Nobody Came (14 page)

A
s the school’s sports day drew closer, everyone was excited and it was the main topic of conversation at break time. I felt huge waves of exhilaration because for the first time ever I was going to be part of a school event. I had been chosen to try out for the relay team. Permission had been sought from the nuns and surprisingly granted for me to practise once a week. I could hardly wait.

The children who had been at the school longer explained some of the events to me. Sports day was a family affair where parents often joined in with the infant children and took part in the three-legged, sack and egg-and-spoon races. I felt a fleeting sadness at the mention of parents, but when I tried to visualise Gloria participating in these childish games, I couldn’t.

Us older boys were competitive and took winning much more seriously than the infants, who just saw their races as games. There were lots of different events but the most important race for me was the one I hoped to run in, the relay. I wanted to be part of a team. Each boy had to run a set distance and then pass over a coloured wooden baton to the next boy, who ran on to the next boy and handed over the baton, and so on.

During the games period we practised for all the different races. I was much lighter than the other boys in my class and found that I could outrun them over the short distances. The boys from the orphanage were usually never picked for the games or football teams. We all knew it was because the other children didn’t want to mix with us. So even though I knew I was good, I was still surprised when the team leader of the green team picked me and added, ‘You’re fast, Robbie, you should go last.’

‘Last?’ I repeated, astonished, for that was the most important position in the team.

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘We’ve got to beat the yellow team.’

I nearly jumped up and down in my excitement.

Because an orphanage boy had been picked for the all-important relay team, they were also chattering non-stop about the forthcoming event.

Sports day came at last. It felt like a holiday, as there were no classes. One the way to school we chatted about which races we had entered. For once the rule of silence was lifted and some of the nuns came with us for they wanted to watch the morning’s events. Sister Claire held Davie’s hand and I heard her ask him what race he was going to compete in. Davie pouted and shook his head in his usual way.

‘Not,’ he said, followed by ‘won’t’.

The area around the school gates was crowded as our little crocodile arrived. Instead of saying goodbye to their children, mothers and fathers were walking into the school grounds and onto the playing field, which had a small running track around it. Chairs had been put out for the adults to sit on and tea and biscuits were being served. The races were to start at 10 o’clock. The sun was already beating down and the mothers put their sunhats on. Baby brothers and sisters in prams had the canopies raised and fathers discreetly loosened their ties and placed their jackets on the backs of the chairs.

The Infants’ events started first. Little boys ran with outstretched arms, trying to balance a hard-boiled egg on a spoon. The intense concentration on their faces made us all laugh as we stood by and watched. Then it was the mothers’ and sons’ sack race. Getting down to serious business the participating mothers kicked off their shoes, tucked their flared cotton dresses into the sacks and hopped along beside their little boys towards the starting line.

Sister Claire suddenly jumped up from her seat and grabbed Davie by the hand. ‘Come on, Davie, you and I will do this together.’ She helped Davie climb into a potato sack and showed him how to hold it tightly so he would not trip and fall over. Then she got into hers, giggling at how her voluminous habit filled it.

The other nuns looked astounded at her actions and I could see them muttering to each other in disapproval. No doubt Sister Bernadette would hear a full report on this disgraceful lapse of dignity, I thought, before straining my eyes to watch my baby brother.

‘Ready, steady, go!’ shouted the teacher in charge of starting orders. There was utter confusion as the children and their mothers set off. Some fell, some collided and some tripped. Tears followed as pairs of disappointed contestants were disqualified. Davie and Sister Claire were soon in the lead and they jumped determinedly towards the finishing line. She gave a whoop of joy as they crossed the line first. Jumping out of her sack, she swept Davie up in her arms and kissed the top of his head. Davie wrapped his arms around her neck and started to laugh – deep, little-boy belly guffaws. It was the first time I had heard him laugh since the accident. I hoped fervently that it was a sign that he was getting better. Of course, I was still too young to realise that was never going to happen.

Then it was announced that the two relay teams were to gather. The gym teacher spoke into the large metal loudhailer and called us over to take our designated positions. I was the closest to the winning line.

