John gave her an affectionate jab in the ribs and told her to write to tell him everything about the flight, before he handed her a pound note.
“We’re not allowed, John,” she protested.
“It’s your running-away money, in case you ever need it!” He winked and she laughed, and slid it under her bandeau.
Sean gave her the thumbs-up and slipped a packet of cigarettes into her habit pocket. Her baby brother was taller than she was now, and his voice was breaking. He would be a man the next time she saw him, Brigid thought sadly, giving him a peck on the cheek, much to his embarrassment.
“Bye, Imelda,” she said quietly, turning to her sister.
“See ya, eh… safe journey,” Imelda said offhandedly, clearly not interested in hugging or kissing her—until she caught her mother’s gimlet eye. Grimacing, she leaned over and gave Brigid a quick peck on the cheek before wandering off to look out on to the tarmac.
A cold farewell, thought Brigid. Imelda had never been one for putting on a façade with people. She supposed there was integrity of sorts in being true to yourself. Imelda was more true to herself than she’d been, Brigid acknowledged ruefully. She’d grown quite accomplished at looking at herself in the mirror and not seeing the true reflection.
Imelda had been painfully perceptive in her accusations that Brigid had no vocation and that she was using the lie to escape Ardcloch. There was no denying that.
“We have to go now, Sister Brigid,” Mother Agnes reminded her, turning to crook a finger at Orla, who was bidding a tearful farewell to her family.
“Sister Brigid is a credit to you, Mr. and Mrs. Dunne. She’s worked very hard at her nursing training and she will be a great asset to us on the Missions.” Mother Agnes shook hands with Tom and Elizabeth.
The memory of the look of pride on her parents’ faces at the Novice Mistress’s words would get Brigid through many difficult times in the Paris convent while she prepared to take her final vows. Even Imelda had looked surprised at the laudatory words of the older nun.
Brigid’s last view of the family had been through the aircraft window. They were all standing on the rooftop viewing balcony, waving enthusiastically as her plane trundled slowly past, making its way towards the runway.
Tears slid silently down her cheek. Mother Agnes handed her a fresh handkerchief and said kindly, “The first time leaving the country is always the worst.” In the seat across the aisle from them, Orla was weeping into her cupped palms. The jet propellers began to whirr faster, the engines roaring into life, and then they were racing down the runway and, suddenly, with a heart-jolting lurch, the plane was hauling itself off the ground. Below them, Dublin shrank until it was lost amid a patchwork of green and brown fields. Brigid got such a fright, she’d nearly pulled the curtains closed, but she slid her hand into her habit pocket and felt the Saint Christopher medal her father had given her, and her fingers curled around it as they flew across the sea towards France.
Chapter Eighteen
1960
Brigid lay prostrate on the cold tiles at the foot of the altar as the sound of her congregation singing the Magnificat soared through the convent chapel. For He hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden.… She was indeed a lowly handmaiden, but at least, she was no longer in a state of mortal sin.
Six months before taking her final vows, Brigid had taken a late lunch during her shift in Hôpital des Enfants Malades and gone to confession in Chapelle Notre-Dame-de-la-Médaille-Miraculeuse. The Mistress of Novices would have frowned on her independent behaviour, but Brigid had decided, the first day she’d joined the nuns, that she would not be confessing the sin of impurity to any of the priests who ministered at the convent; the thought of having to look her confessor in the eye when discussing her vocation and enduring the mortification of his knowing glances on a daily basis would be intolerable.
Thankfully, only a handful of penitents were waiting to confess that day. Brigid knelt with her head in her hands, praying earnestly to be given the grace to make a good confession. She was sick with nerves. Receiving the Body of Christ while in a state of mortal sin, as she had for the past few years, might be grounds for excommunication. What would she do if that happened? Her mouth was dry and her voice trembled when she began her “Bless me, Father…”
“Daughter, God is merciful; there is no need to be nervous,” a kind voice came from behind the grille.
