LYNNE PEMBERTON
MARILYN’S CHILD

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000

Copyright © Lynne Pemberton 2000

Extract from ‘Usk’ from the Collected Poems 1909–62 by T. S. Eliot (published by Faber and Faber Ltd) reproduced by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

Lynne Pemberton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780006513285

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2013 ISBN: 9780007483181

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Praise

Acclaim for Lynne Pemberton:

‘A rags-to-riches story with plenty of sun, sea, sand and sex thrown in … Escapist bliss’

Tatler

‘An ideal light, pacy summer read.’

Mail on Sunday

‘A tale of glamorous lives and ruthless ambition – impeccable.’

Manchester Evening News

Romantic suspense, mystery and intrigue in a tropical setting – a terrific read.’

Annabel

‘The material that great bestsellers are made of, a heady blend of success story, intrigue and a smattering of sex’

Sheffield Star

‘Perfect holiday reading’

Sunday Express

‘A bittersweet love story to keep you on tenterhooks’

Woman’s Realm

For Robin and Bobby I love you both, very much

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Part One: THE FATHER

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Two: THE SURROGATE FATHER

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Part Three: THE GODS

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Keep Reading

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Part One THE FATHER

When I was fifteen I knew how it felt to want someone. I mean really want them in every sense of the word. It happened very quickly, in a flash of absolute clarity, and it made the most perfect sense. There are moments, I’m sure, in everyone’s life, when absolute certainty stifles reasonable doubt. So it was with me. Of course he, the object of my adolescent longing, wasn’t of like mind – well, not then, not in the beginning. His moment of truth would come later, much later.

The past is a place I visit often – too often. It’s an unhealthy pastime, the retreat of the old and the dying who have nowhere else to go. I’m young, so why do I keep returning? Wallowing in it, embracing it? I even have to admit enjoying the pain. What use recrimination? What use regret? Had his thoughts been of me when he chose to leave? Had he wondered what would become of me without him? I’ve tried to patch it up, my broken heart that is, but I’m still searching for the right dressing, so I continue to bleed. In my head I can hear his voice, it never goes away; the deep resonant music of memory plays over and over again in the dark corners of my mind. ‘Our childhood baggage is merely pawned, to be retrieved or returned to us later in life, in one guise or another … There is no escape, Kate, nothing is ever what it seems.’

I close my eyes, my thoughts racing, my heart pumping hard. I’m travelling back, and the sensation is akin to a fast ride on an express train. The landscape of my life flashes past so quick I have no time to take any of it in. I can feel his presence, he’s close, very close, closer than he’s been for a long time. He looks exactly the way he’d looked the first time I set eyes on him, at precisely ten past four on a wet afternoon in March 1978.

Chapter One

In the quiet of St Winifred’s church I listen to his movements; from under half-closed lids I watch him mount the pulpit steps. He hasn’t seen me. I’m kneeling, hands folded in prayer, head bent, all manner of things going on in my head except worship. It’s dark in the church; he’s wearing a black soutane, his back towards me, clothed in shadow. Suddenly he lifts his head: a wedge of light from the window above the nave touches his crown, which is the colour of a roasted chestnut. Now he’s facing the empty church and, as if practising a sermon, he begins to mime. Desperate to stay hidden, I wriggle my body down into a crouching position and in the silence listen for his footsteps. When after a few moments I hear him descend from the pulpit, I raise my head a fraction to see him start down the aisle. As he gets closer I can see Father Declan Steele has full curling lips, darker in the centre, and heavy lids above navy blue eyes. Irish eyes, framed with spidery lashes, below ruler-straight eyebrows, thick and coal black. My best friend Bridget Costello had been right when she’d said he looked like Robert Redford in The Great Gatsby, except the curate is better looking.

I want to sneeze; Sod’s Law, when I want to be as quiet as a mouse. I pinch my nose with thumb and finger, inwardly cursing the weather. For the love of God, I wish the rain would stop! It’s been lashing down for three days, the hard slanting type that stings bare flesh. In a mad rush as usual and thinking of other things I’d run out without my mackintosh. I hate my mac. It’s long, reaching almost to my feet, and made of a scratchy material in a dirty grey colour. But it’s the only coat I own, part of a set of clothes given to me by the Sisters of Mercy.

So now I’m wet, soaked to the skin. But then we’re always wet in Ireland, wet or cold, or both. The cold is the worst; it seeps into my bones because there isn’t much flesh on them. Before November is out I’m wishing my life away. I’d cheerfully miss Christmas; it’s not a happy time for me anyway. Christmas is for families. I’ve seen them on my way back to the orphanage from church, quick furtive glimpses through sitting-room windows dressed with fake snow and bright tinsel: florid-faced mams, ale-swigging dads, grandmas and kids with glowing cheeks all gathered around gaudy Christmas trees, a wholesome family picture, opening presents and feasting their faces full of chocolates from a selection box. Later they would eat turkey and ham and Christmas pudding with lashings of brandy butter.

Last year it snowed on Christmas Eve and the trudge to church, hand in hand with Bridget under a sky as blue as my eyes, had been like walking through another village, a magical place transformed to silver brilliance. Bridget and I, at the back of the snake of girls, as far from Mothers Paul and Thomas as possible, had played a game of placing our feet in the footprints made by the girls in front. On the surrounding hills a huddle of sheep formed a grey blob against the gleaming white. The unmarked snow lay in thick wedges on the rooftops of the village; the church spire was sullen in contrast. The trees surrounding the church were woven with white, and the snow cleared from the churchyard drifted into our faces and pricked our eyes.

At the Good Sisters of Mercy Orphanage we have a tree dressed by the parish Christmas fund, and a make-believe present. I say make-believe because it’s an only-for-show present. On Christmas morning the parish priest visits to inspect the orphanage. The gifts under the tree are all wrapped in shiny Christmas paper. After he’s left they are all taken away. None of the girls knows where they go and no one dares to ask. One year we got to open the presents on the insistence of Father O’Neill. I got a pair of trainer shoes that were too tight: they nipped my toes. Foolishly I complained, and got a clip round the head for my trouble. The same year we got to eat the for-show-only meal. It was pork, rich and fatty, and it made me feel a bit sick. You could have played football with the pudding, and the custard was runny, like Maureen O’Leary’s snot. All in all, I was rather pleased when the following year there was no inspection and we had the usual porridge and a rasher with fried bread.

I’d like to miss it all and jump straight into spring. Why do we have to have winter? Other countries don’t. Some people wake up to sunshine every day. I suppose that would get a bit boring, but every other day would be nice. No more huddling under blankets no thicker than toilet tissue, bony legs close to my chest, hands as stiff as a corpse and as blue as Mother Superior’s lips (she’s got a bad heart). What joy never again to hear the nocturnal chorus of chattering teeth, hacking coughs, rasping wheezes and the constant sniffing from noses that become, from December to March, like running taps.

Thinking of winter causes the face of Theresa Doyle to surface. Countless times in the past couple of months I’d longed to throttle her or wished her phlegm would choke her. The sound of her coughing had made me feel physically sick. In that dark middle-of-the-night time when minutes turn to hours I would have given anything to stop the deathly rattle emanating from her infected tubes. After Theresa died of whooping cough, I’d confessed my sinful thoughts to Father O’Neill, who had given me double the usual ten Hail Marys and Our Fathers to say every day for a week. I’d been desperate to tell the priest that being in a state of grace and chanting Hail Marys in my head every day would make no bloody difference to poor old Theresa or, for that matter, to me wishing her dead. Well, not dead but quiet so I could get some sleep.

I’d also wanted to ask him why God let bad people live and good people die. Like Theresa, a few months off her sixteenth birthday, or the kind-hearted Colleen Corrigan who’d worked in the bread shop. Why was Colleen, a good mam, taken by cancer at thirty-two, leaving a husband and four lovely kids? These sorts of questions are forever nagging at me, yet they stay where they are in my head, unuttered and unanswered. My confusion has nothing to do with Theresa’s death. No, my doubts had started much younger, as far back as I can remember.

In my mind I challenge the priest: So tell me, Father, why is it the pair of them, Holy Father and merciful son, let so many terrible things happen? I visualize the face of Father O’Neill looming above me; inwardly I quake at his imagined reaction. He scares me, this big man of God – not as much as Mother Thomas, but close. His hair is the exact colour of ripe tangerines. Even when he speaks normally, one to one, his voice rises at the end of every sentence like when he’s in the pulpit. But it’s his eyes that are really terrifying: deep set with coal-black pupils, the kind Mother Peter says can see right into your soul. I know I’m not the only one afraid of the bogeyman priest; even Mother Thomas, who I thought was unshakeable, quakes in his presence.

So, Father – I continue my imaginary conversation with the priest – why is it that this absentee father and wayward son have caused more than enough trouble, for me at least, yet I’m expected to love, cherish, adore, and obey them? To believe that if I worship the pair of them all the days of my life everything will be OK? You see, Father, it’s not that easy, at least not here in Friday Wells, not where I live in the Good Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. For a start they aren’t all good, the sisters that is, and there’s not a lot of mercy. I’ve never had a natural appetite for the rich food of the Lord, Father, I suppose it’s because I was force fed. Do you know, Father, Jesus was the first word I ever heard and learnt?

I have these imaginary conversations often, and not only with the parish priest. I have some really heated arguments with the nuns, particularly Mother Thomas. How I wish I didn’t have the sick feeling in my belly when she comes near me, and could muster the courage to tell her out loud what I really think. The mere thought of her reaction makes me shudder.

Hugging myself tight I feel my nose twitch and a moment later let out a loud sneeze. The young curate, level now with the pew where I’m kneeling, looks surprised, and his surprise turns to shock as I leap to my feet and, like a rabbit springing from a magician’s hat, jump into the aisle and block his way. I can see Father Steele is startled, but to his credit he recovers quickly and appraises me with lazy interest.

He’s taller than I’d first thought and broader, big-boned with a high forehead and a deep dimple in his chin. I’m beaming – I can feel it stretching my face to aching point. After a couple of minutes it begins to hurt and I’m forced to relax my mouth. To be sure, this film-star curate would make even the likes of Lady Susan Anderton lost for words. And, according to Bridget, since Susan had left Friday Wells for London she’d been going out with pop stars.

Mother Thomas had said the new curate had far too much charisma for a priest. I’d looked up charisma in the dictionary, and, after being in Father Steele’s presence for a few minutes, I was inclined to agree with her. With characteristic boldness I say, ‘Do you think you’ve got charisma, Father?’

I watch the slight rise of his eyebrows. ‘Do you know the meaning of the word, child?’

‘I do that, Father.’ I quote:’ “Ability to inspire followers with devotion, divinely conferred talent or power.’”

In a bid to hide his surprise, the curate digresses. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that it’s wrong to be talking this way about your elders?’

I nod vigorously, my head bobbing up and down. ‘All the time. Mother Paul is forever telling me that my chatter will get me into no end of trouble.’ Placing my hands on my hips, I wag my finger, imitating the nun’s voice: ‘“You’ll wear that tongue of yours out.” To be sure, it’s got me fair worn out. I wish the cat would bite it clean off.’

My eyes are smiling, and so is his mouth – I suspect against his better judgement, but I don’t care. I’m pleased as Punch to have made him smile, it makes me feel warm all over. ‘Kate O’Sullivan, at your service, Father.’

‘Kate is a grand name, my mother’s name.’ He repeats: ‘A grand name.’

‘It was Mother Peter who called me Kate O’Sullivan, the first name to come into her head the night I was taken in by the Good Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. I’ve no mam and dad, see. Well, none that anyone knew of at the time – just a name, that’s all.’ I lower my eyes. ‘My name wasn’t chosen out of love or thought, or in memory of some dead ancestor.’ I hang my head. ‘I’ve no idea where I came from.’

I know he’s beginning to thaw, to feel sorry for me, I can see it in his eyes. I have this effect on men, so Bridget is always telling me. But until now I’d never thought much about it, never cared about manipulating the opposite sex. From the age of ten Bridget had taught me how to flutter my eyelashes, to lower my head and peep sideways from under half-closed lids. She said all the film stars did it and they got the men they wanted. One night, when I was about eleven, encouraged by Bridget, I’d dressed up. We’d waited until lights out and all the girls were asleep. We had to be very quiet so as not to wake the nuns or Elizabeth Rourke, an older girl, the dormitory enforcer, who would go running to Mother Thomas to report us. With socks stuffed down my nightdress and my mouth pouting, I’d walked on tip-toe, wiggling my hips. Bridget had shown me how to throw my shoulders forward and jiggle my breasts, copying the showgirls she’d once seen at a travelling fair. A year later I ceased to need socks; my tiny plum-plums, as Bridget called my breasts, grew into melons.

It happened very quickly, creating so much attention that I set about denying their existence. The rest of my body was reed-thin, which made my breasts look even bigger. At bath-time Mother Thomas could not look at my body. She’d spin me around so my back faced her and scrub so hard that my skin smarted. The day before my thirteenth birthday she’d found lice in my head. Gleefully she’d shouted, ‘Dirty head, dirty head!’ Filled with shame and self-loathing I’d sobbed as she shaved and scrubbed my naked skull with a foul-smelling soap.

Afterwards I’d said to Bridget, ‘I wish I’d been born a boy, life would be so much easier. Don’t you wish you’d been born a boy?’

With a shrug she’d come back with, ‘To be sure, Kate O’Sullivan, I’ve no wish to be a boy, but I wish I’d been born with a face like yours.’

Now, looking at the new curate, all thoughts of being a boy are banished. With a suddenness that scares me, I want to be a woman. I wish with all my heart I was wearing anything but the shabby pinafore and white blouse of the orphanage. I imagine myself in a figure-hugging long black dress, cut low at the front and back, like I’d seen film stars wear in old black-and-white films. I’d never seen anyone in a dress like that here in Friday Wells; I doubt the curate has either. What would he think, how would he react if I was all togged up like a film star? Would he, I wonder, be tempted?

Temptation: the evil word careers around my head. Men of the cloth, I tell myself, are not tempted by the sins of the flesh. Priests are not normal men, who, according to Bridget, are all the same, wanting one thing: the hole between a girl’s legs.

Whenever she talks about her secret place she giggles in an odd way, as if nervous, pointing to her crotch and saying in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘But you mustn’t let them inside until you know they intend to marry you. Or, God forbid, you end up having a baby with no husband.’

I notice an edginess about the curate. He’s shuffling from one foot to another, seeming eager to get away. I don’t want him to go and search my brain for something to hold his attention. ‘Where are you from, Father?’

‘Dublin, if you mean where was I born.’

‘I’m going to Dublin, as soon as I’m sixteen, in less than three months’ time. I’ve got a scholarship to art college. I can’t wait until I can leave the orphanage, for my sins.’

He interrupts: ‘Hush, girl, don’t talk so. You’re lucky to be alive. You’ve the good sisters to thank for taking you in, looking after you, putting food in your belly. You should be thanking them and the good Lord every day of your life.’

I chew on my next words: do I swallow or spit them out? I decide to risk the priest’s wrath. There was something about the young curate that loosened my tongue – not that it needed much unravelling. And unlike Father O’Neill this man was young – I reckoned about twenty-eight or -nine – and soft-spoken, with what I called the mushy look in his eyes, a bit like Dr Conway when he’d treated me for my burst appendix. ‘Bad case of peritonitis,’ he’d said. ‘You’re lucky to be alive, Kate.’ With the same sympathetic expression as I now see in the young curate.

‘I’ll not be thanking them for much at all, Father, because I don’t feel thankful. That’s the truth. The good book tells us not to lie, or to sin. So how is it that the good sisters do both? When I’m famous, and I will be, they’ll all read about me in the newspapers. Then they’ll be sorry.’

Father Steele shakes his head. ‘Strong words for one so young.’

‘Not so young, Father, sixteen soon. Old enough to leave this Godforsaken place. When I go I’ll not be looking back.’

‘Wherever you go, child, try to go unencumbered.’ His eyes leave my face for a moment; when they return I can see they’ve changed. There’s something in them that had not been there before. I’m not sure what, but feel rather than see that he’s sad.

‘Our childhood baggage is merely pawned, to be retrieved or returned to us later in life, in one guise or another, so mark my words it will only weigh you down.’

My expression mirrors my confusion, and he seems to understand.

‘Remember, Kate, wherever you go, you’ve always got God.’ He pauses. ‘Now I must be on my way.’

