Lynne Pemberton - Marilyn’s Child

Since meeting Father Steele I’d thought about God a lot. Perhaps getting the job with the curate was the work of the Lord. Could He, who had for so long overlooked me, have had a hand in this twist of fate, I ask myself. Perhaps I wasn’t all bad, as the nuns would have me believe. I’m not, I have never been, convinced I was truly bad – deep inside that is. Mischievous, yes; cheeky, or lippy as Mother Thomas said; and I’ll give them wilful sometimes, but evil, never. Is locking Mother Paul in the lavvy and hiding the key evil? Or creeping downstairs with Bridget on a Thursday night after the weekly grocery delivery to ease the ache in our howling bellies? It had been my idea to shave thin slices off the cheese and corned beef then re-wrap it, and then water down the milk. We’d got away with it for five weeks until Bridget dropped a milk bottle. It had shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces on the stone floor and Mother Paul had caught us red-handed, desperately trying to clean up. I don’t want to think about what happened later – not today, not on my birthday.

Sliding my legs from under the cover, I let them dangle from the side of the bed. My toenails are dirty and the soles of my feet hard with a thick scaly layer of dead skin. This makes me think about a hot bath, with bubbles and deep water right up to my chin. My feet are long and slender, I take a size eight. Bridget, who is a tiny four and a half, always says they are too big for my body. I’m five feet eight and most of that height in my legs, so I’ve always thought my feet match my legs.

I’m the tallest girl in my class, and by far the tallest in the orphanage. I don’t look like any of the other girls from the village. I suppose it’s because I don’t look Irish. I recall Father O’Neill’s words when repeating what Mother Peter had said: ‘Not an Irish angel.’ I make a silent promise to ask her about that. For a start (as a rule) the Irish have different skin to me, very different: pink and freckled, and they rarely tan. At the first sight of the sun my skin turns a golden brown. Nor are they (again as a rule) tall and willowy, with hair the colour of a tropical beach and eyes that can be grey or blue depending on the light.

In the past I’d often wondered if the way I look had made some of the local villagers treat me with what I felt was a sort of suspicion. They often whispered behind their hands as I passed; some of the women looked at me with blatant disapproval; and lately I’d seen the odd look in the eyes of some of the men. Bridget said it was the eye of lust. They wanted to poke inside my knickers. From a very young age I’d decided that the only man to enter my secret place would have to love me, a lot, and be prepared to show me just how much he cared. If he didn’t come along then I wouldn’t settle for second best. I’d be celibate. I’d learnt the word last week when reading a magazine piece on feminism. I’d have my work and surround myself with friends and like-minded people. Then I wouldn’t need the sex thing at all.

Idly I wonder how people will react when they find out I’m to be living and working for the curate. Ha, the news will get the tongues wagging.

I brighten at the thought of that and of Mary O’Shea’s anger. Rumour had it she’d wanted her own daughter Marjorie to get the job. Marjorie who has carthorse legs, black hair on her upper lip and on her stomach (according to Lizzy Molloy) and a distinctly fishy body smell. How anyone would even consider putting mangy Marj in the same space as the divine curate is beyond me. She’d best stay with her monster mother; at least then there wouldn’t be two houses spoilt.

Dropping my feet to the floor I stand up very straight, stretch, then pad quietly towards the window. I was right about the time, the milk van is pulling out of the gate. Terry O’Leary always delivers no later than six-fifteen every morning, except Sunday, when it’s seven a.m. But I was wrong about the sun: a whitish mist hangs above a ragged strip of wall in front of my window. Tiny lavender flowers blossom from a deep crack, prompting a memory of when two lads from the village, one of them Noel Duggan whom Bridget had a crush on, but whom we found out later was secretly in love with me, had tried to sneak into our dormitory. They’d been caught and Bridget and I had been punished. For a couple of minutes I watch a sharp shower pound out a beat on the corrugated roof of the laundry, then I turn away from the window. With a jolt of anticipation I think about the day ahead and of how everything is going to be different. A fresh start, the first day of my new life.

Dressed and downstairs in the breakfast hall before anyone else, I’m greeted by Mother Peter. In her right hand she’s carrying a package. ‘Top of the morning to you, Kate O’Sullivan.’

I’m smiling. This woman, I believe, is a good woman. She behaves the way I think God-fearing people should behave, and most surely are supposed to behave. Polite and considerate, she shows kindness even when being firm. Also, she has an inner calm. She’s someone you feel you can talk to, and trust.

‘So, Kate, you’re leaving us today. I must say you’ve grown into a fine young woman.’

‘Thank you, Mother Peter. Thanks for all your kindness. I …’

‘Hush, child, no need for thanks. I do God’s work, it’s what I was put on this earth to do, it’s why I’m here.’ She sighs and, stepping closer to me till her face is almost touching mine, fixes her eyes on me. She has one blue eye, and one green flecked with brown.

The paper on the parcel rustles as she places it in my hand. ‘This is for you. Take good care of it, Kate, and don’t ever forget that you’re a very special person.’

I glance down at the package lying in my hands. It’s wrapped in brown paper; my name is written on it in bold black letters, and underneath are the words Happy Birthday, and many happy returns. God be with you all the days of your life . I’m not sure what to say – I’ve only ever had three presents in my entire life. Two were from Bridget: my sheep-dog purse and a jug she’d made in pottery class. It was misshapen, painted a dirty clay pink and had a lumpy handle and two crudely painted rosebuds on the side. None the less I’d treasured it. The third was a set of watercolour paints Mrs Molloy had bought for Lizzy to give to me when I was fourteen. The lid of the rectangular tin was painted with a typical Irish country scene: green hills, rushing blue rivers with bright blue sky, birds on the wing and couple hand in hand walking towards a rose-clad cottage. I knew that kind of Ireland existed, but I’d never been there. The paints inside were made up of tiny squares, every colour under the rainbow. I used each square right down to the last scrap. That was, without doubt, the best present I’ve ever had. I didn’t tell Bridget; I lied, saying her jug was the best and most cherished. Anyway, I still have the jug. The paint tin is now being used for keeping my clean brushes.

I stroke the package, then with my free hand grab Mother Peter’s. It’s damp and warm, much warmer than mine. Gently she squeezes my fingers. ‘You’re going far, Kate O’Sullivan. Don’t ask me how I know, because in truth I couldn’t say.’ Tapping the gift with her forefinger she says, ‘I love poetry, the resonance, the depth … I suppose it puts me in touch with the romance in my soul.’ This admission makes her blush. ‘Some of the finest and most profound poems ever written are in this book. I hope it brings you as much pleasure as it has me.’

I’m kind of embarrassed to look at her because she’ll see my eyes filling up and I’ll feel daft. One teardrop falls on to the parcel, making a watermark on the brown paper. With her free hand she lifts my chin and when our eyes are level I manage to utter, ‘I really don’t know what to say …’