by Holly Green
‘Tomorrow. I will take her. I am going now to buy tickets for the ferry.’
Angelina’s head drooped. She longed to sleep, but every time she dropped off the jolting of the gig on the rough road woke her up. Confused thoughts floated in and out of her mind. She still did not really understand what was happening to her. Just the day before Lizzie had come into the room and told her that she had to pack her things for a journey. ‘You are going away to school. It will be fun for you. You will have lots of friends to play with.’ She had tried to make it sound as though she was pleased for her, but Angelina had heard the anxiety behind the cheerful words. All her questions – ‘Where am I going? When will I be coming back?’ – were answered with a brusque, ‘I know no more than I have told you. You must ask your papa.’ But Papa had not come to the schoolroom to answer. And when she tried to insert her beloved rag doll into the suitcase, she was told, ‘You won’t need that. You’re a big girl now.’
Lizzie had woken her early next morning and, almost before she had time to take in what was happening, she was wrapped in her warmest coat and taken down to the hall, where her father was waiting for her. With the briefest of farewells to Lizzie, she found herself in a hansom cab, heading at a smart trot for the docks. Her mother had not come to see her off.
When she saw that they were going on a ship, she held back. ‘Where are we going, Papa?’
‘We are going to Ireland.’
‘Where you and Mama came from.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Are we going to stay with someone from your family?’
‘No. You are going to school.’
‘But where will I live?’
‘In the school. It is called a boarding school. Other girls will live there too.’
The ferry crossing had been miserable. The weather was bad and the boat plunged and yawed until she was so sick that she thought she was dying. On dry land at last, they went to an inn where she was unable to eat the supper she was offered and had to sleep in a crib beside her father’s bed. He slept quietly, but the consciousness of his presence was disturbing and she lay awake most of the night. This was not the Papa who used to let her sit on his lap and tickle her. This man was silent and forbidding. He had hardly spoken to her on the journey.
Next day they boarded a train. Angelina had never seen a train before and the locomotive, with its smoke and sparks and noise, terrified her. They chugged across countryside shrouded in rain. Finally, they reached a town, which her father told her was called Limerick, but even then the journey was not over. Her father hired a gig to take them to a place called ‘The Laurels’.
It was dark when they reached their destination and Angelina had a confused impression of a large building standing at the end of a long drive. She was so exhausted by the time the gig drew up in front of a pillared portico that she had to be lifted down and her legs almost refused to support her. A woman in a long black dress and a white head-covering that completely hid her hair led them into a large hallway and then to a smaller room where a good fire burned. Here another lady similarly attired stepped forward to greet them.
‘I am Mother Mary Benedicta. Welcome.’
‘Thank you, Reverend Mother. It’s good of you to receive my daughter so promptly.’ Angelina detected an unusual stiffness and formality in her father’s tone.
The lady turned to her. ‘So you are Angelina.’
Angelina managed to collect her wits enough to curtsy. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You need not call me ma’am. You should address me as Mother.’
Angelina’s confusion deepened. This woman was not her mother, so why should she call her that? And her father had used the same form of address, but this lady was surely too young to be his mother.
The nun looked over her head at her father and then back at her. ‘Your father writes that you are known to bite people.’
‘Not people!’ Tears rose to her eyes at the injustice of the accusation. ‘I only did it once, when a girl said something horrid.’
‘So there’s no danger of you biting me?’ There was a smile in her voice, if not on her lips.
‘Of course not.’
The nun touched her cheek with warm fingers. ‘You poor child, you’re perished with cold. Let’s have this bonnet and coat off, and you can warm yourself by the fire.’ She deftly undid the ribbons that held Angelina’s bonnet and helped her out of her coat. ‘Now, sit yourself down by the fire while I speak to your father.’ She pulled a low stool closer to the hearth and Angelina sank onto it and held her hands to the flames.
‘Will you stay for the night, Mr McBride? There is a room for you in the guest house if you would like it.’
‘Thank you, no, Mother. The gig is waiting to take me back to Limerick.’
‘Can I at least offer you some refreshment?’
‘No, thank you again. As I said, the gig is waiting.’
‘Then it is time for you to say goodbye to your father, Angelina.’
Angelina scrambled to her feet with a sudden sensation that her life was about to be ripped apart. ‘When will you come to fetch me back, Papa?’
A strange contortion passed across her father’s face and vanished. ‘That has not been decided yet.’
She went towards him. She felt herself trembling, and not only from the cold. ‘How long do I have to stay here?’
‘Until your education is complete.’
‘When will that be?’
‘That remains to be seen. Apply yourself and do everything the sisters ask of you. I shall want to hear good reports of you.
‘I will! I will be good, I promise. Please fetch me home soon!’
Mother Mary Benedicta stepped forward and put her hand on Angelina’s shoulder. ‘Don’t distress yourself, child. You will be well looked after. Our girls are happy here, and you will be too. Now, I think you must be tired and perhaps hungry?’ She raised her voice. ‘Sister Berthe.’ The nun who had admitted them to the house must have been waiting outside the door, since she came in at once. ‘Take Angelina to the refectory and see that she is given some warm bread and milk. Then you can see her to bed.’ She returned her attention to Mr McBride. ‘We have given her a bed in the infirmary for tonight, rather than putting her through the ordeal of meeting strangers in the dormitory.’
