by Marian Phair
Coming from the chapel, her rosary beads wrapped around her fingers, she called out to Amie’s retreating back, “You girl! Come here this instance whoever you are, why aren’t you in the Laundry?” Amie turned at the sound of the dreaded voice.
“Oh, I might have known it would be you,” said Sister Mary, reaching her in two strides, “well, answer me girl, why aren’t you at your work?.” She glared at Amie, the huge hairy mole on her chin, moving, as if it had a life of its own whenever she spoke.
“I burnt my hand Sister; I need some salve for the burn.” Amie kept her voice calm and respectful. Inside she was fuming, patronising bitch she thought, and always addressing me as ‘girl”.
Sister Mary took hold of Amie’s wrist and looked at the burn, which had begun to form blisters and was causing Amie considerable discomfort.
“Hurt’s does it?” she asked, still holding Amie’s wrist in a vice-like grip.
“Yes Sister,” said Amie afraid to try and pull her hand away. She did not wish to antagonise the bullying nun, so still keeping her voice polite, she asked, “Can I go now Sister?” Her hand was really painful, the sooner it was treated the better.
“No you may NOT ‘go now’ Bernadette, you will go when I tell you, now back to the Laundry!” She finally let go of Amie’s wrist, watching as she nursed her burnt hand.
“My name is Amie, not Bernadette.” Amie said forcefully. She would not let them steal her identity. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she regretted having said them. Sister Mary swiftly raised her hand, and back-handed her hard across the face, the Rosary leaving an angry mark on her cheek. Amie stood before the nun, head held high, proud and defiant.
“Your name IS Bernadette,” Sister Mary spat at her, shoving her face into Amie’s, causing her to gag on the smell of garlic, coming from the nun’s breath. Without further ado, she grabbed Amie by the collar, almost choking her and marched her into the chapel, forcing her along, almost at a run.
Sister Mary released her so suddenly at the altar steps, that Amie fell forward, putting out her hands to break her fall. She felt the blisters burst open on her burnt hand as she landed on her hands and knees, on the concrete floor.
Bile rose up with the pain and her mouth filled with vomit. She gagged and spewed up over the floor. Disgusted, Sister Mary forced her to lie in a prone position, before the altar, as an act of penance. She ordered Amie to stay there until she was told she could rise.
Lying there on her stomach in her own vomit, on the cold concrete floor, her arms outstretched, Amie contemplated suicide. In her heart she knew she would never be able to kill herself, for in doing so, she would also end the life of her innocent baby. She would have to find a way of escaping from this daily regime of work and prayer.
Amie had watched what the other women did at prayers, and copied the way they blessed themselves, her lips moving silently, as if joining in their supplication, the prayers alien to her.
She would have to find a way of getting out, but the doors were kept locked at all times. The door at the back was her only way out. It was used by the van delivery boys, who fetched and carried the laundry from the hotels and institutions. It was always guarded, by two nuns, who kept a close eye on things as the vans were loaded and off-loaded. Then the door would be secured again until the next delivery, the keys were kept by the nuns, on a chain worn around their waist. Amie knew, in order to escape the convent, she would have to enlist the help of other inmates. She needed a plan of action.
The bell rang, calling them into the dining hall for their evening meal. It was usually a chunk of dry bread and a bowl of meatless stew, with bits of unidentifiable vegetables, floating in the watery liquid, or a few boiled potatoes with a small knob of butter on the top. Breakfast was usually oaten meal, which had been ground to make porridge and supper was the same, Sunday being the only day of the week when meat of some form was served.
On Christmas day, the only day they were given off work as Amie had discovered, they had served up chicken, with boiled potatoes and peas. The priest who came to give Mass was treated to a feast of traditional Christmas fare, with all the trimmings. He, along with the much hated Sister Mary, were the only truly fat people in the place. The Mother Superior, was so painfully thin, she looked as if she was on the same near to starvation diet, as the unfortunate women in her care. The difference being, she was not forced to work ten hours a day, in grueling conditions, as were her charges.
