The Convent (5 page)

‘Of course, my dear!' Mother Seraphina stood up. ‘A house full of lovely children. You'll bring back your first child and show me, if I'm still alive?'

‘Oh I will, Mother! I will. I won't forget.'

They both stood up. Ellen waited as the nun packed up the music books into a neat pile.

‘Now, Ellen, I have some time on Saturdays around three. We don't want all that practice going for nothing, do we?'

‘You mean a lesson, Mother?'

‘What else, child? Of course I mean a lesson. As long as you're here, you'll have lessons.'

‘Thank you, Mother.'

When everything was shipshape, she turned to Ellen, her face softened into a whimsical smile. ‘What will you call your first child, do you think?'

Ellen smiled and didn't hesitate. ‘Dominic,' she said, and the nun frowned thoughtfully as though the name invited deep consideration. Ellen waited, hoping that the nun wouldn't disapprove. But why would she? After all, it was a Great Saint's name. Ellen secretly didn't care much for the saint but rather loved the sound of the name.
Dominic
.

‘Dominic is a wonderful name,' the nun said at last. ‘And what about if you have a girl first?'

Ellen looked at the plaster saint in the corner. ‘Cecilia,' she whispered.

‘Of course!' This time Mother Seraphina laughed in delight. ‘And she'll have the gift, too, like her mother. I don't doubt it. Now don't you forget,' she said. ‘If I'm not gone to God I want to see her too. Dominic
and
Cecilia.'

‘I won't forget, Mother.'

Cecilia
1964

He has placed his seal upon my forehead and I will admit no other lover
but him…

The day had arrived and she was ready for it.

Today.
Everything that was meant to happen would happen: hour by hour, minute by minute. And at the end of it, when she lay down to sleep in this bed again, she would be changed. Transformed. No longer nineteen-year-old Cecilia Mary Madden, the only daughter of Ellen and Kevin from Wongabbie Farm near Bendigo but …
someone else entirely.
The first step had been taken just on a year ago when she'd first walked through the gates, but today was the one that mattered. Today was serious.

Cecilia lay in her narrow bed, staring at the pale-green ceiling. There were eight beds, four on each side of the room, seven of them occupied. There was the huge crucifix down one end, and the big round clock on the wall opposite. She saw the time and smiled. Five minutes to six. An extra hour's sleep. The night before, Reverend Mother had granted the sleep-in because of it being a special day for the whole community. But to wake
before
the bell was a first if ever there was one! That terrible clanging sound usually crashed in on her dreams with the force of a hundred stampeding horses, making her hate everything in her new life for a few moments until she managed to gather herself and remember where she was … and why.

There were no pictures in the dormitory, no ornaments, and no mats on the polished wooden floor. The uncovered windows were open in spite of it being winter. All the bedcovers were white.

But Cecilia's future spread out before her like an exquisite piece of finely worked cloth, with all the different coloured threads making a pattern as subtle and varied and difficult to read as the night sky.
Poverty, chastity and obedience.
There would be hard times, she didn't doubt that, dark nights when she lost her footing on the steep narrow road she'd chosen, but there would be joy too. Of that she was even more certain.

Downstairs in the large locker next to the communal basins, the lovely satin wedding dress her mother had made waited on a hanger. It had beaded embroidery around the neck, and a lace veil with three satin roses to hold it in place.
Oh, Mum!
she'd protested.
I won't be a bride for long.
But secretly she'd been glad it was so beautiful.

Now the day had arrived she couldn't wait to put it on. Nor could she help hoping her family would come in time to get a front pew so they would see how lovely she looked in that dress, walking up the aisle with six other postulants to meet her future.
Such vanity, Cecilia!
This morning she planned to ask the Novice Mistress, Mother Mary of the Holy Angels, if she might leave her hair to hang loose, for this …
her last day in the world.

