The Convent (4 page)

‘Nothing magical about it, my dear,' the old nun was saying sternly. ‘You have the ability. You must practise. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Yes, Mother.' The girl's eyes were darting about as she waited for her chance to escape.

‘Off you go then, and God bless you.'

‘God bless you, Mother, and thank you.' And the little uniformed girl was away.

‘Come in, dear. Come in.'

Just the smell of the room made Ellen want to cry. Polish and wax and the soft soapy smell of the nun, with her dry, ageing fingers and starched veil. It was a small room with just the upright piano, a stool, a wooden chest where the music was kept and a straight-backed chair for Sister Seraphina. On top of the piano was the same old blue vase that had been there forever, along with the metronome. There was a picture of the Christ kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane on one wall, and a crucifix above the piano, but these two were overshadowed by a large plaster statue of the patron saint of music, St Cecilia, standing on a long wooden pedestal in the corner. Her hands were joined in prayer, a small harp propped at her feet along with a few sheets of rolled-up music. A bunch of fresh flowers from the convent garden were in a little glass jar at her feet.
St Cecilia pray for us.

All the heavy wood gleamed in the late afternoon light coming in through the long window, which was open as always. Mother Seraphina believed that fresh air, even in autumn and winter, was important for keeping her students' minds on the job.

She was a plump woman of medium height; her soft Irish skin was virtually unlined although she was well into her sixties. She adjusted the piano stool to face her own chair and then motioned for Ellen to sit down.

Ellen did as she was told and took a deep breath. The hours she'd spent in this room seemed to rush at her, to surround her in a mass of sticky tangled feelings she didn't have a hope of unravelling. It wasn't just floor wax and polish and soap she could smell, but the deeper smells of effort and pain, exhilaration and humiliation, frayed nerves and blind terror. Hundreds of girls had been taught here over the years. Learning new pieces, practising for exams and concerts, all the scales and arpeggios and exercises, the prodding and the carping. So much of Ellen's own life had been lived
here
in this room with this old woman. The long pieces, the short, the light-hearted and the sad; the fury and frustration when her fingers refused to do what they were meant to.

And what are those lumps on the end of your hands, Ellen Reynolds?
Bits of wood from a tree, are they? Turnips perhaps?
But the bursts of warmth too that lightened Ellen's spirits for days afterwards. If she got through some difficult piece, the nun would clap softly and laugh.
Ah, you have it, my dear. You have it. Well done!

Once she'd told Ellen, ‘You remind me of my mother, child. Bless her soul. Her hair was dark like yours, and her eyes blue and bright too, and she was a great one for the jolly pieces.'

Ellen had been delighted. It was a running joke between them that Ellen found the light, joyful pieces much easier to learn, even if they were more complex than the sombre ones. Mother Seraphina was always trying to make her see the beauty of a serious piece by Beethoven or Elgar, and Ellen would scowl, which always made the nun shake her head and laugh under her breath.

‘Did your mother play well, Mother?' Ellen had ventured shyly.

‘She was …
competent.
' Seraphina smiled. ‘Let's just say what she lacked in technique she made up for in enthusiasm.'

Ellen would have loved to know more. She'd been on the brink of asking how many brothers and sisters the nun had, and if they all played and what, if any, instruments they'd had at home, and where was her home in Ireland, but … in the end she didn't dare. It was an unwritten rule. The Sisters rarely spoke about their former lives. Questions from the girls were out of place.

‘So, my dear?' The nun was settled into her chair now and looking at Ellen keenly.

But Ellen turned away, unable to meet her gaze.

‘You went to stay with your father?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘And his sisters, I believe?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘What were their names, child?' the nun asked softly.

‘Rose and Mary,' Ellen gulped, willing the terrible constricting feeling to leave her alone. It was as if some kind of crustacean with great horrible claws was crawling up her throat.‘And Rosalind … except she was my sister.'

‘Your
sister
?'

‘Half-sister. I didn't know I had one.'

The old nun was confused for a moment. ‘So how old was this sister?'

