Quench the Lamp

by Alice Taylor

  Reluctant to leave the secure ground of platonic friendship for the quicksand of romantic encounters, I walked myself home for many months, much to the annoyance of my best friend Ann, who declared that if I did my Leaving Cert without having been kissed my education would not be complete. She brought great pressure to bear and, after having failed to persuade me for some time, she decided finally that on St Stephen’s night of my last year at school I was to be introduced into the kissing world, under any circumstances.

  In the course of that night I met a young lad who was also doing his Leaving Cert but was away at boarding-school during term time. He was good fun and interesting, though he did not set my hair on fire, which the more experienced Ann had assured me was not necessary, though I had my doubts. After the dance we walked out along the road to the house where I was staying with friends. As we walked we chatted and it struck me that I would be feeling much more relaxed were it not for the prospect of the kissing which I expected was going to be part of the proceedings.

  “Do you know something” I said to him, “I’ve never been kissed before and I’m not so sure that I’m going to like it.”

  He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me with such a shocked look on his face that I started laughing, and when he had recovered he joined in.

  “God,” he said, “you believe in the direct approach!”

  “Well, it avoids complications,” I said, “and I’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “Do you think we should start practising?” he asked, still laughing.

  “Well, if we do, we’ll wait until we get out under those trees further on,” I said, because I was definitely not going to start practising right there in front of Mrs Lane’s house. A sufferer from insomnia, Mrs Lane was for ever telling my mother about the hours she spent looking out of the window at night and how long and boring it was. I had no intention of shortening the night for her.

  When we arrived beneath the trees he put his arm around me and, looking over his shoulder, I could see the moon through the trees. I wondered would the moon still be in the same place after my first kiss and would I still be the same person. It was a strange, mildly exciting experience but his nose was cold, which put a slight damper on the proceedings. The moon did not dance in the sky nor the earth shake beneath my feet, and I told my companion that while it was OK I felt that kissing was a bit overrated. He assured me laughingly that it could improve with repetition, but it was a bad night for practising as a freezing grey frost covered the countryside, so we soon parted company.

  The following week he went back to school and shortly afterwards I received from him a letter telling me that we would have to get together again at Easter to put in more practice. It had been his first kiss as well. He had not told me at the time, he wrote, because he had not wanted to undermine my confidence in his ability.

  “You Can’t Beat The Nuns”

  IN MY MOTHER’S book the nuns were without equal when it came to making a thorough job of anything. So she insisted that all her daughters spend time with them in a domestic-science school to learn the basic skills for survival and the social graces that the nuns alone could impart; to prepare us for life, as she put it. I protested vigorously, as the last thing I wanted was to spend a year locked up with nuns. My mother, however, reckoned that if my older sisters had needed house-training I, because I was the youngest and most useless, was in even greater need of it. My protests went unheard; on occasions such as this when conflicting opinions clashed my mother always won: she became deaf and dumb and totally unmovable, and all arguments simply ground to a halt. A side of her that was seldom seen, this steely determination came to the surface when she deemed it necessary for the common good; if something was right then no amount of arguing would make it wrong, and vice versa, end of story.

  So one September day I found myself in my late teens heading reluctantly towards Drishane Convent, some fifteen miles back the road from our home. In every brood ability may be unevenly distributed, and when domestic skills were allocated I was under the hen’s wing. On my very first day in Drishane I blotted my copybook by telling the domestic-science teacher, Sister Benignus – or Benny as she was generally known to her respectful pupils – that rice pudding should be flavoured with pepper. She raised her eyes to heaven and announced in regretful tones, “You do not appear to take after your sister Clare.” And from then on for the entire year I was to live in the shadow of my more accomplished sister.

