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.
Leaning forward to lace up my shoes, I say, ‘I wish I had a beautiful new dress to wear, like the one Aileen Shaunessy wore to church last week. Didn’t you think she looked just grand?’
Looking me up and down she replies, ‘Sure, Aileen’s dress was grand, but she hasn’t got your figure to carry it off. You’d look beautiful in a paper bag, Kate O’Sullivan. You’ve got the body of a bloody angel, a sight for sore eyes.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Can you imagine Mother Thomas’s face if you swanned into church dressed up like a bloody film star? She’d probably have a heart attack.’
I grin. ‘I wish.’
‘And to be sure, one glimpse of your titties would be enough to make the new curate forget his vows.’
Still grinning, I say, ‘That’ll do, Bridget, and it’s very beautiful you’re looking this fine morning too.’
She beamed. ‘You really think so?’
I squeeze her hand. ‘I do that. You look grand.’ I’m telling the truth, not the whole truth but partly. The midnight-blue serge skirt trims Bridget’s stocky body, taking inches off her generous hips, and the colour complements her dark auburn hair. But beautiful she is not, nor ever will be, lest it be in the eye of the beholder. Given a beholder that is short-sighted, or just plain blind with love. I hope Bridget will find the latter. She is, after all, my best friend, better than a sister, and I love her very much.
Hand in hand we leave the dormitory and pass Rosemary Connelly on the stairs. She whispers, ‘Mother Thomas is on the warpath. She found a dirty sanitary towel on the floor of the downstairs lavvy.’ Mary looks directly at me.
‘Not guilty,’ I mutter.
As we continue downstairs Bridget digs me in the ribs. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
I know she’s referring to my first period. Mother Thomas had examined my knickers and after finding one spot of blood had made me wear them on my head for the remainder of that day. I have to fight hard to stop dredging up these unwanted memories, yet even in the doing I know it won’t make them go away – well, not forever. What was it Father Steele had said about our childhood baggage? I think instead about the future, it has always helped me to cope with the past and the present. Soon I’ll be sixteen. I’ve longed to be sixteen since I was ten. The magic age, time to leave the orphanage, to be in charge of my own life. Yet now it’s almost upon me I feel more than a little scared. You’re going to be famous, I remind myself, you can look after yourself. But could I? Would I? The doubts jump around my head.
I’m very tall for my age, five foot eight, and still growing, as Lizzy Molloy was fond of saying, in all the right places. ‘It’s a model for them fancy glossy magazines you should be, Kate O’Sullivan. A top model you’d make, to be sure.’ I can think of nothing worse than being a model: being told what to do; how to stand; what to wear. I was going to paint. The only time I felt truly happy was when I was painting. It made me feel different, whole and important, like I had something special to say. As we reach the foot of the stairs, I turn to Bridget. Tears well up in the back of my eyes and I’m not sure why.
‘I’m going to be sixteen soon. I’ve longed for the day, but as it gets closer I’m feeling a bit strange. I’ve never known anything but this place.’
The glassy sheen of concern in Bridget’s eyes makes my insides loosen, and I want to hug her when she says, ‘You, Kate O’Sullivan, are going to be a famous artist. You’re a brilliant painter. I only wish I was good at something.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘But I know how you feel.’ Her bright smile fades. ‘For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamt about leaving here. When I was very small I used to dream that my mam and da hadn’t died. They’d gone away to work, to make lots of money, and had put me into the orphanage until they had made enough to come back for me. The dream always ended with them leading me up a long path, their arms loaded with presents. At the end of the path there’s a lovely cottage covered in ivy. Mam and da tell me it’s our home; we’re all going to live there. I always hated waking up from that dream, and every night I used to go to sleep trying to dream it again. Yet now when I think about leaving here I get the shits. I’ve no place to go, I don’t have any family, only you, Kate, you’re like a sister to me and you’ll be leaving four months before me. I’m going to miss you so much.’
I can’t stand to see her sad, or afraid; I’ve seen both too often. The trouble is it makes me feel the same, so with more enthusiasm than I actually feel I say, ‘Why don’t you come to Dublin, Bridget? You can get a job and we can share a flat.’
Even in the saying I knew Bridget wouldn’t be coming to Dublin. She wasn’t going anywhere. Bridget was small town, and, after all, there had to be the Bridgets of the world. She would, I knew, let one of the local lads get inside her secret box, as she referred to it. Then she’d get married and let him pump his hot sperm into her every Friday night after the pub, because that’s what all the men round here did. She’d have babies, lots of them, be a good mother, try to be a good wife, and pretend to be a good Catholic. Doing without, and dying inside.
That wasn’t for me. I wasn’t like Bridget or Mary or most of the other girls I knew. I had my life all mapped out; I’d been planning it since I was ten. First I was going to go to Dublin, then London, perhaps even America. People would come from all over the world to buy my paintings, and I’d be rich; very rich. I’d be interviewed in newspapers, asked to appear on TV, on talk shows and the like. Of course I’d come back to the village to see Bridget and her fat babies. Then I’d cruise up to the orphanage in my chauffeur-driven car, dressed in beautiful clothes and smelling of expensive perfume. Mother Thomas would open the door. At first she wouldn’t recognize me, but when I spoke shocked recognition would register on her wizened face. With my head held high and wearing my best smile I’d say, ‘I told you so.’
It’s warm in church; steam rises from damp, closely packed bodies. Judging by the size of the congregation, I reckon most of the parish has turned out to get a glimpse of the new curate. My eyes follow the lead altar boy, Eugene Crowley, as he emerges from the sacristy. I used to like Eugene, but that was before he chased