But the bad days. Oh, the bad days. The days when her personality asserted itself were torture. At the end of such days she was overcome with a weary pessimism. Back to square one, just like the man in the Greek myth who was destined to pull his heavy boulder up the mountain forever. Such effort, only to have to repeat that effort again and again and again. On such days outrage would rise in her, uninvited and without warning, over some silly thing, like being chastised for being late when Mother had asked her to do something that made her late. It’s not fair. She’d been on the point of screaming at the Novice Mistress. You know why I’m late. You made me late. Why are you doing this to me?
On the bad days she was riddled with longings she couldn’t seem to subdue. Longings for impossible things like fresh oranges or the feel of sunshine on her limbs, for a swim on a hot day, or for throwaway pads instead of the rags they were issued when their monthly periods came around. On good days she joyfully accepted the humiliation of having to convey the small bag of bloody rags down to the laundry in front of everyone. It was nothing, a small cross to bear, and if she approached it with an open heart it would bring her nearer to the divine sufferings of her Saviour.
Other days she could barely bring herself to pick up the bag. Only the fetid smell of the dried blood getting stronger could make her do it. And when the bag of rags was in the hands of the old women whose job it was to boil them clean, the overwhelming relief sent her into a fresh spin of angst. In truth she had no right to feel such gladness at being out of that sweltering, stinking room, away from that semi-daft fat woman who took her bag of rags with a knowing imbecilic grin. Oh, this relief was more akin to pagan ecstasy than to the quiet inner joy that St Augustine described as befitting a true Christian.
On such days she couldn’t win. She was a cat turning around and around in circles chasing her own tail. What was the purpose?
If her soul was a garden to be tended and cultivated with the fresh water of daily prayer and sacrifice, then it took monumental effort to keep the weeds at bay.
Cecilia wandered over to the stairs at the northern end of the old laundries and climbed as far as she could. A bundle of barbed wire at the top was still there. She thought of the girl who’d tried to jump over and broken both her feet, and the other one who’d torn her hands trying to get past it. Trish … Patricia … or maybe it was Nola. But the name eluded her. Trish or Nola’s bid for freedom had surprised them all because although she was bright and cheeky, the small sharp-faced girl had never caused any real trouble.
Cecilia sat for a while halfway up the iron stairs, resting her back against the banister, and thought of the desperation the girl must have felt.
On her way out towards the cafe, Cecilia noticed a hunched-up figure tucked away between the chapel wall and the old hall. The woman’s face was hidden in her hands. Cecilia hesitated and then walked over and stood for a moment a few feet from the woman.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked quietly.
The woman flinched at the sound of a voice so near. She looked up and tried to smile.
‘No, but thanks anyway.’
The crying had made her eyes puffy and red and her face blotchy, but Cecilia could see that the woman, probably about fifty, had once been lovely looking. The good skin and the large hazel eyes were still there, under the nicely dyed red hair that was pulled back with pins. Her slim frame was dressed for the warm day in a cotton dress, tucked tightly around her knees.
‘Let me at least go and buy you a cup of coffee.’ Cecilia suggested. ‘It would be no trouble. I’ll bring it back.’
But the woman shook her head again.
Not wanting to intrude, Cecilia turned away.
‘It’s my first time back,’ the woman blurted out. ‘I suppose I’m in shock.’
‘Oh … really?’ Cecilia waited.
‘This place stole my childhood,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I was here from the age of thirteen until I was twenty-four.’
‘What years?’
‘1961 to 1973.’
Cecilia gulped in surprise and sat down next to the woman. ‘Where were you before?’ she asked, a dull roar of dread beginning in her head.
‘St Joseph’s in Ballarat, which was even worse than here, if that’s possible.’
‘And before that?’
‘My mum died when I was eight and my brother was six, and there was no one to take us. Dad drank and … it was all hopeless.’
‘So it was hard for you here?’ Cecilia murmured.
