by Carol Rivers
‘We all have a guardian angel,’ Sister Patrick would reply. ‘And before she died in my arms, your mother vowed to always watch over you.’
This answer rarely varied. Ettie never felt lonely because she knew her mother was with her. Sometimes she even thought she could see her holy aura lighting up a dark corner. As time went on, this knowledge was sufficient for Ettie to recover from any sadness she might have felt at being orphaned.
Ettie considered the nuns her family. Like a young duckling, wherever the sisters went, so Ettie followed too. At a very early age, she would wait outside the chapel door while they said their office. She understood that praying hard for the orphans was the most important duty of their day.
Later, Ettie's little figure could be seen trotting after the line of black habits into the kitchen where she would be ordered from pillar to post, carrying and fetching. Any help was welcomed by the nuns who somehow managed to run a convent, an orphanage and a schoolroom at the same time.
Every day, at early morning Mass Ettie knelt on the polished pews of the chapel. Here, she thanked God for giving her such a happy life. Best of all she liked helping the waifs, strays and foundlings who turned up at the doors of the convent orphanage. Just as she had.
A wistful smile came to Ettie's sweet face as she thought of the many children who had passed through the ranks. The nuns made sure that their charges learned the alphabet and their numbers. Some rebelled at first. But not for long. It gradually dawned on them that life in the orphanage was much happier than on the streets. Even if they had to learn the catechism, it was worth their efforts.
As Ettie undid the cords of the wooden ceiling rack, she reflected on her hopes for the future. She intended to become a teacher and dedicate her life to orphaned children.
This ambition was like a rosy glow inside her. She woke up with the glow each morning and went to sleep with it at night. Sister Patrick always encouraged her. ‘For sure, you are a fine scholar, so you are. Sister Bernadette has taught you a little French, and you’ve learned your numbers from Sister Catherine. If I didn’t know better I’d say meself you were an old soul.’
‘What’s an old soul, Sister Patrick?’
’Someone who’s walked this earth before,’ answered the nun mysteriously. ‘But no more questions now. Me tired brain can only stretch so far.’
Lowering the clothes pulley, Ettie began to fold the wet wimples and caps over the long wooden struts. With great care she made certain each one was flat. The ironing afterwards, so Ettie had discovered, was easier if the white headdresses were prepared properly. She knew this was another labour of love and would be rewarded by God.
A light voice broke into Ettie's reflections. A raffia basket overflowing with dirty clothes landed on the table. The smiling, unlined face above it belonged to Sister Patrick. 'Ettie, we still have the children's smocks to wash. Mother Superior will inspect us soon, so?’ The nun removed her small, round wire pince-nez which were fogged up due to the moist heat of the room and squinted at the newly rinsed articles. ‘Ah, so, the wee girl is ahead of me!’
Ettie beamed, for she loved to please. Her training over the years had made her a conscientious worker. After a full day's housekeeping, she went to the schoolroom to help the most needy children. Whenever a pupil struggled in lessons, they were sent to Ettie. She would spend patient hours with them, teaching in her own childlike way, all the lessons the nuns had taught her.
Although Ettie was given Sunday afternoon to herself, she rarely took it. Rather she would help children like seven-year-old Kathy Squires. Kathy was a street beggar who had never attended school until she was sent to the orphanage. And Johnny Dean, who at eleven, had been boxed round the ears so many times by his drunken mother, that he was a bit deaf. At six years old Megan and Amy were twins and had spent most of their young lives thieving. They refused to be parted and even slept head to toe in their bed.
Then there was Michael Wilson, the most unruly and disobedient orphan of them all. A year and a half older than Ettie, he was a rebel. All his young life he had lived off his wits. At first he refused to even look at a book or hold a pencil. And as for a bible or a catechism, he would declare them poisonous.
But Ettie had patiently appealed to his better nature. She found this in his love for adventure stories; Daniel who was thrown into a den of lions. Noah who defied a flood and David who had conquered a giant.
‘Can’t be true,’ Michael had at first argued. ‘A lion would eat you in one gulp. You’d never get all those animals on one boat. It would sink. And a giant would crush you under his foot.’
