Marilyn’s Child

Dropping my feet to the floor I stand up very straight, stretch, then pad quietly towards the window. I was right about the time, the milk van is pulling out of the gate. Terry O’Leary always delivers no later than six-fifteen every morning, except Sunday, when it’s seven a.m. But I was wrong about the sun: a whitish mist hangs above a ragged strip of wall in front of my window. Tiny lavender flowers blossom from a deep crack, prompting a memory of when two lads from the village, one of them Noel Duggan whom Bridget had a crush on, but whom we found out later was secretly in love with me, had tried to sneak into our dormitory. They’d been caught and Bridget and I had been punished. For a couple of minutes I watch a sharp shower pound out a beat on the corrugated roof of the laundry, then I turn away from the window. With a jolt of anticipation I think about the day ahead and of how everything is going to be different. A fresh start, the first day of my new life.

Dressed and downstairs in the breakfast hall before anyone else, I’m greeted by Mother Peter. In her right hand she’s carrying a package. ‘Top of the morning to you, Kate O’Sullivan.’

I’m smiling. This woman, I believe, is a good woman. She behaves the way I think God-fearing people should behave, and most surely are supposed to behave. Polite and considerate, she shows kindness even when being firm. Also, she has an inner calm. She’s someone you feel you can talk to, and trust.

‘So, Kate, you’re leaving us today. I must say you’ve grown into a fine young woman.’

‘Thank you, Mother Peter. Thanks for all your kindness. I …’

‘Hush, child, no need for thanks. I do God’s work, it’s what I was put on this earth to do, it’s why I’m here.’ She sighs and, stepping closer to me till her face is almost touching mine, fixes her eyes on me. She has one blue eye, and one green flecked with brown.

The paper on the parcel rustles as she places it in my hand. ‘This is for you. Take good care of it, Kate, and don’t ever forget that you’re a very special person.’

I glance down at the package lying in my hands. It’s wrapped in brown paper; my name is written on it in bold black letters, and underneath are the words Happy Birthday, and many happy returns. God be with you all the days of your life. I’m not sure what to say – I’ve only ever had three presents in my entire life. Two were from Bridget: my sheep-dog purse and a jug she’d made in pottery class. It was misshapen, painted a dirty clay pink and had a lumpy handle and two crudely painted rosebuds on the side. None the less I’d treasured it. The third was a set of watercolour paints Mrs Molloy had bought for Lizzy to give to me when I was fourteen. The lid of the rectangular tin was painted with a typical Irish country scene: green hills, rushing blue rivers with bright blue sky, birds on the wing and couple hand in hand walking towards a rose-clad cottage. I knew that kind of Ireland existed, but I’d never been there. The paints inside were made up of tiny squares, every colour under the rainbow. I used each square right down to the last scrap. That was, without doubt, the best present I’ve ever had. I didn’t tell Bridget; I lied, saying her jug was the best and most cherished. Anyway, I still have the jug. The paint tin is now being used for keeping my clean brushes.

I stroke the package, then with my free hand grab Mother Peter’s. It’s damp and warm, much warmer than mine. Gently she squeezes my fingers. ‘You’re going far, Kate O’Sullivan. Don’t ask me how I know, because in truth I couldn’t say.’ Tapping the gift with her forefinger she says, ‘I love poetry, the resonance, the depth … I suppose it puts me in touch with the romance in my soul.’ This admission makes her blush. ‘Some of the finest and most profound poems ever written are in this book. I hope it brings you as much pleasure as it has me.’

I’m kind of embarrassed to look at her because she’ll see my eyes filling up and I’ll feel daft. One teardrop falls on to the parcel, making a watermark on the brown paper. With her free hand she lifts my chin and when our eyes are level I manage to utter, ‘I really don’t know what to say …’

“‘Thank you, Mother Peter,” would be appropriate, you ungrateful little pup. Leaving today doesn’t mean leaving your manners behind.’

The voice belongs to a dark shadow to the right of Mother Peter’s shoulder. I don’t want to look at this woman; the mere sight of her is enough to tarnish this most special moment. Silently I pray for her to go away and find some other victim. And, once again, God forgive me, I wish her a painful death – and soon. Now would be appropriate, on the morning of my sixteenth birthday, Mother Thomas suddenly struck down by a terrible attack of some unknown disease that no amount of drugs can help, rendering her helpless and in terrible agony. That would be the best birthday present of all.

