being found twisted and bloody in her blanket that was wet throughfrom sweat. Except it wasn’t that simple, because Magda knew what had happened, which was why she now had the duty of murdering Father Doran.
Magda felt really bad about things. She told herself she guessed, but wasn’t sure and nobody ever explained, that Lucy had tried maybe to get out of bed to get some water, having sweated so heavily that even her pillow was damp and the blanket stuck to her with blood. She had pooed herself, her shit sticking black and smelly to the blanket and the brighter blood she had sicked or coughed – maybe both? – staining the blanket and her chin.
It was Seven-Eight, who secretly was Vera and claimed to know her surname – yet another lost element of identity Magda knew would prove another insuperable weight-age problem – who claimed to have found Lucy like that, though it wasn’t true. It was about four in the morning, and the dorm was soon a silent parade of lights, torches, nuns flitting and bringing things and carrying canvas with two long sticks they had difficulty shoving inside the tough hemmed edges. They made Magda, still in the gloaming of the coming dawn, close her eyes tight and pray while Lucy went to her eternal rest, because it was a specially holy moment and one they all had to learn from to their lasting benefit throughout life.
Magda was fearful and betrayed Sister St Paul by pretending to herself that she was unable to cross her thumbs exactly right without opening her eyes just a crack to see as the nuns panted by carrying…carrying what looked like potatoes lumpy and long in the canvas thing. One nun actually told the other off, who held the flashlight to show the way to the door, because the older nun, whose name Magda didn’t know, had forgotten to bring the brace-irons for the stretcher, whatever those were.It looked like one long tube of canvas, and Magda tried to pray but the words didn’t stick themselves together the way they should in any ordinary prayer.
And Magda cried that morning all through the De Profundis, feeling really sad even though Lucy was joyously wrecking the Protestant King’s seventeen telephones from her special place in Heaven and happily feasting on meat and milk and honey and whatnot on the Right Hand of God. And Magda was smacked three times for keeping on weeping when she should have been dancing with joy at Lucy experiencing ineffable joy up there among all the saints. She chimed in with,
When my hair stiffening on my head shall forbode my approaching end…
Lord have mercy on us…
But who would wipe Lucy’s chin, as Magda so often did in the night when Lucy whispered she was frightened her mouth blood would show on the sheets? Would those stealthy nuns, carrying her off in a thing like a sack because the old nun had forgotten the brace-irons, wipe her chin? And did they mop her clean? And wash her bottom and legs after all that black stuff came out of her bottom when she died? And did anybody remember to give Lucy a drink of water before she went to be buried? And where exactly was Lucy now? Magda badly wanted to go to see where Lucy was, so she could pray over the headstone and make things all right. She felt it was shameful, but maybe that’s what happened to everybody when you died.
‘Washed in the Blood of the Lamb,’ Sister St Paul intoned during the Litany For The Dead, which probably explained all that blood and dark colour. Only One-One-Three, who was Sally, cried like Magda did that day, and got her legs smartingtoo with Sister Annuncion’s thick round ruler just like Magda for wasting time in superfluous grieving.
Nothing else really happened in the Magdalenes, except numerous disappointments, but they were like weather and came every day in different guises, until Magda went to work unpaid in the paper packers. The girls who reached the age to live out were sent to families, if they could read and write and were decent, or to a job under
Magda felt really bad about things. She told herself she guessed, but wasn’t sure and nobody ever explained, that Lucy had tried maybe to get out of bed to get some water, having sweated so heavily that even her pillow was damp and the blanket stuck to her with blood. She had pooed herself, her shit sticking black and smelly to the blanket and the brighter blood she had sicked or coughed – maybe both? – staining the blanket and her chin.
It was Seven-Eight, who secretly was Vera and claimed to know her surname – yet another lost element of identity Magda knew would prove another insuperable weight-age problem – who claimed to have found Lucy like that, though it wasn’t true. It was about four in the morning, and the dorm was soon a silent parade of lights, torches, nuns flitting and bringing things and carrying canvas with two long sticks they had difficulty shoving inside the tough hemmed edges. They made Magda, still in the gloaming of the coming dawn, close her eyes tight and pray while Lucy went to her eternal rest, because it was a specially holy moment and one they all had to learn from to their lasting benefit throughout life.
Magda was fearful and betrayed Sister St Paul by pretending to herself that she was unable to cross her thumbs exactly right without opening her eyes just a crack to see as the nuns panted by carrying…carrying what looked like potatoes lumpy and long in the canvas thing. One nun actually told the other off, who held the flashlight to show the way to the door, because the older nun, whose name Magda didn’t know, had forgotten to bring the brace-irons for the stretcher, whatever those were.It looked like one long tube of canvas, and Magda tried to pray but the words didn’t stick themselves together the way they should in any ordinary prayer.
And Magda cried that morning all through the De Profundis, feeling really sad even though Lucy was joyously wrecking the Protestant King’s seventeen telephones from her special place in Heaven and happily feasting on meat and milk and honey and whatnot on the Right Hand of God. And Magda was smacked three times for keeping on weeping when she should have been dancing with joy at Lucy experiencing ineffable joy up there among all the saints. She chimed in with,
When my hair stiffening on my head shall forbode my approaching end…
Lord have mercy on us…
But who would wipe Lucy’s chin, as Magda so often did in the night when Lucy whispered she was frightened her mouth blood would show on the sheets? Would those stealthy nuns, carrying her off in a thing like a sack because the old nun had forgotten the brace-irons, wipe her chin? And did they mop her clean? And wash her bottom and legs after all that black stuff came out of her bottom when she died? And did anybody remember to give Lucy a drink of water before she went to be buried? And where exactly was Lucy now? Magda badly wanted to go to see where Lucy was, so she could pray over the headstone and make things all right. She felt it was shameful, but maybe that’s what happened to everybody when you died.
‘Washed in the Blood of the Lamb,’ Sister St Paul intoned during the Litany For The Dead, which probably explained all that blood and dark colour. Only One-One-Three, who was Sally, cried like Magda did that day, and got her legs smartingtoo with Sister Annuncion’s thick round ruler just like Magda for wasting time in superfluous grieving.
Nothing else really happened in the Magdalenes, except numerous disappointments, but they were like weather and came every day in different guises, until Magda went to work unpaid in the paper packers. The girls who reached the age to live out were sent to families, if they could read and write and were decent, or to a job under
Similar Books