‘Believe what you like,’ replied Ettie, unoffended. ‘God gave these men special strength. There are women too. Like Joan of Arc who fought in battle, as brave as any man. Look, here’s a picture of her wearing armour and sitting astride a horse.’ She showed him the pages of the old and musty bible. Like all the books that had stood on the convent’s library shelves for many years.
Michael had studied the image with interest. Ettie knew that she had gained his approval. From that moment on, she read him stories of heroic action and adventure. One thing led to another. Michael decided to learn to read so that he could investigate for himself.
Ettie came back to the present as Sister Patrick examined the caps and wimples. ‘Not a crease among them,’ she congratulated. ‘What would I do without you?'
Ettie habitually answered, 'You won't ever have to, Sister Patrick. I'll always be here.'
Mostly Sister Patrick’s response was the same too. 'I pray to Our Blessed Lady that you will.' But today, the nun's face clouded. She fiddled with her spectacles and played nervously with the wooden rosary looped at her waist. 'Ettie, come away to the dining room. It’s time we talked.’
Chapter 2
'Have I done something wrong?' Ettie enquired.
'No, child. But the sooner you learn the truth the better.’
Ettie hurried after the small, squat figure floating over the convent’s stone floors. Finally they reached the dining room. All the long wooden tables and benches were permanently set with cutlery, mugs and pitchers of water for the nuns' simple meals.
Ettie kept this room as clean as a new pin. Sweeping the stone flags, polishing the table and lighting the fire on cold winter mornings was another labour of love. Once breakfast was over, Ettie and two young women employed from the local village would clean the children's dormitories and tend to the sick.
Sister Patrick sat down on one of the benches. Ettie had an anxious sensation. The vast room echoed with an eerie silence. The strong smell of wax polish wafted up into the air. A smoky haze from the fire curled around the roof's lofty ceilings.
It was late on a winter's afternoon and Ettie moved restlessly. The boys and girls would be waiting for her. She loved her little friends and they loved her. For they all knew from life's experience what it was like to be unloved.
But Sister Patrick was in no hurry to let her go. 'Ettie, nothing in life is permanent, so?’
A little shiver went down Ettie's spine. ’No, Sister Patrick. Nothing lasts forever. Except heaven.'
‘Heaven is our eternal home,’ Sister Patrick agreed. ‘But in this life we are in the hands of the Good Lord.’ The nun's tongue came out and slipped nervously over her dry lips. 'We must accept our fate.'
Ettie did not answer. For she too, had very dry lips.
'The bishop has given us a directive.'
Ettie sat up. This new bishop who had replaced the old one, was very important. When he visited he arrived in a shiny cab pulled by a fine black horse. A special rug was produced for him to stand on; even Mother Superior knelt down and kissed the ring on his finger.
‘Rome can no longer support us,’ explained Sister Patrick. ’And there are many repairs to be done. The windows are all broken. There are leaks in the roof of the school house.’
Ettie wondered why this was important. 'We catch the drips in pails,’ she reminded the nun.
‘Thos
e drips are becoming waterfalls,’ Sister Patrick objected. ’The chapel too, needs attention. Sure, the big bell is so rickety it’s about to fall from its tower.’
‘Can’t it be tied with rope?’ asked Ettie innocently.
The nun smiled sadly. ‘Ah, if only the sisters had your youth! We should do a great deal more than we do now.’
Ettie rarely thought about the age of the nuns. They all looked, well, just like nuns. There was perhaps, Sister Francis who walked with the aid of a stick. And Sister Bernadette who sat in a chair most of the day muttering her prayers in French. But now Ettie realised there were very few younger faces.
'Already Sister Catherine has left for the motherhouse in Belgium,’ Sister Patrick added. ’Soon Sister Enuncia will follow.'
Ettie swallowed. ‘Then who will teach the children?’
The nun heaved a sigh. ‘Sad it is, Ettie, but they too must go.’
Ettie felt a lump grow large in her throat. ‘But where?’
A tender smile touched the nun’s lips. ‘We must pray for guidance.’