‘Just run like hell,’ the team’s captain said to me as I took my place.

The other team was also from my class and the class above but they wore yellow bibs and we had green ones. The boy who was the last runner for the yellow team and I stood in position, nervously eyeing each other up. He had slicked-back black hair, smart new running shoes and crisp white shorts. Not for the first time, I felt deeply ashamed of my orphanage attire. He jiggled from leg to leg, stretched his arms and legs and looked me up and down as he sneered: ‘We’ll beat you, you know! Fancy letting a bastard take hold of the last baton!’

Before I could think of a retort the race started. Off the teams went, yellow striding ahead from the start. The batons changed, we caught up. They changed runner again. Neck and neck, the yellow and green bibs ran towards us. We stood ready to grab our batons and run. He got his first; I grasped mine from a panting, red-faced boy, who almost dropped it as he thrust it towards me, and set off as fast as I could. My heart was pounding and my legs were pumping as if my feet weren’t quite touching the ground. I loved the feel of the wind gently blowing my hair back as, puffing my chest out, I ran as fast as I could towards the finishing line. He was still in front but something seemed to spur me on. I had a vision of John cheering me from the sidelines; I could imagine hearing him yelling, ‘Go, Robbie, go!’ And I went.

Slowly I started to gain ground. He could hear my feet pounding up behind him, and when he turned to look an expression of horror crossed his face. That turn did it for me because he lost concentration. It slowed him a fraction and, with John’s imaginary voice still ringing in my ears, I pushed forward, touching the winner’s tape just inches ahead of him.

The other boys from the orphanage were jumping up and down and screaming with joy. Sister Claire ran over, still holding Davie in her arms. The rest of the green team joined us and I felt hearty pats on the back and words I never expected to hear from my fellow pupils, such as ‘Well done, we did it. You did it,’ and ‘Garner did it for the greens.’ This is how it felt to be accepted, to be one of the team, to be a winner and, most of all, to be special again.

‘I did it for you, John,’ I said quietly, so no one else could hear.

A
s autumn arrived, football became the main topic of conversation and I felt my anger return. Without the physical activity that I had enjoyed in the summer, I felt my anger simmering inside me. It erupted in bad behaviour and I was forever in trouble with the nuns.

I argued with them when reprimanded. I refused to do chores that were asked of me.

‘No,’ I said several times, ‘I won’t.’

Once, when I had been out selling flowers from the orphanage gardens, I had been given extra money for myself. I purchased a packet of ten Woodbines and when I returned to Sacre Coeur I lit one in front of the nuns and blew smoke rings in the air above their heads.

Their belts were raised, stinging blows were delivered, but nothing they did could penetrate my angry armour. I never cried when they hit me, never pleaded with them to stop. I just waited for them to finish, then, infusing my stare with as much contempt as possible, locked eyes with them before turning on my heel and sauntering away with my shoulders back and a slight swagger in my walk.

I wasn’t to know that they would eventually grow tired of heaping punishments onto me. Neither was I aware that my behaviour was being discussed behind closed doors. I didn’t pick up the warning signals of what was to come; there just seemed to be a growing indifference to my many misdeeds. Maybe if I had realised what could happen, I might have tried to curtail my bad behaviour. Instead with the arrogance of a twelve-year-old, almost a teenager, I just thought I was winning.

At school I was different. I worked hard at my lessons and kept my head down. I had ceased to draw attention to myself by always being the first to shoot my hand up in the air and, although that didn’t make me more popular, at least the bullying had ended.

In the breaks I hung out with my own group: Marc, Nicolas and Dave, a new boy who had only been in the orphanage a few weeks. Together we presented a united front, although it was Marc and I who were the most disrespectful towards the nuns. Nicolas still had a faint hope, although little remaining belief, that he might be adopted so he tried to behave.