  The head nun was a chubby, chirpy, correct little person with sparkling brown eyes and a wobbling chin. She always reminded me of a sprightly robin, and this birdlike appearance was emphasised by the Drishane coif which was peaked at the front. She was a stickler for correct behaviour and demanded that we all walk tall, and when she entered the dining-room she went around poking us between the shoulder-blades and saying in her chirpy voice, “Deportment, girls, deportment: always sit up straight and do not slouch.” She believed in decorum in all things, and in law and order, and she ran her school on the well-oiled wheels of good planning and orderly routine. Her twenty-eight pupils were divided into four groups and rotated between cookery, sewing, housecraft and poultry; she made it clear that in each aspect this was to be a year of self-improvement for each of us, in which everything, no matter how trivial, was to be done well.

  We were awakened at 7.30 every morning by Sister Ita clapping her hands along the dormitory where we slept in curtained cubicles; then she chanted “Benedicamus Domino”, to which we were all supposed to answer “Deo Gratias” and jump out of bed. That was the theory; the reality, however, was that most of us groaned and complained and did not feel in the least like offering thanks. I would hang in there as long as I possibly could, but Sister Ita kept on going up and down until she had us all dug out of our beds. Beside each bed was a little dressing-table with an earthenware basin and a jug of cold water, with the aid of which we washed ourselves – upper half first from top down; then lower half from bottom up.

  We clattered along the polished wooden corridors and down the wide stairs – using a different side each week to balance the wear – and out into the grey dawn. On winter mornings the old castle which stood beside the path through the garden glistened with frost, while light poured out through the stained-glass windows of the little chapel. If any wisps of sleep still lingered in our brains the sharp air of early morning soon cleared them away, and by the time we had climbed the timber spiral stairs to the chapel our minds were as alert and receptive as they would ever be. With the coming of spring this early morning walk was a lovely introduction to the day as the mist rose from the lake beyond the lawn that sloped away on the left-hand side of the path and the dew sparkled on the overhanging trees which surrounded the lake.

  Some of the grounds around Drishane were landscaped but saved from monotony by the old castle and the hidden corners around the grey, stone buildings. The gardens and lawns extended to the playing pitches and the quiet fields of the convent farm stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a gracious, restful place and I passed a varied and interesting year there in blessedly tranquil surroundings. We were taught all aspects of cookery, household management and needlework; and although not naturally endowed with domestic skills, I learned that with good planning and organisation the tedium of housework could be reduced to a minimum.

  In the laundry the ironing of linen table-cloths and serviettes was carried out according to a set ritual. When it came to instructions on how to iron a man’s shirt I expressed strenuous reservations but Sister Ita simply swept them aside. The laundry itself was a large, flag-stoned room with big earthenware sinks set against the walls all around, and there was a huge old iron pullout clothes dryer for use in the winter months. The windows of the laundry looked out over the orchard where in summer the clothes fluttered on the line between the apple trees.

  While one group was busy in the laundry another prepared lunch in the kitchen, a big airy room with a red, quarry-tiled floor and tall win
dows which looked out over the sweeping driveway, playing pitches and farm fields. It was dominated by a huge Aga cooker. It was my first experience with an Aga and I decided that if in later years I should ever be confined to a kitchen an Aga would be my working companion. It was big, roomy, comfortable and tolerant, almost like a caring grandmother sitting in the corner. It had a big boiling ring that could carry many pots and a simmering ring of the same size, together with hot ovens and gentle warming ones.

  Off the kitchen was a long pantry with a wire-mesh window and long, timber, glass-fronted presses. On a table under the window we made butter-rolls for the afternoon tea. If the cooking group were efficient we ate well and if not we suffered the consequences; as our own critics we were pretty effective. The test of a good cook, Sister Benignus told us, was to be able to recover from a kitchen disaster and present the meal at the dining-room table as a triumph. This was easier said than done and we ate a few kitchen disasters which were very recognisable as such, but as the year went on they became fewer and fewer.