‘Very thoughtful, I’m sure,’ he replied, as if his thoughts were already elsewhere.
Sister Berthe held out her hand to Angelina. ‘Come with me, little one.’
Angelina took the outstretched hand and followed her out of the room. At the door she looked back, but her father was already putting on his coat and collecting his hat.
The bread and milk soothed her churning stomach, and, as soon as she had eaten it, Sister Berthe led her along a long passage to a room with four small beds in it. All were empty, but her suitcase was waiting for her beside one of them. Sister Berthe helped her to undress and waited while she used the chamber pot, then when she was in bed she pulled the covers up to her chin and stroked her hair gently.
‘Bonne nuit, ma petite.’
The words triggered a memory in Angelina’s befuddled brain and she mumbled, ‘Merci, Madame.’
She was asleep before the nun had tiptoed out of the room.
Angelina was woken by the sound of a bell ringing insistently somewhere. For a moment or two she continued to drowse. The bed was warm and comfortable and she felt safe. ‘Lizzie?’ she mumbled. Then memory came back. She opened her eyes and looked around a strange room. It was still dark outside, but lamplight coming under the door showed her the three empty beds and bare white walls. She wondered if she should get up and get herself dressed and what she should put on. The lamplight came closer and Sister Berthe came in.
‘Bonjour, mon enfant. Come now. It’s time to get up. I have brought you your school clothes.’
Very soon Angelina found herself clothed in a dress of black cashmere with long black stockings and a blue pinafore. After a quick scrub to
her face and hands in cold water, her hair was brushed back, parted in the centre and secured in a tight plait.
‘There!’ Sister Berthe surveyed her handiwork. ‘The dress is not a bad fit and there is room for you to grow. Now, follow me and I will show you where we have breakfast.’
She led her down a wide staircase and into a big room with long tables around three sides. On the fourth side there was a platform, with another table. Girls of varying ages were sitting on benches along the tables and Angelina saw that the smallest ones were ranged along the table to her right and they got taller as they progressed round the room until the table on the dais was occupied by big girls who looked to her eyes like grown-ups. A nun sat at the head and foot of each table and at the centre of the one on the dais there was an empty chair. Everyone sat in silence. ‘Ah, our new arrival,’ a voice called. ‘Come here, child.’
A tall nun with a pale face and a stern expression stood near the platform. Berthe gave Angelina a gentle shove and she went forward, painfully aware of the concentrated gaze of fifty or sixty pairs of eyes. The nun put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face the rest of the room.
‘Girls, this is Angelina McBride. She is new here and no doubt finds it all very strange, as some of you will well remember from your first day. I know that you will all make her feel at home and help her to settle in. Now, Angelina, you will be in second preparatory class, who are all sitting over there. Rosa O’Malley, I want you to look after her and make sure that she knows the rules and where she should be at any time.’
A dark-haired girl with cheeks that suited her name got up and came over. ‘Come along, Angelina. You can sit here, next to me.’
Angelina took her place and looked along the row of girls. It puzzled her that no one was talking. Then a small bell sounded and everyone stood up.
Mother Mary Benedicta came in from a door beside the dais and took the vacant place at the top table. She made a gesture with one hand, moving it from her brow to her chest and then from left to right and pronounced words in French that Angelina did not understand, and all the girls made the same gesture and pronounced a response that was equally unintelligible. Then they sat down and conversation broke out all round the room, creating a din that was almost as unnerving as the silence.
‘Angelina, this is Anna and this is Wilhelmina,’ Rosa was saying. ‘They’re my friends. When did you arrive?’
‘Last night.’
‘Where are you from?’ Anna leaned across to ask.
‘Liverpool.’
‘Liverpool? All the way from England. Why have you come here?’
‘I don’t know.’ Angelina felt the too-ready tears swelling in her throat.
‘I expect she’s come because her mother and father know this is a really good school,’ Rosa said helpfully. ‘Isn’t that it, Angelina?’
‘I suppose so,’ Angelina mumbled. She thought she understood why she was here. It was because she bit someone and her parents were ashamed of her, but these girls must never know that.
Food was being set on the table. There were baskets of freshly baked bread and funny shaped rolls in a crescent shape and dishes of butter. In each girl’s place there was a large cup and monitors were passing along the rows, filling them with a dark, fragrant liquid. Jugs of milk were passed along and added to it.
‘Is that tea?’ Angelina asked timidly.
‘No, coffee. Don’t you have coffee at home?’
‘I think my mama and papa have it. I’ve always had milk.’
Anna leaned over again. ‘You’ll get used to it. Because a lot of the nuns are French we get French food. It takes a bit of getting used to but it’s not bad, most of the time.’
The coffee certainly took a good deal of getting used to, but the fresh bread and the rolls, which the girl called croissants, were really good. Angelina could have eaten more than her ration.
