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Authors: Maeve Binchy
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first, but after three years Helen felt that she had surely earned her place. Biting her lip she looked at the ten women chattering around the simple meal. Made more simple still by the fact of her forgetting the vegetables.
They talked easily about the work they had done during the day, the practicalities, the funny things, the optimisms, the chance of more help here, of fighting the cuts there. Brigid had said that they must not bring their problems to the supper table or even home to the house, otherwise St Martin's would be weighed down by the collective grief and anxiety of these workers in the sad end of society. They would become so depressed if they were to dwell every night on the amount of misery and pain they had seen in their different worlds that it would be counter productive. People needed escape, time out, retreat. They didn't have the luxury of going on retreat like the nuns of a previous generation, but neither did they have the demands and responsibilities that many trained social workers who were married women or men had. There were no children needing time, love and attention, there were no social demands nor the intensity of one-to-one relationships.
Brigid told them often that small communities of nuns like theirs were ideally situated to serve the many and apparently increasing needs around them in London. The only thing they had to fear was too great an introspection or a depth of worry which might render their help less effective because it was becoming self important.
Helen looked around at their faces: apart from Nessa who was still looking frail the others were like women who had few cares. You would not know from listening to them that some of them had spent the day in magistrates' courts, in police stations, in welfare centres or in squats and rundown council estates, or like herself in a clothing centre.
She was pleased that they laughed when she told them about the bag lady who had come in to get a coat that morning. Helen's job was to arrange the sorting, the dry-cleaning and mending of clothes that came in to the bureau. A generous dry-cleaning firm let them use the big machine free at off-peak hours if they ensured that paying customers didn't realize they were sharing with hand me-downs for tramps.
The woman had been very insistent. 'Nothing in green, I've always found green an unlucky colour, Sister. No, red's a bit flashy, in my day only a certain kind of woman wore red. A nice .mauve, a lilac shade. No? Well, safer to settle for a brown then.
Not what you'd call cheerful for spring. But still.' A heavy sigh. Helen Doyle was a good mimic, she caught the woman perfectly, all the others could see her as clearly as if they had been there.
'You should be on the stage, Helen,' said Joan admiringly.
'Maybe she will one day,' said Maureen innocently.
Helen's face clouded. 'But how can I? I'll be here. Why don't any of you believe I'm going to stay? I've joined as much as you'll let me.' The lip was trembling. Dangerously.
Sister Brigid intervened. 'What did she look like in the brown coat, Helen?' she asked firmly. The warning was plain. With an effort Helen pulled herself back to the story. The woman had asked for a scarf too, something toning she said, as if she had been in the accessories department of a fashion store.
'I found her a hat in the end, a yellow hat with a brown feather in it, and I gave her a yellow brooch I was wearing myself. I said it sort,of brought the whole colour scheme together. She nodded like the Queen Mother and was very gracious about it, then she picked up her four bags of rubbish and went back to the Embankment.'
'Good, Helen.' Sister Brigid was approving. 'If you can make it seem like a fashion store with a bit of choice then you're doing it exactly right, that woman would never have taken what she thought was charity. Well done.'
The others all smiled too, and Nessa's smile was particularly broad.
'There's no one like Helen for these old misfits,'
They talked easily about the work they had done during the day, the practicalities, the funny things, the optimisms, the chance of more help here, of fighting the cuts there. Brigid had said that they must not bring their problems to the supper table or even home to the house, otherwise St Martin's would be weighed down by the collective grief and anxiety of these workers in the sad end of society. They would become so depressed if they were to dwell every night on the amount of misery and pain they had seen in their different worlds that it would be counter productive. People needed escape, time out, retreat. They didn't have the luxury of going on retreat like the nuns of a previous generation, but neither did they have the demands and responsibilities that many trained social workers who were married women or men had. There were no children needing time, love and attention, there were no social demands nor the intensity of one-to-one relationships.
Brigid told them often that small communities of nuns like theirs were ideally situated to serve the many and apparently increasing needs around them in London. The only thing they had to fear was too great an introspection or a depth of worry which might render their help less effective because it was becoming self important.
Helen looked around at their faces: apart from Nessa who was still looking frail the others were like women who had few cares. You would not know from listening to them that some of them had spent the day in magistrates' courts, in police stations, in welfare centres or in squats and rundown council estates, or like herself in a clothing centre.
She was pleased that they laughed when she told them about the bag lady who had come in to get a coat that morning. Helen's job was to arrange the sorting, the dry-cleaning and mending of clothes that came in to the bureau. A generous dry-cleaning firm let them use the big machine free at off-peak hours if they ensured that paying customers didn't realize they were sharing with hand me-downs for tramps.
The woman had been very insistent. 'Nothing in green, I've always found green an unlucky colour, Sister. No, red's a bit flashy, in my day only a certain kind of woman wore red. A nice .mauve, a lilac shade. No? Well, safer to settle for a brown then.
Not what you'd call cheerful for spring. But still.' A heavy sigh. Helen Doyle was a good mimic, she caught the woman perfectly, all the others could see her as clearly as if they had been there.
'You should be on the stage, Helen,' said Joan admiringly.
'Maybe she will one day,' said Maureen innocently.
Helen's face clouded. 'But how can I? I'll be here. Why don't any of you believe I'm going to stay? I've joined as much as you'll let me.' The lip was trembling. Dangerously.
Sister Brigid intervened. 'What did she look like in the brown coat, Helen?' she asked firmly. The warning was plain. With an effort Helen pulled herself back to the story. The woman had asked for a scarf too, something toning she said, as if she had been in the accessories department of a fashion store.
'I found her a hat in the end, a yellow hat with a brown feather in it, and I gave her a yellow brooch I was wearing myself. I said it sort,of brought the whole colour scheme together. She nodded like the Queen Mother and was very gracious about it, then she picked up her four bags of rubbish and went back to the Embankment.'
'Good, Helen.' Sister Brigid was approving. 'If you can make it seem like a fashion store with a bit of choice then you're doing it exactly right, that woman would never have taken what she thought was charity. Well done.'
The others all smiled too, and Nessa's smile was particularly broad.
'There's no one like Helen for these old misfits,'
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