‘We might get the bruise today if we’re lucky!’
‘Shhh …’ Cecilia was laughing so hard that tears were running down her face.
On the Feast of the Sacred Heart, Babs had gone all out to make a marble cake, but instead of using pink and gold food dye, she’d used darker colours and it had turned out black and blue, and to top it off the icing was red, like blood. When out of the Novice Mistress’s hearing, the postulants referred to it as Bab’s bruise.
Once Cecilia started giggling she couldn’t stop. Every time she caught Breda’s eye gleaming at her from under the pillow a new spasm of laughter would ride up from her belly into her throat, until the two of them were curled up under their bedclothes biting their fists to stop from shrieking.
‘Shhh.’ Cecilia turned back to Breda. ‘Breda! Shut up, please.’
The bell sounded on the floor above where the fully professed Sisters slept. It would be only a matter of a minute before the Novice Mistress was walking down between their beds, and if she sensed any shenanigans at all there would be hell to pay.
Mother Mary of the Holy Angels had made it very clear over the last year that she saw it as her task to subdue any vestiges of ego in the postulants before they were received into the noviciate proper. As Mother put it, by then they’d better know what they’d got themselves into. After two years as novices it would be time to make their First Profession. A few years later came the Final Vows, a solemn commitment to stay for the rest of their lives.
The aim was to become empty vessels open to God’s Will and that meant obeying every rule set out for them by Mother Superior, from how and when they were to speak, smile, pray, walk, or open a door, to the way they ate, knelt, and lay in bed. Any kind of laughter, giggling or gossip was actively discouraged, along with close personal friendships. Nothing about their lives was deemed personal or off-limits or, for that matter, above suspicion. At the end of every week each postulant was required to confess to the rest of the group her own shortcomings at the Chapter of Faults, always in the spirit of complete humility. Every misdemeanour, from an incorrect attitude to botched practical tasks like dusting or cleaning one’s shoes, to any unkindness or impatience towards another Sister, was considered serious enough to confess and sometimes worthy of chastisement and punishment.
The Novice Mistress was finding Breda an unusually hard nut to crack. The short, bright girl was very devout and always took her punishments cheerfully, never for a minute seriously questioning her Superior’s right to dish them out, and so one had to assume she had a genuine vocation. But Mother Holy Angels still held serious doubts, because her personality was turning out to be very hard to subdue. It bubbled up in the most inappropriate ways. For a postulant to question practices that had been part of convent life for centuries was unusual enough – but for her to find these practices amusing was unheard of. That she always apologised in the most respectful manner after letting out one of her irreverent giggles somehow made it even more infuriating. The truth was that if it weren’t for Reverend Mother’s obvious liking for the girl, Mother Mary of the Holy Angels would have sent her packing months ago. As far as she was concerned, if the likes of Breda Walsh slipped through the cracks then the Order might not see the century out!
Only the night before, when Mother had come in to wish the postulants goodnight, she’d found Breda standing in her nightdress looking out a window. The main convent building was in a square and completely hidden from the street beyond the ten-foot-high walls. The postulants’ and novices’ dormitories were on the second floor. Their windows looked out over a pretty internal garden with a huge liquidambar tree in the middle of the lawn, the top of which reached their floor.
‘Just what are you doing, Sister?’ Mother fumed.
‘Er … just standing here, Mother. I’m sorry.’
‘Standing?’
‘I love the tree at night, Mother. I’m sorry.’
‘Sisters of the Good Shepherd do not stand about … looking at trees!’
‘I know, Mother. It’s just that …’
‘Just as we do not run, or speak unless it is absolutely necessary,’ the older woman fumed. ‘We are never late and we open and close doors silently at all times!’
This was in direct reference to Breda’s misdemeanour earlier in the day when she’d come late into the Church Doctrinal class and in her consternation had left the door to clatter shut behind her. Bad enough that it caused everyone to look around, which put them all in the wrong, too – part of the Custody of the Eyes Rule stipulated never looking up when someone came into, or left the room – but the banging door had made Breda forget another even more important Rule. Instead of immediately dropping to her knees to kiss the floor in front of Mother Bernard, who was giving the class, she’d stood at the door mumbling about being ever so sorry to be late!
Mother Bernard had simply exploded, going so far as to question Breda’s vocation right there and then in front of everyone. If she couldn’t get such a simple thing right, then what hope was there for her?
And here she was, the same girl, the night before she was to be formally received into the convent, standing about looking at trees! Mother Holy Angels’s cheeks flamed red with indignation.
‘Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother.’
‘As we do not look at our superiors!’
‘I’m very sorry, Mother.’ Breda’s head fell immediately.
‘Do you still not understand the Custody of the Eyes?’
‘I do, Mother.’
‘Are you sure? Tomorrow you will ask to be received into this community of Sisters for the next two years, on the understanding that you fully intend making vows to live here with us for the rest of your life!’
‘I do realise that, Mother,’ Breda said with her eyes downcast. ‘And with the Grace of God I will try to correct myself.’
