Lynne Pemberton - Marilyn’s Child

“‘Thank you, Mother Peter,” would be appropriate, you ungrateful little pup. Leaving today doesn’t mean leaving your manners behind.’

The voice belongs to a dark shadow to the right of Mother Peter’s shoulder. I don’t want to look at this woman; the mere sight of her is enough to tarnish this most special moment. Silently I pray for her to go away and find some other victim. And, once again, God forgive me, I wish her a painful death – and soon. Now would be appropriate, on the morning of my sixteenth birthday, Mother Thomas suddenly struck down by a terrible attack of some unknown disease that no amount of drugs can help, rendering her helpless and in terrible agony. That would be the best birthday present of all.

Without turning, Mother Peter calmly says, ‘Kate has thanked me several times. There really is no need for further thanks. Nor, I might add, is there any need for your interruption, Mother Thomas.’

I can’t see because I’m not looking in her direction, but I sense Mother Thomas bristle, and with a sigh of relief I hear the swish of her habit then the dull thud of her footsteps as she leaves the room.

‘Now, Kate, breakfast. And remember what I’ve told you. Listen to God: he’ll be your guide, he’ll never fail you if you are prepared to let him into your heart.’

I long to say that God hasn’t done much for me so far, and I doubt things will change. I intend to rely on my own instincts to guide me, listen to the feelings I have all the time, the ones that tell me what I should do and when. But I know she won’t understand. She has her God; I have to seek mine.

All I can find in my heart to say is, ‘I’ll try, and thank you again for everything you’ve ever done for me, every kindness you’ve shown.’

With a serene smile, one the Virgin Mary would have been proud of, she places a hand on the crown of my head. ‘God be with you, Kate, always.’

I’m sick of the God stuff and happy when she lifts her hand and I’m free to go. Several girls are now sitting down on the long pews eating breakfast from a tray. I spot the back of Bridget’s head and slide into an empty place next to her, so close our thighs touch. She’s eating a bowl of porridge. My stomach yawns with hunger but I can’t face the porridge. It would be OK if it was made with milk and had sugar, or stuff of dreams like jam or honey, poured over the top. ‘This food is not fit for humans,’ I hiss. ‘In fact, Lizzy Molloy’s dog gets better grub.’

In between spoonfuls of porridge Bridget mumbles, ‘Do you think Lizzy will adopt me as her new best friend now you’re working for the curate?’

‘She might, but I’m not sure you’d be happy doing most of Lizzy’s homework for her.’

Bridget winks. ‘For a slice of Mrs Molloy’s apple pie, I’d do just about anything. Even show my knickers to her gormless brother Jack.’

Next to Bridget’s left hand I spy a long thin package crudely wrapped in what I suspect is school exercise paper. I’m right; Bridget has painted exercise paper bright red and tied it with blue velvet hair ribbon. The ends are frayed; she probably nicked it from the girl she sits next to in class. Under the gift is a large white envelope. After her final spoonful of porridge, Bridget pushes both items towards me. ‘This is for you, Kate, I hope you like it. I could think of a million things I’d like to buy you, if I had the money that is, but since I don’t I thought you might like to keep this and every time –’

‘For the love of God!’ I interrupt. ‘Will you shut up, else you’ll be telling me what it is and spoiling the surprise.’

Bridget blushes, two red blotches spotting her cheeks. I’m dying to open Mother Peter’s present but decide to concentrate on Bridget’s first. Placing Mother Peter’s gift on the pew next to my leg I start to tear at the red exercise paper. It opens easily and I can’t contain my surprise when I spy a paintbrush. It’s not any old common-or-garden paintbrush; this one is very special. It has a long bone handle with a ring of mother of pearl and a ring of silver at the base, and the brush is made of pure horse hair.

‘Bridget! it’s beautiful! Where on earth did you get it?’ I stroke the handle of the brush, which is cool to the touch and perfectly smooth, a sensuous object, inanimate yet somehow alive. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Bridget, her head down as if looking for something in her empty bowl, whispers, ‘I’m pleased you like it.’

‘Like it? I love it. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. But you didn’t answer – where did you get it?’

Lifting her head, Bridget points to her nose. ‘None of your business, Kate O’Sullivan, to know how or where. I had to get you something special for your sixteenth birthday … Will you promise me something, Kate?’

Still fondling the handle of the brush, I say, ‘Anything.’

‘Every time you paint with that brush, will you spare a thought for me.’

‘Oh, Bridget!’ I’m fighting tears again. ‘I’ll always think of you wherever I go, whether I’m painting or not.’

‘I’ve never had a friend like you. I don’t know how I would have got through the time here without you. I don’t want you to go, and that’s the truth.’

‘I’ll not be far away. The curate’s place is no more than a couple of miles.’

‘I know you’re going to go far away, Kate. Everyone says so.’ Mimicking Mary O’Shea, Bridget adds, “‘To be sure, there’ll be no holding that one back.”’ She pauses, chewing on her next words. ‘You’re different to me and the rest; you’ve got something special. Sure, you’re tall, and very pretty, and blonde, but it’s more than that. It’s what they call the charisma thing, you know like film stars have. You’ve got it.’

I can feel my cheeks burning as Bridget urges me to open the envelope. It contains a card. On the front is an image of a girl with flowing blonde hair; she’s dressed in an ankle-length white dress with a midnight-blue sash cinched at her waist. It’s a classical card edged in gold leaf. Inside, there’s a mushy verse. I begin to read but Bridget insists I read it aloud. I hesitate and look up as Sally and Mary Neesom sit down opposite, identical twins so alike it’s scary. I know they can’t help being ugly but one would have been more than enough.

On the opposing leaf, Bridget had written in her childish neat hand: Happy Birthday to my best friend Kate. I love you and am going to miss you (LOADS) .

I kiss Bridget on the cheek and at the same time whisper in her ear: ‘Ditto, and thank you very much. I’ll cherish this –’ I touch the brush – ‘for the rest of my life.’

‘So how does it feel to be getting out of this place?’ Sally Neesom asks, nudging her twin in the ribs. ‘Looking forward to working for our heavenly Father?’

‘I can’t start to tell you what it feels like to be leaving this Godforsaken place, and as for working for Father Steele – I’m very excited!’

Simultaneously the twins stick out their tongues. ‘You, Kate O’Sullivan, get all the bloody luck. It’s not fair.’

‘Sure it’s fair. And anyway, like I’ve always said, you make your own luck in life. We –’ as I utter the word I glance around the dining hall – ‘we lot were in the back of the queue when they gave out the luck, so all the more reason for us to make our own. We’ve no mams and da’s looking out for us, nobody to run back to if it all goes wrong. It means we’ve got to be extra strong to get where we want to be.’

‘And where’s that, Kate – in Father Steele’s bed?’

It was Sally, the louder of the twins. Her sister giggles. I feel irritated, and pleased a second later when Bridget snarls, ‘Remember it’s a priest you’re talking about. Just don’t let anyone hear you blaspheming.’