Authors: Deborah Henry
He ran to the toilets
, and the relief was enormous.
Sweating and exhausted, Sister Agnes repositioned the straw rugs by her wardrobe. She took off her wimple and shook out her chin-length dark hair, as if shaking filth out of a feather duster. She undid the rope belt of her habit and put on a bit of talc. Flapping her arms about, she felt dismayed that there were no baths for the nuns in the orphanage and wished she’d been placed at the convent like Sister Joseph had three years ago.
Why didn’t Mother Superior choose me to change positions? Why Sister Joseph?
So many years ago, in her innoc
ence, the senior nuns had told
Sister Agnes that orphanage duty was just a starter. She should have known better than to broach the subject, she reflected, pulling on her heavy robes again. With her background, she was lucky not to be scrubbing pots in the kitchen with the other poor nuns; Mother Superior had let her know this more than once. Besides, wasn’t she pleased with her position of authority? Those were Mother Superior’s last words to her on the subject, over two years ago.
But the bigger girls had become too much for her to handle.
Especially the overgrown ones. Especially Rosemary. Too pretty for her own good. Too proud. She remembered the first time she met the big girl, ten years ago, and even then as a young thing she had been too pretty. How she wailed when Sister Agnes put the bowl on top of her head and cut off her long black curls. She gave her a funny look, too. An evil look, as if she hated the nun. Most of the young ones wouldn’t have been so wayward as to look at her that way. And Rosemary hadn’t changed; even after so many years under Sister Agnes’s care, the same spirit was in her today. Almost sixteen now, she still had that devious look and unruly mass of short curls. Sister couldn’t imagine having the cheek to bounce around like
that one
did in front of men. Her own dead parents, God rest their souls, may have been dirt poor, but they didn’t spare the rod to teach her right from wrong.
She rubbed her burning eyes, pulled the habit’s tight sleeves down by the cuffs. This was her cross to bear. She was picked to teach the lowlifes manners and morals. An almost impossible task. And for what possible good to society? she thought. Half of them would end up little more than eejits, creating more eejits, which Ireland certainly didn’t need.
Most of them simply needed more control and discipline than she was able to give. She had so many to look after. Sure, she’d have to put a few of those beyond help into the Magdalene laundries, last year she’d put in for two transfers. With Rosemary’s mot
her recently
deceased, Sister Agnes felt the girl had become a severe case, too emotionally needy to tend to any longer. She would take action at once. For Rosemary’s own good, and for the good of the group, she would make an emergency call to St. Vincent’s sanatorium in North Dublin.
Agnes crossed herself, took in a deep breath, and braced herself for refectory duty. She wondered what number Four Seventy-Six was thinking now, after seeing that devil of a girl in the flesh. A bit young, wasn’t he, to be interested in girls?
But who could judge the animal in a man? How old was he? Eleven? Twelve? At any rate, she knew it was time for him to get away from the girls’ shameful temptations, troublemaker that he already was.
She crossed herself again, thinking about Marian, and sighed. The poor mother had no idea how to cope, either. Still, Sister Agnes had seen the grief on her face. No matter how gentle the delivery, any suggestion of an alternative for her Adrian would devastate Marian, and the sorry expression on her face would torment Sister Agnes as well.
Although Agnes would have to reflect on what was best for Adrian. She did know that there was little chance that she would relinquish her rights—she was certain that the boy needed other influences than the ones awaiting him in that unsettled home in Donnybrook.
The next morning a ruckus coming from St. Peter’s dormitory slammed Adrian’s ears, and he flew out of bed. He was too small to fight the men removing Rosemary, his voice his only weapon. Rosemary’s cries were not as loud as his own. Hers were helpless, a gasping. She spent her energy trying to free herself from the men’s arms. Adrian shouted for help, for Sister Agnes to come, but only a few boys were roused. Rosemary was lifted by her arms and legs down the planks of the staircase. Adrian clung to one of the doctors by the ankle, or one of the assistants; they seemed too gruff to be doctors, the men draped in white cotton coats. A sharp kick to the chest knocked Adrian to the floor. The room moved around in slow motion. From the slats, Adrian watched her struggle. He managed to grab the banister and raised himself to his feet. He coughed and croaked at the bastards as Sister Agnes barreled down the hall. She wrapped her arm tight around his neck and covered his mouth shut with her pudgy hand. He could not stop the double doors opening and shutting in the hall downstairs. He shut his eyes, listening to the clanging of the iron gate, muffled men’s voices on the rain-soaked street, car doors clanking.
Three days passed and Marian started to worry. Maybe Ben was telling the truth. Maybe they were all just friends.
Despite everything she missed Ben. “I want to stride right over and bloody well show both Mammys our rings,” Ben had said when she returned from
her sabbatical.
“Amen,” she agreed.
“I want a boatload of kids,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she whispered back.
That will relieve the overwhelming sadness,
she thought. She wouldn’t think about the stories she had heard, about the inmates scarred for life. It would be different for them.
“I have to go,” she said, massaging his shoulders.
“Never.”
“No really, I told Ma I’d be home straightaway.”
“God, I can’t wait until we’re married. Let’s do it tomorrow."
