novitiate.”

  As she moved around her patch of the lawn now, stretching the rake out to catch more leaves, she was still firm in her beliefs. Nothing had changed since she told her father her views about carrying on in the convent last year – apart from her now understanding more about her religion and feeling even closer to God.

  She was reciting a decade of the Rosary in her head for her father when she became aware of some giggling on the level below her. She moved forward and could see two girls from her year down by the wall – Carmel and Veronica. She wasn’t surprised it was them – they were a giddy pair who she always tried her best to avoid. Recently they had been in trouble on several occasions. It was nothing serious, just silly things like going back up to the dormitory when they weren’t supposed to, or, when they were given partners to work with in science or PE, swapping their allocated partners over so they could be together. Both girls were from Galway, and they were always in a huddle with some of the other girls after holidays, discussing all that had happened while they were away.

  This morning they were supposed to be part of the group raking the leaves, but there was no sign of any rakes near them. Bridget saw them both looking around as if to check if anyone was watching, so she quickly moved backwards out of sight. Then, when she stepped forward to look down again, she saw Veronica tucking something into a gap in the wall, and then they both disappeared. She was mildly curious as to what they were up to, but decided it was best to ignore it and went back to her raking.

  There had been occasions when she had wondered what both girls – Veronica, in particular – were doing at the convent school, because they just seemed the wrong types to train as nuns. Veronica had suddenly arrived in the middle of third year, which occasionally happened, as some girls didn’t develop an interest in becoming a nun until later.

  Bridget remembered Veronica’s first day, because everything about it had been unusual. She had arrived wearing a short blue dress with white daisies on it, fashionable white tights and kitten-heeled shoes, and her dark hair had been caught up at the back in a big white bow. She had been accompanied by a serious-looking priest, who turned out to be her uncle. Bridget and the other girls had watched, mesmerised, from the Maths classroom window, as this very pretty fourteen-year-old had been shown around the convent grounds.

  From the day she arrived, it was apparent that Veronica came from a well-off family. She constantly alluded to their big house and servants, and the places she had been to abroad. It made Bridget wonder how, with all the advantages she appeared to have in life, she rarely had a smile on her face. She constantly complained about things like the lovely food they were served, and having to sleep in a dormitory with a nun supervising their every move, even at night.

  By the following year, Veronica was still showing no real signs of a vocation, even though she seemed to spend a lot of time with her Spiritual Director. Bridget began to suspect that there might be another reason she had suddenly been brought to the convent. Then when they all came back from the summer break, she heard rumours amongst some of the other girls that Veronica had been going up and down to Cork to visit her father, as he no longer lived with the family in Galway. This news had immediately made Bridget feel more understanding and sympathetic towards the girl, because she knew it must have created a terrible scandal where they lived. She knew how embarrassed their own mother was about Aunt Catherine’s husband having deserted her and Joseph. She had kept it quiet even from Bridget and her sisters, until Angela had eventually been told by their aunt herself. And even then, Mam had warned all the girls to say nothing to any of the local people about it. “Your aunt lives in Dublin, so who is to know? Why make people as wise as yourself?”

  Bridget wondered if maybe there had been problems going on for a while with Veronica’s parents and, if so, perhaps that had been the reason behind her being brought to the convent the previous year. The family might feel that even if she didn’t have a vocation, she might develop one if she was in a school surrounded by other girls who did. And the nuns would be kind to her and she would be away from all the upset at home. Bridget thought coming back to the school after her father had died had definitely helped her. The routine, the Masses and prayers were a comfort to her every day, and the nuns always made time to talk to her if she needed that. Even though Veronica made out she hated being in the convent, Bridget thought that underneath her giddy façade she probably thought that it was a good place to be when life at home was difficult.

  Bridget worked away, raking the leaves into small piles and then gathering them all together into a bigger pile, stopping every now and again to catch her breath and look down over the lake and trees.

