‘G’day, Sister. Harold Finlay. You were expecting us?’
Maggie turned and saw the nun standing in the doorway of the big house. Her white wimple was tight to her thin face, cutting right into her cheekbones. The starched guimpe was snowy over her shoulders and chest and in sharp contrast to the dead black of her habit. The rosary beads were also black, interspersed with the same silver as the ornate crucifix that dangled almost to the nun’s knees.
‘Good afternoon to you, too,’ said the nun gaily, her Irish accent making it sound as if she was singing. ‘And this must be Margaret. Welcome, my dear.’
‘Sister,’ replied Maggie as she gave a small bob of respect.
‘Come in, come in.’
The door was opened wide and Maggie and her father followed the nun into the cool shadows of a vast hall that smelled of incense. Maggie heard the echoes of children reciting their tables, and realised the floor was marble, the ceiling high and domed. The sheer size of it captured every little sound and enlarged it. There were no carpets, no flowers, only a statue of a sad eyed Christ bleeding on the Cross, and an enormous painting of The Holy Mother clasping a tortured heart.
Maggie looked away. Brought up a Catholic, she had attended the tiny wooden church in the next town. The walls had been bare but for the Stations of the Cross, the altar adorned only by a simple iron Crucifix and glowing tabernacle. She’d never been faced with these terrible images – and she found them too graphic.
‘Come along, dear, don’t dawdle. Reverend Mother is waiting.’
Maggie realised the others had moved almost to the end of the hall and hurried to catch them up. It might be exciting to attend a real school, she thought as she heard the children begin their singsong recital of the tables again. She’d only worked at the kitchen table from the books sent up from Melbourne, and often wondered what it would have been like to sit in a classroom with a teacher.
The double doors were as high as the ceiling and elaborately carved. They opened on silent hinges and Maggie’s terror returned.
Reverend Mother was seated behind a large desk, her back straight, her whiskery chin dimpled by the constricting wimple. Grey eyes looked out of the grey face and showed no life, no laughter – nothing but disapproval.
Maggie looked up at her father, who nudged her forward. ‘She won’t bite,’ he whispered.
Maggie wasn’t so sure. The Mother’s teeth looked pointed as she opened her mouth to speak.
‘Come in, Margaret,’ she ordered in a voice that extinguished Maggie’s glimmer of hope that living here might be bearable.
Maggie realised she had no choice. She flicked back her hair, lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, determined not to show this woman she was terrified.
The emotionless grey eyes trawled over her, the mouth twitching in disgust, the hairs on her chin almost bristling with dislike. ‘Proud, I see. Wilful, too. We’ll soon put that right,’ she said.
‘Maggie’s a good girl, Reverend Mother,’ said Harold as he stood there in his dusty old clothes and screwed up his hat. ‘She knows how to behave.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ the older woman snapped. The grey eyes found Maggie again. ‘Go with Sister Claire. Your father and I have things to discuss.’
Maggie looked up at her father in bewilderment. He rested his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. ‘I’ll catch you later, no worries. I’m not leaving without saying goodbye.’
Maggie gave a tremulous smile to Sister Claire, who smiled back and led the way back out of the room. But just as the door was closing behind her, she heard the Reverend Mother say something that would haunt her for years to come.
9
Giles wasn’t feeling too good. The phantom arm was aching, tingling, dragging his spirits low as the heat sapped him of energy. He had stripped and lain on the bed for most of the day after their return to Trinity, with the shutters closed to block out the merciless sun. Yet sleep eluded him except for a few snatched moments.
The day finally began to draw in, the heat ebbing to a temperature only slightly more bearable. Tossing back the sheet, he struggled to wash and dress and then made his way downstairs in search of a long cold beer.
‘Look a bit rough there, mate,’ said Sam as he poured him the beer. ‘There y’go. That’ll soon put hair on yer chest.’