For the past twelve months the honey-blonde curls had been scraped back from her face into a tight little bun, held with pins under a little thing that was more like a bird's nest than a veil. During today's ceremony the postulants would file into the sacristy for a few minutes to have their hair shorn off. When they came out again into the main body of the church they'd be dressed in their new habit: wimple, bandeau, white veil and guimpe. Proper nuns for the first time!

Her father had always called his only daughter's hair her
crowning
glory,
and she so wanted him to see it this last time
.

‘This is it, kid.'

Cecilia turned to smile at the impish face of Breda Walsh, who was poking her head out from under a pillow in the bed beside hers. There were seven postulants in the dormitory, all more or less the same age as Cecilia and Breda, except for Joan who was twenty-seven, and the rest were still sleeping soundly. Cecilia put a finger over her mouth to remind her friend that it was totally against the rules to speak. The Great Silence was observed from the end of evening recreation until after breakfast the next day – on this of all days it must be so.

‘You having second thoughts?' Breda whispered in her deep, throaty voice.

Cecilia shook her head. ‘You?' She mouthed without uttering a sound.

‘A few.' Brenda nodded seriously.

Cecilia had to stifle a cry of dismay. Four of the original group of eleven had left, just disappeared without a word of goodbye, because that was the way it was done. One, everyone was sure, had been asked to leave because there was something not right about her, but …
but not Breda. Not today! Please
.

‘Only kidding!' Breda whispered. ‘You seriously think I'd want to miss out on Babs's slice?'

Cecilia's mouth fell open in relief and a giggle escaped before she could hold it back.

Babs
was Sister Barbara, the convent cook, and there was no more warm hearted and cheery soul in the world. Everyone loved her, but unfortunately that didn't change the fact that she couldn't cook. Her specialty was making meals out of thinly disguised leftovers. Not, of course, that any of the postulants or novices complained. To do so would be to bring the wrath of Mother Mary of the Holy Angels down on their heads. But just occasionally they'd stare down at the food in front of them and look at each other or give a small private sigh that the rest of the table understood. On special Feast Days Sister Barbara let herself go with an array of sweets that were nothing short of amazing: lopsided sponge cakes, soggy puddings with lumpy custard, trifles awash in so much port that a decent serve was liable to make a young Sister tipsy. But it was with the slices that she outdid herself. The chocolate ones were bitter and the lemon slice so sweet it made their teeth ache.

‘We might get the
bruise
today if we're lucky!'

‘Shhh …' Cecilia was laughing so hard that tears were running down her face.

On the Feast of the Sacred Heart, Babs had gone all out to make a marble cake, but instead of using pink and gold food dye, she'd used darker colours and it had turned out black and blue, and to top it off the icing was red, like blood. When out of the Novice Mistress's hearing, the postulants referred to it as
Bab's bruise
.

Once Cecilia started giggling she couldn't stop. Every time she caught Breda's eye gleaming at her from under the pillow a new spasm of laughter would ride up from her belly into her throat, until the two of them were curled up under their bedclothes biting their fists to stop from shrieking.

‘Shhh.' Cecilia turned back to Breda. ‘Breda!
Shut up,
please.'

The bell sounded on the floor above where the fully professed Sisters slept. It would be only a matter of a minute before the Novice Mistress was walking down between their beds, and if she sensed any shenanigans at all there would be hell to pay.

Mother Mary of the Holy Angels had made it very clear over the last year that she saw it as her task to subdue any vestiges of ego in the postulants before they were received into the noviciate proper. As Mother put it, by then
they'd better know what they'd
got themselves into.
After two years as novices it would be time to make their First Profession. A few years later came the Final Vows, a solemn commitment to stay for the rest of their lives.

The aim was to become empty vessels open to God's Will and that meant obeying every rule set out for them by Mother Superior, from how and when they were to speak, smile, pray, walk, or open a door, to the way they ate, knelt, and lay in bed. Any kind of laughter, giggling or gossip was actively discouraged, along with close personal friendships. Nothing about their lives was deemed personal or off-limits or, for that matter, above suspicion. At the end of every week each postulant was required to confess to the rest of the group her own shortcomings at the Chapter of Faults, always in the spirit of complete humility. Every misdemeanour, from an incorrect attitude to botched practical tasks like dusting or cleaning one's shoes, to any unkindness or impatience towards another Sister, was considered serious enough to confess and sometimes worthy of chastisement and punishment.