Amie had not felt the baby move once in the past two days. She thought it would have been more active now she had less than two months to go. She had just decided that she would get up off the cold draughty floor and to hell with Sister Mary. She heard someone approaching, and then Sister Bridget’s voice spoke in her ear.
“What on earth are you doing lying on your stomach on the cold floor, are you trying to catch pneumonia?” she asked her, “come, I will give you a hand to get up before you catch your death of cold.”
Sister Bridget helped Amie to her feet. Amie was stiff and sore from lying so long in the prone position. As she was being helped up, the room started to spin around her. She leant heavily against Sister Bridget, afraid of passing out.
Sister Bridget turned her nose up at the stench of dried vomit on Amie’s clothes, but said nothing as she supported the girl, helping her onto a hard wooden pew.
“Sit here quietly for a while, until you feel a little better, then we will get you cleaned up,” she saw Amie’s eyes travel to the vomit on the floor, “Don’t worry about that, I will get someone to clean it up.” She did not need to be told what had happened here, her instinct told her Sister Mary was behind the girl’s plight.
They were all ‘girls’ to her, they were her ‘children’, all with broken hearts and spirits, except this one. She still had fire in her belly and bounced back, no matter what life offered her.
Sister Bridget had watched Amie, without her realising she was being watched. She bucked the system in a quiet, rebellious way, without causing trouble for the other girls, as she struggled to come to terms with her lot here in the Magdalene. She had seen Amie at lights-out, defiantly stripping naked in full view of everyone in the room, before donning her nightgown, while the others followed the rules, dressing and undressing from underneath their nightgowns.
Amie walked with head held high, while the other women’s heads were bowed, their eyes downcast. Amie looked into the eyes of the nuns, when spoken too, and not down at her boots. Yes, Sister Bridget admired this girl’s courage and her spirit. She saw a lot of herself in Amie.
She had been spirited herself as a child, (she had been called Molly then), but unlike Amie, her spirit had been broken. Sister Bridget fingered the scar running down her face, as she remembered how her own mother had disfigured her, and she had been forced to hide away from the world, behind the walls of the convent.
It had been a hot summer’s day; the hay-making was taking place down on the farm. The whole family was involved in this activity, men, women and children, all had their part to play at hay-making time.
Molly was out chasing butterflies among the swathes, whilst the rest of the family took a rest from the hard, sweaty work. They washed the dust from their mouths with cups of tea and ate the egg and onion sandwiches, prepared that morning by her mother, in readiness for the fields.
Molly’s mother was a hard, stern woman, and ruled her children with a rod of iron. She had miscarried four of her children, but had raised ten more to adulthood, before her youngest, Molly, was born. All were married or living away from home, except for seventeen year old Mathew, and her two youngest, eleven year old Robbie, and five year old Molly.
The hardship her mother had endured, raising her children and working long hours in the fields, beside her husband, had aged her long before her time. She was worn out, dried up and bitter, hating everything about her life of drudgery, always letting her family know of the sacrifices she made for them.
“Go and find your father, t
ell him his teas getting cold and the flies are after his sandwiches,” Molly’s mother had told her.
Five year old Molly had gone skipping off across the field to look for him, when she spotted a Red Admiral butterfly, sunning itself on a blade of grass. To her it was the most beautiful of all the butterflies and the first one she had seen in the fields, apart from the Cabbage White. She tip-toed up for a closer look, but before she reached it, it had flown off, flying and settling on the swathes, before taking off again. Molly chased after it, trying her hardest to catch it, all thoughts of finding her father, gone from her head. The butterfly flew into the open barn and she followed it.
Her father stood holding something in his hand, close to his belly. Molly could not see what it was, but a golden stream of water was shooting out of it. Molly moved nearer, until she could see the water was coming out of a hole, in the fat pink thing her daddy held in his hand.