The curate begins to walk down the centre aisle towards the door. I fall into step beside him, aware that he’s not pleased with this intrusion. ‘I have my doubts about God as well, Father,’ I say, walking briskly to keep up with his long strides. ‘I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. I feel like his name has been on my lips ever since I could talk. Did loving Jesus save the sweet Colleen Corrigan, as good a person who ever drew breath? Will a thousand Hail Marys stop Paul Flatley beating his long-suffering wife? Or will saying the Lord’s Prayer stop the badness spilling out of Mother Thomas’s mouth every minute of every day? If I worship God for all the days of my life, will it make any difference? Will it bring back my friend Theresa Doyle? Will it help me to –’

We are at the door when he stops walking. ‘Hush, child, stop it at once. Don’t speak so.’ Father Steele seems genuinely concerned, an angry red spot appearing on each of his cheeks. ‘Have you confessed your doubts?’

‘No, Father. I don’t think Father O’Neill will listen to me.’

The curate looks stern. ‘I’m sure he will, that’s what he’s there for.’

‘For the love of Jesus, there have been lots of times I’ve wanted to ask Father O’Neill why he, the Almighty I mean, lets terrible things happen to innocent people. You see, Father, it’s very confused I am. I don’t know what to believe any more.’

I pause for breath: a quick glance to monitor his reaction confirms that it’s all going better than I’d hoped. I’ve got his attention, the next step is to grab his interest, enough to make him think me a special case. Poor little orphan girl, mixed up, disillusioned, in need of religious direction. I’m pleased to see a look of self-righteousness come over his face. Piety I can deal with, I’ve seen it enough times on the faces of the nuns.

‘You, Kate O’Sullivan, should find plenty to be penitent about.’ When I’d first heard the word I’d asked what it meant. ‘To repent your sins,’ Mother Paul had said with the same look on her face as Father Steele is wearing now.

Throwing back my head I fix him with what I know is a probing stare. ‘So, Father, tell me: is it a sin to say what I think? Does it make me a good Catholic to be filled with guilt for doing the very things that come as naturally to me as sleeping and waking, eating and drinking? I laugh a lot, too loud for the sisters’ liking; I play practical jokes, but only to make others laugh. I’m rebellious, or so they tell me, strong-willed is another favourite term of theirs. I admit I tell lies but only sometimes, white ones usually – don’t we all? A couple of times I’ve pretended to be ill to miss Sunday Mass, but I’ve confessed. Are they such evil sins? I don’t feel bad or wicked inside. If there is a God, then surely he should be my judge?’

I suspect I’ve gone too far this time. I’ve never talked like this before to anyone, except Bridget, who warned me not to tell a soul of my doubts, unless of course I wanted a good hiding. Yet here I am spewing it all out to a priest, and a priest I’d just met. Bridget, I know, accepts things the way they are; sometimes I wish I were more like her, because, I suspect, life would be simpler. I’ve got a queer feeling deep in my belly like I want to go to the toilet. I squeeze my buttocks tight and say, with that look on my face, the one Mother Paul always wants to wipe off: ‘I’ve had religion rammed down my throat since I was old enough to say Our Father, and I do, I really do have a most desperate desire to believe.’

For what seems like a long time the curate fixes me with a steady gaze, then he takes a step closer to me. I can smell his breath: a sugary smell; I suspect he’s been eating a toffee or a chocolate bar. His expression has changed again; the ‘I know best, my child’ look has gone, and in its place I see genuine interest. Gotcha! I think as he begins to speak. ‘You and I should have a quiet talk, Kate O’Sullivan. Maybe I can give you some of the answers you’re seeking. Restore your faith. Come and see me soon. Early evening is a good time. But now I really must be off, I’ve got some house visits and I’m late. God be with you.’

If he could have heard my heart singing he’d have been deafened by the racket. ‘And you, Father,’ I manage to mutter, stepping to one side to allow him to pass.

The back of his hand touches mine; I want to hold it, if only for a brief moment. Rooted to the spot, my eyes glued to the back of his head, I watch him open the door. I look at my hands: they’re shaking, and now my heart instead of singing is beating very fast, hammering hard, like when big Frankie Donegal chases me.

I’m in a kind of trance. It’s the only way I know of describing this feeling. The only other time I’ve felt remotely like this – and really there’s no comparison – was three weeks ago, when I’d had the strongest urge for Gabriel Ryan to kiss me. Gabriel is sixteen and the most handsome boy in Friday Wells – in the whole county, according to Mary Shanley. Mind you, I’d not taken much notice of her since she’d never set foot outside the parish. All the girls want him and he wants me. His father is a bank manager, and the Ryans live in a posh house with a long black drive and a white car parked in front of the house. Like me, Gabriel is in the local secondary school, and everyone says (including him) that he’s going up to Trinity College in Dublin to study law when he’s eighteen.

Two weeks ago, behind the science lab, he kissed me. At first I tried to stop him, afraid one of the teachers would see us. He was strong though, too strong for me, and his body pinned mine against the wall. The whole thing was very uncomfortable: the corner of a brick digging into my right shoulder blade; his hardness pushing against my thigh; his mouth forcing mine open. Then he stuck his tongue down the back of my throat. I gagged, pushed him away, and ran back to the main yard. I couldn’t wait to tell Bridget and Mary about Gabriel. I told them his kiss had made me feel faint and I’d let him feel the top of my leg under my skirt, but only for a split second.

A few years before, Bridget and I had made a pact; we’d tell each other about the sex thing if and when it happened. As if I wouldn’t have told Bridget – she’s my best friend. I tell her everything. She was fifteen when she let Dermot McGuire touch her left breast.

Eagerly she’d demonstrated. ‘Round and round his hand circled, then he squeezed my nipple.’

‘Did it hurt?’ I’d asked.

‘A little,’ Bridget had admitted before continuing with enthusiasm: ‘Then he put his hand on my leg, it was hot – his hand, I mean – and shaking. I could feel it through my tights. I opened my legs a little, let him feel me on top of my panties. Then I shut my legs tight, clamping his hand inside my thighs.’

I’d giggled at this and, curious, I’d asked, ‘Did you want to go all the way?’

Bridget’s face had turned bright red. She’d crossed herself and said, ‘Temptation is a terrible sin. No more, I swear, until I’m married.’

Unlike Bridget I hadn’t been tempted with Gabriel; well, not after the sour-tasting kiss. Anyway, I didn’t intend to get married and have babies, not for a long time – if at all.

All sorted, or so I thought, that was, until Father Declan Steele, this film-star curate who looks to me more like God than any other living creature I’ve ever seen, had come to Friday Wells. Instinctively I know, with all the certainty that my hair is the colour of silver sand, my eyes are grey-blue, and I have a tiny birthmark on my left hip, don’t ask me how, I just do, this man has been sent to this parish for me, Kate O’Sullivan. A rare gift of fate.

‘You’ve got to be telling all, Kate O’Sullivan. What’s he like?’

I’m enjoying myself, holding court amidst four girls hungry for every detail of the new film-star curate. We are in the dormitory; I’m standing, and the other girls are sitting facing each other on the edge of two cast-iron beds. The north-facing room is cold and dark, the walls a sour yellow, dull even on the brightest day. The orphanage was built of granite and grey stone in 1896 – so the plaque above the entrance says – as an industrial school. Enclosed by high granite walls and black wrought-iron gates, I often feel I’m living in a prison. The floors of planked wood are highly polished by the inmates, and God forbid that a speck of dust should be found by one of the nuns. There is a Sacred Heart of Jesus on the wall opposite my bed, a constant reminder of how Our Lord suffered on the cross for me, and on the opposite wall Mary Mother of Christ set in a 3-D gilt frame. Mary is clothed in a long, flowing midnight-blue dress and has the usual smile on her face, which looks to me like she’s a bit daft in the head. I’d mentioned this once and got thumped so hard it’s a wonder I’m still all right in my head. Under Our Mother is a candle that burns constantly night and day. There’s not much furniture, and what there is was not designed for comfort. Two chairs stand either side of the dormitory, like soldiers on guard, there is a basic wooden table next to the door holding a bible, two prayer books, and the catechism.

The nuns live in separate quarters, two to a room. They have sunlight and white glossy walls. When I go to the nuns’ domain, as we call it, I’m always dazzled by the brightness. Bridget says it’s because their long sash windows face south. Rosemary Connelly once suggested that the sun only shone on the righteous, which had made me mad and I’d listed some of the things the nuns did that were far from righteous, in the name of the Father the Son and the Holy Ghost.

‘What about suffer the little children?’ I’d said.

She’d backed down with, ‘Bejasus, Kate O’Sullivan, I was only joking. Keep yer hair on.’

I’d gone on to question why the nuns had masses of beautiful flowers in brass vases and bowls of fresh fruit everywhere, when we were lucky if we even saw a peach from a distance. At the back of the building there’s a walled garden, with a lawn so green my eyes hurt to look at it, narrow paths that wind through fruit trees and great clumps of flowering bushes of every colour, and several wooden benches placed in shady spots where the nuns often sit in contemplation. We, the girls, aren’t allowed in the garden and I’ve only seen it from the top of the wall of the school house attached to the side of the building. This is where we were taught until the age of sixteen, or fourteen if, like me and Bridget, we passed primary certificate and went on to the local secondary school. The house is spotless; it smells of disinfectant like a hospital, and damp. I learnt very young that Catholics are obsessed with washing – well, nuns most certainly are. How often had I heard the words: ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness, dirty people are pagan, clean ones divine.’

Four eager faces are looking into mine, eight wide eyes fixed on me. ‘He puts Robert Redford in the shade. His eyes are the deepest blue, like the sea. And not the Irish Sea, more like the Indian Ocean. His hair is so smooth it shines like polished glass, and when he smiled, sweet Jesus …’ I pretend to swoon. ‘I swear he made me feel faint just to be looking at him.’

‘Did he say much?’ It was Mary Flanagan. Then in the next breath: ‘How old is he?’

‘I’d say he’s in his late twenties, and yes we talked for more than an hour. He asked me millions of questions about myself. To be sure, he hung on my every word.’

‘How long?’ Bernadette Kennedy looks dubious.

‘Well, almost an hour,’ I say quickly. ‘He even told me where he was born.’

‘Where?’ Bridget pipes up.

‘Dublin. He misses city life a lot, so he says. It’s going to be mighty quiet here in Friday Wells, I say. Very boring after Dublin. Nothing much goes on here apart from John Connor throwing up his wages every Friday night outside the pub, Paul Flatley giving his missus a black eye once a month, or me causing havoc in the orphanage. Jimmy Conlon sometimes has an epileptic fit, and John Joyce coughed up his insides last year.’

‘Mother of God, Kate O’Sullivan, did you really say all of that?’ That was Rosemary Connelly, her black eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t believe you. Tell the truth, or let the good Lord strike you down dead this very minute.’

I point my forefinger in Rosemary’s direction. ‘Rosemary, will you stop it with the good Lord Almighty stuff? You know as well as I do I don’t believe God will be my judge. I think I can be my own best judge. To be sure, don’t you think I get enough of that from the sisters without you preaching? I’m telling the truth when I say that Father Declan Steele is a god amongst men, and I for one would like to kiss him full on the lips. I’m in love, I tell you. In love with Father Steele.’

Bridget screams, ‘Mary, Mother of Christ, he’s a priest!’

I’m enjoying myself. ‘He’s a man, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my whole life.’

‘And who, pray, is the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your life, Kate O’Sullivan?’

I swivel my head in search of the voice, and spot the stooped figure of Mother Thomas, her black habit shining like sealskin in the overhead light. Her eyes are button bright and piercing behind the rimless spectacles, and her cheeks are puffed out and red, bright red, like she’s been daubed with scarlet ink, or has applied too much rouge. Since she doesn’t wear make-up I assumed she’s been running. She always gets red-faced when she exerts herself.

I’m shaking inside but, determined not to cower or show fear, I look her straight in the eye. What can she do to me that she hasn’t already done, I ask myself. And the knowledge that I am leaving soon, in a matter of weeks, gives me added strength. ‘The new curate, Mother Thomas, Father Declan Steele.’

‘That’s enough.’ The nun raises her voice. ‘It’s himself, a Catholic priest.’

I shrug. ‘That doesn’t stop him being handsome. Surely God made him so?’

I can see the tip of the cane she keeps hidden inside the wide detachable sleeves of her habit. With a look that would, less than six months ago, have filled me with terror, Mother Thomas takes three long strides, her rosary beads making a clanking sound as she comes to a halt a few inches from where I’m standing.

We face each other, adversaries as always, only now I’m not afraid. For the first time since Mother Thomas had come to the orphanage in the summer of 1967 when I was five she didn’t scare me. The five-foot-three eleven-stone battleship of a woman has in the past year shrunk, and now seems to shrink even more before my very eyes. Ha! Perhaps there is a God. The thought makes me smile. She knows I’m no longer afraid, the knowledge makes her more aggressive, yet strangely less terrifying. When we’d first met I was small for my age, and Mother Thomas had seemed huge. Now it was I who towered above the diminutive nun; it felt good.

Within weeks of her arrival she’d singled me out for her own particular brand of discipline. ‘Evil rebellious child, it’s a hard lesson you need to be taught, someone has got to do it if we are to save your soul.’

Often I was to wonder, Why me? What had I done to make her hate me so much? We were all afraid of her, and most of the girls still are; I suspect even Mother Virgilus, the Mother Superior, is. The bead-eyed monster nun from hell I call her – behind her back, of course, and always in hushed whispers.

I’ll never forget an incident that happened about four months after her arrival. The memory, I’m convinced, is one that will remain with me until I’m very old, maybe until I die. I hate liver. Is that so bad? I know it’s good for me, or so everyone says, but I can’t stand the taste and gag at the smell. One evening, with a loud disgusted grunt, I’d refused to eat a plate of liver and onions. Mother Thomas had rapped my knuckles hard with my knife and fork before forcing my head into the plate of rapidly congealing food. Yet still I’d refused to eat, even under threat of house arrest (all free time spent in the bedroom for at least a week). Four hours later the liver and I met again; still I refused to eat. Two days later, weak with hunger, my hands raw from the repeated beatings, I began to eat. With each bite I cursed Mother Thomas, and almost choked on the last morsel.

A few minutes later, the entire meal mixed with a glob of phlegm had flown out of my mouth to land on the hem of Mother Thomas’s habit. I don’t think she ever forgave me for that, and even now, after all this time, I can’t bring myself to think about the look on her face as she’d carefully spooned my vomit from her habit on to my plate. She did it slowly and methodically, and as I watched the realization of what she intended to do had dawned, and I remember wishing with all my heart that I’d eaten the liver when it had first been served.

Now I can feel her breath, hot and moist; it smells rank like bad meat. I want to spit in her face, and think of the pleasure it would give me. I watch her tongue dart out to lick her thin and curly lips, the top one puckered like ragged scar tissue. It’s a face better suited to a witch than an angel of the Lord. She’s from the north; Belfast, I think Bridget said. ‘That’s why she’s cruel, been taught by the English.’ Her accent, unlike mine, sounds almost English, her voice high-pitched and squeaky like a child.

‘A Catholic priest is not an object of desire. I won’t have you talking about the good father in that way. Blasphemous it is, you know so, Kate O’Sullivan. If you dare utter one more word about Father Declan Steele, I’ll see to it that you –’

I interrupt. ‘You’ll see to what, Sister Thomas? See me burn in hell? See me get my comeuppance?’ I can see her anger rising and feel a familiar panic. I’ve got what I call jelly belly and I take a deep breath.

‘What did you call me?’

‘Sister Thom—’

I glimpse the cane, like a rigid snake sliding down her sleeve. Now the jelly belly has gone to my legs and I’ve got to summon up every ounce of strength to say, ‘I called you Sister.’

‘It’s Mother to you, Mother, Mother, Mother! Say it, you evil girl. Say it, or I’ll see to it that you –’ The banshee shrieks have a familiar ring and I know she’s lost it, her mind that is, and as of now anything can happen. With all my strength I fight my fear. At the very worst she’s going to cane me, and I can survive that.

In a calm voice I say, ‘I suppose you’re going to do what you always do, give me a good beating, and not just a thump round the head, a really good hiding. How can anyone be taught a lesson unless they’re black and blue and bleeding like our Lord on the cross with nails in his hands, suffering so that we might suffer? When I was a little girl I really believed grown-ups when they told me I had to suffer for my sins. I don’t believe that any more, and I’m not afraid.’

I can’t believe I’ve just spoken to Mother Thomas like that and I’m not surprised when I feel her hand swipe the side of my face. It stings. I want to lash back but daren’t.

‘Hell is where you belong, Kate O’Sullivan. You’re a lying, evil child. Like I always said, the devil’s own, that’s what you are and that’s where you’ll end your days. With him, the devil in hell and damnation.’ With her cane she points at the other girls, screaming, ‘Get out of here, all of you, I need to teach this evil pup a lesson.’