‘I was bashed by the older girls because I was pretty and they were jealous of me, and I was belted a few times by those auxiliary monsters too. You know about those nuns that weren’t really nuns?’
‘Yes.’
The woman threw her head back and laughed.
‘The foot soldiers, we used to call them.’
‘Yes.’
‘But I reserve my real hatred for the proper nuns.’
‘Really?’ Cecilia gulped.
‘This was a jail,’ the woman spat angrily, ‘and what had I done to deserve jail? What had most of us done? Nothing. I just ended up here because I had nowhere to go.’ She looked hard at Cecilia. ‘I came here at thirteen and never even saw a book or had a pen in my hand! No school. Just work. That is just criminal.’
‘Yes,’ Cecilia sighed.
‘Just work and … bloody prayers all day, every day!’ The woman’s mouth was tight with fury. ‘We couldn’t move but we had to pray about it. Fat lot of good it did us. Or them, for that matter. I would like someone to pay for what went on here. I really would.’
Cecilia nodded.
‘There might be some compensation …’
‘I don’t want money!’ the woman cried. ‘I want someone to admit what happened to me!’
Cecilia nodded and said nothing.
‘It wasn’t just the work. It was the horrible way they treated us. The lack of any …’ But the woman couldn’t go on. Tears were gushing from her eyes, but she was wiping them away angrily. She had things to say and she was going to say them whether Cecilia wanted to hear it or not. ‘I was a young girl with no one, and the lack of any understanding or kindness was just unbelievable.’
‘Tell me,’ Cecilia whispered. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about it. It’s over now. What good can come from going over this stuff?
The woman stood up abruptly and Cecilia suddenly recognised her. That same oval face had once been extraordinarily beautiful. She saw her again as that gutsy sixteen-year-old who’d stood up to Sister Bernard in the dormitory that night.
‘You worked in the mangle room,’ Cecilia said quietly. ‘I remember you.’
The woman stared at Cecilia in surprise, her eyes narrowed slowly. ‘Yes.’
They stared at each other.
The woman was the first to turn away. She sat back down as though her outburst had depleted her of everything. She put her face in her hands and leant her elbows on her knees, shuddered a few times and was still.
‘Marie?’ Cecilia said.
‘Yvonne, actually,’ the woman whispered. ‘I wasn’t even allowed my own name.’
‘It was about having a new start,’ Cecilia murmured.
‘We were children,’ the woman said dully. ‘So many of us had had terrible things happen to us before we even got here. But we weren’t allowed to talk about it.’ She was staring at her shaking hands. ‘We were just kids and we needed to tell somebody.’
‘Yes.’
‘I know your face too,’ the woman said after a while.‘You were one of the young Sisters, weren’t you? Forgive me. Some of the nuns … were kind enough. They did their best, anyway. It’s just the shock of being here and remembering it all.’
Cecilia took her hand and held it. ‘Don’t apologise.’
‘It is just that all the horrible stuff stands out,’ the woman whispered, ‘the hard work and the lack of love. No schooling. That’s what you remember.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know that lovely garden out the front?’
Cecilia nodded.
‘We never saw it. We never even knew it was there!’ The women gave a loud harsh laugh. ‘Can you believe that?’ She stared intently at Cecilia. ‘Did any of the nuns ever talk about why we weren’t allowed to go and walk around in the lovely garden?’
Cecilia shook her head.
‘Remember Mother Bernard?’
‘Yes’.
‘She cut off my hair … that bitch.’
‘I remember,’ Cecilia sighed.
1965
Cecilia knew something was up when the girls were called together before breakfast. All two hundred and forty of them lined up in rows, sullen and silent.
Mother Mary Bernard was out the front.
‘Someone brought these items into Sacred Heart, and I want to know who it was,’ she huffed, holding up a cheap compact, some rouge, two lipsticks and some black mascara. ‘This was found in the dormitory, and I want to know who brought it in. Right now.’
