Sean Cullen: The Prince of Neither Here Nor There

“Oh, Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Sister Cecilia shouted. She watched the scrap of paper disappear over the roof of a house.

“Strong language from a nun.” The deep voice startled her. She spun around to see a tall man in overalls and a flat cap. His blue eyes were smiling.

“Oh, yes. Well… I lost my directions.”

The man nodded slowly. He swept the hat off his head, revealing dark hair heavily salted with grey. “Aye. That can certainly happen.”

“You’re Irish?” Sister Cecilia asked.

“I am.” He smiled again. Before she could ask more, he picked up her suitcase. “What’re ye lookin’ fer? Reckon I can guide ya.”

Sister Cecilia bit her lip. A strange man, albeit someone from the home country, was holding everything she owned. He could just walk away and leave her there with nothing in this strange new city.

“Don’t worry,” the man said. “I’ll not walk off with yer valuables, Sister. We bog-trotters 13 have to stick together.” He grinned again.

Sister Cecilia couldn’t help smiling back. “Saint Bartholomew’s Orphanage. Do you know it?”

The man nodded once. “Well, isn’t that a happy turn of events. Amn’t I goin’ that very way meself.” He turned and headed south down Strachan toward the lake. Sister Cecilia had to trot to catch up with him.

They walked down the road, passing crumbling brick warehouses. The road was potholed and rough. Trucks passing by kicked up clouds of dust.

“Are you sure this is the way?” Sister Cecilia asked.

“Have no fear,” the man rumbled. “I wouldn’t steer ye wrong.” A foul stench filled the sister’s nostrils. Noticing the look on her face, he chuckled. “Aye, the pigs are being slaughtered over yonder today. It’s a fine neighbourhood. This way!”

A wide swath of waste ground stretched away to their left. Brick warehouses rose on the right. “Liberty Street. Aptly named. All the lads fresh out of prison would walk this road on their first day of liberty. Mind you, most would be returning in a paddy wagon 14 in short order.”

“There’s a prison?” Sister Cecilia’s voice was tinged with alarm.

“Was. The worst characters ended up in Toronto Central Prison. Murderers. Thieves. Arsonists. Evil fellows all.” He turned his head and winked at her. “Don’t worry. The prison’s long been closed. The blackguards are all gone. Well, most of ‘em, anyway.” He chuckled again. Sister Cecilia suddenly regretted wandering off with this strange man.

“Here we are,” the man said. “St. Bart’s. Safe and sound.” They stood in front of a decrepit building besieged by scrubby grass and a brick wall that rose just above their heads. A wooden gate stood closed, and beside it was a faded sign that announced in fading letters SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’ S ORPHANAGE AND CATHOLIC MISSION.

Her guide pushed the gate open and stepped through. She followed quickly after him, entering a cobbled courtyard with forlorn swings creaking in the breeze. Ivy grew, shaggy and untended, on all the walls. Here and there weeds had poked through the paving stones. A vegetable garden struggled to survive in the corner.

“I think the Mother Superior’s office is this way.” The man hefted her suitcase and went to a stout wooden door. She followed him into the building.

The interior was a great deal more welcoming. They were in an entry hall with hardwood floors and threadbare carpets. The smell of wood polish filled the air. Children’s voices, raised in song, drifted down the hallway. Sister Cecilia recognized the hymn: “Hail Queen of Heaven, the Ocean Star.” She smiled. The song had been a favourite of her mother’s and she always felt better when she heard it. The man led her up a set of wide wooden stairs and they came to a closed door. The man set her bag down and rapped twice on the door.

“Enter,” came a clear female voice. The man opened the door and stood aside, sketching a courtly bow and indicating that the sister should enter.

Stepping into the office of the Mother Superior, Sister Cecilia found herself in a cramped room full of filing cabinets crowded around a huge oak desk. The nun wore an oldfashioned habit with a cowl that covered her whole head save for her wrinkled face.

Sister Cecilia swallowed and mustered her cour-age. “Sister Cecilia reporting for duties here at St. Bartholomew’s,” she stammered. “I was told to report to Sister St. Martin.”

The old woman stared at her severely for a long, uncomfortable moment before saying, “I am Sister St. Martin. I’m sure you’d rather be somewhere more exotic, my dear, but make no mistake, there are young souls to save everywhere, even in the heart of the most civilized places in the world… perhaps more so!” The severe nun looked past Sister Cecilia to where her guide filled the doorway. “Finbar, take her to the attic room. She can share with Sister Teresa.”

Sister Cecilia frowned as she turned to the man. “You work here? Why didn’t you say so?”

Finbar chuckled, tugging the bill of his hat in a mock salute. “Never asked, did ya?” He picked up her bag and went off down the hall. Sister Cecilia made to join him, but the Mother Superior stopped her with a word. “Sister.”

Sister Cecilia faced the Mother Superior. The older woman smiled, transforming her stern face in an instant. “We welcome you here. There are so many children who need help and so few hands to turn to the work. We get some angry and desperate young people to take care of. Patience and kindness work wonders. Finbar is a good example. He was a prisoner here when there actually was a prison.” Sister Cecilia’s eyes went wide. “I trust him completely. We took him in when he couldn’t find any work and he’s been a loyal friend and excellent worker ever since. Patience and kindness: remember those two words and you’ll do well here. Now go and settle in. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Patience and kindness. Sister Cecilia had taken those words to heart. For years, she had taught and counselled the young children who came through St. Bart’s, and eventually she herself rose to the position of Mother Superior. She worked hard and long, battling to keep the orphanage alive, but now, perhaps, they had reached the end. Sister Cecilia leaned against the counter, her heart heavy, listening to the rain. After a moment of silent prayer, she opened her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sister St. Martin,” she said to the empty kitchen and the rain on the window. “I’m sorry that everything will end this way. But the Lord has a plan for each of us in his wisdom. We must trust in him.” She sighed heavily, placing the tea things into the sink. She turned the faucet and carefully commenced washing each cup and saucer.

Outside the window, huddled under the eaves, two small figures, one burdened with a squirming, wrapped bundle, peered in at the woman as she went about her chores.

“What’s she doing?”

“Rubbing a cup. Be quiet.”

“What a strange thing to do.”

“They are an odd folk. We must be wary.”

“Ooh. He’s getting heavy, this little baggage.”

“Shhh. She’ll hear you!”

“It ain’t my fault it won’t sit still!”

“Just be quiet, will you?”

“Uh-oh. Do you smell that? I think he’s soiled himself!”

“Be careful! Don’t…”

“EW! What a filthy little baggage!”

“Just don’t…”

“Uh-oh! I dropped it.”

The sound of a baby crying cut through the drumming of the rain. Sister Cecilia’s head jerked upright and, for a second, she thought she saw two small faces peering into the rainstreaked window. She blinked and looked again but they were gone. She could have imagined it, but she hadn’t imagined the sound of the baby crying. Years of comforting frightened children had honed her ears to pick up that sound. A baby was out there in the terrible storm. She immediately dropped the clean cup back into the soapy dishwater with a plop and went to the kitchen door.