‘Old,' Ellen mumbled. ‘Thirty-two, I think.'

‘And
her
mother?'

‘She died. She'd been sick a long time. And she died last year. But I didn't know that … I didn't know anything about her either. She wasn't
my
mother.'

‘No,' the nun said softly. ‘So you'd never met this sister before?'

‘No. I'd never met my father's sisters, either, or my … I'd never met Agnes. Not before I went there, Mother.'

‘Oh dear.' The old nun shook her head. ‘So you went into a house with your father, his two sisters and his … other daughter?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

The nun sighed and drew both her hands into her lap, twisting her thumbs around each other.

Ellen's head was still lowered, but she watched the thumbs moving around. First one way and then they'd stop and do an about turn. Nothing was said for some time. Outside, the day was sliding away and the room was growing dark. Ellen wondered if she should suggest that she turn on the overhead light, but the dark was comforting in a way. It helped the awfulness fade a little. The longer she sat there in silence, the easier it all became. The terrible months became like scenes from a book that she'd read. Being in this room had always made her feel as though the world outside didn't really exist, and it was the same now.

‘So they were unkind?'

‘Yes … Mother,' she mumbled.

‘And you were there for six weeks?'

‘Two months, Mother.'

‘And your father?'

‘He went to work.'

‘And you were home during the day?'

‘The new term hadn't started.'

‘I see.'

Ellen kept her mouth tightly closed. She'd sworn on pain of hell that she would never tell a living soul what had happened in that house. And now she was blurting it out to a prying nun. But what else could she do?

‘So how were they unkind, child?'

‘They said that … I … That my mother was … That I was …' Ellen closed her eyes.

‘Come, child,' the nun said softly, ‘come now.'

‘They said I … I had bad blood in me,' she whispered, ‘that I am a daughter of sin.'

‘Did they now?' The nun took a sharp breath.

‘And that I would turn out just like her.'

‘Her?'

‘My mother.'

‘Oh.'

Tears rushed into Ellen's eyes without warning. She knew nothing about her mother, only that she was alive, that her name was Sadie and that she had dark hair. Apart from that she was a ghost, a ghost that Ellen loved nevertheless. Oh, she loved her, there was no doubt that she loved her. Occasionally, in the middle of the night, Sadie would appear at one end of the dormitory, a transparent floating vision of a dark-headed woman in a worn blue coat, right next to the statue of St Therese, the Little Flower. She was there and yet not there. Ellen would sit up and stare down past the other beds of sleeping girls, a wave of relief washing through her. Her mother had come at last!

Mother Seraphina reached out and gripped Ellen's right hand in her own. This in itself was quite shocking. Ellen couldn't remember ever touching a nun before. She wished that her own hand didn't feel so damp and warm against the nun's dry, papery skin.

‘And your sister?'

‘The worst.' Ellen gulped and wiped her eyes with her other sleeve. ‘I had to share a room with her and she never spoke to me. She would just stare at me and sometimes throw my things about. And she tipped things on me.'

‘Tipped … what kind of things?'

‘Water.' Ellen raised her head and looked at the nun. ‘Once she threw a cup of tea in my face when I was lying on the bed reading. Hot tea. It burned. They wouldn't let me sit with them after dinner … so I would go outside or try to read on my bed. I … I didn't have anywhere else to go!' Ellen began to sob, and she turned her face away into her other hand.

‘Oh, dear child.' The old nun's grip tightened and she felt in the pocket of her habit for a hanky and passed it across. ‘So, you told your father?'

‘No, no … I didn't … he … no.' Ellen took the nicely laundered white hanky but hardly dared use it. ‘He knew a bit, I think.'

‘Wipe your eyes now, dear,' the nun said.

‘Thank you, Mother.' It felt wrong somehow to use a nun's hanky, but she didn't know how to say that.

‘So what brought things to a head?'

‘I couldn't eat. He took me to a doctor and I had to drink a tonic and … that made me sick too. I overheard them talking one night, the three of them in the kitchen, screaming at him to get me out of their house. They kept saying I was a
whore's
child.'