Brigid burst into tears, thrown by this unexpected response. “Father, I received Communion many times knowing that I was in a state of mortal sin. A boy once… he… I… Well, I said no, but he didn’t listen… and there was sex, Father, even though I did try to push him away. I didn’t deliberately lead him into temptation and be an occasion of sin for him,” she gabbled, the words coming out of her in a torrent of French and English.
When she was finished, Brigid knelt in silence, waiting for the words of condemnation to rain down upon her.
“My child,” said the priest, “you are greatly loved by God and His Precious Mother. Your sins have been wiped clean. Today you start anew. For your penance, you will carry with you at all times the Miraculous Medal of Our Lady, to remind you of the great love and esteem in which you are held. Make your solemn act of contrition and go in the peace of God and His Holy Mother. Amen.”
“Oh my God, I’m heartily sorry…,” she began her act of contrition, stunned. This was it! No words of condemnation. No excommunication. The priests at home would have excoriated her. Brigid had floated back along Rue de Sèvres, feeling that the burdens of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.
Now, lying on the cold marble floor, she gave thanks for her second chance. The soaring notes of the nuns’ choir touched her so deeply that tears slid down her cheeks and she wished her parents had been with her to share the ceremony of her profession.
When her congregation raised her to her feet and removed the white robe and veil that covered her brand-new habit, before placing the black veil on her head, Brigid felt their pride and love for her. Her thumb caressed the slim gold band on her left finger that signified that she was now a Bride of Christ.
I’ve done it, Brigid thought happily that night, lying in the cell-like room that would be hers until she left for Africa. She’d stuck it out and become a nun. A nun who was now free of mortal sin. She slept like a log that night.
* * *
The blast of heat, and the strange new smells, hit Brigid the minute she stepped out onto the silver metallic steps that had been wheeled out to the aircraft. So this is Africa, she thought excitedly, as a welcome breeze lifted her veil. It had rained earlier—this was what they called the rainy season—and the ground was still damp, almost steamy from the heat. Glancing over in the dark, at the welcoming lights of the long, low terminal building, she saw the high control tower. It reminded her of a water tower near Butlersbridge, where the Order had a holiday home.
She collected her luggage and made her way into Arrivals, struggling to steer the ancient trolley with its wonky wheels. A smiling nun with a round, tanned, lined face under a white veil was there to greet her.
“Sister Brigid, welcome to Senegal,” she heard her say in an unmistakable Kerry accent. “I’m Maria Goretti, but everyone calls me Goretti,” the nun introduced herself, holding out her hand. “I hope you had a relaxed journey. This is Jakab, our driver; let him take your trolley.”
“Welcome, Sister.” Jakab bowed and smiled at her, his teeth the whitest she’d ever seen in another human, his brown eyes twinkling bright in the darkness of his skin. The airport was full of dark-skinned people, and to Brigid, who had never seen a black person until she’d arrived in Paris, it all added to the magic of Africa.
She gazed around her, delighting in the glorious colours worn by the women, some with magnificent turbans on their heads, and the pristine white robes worn by men.
“It’s so different, isn’t it?” Goretti smiled. “I’ve been here fifteen years and I never tire of it.” She led the
way out of the airport to a red Citroën parked at the kerb, its two large, round headlights looking like a pair of frog’s eyes.
“Jakab will be teaching you to drive once you’ve settled in, and then you and I will be heading to St. Louis, a large regional capital up north, to set up our childcare clinics. Malaria is the biggest killer of children here, especially in the rainy season. We use antimalarial drugs, quinine, insecticides, and netting mostly—and of course, the local cures in the areas we go to. Hep A and typhoid are our main problems, and yellow fever afflicts men who work in the heavily forested areas. So we’ve plenty to keep us going.” Goretti grinned and, as Jakab hoisted Brigid’s case into the boot, she opened the passenger door for Brigid.
“So we won’t be based at the convent in Dakar then?” Brigid asked, settling into the worn car seat.
“Oh no!” Goretti winked. “We’ll be far, far away from it, in our own little convent. There’ll be five of us, living in a small house, which will be our base. We’ll be on the road mostly,” the Kerry nun explained.