Without turning, Mother Peter calmly says, ‘Kate has thanked me several times. There really is no need for further thanks. Nor, I might add, is there any need for your interruption, Mother Thomas.’

I can’t see because I’m not looking in her direction, but I sense Mother Thomas bristle, and with a sigh of relief I hear the swish of her habit then the dull thud of her footsteps as she leaves the room.

‘Now, Kate, breakfast. And remember what I’ve told you. Listen to God: he’ll be your guide, he’ll never fail you if you are prepared to let him into your heart.’

I long to say that God hasn’t done much for me so far, and I doubt things will change. I intend to rely on my own instincts to guide me, listen to the feelings I have all the time, the ones that tell me what I should do and when. But I know she won’t understand. She has her God; I have to seek mine.

All I can find in my heart to say is, ‘I’ll try, and thank you again for everything you’ve ever done for me, every kindness you’ve shown.’

With a serene smile, one the Virgin Mary would have been proud of, she places a hand on the crown of my head. ‘God be with you, Kate, always.’

I’m sick of the God stuff and happy when she lifts her hand and I’m free to go. Several girls are now sitting down on the long pews eating breakfast from a tray. I spot the back of Bridget’s head and slide into an empty place next to her, so close our thighs touch. She’s eating a bowl of porridge. My stomach yawns with hunger but I can’t face the porridge. It would be OK if it was made with milk and had sugar, or stuff of dreams like jam or honey, poured over the top. ‘This food is not fit for humans,’ I hiss. ‘In fact, Lizzy Molloy’s dog gets better grub.’

In between spoonfuls of porridge Bridget mumbles, ‘Do you think Lizzy will adopt me as her new best friend now you’re working for the curate?’

‘She might, but I’m not sure you’d be happy doing most of Lizzy’s homework for her.’

Bridget winks. ‘For a slice of Mrs Molloy’s apple pie, I’d do just about anything. Even show my knickers to her gormless brother Jack.’

Next to Bridget’s left hand I spy a long thin package crudely wrapped in what I suspect is school exercise paper. I’m right; Bridget has painted exercise paper bright red and tied it with blue velvet hair ribbon. The ends are frayed; she probably nicked it from the girl she sits next to in class. Under the gift is a large white envelope. After her final spoonful of porridge, Bridget pushes both items towards me. ‘This is for you, Kate, I hope you like it. I could think of a million things I’d like to buy you, if I had the money that is, but since I don’t I thought you might like to keep this and every time –’

‘For the love of God!’ I interrupt. ‘Will you shut up, else you’ll be telling me what it is and spoiling the surprise.’

Bridget blushes, two red blotches spotting her cheeks. I’m dying to open Mother Peter’s present but decide to concentrate on Bridget’s first. Placing Mother Peter’s gift on the pew next to my leg I start to tear at the red exercise paper. It opens easily and I can’t contain my surprise when I spy a paintbrush. It’s not any old common-or-garden paintbrush; this one is very special. It has a long bone handle with a ring of mother of pearl and a ring of silver at the base, and the brush is made of pure horse hair.

‘Bridget! it’s beautiful! Where on earth did you get it?’ I stroke the handle of the brush, which is cool to the touch and perfectly smooth, a sensuous object, inanimate yet somehow alive. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Bridget, her head down as if looking for something in her empty bowl, whispers, ‘I’m pleased you like it.’

‘Like it? I love it. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. But you didn’t answer – where did you get it?’

Lifting her head, Bridget points to her nose. ‘None of your business, Kate O’Sullivan, to know how or where. I had to get you something special for your sixteenth birthday … Will you promise me something, Kate?’

Still fondling the handle of the brush, I say, ‘Anything.’

‘Every time you paint with that brush, will you spare a thought for me.’

‘Oh, Bridget!’ I’m fighting tears again. ‘I’ll always think of you wherever I go, whether I’m painting or not.’

‘I’ve never had a friend like you. I don’t know how I would have got through the time here without you. I don’t want you to go, and that’s the truth.’

‘I’ll not be far away. The curate’s place is no more than a couple of miles.’

‘I know you’re going to go far away, Kate. Everyone says so.’ Mimicking Mary O’Shea, Bridget adds, “‘To be sure, there’ll be no holding that one back.”’ She pauses, chewing on her next words. ‘You’re different to me and the rest; you’ve got something special. Sure, you’re tall, and very pretty, and blonde, but it’s more than that. It’s what they call the charisma thing, you know like film stars have. You’ve got it.’

