Our Ladies, page 2
The Sopranos did their famous snigger, ’cept Kylah who just smiled with a hand over one eye.
Ah’ve seen that dress, Fionnula murmured.
Och that’s a shame, Manda whispered, She must really fancy him.
Shush right, I’m telling a story. Calum tries to be polite. They have a drink and he doesn’t mention her clothes but he realises he’s totally fucked it up and he’s no ways even getting a snog out of this. They walk over the fields and she’s giving him queer-enough looks then she sees what it’s all about; know what she says?
What?
‘Plough Queen. I thought it was a beauty contest for farmers’ daughters’!
The Sopranos’ giggles started running away.
‘A ploughing contest for big muscley women! I thought we were on a date!’ goes Kylah, still staring over at the tiles. ‘We are on a date,’ ma brother goes, but she stomps off, side-stepping the cow pats an the spike on one of her stiletto heels sinks into the field and she has to get out them and walk in stocking soles back to the hotel to phone Tommy’s taxi, Billy Farlane was on loudspeakers an he made some snide comment, like ‘… Amazed the JCB formation didn’t ask that young lady to join the diggers in a waltz … !’
Manda let out one of her donkey honks.
Hsss, Sister Condron shushed backwards.
Then Father Ardlui rumbled in from the left and all rose without looking at him, seeking anything to improvise interest on: rafters with the peeling silver stars painted between, or imperfections in the stained glass sheets, or beyond the wall of coloured glass to the slight, reptilian movements and hops: Lord Bolivia, perched above yuccas and flourishing poinsettias in the little courtyard.
Fionnula peered that way, jaloused Sister Fagan the Pagan’s method of hysterically increased growth for her poinsettia tubs – the Sister’s own hormone-replacement-therapy patches wrapped tight around the stalks of the plants.
Father Ardlui suddenly produced his pipe from beneath his emblazoned togs, You may smoke but stub them out before you come up please.
The girls of the choir looked round, mouths forming perfect Os. Pink chewing gum (that was all they normally removed for communion) visible.
Father, Father! Sister Condron waved the hanky she kept tucked up her sleeve from where she sat on front row. Father, you’re in the girls’ school, the girls’ school, you’re not in the Seamen’s Mission! No smoking what so ever.
A unison of tuts came from the rear, two enthusiasts even fumbled lighter and cigs back in bags.
Umm. Mmm. Oh-Umph. Father Ardlui repocketed his pipe, within the swelling Minoa of his inner garmenting.
Yolanda McCormack let out a rich, rounded smoker’s cough, tinted with goggles of potential phlegm. The Father reached a wide sleeve within his wrappings, removed half a deposited tube of Tunes cough lozenges, thumbed one out with his shovel-like nail and threw it, expertly at Yolanda. It missed her eye, slapped on her shiny forehead then cracked instantly to the floor by the kneeling cushion. She immediately stooped, peeled and popped it in her mouth. (It amused Father Ardlui to see the bent-over fur on the little tongues, their greyness stained artificially raspberry; the warm little menthol breath of acceptance, quivering on his thick fingers before he placed the host there.)
The Father got busy initiating a whole lot of wheels, cogs and judgings up in heaven: twisting a spiritual valve here and pressing in a redemptive switch there; a little bit fine tuning of forgiveness when needed.
The girls’ minds wandered over immense dimensions of diversion.
Regardless, the Father pressed on with his planned opening words, You are all men of the sea. Toilers of the deep. Perhaps, like me, when you saw the vessel anchored in our bay this, morning, your memory was cast back to the excitements of seeing submarines tied up when you were young. I know my mind was cast back to the first time I ever saw a sub. I was young, and left our house to walk to the sweetie shop. As I came down from the Folly Heights, using Jacob’s Ladder, I looked out Westly.