The girls scatter. Before she leaves I catch a glimpse of Bridget. Her face reveals what I know she feels: concern and hatred. Now I have the nausea deep in my stomach, and it takes all my will power to keep from crying out. I take a long step back, away from the nun. My head hits the wall and for a moment the urge to throttle her overwhelms me. What joy to stanch the stream of abuse spilling out of her ugly mouth. Or, better still, I long to stick a knife in her fat belly, twisting it round again and again while she begs for mercy. For a few seconds I revel in the pleasure killing her would give me, then in a voice that doesn’t sound remotely like my own I hiss, ‘Don’t touch me. I’m warning you, don’t come near me.’

With her right hand she grabs me by the throat, cutting off my air supply. I try to resist but she’s too strong and a moment later I hit the bed face-down. With vice-like strength she pins me to the bed. I can feel her nails digging into my spine. Suddenly my head feels hot, my temples and forehead are burning, and I have this terrible image of the first time she did this to me, when I was six. As she drags my dress up and pulls my knickers down, I’m talking into the horse-hair mattress, repeating mantra-like: ‘I hate you, Mother Thomas, with all my heart, I hate you, hate you, hate you.’

The anticipation, those few suspended moments before cane meets flesh, is always the worst. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of how soon I’ll be leaving this place, of my own bedroom with sun streaming through big windows, and a pink rosebud bedspread. The monster nun from hell takes a deep breath before bringing the cane down. My entire body freezes in spasm and I bite my tongue. It hurts like hell and I want to scream but don’t. I won’t give her that satisfaction. In fact, it’s a long time since I’ve cried. I can hear her panting, and know she’s lifting the cane for the next blow. ‘You’ll burn in hell, Kate O’Sullivan, that’s where you’re going. The devil’s own, that’s what you are.’

Suddenly there’s a strange noise inside my head, like a light switch clicking on then off, and before she can hit me again I roll over and scramble to the other side of the bed.

My knickers are hanging around my ankles, my backside feels like it’s been torched, but the shaking has stopped and I no longer feel physically sick. We face each other on opposing sides of the bed. My eyes are harnessed to hers, and I detect to my glee a little uncertainty in those glassy beads. ‘Mother Thomas has eyes just like a raven,’ Bridget always says, and until now I’d agreed, but today they, like her, have diminished to those of a common sparrow. In the same strange detached voice I say, ‘You’ll never hit me again because if you do I’ve got orders from the devil to kill you. And if it’s hell I’m going to, you won’t be far behind.’ She’s staring directly into my eyes; hers don’t waver or blink, but she says nothing as I go on: ‘When I’m rich and famous, and I will be, you’ll be sorry, very sorry – that is, if you’re still alive.’

I know, as soon as I enter and kneel, that it isn’t Father O’Neill in the confessional box. Whiskey breath and sweaty feet do not smell of freshly squeezed lemons mixed with a trace of lavender. The smell is different from any I’ve ever encountered. I inhale, exhale, then say, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s two weeks since my last confession.’

I know it’s him. Holding my breath, I wait for confirmation.

‘Tell me about it, my child.’ Father Steele’s melodic voice washes over me. I close my eyes and imagine bathing in spring water on a warm summer day. It isn’t something I do regularly, but I had, a couple of times last summer, been allowed to go on a picnic with a girlfriend from school. We’d gone in her father’s car to Kinsale, where we’d eaten tons of egg sandwiches and drunk gallons of lemonade. Then afterwards we’d swum in the river. It had felt like Father Steele’s voice: warm and soothing.

I sigh. ‘I’ve had a terrible row with Mother Thomas. I said some awful things to her. She beat me, not for the first time, and I’ve been punished by Mother Virgilus.’

I look down: my hands are red and sore, the skin peeling. Work-worn hands, like those I’d seen a thousand times in the village, attached to pink arms scrubbing front steps or polishing brass door-knockers. Ashamed, I try to cover them up. The sight of them makes me angry, and sad that I should have such hands at fifteen. My hands were intended to paint, not scrub floors and polish brass, or be submerged elbow-deep in boggy water in the laundry where I’d been since my tussle with Mother Thomas.

‘Sure, I said things I shouldn’t have, but she made me say them. She made me very angry, Father.’

‘Are you sorry, my child?’

I know the simple way to get off the hook is to say, Yes, Father, I’m very sorry; I won’t do it again. But today, with only a panel of wood and a foot-square grille separating me from the man of my dreams, I’ve no desire to get off lightly. And instead of feeling penitent, I’m busily inventing more sins to confess. The rate they’re popping into my head I reckon I could be in the confessional box all day.

‘Mother Thomas is mean and cruel, and if God were all he claims to be, he wouldn’t let her live. I told her to go to hell, and that I wished her dead. In truth, Father, to be sure, I meant every word.’

‘May the Lord bless and forgive you, my child.’

Exasperated, I raise my voice. ‘I don’t want forgiveness, 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.’

Chapter Two

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 me around the school yard and tried to pull my knickers down. I have to admit he looks grand in his scarlet soutane and starched white surplice. I skip Father O’Neill and concentrate on the figure of Father Steele bringing up the rear of the small procession towards the altar.

A quick glance to left and right confirms the eyes of the entire congregation are focused in the same direction. If Gatsby had been in town he couldn’t have asked for a better reception.

Father Declan Steele, to give him his full title, looks wonderful: tall and handsome, God-like – or how I imagine God should look. My left knee begins to tremble; it does this nervous jig from time to time, it’s a damned nuisance and makes me feel stupid. I place the flat of my hand hard on my thigh just above the knee to stop the shaking. This sets the right one off and now both legs are jiggling like I’m having some kind of fit, a bit like Jimmy Conlon, an epileptic, who sits three seats in front of me in class. Only Jimmy froths at the mouth.

Bridget puts her head close to my ear, hissing, ‘He’s a film star all right, should be in Hollywood.’

I nod, whispering in her ear, ‘It’s handsome he is, the most handsome man I’ve ever clapped eyes on.’

Church, for the most part, bores me. Sometimes I listen to Mass, but rarely; I enjoy singing hymns, particularly for the harvest festival, and usually ask God selfish things during prayers.

I’m jammed between Emily Donaghue, the local publican’s new missus, on one side (her hair stinks of stale Woodbines, and there’s a sickly mixture of cheap scent and sweat wafting out from under her arms every time she moves) and Bridget on the other.

I repeat the prayers and responses parrot-like while studying the face of Father Steele. I focus on his deep mouth. I have, according to my class teacher, a fertile imagination. I smile to myself. If Mrs Rourke could see what’s fermenting in the young fresh earth of my mind at this moment, she would drag me off to confession by the ear. The new curate features heavily in sinful thoughts of him being normal – by that I mean not a priest – and of how it would feel to kiss him. Under my breath I repeat, Forgive me, Father, forgive me, Father, for I sin in my thoughts. Then with quick furtive glances I look from side to side, certain that what was going on on the inside must surely show on the outside.

Once Mother Thomas had said she could see into my soul and, to be sure, the devil was there. Foolishly I’d believed her and for months I’d had nightmares of being devoured alive by evil spirits.

My imaginings of Declan Steele the man make me moist between my legs. It’s not the first time I’ve been wet down there. I remember when I was thirteen and Elizabeth Bradley came to live in the orphanage. Elizabeth was from Cork, fifteen, and four months pregnant. She was big-boned and big-breasted and smoked Silk Cut cigarettes. One night I’d woken with a start to the tip of a cigarette glowing eerily in the dark, with Elizabeth Bradley attached to it. Before I could stop her, she’d slipped under my covers and, lying on her back, had handed me the cigarette. My first drag had burnt the back of my throat and made me cough, the second not so much, and by the third I was enjoying the buzz in my head. It was then Elizabeth had put her hand up inside my nightdress. She’d asked me to open my legs. Confused, I’d asked what for, and she’d whispered that she was going to do something nice, something boys did to girls if they let them. She was a lot bigger than me and packed a mean punch, so without questioning I did as she asked. When I’d opened my legs I remember thinking that it was all right to let Elizabeth inside my secret place; after all, how could it be a sin if she had one herself – a secret hole, that is – and anyway she wasn’t a boy. The tip of her forefinger had probed a little before beginning to rotate. Round and round her finger went, until I could feel the wetness on my thighs and I was embarrassed that it would wet the sheets. After a few minutes she’d guided my hand under her nightdress and had shown me how to do the same to her. She had thick hair on her legs and stomach and I was amazed at the big bush of hair between her legs. I had difficulty finding what she called her excitement button, but when I did, her back had arched and she’d spread her legs very wide. I did it to her for a lot longer and, unlike me, she made a lot of noise, moaning sounds, and kept urging me to go faster.

I wriggle my bottom on the hard pew wondering where Elizabeth Bradley is now. She’d left not long after her baby was born. Someone, I think it was Mother Peter, had said she’d returned to Cork.

I watch Eugene move the missal, then ring the bells for communion. Taking communion is the only bit of Mass I enjoy. There’s definitely something kind of divine and sacred about receiving the host and contemplating the visitor inside my body. In fact, it’s the only time I feel even remotely Catholic. I stand in line on the left of the altar rail and shuffle forward to take communion. It’s Father Steele who places the host on my lips, and it’s I who deliberately holds his eyes for longer than necessary. I’m convinced I can see a spark of interest in his midnight-blue gaze, but I’ll dismiss it later as wishful thinking.

In single file we troop down the aisle out of church. The pace is slow, as the congregation stops in turn to be introduced to the new curate. Bridget is far ahead and I’m stuck behind Tom Donaghue, the publican, who has the lumbering gait of a big ugly bullock. Too much beer in his belly, Mrs Molloy says. Where his hairline stops and before his shirt collar starts there’s a wedge of red neck covered in angry boils.

A thick slice of sunlight pours on to Tom’s crown and as I follow him out of church I peer over his shoulder to the top of Father O’Neill’s fiery head. It’s moving up and down rapidly in time to his booming voice. The curate, I guess, will be standing next to Father O’Neill; they usually do. And if he’s anything like the others before him, he will be smiling, the smile fixed as if it had been painted on his face. But then this curate isn’t like his predecessor Father Peter Murphy, who always seemed, to me at least, to be play-acting. ‘Got a secret agenda, that one,’ I’d overheard Mrs McGuire who ran the post office say to one of her customers. She was right. Father Peter was caught with his trousers down, literally, around his ankles, his dick in the mouth of Robbie Donovan, a lad from the next parish, and him a choir boy an’ all. I’d enjoyed the scandal enormously, we all had. It had broken the monotony for a couple of weeks. The men from the Pig and Whistle had raged: ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, a man of God and him a slip of a lad! To be sure, the dirty curate should be horse-whipped. If I was the lad’s father sure I’d do the job meself, priest or no bloody priest.’

Mrs McGuire had spoken of her outrage to the local newspaper, and Bridget and I had been thumped around the ears by Mother Thomas for calling Father Peter ‘a dirty old poof.’

Father O’Neill had arranged for the curate to leave the parish quietly, under cover of darkness, else, so Mrs McGuire claimed, the mob from the Pig and Whistle would have lynched him. I didn’t think the men frequenting the pub on Friday nights had the strength to do much lynching, it would interfere with the drinking, but I’d kept my thoughts to myself.

My brain is aching for something to say to the curate, something interesting to grab his attention. I could pretend to faint, have him catch me, and swoon in his arms. On the other hand, I might get Father O’Neill, who sometimes has rank breath and terrible dandruff. When I reach the entrance to the church I see Father Steele surrounded by a tight bunch of people. There’s a young couple I’ve never seen before, the man thick-set with a bull-like neck, his wife a tall, painfully thin woman who looks like she’s not long for this world. She’s holding the hand of a small boy with big doe eyes and the same thin face as her. Bridget is next to them, standing awkwardly, goggle-eyed and slack-lipped, staring into the face of the curate like he’s the new Messiah.

On Bridget’s right is oul’ Mary O’Shea, a widow who owns the village store where Bridget has just started to work on a Saturday – a trial period, according to Mary O’Shea, who might or might not offer her a full-time job depending on how she works out between now and October when Bridget turns sixteen. Oul’ Mary’s clutching her rosary beads as if her life depends on it, and edging closer to the curate, beaming for all she’s worth.

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her smile. As I get closer I can hear her crowing about her trip to Lourdes last year.

Stepping in front of Mary O’Shea, I say in a deliberately loud voice, ‘Well, Father, it’s grand to see you again and on such a beautiful morning. What did I tell you last night, Bridget?’ Before Bridget can reply, I continue: ‘I said the sun would shine on the morning of Father Steele’s first Mass in Friday Wells. True, it rained earlier, but just look at the sky now, won’t you: not a cloud in sight. The sun shines on the righteous, that’s what I say.’

‘Is that so, Kate?’ There’s no mistaking a hint of mockery in Father Steele’s voice, and suddenly it’s unsure of myself I’m feeling.

Mary O’Shea trills from somewhere behind my back, ‘Kate O’Sullivan, would you be so good as to step to one side. I was telling the good Father here about my trip to Lourdes last year. He was mighty interested, weren’t you, Father?’ I feel the tip of Mary’s finger prod violently between my shoulder blades. It hurts, and I want to poke her back to let her know just how much. ‘Before we were so rudely interrupted, that is. Honest to God, Kate O’Sullivan, you’ve got no manners. I don’t know what the good sisters teach you up there; nothing, to be sure, nothing at all. Bridget here is just the same. No respect for an old woman.’

Bridget glares. With a shrug, I reluctantly take a small step to one side. Mary eases her stout body forward and with some skill manages to edge me back a few feet. Undefeated, I stand on tiptoe, looking over Mary’s head in the curate’s direction. He glances up, I catch his eye and we exchange a knowing look. I can tell he’s feigning interest in Mary O’Shea’s prattle. His eyes smile; he knows I know. I enjoy the shared moment, and bask for another in the warmth of his smile. I watch him lean forward towards the young couple and exchange a few words I can’t catch before dropping to his knees to stroke the head of the small boy, who I assume is their son.

Bridget is also looking at Father Steele, her mouth open as if about to speak. She’s not sure what to say. I know, because she’s twisting her hair with her finger and thumb into a tight knot. She always does that when she’s nervous.

‘Father Steele, last July I organized the raffle at the church fête and we raised twenty-six pounds. I was wondering if I could do it again this summer.’

For the first time in my life I want to hit Bridget. We’d already decided that I’d do the raffle this year – she’d promised. That was, until she’d seen Father Steele, who was now smiling warmly in her direction. Not the same class of warmth as when he’d smiled at me, but then once again it could be wishful thinking on my part.

‘Twenty-six pounds, that’s grand,’ I hear him say. ‘I’ll speak to Father O’Neill. I don’t know what he’s got planned for the fête this year. What was it you raffled to raise such a grand amount?’

Peeved but smiling in spite of it, I say, ‘Two of my paintings, Father. An oil I did of the previous curate, and a watercolour of the village, and a –’

Bridget cut in: ‘A day-trip to Dublin, a truly beautiful dried-flower arrangement, done by Mary Collins who trained in all classes of floristry in London and Dublin, and a meal for two people at the Pig and Whistle.’

Not so nervous now, are we, Bridget? I think as I watch her drop the knot of twisted hair and beam like a bloody lighthouse beacon.

‘You must have been busy,’ he’s saying, still looking at Bridget. I’m seething and, though I’d never do it, I’ve the strongest urge to slap my friend hard. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

For one awful moment Bridget looks like she’s going to do a cute little bob of a curtsey, as if she’s being introduced to the Pope or something. Just in time she stops herself and says in a really silly little-girl voice, the one she affects when she wants something, ‘Bridget Costello, Father.’

‘It was yourself, Bridget, who organized all the prizes?’

Before she has chance to say another word I pipe up with: ‘No, Father, I did.’

Bridget scowls, but says nothing; it’s the truth.

He looks first at Bridget, who has a sheepish expression on her bland face, then his gaze rests on me. ‘Well, I think if there’s to be a raffle this year both of you should organize it. How’s that?’

I want to refuse; I feel like stamping my feet and shouting, I don’t want to do it with Bridget because for all I love her like a sister there’s no denying she’s downright lazy, bone idle, and will let me do all the running around while she takes the credit, or most of it – at least the amount I let her get away with. I want to organize the raffle myself, like last time, only this year I’m determined not to let Bridget take the glory. But since I’m not wanting to make a bad impression I hold back on saying what I really feel, and say instead, ‘OK, Father, we do it together. On one condition: you let me paint your portrait for the raffle. Is that a fair deal?’

His blush surprises and delights me, and for the life of me I’m not sure why.

I repeat my question, ‘A deal, Father?’

