Authors: Judith Kelly
‘Frances,’ I said again.
She had resurfaced - perhaps for ever? - in my mind.
‘Genuflection, girl. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the word, have you?’
‘No, Sister.’
One or two of the other girls sniggered quietly and I could feel a blush burning my cheeks.
‘Speak up, speak up. Genuflection is a bow, a bob, a curtsey to the altar. Well?’
‘Yes, Sister,’ I said louder.
‘Yes, what?’ Sister Mary said, poking my shoulder with her cane.
‘I haven’t heard of the word before.’
More muffled laughter from the others. Two of them whispered. Yes, they knew - had never needed to learn nor ever been ignorant.
‘Be quiet, all of you,’ Sister Mary spat. ‘Is there something funny about the word genuflection?’
‘I - I don’t know, Sister,’ I stammered.
‘Well, I want you to practise it now. You must learn to genuflect correctly before you go to church again. Practice makes perfect. Do you understand? That way you will learn.’
The convent stood alone at the top of a
hill
above Bexhill-on Sea, some distance from the town, and was approached by a long pebbled drive. Mum and I had first entered the building two weeks earlier, blinking in the high, cool gloom after the August heat outside. That’s when I became aware of the worrying silence that enclosed the place, broken only by the swishing skirts of a short plump nun bustling along the corridor to meet us. For all its air of piety and polish, I had the sense of being plunged into something murky - a miserable awareness that this was not the holiday camp I had hoped for.
The nun, who introduced herself as Sister Cuthbert, told us to follow her. She had a gravelly voice that billowed out from under her veil. Her big butter-and-egg face looked tightly packed inside her stiff, white coif and her walk was smooth, hurried, like someone who had numerous tasks to perform.
She led us along a long gaunt corridor with creaky floors which stretched ahead with a row of doors leading off on either side. I slipped on the polished floor, but Mum quickly grabbed my arm to save me. We passed a tall statue of a man wearing white robes, his nostrils curved as though with disgust for the rude humans passing below him. Behind his head a golden halo winked, reflecting each flicker of a little glass lamp that burned on the pedestal. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of floor polish mingled with incense.
‘This end of the corridor is the children’s area,’ said the nun in her throaty voice. ‘The other end is where the old people live. The children are on holiday in London at the moment, but will be returning next week.’
We followed the nun through cathedral-like archways and turned right at the end of the main corridor. In the dim light I could see dusty statues looming on high plinths, anguished expressions on their stone faces. I held tightly to Mum’s hand.
Endless doors opened and closed. Dark empty passageways led into many rooms, including three classrooms. As the nun opened the door to one, she said to Mum, ‘So your husband died four years ago, Mrs Kelly? Such a tragedy that he died so young.’
While they began a whispered conversation together, I thought back to the time when we had lived in a pub in Faversham, and felt sad.
I remembered Dad carrying me up a flight of dark stairs past wooden beer barrels, into a long, smoke-filled bar-room with sawdust on the floorboards. His jacket was a rough tweed that smelt of smoke and had sweets hidden in the top handkerchief pocket. Sometimes he’d place me on the pub counter amid the cozy buzz of noise - small talk, the clink of glasses, the faint rhythmic tunes from a tin-kettle piano - and he’d give me a bottle of cherryade to drink. I called it prickly water. Encased in the warm smell of beer and drunkenness, I watched him down numerous bottles of his own prickly water, with their brass bright depths. Then one afternoon he lay on the floor and wouldn’t get up.
‘He was only twenty-nine,’ Mum told the endless shadowy strangers who popped in for tea and biscuits. And I had thought then how wrong it seemed to entertain, to eat, so soon after they had put Dad into the ground.
‘He drank himself into an early death,’ they said. And everyone heaved a sigh and shook their heads. People came and said soft things to me and chatted about him for a bit, then forgot him and talked of other things. For a long time afterwards I had felt, and still felt, torn up inside and that his dying was my entire fault.
Mum and Sister Cuthbert suddenly stopped talking together and looked down at me. Mum said, ‘Don’t sniff, Judith, blow. What’s your hankie for?’
I rubbed my nose with my hand as the nun continued: ‘Most of the girls here are orphans. Others have one parent who may have fallen on hard times. We do our best to raise them as good Catholics.’