I can feel my cheeks burning as Bridget urges me to open the envelope. It contains a card. On the front is an image of a girl with flowing blonde hair; she’s dressed in an ankle-length white dress with a midnight-blue sash cinched at her waist. It’s a classical card edged in gold leaf. Inside, there’s a mushy verse. I begin to read but Bridget insists I read it aloud. I hesitate and look up as Sally and Mary Neesom sit down opposite, identical twins so alike it’s scary. I know they can’t help being ugly but one would have been more than enough.

On the opposing leaf, Bridget had written in her childish neat hand: Happy Birthday to my best friend Kate. I love you and am going to miss you (LOADS).

I kiss Bridget on the cheek and at the same time whisper in her ear: ‘Ditto, and thank you very much. I’ll cherish this –’ I touch the brush – ‘for the rest of my life.’

‘So how does it feel to be getting out of this place?’ Sally Neesom asks, nudging her twin in the ribs. ‘Looking forward to working for our heavenly Father?’

‘I can’t start to tell you what it feels like to be leaving this Godforsaken place, and as for working for Father Steele – I’m very excited!’

Simultaneously the twins stick out their tongues. ‘You, Kate O’Sullivan, get all the bloody luck. It’s not fair.’

‘Sure it’s fair. And anyway, like I’ve always said, you make your own luck in life. We –’ as I utter the word I glance around the dining hall – ‘we lot were in the back of the queue when they gave out the luck, so all the more reason for us to make our own. We’ve no mams and da’s looking out for us, nobody to run back to if it all goes wrong. It means we’ve got to be extra strong to get where we want to be.’

‘And where’s that, Kate – in Father Steele’s bed?’

It was Sally, the louder of the twins. Her sister giggles. I feel irritated, and pleased a second later when Bridget snarls, ‘Remember it’s a priest you’re talking about. Just don’t let anyone hear you blaspheming.’

They both shrug and speak together: ‘Sure, it’s only a joke.’

‘And what is it you’ll be doing for the curate?’ Sally again.

The word char stuck in my throat. ‘Answering the telephone, paying bills, keeping the books, making appointments … You know, like a PA. He’s even asked me to teach him to paint.’

The twins look suitably impressed.

‘It’s only temporary, for a few months before I leave Friday Wells.’

‘Where will you go, Kate?’ a wide-eyed Mary Neesom asks.

‘I intend to go right to the top. Nowhere else will do.’

Chapter Five

After breakfast I’m summoned to Mother Superior’s study. I know why, but the knowing does nothing to dispel the dread. All girls have to say a formal farewell. To summon up the courage to refuse, to make a stand to leave right there and then, head held high, feet as light as air, was tempting. Don’t think I hadn’t considered it, yet I knew for certain my action would deem me unfit to work for the curate. On my solitary march to the nuns’ domain I talk to myself every step of the way. There is nothing any of them could say or do to hurt me. It’s a formality, something to endure for a few minutes before I get a life.

My rap on the door is followed by a brisk, ‘Come.’

On stepping into the room I’m momentarily taken aback. All the sisters are there except Mother Thomas: eight in total, lined up like tin soldiers on either side of Mother Superior, who sits menacingly still, her long back stiff as a board behind her highly polished mahogany desk.

‘Good morning, Kate,’ Mother Superior says, her lips barely moving, like a ventriloquist.

‘Good morning, Mother Virgilus.’

Unsmiling she beckons me to approach her desk. Once there she hands me a brown parcel tied with string saying, ‘It contains regulation garments given to all girls leaving the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. There’s a good set of clothes: a dark blue woollen skirt, a white cotton blouse, a six-button blue cardigan, and a grey mackintosh. You will find ten pounds in an envelope, and your birth certificate.’

I take the package from her right hand as she picks up a large brown manila envelope with her left. ‘This arrived for you yesterday. I’ve no idea what it contains.’ She thrusts the envelope into my hand. A quick glance tells me it’s from a firm called Shaunessy & O’Leary in Dublin.

‘And this–’ Mother Superior taps the cover of a bound book – ‘is a gift from the Sisters of Mercy. A specially embossed and bound bible. I hope it will be a reminder of your time here and the goodness and mercy bestowed upon you by this charitable organization.’

She hands me the bible; I make no effort to take it.

‘I hope you will cherish this fine gift, Kate.’

I manage a nod.

‘Do you not have a tongue, girl? I asked you a question. I expect a civil answer.’

‘Do you want me to tell the truth, Mother Virgilus?’