Giles lifted his glass in salute and downed half the pint in a couple of swallows. Nothing had tasted this good in a long time, he decided. The beer was light and golden in colour with a thin head of white foam. It was nothing like the beers back home, which were mostly bitter, dark and faintly warm.
He looked around the bar as Sam moved away to serve another customer. That too was unlike any pub in England, for there was no attempt to pretty the place up. No decoration, no copper pots hanging from oak beams, no leaded–light windows and framed lithographs of ancient farming scenes on the walls. Just linoleum on the floor, brown paint on the walls and a few rickety stools placed at the bar that no–one seemed to use. The Australians seemed to prefer standing with one booted foot perched on the highly polished brass railing that ran along the bottom of the wooden bar.
‘Reckon the ladies should be back soon,’ said Sam as he cleaned a glass and put it back on a shelf.
‘Any idea of where they’ve gone?’ asked Giles who’d gone in search of Olivia earlier that day to find he was alone. She hadn’t even left him a note, and that rattled him.
‘Beach, I reckon. Olivia asked Lila for a cut lunch, so reckon they’ve made a day of it.’ He grinned and rested on the bar. ‘Why don’t you get your bathers on and join them? Reckon they must have said about everything by now and could do with some company.’
Giles thought wistfully of Olivia in her white swimsuit. The cut of it enhanced her shape and emphasised her long legs, and he’d seen how the other men on board ship had eyed her as she swam in the canvas pool. But it was too hot to contemplate going out in that blazing sun, let alone divest himself of his clothes in front of so many people and have a swim.
He drank some more beer and tried to relax. There had been a time when he’d thought nothing of going for a swim, and had in fact represented his school as well as his university in the swimming pool. Now, he was ashamed to be seen half naked, and a little afraid of how he might not cope in the water. ‘Cooler in here,’ he murmured when he realised Sam was waiting for a response.
‘No worries about the arm, mate,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘Smokey Smith and Wally Burns both lost a leg in the war and they swim each day.’ He grinned. ‘We call Wally ‘‘Hopalong,’’ but he don’t mind. Couldn’t be bothered to wait until a proper leg could be fitted and made up a peg leg instead from a bit of old timber he found out at their sawmill.’ With a chuckle he picked up another glass to polish. ‘Got carried away and cut it too bloody short, but couldn’t be bothered to do another one, silly bugger.’ He put the glass on a shelf. ‘I know, I’ll have a word with them in the morning and you could all go down together.’
Giles swallowed. This Australian had read his thoughts, but despite his tales of locals who had been mutilated, he still hadn’t come to terms with exposing himself to others. And certainly wouldn’t dream of inflicting the sight on Olivia, who was bound to want to come with him. ‘Better not,’ he murmured.
‘Still feeling crook, eh?’ Sam nodded, the understanding clear in his eyes. ‘No worries, mate. Tell me when you’re ready and then I’ll have a word.’
An hour later he was introduced to Hopalong and Smokey, who swung into the room with a great clatter. After Sam had shouted a round of beers, Giles fell into easy conversation with these two men who understood what he’d been through.
‘Reckon we’re a trio of bloody old crocks,’ drawled Hopalong, who was in his thirties.
‘Speak for yerself, mate,’ laughed Smokey, whose hair was grey at the temples despite being still a young man. ‘Get a
tin leg like mine instead of that wooden peg before the termites work their way up into your bloody brain.’
‘Reckon they already did,’ said Sam dryly.
They all laughed and had another beer and Giles began to relax and enjoy their company. His accent and missing arm seemed to make no difference, and it was almost as if he was back in the nursing home with the other amputees. They shared something no–one else could understand, and the relief was immense.
As the gong sounded in the dining room and Giles caught a glimpse of Olivia and Maggie through the hatch into the lounge, Smokey touched his arm. ‘Hear you might like a swim in the morning, mate,’ he said quietly, his gaze steady. ‘Reckon if you was to be down on the beach early enough we could all go together?’
