The Convent (12 page)

‘While you're up here being an
arty farty wanker
, you mean!'

‘Isn't it fantastic!'

‘We'll be able to plan stuff!'

‘We can nick off and go to the movies!'

‘We can sip gin out on the balcony!'

‘And chuck stuff down at people we hate!'

‘Det, this place is fantastic.' I throw my arms around her. ‘It's just what you need and you deserve it. I'm so happy for you. You're going to do some great painting here.'

‘Perfect, isn't it?' She smiles.

‘You've already started.' I point to the big canvas.

‘Yeah.' Det pulls away from us and takes off her work shirt. Underneath is a tattered T-shirt over the red skirt. ‘Let's eat. I'm completely famished.'

Cassie pulls a small grainy photo of a man standing against a wall and squinting into the sun from the pin-board. ‘Who's this?'

‘That is my old man,' Det says dispassionately.

Cassie and I are quiet as we stare at the photo, but Det takes it back and pins it up where it was. ‘I found it in my stuff months ago.'

She has her thongs on now and is wandering around her studio frowning. She suddenly seems edgy and out of sorts.

‘What are you looking for?'

‘Ciggies.'

‘How old was he in the photo?'

‘About thirty.' She smiles when she spots her tobacco under some screwed-up paper in the corner. ‘Come on, girls! Got me fags; I'm starving.'

‘Do you remember him?' I risk asking.

‘Yeah.'

‘So how old were you when he died?'

‘Twelve.'

‘What was his name?'

‘Martin. But everyone called him Marty.'

‘So what was he like?' I ask curiously.

‘What can I say?' She shrugs. ‘He was … my dad.'

Cassie pulls the baguettes from her bag along with the drinks.

‘I got freebies!'

‘No shit? Oh man!' Det yelps in delight, grabs one and takes a couple of huge ravenous bites before putting it back in the bag. With a guilty laugh she wipes her mouth with one paint-splattered hand. ‘Sorry, but I just had to do that! We'll eat them downstairs then?' She runs back and opens the window wider. ‘This place needs air too. Let's get out of here.'

At the door, Det takes a moment to stare at her canvas. ‘I've been working on this fucker all night,' she mumbles, ‘and I've hardly got anywhere.'

‘Did you have any sleep?'

She points ruefully at the corner. Two grimy sheets and a rumpled doona.

‘You slept here?' Cassie is appalled.

‘Well, I did last night.' Det is defensive. ‘I have a key. We're allowed in to work at any time of the day or night. How would they know if I sleep here? It was actually good. I had some sleep then got up and worked like a maniac all morning.'

‘It's good, Det,' I say, looking at the painting again. ‘At least, it will be.'

‘You think?' Her face brightens momentarily. ‘I'm not sure yet.'

‘Are all the rooms here the same size?'

‘I got a big one,' Det replies. ‘Most of them are half this size. Apparently the painters get a choice if one comes up.'

‘So, back when it was a convent would a more senior nun have had this room?'

‘No, half a dozen postulants would have shared this one,' Det says.

Cassie and I look at each other. ‘What the fuck is a postulant?'

‘When they first went into the convent they were called postulants. They had a year or two to try it out.'

‘How do you know all this stuff?'

Det pokes me in the chest. ‘Old Peach hates not to know, eh?'

‘Well?'

‘My dad's sister was a nun. We used to go see her when I was small. I know all about postulants and rosary beads and all the rest of the bullshit. Come and I'll show you around.'

‘So you grew up Catholic?' Cassie asks.

‘Yeah …' Det grimaces as though already bored.

I grew up in a completely non-religious family, and Cassie's is more-or-less the same, I think, although her dad is Greek. I can't say I mind that I never spent a zillion boring hours in church when I was a kid.

When we get downstairs again, to the dark lobby with the polished-wood door and the stained glass, Det points to the adjoining room.

‘The Bishop's Parlour. This is where the Bishop used to come in and see the Mother Superior and take tea.'