It was surprising that despite our bad behaviour the nuns hired us out as altar boys for weddings and funerals. Maybe the money they received compensated for the fact that it was something that we enjoyed. At the weddings we always felt that we were part of the celebrations and our reward was that we were allowed to consume as much food as we could swallow. If we were lucky, the happy couple sometimes gave us a large-enough portion of the cake for us to take some back and share it with the others.

We didn’t like the funerals nearly as much, when we had to stand close to the coffin for hours. But, on the other hand, the food at funerals was often every bit as good as at the weddings. With the to-ing and fro-ing of the mourners it was easy to conceal some of it under our cassocks and smuggle some back to our friends.

In the end it was being altar boys that was Marc’s and my undoing.

The two of us were called into Sister Bernadette’s office. She informed us that she had decided to bestow what she considered to be a great honour on us.

The old nun from the dining room, who had so often hit us with her ladle, had died. After supper Sister Bernadette told us we were to change into our altar boy regalia and come straight to the dining room. We were to stand vigil over her body.

This was not going to be one of those wakes where we were given plates of good food and sometimes even a tip; it was to mean standing alone in a sparse room with a corpse. But Sister Bernadette was the one nun who could still instil a margin of fear in us so, hiding our dismay at the task ahead, we just answered meekly, ‘Yes, Sister.’

Dutifully we changed into our long black cassocks, pulled the white surplices over them, slicked back our hair and went to the nuns’ dining room just after they had finished their dinner. Although we had often been in there to clean, that was the first time that we had seen the extent of the food they had for themselves.

The remains of golden-brown roasted chickens, dishes of vegetables covered in thick creamy sauces and tiny Jersey Royal new potatoes, shiny with butter, were still on the table. The polished wooden dining table was almost groaning under the weight of it. On the sideboard was a board where there was not just one cheese but a whole selection of them, from the nearly white Caerphilly to the rich, yellow mature Cheddar. There was home-made crusty bread, plates of biscuits and a large fruit bowl full of oranges, bright red apples and even bunches of grapes.

I felt my mouth water as I stared at all those dishes then thought of the stew we had been given earlier. Almost grey in colour, it contained more greasy fat and bones than meat, and it was served with sprouting old potatoes and overcooked cabbage. I felt a sharp flash of resentment at the nuns’ over-indulgence in contrast with their meanness towards us.

Seeing where our gaze was directed, Sister Freda gave a smug little smile, placed her two podgy hands on the table and, with great effort, pushed herself to her feet. Over the years her face had acquired an extra chin or two, whilst her eyes seemed partly obscured by the solid plumpness of her cheeks.

She waddled over to a door leading out of the dining room, imperiously beckoned us to follow and led us into the nuns’ quarters. Her breath came in short little puffs as she climbed the steep stairs and took us down gloomy narrow passages that we’d never seen before. At the end of the corridor Sister Freda came to a halt outside a door. She placed her hand on the brass doorknob and turned it.

As we reluctantly stepped into the room, we saw that whatever extravagance the nuns indulged in at the dining table did not extend to their bedrooms. The square, uncarpeted room was painted a stark white. Apart from a wooden crucifix there was nothing, not even a few photographs of the family she surely must have had before she chose a life inside Sacre Coeur’s walls. There was nothing to show a glimmer of the character of the woman who had slept in there for so many years – but maybe the very absence of personal belongings had its own message.

There were only five pieces of dark wood furniture in the cold, spartan little room: a desk pushed against a wall, a straight-backed wooden chair tucked half under it, a small chest of drawers, a bedside cabinet with a Bible lying on top, and a single bed. A single bed where the body of the old nun was laid out, dressed in her habit, with a small crucifix and a rosary wedged into her fist.

Sister Freda gave us each a huge candle and lit them, then told us to stand at the foot of the bed.

‘It’s a big honour for you boys to do this. It will give you a chance to redeem yourselves,’ she told us before leaving. The door closed behind her with a click and we stared at each other in horror. Then we stared down at the face of the nun who had terrorised us at so many mealtimes.

