Marilyn’s Child. Lynne Pemberton
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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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