‘Very well,’ the Novice Mistress sighed, ‘then I ask each and every one of you to pray for Breda Walsh as well as yourselves, because she does seem to be taking a very long time to learn the most basic aspects of our Rule.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ the six other voices chorused.
Special friendships were discouraged, and Cecilia seriously tried to comply with this rule. But Breda sometimes seemed to be more a force of nature than a person. How could you not love the sun or thrill to the sound of thunder? She and Breda no longer sat next to each other in the refectory, nor knelt together in chapel and they avoided each other at recreation as Mother Holy Angels had requested, and yet their friendship blossomed. In the main it was unspoken. When something struck them as funny they would turn to each other before they had time to think. Neither of them seemed able to help it.
All meals were taken in silence, apart from the Sister whose turn it was to stand at the rostrum to read to the whole congregation. At breakfast the week before, Mother Holy Angels had rushed in from outside to interrupt Mother Mary John of the Transfiguration, who was reading aloud from The Lives of the Saints, to give two serious announcements. Everyone had put down their cutlery and waited, eyes on their plates, all of them very alert. Cecilia had tingled with excitement but also with dread. The one other time the Silence had been interrupted in this way was when Reverend Mother had come in to tell them that the American President, John Kennedy, had been assassinated. So something momentous must have happened. Had war broken out? Was some other terrible disaster unfolding as they sat there quietly eating their meal? Could the Holy Father in Rome have taken ill?
But Mother’s first message was that Sister Cyril would be teaching correct shoe-cleaning procedure after Benediction that evening. And the second was that as St Augustine had deemed excessive eating and drinking unholy, the postulants were not to have more water than what was absolutely required when they were cleaning their teeth.
Cecilia’s and Breda’s eyes had met across the tables. When Mother left the room, they had both raised an empty hand to their mouths at exactly the same time, as though gulping down water from
a glass. For the rest of the day they’d had trouble suppressing laughter every time they’d caught each other’s eye. Perhaps it was wrong, but until someone showed Cecilia the papal decree that outlawed laughter she thought … what harm?
Just on six-thirty a.m. the door to the dormitory creaked open, a two-second flicker before the place was blazing with fluorescent light, and the rotund body of the Novice Mistress was among them, walking up the aisle between the beds calling, ‘Praise be to Jesus’, her stern face expressionless as she waited for each half-asleep postulant to return the phrase.
The mumbled responses were thick with sleep. Praise be to Jesus. They pushed off their bedclothes and sank to their knees by their beds. O praise be to Jesus. All kneeling now and praying together. O praise be to Jesus …
It’s on. I’m on the way. Cecilia wanted to yell out the excitement that bubbled up inside her; instead she buried her face in her hands and tried to concentrate on the prayer.
O Jesus, through the most pure heart of Mary, I offer thee all the joys, prayers, work and sufferings of this day …
At the end of the morning offering, she rose from the floor, drew the curtains around her bed, pulled off her long nightdress and slipped the long black petticoat over herself. Then the black stockings, followed by the black serge dress pulled in at the waist by a leather belt. The cape and white collar would come later.
She picked up her towel, pushed back the curtains surrounding her bed and took a moment to stare at the light beginning to break outside. She longed to look around at the others, if only to give them a smile of encouragement. But this too would be against the rules, and anyway it was important to get down quickly to have a good wash in the little warm water allowed in the mornings.
When she’d first arrived at the convent, one bath a week had seemed outrageous. Her own sour smell under the black dress still occasionally distressed her to the point of tears, but as the days and months wore on she got better at accepting it. Putting aside such petty concerns brought her closer to God.
When everyone was washed and dressed, the postulants formed a single straight line behind the novices at the top of the stairs to wait for Mother Holy Angels, who would lead them down to the chapel for Lauds, the first liturgy of the day. The Profession ceremony would be part of a High Mass celebrated by the Archbishop later that morning. Cecilia tried to quell the rumbling in her stomach as she stood with the others, hands clasped and eyes down. There would be nothing to eat until the afternoon. She said a quick prayer that her stomach would not betray her during the ceremony.
‘You nervous?’ whispered Breda.
Cecilia nodded. The ceremony would last for at least two hours and, apart from the vows and the sermon, it would be conducted completely in Latin and she was nervous that she’d get something wrong. There was so much to remember. The Novice Mistress had trained them thoroughly, of course. Over and over again they’d sung the hymns, the responses and the order of ceremony, but what if she got tongue-tied when it was her turn to answer the Bishop, or what if she dropped the veil when he gave it to her? What if …? There would be no end to it. Mother Holy Angels would consider any mistake a personal slight.
‘You?’
Breda nodded and then grinned.
‘Are all your brothers coming?’ Breda whispered. Cecilia nodded. ‘Even Dominic?’
Cecilia nodded again and smiled. Breda had been brought up in the city, the eldest of three sisters; she found Cecilia’s stories of growing up on a farm with so many brothers fascinating.
‘Can I meet them today?’