“Does it hurt?” She asked him, as he finished urinating, and began to shake the drops from his penis. Her father had not moved, nor attempted to cover himself, and just stood with his penis in his hand, looking at her with a strange expression on his face.
“No,” he answered, “it doesn’t hurt, it feels nice. Would you like to touch it? Come, give me your hand, it won’t hurt you.” She moved even closer, trusting him, her eyes on the curious object he held in his hand.
“I promise it won’t hurt you.” His voice going all strange, he reached out, and taking her hand, he placed it on his penis.
“See, I told you it wouldn’t hurt,” he said, covering her hand with his and moving it up and down the shaft of his penis.
“What is it? Why is it stuck to your belly?” she asked him.
“It lives with daddy, in his trousers. It’s his ferret, do you like him?”
“Yes, he is all soft and warm, what’s his name?” Molly asked.
Her father continued stroking his shaft, his hand covering her small one as he moved it up and down, “his name is Barney, and he likes you stroking him. Would you like to sit with daddy for a while? And I will let you play with Barney?” He drew her over to a bale of hay, out of sight of the field, and pulled her onto his knee. He proceeded to show her how ‘Barney’ liked to be held, while he was being stroked. When he ejaculated, his sperm shot out with such force it landed several feet away from where they sat. Molly had cried, because she had made Barney ‘sick’. Her father told her not to cry, holding her close to him and smoothing her blonde curls, making shushing noises, until she stopped. “Barney is very happy, that’s what he does when he is happy. You must not tell your mammy about Barney, she doesn’t like ferrets, and she will kill him.” He held his now, flaccid penis, up for her to see,” saying, “look Barney has gone to sleep, kiss him night-night, and daddy will hide him and if you’re a good girl you can play with him again.”
By the age of six, ’Barney’ was rubbing himself against her honey pot, as her father called it.
One day she had surprised her brother Mathew, masturbating behind the outhouse. She had gone into the house crying, looking for her daddy, but he wasn’t there. Her mother was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink.
“What’s wrong with you, why are you crying?” her mother asked.
Molly knew she could not tell her mother the real reason why, so she lied.
“I fell and hurt my knee,” she told her, hoping she would not take too close a look at her knees. Her mother gave her a biscuit and a glass of milk to pacify her, and she sat at the kitchen table, watching her mother prepare the evening meal, while she ate and drank.
“Mammy, do you like ferrets?” Molly asked as she munched on her biscuit.
“Whatever made you ask me a question like that?” said her mother. She would never understand the workings of a child’s mind, she told herself, shaking her head.
“No,” she answered, “I hate ferrets; they are dirty, smelly things. Your father wanted to keep ferrets but I would never allow them on the farm. The only use they have is flushing out rabbits and they are not worth the bother of looking after them.”
Through the window Molly spied her father coming up the lane and ran out to meet him all excited. “Daddy, daddy, Mathew’s stolen Barney, he was playing with him behind the outhouse.” Her father picked her up, giving her a piggy- back ride to the house.
“Did Mathew see you?” he asked her.
“No,” she replied, “but he better not let mammy catch him.” She knew for certain now her daddy had not lied to her, her mammy hated ferrets!
“Don’t worry, I will talk to Mathew, I will get Barney back but you must not tell a soul about this, it is our little secret, promise daddy.”
“I promise, cross my heart.” Molly told him, drawing a cross on her chest with her fingers.
By the age of eight, she was being groomed by her father for further abuse. Molly was almost eleven and her father was having full penetrative sex with her, creeping into her room at night, holding his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries as he ravished her young body.
Molly started menstruating on her twelfth birthday. Her father left her alone for a while, but before long he was abusing her again. She felt so alone, so dirty, she had no one to confide in. No one seemed to notice how quiet and withdrawn she had become, or how thin. If they had noticed, they did nothing about it.
