‘If it’s a girl, I’ll name her Genevieve. If it’s a boy, Ronan. That means Little Seal. Do you have seals where you come from, Nan?’
‘No.’ There were seals on the rocks at Ballywilling Beach but I didn’t want to come from there anymore. I had abandoned the idea that Ireland belonged to me or me to it. I came from London. My mother’s daughter. Not my father’s.
‘Whenever trouble comes to land, Ronan will swim away. Whenever trouble comes to water, Ronan will return to shore.’
‘Why Genevieve?’ I asked.
‘The patron saint of young girls. So she can look out for herself.’
I hugged my own belly, liking the sound of that.
‘No harm can reach this baby ever,’ Bess said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’
It sounded like what we wanted to be true. Never mind where we were. All the good things would happen. Our young men would return for us. Our babies would stay close to us always and we’d watch them grow. I pictured myself at a kitchen table, my baby playing with Alby at my feet, Finbarr making tea while I filled a notebook with stories. They hadn’t taken the wishes out of us, not yet.
All girls are the same. Father Joseph’s proclamation dogged us until we could almost believe it was true. There was the occasional rebellion – like the girl who escaped through the open gate when the milk truck arrived. The bells sounded, nuns scurrying everywhere, demanding one door be locked, another opened. We cheered, risking their wrath, and then were disappointed when the escapee returned the same evening, face streaked with dust and tears. A pointless day of walking led to the full realization that there was nowhere for her to go.
‘Be glad for a roof over your head,’ the nuns told us. ‘It’s more than most would give you.’
One morning, Bess and I were scrubbing the entry hall. Often the floors they had us clean were already spotless, but summer had begun with plenty of rain, and the girls who’d been working outdoors had tracked a good deal of dirt over the tiles. I left Bess on her hands and knees to fetch more hot water for our buckets,
and on my way back, found Sister Mary Clare humming through the corridor.
‘Sister,’ I said. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a favour.’
‘My English Rose,’ she said, smiling. ‘You can ask me anything at all. I hope you know that.’
‘Could you send a letter to Ballycotton, to Finbarr Mahoney – just a few lines, to tell him where I am?’
A look of sad hesitation crossed her face.
‘You don’t have to tell him to come for me,’ I assured her. ‘You don’t have to say anything except, “Nan’s at the convent in Sunday’s Corner”. He’d come for me if he knew, Sister, he’d marry me, I know he would.’
‘Sure, and I know it too.’ She pressed her hand into my shoulder. Despite the pregnancy there was no flesh for her to grab on to. The diet they gave us was spare at best. Bread in the morning and evening and a thin stew for our midday dinner. ‘I’ll write to your Finbarr, Nan. I do believe you could be one of the lucky ones after all.’
The nun walked me back to the front entryway. She did not offer to carry one of my buckets, the scalding water sloshing onto my shins and clogs.
‘Sister,’ Bess said. She struggled to her feet. The stone wall glistened with moisture and so did Bess. Sweat formed in beads on her brow and cheeks. Sister Mary Clare stepped towards her solicitously, the same plump hand rising to touch her cheek.
‘I’m feeling poorly,’ Bess said. ‘Cramped and clammy.’
Sister Mary Clare moved her hand from Bess’s cheek to her forehead. ‘You don’t feel feverish,’ she said.
‘Please,’ Bess said. ‘I feel like I’m close to my time. I have pains coursing through my belly like I’m on my monthlies. You need to transfer me to hospital.’
‘Oh, is that what I need to do?’ Her voice was amused but also warning. Even Sister Mary Clare would not brook impudence from the likes of us.
‘I need to go to hospital,’ Bess rephrased, the sound of her voice already hopeless.
‘Look how tiny you are,’ Sister Mary Clare said. ‘Why, I can barely tell you’re with child. You’re nowhere near close, dear, trust me to know what that looks like. We can’t have you lying in for weeks like a queen, can we?’
The nun looked from Bess’s face to mine and must have been struck by the dismay. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’ll sneak you upstairs for a little rest. Our secret. What do you say to that?’
‘Thank you, Sister.’ Bess’s shoulders sagged.
I took the scrubbing brush from her damp hands. It was unheard of for any girl to be allowed to rest during the day. Not only did I feel glad for Bess but I was also encouraged for myself. Perhaps Sister Mary Clare really would write to Finbarr. I could already see him, striding through the front gates, past the pregnant lawn crew on their knees, straight to the Mother Superior to demand my release.
Bess and Sister Mary Clare walked off together. No other nun would have agreed to it. How lucky we were, that at least one of them was so kind.
Bess knew having a nun beside her wouldn’t work as protection. Her heart sank when she saw Father Joseph emerge from the office he used when he visited the convent. Bess didn’t believe in prayer anymore but old habits were hard to break. She found herself praying every day for her stomach to bloom into an obstruction. She prayed for a belly a hundred miles wide; the most pregnant woman to ever walk the earth.
‘There you are, Bess.’ The priest’s voice was booming and unashamed.
Despair can be as real as any other trap. Like a fishing net – thrown into the air, widening, then falling to make its catch. In the hallways and in church Father Joseph had a great, smiling face.
Sister Mary Clare said, ‘Bess is feeling poorly, Father. I was just taking her upstairs to lie down.’
‘She can lie down in here.’
Bess turned to Sister Mary Clare and grabbed her arm. The nun looked down at the grip, then at the priest, who stood with his arms crossed, the picture of fatherly reproach.
‘Please,’ Bess said, ‘he won’t listen to me. But he might listen to you.’
Sister Mary Clare laughed, determined to prove she was the jolliest person on earth. ‘My goodness,’ she said, ‘you’d think you were going to your execution, rather than private prayer with the most revered man in County Cork.’
Bess couldn’t look at Father Joseph, who, no doubt, beamed at hearing this praise. As if the most revered man in any county would be assigned to ragwort like us. Bess was certain this scene only made him more eager to be alone with her. Instead, she looked at Sister Mary Clare, the enforced cheer on her face, the wilful refusal to see what was right in front of her. Or worse, the refusal to admit what she knew full well.
‘Sister,’ Bess said, ‘can you really believe you’ll get to heaven when all this is done?’