“Oh!” said Brigid, liking the sound of this.
“I’m dying to hear all the news. I hope you brought letters.” Goretti slid into the back seat alongside her. “We love it when someone arrives from Europe.”
“I did, and some homemade scones that myself and another Irish nun made, and macarons, and some Gruyère, and boeuf bourguignon and some pâté and crackers. And two baguettes. They’re in Tupperware containers in that big brown cardboard box. It went into the hold, so it’s quite chilled.”
Goretti’s eyes widened in pleasure. “Yum yum! We’ll be having a party tonight,” she said gaily. “Get us home as fast as you can, Jakab,” she instructed their driver, who turned on the engine and took off like one of the rally drivers he so admired.
Driving through the narrow, dusty, dimly lit streets of Dakar felt almost surreal after being used to the wide, well-lit boulevards of Paris, and Brigid wondered, if she pinched herself, would she find she was dreaming? She was sweltering in her heavy habit, and envied Goretti her lightweight white dress and short veil. After many twists and turns through the dark, potholed streets, Goretti said, “This is Yeumbeul, and about a mile ahead is the ocean. We”—she smiled—“are just down this street on the left-hand side.” Jakab swung around a corner and drove a third of the way down a street lined with ramshackle cement buildings before turning into a large compound, surrounded by high whitewashed walls. The gravel drive led to a complex of one-storey buildings, one of which Brigid thought was a school, judging by children’s paintings decorating some of the windows. To her left was a large whitewashed two-storey colonial-style building with blue shuttered windows and edged with long verandas, illuminated by lamplight from the rooms inside. It looked so comfortable and welcoming that Brigid yawned and realised how tired she was and how much she looked forward to getting into bed. That building had to be the convent, she guessed. The car drew to a halt beside some steps leading to a low porch on which a sleek black-and-white cat stretched languorously. Two large terracotta pots of orange and pink flowers were a splash of colour against the white.
Brigid could see mosquito nets draped from the ceiling and big fans whirring slowly. And then the big blue wooden front door opened and a group of nuns in white robes and short white veils like Goretti’s came out onto the veranda. A portly smiling nun extended her hand and said, “Bienvenue, ma fille, I am Mère Margaret Mary Alacoque, and we are delighted you have come to join us.”
* * *
Brigid unfurled the white mosquito netting from the top of the hut to enclose the mat on the floor where she would be sleeping. She was tired. It had been a long but satisfying day. She, Goretti, and Khady, a young Serer nun, had left the small house they lived in, close to the banks of the Senegal River, some 250 kilometres northeast of Dakar, to hold clinics in the small villages of the Peuple Sérère, the Serer people, indigenous to the area along the river. She’d been up since five a.m.
Tonight they were staying in one of the larger villages, and the villagers had held a party for them. They had feasted on sombi, a sweet milk-rice soup which Brigid, having a sweet tooth, loved, and thiéboudienne, a boldly flavoured combination of fish, rice, and vegetables simmered in tomato sauce. It had been cooked in one large pot, eaten outside, and Brigid had thoroughly enjoyed it.
Afterwards, she’d sat, surrounded by children, rocking a three-month-old baby, Mena, in her arms, listening to the sabar music of the Serer people, under the blackest, starriest sky she’d ever seen.
Brigid had never been so happy. Now at last she felt she had a vocation. This was where she was meant to be, and this was the work she was meant to be doing, she thought, cooing at the baby in her arms, thrilled when Mena’s little face broke into a huge smile. How she loved working with babies. They satisfied every maternal bone in her body, and when she finally handed Mena back to her mother Brigid kissed them both in gratitude.
Gratitude was her overwhelming emotion, every day. How her life had changed. Now she was driving the jeep, careering along the dusty trails from village to village. Driving made her feel as free as a bird, like a goddess in her chariot charging into the unknown.
The regimens of convent life were no longer imposed on her. Goretti was sister-in-charge, but the older nun wasn’t the slightest bit interested in hierarchy. Her prime concern was to be out amongst the people, doing The Work, as she called it.