I smile, lost for a moment trying to imagine the scene. ‘So they'd both be dressed in the weird gear?' I ask, loving the whole idea of being in the very room where it took place. ‘Was the Bishop in one of those pointy crimson hats?'

‘How the fuck would I know, Peach?' she says dryly. ‘I wasn't there.'

‘I wonder what they talked about!' I mutter, running my hand over the inlaid woodwork around the fireplace. ‘And I wonder who did this. It's so lovely.'

‘Well, you can bet whoever did do it isn't around now.' Cassie is in practical mode. ‘Come on.' She pushes me out of the lobby. ‘You can look another time.'

‘Did they wear ordinary clothes on weekends?' I ask.

‘Who?'

‘The nuns?'

Det stares at me. ‘It wasn't a
job
, Peach.'

‘So what was it?'

‘A
vocation
,' she says. ‘They were called by God.'

‘
What?
' I start laughing. This coming out of
Det's
mouth is just too bizarre.

‘Called to the religious life,' she says seriously. ‘It's full-on. No wages and no getting away on the weekends.'

‘And … do you believe that?' I ask as noncommittally as I can. ‘I mean the bit about God calling them?'

She doesn't say anything for a while and then she chuckles softly. ‘Yeah. In a way I do. Yeah. I do believe that.'

‘But you don't even believe in God!' I splutter. ‘You told me you didn't.'

‘So?' She grins at me. ‘Just because I don't believe in God doesn't mean that
he, she
or
it
doesn't exist, does it?'

Cass and I glance at each other behind her back and raise our eyebrows and I decide to let it go. I've never been one for talking around in circles. But a picture of a girl on the phone taking
the
call
from God fills my head. Then afterwards, explaining it to her friends.
Hey guys, sorry I can't go to your party because … God called
me! He said I have to go to this place and put on all these funny clothes.
I don't get any time off and I earn no money. What do you think? Good
career move? Can't afford to pass it up, can I? The opportunity might never
come around again.
Yeah, right.

‘You look troubled, Peach.'

‘Were they allowed
out
?'

‘No. They were enclosed.'

‘Jesus,' I whisper. ‘Did other people come in?'

Det shakes her head and then grins. ‘Hey, I'm not a world expert on nuns and I'm hungry.'

We find a long bench under the cover of the verandah, and Cassie deals out the baguettes and the drinks. The three of us are quiet for a few minutes as we get stuck into the food. It's still hot but the clouds have begun to gather.

‘Okay, what's up then?' Cassie turns to Det with a hard, in-your-face stare. ‘You look shithouse.' She takes another bite and hands Det what is left of her baguette. ‘Go on, have it. I've had enough.'

I look at Det and see that she
is
even more pale than usual. Trust Cassie to notice.

‘I'm okay.'

‘When did you last eat?'

‘Back off ' Det mumbles.

‘You look pale and you're edgy,' Cassie persists.

‘Jeez, Cass!' Det laughs awkwardly.

‘Well?'

‘I'm fine, but … I've got something to tell you both.'

‘What?'

‘Don't worry.' Det looks away uneasily. ‘No one has died or been attacked or anything important like that.'

‘Well, that's good to know,' Cassie says.

Cassie and I snatch another conspiratorial glance and go back to eating. We know that if we start firing questions at Det she is likely to clam up completely. So we just sit there and watch her demolish the last scrap of food.

‘So.' Det sighs as she looks up at the church spire. ‘Looks like I'm pregnant.'

I watch Cassie's face. It is still for about three seconds, then her eyes narrow, her mouth tightens, and she begins to heave, as if she is going to be sick.

I turn away, not trusting myself to look at either of them at this point. I know what is going through Cassie's head, because the same thing is going through mine. For this to happen
again
is too much. I chuck what is left of my roll out onto the concrete for the birds and crumple up the paper bag into a tight ball.