‘I can’t be sparing the time for the likes of portrait-painting, Kate, much as I’d like to, and I don’t do deals.’

‘Time for what?’ Father O’Neill’s foghorn voice drowns out every other sound. He towers above the small gathering, making Father Steele, who must be well over six foot, look small.

‘Father O’Neill is built like a brick shithouse,’ Lizzy Molloy had said once. I’d thought it a good description but had never dared repeat it to anyone.

‘Kate here has suggested she paint my portrait to raffle at the church fête, but like I was telling her I don’t –’

Father O’Neill interrupts, ‘To be sure, that’s a grand idea, Father, a grand idea.’ He slaps a bear-like paw on Father Steele’s right shoulder and the curate winces. Father O’Neill says, ‘Never asked to do my portrait – this face too ugly for you, Kate O’Sullivan?’

I don’t know what to say; he scares me, this huge priest. In truth, he puts the fear of God – or is it the devil? – into me at the best of times. Now my face is getting hot and I’m dying to pee. I’m about to make some silly excuse when he begins to laugh. ‘Can’t say as I blame you, my child, for wanting to paint the young curate here; he’s a far prettier sight than an old man like myself.’

The same hairy paw moves and hits Father Steele full in the back. The curate coughs and Father O’Neill snorts like a pig, snot shooting up his right nostril. ‘Must say, she’s a good artist. Did a grand painting of the church last year. It’s hanging up in Tom Devlin’s front room, pride of place over the mantelpiece. Never thought he would take down our Sacred Heart but to be sure he did, put Our Lord on the bedroom wall – or so he says. Haven’t been up there lately to find out.’

The curate looks uncomfortable. I’m not sure if it’s Father O’Neill’s hand, back now on his shoulder, weighing him down, or the thought of sitting for his portrait. I have my answer in his next words.

‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I’ve not got the time to sit for a portrait, as much as I’d like –’

Father O’Neill’s bellow stops him in mid-sentence. ‘For God’s sake, man, you can make time. It’s a good cause and, to be sure, it’s a grand idea: we’ll have all the women in the parish bidding for it.’ Father O’Neill laughs, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his belly and rumbling around the churchyard, attracting several glances in our direction. Bridget looks sullen. I’m grinning, secretly pleased with myself and at the prospect of long hours spent alone with Father Steele. But when I look at the curate he’s wearing an odd expression, one I can’t quite fathom. He definitely doesn’t look pleased.

From where I’m sitting on the lavatory I can, if I strain my neck really hard, see through a narrow gap at the top of the door the branches of an apple tree in the orchard on the nuns’ side of the wall. It’s in full bloom this morning, after an earlier shower. It looks like a huge pink and white umbrella: the kind I’d seen in books, carried by ladies who called them parasols. Apples are not my favourite fruit, I much prefer plums and apricots. I don’t get either very often, and the thought of a big ripe juicy plum makes my mouth water. I love it when on the first bite the juice squirts out and runs down my chin, so I can lick my lips and taste it for ages afterwards. Last summer I pinched a couple from outside O’Shea’s shop. I ate one on my way home from school and saved one for Bridget, who hadn’t been particularly grateful since that very day she’d been scrumping apples and had a store under her bed. To be sure, I’d eaten my fair share of Bridget’s hoard, but only because I’d got the empty groaning in my belly. And when I get that I’ll eat just about anything that I can lay my hands on. As usual I’d eaten fast, too fast, and had farted all night long.

I’m always hungry. Mother Peter is fond of saying, ‘It’s hollow legs you’ve got, Kate O’Sullivan.’ Once I happened to say that it wasn’t my legs but my belly that was hollow, due to the measly portions of food we got in the orphanage. Growing girls could not grow much on half a bowl of porridge, one slice of bread with no butter, watery cocoa, mashed potatoes, and the occasional rasher and raw egg a special treat. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than Mother Paul had boxed me around the ears so hard her next words had been accompanied by the ringing of bells. ‘Ungrateful child! You should be thankful for the food Our good Lord puts in your belly, thankful for having a roof over your head. Spare a thought for Our Lord who suffered on the cross for you, and think yourself lucky to be alive, instead of complaining and gassing nonsense all the time.’ As if to emphasize what she’d said about the suffering and all, she’d given me another thump, only this time in my belly. It had hurt so much I’d felt the tears leap to my eyes, and it had been really difficult not to cry in front of her. But I didn’t; wouldn’t give her or any of them the satisfaction I’m sure they’d feel if they reduced me to a blubbering idiot, like some of the other girls.

The only time I really enjoy apples is when I get invited to Lizzy Molloy’s house and her mother makes apple pie. My mouth waters anew at the thought of the sweet apple taste, mixed with melt-in-your-mouth pastry and lashings of thick clotted cream. Lizzy is my second best friend after Bridget. I sit next to her in school. I’m much brighter than Lizzy, and I let her copy all of my homework. Bridget said that was the only reason she invited me to her house.

Once, when I fell out with Bridget – I can’t even remember what about – I told Lizzy she was my best friend, and would be for ever and ever. Of course it was a lie; Lizzy could never replace Bridget. Lizzy was from another world, she had a mam and da, a sister and two brothers, one in America – an accountant in Baltimore, thank you very much. The Molloy house, though not big, was spotless, and it always smelt of cooking, the sort of smells that make the mouth water. I never wanted to admit it, even to myself, but Lizzy’s main attraction was her mother’s cooking. I had food at Lizzy’s like I’d never tasted before. Thick gravy made from meat juices with chunks of onion in it, poured over floury potato mixed with real butter and not margarine; the same butter spread thick on doorstep slices of home-made bread and scones, washed down with gallons of cherry lemonade, the fizzy, quench-yer-thirst-from-the-pop-van kind. Yes, being Lizzy’s friend had its advantages. And you could eat off the Molloy floors, so Bridget said, although why you’d want to when you could eat off a lovely polished mahogany table with a white lace tablecloth was beyond me.

Every room in the Molloy house was crammed full of wooden ornaments Mr Molloy made in his spare time, and beautiful patchwork cushions and blankets Mrs Molloy made in her spare time. I often wondered when they had any time left over for five kids. One son had died when he was three; Michael, the lad in America, had married very well and was, according to Mrs Molloy, doing very nicely, thank you very much. Mrs Molloy had an odd habit of tagging ‘thank you very much’ on the end of all her sentences. And there were a lot – sentences, I mean. She never shut up. I’d asked Lizzy about it once, and had been told to mind my own bloody business.

My knickers are hanging around my knees, the right leg lower than the left owing to the loose elastic. I wipe my backside with a square of newspaper and pull my knickers up to my waist, thinking of the underwear Lizzy has ordered from her friend Sally Heffernan’s mother’s catalogue: a bra and pants set in black lace, the see-through type with little red satin bows on the waist of the panties and the bra straps. Lizzy is very thin with a flat chest and one of those stomachs that go in – concave, I think, is the word – and I’m not sure the bra and pants will look the same on her as they do on the model in the picture, but I don’t say so. The underwear is being sent to Sally’s house, ’cause if Mr Molloy got wind of it there would be hell to pay, and the only thing she’d feel next to her backside would be his belt buckle. Lizzy wants to wear them for her third date with Frank Sheridan.

‘Honest to God, Lizzy, his eyes will pop clean out of his head if he sees you looking like that,’ Sally had said, her eyes popping.

Lizzy had winked. ‘Who says he’s going to see me?’

At that point I’d piped up with, ‘To be sure, if Frank’s not going to see you in the sexy lace you might as well just wear your old blue school knickers with the holes in the arse.’

Sally had said, giggling, ‘Kate’s right. What’s the point of spending all that money on underwear if nobody is going to see it?’

At this Lizzy had pulled a long face, the one that makes her look daft. ‘Wearing sexy underwear makes me feel different. You know, grown up and sexy. Who knows, I might let Frankie have a quick peek. Let him see what he can have if he waits awhile.’

Giving Lizzy an affectionate pat on the arm, Sally said, ‘If he puts a ring on yer finger and marches you down the centre aisle is more like it, Lizzy Molloy.’

Lizzy had stuck out her tongue but hadn’t argued. She knew Sally was right, so did I, only Lizzy didn’t want to admit it. She would tease and titillate Frank until she got a ring on her finger, then she’d let him into the secret place between her legs, and in her head she’d live happily ever after in a thatched creeper-clad house in the country, the one she went to in her dreams.

The one she’d have, more likely, would be a two-up two-down middle-of-terrace house with a new bathroom and a shiny kitchen on hire purchase – if she was lucky and Frank kept up the payments and didn’t throw his wages down his throat like his father and grandfather before him. Both are dead now. The drink killed them, according to Mother Paul. ‘The demon drink,’ she’d said, ‘puts the devil in good men.’

‘To be sure, it’ll be for me to decide when I wear the underwear, and who sees it. It’s costing me four weeks’ wages and I don’t have to tell either of you how hard I work on Saturdays for that old miser Sheehan.’

I can’t resist saying, ‘Not half as hard as Bridget for the oul’ bitch Mary O’Shea. Jesus, Bridget slaves in that shop from seven in the morning ’til gone seven at night, sometimes eight by the time she’s cashed up. Honest to God, she’s as mean a woman as ever lived. Wouldn’t give you the drippings off her nose, and that’s no lie. The oul’ bugger scrimps on everything: her clothes are darned to death, she’s cobbled her shoes so many times she’s two inches taller, and still she cuts up newspaper for the lavvie when the shelves are stacked full of toilet roll. Gives Bridget strict instructions when she makes her a sandwich to cut the bread wafer-thin.’ I form a tiny space with my thumb and forefinger. ‘She’s got an old press in the back shop (full of rubbish, so she says), and keeps the key on a chain around her neck like a bloody gaoler. Bridget reckons it’s stuffed with money, says that she’s forever moaning about bank charges, and how when her pa was alive and running the store he never believed in banks, said all bank managers were daylight robbers – worse than the feckin’ English.

‘Apparently he’d fought for a free Ireland.’ I imitate Mary O’Shea’s thin voice: “‘If it wasn’t for good men like me da, you, Bridget Costello and Kate O’Sullivan, would be working for some Englishman. A Protestant heathen, not God-fearing and generous like me. Yer should be grateful, thankin’ the Lord and me every day of yer life to be living in a free country, after eight hundred years of the English.”

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ll not be thanking the likes of Mary O’Shea, or the good Lord for living in this wet hole of a place, nor will I be blaming the English for all of Ireland’s problems.’

Sally, a finger to her lips, had said, ‘Hush, Kate, you’ll get me in no end of trouble talking like that.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Me da’s an IRA man, believes in the cause, hates the English. You know how it is …’

Distracted by a noise in the yard outside the toilet I forget about Sally’s dad and Lizzy’s underwear. It’s Mother Peter talking to Paddy Fitzpatrick, the man who owns the farm shop a couple of miles from the orphanage. With the flat of my ear pressed against the door I strain to hear what they are saying.

‘It’s very sorry I am, Paddy, to hear of your troubles, but like I was telling you last week my hands are tied, there’s naught I can do.’

‘What about the three girls due to leave?’

‘Bridget Costello, Mary Shanley and Kate O’Sullivan come of age this year. Kate’s the first, sixteen in a few weeks’ time. She’s an artist, got a grand future ahead of her, paints like her hands were touched by something sent from heaven. And Mary, sure, she’s a lovely child, going to enter a religious order. Bridget Costello, well, I’m not too sure about that one, forever talking about going across the water to that pagan country England. Sure that would be the death of her.’

A metallic sound drowns out all other noise, and I realize Paddy is closing the van doors. Then he’s speaking again.

‘Aye, she’s a grand lass, Kate, a sight for sore eyes. I remember coming up here when she first came to the orphanage. If me memory serves me well we had a fearful thunderstorm that night. Mother Superior, God rest her soul, had asked for a delivery of potatoes and cabbage. I was near out of cabbage, so brought some beets instead. She was grateful, said she liked beets. I says they were good for her, and the kids, no rumbling bellies if you fill ’em up with beetroot soup and potato pancakes. That same night as I’m pulling out of the gates who should I see but Father Sean Devlin – almost knocked him down. You remember Father Devlin, don’t you, Mother Peter?’

There was no reply. I assume she must’ve nodded, because I heard Paddy’s voice again: ‘He was in a fearful hurry, sweating like a pig, his cheeks bright red and all puffed out, like. He was carrying something in his arms, a little bundle. At first I wasn’t sure what it was, then it moved, and I could see it was a baby wrapped up real tight in a blanket. In fact it was the blanket that attracted my attention. I’d never seen anything like it: bright red and yellow zig-zags – Mexican, I think. I wound the window down and doffed me cap, as you do, but the priest just looked at me like he didn’t know me from Adam, and him usually so chatty and friendly like, and me a God-fearing man who hasn’t missed church since me communion. So I asks him if everything is all right, like, since he seems sort of agitated. Not stopping, he mumbles something about a baby having come a long way, and getting her into the warm. I don’t drive off straight away; I watch the priest in the rear-view mirror, running up to the front of the house, and I wonder why he’s so worked up, and why he’s carrying a baby. Aye, I remember the day well. How could I forget? The same day me missus went into labour. Eight hours later our Molly was born. Now she’s gone and got herself pregnant, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and her not yet sixteen. If I wasn’t such a God-fearing man meself, and for the love of God I love me daughter – our Moll has always been the apple of me eye – I’d send her far away up north to have the baby. The father, Sean, is naught but a lad himself. He’s gone missing, can’t lay salt to his tail, last seen boarding a boat headed for England. If I could lay me hands on the young bugger right now, I’d tan his hide so hard he wouldn’t be able to walk for a month at the very least. But soon as he was able, I’d make him walk up the aisle with our Molly.’

‘Now, now, Mr Fitzpatrick, calm yourself. Sean O’Halloran was an altar boy, I seem to recall. The son of Tom O’Halloran … A good man, Tom. The lad’s no more than a slip of a thing, no bigger than an ounce of copper. In saying that, I’m not condoning what young Sean has done, not fer a minute. Sure, the young pup needs a good hiding and to be made to do the right thing by Molly …’ She sighed. ‘But if it’s God’s will, so be it.’

‘It’s all well and good you saying that, Mother, but I’ve got ten mouths to feed at home. I can’t afford another one. I thought you might be able to help out for a while. At least the baby would be near so as our Molly could see it from time to time. Just a few months would do, maybe stretch it to a year until our Moll gets on her feet, gets a job and a place of her own, like, then she can have the baby back. The orphanage is always needing more veggies: I’ll see to it that you get them at the right price.’

‘Mother Virgilus says your prices are too high now, Mr Fitz.’

‘My prices, like I keep telling her, haven’t altered in nigh on five years, and if she was to go and buy the same stuff down at the supermarket she’d be paying twice what I charge. So if you could have a word with her, I’d be mighty grateful.’

A jackdaw crowed, drowning out the nun’s reply.

Then I heard Paddy’s voice again. ‘A good woman, so yer are, Mother Peter. I knew you’d try and help. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, so to speak.’ Paddy chuckled. The nun said nothing, so Paddy went on, ‘Good day to you, Mother Peter.’

‘God be with you, Mr Fitz,’ she says.

I hear the gravel crunch under his feet, the clunk of the van door, then the engine starting up. Without making a sound, I wait until the van rumbles past the lavatory then count out five minutes in my head before slowly opening the door to step outside.

The yard is empty. A quick peek in the scullery window reveals nothing. As I walk from the yard around the east wing to the front of the house Mr Fitzpatrick’s words are running around my head: ‘a baby having come a long way.’ I’d always been led to believe that I’d been left on the steps of the village church, less than three miles away. Well, surely that couldn’t, even in the wildest imagination, be described as a long way. It sets off bells in my head, the ones that ring whenever I think about who my parents were, and if, as in my recurring dream, they are still alive. I suppose I’m like the rest of the girls, the same as orphans everywhere: we all want to know where we’ve come from, who we are. Mrs Molloy, after seeing a film on TV, had told Lizzy I was like a young film star. Lizzy had said it was one of the star’s first films and she thought it was called Bus Stop. After that I’d become obsessed with films, to the extent of letting Eugene Crowley, warts and all, kiss me in the playground in exchange for a movie magazine. I’d spent hours poring over the glossy pictures, imagining my mother was a film star. That, I convince myself, would account for my platinum hair and beige skin tone. Who in all of Ireland looked like me?

I cling to the thought, the idea, the dream. It explains why I feel different. If I’d been born in America to a film star who couldn’t keep me for some reason it would make perfect sense. When we were about eight or nine, Bridget had stolen a telephone book from a box in the village, and we’d spent days picking out the O’Sullivans and Costellos, making a list of the numbers, imagining that one of them might be related and intending to ring them all when we had the money. But of course we never did.