‘But - ‘
Sister Patrick put a finger to her lips. ‘Quiet, now, Ettie. The problem is that the Sisters of Clemency have lost our patrons over the years. The old bishop took no interest in money. He was a good man but only wanted to save souls. He loved his orphans and thought God would provide. But unfortunately, we are lost without patronage.’
Ettie remembered the wealthy gentry arriving in their fine carriages who once attended Mass in the chapel. But as the East End of London grew poorer, their visits declined. Yet she had been taught that God was loving and merciful. Surely He would save the orphanage?
‘God helps those who help themselves, doesn’t He?’ Ettie boldly protested. ‘We could grow vegetables and fruit for Sister Ukunda to sell at the market. Keep hens for eggs and a goat for milk. Perhaps even a cow. Arthur could build a stable to keep them in.’
‘Arthur is just our gardener, child. He’s not a farmer, just as we are not builders.’
But Ettie would not give up. ‘We could learn to be,’ she insisted.
Sister Patrick shook her head sadly. ’Shh, darlin’ girl. Rome’s decision is final.’
Ettie hung her head. She bit her lip to keep her tongue silent.
‘Life changes,’ Sister Patrick tried to soothe. ‘We must accept God’s will.’
'But Sister Patrick,’ Ettie burst out, ‘I can't live without you.'
The nun looked lovingly into her eyes. 'My child, you have all your life to live without me.'
Suddenly Ettie realized that something or someone far greater than either herself or Sister Patrick, was now governing their lives. It was a frightening discovery. Ettie's heart, which usually overflowed with love and gratitude, felt heavy and lost. At last the dam broke. Her sobs echoed in the big room like loud claps of thunder.
'Hush, my dear one,’ comforted a loving voice. A voice that she had trusted all her life. A voice as close to a mother’s voice as she had ever heard. ’We have spent many happy years together. God only loaned you to me. Now I must give you back.’
Ettie heard someone wailing. The cries were lifting right up to the rafters. They bounced on the sharp glass of the broken windows and against the faded holy pictures on the walls.
These noises couldn't be from her, of course they couldn’t! But they weren't from Sister Patrick who was trying to console Ettie.
'I'll never leave you,’ Ettie heard herself insist. ’Never!’
‘Wherever you go,’ Sister Patrick murmured calmly, 'I'll always be in your heart.'
Ettie felt the pain so violently, it felt like an earthquake inside her. But nothing could alter the look of defeat on Sister Patrick’s face.
Whether or not the nuns approved of Rome’s directive, it had to be obeyed. But it was such a dreadful, unkind and heartless directive! It tore people apart and caused such loss, that Ettie, for the first time, questioned the faith on which she had built her life.
Chapter 3
The convent’s schoolroom was very old, with brown-painted walls and ink stains smudging the desks and floor. A grey and depressing light seeped in from the broken windows. In the very same manner as Ettie had held tightly to Sister Patrick, the little girls held fast to Ettie. ‘We don’t want to go,’ they wailed, cuffing the snot from their noses.
Ettie had just delivered the news. She wanted to tell the children herself. They had to prepare themselves.
‘I want to stay here with you,’ Kathy insisted.
Ettie lifted the little girl's chin. ‘Say your prayers. Jesus will look after you.’
‘We’re being got rid of!’ accused Johnny Dean, scratching nervously at one of his disfigured ears.
‘The nuns don’t give a farthing about us,’ agreed Michael Wilson, who looked very angry as he clenched his fists. Ettie always smiled when he bragged he was older and wiser than her. Though tall and skinny as a rake, he was very strong. ‘We’ll be turfed out on the street,' he declared. 'Or sent to the workhouse.'
Ettie looked into his rebellious grey eyes. ‘Where is your faith Michael?’
’The only faith I’ve got,’ he shouted dramatically, ‘is in myself!’ His face darkened as he poked a finger at her. ’Can the nuns stop the rozzers from nabbing me the moment I step out of this place?’
Ettie felt her tummy turn over. He could be right, for it was only the nuns intervention with the law that had prevented Michael’s arrest.