Coarse white hairs sprouted from her chin. A bandage was tied firmly round her head to stop her mouth sagging open. Deep lines were etched around her mouth and forehead and the passage of time had cast fine traces of smaller lines on her waxy cheeks, giving them a texture like wrinkled apples that had been stored in a cool place through the winter. Her hands were dotted with a score or more of large brown freckles.

The passing years, which had taken her mind well before we met her, had finally taken what was left of her life. Her mouth, which in life had twisted in rage, would never scream obscenities at us again. The eyes that had glared at us were closed forever, and her gnarled hands that had so often hit us were still, their fingers wrapped round the crucifix and rosary.

In life she had scared me with her volatile temper and propensity to inflict pain, but somehow the still form lying on the small single bed frightened me even more. My teeth started chattering with fear, my hands shook and I saw that Marc looked just as frightened as me. Neither of us had ever been left alone with a dead body before.

Nervous gibberish left our mouths as we both pretended we weren’t scared. The shadows deepened as we listened to the distant sounds of the orphanage preparing itself for the end of the day. There were the footsteps of children making their way to bed, the gurgling of old pipes, a faint splashing of water in a drain outside, and the creaks and groans of the old building settling down for the night, and still we stood straining to hear someone approaching the door.

Where was Sister Freda, I wondered? However much we disliked her, that night the sight of her face would have been welcome.

Pins and needles started to prick my legs; I stepped first on one foot then the other to relieve them. My back ached and the candlestick I was holding got heavier by the second. Shadows flickered on the walls, turning Marc’s face into a pale mask with dark eyes.

Surely the door would open soon. But it didn’t. As the sun went down and lost its warmth, the wind started blowing noisily. A gust of it came through the open window and the curtains lifted as though in the grip of unseen hands. We edged closer to each other. Another gust came, stronger than the last, and extinguished Marc’s candle. We were too paralysed with fright to go and switch on a light.

‘Surely they can’t mean for us to stay in here alone with her all night?’ I said.

‘Think they do,’ Marc answered, his voice quavering.

‘Let’s do a bunk. I’m not staying here,’ I said as bravely as I could.

We measured the short distance to the door in our minds and realised that the corridor outside would be in complete darkness. Suddenly the thought of moving made my body tremble even more than the thought of staying.

Then another question flew into my head: where were the lavatories? No sooner did I think of it than I knew I wanted to go. ‘Marc,’ I said, ‘I need the lav. I’ll wet myself otherwise.’

‘We’re not both supposed to go out of the room at the same time,’ he reminded me.

By now my fear of the dead nun outweighed my fear of the living ones. If the idea of wandering down those long dark corridors in the middle of the night terrified me, then the thought that if I went Marc would also want to go when I returned frightened me more. I had no intention of being left alone in that room with the body. I crossed my legs and prayed I could wait.

Gradually our nervous chatter came to an end as we ran out of things to say to each other. The solitary candle flickered, the wind rattled the windows, the pale face of the moon slid behind clouds and even the stars seemed to dim. We tried to avert our gaze from the figure on the bed but over and over our eyes were drawn to her as if mesmerised.

Then, it was as though the old nun, in her final and longest sleep, sensed our presence and felt our fear. We swore later that we saw her move when she played her last trick on us: she belched, with a loud, uncouth sound that vibrated in our ears. We didn’t know it was just the air leaving her body. We remembered that the nuns had told us all too often that the dead can rise.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, goose pimples rose on my arms, my mouth went dry and my bowels tensed with fear.

‘She’s … she’s come back to haunt us,’ Marc said, stuttering with fear and clutching me. ‘I want out of here.’

Our eyes darted around. We only had two ways to make our escape: sneaking out through the door into the dark corridors or climbing out the window to the outside.

Without another word Marc and I ran to the window, pushed it fully open and peered down. The gardens had disappeared into the night but darkness was preferable to the eerie shadows of the inside. The nun’s room was one floor up but the gymnastics training we had done stood us in good stead. Our eyes met, we gave each other a little grin and a slight nod of the head, then we swung our bodies over the window ledge, seized the drainpipe and, gripping it with our hands and feet, we slid down to the hard surface of the girls’ play area.