Lynne Pemberton - Marilyn’s Child

I suspect I’ve gone too far this time. I’ve never talked like this before to anyone, except Bridget, who warned me not to tell a soul of my doubts, unless of course I wanted a good hiding. Yet here I am spewing it all out to a priest, and a priest I’d just met. Bridget, I know, accepts things the way they are; sometimes I wish I were more like her, because, I suspect, life would be simpler. I’ve got a queer feeling deep in my belly like I want to go to the toilet. I squeeze my buttocks tight and say, with that look on my face, the one Mother Paul always wants to wipe off: ‘I’ve had religion rammed down my throat since I was old enough to say Our Father, and I do, I really do have a most desperate desire to believe.’

For what seems like a long time the curate fixes me with a steady gaze, then he takes a step closer to me. I can smell his breath: a sugary smell; I suspect he’s been eating a toffee or a chocolate bar. His expression has changed again; the ‘I know best, my child’ look has gone, and in its place I see genuine interest. Gotcha! I think as he begins to speak. ‘You and I should have a quiet talk, Kate O’Sullivan. Maybe I can give you some of the answers you’re seeking. Restore your faith. Come and see me soon. Early evening is a good time. But now I really must be off, I’ve got some house visits and I’m late. God be with you.’

If he could have heard my heart singing he’d have been deafened by the racket. ‘And you, Father,’ I manage to mutter, stepping to one side to allow him to pass.

The back of his hand touches mine; I want to hold it, if only for a brief moment. Rooted to the spot, my eyes glued to the back of his head, I watch him open the door. I look at my hands: they’re shaking, and now my heart instead of singing is beating very fast, hammering hard, like when big Frankie Donegal chases me.

I’m in a kind of trance. It’s the only way I know of describing this feeling. The only other time I’ve felt remotely like this – and really there’s no comparison – was three weeks ago, when I’d had the strongest urge for Gabriel Ryan to kiss me. Gabriel is sixteen and the most handsome boy in Friday Wells – in the whole county, according to Mary Shanley. Mind you, I’d not taken much notice of her since she’d never set foot outside the parish. All the girls want him and he wants me. His father is a bank manager, and the Ryans live in a posh house with a long black drive and a white car parked in front of the house. Like me, Gabriel is in the local secondary school, and everyone says (including him) that he’s going up to Trinity College in Dublin to study law when he’s eighteen.

Two weeks ago, behind the science lab, he kissed me. At first I tried to stop him, afraid one of the teachers would see us. He was strong though, too strong for me, and his body pinned mine against the wall. The whole thing was very uncomfortable: the corner of a brick digging into my right shoulder blade; his hardness pushing against my thigh; his mouth forcing mine open. Then he stuck his tongue down the back of my throat. I gagged, pushed him away, and ran back to the main yard. I couldn’t wait to tell Bridget and Mary about Gabriel. I told them his kiss had made me feel faint and I’d let him feel the top of my leg under my skirt, but only for a split second.

A few years before, Bridget and I had made a pact; we’d tell each other about the sex thing if and when it happened. As if I wouldn’t have told Bridget – she’s my best friend. I tell her everything. She was fifteen when she let Dermot McGuire touch her left breast.

Eagerly she’d demonstrated. ‘Round and round his hand circled, then he squeezed my nipple.’

‘Did it hurt?’ I’d asked.

‘A little,’ Bridget had admitted before continuing with enthusiasm: ‘Then he put his hand on my leg, it was hot – his hand, I mean – and shaking. I could feel it through my tights. I opened my legs a little, let him feel me on top of my panties. Then I shut my legs tight, clamping his hand inside my thighs.’

I’d giggled at this and, curious, I’d asked, ‘Did you want to go all the way?’

Bridget’s face had turned bright red. She’d crossed herself and said, ‘Temptation is a terrible sin. No more, I swear, until I’m married.’

Unlike Bridget I hadn’t been tempted with Gabriel; well, not after the sour-tasting kiss. Anyway, I didn’t intend to get married and have babies, not for a long time – if at all.

All sorted, or so I thought, that was, until Father Declan Steele, this film-star curate who looks to me more like God than any other living creature I’ve ever seen, had come to Friday Wells. Instinctively I know, with all the certainty that my hair is the colour of silver sand, my eyes are grey-blue, and I have a tiny birthmark on my left hip, don’t ask me how, I just do, this man has been sent to this parish for me, Kate O’Sullivan. A rare gift of fate.

‘You’ve got to be telling all, Kate O’Sullivan. What’s he like?’

I’m enjoying myself, holding court amidst four girls hungry for every detail of the new film-star curate. We are in the dormitory; I’m standing, and the other girls are sitting facing each other on the edge of two cast-iron beds. The north-facing room is cold and dark, the walls a sour yellow, dull even on the brightest day. The orphanage was built of granite and grey stone in 1896 – so the plaque above the entrance says – as an industrial school. Enclosed by high granite walls and black wrought-iron gates, I often feel I’m living in a prison. The floors of planked wood are highly polished by the inmates, and God forbid that a speck of dust should be found by one of the nuns. There is a Sacred Heart of Jesus on the wall opposite my bed, a constant reminder of how Our Lord suffered on the cross for me, and on the opposite wall Mary Mother of Christ set in a 3-D gilt frame. Mary is clothed in a long, flowing midnight-blue dress and has the usual smile on her face, which looks to me like she’s a bit daft in the head. I’d mentioned this once and got thumped so hard it’s a wonder I’m still all right in my head. Under Our Mother is a candle that burns constantly night and day. There’s not much furniture, and what there is was not designed for comfort. Two chairs stand either side of the dormitory, like soldiers on guard, there is a basic wooden table next to the door holding a bible, two prayer books, and the catechism.

The nuns live in separate quarters, two to a room. They have sunlight and white glossy walls. When I go to the nuns’ domain, as we call it, I’m always dazzled by the brightness. Bridget says it’s because their long sash windows face south. Rosemary Connelly once suggested that the sun only shone on the righteous, which had made me mad and I’d listed some of the things the nuns did that were far from righteous, in the name of the Father the Son and the Holy Ghost.

‘What about suffer the little children?’ I’d said.

She’d backed down with, ‘Bejasus, Kate O’Sullivan, I was only joking. Keep yer hair on.’

I’d gone on to question why the nuns had masses of beautiful flowers in brass vases and bowls of fresh fruit everywhere, when we were lucky if we even saw a peach from a distance. At the back of the building there’s a walled garden, with a lawn so green my eyes hurt to look at it, narrow paths that wind through fruit trees and great clumps of flowering bushes of every colour, and several wooden benches placed in shady spots where the nuns often sit in contemplation. We, the girls, aren’t allowed in the garden and I’ve only seen it from the top of the wall of the school house attached to the side of the building. This is where we were taught until the age of sixteen, or fourteen if, like me and Bridget, we passed primary certificate and went on to the local secondary school. The house is spotless; it smells of disinfectant like a hospital, and damp. I learnt very young that Catholics are obsessed with washing – well, nuns most certainly are. How often had I heard the words: ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness, dirty people are pagan, clean ones divine.’