My last memory of Josephine is of the Mass held for her in the convent chapel. It was a terrifying experience. Whenever someone from the convent died, the nuns held a service for them. The body, usually that of an elderly nun, would lie in an open coffin in front of the altar. During the service, everyone in the convent had to approach the coffin and touch the body. We all hated having to do it, and today, instead of a dead nun, it was Josephine’s body that lay in the small white open coffin at the altar. To make things worse, the family that had taken her out were sitting in chairs at the front of the chapel, and I would have to walk past them, as if nothing had happened. I noticed they’d shown up in their best Sunday coats and hats, but not one of them shed a tear.
On one side of the chapel, the benches were packed with nuns praying. We trudged in single file down the aisle towards the coffin, where a nun was posted to make sure that each girl touched the body. I screamed when my turn came, overwhelmed with fear. There was no way I could touch my dead friend’s cold body. But the nun grabbed hold of me and pulled me, fighting and screaming, towards the coffin, forcing me to touch her. As I bent over, I saw that she was dressed in the white dress and shawl that she would have been wearing in a few weeks’ time at her First Communion. She looked peaceful, like a miniature angel.
How could God let this happen? I asked myself. No one should die so young and with so little love in their short, sad life.
CHAPTER 4
The Saturday Routine
Monday to Friday was awful, but Saturdays were appalling. Everyone hated Saturdays. For starters, there was double the amount of work of any other day of the week because the following day, the Sabbath, was devoted to prayer. Also, Sunday was visiting day, so by Saturday bedtime the convent had to be spotless.
Perhaps if the Reillys had had visitors to look forward to on Sundays, Saturdays might not have seemed so bad, but no one ever came to see us. I often wished that one day we’d get a visit. It wouldn’t matter who it was, just so long as they cared enough to come. But so far it had never happened.
I’d been in juniors for over a year now, so I was used to the Saturday routine. The day started just like all the others, with the bell for morning prayers. After prayers we washed and dressed, then returned to our beds for the humiliating ritual of mattress and sheet inspection. If your sheets or mattress were stained, even the slightest bit, you knew you were in for a humiliation or possibly a beating. Worse still, anyone who wet their bed had to stand with the soiled sheet over their head – for as long as Sister Thomas wanted her to – and then take it down to the laundry where Sister Mary would hit her with a walking stick. Fortunately, I wasn’t one to wet the bed. But I remember that a girl messed her bed once. She had it rubbed in her face, literally.
After mattress and sheet inspection came morning Mass, followed by breakfast. After breakfast we lined up and waited for a nun to call out our number and allocate jobs for the day, which normally involved cleaning, although you could also be sent to work in the laundry or kitchen. Whatever the job, it had to be done perfectly. If you were responsible for polishing the stairs and one of the nuns later found a speck of dust on the staircase, then you wouldn’t be going to bed until you’d done it all over again. So on Saturdays the atmosphere was always tense.
I was sure I was given the worst jobs and hated waiting for my number to be called. Saturdays always seemed to be spent washing and polishing floors, and at the end of the day my knees and back ached terribly. Not again, I’d think, when the nun called my number and sent me away to scrub down an entire corridor.
We spent the mornings cleaning and then returned to the chapel for Benediction. After chapel it was back to the refectory for lunch and the inevitable prayers before lunch and prayers after lunch. As if we didn’t do enough praying in chapel.
After lunch we lined up for hair inspection, when the nuns checked each girl thoroughly for nits. If any were found, then the girl’s head was shaved at once. My long, black hair was one of the only things that set me apart from the other girls, and I dreaded the thought of having it shaved off. So on Friday nights, whenever possible, Loretta and I would carefully check each other’s hair. The next day, waiting in line to be checked, I always prayed hard that we’d both be clear.
We changed our navy knickers once a week after knicker inspection, when we had to stand in a semi-circle with our knickers off and hold up the gusset for Sister Thomas to scrutinise. If there were even the slightest stain on the gusset of your knickers, she would slap you and scream that you were a filthy, dirty animal. ‘Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister,’ you had to say when you finally received a clean pair. Things could get even more humiliating for the girls who happened to be on their period. Sometimes a girl would be standing in that semi-circle for so long that blood would begin to drip down her legs. Sister Thomas always pointed it out, before hitting the girl and shouting that she was unclean. The whole experience was totally degrading for all of us.