No one spoke. No one said a word. The auxiliaries walked around the edges of the group looking out for any note of insubordination.
‘It would do you all well to remember that you weren’t asked to come here. You were put here because no one else would have you. And so you will abide by the rules. If I don’t have an answer by the end of the day, then every single one of you will be punished.’
The day went on. Mass and then work and then prayers, and Cecilia forgot about the incident. It wasn’t her night on dormitory duty, so it was quite by accident that she came upon the scene.
She’d been asked by Mother Holy Angels to find Mother Bernard to ask about something completely unrelated, and she planned to catch the nun before she retired to her quarters. But when she got to the dormitory she stopped in the doorway. All the girls were standing mute, watching three girls who were kneeling on the floor in front of Mother Bernard, who was walking up and down in front of them.
‘At last!’ Particles of spit were flying from the woman’s mouth. ‘At long last you’ve seen fit to own up –’ she looked dramatically at her watch, ‘– twelve hours later!’ She grabbed the nearest girl by the scruff of the neck. ‘And what have you to say to the rest of us who have been waiting all day for your confession?’
‘Sorry, Mother,’ the girl whimpered.
‘Are you sure now?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘You do realise that you’re going to have to learn a lesson, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
The nun motioned to the two nearest auxiliaries, who came forward with the scissors. One held the girl tightly by the shoulders while the other chopped off her hair. Mother Bernard moved along to the next kneeling girl.
‘And what do you have to say for yourself?’
‘Sorry, Mother.’
Many of the onlooking girls sobbed as the auxiliaries methodically chopped off the hair of the next girl. The hair piled up on the polished floorboards, massing like clouds, all shades of brown, clumps of it, tumbling soft and curly, some of it dead straight, all around the kneeling girls.
‘There are consequences when we deliberately flout rules.’ Mother Bernard was puffing, two bright spots burning like angry flames on her cheeks by the time she got to the third girl, who was not crying.
‘And what do you have to say for yourself?’ the nun huffed.
The pretty girl said nothing.
‘Well?’
The girl looked up slowly, straight up at the nun and … laughed.
Sister Bernard reared back in shock for a couple of moments and everyone, including Cecilia, stopped breathing. The crying stopped. Not one of them was brave enough to smile, but it was there in their eyes anyway, a sort of pride that one of their number had dared to be so outrageous. To laugh in Mother Bernard’s face … Oh that was … That sudden laugh had opened a skylight inside every head, bringing with it a sudden gust of elation. Hope crackled recklessly about the dormitory. One day … one day … one day this would be over. One day they would be free.
That kind of laughter was dangerous. Along with the pride came a new level of dread. What would happen now?
‘I’ll ask again,’ Mother Bernard said very quietly. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’
‘Nothing,’ the girl said.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Mother Bernard was incredulous.
‘Nothing,’ she said again.
‘You still have nothing to say?’ The nun’s voice was quieter now.
The girl nodded.
‘Then we’d better help you find your voice.’
The nun’s hand shot out and grabbed the girl by the ponytail. She pulled her roughly to her feet, then motioned to one of the auxiliaries who immediately went to work with her thick leather belt. The girl’s dressing-gown flew open and her nightie became tangled up around her knees and thighs as time after time the leather cracked sharply on the soft skin of her legs and bottom. She screamed and cried and then collapsed to the floor as the other girls looked on, terrified. But the beating went on. Cecilia, too, watched in horror.
‘Have you anything to say now?’ The nun pulled the girl up to her feet again by the ponytail.
The girl’s eyes were wide with pain and terror, but she shook her head defiantly. ‘No,’ she said loudly in her deep voice.
It was at that point that the older nun caught sight of Cecilia watching from the doorway. ‘Sister?’
Cecilia gulped and hurried forward with the note.