  When it came time to change the groups over, Sister Bernadette gathered the class together and got the girls to swap tools and kneeling pads. She sent the raking group off to start, and then she looked at the others. “You’re to work on your own weeding,” she said. “I don’t want to see any girls chatting as some of you did when you were supposed to
be raking. Less talk means more work and more time for private prayers.” She then looked straight at Carmel. “You go off to the flowerbed on the left-hand side of the Our Lady’s statue.” Then she turned to Veronica and, pointing in the opposite direction, said, “You can work on the flowerbed down to the right of the statue, and Bridget will work on the one in the middle.” She had looked sternly at them as she spoke. “And remember, girls, you’re here to work and to pray. You are not here to play.”

  As she and the two other girls went off in the direction of the statue, Bridget heard Veronica whisper to Carmel, “Sister Bernadette would drive you mad – she has eyes in the back of her head.”

  Bridget pretended she hadn’t heard anything and kept walking until she got to the flowerbed. “I suppose we’d better spread out,” she said, smiling at the two girls, but neither of the girls smiled back.

  “I don’t feel like doing this weeding,” Veronica said. “I think my period is coming and my stomach hurts if I bend down.”

  “Why don’t you tell Sister Bernadette?” Bridget said. “She’ll let you do something easier or go and sit down inside.” She knew how she felt herself the day before her period arrived, and could understand that bending and kneeling down would not help one little bit.

  Veronica shook her head. “No, she won’t believe me.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Bridget said. “But do you want me to tell her?”

  Veronica looked at Bridget for a few moments, as though thinking something, then she said, “No, I’ll probably be all right.”

  They all settled down on their kneeling mats and began to attack the little weeds. After Bridget finished weeding one area, she moved her mat to the left or right to start on a new patch. After a while, her thoughts drifted off to an assignment she had to do over the weekend about the missions in Africa.

  It was just coming to the end of the session when Bridget stood up to stretch her back and legs, and to wonder what they would have for lunch. She hoped it was Shepherd’s Pie, which they often had on a Saturday, followed by something like apple crumble and custard. The food was one of the highlights in the convent, and there were very few dishes that the nuns made that she didn’t like.

  She looked first at Carmel and then at Veronica. “It must be nearly time to finish,” she said. “It should be lunchtime shortly.”

  “Thank God,” Carmel said. “It would nearly kill you doing this.”

  “It’s slave labour,” Veronica said, sitting back on her heels. “My mother wouldn’t ask me to do this at home. She wouldn’t do it herself – that’s why we have a gardener.”

  Bridget got back down on her knees. This was the sort of conversation she tried to avoid getting into, because she knew it only encouraged the wrong attitude. She thought how Sister Bernadette would handle it.

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose if Sister Bernadette heard us complaining she would tell us we should be grateful we’re not in some poor place in Africa where they don’t have schools like this with nice gardens, and the girls have to walk miles just to have water to drink.”

  “You’ll make a great nun, Bridget,” Carmel said. “You sound just like Sister Bernadette.”

  Veronica made a little snorting sound and then both girls started giggling.

  “Very funny,” Bridget said. She was taking it in good humour, which she had discovered was often the best way to handle things with these two girls.

  She stretched over to the wall to pull out a long trail of bindweed she had just noticed. She moved around, pulling out any others she spotted as the roots came out easily. Then she started pulling at a clump of dock leaves, which was an entirely different matter. She got most of the leaves, but the roots stayed firm. She lifted her trowel and was digging deep around the plant to lift it out in one go when she heard a noise from behind.

  She turned around to look and saw Veronica sitting in a slumped position on top of the flowerbed.

  A feeling of alarm ran through her. “Are you okay?” she asked, getting to her feet.

  “No,” Veronica said, “I don’t feel well...everything is spinning around.” Then, she slowly fell forward in a dead faint.

  Bridget threw her trowel on the grass and got to her feet. “Carmel!” she called to the girl on the other side of her. “Run quick and get Sister Bernadette or one of the other nuns and tell them that Veronica has fainted.” She pulled her gloves off as she rushed over to kneel by her classmate.

  By the time Sister Bernadette arrived, Veronica was starting to come around.

  “Did she say anything before it happened?” the nun asked Bridget.

  “She just said that she didn’t feel well,” Bridget said, trying to recall, “and that she had a spinning kind of feeling.”