Giles slowly shook his head. ‘I …’
‘Look, mate,’ interjected Hopalong. ‘We’ve all been through this, and me and Smokey know it ain’t easy. But we’ve been like this longer than you, and no worries, mate. If people don’t like it, then they can look the other bloody way.’ He swung from the bar, lifted his trouser leg and tapped his wooden appendage. ‘I got nice shiny medals at home, but this is the only medal I’m really proud of. It shows the bastards could take a leg and still not kill me.’ He grinned. ‘So, what you say, cobber? You on for tomorrow?’
Giles laughed. ‘Put like that, Hopalong, I can hardly refuse.’
*
Maggie had enjoyed having tea in the dining room. It made her feel she was really on holiday. Smokey and Hopalong had kept the talk up as usual, telling yarns that were barely believable, but entertaining enough to keep the whole dining room amused. Sam had joined them for a cup of tea when they had finished eating, and it was quite late when she said goodnight and made her way back to her little shack.
As she undressed and washed off the sun cream and sand and shampooed her hair, she thought of Giles. He’d obviously relaxed in the company of the other two men, and it was kind of Sam to suggest they swam together. Olivia had wanted to go with them, but a quiet word from Hopalong had made her see how important it was Giles did this on his own, and both Maggie and Olivia had felt warm with gratitude for his surprising understanding and uncharacteristic tact.
The sheets were cool as she slipped between them and rested back on the pillows. It had been a strange day, she thought. Giles was beginning to regain his confidence and Olivia had proved to be a good and understanding listener. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d unburdened herself to anyone about the convent – in fact she never had before, and had surprised herself at how easy it had been – and how much better she felt for doing it.
She closed her eyes and the images flooded back. Not that she had told Olivia everything. There were some things she could never speak about. Some things that were so deeply embedded in the darkest part of her being that she would never reveal them. Yet the images were there, chasing away the need for sleep, bringing a deep sadness to over–shadow what had been a lovely day.
*
The dust had barely settled behind her father’s wagon when Maggie heard the clang of a bell. She sniffed back the tears and lifted her chin. Dad would be back soon, she told herself defiantly. She just had to make the best of things until then.
The clatter of many feet echoed through the great house and she was suddenly surrounded by girls and boys hurrying out into the quadrangle. There was a strange, grim silence, an almost desperate air in that surge of humanity that Maggie found confusing and not a little frightening. Adrift and uncertain of what was expected of her, she remained frozen on the doorstep.
The Reverend Mother swept down the hall, her veil billowing, the rosary beads clicking against her swirling robes. ‘Outside,’ she ordered.
Maggie turned on the step and was faced with lines of silent, watchful children. She looked for some sign as to where she should go, but there was none in those still faces.
The hand grasped her arm in a vice and pulled her down the steps. ‘This is Margaret Finlay,’ the Reverend Mother boomed. ‘She is guilty of the sin of pride.’ The silence was electric as the grey eyes swept over the still lines. ‘What is the punishment for this sin?’
‘Humiliation, Mother,’ came the dull response.
Maggie looked into the sea of faces, but all eyes remained fixed on a distant point above her head. She turned to the Reverend Mother. ‘I’m not proud,’ she insisted. ‘I’m just new to all this.’
The eyes were flint as the vice–like grip hardened and she was thrust round to face the lines of children again. ‘Humiliation and Service is what you will learn here,’ the woman said grimly. ‘And you will learn, Margaret Finlay. I assure you of that.’
Maggie looked fearfully over her shoulder as another nun joined the Reverend Mother. She saw the flash of scissors and flinched as her long hair was roughly released from the plaits. Tears blinded her and rolled unheeded down her face as the Reverend Mother wielded the scissors and hacked at her hair. Soon it lay in glistening coils at her feet.
‘Pick it up,’ she was ordered.
Maggie knelt and gathered the hair, her hands trembling, the tears splashing darkly on the red earth of the quadrangle. Then she was hauled to her feet and paraded along the lines of silent children, the hair clutched in her fists, her eyes downcast. She felt naked and humiliated, and terrified of what else was to come. The sun beat down on her head, drying her tears, but barely warming the frozen core of her being during that seemingly endless walk.