As much as I hated the extra inspections and cleaning, the worst part of the Saturday routine was bath time. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be clean; in normal circumstances – in a normal home – I would have loved the luxury and privacy of a hot bath. But nothing about bath time in the convent could be considered remotely normal.
Bath time occurred last thing on Saturday evening. Although modesty was generally very important in the convent, different rules seemed to apply at bath time – and during knicker inspection. There was absolutely no privacy. I was shy and found it extremely embarrassing.
The exact arrangements for bath time varied according to the nun in charge. Generally we shared baths, with three or four girls in a bath at a time, and we washed ourselves down using large rectangular bars of rough carbolic soap. By the time the first set of girls had finished, the water would be cold and murky, but there was no change of water. As the first lot of girls got out, the next lot got straight in.
All the time a nun looked on, reminding us that ‘cleanliness was next to godliness’ and that ‘people who were not clean would not get to Heaven’. It seemed to me that hardly a day passed when I didn’t hear someone say those words. Yet, I couldn’t understand why, if cleanliness was really so important, the nuns made us bathe together and didn’t change the water. Perhaps, I thought, they don’t really want us to get to Heaven. All of this was enough to make me hate bath times, but what made the whole experience even more dreadful was Jeyes Fluid.
Jeyes Fluid was used for every kind of cleaning job, from washing drains to scrubbing floors. It’s an evil, thick, dark-brown liquid that smells positively vile. To this day, whenever I smell it, I feel sick immediately, and it was the same back then. For some nuns, soap and water were not enough to ensure the girls’ cleanliness and so they would add Jeyes Fluid to the bath. As well as smelling awful, the cleaning agents it contained stung your skin, especially your private parts and any cuts. And if you winced in pain, you were scolded and reminded again that ‘cleanliness was next to godliness’. To me, it didn’t make sense that Jeyes Fluid had to be used to clean everything, including us. I’d never heard it mentioned in the Bible that children should be bathed in the horrible stuff. Later on I became convinced that it was just another way in which the nuns could take their frustrations out on us. They did it because they could; there was no one there to speak out on our behalf.
Though the weekend routine varied little, one particular Saturday was to stand out in my mind. My job, as usual, was to scrub and polish floors, but this time I was sent to work in an unfamiliar part of the convent, in an area used solely by the nuns. Before I left, Sister Francis told me that when she came to inspect my work later, she wanted to be able to see her face in every surface.
I set to work, scrubbing as hard as I could, humming a tune to keep myself going. Soon my hands were wrinkled, my arms ached, and my knees were cold and sore.
Every now and then a sound resembling a muffled moan emanated from behind one of the doors in the corridor. I trie
d to ignore it. This part of the convent was very quiet, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else about. I hummed a bit louder and tried to focus on my work.
Then, as I was scrubbing directly outside one of the doors, I heard another moan. I stopped humming and listened out for a few moments but heard nothing. I felt uncomfortable not knowing what or who was making the noise, so I hummed a little louder.
‘Who’s there?’ croaked a voice from the other side of the door.
I got to my feet. ‘It’s Frances Reilly,’ I said, sounding confident but feeling nervous. I didn’t want to open the door or go inside the room.
I heard another moan and the words ‘Let me see you.’ I wiped my hands on my work apron and opened the door, which was old and heavy and creaked as it moved. Inside the room, I saw a frail old nun lying in her bed. I closed the door behind me.
‘Come closer, child, where I can see you.’
I approached the bed, not sure if I was doing the right thing. I desperately hoped that no one would find me here and accuse me of not working. The nun pointed a bony finger at the jug of water on her bedside locker. There was a glass next to the jug, and I wasted no time filling it and holding it up to her lips. The effort of taking a few feeble sips seemed to exhaust her. When she’d had enough, she lowered her head onto her pillow.