Imagine my Mother’s shock when I arrived breathless, in tears back at our house, crying out that I did not want to be swallowed whole! For my Mother would read, not the gospels, but the Old Testament to me at night. My favourite was, of course, the story of Jonah and I was in such a state, for I believed the submarine was actually a whale, come into the bay to swallow me whole! You will recall from the story of Jonah …
The two nuns laughed at something the Father had says. Some stuff he was dithering on about, he’d mentioned the submarine but now he was on about whales!
Orla turned to her right, whispered, I’ve got a wisdom tooth coming through. Look. After a few seconds, Orla removed a flat, grey blob of chewed gum from out her mouth that, using her tongue, she’d jammed up the back and squeezed. Fionnula took the shiny, slavery block of chuddy, squinted at it and using two erect fingers, passed it on to Manda. The imprint of the emergent tooth had been embossed on the gum. Manda nodded sagely at the little indication of continued life, spoke out a response to one Father Ardlui’s calls and passed back directly to Chell who’d missed it on the way up cos her thumbs were hooked, in boredom, into her skirt. Chell had it placed centre palm and peered at it, curious. She passed it by Orla and touched Kylah who had resumed a recount of the tiles; not wanting to lose her count, Kylah took the gum and glancing at it, popped it into her own mouth, never dropping her one uncovered eye from the tiles behind Father Ardlui; she chewed.
Father Ardlui was going full-tilt now.
I remember once I was in the Capital on a tram, way back in the days when they had trams which shows you how long ago this was! I was sitting right at the front and behind the driver there was a little sign which read, ‘Standing Room only for Twelve persons’. Now some cheeky little child had taken out its pencil and written under the sign, ‘and a wee boy!’
The two nuns giggled delightedly.
Now this of course is interesting for when you think about it, the twelve disciples had their lives changed … a little boy. For the Lord Jesus Christ was just an ordinary little boy …
Father Ardlui was still gesticulating and active up at the altar. The two Sisters had just laughed at something he says. Kylah’s uncovered eye looked above him. She dropped the hand and muttered, Different. Different every fucking time. One hundred and seventy tiles or one hundred and sixty nine or one hundred and seventy one. I’m going to come in here one Saturday and sort this out once and for all, she whispered.
Then you’ll have nothing to do. What is it with your eye?
Ah … don’t have my contact lens.
You’re just wearing one contact lens?
I swallowed the other.
Swallowed it?
It was a bet with ma wee brother. He won.
You’re gonna go round all day with just one lens in?
Aye. Fucked if I’m going on the telly with glasses on.
The girls all beamed at each other as Father Ardlui got his bearings and before he invited everyone up to scoff body and blood, he was asking all to join in thanks and claiming celestial credit, for Orla Johnstone’s healing.
All the girls mumbled together.
Hail Mary Full of Grace
The Lord is with thee
THEEEEE!
All the girls’ heads swung towards Lord Bolivia.
Blessed art though amongst women
WIMMANG … AGH … CUCK CUK PUTAS!
Blessed is the fruit of Thy womb
BLESSED FRUIT WOMB … PUTAS!
Sister Fagan frowned.
Lord Bolivia had been brought back from Sister Fagan’s South American sabbatical, sealed tight in a beautiful, hand-carved wooden cage.
Somewhere near Ciudad Bolivar (formerly Angostura) the big bird had flown into an Iglesia de Santa Barbara and stunned itself near death on the ruby glass image of our Saviour’s Ascension. The parrot had helicoptered down between the pews.
Lord Bolivia returned to consciousness caged in the Venezuelan convent surrounded by muttering nuns, the old women suspicious of a glaring beast – uneasy at its red and green slow-turning head, following the nuns scheming movements across the tiles; at night, prayers became troubled, doubting no soul was within the beast, seeing Satan in its black eyes.
Three technicians brought from the capital to refit the air conditioning (the convent was the only fitted building in the town) taught Lord Bolivia a succession of such profound obscenities, the old nuns could only listen to the parrot’s catechism of unknowable, unimaginable sexual practices, like some language from far into the interior.
Jesus
JEEEZZZUSSS
Holy Mary Mother of God
CHUPATE LOS COJONES
Pray for us sinners,
COÑO
Now
Naaa-How
And
Duh
At the hour of our death
HOUR UFF DEATH OUR DEATH
LOS COÑOS
DANDOME POR DETRAS!