  “Up-house” the group learned all about waxing and polishing and were responsible for keeping the place spick and span. We made our own polish – two cups of turpentine and boiled oil and one cup of methylated spirits and vinegar – which fed as well as polished the furniture. Amongst the other skills we acquired were how to pack a case efficiently and how to serve a meal to a VIP guest. And in all their teaching of us the nuns were pleasant and good-humoured, while letting us know that when in Rome you did as the Romans did.

  Elsewhere in a much larger part of the school other pupils, in for a five-year stretch, were preoccupied with Inter and Leaving Certs, but we were blissfully free of exams. While others swotted we had an end-of-term concert and play, a humorous depiction of the lifestyle of the convent which the nuns laughed at as heartily as anyone. Having scripted and produced the entertainment, I was rewarded with a prize for my first exercise in the dramatic arts. Prizes were presented by the nun who was responsible for encouraging our spiritual and creative development; a very sensitive, holy nun, Sister Eithne possessed a quirky, wry sense of humour, and as my prize she ceremoniously presented me with a face-cloth and a box of soap.

  With me in Drishane was Ann who had been a fellow student at the old school across the fields and later at the secondary school in town. One evening before going to the chapel for night prayers she decided to pin her long hair in coils on the top of her head. She had not foreseen how peculiar it would look when her school beret was perched on top; but the operation had taken longer than anticipated and there was no time to take her hair down as we were late already. We ran breathlessly down the path and up the long, spiral stairs to the chapel. As we ran I got a fit of laughing every time I looked at the creation on the top of her head, and then we scurried at last into our seats just as the Reverend Mother started the rosary. Kneeling beside Ann I tried hard to suppress the urge to giggle, but while I had some success the girls in the seats behind had none. Gasps of suppressed laughter burst from the rows of girls behind us and those in front, when they heard the noise, looked back and beheld the amazing hairstyle with the beret perched so precariously on top, and then they started shaking with amusement. Nothing induces laughter as much as the knowledge that one should not, especially when everyone else is trying to stop laughing as well. Even the sobering thought that behind us were rows of demurely praying nuns did nothing to control the situation. It was a great relief when night prayers ended and we could escape from the church but first we had to walk down the aisle past rows of serene-faced nuns. As I passed the final row I shot a quick glance at the head nun; she caught my eye and gave a knowing smile, and the incident was never mentioned afterwards.

  Young novices entered the Drishane order in October and March and watching these black-garbed figures in the chapel I was impressed by their courage. Of course, some found that the religious life was not for them and left, but amongst those who stayed the one who impressed me most of all was Sister Gemma. A pretty girl, bubbling with good humour and gaiety, she seemed even as she walked to bounce off the ground with her veil flying and her long black dress swirling, almost as if earth had no claim on her. Some years later, while she was still quite young, she died of cancer, but at her funeral I felt no sadness, sure that she had gone to where all her thoughts and motivations had had their origin.

  My year spent at the convent gave me my first experience of nuns and I observed their lifestyle with fascination. In many ways I found it intriguing and attractive though I was shocked by their lack of personal freedom. The fact that so many women lived together under one roof in apparent harmony impressed me as a tribute to their self-discipline and tolerance, and although there must inevitably have been moments of friction between them we never witnessed them. United in religious zeal, their community was cemented together by their love of God and their interest in their pupils. The School of Housecraft there has been closed for many years now, but although I had argued with my mother that a year spent there would be a year wasted, I have always been glad since then that she got the better of me in that argument.

  Back Across The Fields

  DANNY LOOKED AT the world through eyes that saw the beauties of the countryside which we usually ran past as we played. Because he was less robust than other children he walked more slowly, and often he called us back to look at what he had discovered. Ours was a mixed school in which girls and boys treated each other as equals, and if a row broke out we girls kicked shins and pulled hair to assert ourselves. In the classroom the boys stuck our long hair into ink-wells and used the nibs of pens to inject their venom into our bare necks and elbows whenever the opportunity arose. But while Danny played football with the boys at lunch-time he never took part in the ink-dipping and nib-prodding skulduggery that the others engaged in. Those who sat in front of him had no need to fear attack from the rear, for Danny was too gentle to inflict hardship on anyone.