  Sister Bernadette gathered her habit up in a bunch with one hand, and then knelt beside Veronica on the grass, telling her she would be all right and not to worry. Two other nuns arrived now, and helped Sister Bernadette get Veronica into a sitting position. One of them then told Carmel to go down to the kitchen and get a glass of water.

  Bridget, standing at the side, suddenly remembered. “She said earlier that her stomach was sore and she thought it was...” she hesitated, embarrassed, “her time of the month.”

  “Ah,” Sister Bernadette said, “that could explain it.”

  A few minutes later Carmel came back with the water. Veronica took a few sips and after a while she said she felt well enough to stand up. Slowly, the nuns walked her back to the main house with Bridget and Carmel trailing silently behind.

  The two older nuns took Veronica off to lie down in the sick bay downstairs, where they had two single rooms. Sister Bernadette and the girls went back out to the yard and the sheds. When they went in, everyone was cleaning the small tools in the sink and Bridget suddenly remembered the trowels and other things they had left up at the statue when Veronica fainted. She quickly explained to Sister Bernadette and the nun told her to go back up and collect them, and then give them a quick clean before going to join the others at lunch.

  She was walking back carrying the tools, thinking about Veronica, when she remembered seeing her and Carmel over by the wall. Curiosity overcame her and when she reached the steps she dropped the tools on the ground and went quickly down to the lower garden towards the stone wall. She went to where she had seen the girls hide something. It took her a few minutes to find it, but eventually she spotted something white which was pushed between two large flat stones. She lifted out a folded white envelope, and when she opened it out she could see a name and address neatly printed in ink on the front.

  It was a boy’s or a man’s name – James Toner – and the address was an auctioneers’ office in Galway.

  She turned the envelope over and saw it was sealed. She stood for a minute wondering what to do with it, and then she spotted one of the younger farmhands walking towards the far end of the garden wall. The farm, to the right of the gardens, was owned by the convent, and several of the older nuns worked there fulltime, driving tractors and herding the cattle. But, at certain times of the year, they hired in extra help, and for the last few weeks there had been a middle-aged farmworker and two younger lads.

  She thought quickly. If she took the envelope and gave it back to Veronica and Carmel, then they would think she had been spying on them. They would also think she was acting as if she was in a position of authority and felt she had some right to advise them and tell them they were doing wrong. Both points of view, she thought, would make things very difficult for all three of them in the future. But by keeping their secret – by knowing she had found an unauthorised letter and not told the nuns – she would in some way become an accomplice.

  Another alternative was to give the letter to Sister Bernadette and let her deal with it. The girls knew perfectly well that letters written by any of the aspirants were not allowed to go out of the convent without the nuns reading them first.

  But did she really want to put herself in the position of a
tattle-tale with the nuns? If she handed this letter over, and the contents were read, it might cause all sorts of trouble for the girls. And even if Sister Bernadette told her the girls wouldn’t find out who had given them the letter, she would have to live with knowing it was her. And if by any chance they got an inkling it was her, and asked her straight out – she would be lying if she denied it. And that, Bridget knew, was going against all the words and prayers she read every day.

  As she saw the farmhand coming in her direction, she made her decision: she quickly folded the letter and put it back where she found it.

  She went back up the steps to gather up the tools and then head over to the refectory for lunch. She had walked halfway along the garden when something made her stop, and when she turned around she could see the young farmhand down at the wall where she had just been. She stopped and watched, her hand covering her mouth. Then she quietly moved to a positon where she could watch him without being seen, and after a minute or so, she saw him go straight to the part of the wall where the envelope was concealed.

  She watched as he took the envelope out and put it in his pocket. It struck her that the girls must have left it there, by some prior agreement, for him to find. If that was the case, it was yet another cardinal rule of the convent that had been broken. The girls were not allowed to talk to any of the workmen unless under supervision.

  She walked quickly back to the outhouse where the tools were kept, gave them a perfunctory rub over with a damp cloth and put them back on the shelves. She went to the sink, washed her hands and dried them, then rushed out to join the others in the refectory.

  As she went along, she said a silent prayer for guidance over what she should do about the situation. For the time being, she would do nothing. She would wait until some Divine Inspiration came upon her and then she would know what to do.