The Christie Affair(51)

‘I hate to think of Father Joseph touching Kitty,’ Bess said fiercely. ‘I’d have to kill him. I would.’

She started to cry again. I hated myself for feeling terrified that Father Joseph’s attentions would turn towards me if he ever lost interest in Bess. A few days earlier I had hid from him, ducking into the kitchens when I saw him walking down the hall with Sister Mary Clare. ‘All girls are the same,’ I heard him say to her. He sounded as if it made him angry.

‘Father, you can’t say that,’ the young nun replied, with her light and cheerful trill, I would have thought it flirtatious, if I hadn’t known that’s how she always spoke. ‘Why, we nuns are nothing like these girls, are we?’

Father Joseph stopped and touched her arm. ‘Surely no,’ he said. ‘You’re the purest angels, tending to the most wretched devils. Snow-white lilies alongside ragwort. A wondrous thing to behold.’

We girls, identical devils. And the nuns, identical angels, each with the same grave awaiting. Here Lies Sister Mary. I had seen Sister Mary Frances strap the palms of girls not much older than Bess’s little sister Kitty. In the months I’d been here, nobody had touched my palms. I hadn’t received a single lash. I kept my head down and did what I was told. Obedience seemed the safest plan. I hadn’t learned yet. In this world it’s the obedient girls who are most in danger.

Bess moved a hand from under her cheek and I held it. If we were all the same, and if Father Joseph could choose Bess, when indeed she did grow too large, he might choose me. I persisted in that way of thinking, even though it amounted, in my mind, to turning her over to him for the sake of myself. One of the worst aspects of this prison life was the way it could make us ruthless mercenaries, fighting in an army of one.

‘I’m sorry,’ I told Bess. ‘I wish I could help.’

‘It’s all right.’ She moved over and I lay down beside her, facing the opposite direction, both of us squeezed onto the narrow cot, close enough so that, through her belly, pressed into my back, I could feel a great bold kick. We drew in our breaths, hearts lifting at least for a moment.

‘Oh, this baby’s a strong one,’ Bess whispered.

‘Could be a boy,’ I said. ‘Could be, when he’s grown, he’ll take care of Father Joseph for you.’

‘No. I’d never let him. It’s my job to protect him. He’ll never know a priest and he’ll never go to war. I swear it.’

‘Have you chosen a name?’ Any name we chose wouldn’t last. We could see them, the couples who arrived to adopt our babies. In those days women seldom delivered their babies in hospital; they delivered them at home. They stayed in confinement during their last months rather than roam about visibly pregnant. So it was easy not only to steal our children but also to pass them off as their own.

‘If it’s a girl, I’ll name her Genevieve. If it’s a boy, Ronan. That means Little Seal. Do you have seals where you come from, Nan?’

‘No.’ There were seals on the rocks at Ballywilling Beach but I didn’t want to come from there anymore. I had abandoned the idea that Ireland belonged to me or me to it. I came from London. My mother’s daughter. Not my father’s.

‘Whenever trouble comes to land, Ronan will swim away. Whenever trouble comes to water, Ronan will return to shore.’

‘Why Genevieve?’ I asked.

‘The patron saint of young girls. So she can look out for herself.’

I hugged my own belly, liking the sound of that.

‘No harm can reach this baby ever,’ Bess said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

It sounded like what we wanted to be true. Never mind where we were. All the good things would happen. Our young men would return for us. Our babies would stay close to us always and we’d watch them grow. I pictured myself at a kitchen table, my baby playing with Alby at my feet, Finbarr making tea while I filled a notebook with stories. They hadn’t taken the wishes out of us, not yet.



All girls are the same. Father Joseph’s proclamation dogged us until we could almost believe it was true. There was the occasional rebellion – like the girl who escaped through the open gate when the milk truck arrived. The bells sounded, nuns scurrying everywhere, demanding one door be locked, another opened. We cheered, risking their wrath, and then were disappointed when the escapee returned the same evening, face streaked with dust and tears. A pointless day of walking led to the full realization that there was nowhere for her to go.

‘Be glad for a roof over your head,’ the nuns told us. ‘It’s more than most would give you.’

One morning, Bess and I were scrubbing the entry hall. Often the floors they had us clean were already spotless, but summer had begun with plenty of rain, and the girls who’d been working outdoors had tracked a good deal of dirt over the tiles. I left Bess on her hands and knees to fetch more hot water for our buckets,

and on my way back, found Sister Mary Clare humming through the corridor.

‘Sister,’ I said. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a favour.’

‘My English Rose,’ she said, smiling. ‘You can ask me anything at all. I hope you know that.’

‘Could you send a letter to Ballycotton, to Finbarr Mahoney – just a few lines, to tell him where I am?’

A look of sad hesitation crossed her face.