‘So you’re Frances Reilly,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, Sister,’ I replied, slowly edging towards the door to make my escape. I was no longer afraid of her, just worried about getting into trouble for being away from my work. I’d almost made it to the door when she spoke again.
‘If you go to that top drawer, child, you will find some boiled sweets there. Take a couple for yourself.’
I could hardly believe it. I hadn’t had a sweet since I’d arrived at the convent. Before she could change her mind, I quickly went to the drawer, opened it and found a brown paper bag containing brightly coloured boiled sweets. My mouth began to water. No longer thinking about work or getting into trouble, I took out four sweets and clenched my fingers around them.
‘Thank you, Sister.’
‘Now get on with what you were doing. And will you call in to see me when you’ve finished?’
‘Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister.’
Back in the corridor, I unfurled my fingers and gazed at the jewels in my hand. This is my lucky day! I thought to myself, picking out the orange one, which appeared brighter than the others. I took one last look at its beautiful orange colour before popping it into my mouth. A wonderful flavour hit my taste buds. I rolled the sweet around my mouth and sucked it to release its gorgeous fruity flavour. What bliss, what luxury! With a shock, I realised I was smiling. Suddenly, I felt very happy.
Knowing that I would have to get back to my work soon, I began to think about where I could hide the remaining sweets – a red one, a yellow one and a green one. It felt like I was in possession of an amazing treasure that was mine alone and mustn’t be seen by anyone. I had no intention of sharing these sweets, not even with my sisters or best friend.
We weren’t allowed to have pockets, and for a moment or two I couldn’t think where to hide them. Then I had an idea. I tucked them firmly into the bottom of my sleeve and folded the sleeve around them until it reached my elbow. After checking carefully to see if there were any lumps or bumps that could get me caught out, I rolled up the other sleeve in line with the first.
I was in a much better mood now. My work didn’t seem to be so much of a chore, and I found I was happily singing to myself. I worked faster than usual because I wanted to get back to see the old nun, partly in the hope that I might get a few more sweets but also because I’d liked her. I couldn’t help thinking how much nicer she’d seemed than the nuns who were normally on duty and wondered if she’d ever been as bad as the nuns that I’d known and come to hate so much. Some nuns were better than others, but even for the nicer ones, moments of kindness were rare. Maybe she was only being kind now because she was old and very sick and wanted to make her peace with God. Whatever her reasons, I decided it didn’t really matter. I was just glad that she was nice now and planned to sneak back to see her whenever I could.
When my work was finished, I went back to see if she needed a drink or anything else before the bell went. I knocked on her door, but she didn’t answer. I knocked again. Not wanting to wake her if she was asleep, I crept into the room and across to the bed.
‘Sister, it’s me, Frances Reilly. I’ve finished my work and I’ve got to go. Can I get you a drink of water?’
The old nun said nothing. I moved closer to the bed.
‘Sister, I have to go now,’ I said, in a last attempt to say goodbye. I looked into her face, and a chill ran through me. Her mouth and eyes were still open, but there was no movement there at all, and her old wrinkled skin looked sallow and lifeless.
‘Oh my God, she’s dead!’ I said aloud, feeling really scared. I was in a room where I had no right to be, with a dead nun. If any of the other nuns discovered me, I would be in for a beating. Perhaps they might even think that I was to blame for her death. Although I was very concerned about her, I was also frightened for myself and knew that I had to get out of the room as quickly as possible.
‘Goodbye, Sister. Thank you, Sister,’ I said, in the belief that she was now looking down at me from Heaven. As I hurried away to collect my cleaning stuff from the corridor, a sudden thought struck me: what if she wasn’t actually dead and needed help? I racked my brains for a solution. Perhaps there was something I could do for her without getting into trouble.
As I stood there, in turmoil, a young nun swept past me into the old nun’s room. I hung around, feeling awful that I hadn’t done anything. Then the young nun rushed out of the room and dashed off up the corridor, passing me almost at a run. This had to mean that the old nun was definitely dead, which saddened me. It also freaked me out to think that I’d been speaking to her less than half an hour before and was the last person to see her alive.