I’ve reached the front door now. A makeshift dressing of cardboard and tape seals a wound in one of its panes of glass. As I push the door it makes an eerie creak, the sort they always have in horror movies. And I think, not for the first time – more like the hundred and first – that the house should have been demolished years ago. It’s damp: in summer the humid smelly type of damp, and in winter the bitter seeping-into-your-bones kind. There’s a wet patch above my bed that’s got bigger every year; now it covers half the wall and is furry to the touch. I know twelve girls shouldn’t be sleeping in a room that by rights should be condemned unfit for human habitation. After Theresa had died of the whooping cough I’d mentioned the damp to Mother Superior, who’d promised to look into it. True to her word, she’d looked at it, but that was six weeks ago and nothing’s been said or done since.

The house is deserted. It’s Saturday morning and most of the girls are working: the younger kids have household duties at weekends, on a rota system that includes cleaning rooms, washing floors, changing beds, gardening, swilling out the lavatories, and the dreaded laundry. The older ones are out working, like Bridget at Mary O’Shea’s, and Mary Shanley on Fitzpatrick’s Farm. Back-breaking labour: I know, I’d done it for two months last year before I got peritonitis – ‘For my sins,’ according to Mother Thomas; ‘Our Lord works in mysterious ways.’ Just as well I hadn’t been out picking crops on my own, else I might have been a goner. As it was I had to be carried off the potato field where I’d passed out in the most terrible pain, rolled up in a tight ball, face-down in the damp earth.

I’d spent three weeks in St Francis of Assisi Hospital; in truth, the best three weeks of my life so far. For the first time I’d had constant attention without having to fight for it. The nurses had chatted and the young doctors had taken pains to explain what they were doing and why – especially Dr Conway, who’d only to look at me with the gooey-eyed expression, the one I knew he kept specially for me, and I’d go bright red and feel a bit faint. Lizzy Molloy had come with her mother, who had brought me a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. I’d tried – not very hard, I have to admit – to make them last, but had ended up scoffing the lot in one long glorious chocolate afternoon. Once, Mother Peter came with a bunch of flowers. She said they were from all the nuns, but I knew she was lying; she’d bought them herself.

How anyone can say they are bored in hospital is beyond me. I wasn’t bored for a moment, there’s always so much happening. After I’d devoured my own supply of books and any others I could lay my hands on, I’d sketched all the patients on my ward, including a girl called Sinead Webster. She was ten, and had very white skin, even whiter than Bridget’s; she looked like an alabaster doll I’d seen once in an antique shop in Cork. She could sit on her brown hair, and had hundreds of tiny freckles on her thin face. Her mother had been delighted with the portrait, and offered to pay me. I’d refused but had been over the moon when she’d bought me a Yardley soap and talcum set smelling of lavender. Sinead died two days before I was discharged. When I’d watched them take her body away I’d tried to cry, because I thought I should, but I couldn’t. I was too busy thinking about presenting a caricature I’d done of Dr Trevor Conway, who had bright red hair and small owl-shaped glasses. It turned out he was less than pleased with it, said it made him look fierce, but the ward sister had chuckled and said, ‘It’s a very good likeness, Dr Conway, to be sure.’

As I mount the stairs that lead to the first-floor landing and the dormitory, I repeat in my head a promise I made to myself a long time ago. The first thing I’m going to have when I get to Dublin is my own room, and it will have a pink-and-white floral bedspread with matching curtains, and a kidney-shaped dressing table with a glass top and a frill around the base. Once I’m settled and selling lots of paintings, I’m going to hire a private detective to find my parents. I’m certain they are alive and, at this very moment, are no doubt searching for me.

I gather together my canvas, pencils, paints and treasured purse with the sheepdog on the front. Bridget had been given it, and she’d given it to me for my fifteenth birthday. It didn’t matter that it was second-hand, or third- as it turned out, it was as good as new. I put all my things into my bag. The bag is large and square, the type I’ve seen hanging on the shoulders of young women from the village when, all dolled up, they go out to the pub on Saturday nights. It’s green vinyl with two long handles and a zip. I wouldn’t have bought it myself, but beggars can’t be choosers. A few months before, I’d found it on a wall outside the library. After a quick look over my shoulder to check no one was watching I’d poked my head inside. There was an empty crisp packet, a dirty hairbrush, and a hard ball of chewed gum – nothing of any value. So I’d nicked it. Well, not exactly; I’d claimed it and not told anyone except Bridget, who’d urged me to confess. I’d promised her I would, then had deliberately forgotten. Honest to God, what was one old beat-up bag in the great scheme of things?

As I zip the bag I silently thank God that I’ve lost my Saturday job: sacked two weeks ago from Murphy’s pork butcher’s shop. I’ve missed the money, but I haven’t missed, not for a single minute, cutting up pork belly and offal from half past six in the morning (with hands so cold I could barely move my fingers by the time I’d finished) until gone eight at night: nigh on fifteen hours with no more than twenty minutes’ break, if I was lucky. Nor do I miss the feel of Billy Murphy’s fat belly pushed into my backside every time he squeezed past me in the tight space between the cutting block where I worked and the hanging racks he went to twenty or maybe thirty times a day. I’d had enough even before he accidentally on purpose put his hand on my breast, hissing between beery breaths, ‘Sure, Kate O’Sullivan, yer a nice piece of plump young meat for a hungry butcher boy like meself.’

After that I’d been deliberately late twice, refused to swill out the yard, dropped two pounds of sausage and bacon on the floor, and sold it to Kathleen Murtagh, who’d brought the dirty food back to the shop, ranting and raving about reporting the Murphys for selling soiled food. Mrs Murphy had railed at me like a banshee, threatening to thump me black and blue. I’d warned her if she did I might tell the whole village about her husband’s sinful actions, which had made her scream all the more, calling me a lying whore with the devil in me, fire and brimstone were too good for the likes of me. Her threats of hell and damnation were still ringing in my ears when I was way down the bottom of the lane. I’d told Mother Superior that the Murphys wanted a girl to work full time; she’d believed me, I think, but I wasn’t sure. I was never sure of Mother Superior; she said one thing and did another, and always with her own brand of a holier-than-thou smile. I didn’t trust any of the nuns, except Mother Peter. She was a good woman, of that I was certain. The rest, especially Mother Thomas, were good on the outside and downright evil inside. I’d told Bridget the truth and had gone that very day to confession. Father O’Neill had listened intently to my long-drawn-out story of Mad Murphy (as he was known in the village), of how he’d come after me, made advances, and me a good Catholic girl, a virgin, saving herself for her husband, how I’d been ‘just plain terrified, Father – to be sure, what’s an innocent girl to do?’

The priest in his infinite wisdom had doubted Mad Murphy had had any sinful thoughts. ‘Billy Murphy is a good Catholic, a good family man. A bit over-friendly, perhaps, but nothing more. But you, my child, have lied to the Murphys, and the good sisters, so now you must pray for God’s forgiveness, and say ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers.’

I notice my cardigan has two buttons missing but I’ve no time to change and I start back downstairs, Mad Murphy forgotten, my head stuffed full of Father Declan Steele. Today I’m to start his portrait. He’d given me the money, from church funds he said, to buy the canvas and paints. I’m to meet him at the sacristy at eleven. He could spare an hour, he’d said, no more.

‘An hour is plenty,’ I’d replied enthusiastically. ‘More than enough for the first sitting.’

I’m looking forward to painting Father Steele. He’s special. The portrait will be special, I can feel it in my bones.

Chapter Three

A cold wind hits me full in the face as I step outside the orphanage. My hands, thrust deep in the familiar holes of my coat pocket lining, are warmed by my body heat. It’s quarter past ten. I know, because I’ve just checked the time by the hall clock. It’s never wrong. Not a minute fast, or slow. Mother Superior makes sure of that. She’s obsessed with punctuality, and neatness.

The journey to the village takes, if dawdling, about thirty-five minutes, if route marching behind the nuns it takes twenty. I walk briskly, and am pressing my face on the glass window of O’Shea’s shop at eighteen minutes to eleven, according to the clock on the wall above Mary O’Shea’s head. At the back of the display I can see a row of dusty bottles and jars full of jam and chutney, that I know for a fact Mrs O’Hara makes and, according to Bridget, pees and spits in depending on how much ale she’s had the previous night. In front of the display of jars there’s an assortment of cans – baked beans, processed peas and carrots mainly – neatly stacked on top of three discoloured boxes, half-full of biscuits and crisp packets. I would love to buy six bottles of red lemonade, my favourite, and six half-moon cream cakes, and every chocolate bar in the shop. I imagine myself standing in front of Mary O’Shea with lots of money, slowly ordering all her stock while her eyes pop out of her head. With a couple of minutes to spare I duck inside to see Bridget.

‘Top of the morning to you, Mrs O’Shea,’ I say to the back of Mary O’Shea’s bent head. ‘It’s a fine morning, it is that. What’s the crack?’

Mary O’Shea is standing on the second rung of a step-ladder, stacking beans on to an empty shelf. She turns and scowls. ‘It’s yerself, Kate O’Sullivan. I’ve no crack, too bloody busy for prattle, and if it’s Bridget you’ve come to see, she’s busy.’

‘It’s important I speak to her.’

She continues stacking can on top of can. ‘If it’s life-and-death important, you can be telling me.’

‘I’ll take a Mars Bar, thanking you, Mrs O’Shea.’

With a deep sigh Mary O’Shea places the can she’s holding carefully on the shelf and steps down from the ladder.

‘It’s a Mars Bar yer wanting, but I know what yer needing.’

I slap twenty pence on the counter. ‘And what, may I ask, is that, Mrs O’Shea?’

‘Insolent, to be sure, that’s what you are, Kate O’Sullivan. Honest to God, if you were mine I’d give you a good hiding.’

‘Well, since I’m not, give me a Mars Bar instead. And tell me, Mrs O’Shea, ’

.cause it’s curious I am, to know why it is you think I’m insolent?’

If looks could kill I’d be dead on the spot. I stare her out, counting the long black hairs on her chin. I get to six before she says, ‘In my day, children were seen and not heard.’

What is it with this ‘seen and not heard’ or ‘because I say so’ or ‘I’m older so I know better’? Why do grown-ups think kids are stupid, I ask myself, a question I’d considered many times in the past, particularly when I’d heard so much rubbish pouring out of adult mouths.

‘To be sure, I don’t know who you think you are, with all yer feckin airs and graces. Yer a bloody gobshite, Kate O’Sullivan, and I’m thinking that one of these days you’ll be falling flat on your face.’

I’ve a sharp retort ready on the tip of my tongue when Bridget appears on the other side of the counter, red-faced and sweating. She sweats a lot, does Bridget, God love her. I have to admit sometimes, in summer and before her period, it’s really bad. In the past I’d offered her my hard-earned, saved-up-for Lily of the Valley talcum powder. I’d only seen her use it once, when she’d gone out with Sean Connolly for the first time, and then she’d made me mad by using far too much between her legs. Most of it had ended up on the bedroom floor. I’d kept it hidden after that.

Mrs O’Shea hands me a Mars Bar and my change. With a loud grunt she mounts the bottom step of the ladder and continues stacking cans. I can see her ears prick up when she hears Bridget say to me, ‘What time are you meeting the curate?’

Opening the wrapper with my teeth, I say out of the side of my mouth, ‘Ten minutes.’

Bridget’s mouth drops open, and she looks a bit simple. I’ve told her before about her slack jaw but she never listens. ‘Wish it was me. Trouble is, I wouldn’t, couldn’t, for the love of God, say or do a thing fer just gawking at him.’

‘That’s what you do most Saturdays in here, Bridget Costello. I get tired of looking at your sour ugly puss, and you smelling like a bloody midden. Don’t they have hot water up at the orphanage? If I was younger and had the energy I’d take a stick to you. Now stop your crack, git out back and bring me those beans.’

Bridget pulls a face behind the old woman’s back. Mary turns just in time to catch the last of it, and looks ready to kill. I can’t help laughing, which infuriates the old bitch even more. Bridget smirks.

‘You –’ she points at Bridget – ‘git! That is, if you want to keep yer job. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, why can’t an oul’ woman have some peace in her old age? Worked all me life, fer what? To be pestered by young hooligans like you two.’ She steps down from the ladder with a wheeze.

‘Out of me shop and out of me sight, Kate O’Sullivan. Go on off with you, else you’re going to be late for the curate, and for the love of God that won’t do.’

As I step out of the shop on to the main street I spot Maggie Murphy coming out of the post office. Quick as a wink I bend my head, but not quick enough. She sees me and makes a big thing of sticking her nose in the air and turning her face in the opposite direction. I want to laugh and shout to her and anyone else who happens to be listening that her husband is a dirty old bugger who plays with his own sausage in the back yard lavvie, and doesn’t bother to wash his hands before going back to the front shop to serve sausages that are full of rancid pork fat and blood from the tins of cow’s liver to colour them. If folk knew what Mad Murphy put in his sausages they’d never eat another one as long as they lived. In fact, I’m surprised anyone lives very long after eating them.

As I lift the latch on the churchyard gate I still have the lovely taste of chocolate in my mouth. I lick my lips and stuff the Mars Bar wrapper into the back pocket of my skirt. It makes a scrunching sound as I walk briskly up the path towards the sacristy at the rear of the church. After one rap, the door creaks open and he’s there before me, in all his bloody glory, smelling for all the world like lemon sherbet. I wish I could pluck up the courage to ask him about that smell. I promise myself I will one day.

Silently I urge him to speak first. It’s not often I’m tongue-tied – actually, never – so this is a whole new experience for me, this odd feeling of uncertainty, and the shyness that’s giving me a sharp pain in my chest. I’ve been afraid before, many times. I’ve had the fear of God put into me by Mother Thomas and her partner in religious teaching, Mother Paul. Paul is to Thomas what I suppose Himmler was to Hitler. Often I’ve said to Bridget that the pair of them would have been kicked out of the Gestapo for cruelty. But this feeling is different, the butterflies in my stomach are similar, but I don’t have the horrible sinking sensation or the jelly guts I get anticipating what she, or they, may do to me.

With a short nod the curate says, ‘Come in, Kate.’

I step past him into the small vestibule that leads to the sacristy. It’s dark, but then all churches are dark. That’s another thing I don’t understand: if church is supposed to be a place of joyous worship, why did God make his houses so bloody gloomy? The only good reason I can see for going to church is to shelter from the rain, dry off, and hope it has stopped by the time Mass is over.

I follow Father Steele into the sacristy. When he stops in the centre of the room I stop a couple of feet behind.

He says, ‘Wait here a couple of minutes.’

I nod, and watch him leave by a door on the opposite side of the room. A few minutes later he returns. He’s changed from the chasuble soutane, taken off the amice and alb, and is now dressed simply in a plain black soutane. He’s carrying a small leather bag and a set of keys. Without a word, I follow him out the same way we came in. He locks both doors behind us, and we fall into step side by side down the narrow path that rings the cemetery.

‘It’s a grand morning, Kate.’

‘It is that, Father.’

We both sink into silence once more. I sense he’s feeling a bit like me, unsure and uncomfortable. I wonder why I’m feeling this way; to be sure, I didn’t feel so stupid and tongue-tied the first time I met him in church. I suppose it’s because I’m starting his portrait, something I’ve been looking forward to for three weeks. I want to relax, but the more I try the less it seems to work. My heart is beating faster than normal, banging against my chest, a bit like when I’ve been running, only we’re walking at a leisurely pace. Strange, this feeling, very strange. We continue to walk in silence until eventually I take a deep breath and dare to ask, ‘Where are we going, Father?’

Looking straight ahead, the curate says, ‘To my house. I thought it would be peaceful there. Mrs Flanaghan, the cleaner, doesn’t come in Saturdays, else it wouldn’t be quiet at all … no, not at all.’

I smile, I know Biddy Flanaghan. ‘You’re right there, Father. She can talk the hind legs off a donkey.’

He nods. ‘Two donkeys, or maybe four.’

The talk of Biddy breaks the ice and I feel a bit better.

As we walk up to the front door of Coppice Cottage, the curate’s house, I’m thinking what a sad little place it is. This God-like priest should be living in a dazzling white mansion with long windows and sweeping lawns, something similar to Cashel Manor, the grand Georgian house on the edge of the village. It was built by Lord Anderton’s English ancestors; the po-faced Lady Anderton and her snooty daughter still live there when they aren’t floating around fancy parties in London. According to Angela O’Brian, a girl who used to sit next to me in class, the house has twenty bedrooms (she knew because her mother had cleaned them) and six bathrooms. Mrs O’Brian even had to dust the flowers in every room; not wild flowers – nothing so common – but specially imported flowers from far-flung places, like Casablanca and the Caribbean.