Brigid was in awe of her. It was only since she’d come to live in Africa that she truly realised what amazing work these women, these nuns she was sharing her life with, did with such generosity and ability. Their whole focus was on empowering the people, especially the women, to reach their potential. Getting an education was a goal for them, and she thought guiltily back to her own schooldays and the way she and her friends had moaned about studying, not realising what a privilege it was to be educated.
She was the one being educated by these beautiful people, not the other way around, Brigid acknowledged; Thank You, Thank You, God, for bringing me to this wonderful country. For the first time since she’d entered, Brigid truly felt like she was a real nun. Slipping under the cover to lie on the mat on the floor, she fell asleep before she’d even time to say her prayers.
Chapter Nineteen
Imelda
Imelda Dunne was fit to be tied. From the moment Brigid had gone to Dublin to join the convent, with a fine, fat dowry, Imelda had known that she was doomed. For that she would never forgive her sister. Her aspiration to carry on in secondary school and take her Leaving Certificate exams had come to nought. Her brother’s education was deemed more important than hers, and because John was bright and hardworking there were high hopes he would get a scholarship to agricultural college after his Inter Cert.
She’d had to give up on the idea of emigrating to Boston. That had been a pipe dream, she acknowledged disconsolately, but her plan of getting a job in the Civil Service in Dublin and moving up to the capital had been more realistic and, she’d hoped, achievable.
To live in a flat or a bedsit, free from all parental control, able to do as she wished—that had been her goal. She’d so looked forward to the exciting social life that would have been hers to enjoy. Dances in the Ierne Ballroom. Nights out at the big-screen cinemas like the Savoy and the Carlton, so different from watching Laurel and Hardy or the Three Stooges in black and white at the parish hall, or the rackety crackling of the film reels in the “cinema” in Ardcloch. She’d daydreamed of having afternoon tea in the Gresham or even the Shelbourne. Of getting her hair done in swanky hair salons. Shopping in the big department stores on Henry Street. Grafton Street, she’d decided, might have been too posh until she developed a more sophisticated persona. And she would have, Imelda knew. She would have been the most sophisticated girl in Dublin and she would have swanned back to Ardcloch like Nan Doyle used to, strutting around in her Capri pants and tight top, holding a long cigarette holder, for all the world like Lauren Bacall or Jane Russel
l, regaling everyone with tales of her glitzy and glamorous life in the capital. Nan was a bank clerk, a step up from a clerical officer in the Civil Service, but Imelda would have worked anywhere if it meant she could live a life of liberty in Dublin.
Instead, after Brigid’s triumphant departure to enter the convent, Imelda had moved into Granny Dunne’s dark cottage, trying to study for her Inter Cert by candlelight. A week after Imelda had finished her exams, Elizabeth had had discussions with a friend of hers who owned a small drapery and hardware shop in the next parish. “It would be a grand job for you, and you’d still be able to help me out here,” Elizabeth informed her younger daughter, who could think of nothing worse than standing behind a shop counter day in, day out, being bossed around by Franny Moran, who wore a hat and “best pinafore” in the shop, and loved the sound of her own voice. Imelda was put on a month’s trial, handed a duster and Brasso and a white coat to cover her clothes, and told it was her responsibility to have the countertop, shelves, and brasses gleaming!
Imelda was in despair. She was a slave to Franny, and a slave to her mother and grandmother, and there seemed to be no escape from the drudgery of her life. She scoured the Situations Vacant columns in the papers and begged her father to let her go to interviews in the big towns farther afield.
“Will you just wait for another while, pet? Your mother and I can’t lose two daughters in one year, not with John heading off to ag college and me with a contract from the creamery. Maybe next year. Sure, you have your whole life ahead of you.”
When he put it like that, what could she say?
It was so unfair, though. Brigid had not been made to feel guilty for leaving home, why should she? Imelda fumed resentfully to Teresa McHugh, her best friend.
“She got her chance to go; we’ll get ours,” Teresa, who was a laid-back type, assured Imelda. “At least we’re getting a few bob, working. It could be worse.”
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 10