Molly always tried to sit at the back of the Church, making herself as small as possible, so as not to be noticed by the priest. She felt he could see into her very soul, and would know just how unworthy she was, sitting there before him.
Molly was fourteen and pregnant with her father’s child, and unable to stand the shame and guilt any longer. Feeling she had no one other than the local priest to turn to for help and advice, she plucked up the courage to enter the confessional. She told the priest her story from the beginning, all about Barney, and what had followed, leaving out the fact that she was now with child. That would come later.
The priest heard Molly’s confession and told her she would need counseling, and that he would help her. Molly kept the appointment he had given her and he opened the door to her, himself.
“Come in child, it’s my housekeeper’s day off, so no one will disturb us,” leading the way into the parlour, he seated her on a chair before him.
“Now tell me again what you told me in the confessional, you will need to tell me everything in detail, if I am to help you,” he sat looking at her, waiting for her to speak. He broke her long silence, saying, “what if I start you off. “Tell me about ‘Barney’ you mentioned him before, at the start of your story.” He could see Molly was reluctant to go into details, her anguish showing in her eyes, but finally, she related the past events from the beginning. When she had told him everything, the priest had exposed himself to her, telling her to show him how she had played with Barney. Frightened, she had tried to leave, but he held her down, pinning her beneath him. He put a hand up her skirt and ripped off her panties, then raped her, telling her she was a ‘good girl’ when she stopped struggling against him. Finished with her, he left her lying on the floor, while he wiped himself on a tissue. Throwing the box of tissues down beside her, he ordered her to tidy herself up.
“Now get yourself off home, mention this to no one, or I will see that you are sent far away, and you will never see your father and mother again.”
Molly ran from the house sobbing all the way home.
“What on earth have you been up to?” her mother asked, seeing the state she was in. Molly told her between sobs, what had happened, and before she knew it everything came pouring out. Her words tumbling over themselves as she poured out her heart.
She saw the look of disbelief on her mother’s face, as she told her about the priest raping her, the abuse from her father, and the fact that she was now carrying his child.
“You spawn of the Devil,” shouted her mother, “God forgive you, for the lies you’re telling against your own father who wouldn’t harm a single hair on your head, t
hen to go to confession, spreading your wicked lies to the Father, getting him involved in your shameful goings on.”
Her mother was beside herself with rage, ranting on at the sobbing child who stood before her.
“Then you go and accuse the good father, of raping you. Holy Mary mother of God! Forgive me for giving birth to this child.” Just then her father walked through the door.
Her mother turned to him saying, “You should hear the filthy lies coming from this one’s mouth, about yourself, and the Priest. She says she is carrying your child. Did you ever hear such wicked lies? Take your belt to her.” At her father’s refusal to beat Molly, her mother went berserk.
“With child are you?, she screamed, “by some dirty little bastard you’ve lain on your back for,” she hit Molly such a hard blow to the head that she fell to the floor in a heap, “I’ll kick the bastard out of your womb.” She looked at Molly curled in a ball at her feet, kicking her several times in the stomach, before being dragged away by her husband, kicking and screaming.
“Leave the girl alone, or I’ll kick the fucking shite out of you.” he warned her. Molly had aborted the same night.
Molly had tried to run away from home before her mother could carry out her threat to have her put into an institution. After dragging her back home, her mother had attacked her with a kitchen knife, opening her pretty face from brow to chin, scarring her for life.
The scar Molly now bore on her face paled, before the ones she bore inside.
On leaving the hospital, where surgeons had tried to repair her damaged face, her widowed aunt Lily, living in the next county, had taken Molly into her home and cared for her. Molly’s mother would not let her back into the family home. Her mother had turned her back on her, disowning her completely. Molly never saw her parents or siblings again.
Molly’s aunt Lily had managed to get her into the local school. Molly tried her best to make new friends, and to finish her education, but no one wanted to be seen with the ‘new’ girl with the disfigured face.