  It was he who introduced me to my first telephone. It was a stone. In the morning if he had passed to school ahead of me he placed a stone on top of the old bridge. Soon the children of each family had their own stone and on arrival at the bridge in the morning we could see by the stones who had gone before us; if it was early and we had time to spare we might sit on the bridge and wait for the others.

  Our schoolbags, made from a strong, green material, we called “purses” and they needed to be strong for they were battered, bruised and dirtied through encounters with hedges and muddy gaps. Some had two armbands through which we looped our hands so that they could hang off our backs. Danny’s, however, hung off a long strap that swung around his neck and knocked off his boney knees. He always had more in his bag than the rest of us because he never tidied it out but simply carried his books forward from year to year.

  The hands of all the children going to our school were brown and mostly muddy; all, that is, except Danny’s, which were pale and blue-veined with long, tapering, sensitive fingers. And on these fingers pet birds perched, quite unafraid, when he stretched out his delicate hands to them. The rest of us stood back and watched him do this because if we moved close the frightened birds flew away. His relationship with the birds placed Danny a cut above the rest of us in my book, but he never thought himself superior on this account and he was simply surprised that we could not also do what came to him so naturally.

  He spent much of the day looking up at the sky and watching the clouds, and he had names for the different cloud formations. Sometimes on a summer evening he persuaded us all to lie down on the grass and look up at the sky with him, and when we did this we became aware, ironically, of the world at our feet. Here in the grass were ladybirds, grasshoppers and ants, which we called pismires, and all the teeming insect life that we normally walked over unseeing. My sister Clare pulled the long blades of grass and persuaded us that she could play music through them, and sometimes she succeeded though her audience was not always entirely appreciative. We pulled the long-stemmed dandelions and
blew away their soft, fluffy hats to tell the time: one o’clock, two o’clock – each puff an hour. Not as accurate as Greenwich Mean Time but more enjoyable. If a tall foxglove with its cascading purple flowers happened to be growing near us, we went through a routine of cracking the bells, or “fairy thimbles” as we called them, making sure first that there were no wasps visiting inside. We also used some unfortunate flowers – usually marguerites or other large daisies – for games of “he loves me, he loves me not”.

  Danny conveyed to us some of his awareness and appreciation of life. Looking at life from soft, brown, moist eyes, he saw more than the rest of us and coaxed us to see it too. When he put his mind to his studies, he was the star pupil, but learning enjoyed no great priority in his life and some mornings he arrived in school with his sack unopened since leaving the previous evening. If the master was suspected to be on a rampage Danny would sit on a stone in the last field before the school and run off his exercise or lessons. He had a nose that dried up in the summer like the hill streams, but in winter the sleeve of his jumper was in constant use as an emergency handkerchief. Tissues, of course, were unheard of and the torn-up sheets that we were supposed to use as hankies often wound up being used as sails for boats in the glaise or for other more necessary pursuits.

  Danny’s hair had a mind of its own and stuck out in all directions. His mother used laughingly to say that a scrubbing brush was necessary to subdue it every morning, but before long it would again resemble a furze bush.

  After leaving school he remained on the home farm and when his parents died he lived a contented bachelor existence on his own. Many years later, on a cold January day when the ground was covered with snow, I called to his house; he was not at home but I finally ran him to earth in a neighbour’s field where he stood surrounded by neighbouring children. The years had brought touches of premature grey to his wayward hair but his brown eyes held the same trusting, merry look. As we walked together down towards his house I told him that I intended walking back across the fields to the old school and asked him to come with me. I could see that he felt that the journey might be too much for him but as always his spirit was willing, so we set out to retrace our footsteps for the first time since we had gone to school together.