All too soon the little bell sounded again and all the girls stood up and crossed themselves. Angelina stood too and some more strange French phrases were repeated, and then Mother Mary Benedicta left the room.
The girls were filing out and she walked with Rosa along a path lined with pillars opening onto a courtyard and then into another building.
The first thing that struck her was the smell: a pungent, aromatic scent that tickled her nose. They were in a vaulted room, with long benches on either side, which had rails in front of them and little cushions hanging on hooks. At the far end was a table covered in an embroidered cloth. On it was a gold crucifix and two tall candles and there was a large vase of flowers on either side. Angelina deduced that they must be in a church.
She followed Rosa to a bench near the front and saw that she made a curtsy to the table, which seemed odd as there was no one there. However, it seemed wise to copy. Rosa also made the same gesture she had made in the refectory, moving the fingers of the right hand to her brow, then her chest, then to her left shoulder and finally to her right. Then she unhooked the little cushion and knelt down on it. This at least was familiar. She had been taught to kneel by her bed every night and say the Lord’s Prayer. She knelt and murmured the words to herself.
From then on all sense of familiarity vanished. The nuns came in in procession and words were said in a language that was neither French nor English. They stood and sat and knelt and Angelina copied Rosa and wondered if she understood what was going on. She seemed to know what to do, at any rate.
Then the singing started and Angelina was transported. The nuns and some of the older girls were sitting in seats at right angles to where she was and nearer to the table with the cross on it, and they were the ones who sang. The tune was not familiar and she still could not understand the words, but as the voices rose to the vaulted roof she thought she had never heard anything so beautiful.
When it was over and they were filing out, she whispered to Rosa, ‘Why do you do that with your hand?’
‘Ssh! We’ll lose marks for silence.’
Once they were outside, Rosa looked at her. ‘What do you mean, do that with my hand? Do what?’
Angelina imitated the gesture.
‘I’m crossing myself. Surely you’ve been taught to do that.’
Angelina shook her head and Rosa looked shocked.
They followed the others up a very grand staircase to a huge room with desks arranged down both sides and a table in the middle of one side. Above it, in a niche, stood a plaster bust of a nun.
‘This is the salle d’études,’ Rosa said. ‘This is where we do private study and where we meet every Sunday evening for Marks.’
Angelina wanted to ask what sort of marks she meant, but at that moment her name was called. The tall nun who had directed her to her place in the dining hall was standing by the table. Angelina went over to her.
‘I am Mother Mary Andrew. I am Mother Scholastic, which means I am in charge of the educational aspects of the convent. We need to talk so that I can find out what standard you have reached. Sit here, by my table.’
Angelina sat. The other girls were opening desks and taking out books and pens and paper before heading off down the grand staircase again.
‘Now,’ Mother Mary Andrew said. ‘I assume you can read?’
‘Yes, ma’am – I mean yes, Mother. Please, can I ask something?’
‘What is it?’
‘Why do I call you “Mother”? You are not my mother, nor is the other lady who sat on the platform at breakfast.’
Mother Mary Andrew frowned. ‘Have you never been in a convent before? All our choir nuns are called “Mother”. Only the lay members are called “Sister”.’
‘Oh.’ It struck her as a strange convention but it was obviously something she had to accept. ‘And why are you all called Mary something?’
‘That is in honour of Our Lady.’
‘Which lady?’ She looked up at the bust above her. ‘Is that her?’
Mother Mary Andrew cast her eyes heavenward. ‘Heaven protect us! Have you been taught
nothing of Christian doctrine?’
‘I know the Commandments, and the Beatitudes.’
‘Well, that is something, I suppose. Do you know your catechism?’
‘My what?’
Mother Mary Andrew looked at her for a long moment in silence. ‘Have you ever been to church?’
‘Not till this morning.’
‘And your mother and father, do they go to church?’
‘No. My governesses both did – and Lizzie who looked after me after Miss Drake left. But they said as my mother and father were Catholics they had better not put their ideas into my head.’
The nun shook her head in despair. ‘No more understanding than if she’d been brought up among godless heathens,’ she muttered. She got up. ‘This must be brought to the Reverend Mother’s attention. Come.’
She marched through the passageways of the great house with Angelina in her wake until they came to a door, on which she knocked. A voice from within bade them enter. Mother Mary Benedicta was sitting behind a desk spread with papers and looked up in surprised inquiry.
‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Reverend Mother,’ Mary Andrew began. ‘But I have just been talking to this child and I have made a horrifying discovery.’
‘Horrifying?’ Mother Mary Benedicta’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Surely that is rather strong language about one so young?’
‘Old enough to have some understanding of Christian doctrine. This one has never even heard of the catechism, does not know who Our Lady is … has never set foot in a church.’
Mother Mary Benedicta looked at Angelina. ‘Come over here. Now, is this true?’
Angelina wriggled her shoulders uncomfortably. She was aware that she had admitted to some terrible failing but she did not understand why it caused such consternation. ‘Yes, Mother. I suppose it is.’