Cassie gives a deep, furious moan that sends an echo around my own brain.
This – is – too – much.
I almost just get up and walk off. I so much want to be somewhere else right fucking now. Seriously, I wish I'd never met Det. She's too mad, too irresponsible. She lacks even the most basic street smarts. I'm totally and utterly sick of her.

The cold horrible truth is that Cassie and I have seen Det through two abortions already, and she is only a year older than us. The first one was understandable. She was a green country kid who'd never had any kind of social life at all until she left school. She hadn't been interested in going out and it had worked well for her. She was a student who got top marks two years running. School and the friends she'd made had been enough. But after school the old lady she was living with became ill and retired to a nursing home. Det had to find accommodation elsewhere.

Her first place was a share house where everyone was older than her – and things were pretty wild. There were loud parties and lots of drinking and drugs and hangers-on. She went a bit wild too, got involved with one of the guys and … the inevitable happened. That termination knocked her around enough, but it was the second, last year, that affected her so deeply.

She let herself get run-down after it was over, and then she got physically sick and then she got really, seriously and very deeply depressed. Within a few weeks she literally couldn't get out of bed in the mornings. Cass and I brought her food every day for three months and made her eat it. We washed her, talked her through everything, again and again and …
again.
We helped her dress; we took her to shrink appointments; we gave her money. I'm not kidding, we did everything we could; she was a total mess and there was no one else to do it for her. I honestly think if it weren't for us she would have died. She was that bad.

After a few months the black fog lifted; gradually and without fanfare she started to come good. She got back to her day job at a cafe in Collingwood and that helped. She started painting again and two of her lecturers let her know that they saw her as someone with exceptional talent. This gave her confidence. She started seeing people again. Slowly, slowly she pulled her life together.

Then she was invited by a small, prestigious gallery to exhibit with two older, well-known male artists who were initially miffed to be exhibiting alongside a young female student – until they saw the work. The gallery owner added a nought to the price of each work, and much to everyone's surprise – and to some people's chagrin – Det's work sold really well, way better than the other artists'. She was on her way. She had a few grand in the bank and her spirits had climbed right out of that terrible hole. Then she got the government grant at the end of the year. She was on a roll.

‘Well, say something,' Det mutters. ‘Yell. Scream.'

For the second time inside twelve hours I do want to scream. I want to rant and rave and throw stuff around. Not only do I have my sister at home to look after, but now there is my best friend …
all over again
.

‘This is crazy, Det.'

‘I know.' She bites her lip. ‘It's ridiculous.'

‘It took you
ages
to get over it last time,' Cassie says. ‘You know what you were like.'

‘Yeah. I know.'

‘It was hard on us too, Det. Then you got the grant for this year and this wonderful place to work at last.' Cassie's voice breaks. ‘Every blasted thing is going so well for you!'

‘I know, I'm a complete idiot.'

‘So who is the—'

‘No no. That's not important. I think—'

‘It
is
fucking important!' Cassie snarls. ‘Because at the very least he can help pay this time.'

‘It's just that I'm not absolutely sure how to find him. I mean … it was just casual.' She's blathering.

‘Well, start looking.' Cassie cuts across the bullshit.

I'm with her on this. In fact, my bet is that Det knows very well how to find him but is too proud to involve him, so I dig my boot in too.

‘As far as I am concerned, this time whoever
he
is can be part of the whole bloody thing, Det, because the termination procedure is just the beginning. Then there's the follow-up visits to doctors, medicines to pay for, time off work.'

‘I know. I know. I'm sorry.'

Cassie and I forked out last time and I'm not going to again unless I really have to. And what if she crashes again? Of course that's what we really fear. I just don't want to even think about all that happening again.

‘I just … had no idea …' Det mumbles but doesn't finish the sentence. ‘We only fucked a couple of times. He said he'd go get condoms … I said it wouldn't matter 'cause I'd just had my period. So it's all totally my fault.'

I look at her and see that she is absolutely miserable and my heart melts – against my will. I still want to scream at her, but I also want to cradle her in my arms because, well, she is Det – so funny and wild and different to anyone else I have ever known.