Marilyn’s Child. Lynne Pemberton

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      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