‘God will provide,’ she promised. ‘He'll answer your prayers.'
'He’s never answered them before,' came the reply. ‘Why should he answer them now?’
Ettie wanted to remind him that it was only because of the nuns request to the police that he wasn’t now incarcerated in the boys’ reformatory. But she knew this would upset him even more.
From the smaller children there were sobs and gulps as they listened to this harsh exchange. How could she reassure them?
‘Let’s say our prayers,’ she said and obediently they kneeled on the floor. All, except Michael.
'May God surround us with His light,' she prayed fervently. ‘May He enfold us with His love. May He protect us and guide us, so that forever we will remain safe in the palm of His hand.'
‘I’m clearing out,’ interrupted Michael, kicking his boot against a desk. ‘While I’ve got the chance.’ He grabbed his grubby cloth cap from the chair. ‘Good luck to all of you. You’ll need it.’
The younger ones began to cry and Ettie went to comfort them. 'Michael, don’t go,’ she pleaded.
‘Why should I stay?’ demanded the angry boy, his cheeks burning as he stood at the door.
'I don't know exactly, but please think again.’
He pulled up his ill-fitting trousers and tossed back his straggly dark hair. Plonking the cap on his head, he looked outside and shouted, 'I'm off while no one's looking.'
The door banged behind him and the orphans wept even more.
Ettie followed Michael into the cold and draughty passage. 'Michael, you can't leave,’ she called.
‘Who says I can’t?’
‘Where will you go?'
He gave a careless shrug. ‘I'll manage.’
‘But how?’
'Listen Ettie, you don't understand the world. You've lived in the convent too long. You don't know what life’s like on the outside.'
Ettie agreed she had led a sheltered life, but how bad could the world be? Hadn't Michael learned to trust the nuns even a little? Tears bulged in the corners of her eyes.
'Crikey, Ettie don't cry.’ Michael looked confused. He put his arm around her.
'You're making me sad.'
'I don't mean to,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder. ‘You and the other kids, well, I like you all.’ He added in a gruff tone, ‘You, mostly.’
Ettie stared up at him. Suddenly he seemed much taller and older than she was, though only one and a half years separated them.
‘I’ve never said that to a girl before.
’
‘Really?’ Ettie sniffed.
‘It means something special when you tell a girl you like her.’
Ettie smiled, forgetting her tears. ‘Thank you.’
‘But listen!’ He pushed her away. ‘Don’t get no ideas. I’m not staying, not even for you.’
Ettie felt sad. She would miss this boy with the beautiful grey eyes, but who spoke words that could be so hurtful.
‘Friends are supposed to look after each other,’ Ettie said softly.
‘I’d be no good to you if I stayed.’
‘Why not?’
Michael stared at her solemnly. ’Do you really think the bishop couldn’t help the nuns if he wanted?’
This was a question that took her by surprise.
‘Listen, the Roman candles are rich, Ettie,’ he continued passionately. They’ve got more money stacked away than the Queen of England. If the bishop wanted, he could flog that ring on his finger and buy a whole new orphanage! But he won’t. ‘Cos this is the East End and out of favour with the toffs who fill his coffers. Mark my words, the sisters are done for.’
'Michael,’ she gasped, ‘please stop.’
‘It's the truth. I'm older than you - and wiser.'
Ettie wanted to say that he must be wrong, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. ‘Stay for the children,’ she begged one last time.
Michael took hold of her shoulders. ‘Sorry, kid.’
'You're really set on going?'
He nodded.
She flung her arms around him. 'Oh, Michael, I've grown so fond of you.'
He held her gently as though she was china. 'Tell you what,' he mumbled and made a show of straightening his jacket. 'We'll meet up somewhere like Victoria Park.’
‘Victoria Park? Is it close by?’
‘Just down Old Ford Road.’
Ettie nodded uncertainly, her brown hair falling across her eyes. ‘When?’
’First Sunday in December. Three o’clock sharp at the water fountain.’
‘I’ll try.’
Michael laughed cruelly. ’You see, you’re scared to come, ain’t you? You won’t even go out on your own.’