“Tomorrow?” She waved him off, retrieved her coat and hat.
“Ah, okay. Today, then.”
He tackled her to the floor, their arms and legs locking together like Legos. She loved his body. Only a couple of inches taller, she always just felt so right in his arms.
“The Central Registry Office,” he whispered between kisses. “Let’s go tomorrow, start the paperwork. And after our wedding, we’ll take off for a weekend.”
She kissed him long in reply. Then he pulled off whatever clothes remained, and they made love one more time—like they could ever be kids again.
Marian walked an unsteady burden up the quiet lane now to their red-brick home. The persistent clouds heightened the yellow center of the asters by the iron gate and reminded her of the colors she’d picked for their cozy kitchen. Two large potted camellias perched in her borrowed wheelbarrow. She’d redirect the variegated ivy on the trellis earlier this afternoon, put the camellias by the sidewalls. She carried the heavy plants up the short steps to their blue front door, the only bright colors used to ornament the outside of Irish homes. Whoever made blue the national color of Ireland was colorblind. Ben ought to write about
that
in the paper and wake up the dead, she thought. She looked at Mrs. O’Rourke’s lot. Now, that would get the tongues wagging.
She put the pots down with a thud and was greeted by the sound of her mother’s voice.
“Are you back home then?”
“Ma.” She closed her eyes.
“I just come by. I thought you might need some help. Are you keeping well?”
“Not a bother, thanks,” she said, opening the front door.
“What were you carrying those for? Aren’t they too–”
“No,” Marian snapped.
“Well, you don’t have to bite off my head.
Ba mhaith liom cupán tae
,” Mrs. McKeever huffed. “I want some tea.”
“Of course. Come in, Ma,” Marian sighed as her mother headed with her own packages to the kitchen to boil water for tea.
“Look at you. You look like something the cat dragged in. Maybe Ben doesn’t care about those things, I don’t know…”
“That’s enough, Ma.”
Ma McKeever examined the three small acrylic paintings of fruit and bowls, captured in identical thick bronze picture frames gracing the small but elegant kitchen entry, and then nonchalantly placed a change of Mass schedule for Donnybrook Church next to the telephone. “Would you smell the air out here? Not like the city at all. So fresh. You landed well on your feet. Ben makes a good salary, I suppose,” she said, “although the
Irish Times
never took a hapenny from me or your da. We wouldn’t read their pagan dribble.”
“His reporting on the troubles has been first rate. Mr. Darby’s said so. And Ben’s been able to keep his job—that’s the most important thing.”
“Well, they’re known for wanting the money, regardless.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Ma.” Marian let out a huge sigh. “Let’s have that cup of tea.”
She had no desire for more banter, the one-upmanship, the mother-daughter game they played. Ma McKeever set out the mugs, an apple crisp, and her homemade rhubarb tart warming in the blue Stanley cooker.
Ma made an awkward laugh. There was a pretent
ious gaiety that
challenged genuine delight about Marian’s mother. Always an arm’s distance away from authentic expression; Marian had always felt that distance. Somewhere in childhood there was a lost connection with her ma that was very real. Marian could never pinpoint any actual event. Sure, there were a few moments of tenderness and closeness when her ma shared her disappointments with life—her parent’s poverty stymied her—but these were the only moments of intimate disclosure. What had once been a cause of embarrassment to Mrs. McKeever was now only an unemotional reflection. A relief to be past all the youthful angst. For the most part, though, a pretense of joy commingled with biting humor, and Marian learned to keep her own feelings private. Their love stunted.
“No word, still?” Ma asked.
“He’s probably keeping very busy at work.” Marian turned on the telly.
“Is that what Jo thinks as well?”
“I’ve told her that he’s on a business trip.”
“Well, he must have a face on him as long as today and tomorrow without you. He’ll come round,” Ma said, but Marian felt uncomfortable talking about it with her ma.
“Adrian should be home for good soon,” Marian said.
“I’ll be wanting to take him to my house and to my church. He’ll love it.”
“We’re also going to teach him the Jewish faith. Ben and I want Adrian to know about everything.”
“Everything? Have you lost your good sense. You have a boy, not a university professor.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do what you like. I’ll be teaching him what he’ll get for Christmas. A ball, a drum, a kick in the bum, and a chase around the table,” she said, and let out one of her giggles.
Ma was getting silly on her.
Soon she’ll be nailing crosses throughout the house
.
“You look banjaxed. Let me straighten up in here, put on the kettle.”
“Thanks, Ma. I’ll have a lie down,” she said and settled herself on the library couch.
Ma McKeever busied herself unloading groceries. After a bit of tea, Marian felt relaxed and she smiled at her ma, now knitting yet another huge sweater for Adrian. Marian looked into the garden and imagined spending next summer outside with Johanna and, no doubt, her ma and hopefully Adrian, deadheading the six peach and antique white rose bushes. She loved the tomato plants and fresh herb garden they had planted as well, with rows of marigolds down the middle. What a delight it was to have fresh vegetables with their meals. And then there was the lilac bush Ben had planted to commemorate the birth of Johanna. And she’d plant another one when Adrian came home.