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.’
They both shrug and speak together: ‘Sure, it’s only a joke.’
‘And what is it you’ll be doing for the curate?’ Sally again.
The word char stuck in my throat. ‘Answering the telephone, paying bills, keeping the books, making appointments … You know, like a PA. He’s even asked me to teach him to paint.’
The twins look suitably impressed.
‘It’s only temporary, for a few months before I leave Friday Wells.’
‘Where will you go, Kate?’ a wide-eyed Mary Neesom asks.
‘I intend to go right to the top. Nowhere else will do.’
After breakfast I’m summoned to Mother Superior’s study. I know why, but the knowing does nothing to dispel the dread. All girls have to say a formal farewell. To summon up the courage to refuse, to make a stand to leave right there and then, head held high, feet as light as air, was tempting. Don’t think I hadn’t considered it, yet I knew for certain my action would deem me unfit to work for the curate. On my solitary march to the nuns’ domain I talk to myself every step of the way. There is nothing any of them could say or do to hurt me. It’s a formality, something to endure for a few minutes before I get a life.
My rap on the door is followed by a brisk, ‘Come.’
On stepping into the room I’m momentarily taken aback. All the sisters are there except Mother Thomas: eight in total, lined up like tin soldiers on either side of Mother Superior, who sits menacingly still, her long back stiff as a board behind her highly polished mahogany desk.
‘Good morning, Kate,’ Mother Superior says, her lips barely moving, like a ventriloquist.
‘Good morning, Mother Virgilus.’
Unsmiling she beckons me to approach her desk. Once there she hands me a brown parcel tied with string saying, ‘It contains regulation garments given to all girls leaving the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. There’s a good set of clothes: a dark blue woollen skirt, a white cotton blouse, a six-button blue cardigan, and a grey mackintosh. You will find ten pounds in an envelope, and your birth certificate.’
I take the package from her right hand as she picks up a large brown manila envelope with her left. ‘This arrived for you yesterday. I’ve no idea what it contains.’ She thrusts the envelope into my hand. A quick glance tells me it’s from a firm called Shaunessy & O’Leary in Dublin.
‘And this–’ Mother Superior taps the cover of a bound book – ‘is a gift from the Sisters of Mercy. A specially embossed and bound bible. I hope it will be a reminder of your time here and the goodness and mercy bestowed upon you by this charitable organization.’
She hands me the bible; I make no effort to take it.
‘I