‘Thank you, Sister.’ Mother Bernard’s heavy face was red with exertion as she read the note. She handed it back without looking at Cecilia. ‘Tell Mother I’ll be there when I’m finished here.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Cecilia looked over to where Marie was now kneeling alongside the other two, shuddering and shocked.
‘Open defiance cannot be tolerated, Sister,’ Mother Bernard muttered.
‘Yes, Mother.’
Peach
Unlike the rest of us, Cassie has never been one for sidestepping issues. There’s just the four of us – Stella, Det, Cassie and me – and we’re not long into the meal, which I have to say is fantastic even though I cooked it, but I can feel that Cassie is on the verge.
‘Okay, I have something to say.’ Cassie puts down her knife and fork and waits for the rest of us to go quiet. ‘All three of you have me deeply concerned.’
I laugh and wait for the blast.
‘So lay it on the line then.’ Det serves herself a third helping of potatoes. ‘By the way, Peach,’ she raises one eyebrow at me, ‘these potatoes are awesome. What’s on the top?’
‘Just parmesan.’ I grin back. ‘Glad you like them.’
‘You, for starters,’ Cassie cuts in sharply, looking hard at Det.
‘What about me?’
‘You have done nothing about finding the father of this … kid you are about to have.’
Everyone stops and waits for Det to say something.
‘Well, have you?’
‘No,’ Det says.
‘Also, you have no … long-term plans for housing.’
‘She does!’ Stella snaps. ‘Here.’
‘I mean long term.’
‘My name is on the list for—’
‘Get real, Det! People are on those housing lists for years!’
‘So she stays here,’ I bluster nervously, wondering how long Mum and Dad meant her to go on living in the bungalow.
Cassie ignores me. ‘And Stella, you know I think you’re fantastic, but you’ve got to do something about your weight. You don’t want to go into Year Twelve looking like an elephant.’
‘I know.’ Stella squirms.
‘And Peach,’ Cassie hardly hesitates, ‘you’ve got to deal with the mother issue. I can tell it’s eating you up.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Stella says quietly.
‘For both of your information.’ I try to sound dry and worldly but it comes out more defensive than anyt
hing. ‘My mother is overseas looking after her dying mother-in-law.’
‘You know what I mean!’ Cassie is exasperated. ‘All right, so let’s consider each situation in turn.’
‘Hey, let’s not,’ Det cuts in through a mouthful of potatoes. She swings a fork in Cassie’s direction. ‘We really appreciate your insightful analysis on how fucked up we are, Cass. But I, for one, don’t feel like hearing it right now. Chill out and enjoy the food, eh?’
‘Chill out?’ Cassie counters furiously. ‘That’s all you can say these days, Det. Well, I can tell you that in a few months’ time you won’t be chilling out!’
‘Everything is under control.’
‘I know for a fact it isn’t.’
‘Listen, Cassie, just …’
‘Have you organised anything yet?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Any clothes, for example?’
‘What?’
Det looks genuinely perplexed and I have this weird flash – which, if true, is too scary to be funny – that she might have actually forgotten about being pregnant.
‘For the kid!’
‘Well … er … not really?’
‘So what is it going to wear?’ Cassie snaps.
‘Well …’
‘You have to dress a baby, Det. In clean clothes. Every day. Sometimes a few times a day because it vomits and shits all the time.’
‘I know that.’
‘And where’s it going to sleep?’
Det looks uncharacteristically flustered. ‘Once the paintings for my show are finished I’ll get onto all that … kind of stuff. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Oh, right,’ Cassie sings sarcastically. ‘So easy to get a million difficult things sorted in about two days. So very easy.’
‘Listen, don’t worry,’ Det mumbles. ‘I’m going to be okay.’
‘And if it comes early?’
‘Shit! I don’t know, Cass.’
‘You’ve got to get sensible before then or …’ ‘Or what?’
Cassie gives a deep sigh and shakes her head. ‘You should contact your family. Your mother in particular.’
The Convent Page 24