I follow Father Steele into the hall – well, you can’t really call it a hall, more like a passage, grey-walled and narrow with stairs leading straight up to the first floor. He leads the way through a stout wooden door; it’s low and he has to duck. The door opens on to a small square room, which looks a bit like my headmaster’s study at school: lots of books and papers stacked unevenly on groaning bookshelves. A single floor-to-ceiling window overlooks a ragged bandage of untidy lawn broken by a small pond and a couple of fruit trees.

The curate stands facing me in front of the fireplace. The black grate behind his feet is shining, like a shilling up a darkie’s bum, as Lizzy Molloy would say, and so are the brass dishes on the mantel; the desk you can see your face in and the window is gleaming like in the Windolene advert. Biddy has been busy. Above the mantelpiece the Sacred Heart of Jesus drips great globs of scarlet blood, and on the opposite wall the Virgin Mary in a long flowing dress is wearing her ever-present benign smile.

‘So, what’s it to be, Kate: do you want me sitting or standing? Sure, it’s awkward I’m feeling either way.’

‘It’ll be no good, Father, the portrait that is, if you don’t relax. You would do better if you sat or stood somewhere you feel most comfortable.’

With his eyes he indicates a chair in the corner of the room. It’s dark brown leather, with a mass of wrinkles like the hide of a buffalo. Assorted newspapers and religious periodicals are stacked on the seat.

Eyes fixed on the chair, he says, ‘To be honest, I’m not comfortable having my portrait painted, by you or anyone else. Father O’Neill assures me you paint like a young Rembrandt, but I don’t believe him. What training have you had? I haven’t even seen any evidence of your work. Last year you did a watercolour of the church – that’s not exactly portraiture, is it?’

I take a deep breath, then say, ‘I’ve done no less than thirty portraits since I was thirteen. I admit the early stuff of Bridget and Lizzy Molloy isn’t headed for the Louvre, but last year Mother Peter and Mother Superior were both over the moon with theirs, and Mr Lilley, my art teacher, says I’ve got exceptional talent. He’s convinced I’ll get a scholarship to Trinity.’

Still gazing at the chair, he says, ‘That chair belonged to my father. Honest to God, a fairer, more hard-working man never walked this country.’

Tentatively I ask, ‘Is he still alive?’

‘No. Cancer got him in the end. He was only forty-five, no age for a man to die. I was thirteen – you know, that funny age when a boy stops needing his mother so much, and becomes badly in need of a father. I was very angry. I don’t recall ever being so angry before or since. My father always wanted me to be a doctor. “Make something of yourself, Declan,” he’d say, “you’ve got the brain for it.” It wasn’t what I wanted to do, but for his sake I went to Trinity, to medical school, and passed out with flying colours. When I was a junior doctor, a young child in my care died. He was eight years old. I remember sitting by the boy’s bed – Liam was his name – willing him back to life. It was then I turned to God. I was twenty-six. I’ll be thirty in September and there hasn’t been a day since when I haven’t thought about the priesthood.’

Shaking his head he mumbles, ‘Sorry for rambling on, don’t know what got into me.’ Looking directly at me, and pressing a finger to his temple, he repeats, ‘Sorry for rambling, nothing to do with you. Now, where was it you wanted me to sit?’

Unsure of what to say, I quietly begin to take my sketch pad and pencils out of my bag. I use my pencil to point. ‘The chair it is then, Father.’

Father Steele gives me an odd smile before crossing the room to sit in his da’s chair. He takes the pile of journals and dumps them on the floor, then sits down, arranging his gown neatly about his feet. He rakes his fingers through his hair and looks into the middle distance. ‘Is this all right?’

I stand back. The light isn’t good, and his pose is all wrong. He looks like he’s straining to do a stiff shit and is having trouble. I imagine saying this to him, but ask myself how can I even think about saying such a thing to a priest. Then again, why not? Everyone does it, even the Queen of England, and I’m bloody sure it smells to high heaven.

‘The light is not the best, Father. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to pull your chair towards the window?’

With a curt nod he stands up and, making no attempt to hide his impatience, drags the chair in front of the window. Panting, he straightens to his full height. With a deep sigh he says, ‘Here OK?’

Quickly I reply, ‘That’s grand.’ It’s not perfect, but I can see he’s getting edgy and at this rate the hour will be up before I’ve put pencil to paper.

Settled in the seat, he goes through the same ritual of raking and patting his hair, and arranging the folds in his robe.

‘Lift your chin a little, Father, please.’

He obliges with an unwilling shrug.

‘And turn to face the window.’

Silently he does so, blinking as a beam of sunlight pierces his eyes. They are the most unusual colour I’ve ever come across: dark blue with grey flecks, framed with curling eyelashes and straight eyebrows, thick and coal black. As I study his face I can’t help wondering if he’s got furry legs and chest. I’m not sure I like hairy chests. The only hairy chest I’ve seen up close, close enough to touch, belonged to Liam Flatley, the father of a friend from school who’d taken me to the swimming baths last summer. Mr Flatley’s chest and back were covered in red hair, matted and horrible like an orange bearskin.

The skin on the curate’s face is smooth, a dark cream colour with random freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose and temples. His mouth, in my opinion, is his best feature. I could, quite simply, look at it all day long. The bottom lip is deep, the top less so, yet fuller than most. It’s a sensitive mouth; Bridget, I’m sure, would call it sexy. I thought it just plain beautiful.

I pull a high-backed wooden chair from the corner of the room and stand it a few feet from the curate. Sitting down, I place the canvas on my lap and begin to sketch. The pencil takes on a life of its own; I’ve entered another world, the one I inhabit when I draw or paint, the place where I feel at my best. Since I was old enough to hold a pencil, I’ve drawn. Even Mother Thomas, faced with a painting of the orphanage executed when I was twelve, had been forced to admit I had talent. A natural talent that Mother Superior, Mother Peter and Mr Lilley had nurtured.

The silence that follows is broken only by the sound of pencil skimming paper, the rustle of Father Steele’s soutane when he moves slightly, and our breathing, mine soft and shallow, his deep, with the occasional sigh. After about twenty minutes I stop drawing and say, ‘Can you move your head a little to the right?’ I want to add, ‘And sit still,’ but daren’t. Instead I say, ‘Please.’

He does as I ask, gazing out of the window across the garden to where his cat Angelus is stalking a field mouse.

Now the light on his face is perfect. It’s half in shade, gold and burnished copper lights spark from his crown. Now I have him, and draw his high brow and rounded skull perfectly.

After almost half an hour he starts to fidget, his left foot beginning to tap out a little rhythm. ‘How much longer do I have to sit like this? To be honest, I’m getting a stiff neck.’

‘Not much longer, Father. Please, I’m nearly there.’

With a deep sigh he directs his eyes out of the window again. But he’s changed his pose.

‘Sorry, Father, but you’re not right – lift your head a little.’

He does so.

‘A little higher.’ He’s getting impatient, his left foot is tapping faster, and he’s got that expression on his face again.

I drop my pad and pencil and cross the few feet that separate us. I say, ‘Excuse me, Father,’ in a very gentle voice, then lean forward and with my fingertips I lift his chin and place it in the right position. I smile. ‘Just a few more minutes, then we’re finished.’

‘If anyone had told me sitting still could be so difficult I would never have believed them.’

I move back to the chair. ‘It’s not the sitting still so much as the concentrating on sitting still.’

He nods. ‘You’re right, Kate. Sitting still for hours reading is no problem, but you ask me to do it for twenty minutes and it feels like for ever. I’ve got a crick in my neck as if I’d been working at my desk on a row of figures all day.’

It’s my turn to be impatient, but I quickly remember I’m with a priest and say in a pleading voice, ‘Please, Father, can you find it in your heart to sit still, very still, for a few more minutes?’

Without another word he holds the pose for a further six or seven minutes before I stop sketching. ‘All done for today.’

The curate lets out a long sigh of obvious relief and stands up. He stretches his torso and I can see his chest muscles rippling against the cloth of his robe. Walking over to me, Father Steele directs his eye towards the canvas in my arms. ‘Can I see it?’

‘Not until it’s finished.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s bad luck.’

‘Stuff and nonsense, Kate. Who said it was bad luck?’

I’m cradling the canvas like a baby to my breast. ‘No one in particular, just a feeling I have, Father. It’s the same as when people say they are going to do something, then for some reason or another they don’t. It makes them look foolish, specially after they’ve told the whole world and her grandmother about it. Me, I never say I’m going to do something unless I’m certain I will. I don’t let anyone see any of my work until it’s finished.’

The curate gives me the odd look again, the one I don’t understand. ‘You are an unusual girl, Kate.’

I blush, feeling hot and foolish. I’ve been called a lot of things in my life but never unusual. ‘I am?’

He takes a step closer to me. ‘You’re an extraordinary young woman, Kate O’Sullivan, don’t let anyone ever tell you different.’

Now my cheeks are on fire, and I imagine what a fright I must look, as red as a lobster fresh out of the pot. Again I’m struggling for words, and all I can think of is hiding my embarrassment and getting out of the curate’s sitting room quickly.

I fumble with the zip of my bag, and when I look up Father Steele is waiting at the door. He’s holding it open. I slide past him, grateful for the darkness of the hall. I head for the door, his footsteps echoing behind me. As he opens the door his hand glances the side of my head; I jump as if bitten. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what is the matter with you, I ask myself. Pull yourself together, Kate O’Sullivan.

A blast of fresh air hits me full in the face. I breathe deeply before turning to face Father Steele. ‘Thank you for being so patient and all, Father. It’s not easy to be sitting for such a long time, and so still.’

‘I hope it’s going to be worth it, after all the bullying I’ve had from Father O’Neill.’ He smiles.

Sure, his smile could warm the cockles of the coldest heart, and I think how happy I’d be, just standing on the spot being warmed by it all day long. ‘I know it will be a most perfect likeness, the most beautiful painting I’ve ever done. When I’m long gone, Father, you’ll be still around, hanging in the Louvre.’ I grin. ‘To be sure, that’s confidence for you.’

I pause, hesitant, toying with my next words, playing and replaying them in my head.

‘Would you believe me, Father, if I was to say you are the most handsome person I’ve ever had the pleasure of drawing in my entire life?’ I’m blushing, I can’t believe I’ve just said that to a priest. I wait for his rebuke, my heart banging hard against my chest. I study his face, searching for a response, and, like wind on water, his expression changes from a sort of awkwardness that seems to me boyish to a look of deep tenderness, the like of which I’d rarely seen. One particular time sticks firmly in my memory. Lizzy Molloy had fallen and broken her wrist and I’d watched her father cradle Lizzy in his arms. With an intense pain in my chest I’d listened to his soothing words, and had felt my own tears pricking the back of my eyes when he’d ever so gently kissed away those of his daughter. The curate’s expression is very similar. All my life I’ve longed for a father, and it makes me wonder if he feels parental towards me. I feel weird again, only this time it’s different. I’ve got a terrible hunger, yet I’m not hungry.

My hands are shaking. I grip the strap of my bag tight, tighter as they shake more, and still I watch his face.

It’s my turn to smile when he says, ‘I’m not sure about the handsome part, Kate, but I’m beginning to believe you when you say the portrait will be good.’

I’m beetroot-red and tongue-tied again, and I just about manage to mumble, ‘Till next week then, Father?’

He nods. ‘Same time, same place.’

The door is closing, half his face visible. ‘God be with you, Kate.’

In my head I say, At times like this, Father, I really believe he is. Out loud: ‘And you, Father … and you.’

Chapter Four

My insides are melting, my head’s hot and I’ve got a relentless throbbing above my left eye. I feel like I did last year when I’d eaten a rancid rasher and had been sent home from school early after vomiting over the back of the girl who sat in front of me in class. Only now I’m not sick, not in the stomach anyway. In the head, maybe.

My palms clogged with sweat, I glance in his direction; his expression is unreadable yet I suspect he’s nervous.

During the past six weeks I’ve sensed (perception was the word Mr Molloy used for what I called my inner sense) that there are two Father Steeles. There is the pious, God-fearing, I-want-to-be-a-saint Father Steele. This face, I must say, he wears most of the time and with practised ease. I say ‘practised’ because I’ve glimpsed the other Father Steele, the person who, when Biddy Flanaghan broke a vase, had flown into an unnecessary rage, suppressing it as quickly as it had risen when Biddy dissolved into floods of tears. I’d defended Biddy, saying that accidents happen and it wasn’t the end of the world to lose a gaudy vase. He’d glared at me, and I’d spent the remainder of the portrait-sitting smarting from the anger I’d encountered in his eyes.

Then there was the time I’d arrived early for our second sitting. The front door had been ajar and I’d crept into the hall softly calling his name. It was then I’d heard his voice. At first I’d thought he was talking to someone in the room, then after a couple of minutes I realized he was speaking on the telephone. Silently I’d waited in the hall, not deliberately eavesdropping but unable to avoid hearing Father Steele’s side of the conversation drifting through the half-open door.

He was talking to a woman called Siân. Twice his voice rose in anger: once when he asked her to listen to his side of the story, and secondly after a few minutes of silence when clearly she wasn’t prepared to listen he’d sighed deeply, saying she was a foolish woman who deserved everything she had coming to her. I sucked in my breath, not daring to let it out, when I heard him say, ‘How could you even suggest such a thing, after all we’ve been through? You’re a bitch, Siân Morissy, and I never want to hear or see you ever again, do you understand?’ I heard the slam of the receiver hitting the cradle before I crept out of the house the way I’d come, retracing my route to the gate and back again to the front door. It was an ashen-faced curate who opened the door and I couldn’t help thinking that there was a lot more to Father Steele than met the eye.

This did not put me off him; on the contrary, I found it endearing. It meant he was a man, a real flesh, blood and guts person, not a sanctimonious holier-than-thou super-being. He had faults and weaknesses just like the rest of us. It made him more acceptable and, to me, more accessible.

I never mentioned the telephone conversation to anyone, not even Bridget, but I did think about it a lot, often wondering what the woman called Siân was like. I built up an image of a tall, beautiful creature who had been, or was still, Father Steele’s lover. The thought made me feel odd, sort of possessive, sick-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach odd. A bit like the way I’d felt when, a few months before, Bridget had become overly friendly with a new girl called Magda who had been sent to the orphanage to have her baby.

Now the portrait is finally finished. My right hand, holding the edge of the canvas cover, is trembling.

‘Come on, Kate, what are you waiting for?’

‘I’m afraid.’

He takes a step closer to me and the concealed portrait. ‘Of what?’

‘Of you not liking it,’ I say, giving the cloth a sharp tug to reveal what is in my opinion the finest piece of work I’ve painted in my life so far.

It’s my creation and I’ve seen it every day, sometimes for four hours at a stretch, yet today Father Steele’s portrait looks like it has never looked before, and in that split second I understand what I’ve done. I’ve captured the soul of the man. It is more real than the real thing standing in dazed wonderment in front of his own image.

Neither of us speaks and I’m aware of an unearthly hush. After a few minutes I hear him let out a long breath, like when the doctor asks you to breathe in and out. The anticipation and the urge to pee are killing me. I cross my legs and squeeze my vagina tight. Lizzy had taught me how to do it when I’d almost wet myself waiting until the end of class to go to the toilet.

‘It’s not often I’m stuck for words, Kate, but right now, I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know what to say.’

‘Just tell me if you like it, yes or no,’ I demand sharply, my need to know far greater than any fear of risking his wrath for speaking disrespectfully.

He moves towards the painting; when his nose is almost touching the tip of the painted version he says, ‘The likeness is quite incredible.’

I’m losing patience. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ he says, turning to face me. ‘Very much.’

I swallow the thick swelling in my throat and feel an overwhelming surge of satisfaction.

‘Good. That’s all I wanted to know.’ I drag my eyes from the still image to the real thing. His gaze is glassy and, unlike his portrait, his generous mouth is taut. My arm, as if being motivated by some outside force, moves from my side towards his face. I long to touch him, to seal this special moment with physical contact. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help wanting his mouth to relax and his lips to touch mine. I imagine his breath warming my face, of tasting it while it fills my mouth. I start as he grips my wrist, stopping my advancing arm in mid-air. We stay like that for a few quiet moments before the spell is broken and he replaces my arm by my side.

‘Father O’Neill is right. You have great talent, Kate. Don’t waste it.’

‘I don’t intend to, Father. I’m going places.’ I press the flat of my hand to my stomach. ‘I feel it in here, deep inside. Do you ever have those feelings, Father, like you know what’s going to happen for sure but can’t explain how or why you’re so certain?’