The nun shuddered.

‘What
is
a whore, Mother?' Ellen whispered desperately. ‘Please tell me what it means?'

‘Oh, my dear.'

‘Do I have bad blood?'

The nun shook her head but said nothing. Then she let go of Ellen's hand and searched in the folds of her habit for her rosary. Ellen opened up the hanky and wiped her eyes and blew her nose properly, all the time watching the nun's hands fingering the cross.

‘We'll say a little prayer now, Ellen, shall we?' Mother Seraphina said softly. ‘Just a little prayer to Our Lady.'

Ellen gulped and nodded as the nun kissed the cross and blessed herself with it.

‘And we will remember always that the Blessed Mother is with us, especially in our sufferings.'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘That she had to watch her only son die on the cross, and so she knows what it is to suffer, my dear.' The old woman stood and faced the window. ‘We'll say the Memorare together,' Mother Seraphina muttered softly. ‘To ease the pain.'

Ellen stood up and began to pray alongside her teacher.

Remember, O most loving Virgin Mary,

that never was it known in any age,

that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help

or sought thine intercession was abandoned.

Inspired with confidence, therefore,

I cry to thee, most loving Virgin Mary.

To thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful.

Do not, O Mother of the Word Incarnate,

despise my prayers, but graciously hear and grant them. Amen.

The nun stopped and put her rosary aside. She took a couple of deep breaths and then sighed.

‘Will you play the Mozart sonata for me now, Ellen? The one you learnt for your exam.'

‘But I haven't practised!' Ellen was genuinely aghast at the thought. She hadn't touched a piano in months. ‘And Mother ... it's Holy Week!' Could the nun really have forgotten that no bright, joyful pieces were played in the week leading up to Easter?

‘I think Our Lord will understand, dear,' the nun said. ‘I really do. I think Our Lord and his Blessed Mother will love to hear you play that particular piece.'

Ellen began tentatively, quietly and self-consciously, but the music took over. It was a piece they both loved. The nun had told her about Mozart as a young boy, not much older than Ellen was, careering around Austria in his lovely velvet clothes and wig, that he was known to be a wag, boisterous and cheeky, playing tricks on people, and all the while writing the most wonderful music in the world. And that was what Ellen thought about as she played. She pretended Mozart was sitting behind them both, listening and smiling, clicking his fingers and tapping his fancy heels on the polished wooden floor, glad that it was her, Ellen Reynolds, playing his notes.

It was by no means her best rendition, but for most of the way through she was halfway pleased. Not too many notes went missing, and every time she came to the end of a page of music and Mother Seraphina leant forward to turn it Ellen saw she was smiling. Ellen's fingers flew over the notes. By the end she knew she was making all kinds of mistakes, but it didn't matter because they were both laughing by then.

‘Bravo, my dear girl! Bravo!' Mother Seraphina clapped a couple of times before gently putting down the lid of the piano. ‘With no practice, you did very well indeed.' She sighed and checked the time on the small silver watch under her guimpe.

‘Well, we must be going, dear.'

‘Thank you, Mother.'

The nun took her hand. ‘Tell me what it is you want to do in life, Ellen?'

Ellen could only look at her in shock. No one had ever asked her that before. Not even her father had asked her that. What did she want to do?

‘You mean …?'

‘When you leave school and become an adult.'

‘I don't know, Mother.'

‘Think, child.'

‘Well …' Ellen began shyly, ‘I would like to have my own family one day, Mother.'

The nun's old face lit up. ‘Then you will, my dear,' she said softly, ‘you will. You'll have a beautiful family.'

Ellen was surprised that the nun seemed so certain, because she wasn't at all sure herself. She'd never in her whole life spoken to a boy, and she knew nothing about babies or families for that matter.

‘Oh yes.' The nun closed her eyes. ‘You'll meet a good Catholic man. And you'll have a wonderful family of your own.'

‘With my own house,' Ellen added softly.