Lynne Pemberton - Marilyn’s Child

I can’t believe I’ve just spoken to Mother Thomas like that and I’m not surprised when I feel her hand swipe the side of my face. It stings. I want to lash back but daren’t.

‘Hell is where you belong, Kate O’Sullivan. You’re a lying, evil child. Like I always said, the devil’s own, that’s what you are and that’s where you’ll end your days. With him, the devil in hell and damnation.’ With her cane she points at the other girls, screaming, ‘Get out of here, all of you, I need to teach this evil pup a lesson.’

The girls scatter. Before she leaves I catch a glimpse of Bridget. Her face reveals what I know she feels: concern and hatred. Now I have the nausea deep in my stomach, and it takes all my will power to keep from crying out. I take a long step back, away from the nun. My head hits the wall and for a moment the urge to throttle her overwhelms me. What joy to stanch the stream of abuse spilling out of her ugly mouth. Or, better still, I long to stick a knife in her fat belly, twisting it round again and again while she begs for mercy. For a few seconds I revel in the pleasure killing her would give me, then in a voice that doesn’t sound remotely like my own I hiss, ‘Don’t touch me. I’m warning you, don’t come near me.’

With her right hand she grabs me by the throat, cutting off my air supply. I try to resist but she’s too strong and a moment later I hit the bed face-down. With vice-like strength she pins me to the bed. I can feel her nails digging into my spine. Suddenly my head feels hot, my temples and forehead are burning, and I have this terrible image of the first time she did this to me, when I was six. As she drags my dress up and pulls my knickers down, I’m talking into the horse-hair mattress, repeating mantra-like: ‘I hate you, Mother Thomas, with all my heart, I hate you, hate you, hate you.’

The anticipation, those few suspended moments before cane meets flesh, is always the worst. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of how soon I’ll be leaving this place, of my own bedroom with sun streaming through big windows, and a pink rosebud bedspread. The monster nun from hell takes a deep breath before bringing the cane down. My entire body freezes in spasm and I bite my tongue. It hurts like hell and I want to scream but don’t. I won’t give her that satisfaction. In fact, it’s a long time since I’ve cried. I can hear her panting, and know she’s lifting the cane for the next blow. ‘You’ll burn in hell, Kate O’Sullivan, that’s where you’re going. The devil’s own, that’s what you are.’

Suddenly there’s a strange noise inside my head, like a light switch clicking on then off, and before she can hit me again I roll over and scramble to the other side of the bed.

My knickers are hanging around my ankles, my backside feels like it’s been torched, but the shaking has stopped and I no longer feel physically sick. We face each other on opposing sides of the bed. My eyes are harnessed to hers, and I detect to my glee a little uncertainty in those glassy beads. ‘Mother Thomas has eyes just like a raven,’ Bridget always says, and until now I’d agreed, but today they, like her, have diminished to those of a common sparrow. In the same strange detached voice I say, ‘You’ll never hit me again because if you do I’ve got orders from the devil to kill you. And if it’s hell I’m going to, you won’t be far behind.’ She’s staring directly into my eyes; hers don’t waver or blink, but she says nothing as I go on: ‘When I’m rich and famous, and I will be, you’ll be sorry, very sorry – that is, if you’re still alive.’

I know, as soon as I enter and kneel, that it isn’t Father O’Neill in the confessional box. Whiskey breath and sweaty feet do not smell of freshly squeezed lemons mixed with a trace of lavender. The smell is different from any I’ve ever encountered. I inhale, exhale, then say, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s two weeks since my last confession.’

I know it’s him. Holding my breath, I wait for confirmation.

‘Tell me about it, my child.’ Father Steele’s melodic voice washes over me. I close my eyes and imagine bathing in spring water on a warm summer day. It isn’t something I do regularly, but I had, a couple of times last summer, been allowed to go on a picnic with a girlfriend from school. We’d gone in her father’s car to Kinsale, where we’d eaten tons of egg sandwiches and drunk gallons of lemonade. Then afterwards we’d swum in the river. It had felt like Father Steele’s voice: warm and soothing.

I sigh. ‘I’ve had a terrible row with Mother Thomas. I said some awful things to her. She beat me, not for the first time, and I’ve been punished by Mother Virgilus.’

I look down: my hands are red and sore, the skin peeling. Work-worn hands, like those I’d seen a thousand times in the village, attached to pink arms scrubbing front steps or polishing brass door-knockers. Ashamed, I try to cover them up. The sight of them makes me angry, and sad that I should have such hands at fifteen. My hands were intended to paint, not scrub floors and polish brass, or be submerged elbow-deep in boggy water in the laundry where I’d been since my tussle with Mother Thomas.

‘Sure, I said things I shouldn’t have, but she made me say them. She made me very angry, Father.’

‘Are you sorry, my child?’

I know the simple way to get off the hook is to say, Yes, Father, I’m very sorry; I won’t do it again. But today, with only a panel of wood and a foot-square grille separating me from the man of my dreams, I’ve no desire to get off lightly. And instead of feeling penitent, I’m busily inventing more sins to confess. The rate they’re popping into my head I reckon I could be in the confessional box all day.

‘Mother Thomas is mean and cruel, and if God were all he claims to be, he wouldn’t let her live. I told her to go to hell, and that I wished her dead. In truth, Father, to be sure, I meant every word.’

‘May the Lord bless and forgive you, my child.’

Exasperated, I raise my voice. ‘I don’t want forgiveness, Father. I want Mother Thomas to suffer for what she’s done to me.’

I hear him sigh. ‘Do you have anything else to confess?’

Before I can reply, a shuffling noise outside distracts me. I look towards the sound. I can see a pair of feet outside the confessional box. One black-booted foot is tapping impatiently. Another sinner waiting to be cleansed. Probably one of the men from the village, one of the many who get drunk every Friday night. I’ve watched them spew up their earnings in the alley behind the pub; heard the shouts – hasn’t everyone? – and the screams from their women. The lucky ones, the wives that is, get off with a black eye. Most of the people I know sin regularly, confess at the same rate, are absolved and go on to do it all over again. Religion – what a waste of time; stupid, to be sure. The more I think about it the less it makes sense. Suddenly I’m seized with a strong urge to get out of the confessional box, and out of church. My knees hurt and I feel very tired. With a deep sigh I say, ‘No, Father, I’ve nothing more to confess.’

‘For absolution, say ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers. God be with you, my child. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’

I rise and step out of the confession box muttering under my breath, ‘I hate Mother Thomas and I hope she goes to hell.’

For the first time in years I’m looking forward to Sunday Mass. Since confession on Wednesday I’ve been counting the days, hours and minutes for my next sighting of the curate. Bridget and I chatter while dressing in our Sunday best. Our church uniform consists of black stockings, dark blue skirt, white blouse and navy blue sweater. As I force my feet into my black brogues I long for a dainty pair of peep-toe sandals in red or white with a heel, like Lizzy Molloy wore to church last week.