now. You couldn't have timed it better, as it happened.'
With a lurch Helen remembered the reason she had taken the large black plastic carrier bag that had been swinging emptily beside her on her journey home. She had meant to come by the market and buy cheaply what the sellers hadn't got rid of during the day. She had forgotten it once, and that was why she had been heading towards the grocery and off-licence where she had assisted her compatriot to destroy his liver even faster than he was already doing. She had been given three pounds to buy the vegetables. She had spent it on cider for an alcoholic.
'Sit down, Helen. It's not the end of the world,' said Joan, who didn't know the details of the story but recognized the substance and knew there would be no vegetables for the casserole.
'Sit down, Helen, stop crying. I'll put on a cup of tea for you just as soon as I've scrubbed some of those potatoes. We'll have jacket potatoes with a little bit of cheese. It will be just as nice.'
Nessa was tired; it had been a particularly bad day.
An eighteen-year-old mother had sat whimpering in a corner while her fate was being discussed by social workers and a woman police officer. Her baby would live, thanks to Nessa, but what kind of life?
The mother had not turned up at the centre for two days running and Nessa became worried. The door to the block of flats always swung open and as Nessa went in she almost fell over Simon crawling along the filthy corridor. Beer cans and bottles were strewn everywhere, the place smelled of urine, there were dangers every few feet, broken bicycles, crates with sharp corners.
Simon was crawling earnestly towards the open door. In a minute he would have been on the street where no car or motor bicycle would have expected a child to crawl. He would have been dead.
As it was he was alive, the sores from his stinking nappies being treated. Anti-tetanus injections were being given against the germs he must have encountered, and his bruised eye was pronounced mercifully intact.
His mother hadn't beaten him, of this Nessa was sure, but she was too feeble-minded to look after him. He would be in care when he came out of hospital. A lifetime of care lay ahead of him. But care with a capital C.
Nessa was not in the mood for Helen's tears and explanations. She cut her very short.
'So you forgot the vegetables again. So what, Helen? Let's have a little peace. That's what would be really nice.'
Helen broke off mid-sentence. 'I was only taking it all on myself, I didn't want you to blame Sister Joan.'
'Oh for God's sake, Helen, who in their right mind would blame Sister Joan or any Sister? Cut it out, will you?'
It was the sharpest remark that had ever been made in St Martin's House, a place of peace and consideration.
Sister Joan and Sister Maureen looked shocked at Nessa with her white tired face going up the stairs.
Helen looked at all three of them and burst into tears again.
Sister Brigid never seemed to be aware of any little atmosphere. It was one of her characteristics. Sometimes Helen thought it was a weakness, a rare insensitivity in an otherwise remarkable character.
Other times she wondered whether it might in fact be a blessing and something that Sister Brigid cultivated purposely.
There was no mention made of Helen's red eyes and blotchy face as they sat, heads bent, waiting for Sister Brigid to say the simple blessing over their food. Nobody acknowledged that Nessa looked white and drawn, though they were solicitous about passing her things and smiling at her a little more often than they smiled at the rest of the table. Eleven women including Brigid, the quiet Mother Superior who never used that title.
She had been very stern with Helen for calling her Reverend Mother.
'But isn't that what you are?' Helen had been startled.
'We are sisters here, it's a community, this is our home, it's not an institution with ranks and rules and pecking orders.'
It had been hard to grasp at
With a lurch Helen remembered the reason she had taken the large black plastic carrier bag that had been swinging emptily beside her on her journey home. She had meant to come by the market and buy cheaply what the sellers hadn't got rid of during the day. She had forgotten it once, and that was why she had been heading towards the grocery and off-licence where she had assisted her compatriot to destroy his liver even faster than he was already doing. She had been given three pounds to buy the vegetables. She had spent it on cider for an alcoholic.
'Sit down, Helen. It's not the end of the world,' said Joan, who didn't know the details of the story but recognized the substance and knew there would be no vegetables for the casserole.
'Sit down, Helen, stop crying. I'll put on a cup of tea for you just as soon as I've scrubbed some of those potatoes. We'll have jacket potatoes with a little bit of cheese. It will be just as nice.'
Nessa was tired; it had been a particularly bad day.
An eighteen-year-old mother had sat whimpering in a corner while her fate was being discussed by social workers and a woman police officer. Her baby would live, thanks to Nessa, but what kind of life?
The mother had not turned up at the centre for two days running and Nessa became worried. The door to the block of flats always swung open and as Nessa went in she almost fell over Simon crawling along the filthy corridor. Beer cans and bottles were strewn everywhere, the place smelled of urine, there were dangers every few feet, broken bicycles, crates with sharp corners.
Simon was crawling earnestly towards the open door. In a minute he would have been on the street where no car or motor bicycle would have expected a child to crawl. He would have been dead.
As it was he was alive, the sores from his stinking nappies being treated. Anti-tetanus injections were being given against the germs he must have encountered, and his bruised eye was pronounced mercifully intact.
His mother hadn't beaten him, of this Nessa was sure, but she was too feeble-minded to look after him. He would be in care when he came out of hospital. A lifetime of care lay ahead of him. But care with a capital C.
Nessa was not in the mood for Helen's tears and explanations. She cut her very short.
'So you forgot the vegetables again. So what, Helen? Let's have a little peace. That's what would be really nice.'
Helen broke off mid-sentence. 'I was only taking it all on myself, I didn't want you to blame Sister Joan.'
'Oh for God's sake, Helen, who in their right mind would blame Sister Joan or any Sister? Cut it out, will you?'
It was the sharpest remark that had ever been made in St Martin's House, a place of peace and consideration.
Sister Joan and Sister Maureen looked shocked at Nessa with her white tired face going up the stairs.
Helen looked at all three of them and burst into tears again.
Sister Brigid never seemed to be aware of any little atmosphere. It was one of her characteristics. Sometimes Helen thought it was a weakness, a rare insensitivity in an otherwise remarkable character.
Other times she wondered whether it might in fact be a blessing and something that Sister Brigid cultivated purposely.
There was no mention made of Helen's red eyes and blotchy face as they sat, heads bent, waiting for Sister Brigid to say the simple blessing over their food. Nobody acknowledged that Nessa looked white and drawn, though they were solicitous about passing her things and smiling at her a little more often than they smiled at the rest of the table. Eleven women including Brigid, the quiet Mother Superior who never used that title.
She had been very stern with Helen for calling her Reverend Mother.
'But isn't that what you are?' Helen had been startled.
'We are sisters here, it's a community, this is our home, it's not an institution with ranks and rules and pecking orders.'
It had been hard to grasp at
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