dreadful nun died?” Tess asked her mother again, her eyes on the mourners. Now was not the time to be pulling out old memories like that.
“They weren’t all dreadful,” reflected her mother. “Most of them were lovely. What about that Sister Margaret Ann, who came to your tenth birthday party? She was beautiful. I think your father quite fancied her.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, probably not.” Her mother shrugged as if not being attracted to beautiful nuns was yet another example of her ex-husband’s failings. “Anyway, this must be the funeral for Sister Ursula. I read in the parish newsletter last week that she died. I don’t think she ever taught you, did she? Apparently she was a great one for smacking with the handle of the feather duster. Nobody uses feather dusters much these days, do they? Is the world a dustier place for it, I wonder?”
“I think I remember Sister Ursula,” said Tess. “Red face and caterpillar eyebrows. We used to hide from her when she was on playground duty.”
“I’m not sure if there are
any
nuns teaching at the school anymore,” said her mother. “They’re a dying breed.”
“Literally,” said Tess.
Her mother chortled. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean . . .” She stopped, distracted by something at the church entrance. “Okay, darling, steel yourself. We’ve just been spotted by one of the parish ladies.”
“What?” Tess was immediately filled with a sense of dread, as if her mother had said they’d just been spotted by a wild animal.
A petite blond woman had detached herself from the mourners and was briskly walking toward the school yard.
“Cecilia Fitzpatrick,” said her mother. “The eldest Bell girl. Married John-Paul, the eldest Fitzpatrick boy. The best-looking one, if you want my opinion, although they’re all much of muchness. Cecilia had a younger sister, I think, who might have been in your year. Let’s see now. Bridget Bell?”
Tess was about to say she’d never heard of them, but a memory of the Bell girls was gradually emerging in her mind like a reflection on water. She couldn’t visualize their faces, just their long, blond, stringy plaits flying behind them as they ran though the school, doing whatever those kids who were at the center of things did.
“Cecilia sells Tupperware,” said Tess’s mother. “Makes an absolute
fortune
from it.”
“But she doesn’t know us, does she?” Tess looked hopefully over her shoulder to see if there might be someone else waving back at Cecilia. There was no one. Was she on her way over to spruik Tupperware?
“Cecilia knows everyone,” said her mother.
“Can’t we make a run for it?”
“Too late now.” Her mother spoke through the side of her mouth as she smiled her toothy social smile.
“Lucy!” said Cecilia as she arrived in front of them, faster than Tess had thought possible. It was like she’d just teleported herself there. She bent to kiss Tess’s mother. “What have you done to yourself?”
Don’t you call my mother Lucy,
thought Tess, taking an instant, childish dislike.
Mrs. O’Leary, thank you!
Now that she was right in front of them, Tess remembered Cecilia’s face perfectly well. She had a small, neat head—the plaits had been replaced with one of those crisp, artful bobs—an eager, open face, a noticeable overbite, and two ridiculously huge dimples. She was like a pretty little ferret.
And yet she’d landed a Fitzpatrick boy.
“I saw you when I came out of the church. Sister Ursula’s funeral; did you hear she’d passed? Anyway, I caught sight of you, and I thought,
That’s Lucy O’Leary in a wheelchair! What’s going on?
So being the nosy parker that I am, I came over to say hello! Looks like a good-quality wheelchair; did you hire it from the pharmacist? But what happened, Lucy? Your ankle, is it?”
Oh, Lord. Tess could feel her entire personality being drained from her body. Those talkative, energetic people always left her feeling that
“They weren’t all dreadful,” reflected her mother. “Most of them were lovely. What about that Sister Margaret Ann, who came to your tenth birthday party? She was beautiful. I think your father quite fancied her.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, probably not.” Her mother shrugged as if not being attracted to beautiful nuns was yet another example of her ex-husband’s failings. “Anyway, this must be the funeral for Sister Ursula. I read in the parish newsletter last week that she died. I don’t think she ever taught you, did she? Apparently she was a great one for smacking with the handle of the feather duster. Nobody uses feather dusters much these days, do they? Is the world a dustier place for it, I wonder?”
“I think I remember Sister Ursula,” said Tess. “Red face and caterpillar eyebrows. We used to hide from her when she was on playground duty.”
“I’m not sure if there are
any
nuns teaching at the school anymore,” said her mother. “They’re a dying breed.”
“Literally,” said Tess.
Her mother chortled. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean . . .” She stopped, distracted by something at the church entrance. “Okay, darling, steel yourself. We’ve just been spotted by one of the parish ladies.”
“What?” Tess was immediately filled with a sense of dread, as if her mother had said they’d just been spotted by a wild animal.
A petite blond woman had detached herself from the mourners and was briskly walking toward the school yard.
“Cecilia Fitzpatrick,” said her mother. “The eldest Bell girl. Married John-Paul, the eldest Fitzpatrick boy. The best-looking one, if you want my opinion, although they’re all much of muchness. Cecilia had a younger sister, I think, who might have been in your year. Let’s see now. Bridget Bell?”
Tess was about to say she’d never heard of them, but a memory of the Bell girls was gradually emerging in her mind like a reflection on water. She couldn’t visualize their faces, just their long, blond, stringy plaits flying behind them as they ran though the school, doing whatever those kids who were at the center of things did.
“Cecilia sells Tupperware,” said Tess’s mother. “Makes an absolute
fortune
from it.”
“But she doesn’t know us, does she?” Tess looked hopefully over her shoulder to see if there might be someone else waving back at Cecilia. There was no one. Was she on her way over to spruik Tupperware?
“Cecilia knows everyone,” said her mother.
“Can’t we make a run for it?”
“Too late now.” Her mother spoke through the side of her mouth as she smiled her toothy social smile.
“Lucy!” said Cecilia as she arrived in front of them, faster than Tess had thought possible. It was like she’d just teleported herself there. She bent to kiss Tess’s mother. “What have you done to yourself?”
Don’t you call my mother Lucy,
thought Tess, taking an instant, childish dislike.
Mrs. O’Leary, thank you!
Now that she was right in front of them, Tess remembered Cecilia’s face perfectly well. She had a small, neat head—the plaits had been replaced with one of those crisp, artful bobs—an eager, open face, a noticeable overbite, and two ridiculously huge dimples. She was like a pretty little ferret.
And yet she’d landed a Fitzpatrick boy.
“I saw you when I came out of the church. Sister Ursula’s funeral; did you hear she’d passed? Anyway, I caught sight of you, and I thought,
That’s Lucy O’Leary in a wheelchair! What’s going on?
So being the nosy parker that I am, I came over to say hello! Looks like a good-quality wheelchair; did you hire it from the pharmacist? But what happened, Lucy? Your ankle, is it?”
Oh, Lord. Tess could feel her entire personality being drained from her body. Those talkative, energetic people always left her feeling that
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