No Snogging Through Tennis Fence
AWW Sister!
The girls of the fifth-year choir were assembled in room 37. The Mud Bucket was due: twenty minutes at the gates.
Sister Condron stood top of the room, before a chalk abstract of first-year blackboard graffiti, Now you ALL know make-up is not allowed in Our Lady’s but since you are going to be on the television set we shall allow you it, modestly used. However it will not be applied until we are at the concert hall.
AWW Sister!
What about shopping, Sister Condron?
Amanda. Be quiet.
Manda tutted. She received a hard stare.
Shoelaces. These ridiculous shoelaces. It has gone far enough and from tomorrow coloured shoelaces will not be allowed …
AWW Sister!
This rule will be properly introduced next year when some of you (she smiled at Kay and Ana-Bessie though they’d followed fashion by sporting colourful shoelaces) will remain with us as sixth-year students. And here …
AWW Sister!
… I have sixteen pairs of regulation black shoelaces. I want them put on now, before we board the bus.
The girls threw their bags down in a right cheesed-off manner. They tore laces out and shoved them into blazer pockets. They knelt and bent and perched on edges of desks so their hair, long and loose, plaited or gathered with regulation black scrunchies, slipped over one or other shoulder. Sister Condron spoke, cross their bended spines, BE QUIET! I paid for these laces.
Manda Tassy looked up, face flushed from efforts of bending and tugging tight the new laces, Are Sopranos or Seconds practising last, Sister Condron?
Be. Quiet. I have other announcements with regard school rules and general attitude today.
There was anticipatory hushedness.
It has come to Sister Fagan and I’s attention, and this has been passed on to Mother Superior, that some girls are still wearing more than one earring in each ear. School rules are quite clear about this. Only one earring per ear and (in a hushed tone the little sister added) in no other part of the body.
There was a mush of shrugging smiles and rustle as many turned towards Chell of the Sopranos; they were smiling broadly at her eyebrow socket. Chell and Manda turned their heads busily towards each other.
Sister Condron went on, There are no excuses for two earrings. Although the school cannot prevent you, we will not accept the excuse you are wearing these stud things because your ear has recently been pierced. If you must get your ears pierced and wear these horrible studs for so long, then you must do it at the start of the summer holidays. Personally I think any more than one per ear is an ugly mutilation and I should say we have sent a letter to the hairdresser we hold responsible for this hysterical fad which has broken out among you. Sister Condron looked down at her notes and sullenly announced, The Best Little Hairhouse in Town.
The girls roared. Manda was turning back and forth in excitement, Ma sister’s practise manageress … Catriona … Her that does all the piercings, Sister … it used to be called Kurl Up and Dye. Do you get that one?
A shriek of appreciation then anticipation went up.
Amanda Tassy. I know you must be excited at the thought of visiting the Capital …
Manda straightened to full height to absorb Sister Condron’s attack.
… But you really shouldn’t display your excitement like a giggly little eight-year-old.
When it was clear Manda wasn’t going to blush beetroot all heads turned to the nun, smiling, mocking.
Even one earring per ear, the use of your gold Gaelic League lapel buttons as earrings is not to continue.
A gasp of laughter went up in full commotion, several girls flicked at their neighbour’s lobes.
BE QUIET! The first crack up of the day and room 37 was silent. Though it was May, the fluorescents lined the strands of the dark-haired ones. A lorry from the Superstore crossed McAdam Square going away to the outlying villages.
GROW UP! You have an important day ahead, for each of you and for Our Lady’s. You each have a responsibility to fulfil, not selfish little indulgences to perpetuate. We have a chance of winning tonight if you would all just believe it and I won’t have a single individual or minority spoiling that chance for others. Yes, school doesn’t start for you till eleven tomorrow but if we can win tonight there will be no school tomorrow. If only you could learn to see the long term. We will all stay in a fine Hotel tonight, if you sing as I taught you on the Judged Songs.