‘Yep. At the lunch when—’ Cecilia flushed when she saw one of the older novices turn around to frown at them. It was so easy to forget about the silence. The words just spilt out. Even now after a whole year!
During the last family visit, three months before, her mother assured her that all six of her older brothers and the younger twins, Declan and Sean, would come to the ceremony. Even Dominic – the eldest, who had more or less cut himself off from the rest of the family, and made it plain that he didn’t approve of what Cecilia was doing – was coming. Her mother had written to him especially, told him that it would mean the world to his only sister. He’d reneged on his hardline stance and had actually written Cecilia a short note to say that he would come and that she could rest assured that he would behave himself, that he loved her and always would. Cecilia had been so touched by the rough note that she’d had to stop herself from crying. She handed back to Mother Holy Angels the two other letters she’d received that day – one from her favourite aunt who was dying in a country hospital, and the other from her mother – but against all the rules she’d kept the note from Dom. What harm would it do to keep something which meant so much to her and nothing to anyone else? She would hide it under her mattress and pull it out occasionally when the loneliness got too hard.
But the Novice Mistress had a sharp eye. That evening Cecilia was chastised in front of the whole community. Punishment for her insubordination was to lie face down on the refectory floor while the rest of the Sisters ate their meal. At the end, every one of the other Sisters in the congregation had stepped over her without a word. Photos, mementoes, letters, any private possession, was against the Rule. To try to keep anything so frivolous as a note from a brother was a serious offence.
Over the past year Cecilia had come to love the Liturgy of the Hours. Entering the ethereal space of the chapel every morning with the pure voices of the community of Sisters surrounding her in chant and song never failed to lift her spirits. She was often tired from not enough sleep, cold in the winter and occasionally hungry too, but the gloomy recesses, the majestic archways under the high vaulted ceiling, made all bodily concerns recede, and exhilaration took over.
Benedictus Dominus Deus Israel; quia visitavit et fecit redemptionem plebi suae …
Blessed be the Lord God of Israel because He hath visited and wrought the redemption of His People …
After all, God was present before her on the altar, and later that morning she would be taking the living Christ into her own body. The miracle of it suffused her innermost soul with joy. Make me worthy to receive you, she prayed over and over. Only say the word and I will be healed. She stared at the mural of Our Lady ascending into Heaven that was above the altar, and then over at the big wooden crucifix nailed to the side pillar where the tortured body of Christ hung, and her whole being was filled with a deep, melancholy joy.
Oh my dearest Lord. God of all the heavens! Today I will share your burdens with an open heart. Today I pledge my life to you!
Illuminare his, qui in tenebris et in umbra mortis sedent, ad dirigendos pedes nostros in viam pacis.
To enlighten them that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death: to direct our feet into the way of peace.
Four hours later, the swell of the organ created a buffer against the mass of curious faces turning to watch the seven postulants, all dressed beautifully as brides, begin their slow, single-file walk up the central aisle of the Convent Chapel, eyes downcast and hands joined.
Behind them came the novices who were to be professed. The whole congregation was singing.
Veni, Creator Spiritus
mentes tuorum visita,
imple superna gratia
Quae tu creasti pectora …
Come Creator Spirit
Fill the minds of Your People
Enkindle in them the fire of Your Love
Cecilia tried to concentrate on the words she was singing, but mixed in with her prayers was an awareness of the soft white lace around the neck of her wedding dress, the nipped-in waist, the covered buttons down the back, and the rather spectacular sight they must be making for those watching in the pews.
In the end, Mother Holy Angels had baulked at loose hair, but as a compromise Cecilia had been allowed to let a few stray curls frame her face. There were no mirrors in the convent, but she was able to see in the window reflection that it looked pretty. Her father would see and b
e pleased.
The male clergy and half-dozen altar boys had made their entrances some minutes before, and the Archbishop, resplendent in an embroidered mitre and magnificent scarlet robes, was waiting by the altar. Stooped and frail, he sat motionless in the enormous carved chair, staring impassively ahead as the fifteen Sisters in all – seven postulants dressed at brides and eight novices in white habits – made their way slowly into the two front pews. In his right hand he held the gold shepherd’s staff of St Peter, and on either side of him stood clusters of priests, eight in all, some old and some young. They were dressed in white lace surplices over long white linen cassocks. One of the younger ones – Cecilia thought it might be Marie Claire’s brother who was a recently ordained Oblate – stood in front of the others swinging a gold thurible of incense. Sweet-smelling smoke drifted in small grey clouds down into the body of the church, and the soft clanking sound made a steady backdrop to the singing.
Most of the Community of Nuns sat in special seats on either wall of the church, but some were up keeping order among the Sacred Heart girls in the section to the right of the altar, and others were at the back singing in the special choir. The centre pews of the church were filled with seculars – the families and friends of the postulants and novices. The enormous space, lighted by masses of candles and the red light from the ruby windows, was alive with the beautiful psalms set to music.
Who is she that cometh forth as the morning rising,
fair as the moon,
bright as the sun
terrible as an army set in battle array.
The Convent Page 4