‘Of course. What else have we taught you here but to tell the truth in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost?’

Under my breath I mutter, You asked for it. Aloud, I say, ‘I don’t want the bible or, for that matter, anything that might remind me of my time here.’

I see her face begin to turn red, in anger I suspect, but I don’t care. She asked for the truth. ‘Apart from Mother Peter’s kindness, I want to forget this place ever existed.’ I glance in Mother Peter’s direction; she averts her eyes. ‘Have you any idea, Mother Virgilus, how it feels to be an orphan child, totally alone and at the mercy of monsters like Mother Thomas and Mother Paul?’

‘How dare you, Kate O’Sullivan, you ungrateful pup? How dare you accuse me of –’ Mother Paul moves forward as if to strike me. I stand my ground, triumph lighting up my eyes.

Rising like a black spectre from behind her desk, Mother Superior refuses to meet my gaze. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t have to be asked twice.’

I start towards the door and, as I open it, I hear Mother Peter say, ‘God bless you, Kate O’Sullivan, all the days of your life.’

Scarcely able to contain my glee, I bounce back to the dormitory on freshly sprung feet. The orphanage is quiet as most of the girls are at school. I mount the stairs thinking that in less than twenty minutes I’ll be going down the same flight for the last time.

Once in the dormitory I sit on the edge of my bed. The mattress feels hard, the horse-hair spread coarse to the touch. Images are beginning to filter into my consciousness. I blot them out with thoughts of tomorrow. A new bed with a bright candlewick counterpane, I hope, and a wooden headboard; a dressing table and a chair with a floral-covered cushion and matching curtains.

Next to each bed is a locker, mine empty now, and above that a shelf where each item of clothing I’ve ever owned has been folded and neatly stacked in exactly the same way every day of my life. Daily inspections kept us neat – God help anyone who had a fold out of place. I wonder if I’ll ever get out of the habit of folding my clothes and stacking them in neat piles.

The parcel of clothes rests on my lap. I fumble with the string; it gives way easily and I slide the clothes out of the package. I rummage for the envelope and, tearing it open, I find a ten-pound note and a neatly folded document. With shaking hands I unfold my birth certificate. My heartbeat quickens as my eyes scan the page. Kate O’Sullivan, born June 5 in the parish of Friday Wells, County Cork, parents deceased. I stare at my birth certificate for a long time before folding it neatly and placing it back in the envelope with the ten pounds. I put the envelope in my bag, and leave the clothes on the bed. I want nothing from the sisters, I want nothing to remind me of this place.

Suddenly I remember the brown envelope. Excited, I tear it open. I’ve never had a letter posted to me before. Sure, I’ve had letters from Lizzy and Bridget, and once I got a love letter from Gabriel Ryan, but they were all hand-delivered. Inside is a letter from a law firm in Dublin and pinned to the top of the letter is a cheque. For several minutes I stare at the cheque thinking that there must have been some mistake. The cheque is made out in the name of Miss Kate O’Sullivan to the sum of five thousand pounds. I can’t believe what my eyes tell me, and holding the cheque in one hand I begin to read the letter.

Dear Miss O’Sullivan,

You are the sole beneficiary of a trust fund founded in your name in June 1962. We have been instructed to act on behalf of the trustees who will remain (at specific behest) anonymous.

Please find enclosed cheque for £5,000, monies representing first payment on your reaching sixteen. Further sums will mature at eighteen, twenty-one and twenty-five respectively. I suggest you contact me at your earliest convenience to confirm receipt of cheque, and to discuss forwarding address for future correspondence.

I look forward to meeting you.

Yours sincerely,

Mr James Shaunessy

My chest is as tight as a drum and an adrenaline rush makes me feel faint. I reread the letter, then stare at the cheque again. Now surely I had proof, definite proof that my parents hadn’t forgotten me. They’d provided for me – sure, money doesn’t make up for what I’ve lost and suffered but it gives me something real to cling to instead of fanciful dreams. Anonymous, the letter said. The only reason to remain unknown that I can think of is that my parents, or at least one of them, was someone very important and wealthy. Five thousand pounds! A fortune; people bought houses for less.

Without warning I begin to cry, tears plopping on to the letter. I’m not sure why I’m crying, I should be happy. I am happy, I tell myself, so why the tears? Every time I’d cried in the past I’d been hurting, badly. I understood that sort of crying. Once I’d seen Mr Molloy cry when he’d cradled his grandson for the first time. I’d asked him why he was crying and he’d said, ‘Tears of joy, Kate; tears of joy.’