The Novice Mistress was finding Breda an unusually hard nut to crack. The short, bright girl was very devout and always took her punishments cheerfully, never for a minute seriously questioning her Superior's right to dish them out, and so one had to assume she had a genuine vocation. But Mother Holy Angels still held serious doubts, because her personality was turning out to be very hard to subdue. It bubbled up in the most inappropriate ways. For a postulant to question practices that had been part of convent life for centuries was unusual enough – but for her to find these practices
amusing
was unheard of. That she always apologised in the most respectful manner after letting out one of her irreverent giggles somehow made it even more infuriating. The truth was that if it weren't for Reverend Mother's obvious liking for the girl, Mother Mary of the Holy Angels would have sent her packing months ago. As far as she was concerned, if the likes of Breda Walsh slipped through the cracks then the Order might not see the century out!

Only the night before, when Mother had come in to wish the postulants goodnight, she'd found Breda standing in her nightdress looking out a window. The main convent building was in a square and completely hidden from the street beyond the ten-foot-high walls. The postulants' and novices' dormitories were on the second floor. Their windows looked out over a pretty internal garden with a huge liquidambar tree in the middle of the lawn, the top of which reached their floor.

‘Just what are you doing, Sister?' Mother fumed.

‘Er … just standing here, Mother. I'm sorry.'

‘
Standing?
'

‘I love the tree at night, Mother. I'm sorry.'

‘Sisters of the Good Shepherd do not stand about … looking at trees!'

‘I know, Mother. It's just that …'

‘Just as we do not run, or speak unless it is absolutely necessary,' the older woman fumed. ‘We are never late and we open and close doors silently at all times!'

This was in direct reference to Breda's misdemeanour earlier in the day when she'd come late into the Church Doctrinal class and in her consternation had left the door to clatter shut behind her. Bad enough that it caused everyone to look around, which put them all in the wrong, too – part of the Custody of the Eyes Rule stipulated
never
looking up when someone came into, or left the room – but the banging door had made Breda forget another even more important Rule. Instead of immediately dropping to her knees to kiss the floor in front of Mother Bernard, who was giving the class, she'd stood at the door mumbling about being
ever so sorry to be late!

Mother Bernard had simply exploded, going so far as to question Breda's vocation right there and then in front of everyone. If she couldn't get such a simple thing right, then what hope was there for her?

And here she was, the same girl, the night before she was to be formally received into the convent, standing about
looking at
trees!
Mother Holy Angels's cheeks flamed red with indignation.

‘Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother.'

‘As we do not look at our superiors!'

‘I'm very sorry, Mother.' Breda's head fell immediately.

‘Do you
still
not understand the Custody of the Eyes?'

‘I do, Mother.'

‘Are you sure? Tomorrow you will ask to be received into this community of Sisters for the next two years, on the understanding that you fully intend making vows to live here with us for the rest of your life!'

‘I do realise that, Mother,' Breda said with her eyes downcast. ‘And with the Grace of God I will try to correct myself.'

‘Very well,' the Novice Mistress sighed, ‘then I ask each and every one of you to pray for Breda Walsh as well as yourselves, because she does seem to be taking a very long time to learn the most basic aspects of our Rule.'

‘Yes, Mother,' the six other voices chorused.

Special friendships were discouraged, and Cecilia seriously tried to comply with this rule. But Breda sometimes seemed to be more a force of nature than a person. How could you not love the sun or thrill to the sound of thunder? She and Breda no longer sat next to each other in the refectory, nor knelt together in chapel and they avoided each other at recreation as Mother Holy Angels had requested, and yet their friendship blossomed. In the main it was unspoken. When something struck them as funny they would turn to each other before they had time to think. Neither of them seemed able to help it.