The Convent (15 page)

You get to my age, Perpetua, and you can't be bothered with
anything but the truth.

I had six sons before a longed-for daughter, your mother, and
then twin boys. The first son, Dominic, is dead now. He died in
tragic circumstances but I won't go into that now. I have seven sons
left, and none of them want to listen to me or know what I have
lived through. Not that I blame them. They're busy with their own
lives. They come by and they drop things off that I don't need and
make me food I don't like. They try to boss me around. ‘Mum,
you should do this!' ‘Mum, you should go there.' ‘Mum, you'll be
cold if you don't wear this, or hot if you don't use this fan or that
air conditioner.' ‘Mum, you should sell this house and move to a
hostel.' Mum, why don't you try this food or that.' ‘Yes, yes,' I
say but I don't take a bit of notice. I go ahead and do what I want.
Do they think I was never hot or cold before?

Every year on your birthday I think of you, and the way she
gave you away, and every year around that time I had Father
Duffy say Mass for you and your mother. When I get home from
that Mass I light a candle and pray to Our Lady to keep you from
harm. Sometimes I think that Our Blessed Lord is just too busy
for an old woman like me, what with the world being the way it
is, so it's best to go straight to Our Lady, who understands better
what it is like for a woman and how hard it can be. I wonder if
you pray. Most of the young people don't these days. Remember
you don't have to go on and on or say anything fancy. Our Blessed
Saviour knows your heart and so does his Mother.

I have secrets to tell you, big things and small things. And things
to give you, too, if you're interested. They're useless to me now.
I can't even read very well anymore.

Did you know you were called after Cecilia's best friend Breda?
They entered the convent more or less together. Cecilia was given
the name Mother Mary Annunciata when she was received. And
Breda got Mother Mary Perpetua. But you might know that
already? I have no idea what you know.

Oh that ceremony! The music was out of this world. I felt as
though I'd died and gone to heaven because I was back in the same
chapel I'd known as a girl, watching my own girl dedicate her life
to God! And having the Bishop there and all those priests serving
on the altar, all done up in their fine regalia, the embroidered gold
albs and silver crosses! The High Mass went on for three hours.
It really was something. Seven beautiful girls all dressed as brides
dedicating their lives to God. And your mother, well, you should
have seen her. She was the most beautiful of all of them. What a
picture! Nancy Morgan from out near Woodside helped me make
the dress for her and it fitted perfectly.

It was just about the only I ever saw Kev cry. ‘If only she really
was getting married,' he whispered, the tears streaming down his
cheeks. ‘If only there was some bloke up there at the altar with
her!' People sitting in pews around us heard him and so I told him
to hush up, the fool, he was disgracing us all.

Those last couple of years in the convent were very difficult
for Cecilia. Dominic had died, you see, and I think that was the
beginning of the end for her. She wasn't allowed to go to his funeral
because it was an enclosed order. But it was very hard on her.

Everything in the Church seemed to change around that time.
Have you heard of Pope John 23? He was a good man but he started
all the trouble. Maybe he had to do it. I don't know, anyway it
was like they opened the windows and once everyone got a whiff
of fresh air they decided to climb out and run away. The old rules
didn't apply any more. It seemed like every week some rule or
other was relaxed and none of them knew where they were. One
week if you ate meat on Friday you were in a state of mortal sin
and would burn in hell forever, then the next week they told us it
wasn't the case.

Well, what were we meant to think? It wasn't a clean cut either.
The old ways had to co-exist with the new for a good few years
and so half the time we didn't know what was going on.

When she finally left the convent I think your mother was
terribly confused. She didn't seem to know who she was. One day
she'd be in a miniskirt, her face plastered in thick make-up, and
the next she'd be in a dress that made her look like a grandmother.
I probably wasn't any help at all.

We do things we think are right but they turn out to be wrong.
Such genuine holiness in a little girl is not common, so naturally
I encouraged her to enter the convent. It seemed the natural thing.
Later, when she told us that she planned to give up her child I
knew in my heart that it was wrong to give away your own flesh
and blood, but I said nothing. Maybe she blames me for that.

You'd think at my time of life I'd accept everything that has
happened, including my own mistakes but, I don't. It's hard to
see the point of any of it.

I'm worn out now. I had planned to write different things to
you, Perpetua. Brighter things. But somehow the pen just took
off on its own. I hope you will forgive me if I have said anything
wrong or if I'm not cheery enough. Maybe you have met your
mother already and will be able to tell me she is safe. That would
be enough for me.

I am longing to hear from you, Perpetua! If I could just see you
once I would die happy.

Love from your grandmother,
Ellen Mary Madden (nee Reynolds)

I fold the pages up carefully and slip them into my pocket; then I go back into the house. The front door bangs behind me as I head up the stairs to my room.

‘Peach, are you still here?' Stella calls after me.