‘It’s called perception, Kate, or instinct. And, yes, I do feel instinctive sometimes.’

‘Does it always come true?’

‘Nearly always, and I’d say if you feel very instinctive about something or someone, don’t let go.’

I’m secretly pleased he’s told me about the instinct thing because it confirms everything I’ve ever felt about Father Steele. I want to tell him how certain I am and have been since the day I first met him that one day he’ll be mine. But I hold back. There’s a time and a place for everything, so Lizzy’s ma always says, and she’s right. My instinct kicks in again. It’ll keep – I’ll keep – until the right moment arises, and I know deep in my heart it will.

The portrait of Father Steele never appeared in the church fête. A few people asked why and I told them the truth. The curate had loved it so much he’d wanted to keep it himself.

I recall my heart sinking as Father O’Neill approached me before Sunday Mass a week after Father Steele had seen his portrait. He’d come straight to the point, his voice barely containing his frustration.

‘Father Steele wants to keep his portrait. He’s made a good deal of fuss over not wanting to part with it, even offered to pay for it. I can’t say I’m not disappointed – I was looking forward to raising a good bit of money for the painting at the fête. Remember, last year your work caused quite a stir and the local press picked it up – all good publicity for the church. Friday Wells, as you probably know, is not a wealthy parish. I’ve had all this out with Father Steele but he’s adamant to the point of being downright stubborn.’

I’d no idea why Father O’Neill was confiding in me like this, and I found it difficult to contain my shock.

‘But, being a fair man, I’d feel downright churlish if I refuse. Now, if you, the artist, were to say it had to be the raffle prize for the church fête, well, that might present a totally different story.’ The priest scratched his head, leaving a hole in his sparse hair where his finger had been. ‘If I’m honest, I can understand why he wants to keep it. Grand likeness and perfectly executed. Sure, one of your ancestors must have been an artist.’

I felt a tug in my chest for all the times I’d wondered the same thing. Would I ever know who I was? Or was I destined to

.spend the rest of my life scarred with question marks? I knew Bridget felt the same as I did, but had, with her enviable complacency, accepted her lot. On numerous occasions she’d tried to convince me that digging for my past would create a hole so deep I might never be able to fill it.

Father O’Neill lowered his head. Two identical hairs poke out of each nostril and as he speaks they move simultaneously. ‘You painted the portrait for the church, Kate; what do you think about the curate keeping it for himself?’

It was the first time in my life an adult had asked for my outright opinion, on any subject, and to come from the lips of a priest, a ferocious terrifying man of God, was the last thing I would have expected. I racked my brain for something non-committal. ‘If Father Steele wants the painting that much, I’m sure he’s got good reason. We know you are a generous man, Father, and I think it would be very kind of you to give it to the curate.’

For a long moment he was silent, then, puffing out his chest and looking for all the world like a huge carrot-topped pouter pigeon, Father O’Neill said, ‘I’ve decided the curate must have his portrait.’ Then he slapped me on the back between my shoulder blades, winding me and making me splutter. ‘It’s a grand portrait, incredible likeness. You’ve got a rare talent, Kate. That’s for sure.’

Catching my breath, I said, ‘Thank you, Father. Soon I’ll have more time to concentrate on my painting. I’ll be sixteen next week, time to leave the orphanage.’

‘How time flies. I remember you when I first came to the parish. You were no bigger than –’ he holds his hand out level with my waist – ‘this, and with a head of golden hair the like of which I’d never seen before, except in films. Sure, you were and are a beautiful child. I recall saying to Mother Peter, “She’s like an angel, that one.”’ He chuckled. ‘Mother Peter nodded, all knowing like, and said, “Not an Irish angel, to be sure.’”

I put on my best innocent smile. ‘It would make me very happy for the curate to keep his portrait. If I had time, I’d paint another for the fête, Father.’

‘Perhaps you could find the time, young Kate, to dash off a quick drawing of the church, or the village?’

The fête was next Saturday, less than a week away. I had no time but could make time. ‘If you were to speak to the good sisters about my chores, Father, then I might be able to dash off more than a drawing of the church – a watercolour, perhaps?’

The priest’s eyes twinkled mischievously and to my surprise he grinned, suddenly boyish, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Consider it done.’

Father O’Neill is true to his word and the following few days after school I arm myself with a pad and pencils and scurry to the churchyard. Perched on a stool, I sketch the Norman church. St Winifred’s in Friday Wells is no grand edifice, yet to avoid criticism by the entire village I feel compelled to give the building some elegance and dignity.

I draw the stone columns rising either side of the arched entrance taller. I labour over clouds, like fake Santa Claus beards stuck to the towering spire, and I marvel at the way the cut-glass windows above the nave catch the light in a kaleidoscope of purple and green. For hours I mix and re-mix colour to get the exact shade. I paint until my hand and wrist ache and the light fades from sallow dusk to inky black. Most nights I miss supper; thank God for Bridget, who one night saved me half a slice of dry bread and a chunk of cheese, and another managed to nick a hard-boiled egg.

Late Friday afternoon, the day before the fête, the painting is complete. It isn’t a patch on Father Steele’s portrait, but I’m positive Father O’Neill will be pleased, and I’m certain it will fetch what the priest calls a pretty penny. Perhaps, I speculate, more than the portrait. After all, a portrait of a priest is not everyone’s cup of tea. Sure, most of the folk around Friday Wells would much rather hang a painting of the parish church than the parish curate looking for all the world like a film star in the role of a priest. Small-minded people, I conclude, and hypocrites: they say one thing and mean another. Fear, that’s what it’s all about. They are afraid of what other people might say or think. Why should it matter what others think? I ask myself. Recently I’d had this conversation with Mr Molloy, who had, I sensed with the perception thing, a different kind of attitude. He was always reading: books with unusual titles, books on philosophy, he called it. He’d encouraged me to read, lent me books, saying I had a bright enquiring mind. I loved reading, and enjoyed the discussion Mr Molloy insisted on after I’d finished a book. The ‘post mortem’, he called it. ‘Reading’, he said, ‘gives you an insight into the human condition, and with that knowledge comes greater understanding.’

Even without books I do understand some things. I know for certain some people need to believe in something, anything, and the church fulfils that role. If you believe in God and everything he stands for, then you don’t have to face yourself and who you really are.

‘It’s very good, Kate.’

The voice is behind me and without turning I say, ‘Not in the same street as your portrait, Father.’

‘Perhaps for some being in a different street is better.’

I nod, then screw my neck around to face him. ‘You’re right. I was thinking about just that a few minutes ago. I believe the folk around here will be more comfortable with a painting of the parish church hanging over the mantelpiece than a portrait of a film-star curate.’

He inclines his head, but not before I’ve seen his cheeks turn crimson. I stand and begin packing my things into the cheap PVC bag, thinking, not for the first time, how much I’d love a proper art portfolio in soft brown leather with two long carrying handles and shiny buckles, exactly like the one Gabriel Ryan’s parents had bought him for his fifteenth birthday.

‘Can I walk you to the end of the lane, Kate? There’s something I wish to say to you.’

It’s my turn to blush. I mumble, ‘Of course.’

It’s unusually warm for June, and dry. There has been no rain for ten days, a phenomenon in Ireland. Yesterday I heard a girl at school say the weather was as hot as Spain, she knew because she’d been there twice to stay with her grandparents. Spain seems a million miles from Friday Wells even on a humid evening like this one. I wonder if the sky in Spain is the same as the one above our heads. Shades of indigo streaked with gold stretch beyond dour rooftops, above tall yellow grass clumped below charred hills smudged against the horizon. A plane unzips the sky and I try to imagine how it must feel to be flying through the air on the huge mechanical bird.

‘Have you been in an aeroplane, Father?’

‘Yes, several times.’

Still gazing at the retreating aircraft, I ask, ‘Where to?’

‘Italy, South America and England.’

‘For holidays?’

‘No, working. I lived in a monastery in Italy, in the most beautiful part of the world – a place called Umbria, and in Spain I worked in a small parish in Andalusia.’

‘Do you speak Italian?’

‘Yes, fluently, and Spanish. At one time I wanted to live in Italy.’

‘What stopped you?’

His upper lip tightens. ‘My mother died. I came back to Ireland and stayed.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Then: ‘We have something in common – we’re both orphans.’

‘Yes, Kate, but I know who I am and where I came from. It makes us very different.’

We fall silent, a comfortable silence, the type friends share. It warms me. Side by side we walk down Potter Lane. Before we reach the end, Father Steele stops walking. As he turns to face me I stop and look directly into his eyes.

‘I want to explain about the portrait.’

With a perplexed look I ask, ‘Why didn’t you ask me if you could keep it?’

His hands open as if holding a book. ‘I can offer no excuse except to say I was embarrassed. When I saw the painting for the first time, I was surprised … No, more than that, I was shocked to the core.’ He pauses. I open my mouth to speak but close it when he continues: ‘What I saw in your interpretation of me wasn’t what I wanted to see. During the sittings I tried very hard to adopt a reverend air, an expression of goodness and serenity. But you cut through all of that, stripped the priest bare and found the man. That’s why I want the portrait. It’s not about ego or vanity, it’s about my calling, my dedication and my commitment. I desperately want to do the right thing, to be a good priest. You see, Kate, every time I look at the portrait it will awaken memories of the man I was, and still am sometimes, and the priest I want to become. Does that make any sense, Kate? I know you’re still a child but …’

My voice rises. ‘I’m not a child!’ Then it drops: ‘I’m sixteen next week. I’m a woman, and, yes, it makes sense. What I think you mean is we all have different faces, and some people are not always what they seem.’

My thoughts stray to Mother Thomas, who could, when she chose, be the kindest and most considerate person in the world. That was the face she wore to hide the evil, her dark side.

His deep mouth parts and he sighs. ‘You are without doubt a beautiful young woman with enormous potential, but, forgive me for saying this, Kate, you’re still an innocent. The orphanage, I’m sure, has taught you how to use your wits and every resource to survive, and you have a strong will and driving force that’s going, I have no doubt, to take you far. Yet you are still a lamb with no knowledge of the world outside this sleepy village. I can help you, Kate.’

My eyes widen quizzically. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Biddy Flanaghan is leaving to have a baby. Why don’t you take her place in the cottage? It’s not hard work – only me to look after and I’m not too messy, I promise. I can afford to pay you eight pounds a week, all found. Not a fortune, I know, but it’ll help out when you get to Dublin. I know you can’t wait to leave Friday Wells, but look on it as a stop gap for a few months before you go to art college.’

He senses my hesitation and rushes on. ‘If you’d like to learn, I’ll teach you Italian and Spanish and some knowledge of the world outside this parish, if in return you promise to give me painting lessons. Ever since living in Italy I’ve longed to paint. Will you think about it, Kate?’

I nod. ‘When do you need me to let you know?’

‘As soon as possible.’

He was right, I did need the money. I had a student grant but the extra money would come in handy for canvas and paints. It was only for a short while and it would give me an opportunity to get to know Father Steele better. I weigh all of this against my desperate craving to get out of Friday Wells.

I make a snap decision. ‘I’ll do it, Father, until the end of September. College starts the twelfth of October – that gives me a couple of weeks to settle on campus.’

He’s smiling and I know I’ve made him happy. I find myself smiling too. I had a lot to smile about. I was leaving the orphanage, going to art college, and Father Steele obviously liked me – he was even willing to give up his free time to teach me the ways of the world. He cared. God for once had listened to my pleas. Sometimes God was good.

I’d expected to feel different. Yet I feel the same as I did yesterday and the day before. I’d dreamt of this day for such a long time, how could it cheat me this way? Being sixteen meant freedom, so why didn’t I feel free? And why this heavy feeling in the pit of my belly, like I’ve swallowed a lump of lead? My hand under the covers slides across my groin; it aches just above my pubic bone. It’s June 2, too early for my period. Perhaps I’ve got a temperature. With my other hand I touch my forehead: it’s cool. I’ve felt like this a couple of times before, once after eating too much pudding at Lizzy’s house, and the time I try not to think about too much, when a couple of years ago Mother Paul punched me in the stomach. That had hurt a lot and I’d cried a lot, but not in front of her. At the sound of coughing, I swivel my eyes right. Christine Donovan has the worst cough I’ve heard since Theresa Doyle died. Her nose scabs and she makes it worse by picking at the scabs until they bleed. Bridget reckons she’s got bronchitis, but Mother Thomas won’t have it. ‘Nothing that a bit of Vick and cough medicine won’t sort out.’ The nun’s been saying that for the last six weeks; it’s not sorting it out, in fact it’s worse. Some nights her tubes rattle so much I think I’m on a railway siding. I can’t watch as she hacks then spits into a metal dish on the floor, but I can hear and I feel sick.

I’m sorry for her, we all are, but I wish she slept somewhere else. In that instant I remember I’ll be sleeping somewhere else very soon. Tonight. With both arms I pull myself into a sitting position, my legs sprawled wide. My mouth is dry, as are my lips. I run my tongue over the top lip and bite a piece of loose skin from the bottom. It’s early, very early, about six a.m. I yawn, glancing up and right to the window above my bed. Idly I watch a bird land on the windowsill; it pecks at the glass for a few seconds before hopping along the sill. I think it’s a thrush but I’m not certain. I turn over, the bed creaks and the bird, startled by the sound, takes flight. I close my eyes tight and think of where I’ll be tonight, and the ache in my belly starts to ease.

I’m going to be with him, in his house, just the two of us. The thought fills me with joy and just a tiny frisson of fear. Afraid of being alone with the curate? I ponder the question then dismiss it as silly and childish. The curate is a good man, I tell myself, his outburst over the broken vase an isolated incident.

I believe, rightly or wrongly, that Father Steele and I have formed a friendship, a bond. After the initial portrait sitting when the cat had given me back my tongue we’d talked a lot. He’d talked about his family, mostly his da, who he’d had a very close relationship with. I recall the pride in his voice when he’d talked of his father working all his life in the shipyards, till at forty he got to be foreman, the proudest day of his life. ‘God-fearing and honest, salt of the earth, my Dad,’ he’d said. ‘Allowed himself one Woodbine and a pint of Guinness a night. Said he’d seen too many good Irishmen go bad with the drink.

“‘Aye, there’s a great big wide world out there, Declan,” he’d say. “Way past Dublin and Ireland even. It’s out there for the taking, lad.’”

The priest was interested in me, I knew by the amount of questions he asked. No one had ever shown so much interest in me and I’d found myself responding to him in a way I’d never done before. He made me feel special and grown up. I think for my part I made him laugh a lot, and once he said I was like a breath of fresh air.

Since meeting Father Steele I’d thought about God a lot. Perhaps getting the job with the curate was the work of the Lord. Could He, who had for so long overlooked me, have had a hand in this twist of fate, I ask myself. Perhaps I wasn’t all bad, as the nuns would have me believe. I’m not, I have never been, convinced I was truly bad – deep inside that is. Mischievous, yes; cheeky, or lippy as Mother Thomas said; and I’ll give them wilful sometimes, but evil, never. Is locking Mother Paul in the lavvy and hiding the key evil? Or creeping downstairs with Bridget on a Thursday night after the weekly grocery delivery to ease the ache in our howling bellies? It had been my idea to shave thin slices off the cheese and corned beef then re-wrap it, and then water down the milk. We’d got away with it for five weeks until Bridget dropped a milk bottle. It had shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces on the stone floor and Mother Paul had caught us red-handed, desperately trying to clean up. I don’t want to think about what happened later – not today, not on my birthday.

Sliding my legs from under the cover, I let them dangle from the side of the bed. My toenails are dirty and the soles of my feet hard with a thick scaly layer of dead skin. This makes me think about a hot bath, with bubbles and deep water right up to my chin. My feet are long and slender, I take a size eight. Bridget, who is a tiny four and a half, always says they are too big for my body. I’m five feet eight and most of that height in my legs, so I’ve always thought my feet match my legs.

I’m the tallest girl in my class, and by far the tallest in the orphanage. I don’t look like any of the other girls from the village. I suppose it’s because I don’t look Irish. I recall Father O’Neill’s words when repeating what Mother Peter had said: ‘Not an Irish angel.’ I make a silent promise to ask her about that. For a start (as a rule) the Irish have different skin to me, very different: pink and freckled, and they rarely tan. At the first sight of the sun my skin turns a golden brown. Nor are they (again as a rule) tall and willowy, with hair the colour of a tropical beach and eyes that can be grey or blue depending on the light.

