looked feverish and excited, and Helen entertained the Community with tales of how she made her garden grow.
‘Anyone call?’ Brigid asked.
‘No. Not anyone really, you know, usual callers.’ Helen avoided her eye. It was the first time she had told a direct lie in St Martin’s. It didn’t feel good but it was for the best in the end.
If she could do this one thing, if she could do what she hoped she might be able to do, then even at the age of twenty-one her whole life would have been worth living.
It was Nessa’s turn to do the kitchen for half a day. Nessa was the one woman at St Martin’s who found Helen almost impossible to get on with. Normally when they worked together Helen stayed out of Nessa’s way. But this time she positively hung around her neck.
‘What happens when the children are born to really hopeless mothers, Nessa? Don’t you wish you could give them to proper homes from the start?’
‘What I wish isn’t important, I don’t rule the world.’ Nessa was short, she was scrubbing the kitchen floor and Helen kept standing in her way.
‘But wouldn’t a child be much better off?’
‘Mind, Helen, please. I’ve just washed there.’
‘And you always have to register the births, no matter what kind of mother?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean do you have to go to the town hall or the registry office or whatever and sort of say who the child is?’
‘No, I don’t always.’
‘Oh, why not?’
‘Because I’m usually not the one who does it, it depends. It depends. Helen, do you think that if you’re not going to do any work you could move out of the kitchen so that I could clean it?’
‘And no babies end up without being registered?’
‘How could they?’
‘I don’t know.’ Helen was disappointed. She had thought there might be long twilight times when nobody knew who or what the baby was. She hadn’t understood how the Welfare State at least checked its citizens in and out of the world.
‘And foundlings, babies in phone boxes, in churches, where do they end up?’
Nessa looked up in alarm. ‘God, Helen, don’t tell me you found one?’
‘No, worse luck,’ Helen said. ‘But if I did would I have to register it?’
‘No, Helen, of course not, if
you
found a baby you could keep the baby and dress him or her up when you remembered, and feed the child when it occurred to you, or when there was nothing else marginally more interesting to do.’
‘Why are you so horrible to me, Nessa?’ Helen asked.
‘Because I am basically pretty horrible.’
‘You can’t be, you’re a nun. And you’re not horrible to the others.’
‘Ah, that’s true. The real thing about being horrible is that it’s selective.’
‘And why did you select me?’ Helen didn’t seem put out or hurt, she was interested. Actually interested.
Nessa was full of guilt.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m just short-tempered, I hate doing this bloody floor, and you’re so young and carefree and get everything you want. I’m sorry, Helen, forgive me, I’m always asking you to forgive me. Really I am.’
‘I know.’ Helen was thoughtful. ‘People often are, I seem to bring out the worst in them somehow.’
Sister Nessa looked after her uneasily as Helen wandered back into the garden. There was something more than usual on her scattered brain and it was weighing very heavily.
Helen rang Renata Quigley. Same address, same apartment, same bed presumably. She said that she was still inquiring but that it wasn’t as easy as people thought.
‘I never thought it was easy,’ sighed Renata. ‘But somehow it does make all the going out to functions and to this celebration and that celebration a little easier if I think that somebody as kind as you, Sister, is looking out for me.’
With a thrill of shock that went right through her body Helen Doyle realized that she would meet Frank and Renata Quigley at her parents’ silver wedding party.
Frank Quigley had been the best man
‘Anyone call?’ Brigid asked.
‘No. Not anyone really, you know, usual callers.’ Helen avoided her eye. It was the first time she had told a direct lie in St Martin’s. It didn’t feel good but it was for the best in the end.
If she could do this one thing, if she could do what she hoped she might be able to do, then even at the age of twenty-one her whole life would have been worth living.
It was Nessa’s turn to do the kitchen for half a day. Nessa was the one woman at St Martin’s who found Helen almost impossible to get on with. Normally when they worked together Helen stayed out of Nessa’s way. But this time she positively hung around her neck.
‘What happens when the children are born to really hopeless mothers, Nessa? Don’t you wish you could give them to proper homes from the start?’
‘What I wish isn’t important, I don’t rule the world.’ Nessa was short, she was scrubbing the kitchen floor and Helen kept standing in her way.
‘But wouldn’t a child be much better off?’
‘Mind, Helen, please. I’ve just washed there.’
‘And you always have to register the births, no matter what kind of mother?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean do you have to go to the town hall or the registry office or whatever and sort of say who the child is?’
‘No, I don’t always.’
‘Oh, why not?’
‘Because I’m usually not the one who does it, it depends. It depends. Helen, do you think that if you’re not going to do any work you could move out of the kitchen so that I could clean it?’
‘And no babies end up without being registered?’
‘How could they?’
‘I don’t know.’ Helen was disappointed. She had thought there might be long twilight times when nobody knew who or what the baby was. She hadn’t understood how the Welfare State at least checked its citizens in and out of the world.
‘And foundlings, babies in phone boxes, in churches, where do they end up?’
Nessa looked up in alarm. ‘God, Helen, don’t tell me you found one?’
‘No, worse luck,’ Helen said. ‘But if I did would I have to register it?’
‘No, Helen, of course not, if
you
found a baby you could keep the baby and dress him or her up when you remembered, and feed the child when it occurred to you, or when there was nothing else marginally more interesting to do.’
‘Why are you so horrible to me, Nessa?’ Helen asked.
‘Because I am basically pretty horrible.’
‘You can’t be, you’re a nun. And you’re not horrible to the others.’
‘Ah, that’s true. The real thing about being horrible is that it’s selective.’
‘And why did you select me?’ Helen didn’t seem put out or hurt, she was interested. Actually interested.
Nessa was full of guilt.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m just short-tempered, I hate doing this bloody floor, and you’re so young and carefree and get everything you want. I’m sorry, Helen, forgive me, I’m always asking you to forgive me. Really I am.’
‘I know.’ Helen was thoughtful. ‘People often are, I seem to bring out the worst in them somehow.’
Sister Nessa looked after her uneasily as Helen wandered back into the garden. There was something more than usual on her scattered brain and it was weighing very heavily.
Helen rang Renata Quigley. Same address, same apartment, same bed presumably. She said that she was still inquiring but that it wasn’t as easy as people thought.
‘I never thought it was easy,’ sighed Renata. ‘But somehow it does make all the going out to functions and to this celebration and that celebration a little easier if I think that somebody as kind as you, Sister, is looking out for me.’
With a thrill of shock that went right through her body Helen Doyle realized that she would meet Frank and Renata Quigley at her parents’ silver wedding party.
Frank Quigley had been the best man
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