The classroom had a high ceiling and yellowy-brown walls so dusty they appeared to be dissolving into powder. The room was bare, with a line of plain desks in the centre. A tall smeary blackboard towered at the front; at the back, many-paned windows overlooked the convent gardens. The lower half was made of frosted glass, so the children couldn’t see outside. The classroom had an old musty woody smell; if the whole building had an air of gloom, this room was the heart of that feeling. I dismally noticed that most of the books piled in a glass cabinet seemed to be about saints.
A few of the children’s chalk drawings were exhibited on one wall. On the other hung a huge wooden crucifix on a chain. An ivory Christ stretched naked, bleeding, elbows and kneecaps jutting through the skin, flesh protruding from open wounds, crowned with thorns of silver and nailed with nails of gold. Although August sunshine was pouring into the room, I couldn’t stop a shiver trembling through me.
‘See, there is Our Lord always watching over the children,’ said Sister Cuthbert. ‘It reminds them that home for a Catholic is wherever Our Lord is. And what do you suppose Our Lord was thinking while he was up there on the cross, Judith?’
I looked at the painted wounds. ‘Ouch?’ I suggested weakly.
The nun pursed her lips and her eyes narrowed sharply. ‘No, no! He was thinking: I’ve suffered this for you. You obviously don’t know your Bible.’
‘But she’s only eight,’ said Mum.
‘Almost nine,’ I said.
‘Well, there’s time enough to put it right,’ said Sister Cuthbert. ‘Do you have a rosary, Judith?’
I lowered my eyes. I didn’t know what a rosary was. Mum tightened her clasp on my hand. Talking about anything to do with religion made her uncomfortable and self-conscious too.
‘Never mind, I’m sure we can provide you with one,’ said Sister Cuthbert with a kindly expression.
After we had some tea in the parlour, Mum told me to wait outside for a moment while she had a talk with Sister Cuthbert. I watched them through the open door, and tried to lip-read what they were saying. Sister Cuthbert’s mouth was little and plump and curly at the edges and I couldn’t understand anything. Finally the nun said loudly, ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Kelly, Judith will have plenty of playmates once the children return.’
Fear choked through me. I ran back into the room.
‘Mum,’ I said, tugging at her to bend down so I could whisper in her ear. When she did, I pressed my face close to hers. I could smell her perfume as I whispered, ‘I won’t be staying here for ever, will I?’
Straightening up, she took my hand and stroked it. ‘Of course not,’ she soothed. ‘I’ve told you, I’ll be back in a fortnight when I’ve found us somewhere to live.’
When the time arrived for Mum to leave, I wouldn’t let go of her hand; I couldn’t let go. She mustn’t leave me here, I thought. I might never see her again.
‘Stay with Sister Cuthbert,’ ordered Mum. ‘And don’t forget to say thank you for the tea.’
I looked over my shoulder at the silent veiled woman, and my breath caught in my throat. ‘Please,’ I appealed, my voice wild, ‘don’t leave me here.’
Mum stood unsure for a moment, staring at me with wet eyes. ‘It’s not for ever, judith; it’s just until I find somewhere for us to live. Bea brave girl and help Mummy, all right? Promise me to write in the diary I gave you every day. Then you can show it to me when I see you next.’ Her voice sounded too loud, nervously cheerful.
When she bent down to hug me, I wanted so much to cry, to hold her close and never let her go. But I didn’t want to upset her. I tried to be strong for her sake. I fought back the tears and tried to swallow the tight feeling in my throat, my mouth dryas I stood on top of the front steps of the convent and watched her go. The nun stood behind me and waved.
‘Goodbye, Judith, goodbye!’ Mum cried out to me, waving her hand before she turned the corner. And then she was gone.
I wanted to please Mum: I wanted her to be proud of me, to stroke my head and tell me how well I had coped, so I wrote regularly in my diary.
17
August
I95I
I came here yesterday. Sister Cuthbert gave us tea from a
big tin teapot with milk and sugar already in it. It made
Mum laugh. When Mum left Sister Cuthbert said Oh dear, I
can see someone is about to cry. I said
No
I’m not and
pretended to be happy. Madeleine and Bridget used to be at
this school. They are on holiday as well. They are taking me
to the beach tomorrow.
19
August
I had my photo taken on the beach. Madeleine asked if I
wanted to stay with the other children. I said no.
