Marilyn’s Child. Lynne Pemberton
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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,