I am acutely aware of a number of things all at once: the darkening sky outside my window, my neatly made bed, the books on the desk, the curtain falling to the floor in folds, and my skin getting tight across my scalp, as if it might be about to peel away. I cross my arms tightly over my chest to keep myself in one piece, and I turn around slowly and stare hard at all the familiar objects. There is the dressing table with the photos of my friends stuck to the big mirror. There is my bag where I chucked it on the cane chair last night, the shoes I took off yesterday, the glass of water on each side of the bed. Everything is familiar but … somehow strange. Things seem to move in and out of focus. I turn to the Chagall print above my bed. The bright colours of his dream seem to be crumbling at the edges, just like a sandcastle at the end of a day at the beach, all the edges and straight lines slowly collapsing. I swallow, but my mouth feels stuffed full of dry sticks.

‘Peach?' Stella calls again.

‘I'm here,' I call back, but my voice is off-key.

‘Are you still going swimming?'

‘Yeah. I think so. Maybe.'

‘If you do, bring me back something?'

‘Okay.'

I grab the edge of the desk. I don't know
what
I'm thinking exactly, only that the little systems inside my head seem to be cutting out, one by one. As if someone has turned off the power supply and all the pulleys and levers are creaking to a standstill.

‘Something really yummy, will you,' Stella yells from the foot of the stairs, ‘like one of those burritos. No beans but extra cheese.'

‘Okay,' I say, but she won't have heard. I can't seem to raise my voice above a whisper. A splatter of rain hits the windowpane and that sort of brings me back. Am I going swimming in the rain? I take the letter and stuff it away into the shoebox inside my wardrobe.

I wait a while, then I tiptoe downstairs and out into the backyard
.
Our big tree is already drooping a little as a smattering of rain hits its thirsty leaves and branches. I run through the warm heavy air and shelter under it.
I already have a grandmother
.
I have the best
grandmother in the world.
The fact that she is dead is not the point. She is still Nana.
My nana
. And there is Dad's mother in England, too, although we don't really know her. I don't need another one.

Stella and I adored Nana. She took us to piano and dancing lessons. She was at every school concert and every sports match. Mum was her first child and born late in her life. Before she married, she sang for ten years with the Australia opera. Her voice was a low, rich contralto. She'd be at the piano for hours with Stella; they'd be laughing and singing together, chatting over new pieces.
If you love
music then you'll never be lonely
was one of her sayings. Her musical genes had passed over Mum and into Stella.

I'm not musical like Stella, but I always felt adored by Nana anyway.
You're the brains around here,
she used to tell me.
One day
you'll show the world!
I loved being told that. It made me study hard at school because I didn't want to let Nana down.

She sang at weddings and funerals and she kept busy seeing all her friends. Most of them were old ladies like herself, full of fun with plenty of money. They drank sherry and had card nights. They went to films and plays and concerts and enjoyed their lives. Our nana was … perfect.

I sit on the back verandah comforted by the lovely soft rain.

A decent downpour will mean I can stop worrying about Mum's garden for a few days. I've been collecting shower water and carting it out in buckets to the plants every morning, along with what I save from the kitchen sink. Stella helps, but it isn't in her nature to take such things seriously.

A long roll of thunder in the distance sends a shudder through me, and then the sky is alight with two sharp forks of lightning. Another loud crack of thunder and the rain picks up pace. I shut my eyes. It is so dark inside my head. I listen hard to the sounds around me, the soft hiss and occasional crack as the rain hits the leaves, and the creaking of the shed door. I can't hear my own breath going in and out, but when I put one hand over my heart I feel it pumping.

‘
Sadie, Ellen and … Cecilia
.' It feels odd to say these names aloud, oddly
familiar.
I've never heard them before, but it's as if they've been sitting there all along, waiting for me to open the door and let them in.

‘Peach, is that you?'

‘It's me.'

‘What are you doing?' Stella is standing at the back door holding a bowl and a wooden spoon. Her hair all is all over the place and she's wearing a big white apron. ‘Didn't you go swimming?'

‘Just watching the sky.'

She puts down the bowl and spoon and comes towards me, both arms stretched out. I let her pull me up.

‘Come inside!' she says. ‘You'll get wet.'

‘Okay,' I laugh.

‘What's the matter?' She is dragging me through the back door.

‘Nothing.'

‘You look weird. Like you've seen a ghost.'

‘Nothing's wrong.'

‘Don't lie!'

‘Okay.'

Once we're inside I tell her that I feel a bit strange, and that I'm going up to my bedroom to lie down. The truth is, I'm scared.

Stella never minded me waking her when I had the dreams. I'd crawl into her bed, or she'd come into mine, and I'd tell her the dream in as much detail as I could remember. Then I'd go back to my own bed and sleep peacefully. Sometimes weeks would pass without one, then, out of the blue, they'd be back, three nights in a row. I was always lost somewhere, abandoned and alone, with crowds surging around me. When I opened my mouth to scream no sound came out.

‘It's your soul talking, Peach,' she used to tell me. ‘Your soul is wandering around looking for answers.'

Well, maybe. But what I do know is that I haven't had one of those dreams in more than a year, and although Stella might miss them I certainly don't.

Lying here on the bed I have to wonder if maybe Fluke was right after all. Maybe it is gutless to not even want to find out your own mother's name.

I remember coming home from school once in Year Nine and finding Mum on the couch reading. I'd developed a passionate hatred for my name over that year, and I wanted to have it out with her.

‘Why did you call me this crazy name?' I complained as soon as I came in the door. ‘Nobody, absolutely
nobody,
is called Perpetua!'