22
August
I had a bath today and had to wear an apron in it. We went
to the beach again. The other children come back from
holiday tomorrow. Madeleine and Bridget keep telling me
to stay with them.
Wednesday
23
August
Sister Cuthbert made me write to Mum that I wanted to
stay here with the other children. I don’t want to really. I
sent Mum a photo of me on the rocks by the sea. I told her I
looked like the King of the Castle. I wish I could see her and
tell her the truth.
‘Sit down, Judith,’ said Sister Cuthbert. ‘Now, I want you to write to your mother. You’re a big girl, aren’t you? You know what’s best, and you know your mother can’t really take care of you right now. So you’re going to be a good girl and tell her you want to stay here, because that’s what’s right, isn’t it?’
I suddenly felt lonely and frightened. A wrenching longing came over me for Mum’s tiny beds it and gas fire, for the comfortable smells of her perfume mingled with cigarette smoke.
The nun fixed me with a frown. ‘Well, Judith?’
‘Yes, Sister,’ I mumbled obediently. I wanted her to like me. ‘What shall I write?’
‘Just tell her that the children have now returned from holiday and you want to stay here with them.’
Dear Mum .
. .
The other girls have returned now, and I’d like
to stay here with them .
. . No, it’s a lie! I clutched the pen so hard that my fingers ached as I wrote. Sister Cuthbert stood watching over my shoulder. I could feel her eyes boring a hole in my neck. I felt smothered, hot, choking.
To my relief, just as I’d finished writing the letter, the door burst open and a dark-haired girl wearing a faded navy tunic dashed out of it. Seeing the nun and me, she pulled up short.
‘Careful, Frances!’ snapped Sister Cuthbert. Her fingers hooked around the girl’s wrist like a handcuff, jerking her up straight. The girl flinched. The nun seemed to catch herself then, and drew in a deep breath.
‘I thought you were supposed to be attending Benediction?’ She released her grip, wiping her hand on her habit.
‘Sorry, Sister,’ said the girl cheerily. I looked at her. I felt no premonition. She had wide dark almond eyes, and her face crinkled when she grinned, showing very even teeth.
Through the door I could see children of all ages falling into line down the corridor, all wearing the same faded blue uniform and knitted berets. The sight of them chilled me: so many empty faces, so many cow-like eyes fixed straight ahead. The bigger children had the look of crushed adults. One older girl of about sixteen sucked her thumb and twisted a strand of hair round and round her fingers. Many of them looked only half-made. I noticed one girl about the same age as me struggling to put on her beret. She had unevenly cut hair, like an upturned lavatory brush. All of them stood in silence.
In comparison, the dark-haired girl’s cheerful energy was like an ultra-bright light. Being a little older than me, she took no notice of me beyond a quick, amused stare. ‘Sister Mary asked me to fetch the new girl and take her to Benediction with us.’
How did she know I was a new girl?
I thought.
The ink’s
hardly dry.
‘There we are then, Judith,’ said Sister Cuthbert. ‘This is Frances McCarthy, she’ll take care of you. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure your letter is posted.’ She swept it off the table. An aching lump grew in my throat as she left the room in a rustle of black robes, taking my letter with her.
Frances looked at me expectantly. I tried to think of something to say to her, but no words came. Everything in my head felt muddled and wary. Tricked. I’d been tricked into writing that letter.
Mum, please realise that I didn’t mean it and come and
take me away!
‘Have you been to Benediction before?’ asked Frances.
Benny-who? ‘I don’t think so,’ I muttered.
‘Well, if you haven’t, you’d better stay close to me. I’ll show you what to do.’
She led me away, and I followed, dragging my feet, all hopes shattered. Frances had a bouncing sort of walk, all up in her toes. We pushed our way into a vacant place in the silent line of girls who stared at me with a wary, darting-eyed expression on their faces.
‘This is the new girl, Sister Mary,’ said Frances to another nun who was peering down the row of girls with a frown.
Sister Mary’s face emerged from her coif. She squinted and pointed at me with a long yellow stick that curved over at the top like a walking-stick.
‘You’re ... Kelly, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ I said miserably, ‘I’m Judith Kelly.’ This seemed to offend her. Her face grew hard, and I could tell by the sudden cloudiness of her eyes that she was making a mental note.