I sniff, fold the precious letter very carefully, and then I replace the cheque and the letter in the envelope. Hugging it against my chest I sit very still, thinking of my new-found freedom. I’m rich, rich beyond my wildest dreams. If I wanted, I could get on a train to Dublin today. With five thousand pounds I could order a sleek black limousine to take me all the way there. I could even fly to London and buy a fine easel and brushes, fancy clothes and all the books I’ve ever wanted to read.

In fact, I could have or do whatever I wanted. But what of Father Steele? I couldn’t let him down – or could I? I’ll tell him about my good fortune, and offer to work until he finds a replacement for Biddy. I can’t say fairer than that. He’ll be happy for me, I’m sure, and he’ll understand when I explain I’ve no need to work for a meagre eight pounds a week when I’ve got five thousand pounds. Now I’ve got a huge nest egg: enough, if I’m careful, to see me through until I get the second payment at eighteen. I wonder if it will be the same amount … It might be more! I can’t get my head around more than five thousand pounds – that’s beyond my wildest dreams. I’ll write to James Shaunessy as soon as possible and arrange to meet him when I get to Dublin. I’ll use all my persuasive skills to find out who sent the money. I’ll make him understand how important it is for me to know. All sorted – or so I think.

Grabbing the vinyl hold-all Bridget had lent me, I open the side pocket and put the envelope inside. With a flourish I zip the bag and, throwing it over my shoulder, I stride to the window. The broken pane of glass has recently been fixed after months of tape and cardboard; the greyish tinge of fresh putty is in stark contrast to the dark green frame. When I look out of the window I see the black-clad figure of Mother Thomas striding briskly across the yard, the folds of her habit fanning out behind her, long rosary beads bouncing off her protruding stomach. I shrink back before she has a chance to see me. I haven’t seen her since our brief encounter earlier with Mother Peter.

‘So you’re leaving us. Not a better person, I’m afraid.’ I jump at the sound of her voice. ‘You, Kate O’Sullivan, I consider one of my most spectacular failures.’

The shock of seeing her in the dormitory causes my throat to tighten and my heart to hammer hard. I face her head on, a black tank filling the open door. With my eyes I defy her and imagine I see her shrink from my malevolent glare. But this woman is no shrinking violet, this is the monster nun from hell, the last person I want to see before I leave, a final reminder of the loveless, cold and cruel upbringing I’ve had in this sham of a holy place.

According to Lizzy, all nuns are bitter and twisted because they never have sex. In my head I hear Lizzy whispering, ‘Mother Thomas has never had a man. No one would fancy the ugly old bitch even if she wasn’t a nun. Me brother Jack says women who never get poked shrivel up and die. It eats away at their insides like a cancer.’

I’m not sure Lizzy’s brother is right, but I don’t care any more. I’m armed with the knowledge that my parents cared about me; they must have loved me to want to provide for me so generously. This part of my life is over, history. I’m free, and nothing Mother Thomas says or does can ever hurt me again.

I’m wrong. Without warning and as quick as a flash she lunges at me, and before I have a chance to defend myself I’m pinned against the wall, her hand over my mouth, her eyes gleaming with something I haven’t encountered before. Lust.

‘I bet you’re not a virgin, Kate O’Sullivan, you dirty little whore. I bet you let all the boys poke their dirty fingers in you. Stick their things inside, do they? In your mouth?’ Roughly she drags my skirt up, bunching it around my waist, exposing my bare legs and white pants. I wriggle under her strong grip, stretching my mouth under her hand in a silent scream. I feel a great surge of anger as her fingers yank my pubic hair and I bite down as hard as I can into the back of her hand. She lets out an agonized yelp, like a wounded dog. Encouraged, I jump, using my full weight, on to her left foot. Before she has time to recover, I grab her rosary beads and, knotting them at her throat, I pull tight. Tightening my grip I watch with undisguised glee the colour drain from her face. She’s trying to speak but I’ve cut off her windpipe. It’s exhilarating, this adrenaline-pumping power. I can smell her fear, see the terror in her eyes; she thinks she’s going to die. I want to laugh, and wish she could see herself, a sad and pathetic little creature with nothing to live for except abusing innocent kids. With a loud pant I relax my grip. ‘If you ever come near me again, I’ll kill you – that’s a promise.’ I’m not sure she can hear me, so I repeat, ‘I’ll kill you – do you understand?’