The torture was not yet over, she realised, when the other children were dismissed and sent back to the classrooms. For she was ordered to remain standing in the courtyard until she was told otherwise.
The silence surrounded her as the door was closed behind her. The dust cloud on the horizon was gone, her father out of sight. Maggie stood there, legs trembling, head buzzing as the sun hammered down. She was thirsty and frightened and more alone than ever. ‘Ursula?’ she whispered. ‘Are you there?’
The presence drew near and she took comfort in her imaginary friend. As long as Ursula had not deserted her, then she would survive this terrible place.
Maggie was left in the courtyard until long after the sun had dipped behind the roof of the great house. She hadn’t dared move. Hadn’t dared to faint even though her head swam and she could see dark spots before her eyes. She tried to run her tongue over her dry lips, but it felt swollen in her mouth. Her legs ached and she shifted her weight from one foot to another, but nothing seemed to ease the tingling, dead sensation that was slowly creeping up from her ankles.
‘You are to come in, now,’ said the soft voice.
Maggie eyed the nun through swollen lids and followed her into the blessed cool of the house. She could barely focus on her surroundings as she followed the gentle swish of the sister’s robes down the endless corridors to the kitchen.
‘When you’ve finished eating, you must wash the dishes and put them away. You will sleep in the dormitory through that door.’ The sister folded her arms, her hands disappearing in the copious sleeves of her habit. ‘Don’t take too long. The last bell is about to sound and all children must be in bed.’
Maggie slumped into the chair as the nun swept out of the room. She eyed the plate of bread, the hunk of mutton and the tin mug of water. She had no appetite, but the water didn’t come close to quenching her thirst. Taking the mug to the sink she filled and refilled it until the thirst was finally vanquished. The bread and mutton was stuffed into her trouser pockets for later – she had no idea when she would next be fed.
With the plate and mug washed, she looked around the kitchen for somewhere to put them and caught sight of her reflection in the window. Her eyes widened in horror as the pinched little face stared back at her. The thick, brown hair stood in tufts like a demonic halo, her eyelids were puffy and red, and the tracks of her earlier tears were still visible on her cheeks. Maggie Finlay no longer existed.
‘I see you still haven’t learned.’
Maggie whirled to face the Reverend Mother. ‘I … I …’
‘Sins of the mother,’ said the nun as she grasped what was left of Maggie’s hair and pulled her out of the room, ‘must be purged.’
‘Mum wasn’t a sinner,’ Maggie sobbed. ‘Neither am I. I was only …’
‘Silence,’ hissed the Reverend Mother.
Maggie’s fear and pain were overwhelming. The nun’s bony fingers were yanking at her tender head and she was terrified of where she might be taking her.
The door was thick and studded with iron. The Reverend Mother turned a large key in the lock and thrust Maggie into the darkness. ‘I will pray for you,’ she said with icy contempt, then slammed the door and locked it.
Maggie huddled in the corner. The footsteps faded into the distance and she was left in a profound, black silence. She buried her face in her hands. Only Ursula’s presence in that dark, demonic place kept her from going out of her mind.
*
Maggie drew her knees to her chest, the chill of that first night chasing away the heat as her memories demanded attention.
She had suffered more punishments as time wore on – more solitary nights in that dark punishment cell that all the children dreaded. Yet she’d eventually become almost immune to the Reverend Mother’s cruelty. Become stronger and more resilient as she realised she was not the only one to suffer in this living hell. Life had taken on a strange kind of order once she’d understood more clearly what had been expected of her, and although she resented every moment she was there, she realised she must work with the system rather than try to beat it.
The mornings were put aside for lessons, the afternoon for work. The boys were sent out to the fields, the girls to the laundry and the vegetable garden. Friendships were tenuous and not encouraged and Maggie had soon realised why.
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