‘If it’s a girl, I’ll name her Genevieve. If it’s a boy, Ronan. That means Little Seal. Do you have seals where you come from, Nan?’
‘No.’ There were seals on the rocks at Ballywilling Beach but I didn’t want to come from there anymore. I had abandoned the idea that Ireland belonged to me or me to it. I came from London. My mother’s daughter. Not my father’s.
‘Whenever trouble comes to land, Ronan will swim away. Whenever trouble comes to water, Ronan will return to shore.’
‘Why Genevieve?’ I asked.
‘The patron saint of young girls. So she can look out for herself.’
I hugged my own belly, liking the sound of that.
‘No harm can reach this baby ever,’ Bess said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’
It sounded like what we wanted to be true. Never mind where we were. All the good things would happen. Our young men would return for us. Our babies would stay close to us always and we’d watch them grow. I pictured myself at a kitchen table, my baby playing with Alby at my feet, Finbarr making tea while I filled a notebook with stories. They hadn’t taken the wishes out of us, not yet.
All girls are the same. Father Joseph’s proclamation dogged us until we could almost believe it was true. There was the occasional rebellion – like the girl who escaped through the open gate when the milk truck arrived. The bells sounded, nuns scurrying everywhere, demanding one door be locked, another opened. We cheered, risking their wrath, and then were disappointed when the escapee returned the same evening, face streaked with dust and tears. A pointless day of walking led to the full realization that there was nowhere for her to go.
‘Be glad for a roof over your head,’ the nuns told us. ‘It’s more than most would give you.’
One morning, Bess and I were scrubbing the entry hall. Often the floors they had us clean were already spotless, but summer had begun with plenty of rain, and the girls who’d been working outdoors had tracked a good deal of dirt over the tiles. I left Bess on her hands and knees to fetch more hot water for our buckets,
and on my way back, found Sister Mary Clare humming through the corridor.
‘Sister,’ I said. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a favour.’
‘My English Rose,’ she said, smiling. ‘You can ask me anything at all. I hope you know that.’
‘Could you send a letter to Ballycotton, to Finbarr Mahoney – just a few lines, to tell him where I am?’
A look of sad hesitation crossed her face.
‘You don’t have to tell him to come for me,’ I assured her. ‘You don’t have to say anything except, “Nan’s at the convent in Sunday’s Corner”。 He’d come for me if he knew, Sister, he’d marry me, I know he would.’
‘Sure, and I know it too.’ She pressed her hand into my shoulder. Despite the pregnancy there was no flesh for her to grab on to. The diet they gave us was spare at best. Bread in the morning and evening and a thin stew for our midday dinner. ‘I’ll write to your Finbarr, Nan. I do believe you could be one of the lucky ones after all.’
The nun walked me back to the front entryway. She did not offer to carry one of my buckets, the scalding water sloshing onto my shins and clogs.
‘Sister,’ Bess said. She struggled to her feet. The stone wall glistened with moisture and so did Bess. Sweat formed in beads on her brow and cheeks. Sister Mary Clare stepped towards her solicitously, the same plump hand rising to touch her cheek.
‘I’m feeling poorly,’ Bess said. ‘Cramped and clammy.’
Sister Mary Clare moved her hand from Bess’s cheek to her forehead. ‘You don’t feel feverish,’ she said.