At Benediction I prayed for the nun who had shown me some kindness. I was starting to feel like I’d lost a friend, which was strange, considering we’d met only briefly.
I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I forgot about the other sweets until recreation time. I decided that I’d try the glassy red one next. I could almost imagine what it would taste like. Sister Kevin was on duty, and I wasted no time in asking permission to go to the toilet.
‘Yes, go on then, but be quick about it, Reilly,’ she said, misreading the look of desperation on my face.
‘Thank you, Sister,’ I said, dashing off excitedly. I told myself that the old nun would have wanted me to enjoy the sweets.
Inside the toilet cubicle, I leant against the door to stop anyone from pushing it open. Then, very carefully, I unfolded my sleeve and tipped the three remaining sweets into my hand. I took a good look at them again before unwrapping the red one and placing it in my mouth. It tasted different to the orange sweet but every bit as wonderful. This time, though, I didn’t have time to suck it and savour it, so I bit down hard until it broke into pieces with a loud crunch. For a second, I froze, hoping that no one had heard, but there didn’t appear to be anyone about, so I carried on crunching, which made the flavour stronger, although the sweet didn’t last as long.
I guessed that I had time to eat another sweet before returning to recreation. I picked the green one because it seemed to me that the yellow one was the next best, and I wanted to save that till last, when I was in bed. It would give me something to look forward to. So I wrapped the yellow one back up into my sleeve and put the green one in my mouth.
I heard someone go into the toilet next to me and held my breath, worried that if I even exhaled loudly, the person in the next cubicle would know what I was up to and take my last sweet away from me. I stood there motionless until I heard her leave. The green sweet was lovely but with a weaker flavour than the other two. I bit into it, and it shattered into small sharp pieces in my mouth, which remi
nded me of broken glass. After swallowing the last piece and making sure that the remaining sweet was safely in my sleeve, I made my way back to the others at recreation.
I began to wish that the day were over so that I could enjoy the final sweet under my bed covers. The hours seemed to drag, but eventually, it was bedtime, and I couldn’t wait a moment longer. Straight after lights out I sneaked under the covers, removed the sweet from its temporary hiding place under my pillow and slipped it into my mouth. Peace at last, I thought, snuggling into a comfortable position and enjoying the lemony flavour. Some of the girls were whispering to one another, but I couldn’t be bothered to listen to what they were saying. My mind was filled with thoughts of the strange day I’d had. It felt as if the old nun were watching me now, enjoying my last sweet under the covers, and I drifted off to sleep with it still in my mouth.
CHAPTER 5
The Lord’s Work
Loretta and I ached to be free of the cold, damp, ugly, cruel world we inhabited, a world controlled by monsters in black and white habits. We had nothing to look forward to, no parties or presents or toys and no pretty clothes, just a plain, brown, oversized convent dress each. Birthdays were not acknowledged, let alone celebrated, and Christmas was a purely religious event. We were never allowed to feel normal, to look pretty or to be happy, and there was no colour in our lives. It seemed to us that everything nice was a sin and that Sister Thomas had been sent personally by God to make sure we had no time to sin, by filling every moment of our lives with what she called ‘the Lord’s work’.
Most of the girls in the convent attended lessons regularly, but for us and a few others, there were few lessons – apart from Bible studies – and we were never taught to read and write. We went to class every afternoon for the calling of the register, but then someone would usually arrive at the classroom door and say that Sister Thomas had asked for us. It was all down to the whim of the nun in charge, and Sister Thomas said that the Reillys were scum and only fit for cleaning, so she pulled us out of class almost every day. With no parents to report back to, we were easy targets. There wasn’t a library, and we had no access to books. While the other girls were in class, we laboured in the convent, scrubbing and polishing corridors and floors, washing down walls or working in the laundry or kitchen. There were no mops or vacuum cleaners so we spent hours at a time on our hands and knees, on cold stone floors that seemed to stretch for miles. The ‘Lord’s work’ had to be done every day, and the nuns were on constant patrol to see that it was completed to the highest standard.
Suffer The Little Children Page 4