In the past I’d often wondered if the way I look had made some of the local villagers treat me with what I felt was a sort of suspicion. They often whispered behind their hands as I passed; some of the women looked at me with blatant disapproval; and lately I’d seen the odd look in the eyes of some of the men. Bridget said it was the eye of lust. They wanted to poke inside my knickers. From a very young age I’d decided that the only man to enter my secret place would have to love me, a lot, and be prepared to show me just how much he cared. If he didn’t come along then I wouldn’t settle for second best. I’d be celibate. I’d learnt the word last week when reading a magazine piece on feminism. I’d have my work and surround myself with friends and like-minded people. Then I wouldn’t need the sex thing at all.

Idly I wonder how people will react when they find out I’m to be living and working for the curate. Ha, the news will get the tongues wagging.

I brighten at the thought of that and of Mary O’Shea’s anger. Rumour had it she’d wanted her own daughter Marjorie to get the job. Marjorie who has carthorse legs, black hair on her upper lip and on her stomach (according to Lizzy Molloy) and a distinctly fishy body smell. How anyone would even consider putting mangy Marj in the same space as the divine curate is beyond me. She’d best stay with her monster mother; at least then there wouldn’t be two houses spoilt.

Dropping my feet to the floor I stand up very straight, stretch, then pad quietly towards the window. I was right about the time, the milk van is pulling out of the gate. Terry O’Leary always delivers no later than six-fifteen every morning, except Sunday, when it’s seven a.m. But I was wrong about the sun: a whitish mist hangs above a ragged strip of wall in front of my window. Tiny lavender flowers blossom from a deep crack, prompting a memory of when two lads from the village, one of them Noel Duggan whom Bridget had a crush on, but whom we found out later was secretly in love with me, had tried to sneak into our dormitory. They’d been caught and Bridget and I had been punished. For a couple of minutes I watch a sharp shower pound out a beat on the corrugated roof of the laundry, then I turn away from the window. With a jolt of anticipation I think about the day ahead and of how everything is going to be different. A fresh start, the first day of my new life.

Dressed and downstairs in the breakfast hall before anyone else, I’m greeted by Mother Peter. In her right hand she’s carrying a package. ‘Top of the morning to you, Kate O’Sullivan.’

I’m smiling. This woman, I believe, is a good woman. She behaves the way I think God-fearing people should behave, and most surely are supposed to behave. Polite and considerate, she shows kindness even when being firm. Also, she has an inner calm. She’s someone you feel you can talk to, and trust.

‘So, Kate, you’re leaving us today. I must say you’ve grown into a fine young woman.’

‘Thank you, Mother Peter. Thanks for all your kindness. I …’

‘Hush, child, no need for thanks. I do God’s work, it’s what I was put on this earth to do, it’s why I’m here.’ She sighs and, stepping closer to me till her face is almost touching mine, fixes her eyes on me. She has one blue eye, and one green flecked with brown.

The paper on the parcel rustles as she places it in my hand. ‘This is for you. Take good care of it, Kate, and don’t ever forget that you’re a very special person.’

I glance down at the package lying in my hands. It’s wrapped in brown paper; my name is written on it in bold black letters, and underneath are the words Happy Birthday, and many happy returns. God be with you all the days of your life. I’m not sure what to say – I’ve only ever had three presents in my entire life. Two were from Bridget: my sheep-dog purse and a jug she’d made in pottery class. It was misshapen, painted a dirty clay pink and had a lumpy handle and two crudely painted rosebuds on the side. None the less I’d treasured it. The third was a set of watercolour paints Mrs Molloy had bought for Lizzy to give to me when I was fourteen. The lid of the rectangular tin was painted with a typical Irish country scene: green hills, rushing blue rivers with bright blue sky, birds on the wing and couple hand in hand walking towards a rose-clad cottage. I knew that kind of Ireland existed, but I’d never been there. The paints inside were made up of tiny squares, every colour under the rainbow. I used each square right down to the last scrap. That was, without doubt, the best present I’ve ever had. I didn’t tell Bridget; I lied, saying her jug was the best and most cherished. Anyway, I still have the jug. The paint tin is now being used for keeping my clean brushes.

I stroke the package, then with my free hand grab Mother Peter’s. It’s damp and warm, much warmer than mine. Gently she squeezes my fingers. ‘You’re going far, Kate O’Sullivan. Don’t ask me how I know, because in truth I couldn’t say.’ Tapping the gift with her forefinger she says, ‘I love poetry, the resonance, the depth … I suppose it puts me in touch with the romance in my soul.’ This admission makes her blush. ‘Some of the finest and most profound poems ever written are in this book. I hope it brings you as much pleasure as it has me.’

I’m kind of embarrassed to look at her because she’ll see my eyes filling up and I’ll feel daft. One teardrop falls on to the parcel, making a watermark on the brown paper. With her free hand she lifts my chin and when our eyes are level I manage to utter, ‘I really don’t know what to say …’

“‘Thank you, Mother Peter,” would be appropriate, you ungrateful little pup. Leaving today doesn’t mean leaving your manners behind.’

The voice belongs to a dark shadow to the right of Mother Peter’s shoulder. I don’t want to look at this woman; the mere sight of her is enough to tarnish this most special moment. Silently I pray for her to go away and find some other victim. And, once again, God forgive me, I wish her a painful death – and soon. Now would be appropriate, on the morning of my sixteenth birthday, Mother Thomas suddenly struck down by a terrible attack of some unknown disease that no amount of drugs can help, rendering her helpless and in terrible agony. That would be the best birthday present of all.

Without turning, Mother Peter calmly says, ‘Kate has thanked me several times. There really is no need for further thanks. Nor, I might add, is there any need for your interruption, Mother Thomas.’

I can’t see because I’m not looking in her direction, but I sense Mother Thomas bristle, and with a sigh of relief I hear the swish of her habit then the dull thud of her footsteps as she leaves the room.

‘Now, Kate, breakfast. And remember what I’ve told you. Listen to God: he’ll be your guide, he’ll never fail you if you are prepared to let him into your heart.’

I long to say that God hasn’t done much for me so far, and I doubt things will change. I intend to rely on my own instincts to guide me, listen to the feelings I have all the time, the ones that tell me what I should do and when. But I know she won’t understand. She has her God; I have to seek mine.

All I can find in my heart to say is, ‘I’ll try, and thank you again for everything you’ve ever done for me, every kindness you’ve shown.’

With a serene smile, one the Virgin Mary would have been proud of, she places a hand on the crown of my head. ‘God be with you, Kate, always.’

I’m sick of the God stuff and happy when she lifts her hand and I’m free to go. Several girls are now sitting down on the long pews eating breakfast from a tray. I spot the back of Bridget’s head and slide into an empty place next to her, so close our thighs touch. She’s eating a bowl of porridge. My stomach yawns with hunger but I can’t face the porridge. It would be OK if it was made with milk and had sugar, or stuff of dreams like jam or honey, poured over the top. ‘This food is not fit for humans,’ I hiss. ‘In fact, Lizzy Molloy’s dog gets better grub.’

In between spoonfuls of porridge Bridget mumbles, ‘Do you think Lizzy will adopt me as her new best friend now you’re working for the curate?’

‘She might, but I’m not sure you’d be happy doing most of Lizzy’s homework for her.’

Bridget winks. ‘For a slice of Mrs Molloy’s apple pie, I’d do just about anything. Even show my knickers to her gormless brother Jack.’

Next to Bridget’s left hand I spy a long thin package crudely wrapped in what I suspect is school exercise paper. I’m right; Bridget has painted exercise paper bright red and tied it with blue velvet hair ribbon. The ends are frayed; she probably nicked it from the girl she sits next to in class. Under the gift is a large white envelope. After her final spoonful of porridge, Bridget pushes both items towards me. ‘This is for you, Kate, I hope you like it. I could think of a million things I’d like to buy you, if I had the money that is, but since I don’t I thought you might like to keep this and every time –’

‘For the love of God!’ I interrupt. ‘Will you shut up, else you’ll be telling me what it is and spoiling the surprise.’

Bridget blushes, two red blotches spotting her cheeks. I’m dying 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.’

Chapter Five

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 hope you will cherish this fine gift, Kate.’

I manage a nod.

‘Do you not have a tongue, girl? I asked you a question. I expect a civil answer.’

‘Do you want me to tell the truth, Mother Virgilus?’

‘Of course. What else have we taught you here but to tell the truth in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost?’

Under my breath I mutter, You asked for it. Aloud, I say, ‘I don’t want the bible or, for that matter, anything that might remind me of my time here.’

I see her face begin to turn red, in anger I suspect, but I don’t care. She asked for the truth. ‘Apart from Mother Peter’s kindness, I want to forget this place ever existed.’ I glance in Mother Peter’s direction; she averts her eyes. ‘Have you any idea, Mother Virgilus, how it feels to be an orphan child, totally alone and at the mercy of monsters like Mother Thomas and Mother Paul?’

‘How dare you, Kate O’Sullivan, you ungrateful pup? How dare you accuse me of –’ Mother Paul moves forward as if to strike me. I stand my ground, triumph lighting up my eyes.

Rising like a black spectre from behind her desk, Mother Superior refuses to meet my gaze. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t have to be asked twice.’

I start towards the door and, as I open it, I hear Mother Peter say, ‘God bless you, Kate O’Sullivan, all the days of your life.’

Scarcely able to contain my glee, I bounce back to the dormitory on freshly sprung feet. The orphanage is quiet as most of the girls are at school. I mount the stairs thinking that in less than twenty minutes I’ll be going down the same flight for the last time.

Once in the dormitory I sit on the edge of my bed. The mattress feels hard, the horse-hair spread coarse to the touch. Images are beginning to filter into my consciousness. I blot them out with thoughts of tomorrow. A new bed with a bright candlewick counterpane, I hope, and a wooden headboard; a dressing table and a chair with a floral-covered cushion and matching curtains.

Next to each bed is a locker, mine empty now, and above that a shelf where each item of clothing I’ve ever owned has been folded and neatly stacked in exactly the same way every day of my life. Daily inspections kept us neat – God help anyone who had a fold out of place. I wonder if I’ll ever get out of the habit of folding my clothes and stacking them in neat piles.

The parcel of clothes rests on my lap. I fumble with the string; it gives way easily and I slide the clothes out of the package. I rummage for the envelope and, tearing it open, I find a ten-pound note and a neatly folded document. With shaking hands I unfold my birth certificate. My heartbeat quickens as my eyes scan the page. Kate O’Sullivan, born June 5 in the parish of Friday Wells, County Cork, parents deceased. I stare at my birth certificate for a long time before folding it neatly and placing it back in the envelope with the ten pounds. I put the envelope in my bag, and leave the clothes on the bed. I want nothing from the sisters, I want nothing to remind me of this place.

Suddenly I remember the brown envelope. Excited, I tear it open. I’ve never had a letter posted to me before. Sure, I’ve had letters from Lizzy and Bridget, and once I got a love letter from Gabriel Ryan, but they were all hand-delivered. Inside is a letter from a law firm in Dublin and pinned to the top of the letter is a cheque. For several minutes I stare at the cheque thinking that there must have been some mistake. The cheque is made out in the name of Miss Kate O’Sullivan to the sum of five thousand pounds. I can’t believe what my eyes tell me, and holding the cheque in one hand I begin to read the letter.

Dear Miss O’Sullivan,

You are the sole beneficiary of a trust fund founded in your name in June 1962. We have been instructed to act on behalf of the trustees who will remain (at specific behest) anonymous.

Please find enclosed cheque for £5,000, monies representing first payment on your reaching sixteen. Further sums will mature at eighteen, twenty-one and twenty-five respectively. I suggest you contact me at your earliest convenience to confirm receipt of cheque, and to discuss forwarding address for future correspondence.

I look forward to meeting you.

Yours sincerely,

Mr James Shaunessy

My chest is as tight as a drum and an adrenaline rush makes me feel faint. I reread the letter, then stare at the cheque again. Now surely I had proof, definite proof that my parents hadn’t forgotten me. They’d provided for me – sure, money doesn’t make up for what I’ve lost and suffered but it gives me something real to cling to instead of fanciful dreams. Anonymous, the letter said. The only reason to remain unknown that I can think of is that my parents, or at least one of them, was someone very important and wealthy. Five thousand pounds! A fortune; people bought houses for less.

Without warning I begin to cry, tears plopping on to the letter. I’m not sure why I’m crying, I should be happy. I am happy, I tell myself, so why the tears? Every time I’d cried in the past I’d been hurting, badly. I understood that sort of crying. Once I’d seen Mr Molloy cry when he’d cradled his grandson for the first time. I’d asked him why he was crying and he’d said, ‘Tears of joy, Kate; tears of joy.’

I sniff, fold the precious letter very carefully, and then I replace the cheque and the letter in the envelope. Hugging it against my chest I sit very still, thinking of my new-found freedom. I’m rich, rich beyond my wildest dreams. If I wanted, I could get on a train to Dublin today. With five thousand pounds I could order a sleek black limousine to take me all the way there. I could even fly to London and buy a fine easel and brushes, fancy clothes and all the books I’ve ever wanted to read.

In fact, I could have or do whatever I wanted. But what of Father Steele? I couldn’t let him down – or could I? I’ll tell him about my good fortune, and offer to work until he finds a replacement for Biddy. I can’t say fairer than that. He’ll be happy for me, I’m sure, and he’ll understand when I explain I’ve no need to work for a meagre eight pounds a week when I’ve got five thousand pounds. Now I’ve got a huge nest egg: enough, if I’m careful, to see me through until I get the second payment at eighteen. I wonder if it will be the same amount … It might be more! I can’t get my head around more than five thousand pounds – that’s beyond my wildest dreams. I’ll write to James Shaunessy as soon as possible and arrange to meet him when I get to Dublin. I’ll use all my persuasive skills to find out who sent the money. I’ll make him understand how important it is for me to know. All sorted – or so I think.

Grabbing the vinyl hold-all Bridget had lent me, I open the side pocket and put the envelope inside. With a flourish I zip the bag and, throwing it over my shoulder, I stride to the window. The broken pane of glass has recently been fixed after months of tape and cardboard; the greyish tinge of fresh putty is in stark contrast to the dark green frame. When I look out of the window I see the black-clad figure of Mother Thomas striding briskly across the yard, the folds of her habit fanning out behind her, long rosary beads bouncing off her protruding stomach. I shrink back before she has a chance to see me. I haven’t seen her since our brief encounter earlier with Mother Peter.

‘So you’re leaving us. Not a better person, I’m afraid.’ I jump at the sound of her voice. ‘You, Kate O’Sullivan, I consider one of my most spectacular failures.’

The shock of seeing her in the dormitory causes my throat to tighten and my heart to hammer hard. I face her head on, a black tank filling the open door. With my eyes I defy her and imagine I see her shrink from my malevolent glare. But this woman is no shrinking violet, this is the monster nun from hell, the last person I want to see before I leave, a final reminder of the loveless, cold and cruel upbringing I’ve had in this sham of a holy place.

According to Lizzy, all nuns are bitter and twisted because they never have sex. In my head I hear Lizzy whispering, ‘Mother Thomas has never had a man. No one would fancy the ugly old bitch even if she wasn’t a nun. Me brother Jack says women who never get poked shrivel up and die. It eats away at their insides like a cancer.’

I’m not sure Lizzy’s brother is right, but I don’t care any more. I’m armed with the knowledge that my parents cared about me; they must have loved me to want to provide for me so generously. This part of my life is over, history. I’m free, and nothing Mother Thomas says or does can ever hurt me again.

I’m wrong. Without warning and as quick as a flash she lunges at me, and before I have a chance to defend myself I’m pinned against the wall, her hand over my mouth, her eyes gleaming with something I haven’t encountered before. Lust.

‘I bet you’re not a virgin, Kate O’Sullivan, you dirty little whore. I bet you let all the boys poke their dirty fingers in you. Stick their things inside, do they? In your mouth?’ Roughly she drags my skirt up, bunching it around my waist, exposing my bare legs and white pants. I wriggle under her strong grip, stretching my mouth under her hand in a silent scream. I feel a great surge of anger as her fingers yank my pubic hair and I bite down as hard as I can into the back of her hand. She lets out an agonized yelp, like a wounded dog. Encouraged, I jump, using my full weight, on to her left foot. Before she has time to recover, I grab her rosary beads and, knotting them at her throat, I pull tight. Tightening my grip I watch with undisguised glee the colour drain from her face. She’s trying to speak but I’ve cut off her windpipe. It’s exhilarating, this adrenaline-pumping power. I can smell her fear, see the terror in her eyes; she thinks she’s going to die. I want to laugh, and wish she could see herself, a sad and pathetic little creature with nothing to live for except abusing innocent kids. With a loud pant I relax my grip. ‘If you ever come near me again, I’ll kill you – that’s a promise.’ I’m not sure she can hear me, so I repeat, ‘I’ll kill you – do you understand?’

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