All day today you are representatives of the school. The entire Port is counting on you tonight, as well as your parents. Think of them all day today. And God is watching too. God, d’you hear?
The girls looked at their hands and stared off, except Ana-Bessie; even Kay stared down glumly at her new laces.
The nun repeated deadly slow, The wearing of Gaelic League lapel buttons as earrings will not be tolerated today or any day from now on. Understood? Also. Also, she lifted her notes as if reading from them, The shaving of eyebrows is a perversion which shall not go on in this school.
Unable to laugh, fair flabbergasted, some scrutiny of eyebrows went on. For the nun’s intelligence to be ahead gossip was virtually unknown.
And a last point. Practices have been occurring along the tennis court fence. A pre-Wimbledon passion for the game has clutched our school like multiple ear piercings. These gatherings have been happening at breaks and luncheon hour since, for reasons you well know, all years were banned from going down town.
It is forbidden to gather at the tennis court fence on the edge of the school grounds. We have already warned that loitering on this fence where a large pack of … Boys from the Protestant High School are also seen from Mother Superior’s window to be gathering, is not permitted. The tennis courts are out of bounds unless you are playing on them. This does NOT permit, as happened yesterday, over fifty girls bringing tennis rackets down to the fence with them. Rackets which, from where we were watching, were being put to very little use.
The girls smiled, turning to look over their shoulders.
Now to today.
Who’s practising first, Sister Condron?
The bus shall take us directly to the Concert Hall in the Capital.
Are we not stopping at Rest & Be Thankful?
Yes, yes; if we need toilets, then directly to the Concert Hall. There is no doubt, despite how hard you’ve worked, that you need more work, especially on All Round the House …
The nun smiled, touched, as the Thirds set up a hushed little whisper:
All round the house
Is the jet black night
It stares through the window panes
Crawls in the corners
Manda smirked.
I’m being realistic when I say the Seconds and Thirds need more, work than the Sopranos …
Fionnula (the Cooler), Orla, Chell, Manda and squinting Kylah punched air, tamely hopped and turned beaming at each other.
Girls … you all need work, don’t get blasé or you’ll be here at 11 a.m. before you know it. I’ll be practising the Thirds then the Seconds …
A babble had frothed up.
Quie-et. Then the Sopranos.
Sister? Fionnula’s almost American-like, creamy voice rose, Are we permitted up the city till group rehearsals start. Aye?
Yes Fionnula, you can all go shopping and make your pilgrimage to McDonald’s hamburgers …
A hubbub began …
But you will all be back from those streets on the price of your scalps for your rehearsal time at the Concert Hall. You will not get lost, you wear your uniforms at all times, you keep your blazers and ties on, your new shoelaces remain in your shoes and you conduct yourselves in a manner befitting Our Lady of Perpetual Succour School for Girls. Is that understood by each and every person in this room?
YES SISTER CONDOM.
Yes, Orla?
Sister. Have you seen any sailors from the submarine down town this morning?
Hymn to Orla Johnstone
Kylah, Fionnula (the Cooler), Chell, Manda Tassy and Orla! The Sopranos swinging or shouldering their bags from Room 37 towards the understairs toilets for final cigarettes.
They’ve youth; they’ll walk it out like a favourite pair trainers. It’s a poem this youth and why should they know it, as the five of them move up the empty corridors? We should get shoved aside cause they have it now, in glow of skin and liquid clarity of deep eye on coming June nights and cause it will go … After all what do we amount to but a load of old worn-out shoes?
Issues forth … the simple soul in … uh, God’s eyes, Old Ardlui ground his teeth, tapped his tongue on the chewed end of his unlit pipe inside his mouth. What is it that allows the soul, alma or anima, its delicate structure, to emerge into the things the girls have become, a sinful illusion? An Anatomy of the Soul that is what the world needs. He. growled. He really growled and squinted. At least he’d remembered the Johnstone lassie, the one they helped to Lourdes, at least he’d remembered her name.
