The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

“Is she living somewhere nearby?” I asked. “I’d love to meet her after I get out of here. We’d have a lot in common to talk about, wouldn’t we?”


“I’ve not the slightest idea where she went,” Sister said curtly. “And you probably wouldn’t have gotten on at all, now I think about it. She was not at all like you. A difficult girl, if you want to know. Stubborn. Wouldn’t be led or advised. Then ran off without a word of thank you. Disappeared during the night.”

“How awful,” I said. “That must have been worrying for you.”

“Disappointing,” she said. “After all we did for her.”

“Perhaps it was hard for her to give up her child,” I suggested. “I know I wouldn’t find it easy.”

“None of the girls finds it easy,” she said, “but most of them want what’s best for their baby and they see that a good, stable home, with loving parents, is the only practical solution. Maureen was always too headstrong.”

I remembered the fight Emily had reported to me with Maureen shouting, “You can’t make me. It’s cruel.” Was that about giving up her baby? Had she changed her mind at the last minute? I couldn’t think of any way to ask any more questions at this moment without making Sister Jerome suspicious of me.

“I know I’ll want what’s best for my child,” I said, continuing to play the good obedient girl. “How could I possibly hope to support the little dear?”

She gave me another approving nod. “Now let’s get you settled with a uniform and a place to sleep. Your dormitory is up these stairs.”

There was a flight of stairs at the end of the hall past Sister’s office. She went ahead of me, up the steps at a great rate. She must have been at least fifty, I reasoned, if she was born at the time of the famine, but she seemed remarkably agile for her age, especially wearing that heavy and cumbersome habit.

Our footsteps echoed with the sound bouncing from the stone steps to the stone walls as we came out to a hallway above. It was the only sound I had heard here apart from the swish of her robes. I looked down the deserted hallway. The windows on this hall were frosted so that light came in, but there was no view—obviously to prevent the girls from seeing beyond that wall into the world outside.

“It’s really quiet in here, isn’t it?” I said. “Not a single sound.”

“We usually maintain a rule of silence at all times,” she said, “and that applies to you girls as well as our sisters. No talking or whispering at any time in the hallways or in the dormitory after lights out. Only minimal talking on the job when a question needs to be asked. Silence also at meals when the girls take it in turns to read from a holy book. You know how to read, do you?”

“Of course,” I said, a little too readily. Would a girl in my situation really know how to read?

“Some of the girls are barely literate,” she said with a sniff of disapproval. “And some of their personal cleanliness habits—well, they leave a lot to be desired.” She pointed down the hallway. “The last door on your left is the bathroom. And there is a WC beside it. We expect girls to wash themselves well daily and take a bath at least once a week. Towels can be found in the laundry closet next to the bathroom.”

“So where are the other girls?” I asked, realizing I had seen no one apart from Blanche.

“They are all at their daily tasks,” she said. “Either working in the laundry or out in the garden or in the kitchen. There is a lot to do at this time of year—preserving and bottling our fruits and vegetables to keep us going through the winter. We like to be almost self-sufficient here.”

It seemed I was doomed to do my share of bottling and preserving wherever I went!

“Of course we do not have the grounds to keep any animals except our hens, but we eat little meat anyway.”

She pushed open the first door we came to. I noticed it must be directly above her quarters. So she’d hear if anyone got up during the night, I thought. The room was dark, with only a couple of high windows sending shafts of sunlight to the top of the opposite wall. It contained a row of narrow iron bedsteads, eight in all, a small cupboard beside each, and a row of hooks on the far wall. On the far wall was a large crucifix, and a statue of St. Anthony, holding the child Jesus, stood on a shelf in one corner. These were the only decorations, except that one of the beds had a small vase of flowers beside it and one other held a photograph.

“Now we have to decide where we can put you,” Sister said. “Not much room, as you can see. I doubt that we could squeeze a cot in here if we tried.”

At the sound of her voice a figure rose up from one of the beds. My heart skipped a beat and I stepped backward involuntarily.

“Blanche, what are you doing here?” Sister demanded angrily. “You should be at your assignment. Aren’t you supposed to be our porter this week?”