Small Things Like These(12)

When the Mother Superior returned, she came slowly to the hearth, where she lifted the tongs and stoked the young fire, pushing the lighted sods skilfully together and surrounding them with fresh lumps of Furlong’s best coal, from the scuttle, before seating herself on the armchair opposite.

‘So, is all well at home, Billy?’ she began.

Her eyes were neither blue nor grey but somewhere in between.

‘All’s well with us, thank you, Mother.’

‘And your girls? How are they? I hear that two of yours are making some progress with their music lessons here. And don’t you have another two next door.’

‘They’re getting on rightly, thank God.’

‘And we see another of yours in the choir now. She doesn’t look out of place.’

‘They carry themselves well.’

‘Won’t they all soon find themselves next door, in time to come, God willing.’

‘God willing, Mother.’

‘It’s just that there’s so many nowadays. It’s no easy task to find a place for everyone.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Is it five you have, or six?’

‘It’s five we have, Mother.’

She got up then and took the lid off the teapot, and stirred the leaves. ‘But it must be disappointing, all the same.’

Her back was to him.

‘Disappointing?’ Furlong said. ‘In what way?’

‘To have no boy to carry on the name.’

She meant business but Furlong, who’d long experience of such talk, was on known ground. He stretched a little and let his boot touch the brass, polished fender.

‘Sure, didn’t I take my own mother’s name, Mother. And never any harm did it do me.’

‘Is that so?’

‘What have I against girls?’ he went on. ‘My own mother was a girl, once. And I dare say the same must be true of you and half of all belonging to us.’

There was a pause then, and Furlong felt she was not so much put off as changing tack – when the door opened and the girl from the shed was brought in wearing a blouse, cardigan and a pleated skirt and in shoes, with her wet hair badly combed out.

‘That was quick.’ Furlong half rose. ‘Are you any better now, child?’

‘Sit in here now, won’t you.’ The Mother pulled out a chair for her. ‘Take some tea and cake and warm yourself.’ Gladly she seemed to lift the pot and pour the tea for her, to push the jug and sugar-bowl closer, within the girl’s reach.

The girl sat in at the table and awkwardly began picking bits of fruit out of the cake then went about swallowing down the rest with the hot tea, but she struggled over the cup, trying to replace it on the saucer.

For a while, the Mother Superior chatted idly about the news and more unimportant things, before she turned: ‘Won’t you tell us now why you were in the coal shed?’ she said. ‘All you need do is tell us. You’re not in any trouble.’

The girl froze in the chair.

‘Who put you in there?’

The girl’s frightened gaze went all around, touched Furlong’s briefly before falling back to the table and the crumbs on her plate.

‘They hid me, Mother.’

‘Hid you how?’

‘Weren’t we only playing.’

‘Playing? Playing what, would you like to tell us?’

‘Just playing, Mother.’

‘Hide and seek, I dare say. And at your age. Did they not think to let you out when the game was over?’

The girl looked away and let out an unearthly type of sob.

‘What ails you now, child? Wasn’t it all just a mistake? Wasn’t it all just a big nothing?’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘What was it?’

‘It was a big nothing, Mother.’

‘You’ve had a fright, is all. What you need now is your breakfast and a good, long sleep.’

She looked to the young nun who’d all the while been standing like a statue in the room, and nodded.

‘Won’t you fry up something for this girl? Take her into the kitchen there and let her eat her fill. And see that she’s left idle for today.’

Furlong watched the girl being taken away and soon understood that this woman wanted him gone – but the urge to go was being replaced now by a type of contrariness to stay on, and to hold his ground. Already, it was growing light outside. Soon, the bells for first Mass would ring. He sat on, encouraged by this queer, new power. He was, after all, a man amongst women here.

He looked at the woman before him, at how she was dressed: the well-pressed costume, the polished shoes.

‘Didn’t Christmas come in quick, in the end,’ he idled.

‘It did, surely.’

He had to hand it to her; her head was cool.

‘You’ve heard that they’re forecasting snow.’

‘We could have a white Christmas yet – but isn’t it all the more business for you.’

‘We’re kept busy,’ Furlong said. ‘I’ll not complain.’

‘Are you done with this tea or will I pour you another?’

‘We may as well finish it, Mother,’ he persisted, holding out the cup.

The hand that poured was steady.