Part 18 (1/2)

'Are we managing to bottle enough gooseberries for the winter? Sister Perpetua thinks we have less in hand than last year, despite the good weather.'

'Oh, aye, we are that,' replied Maggie, barely hiding a hint of indignation. 'I have plenty bottled in the cellar and if there's any more late crop come through, Frank thinks we may be able to squeeze out another half-dozen jars or so from the plants in the gla.s.shouse.'

Sister Theresa looked far from mollified.

'Good. Sister Perpetua also tells me some of the apples have been stolen.'

'Ah, well, I think one or two of the windfalls from the other side of the railings may have gone, but, sure, they would have been full of maggots and no good to us now,' Maggie replied.

'That's not the point, Maggie. Any child who steals from us should be up before the magistrate. Thou shalt not steal is an important lesson to be learnt.'

'But, sure, Sister Theresa, these children have walked a mile to steal a rotten apple, because they are hungry. Surely the good Lord wouldn't mind a bit of that in their bellies? It would give them the cramps as it is. Is that not a fair punishment?'

'There is no excuse for stealing, Maggie. It is wrong. If you see any child doing it, I want them caught and reported.'

'Yes, Sister,' said Maggie, with a heavy heart and no intention of doing any such thing.

The children hadn't stolen any apples. She and Frank had picked the windfalls and kept them in a basket behind the lodge. They knew every child from the village and their parents. Frank and Maggie dished out the apples when the children came along, to save them from the sin of stealing or, worse, being caught.

'We are using the salt fish today with tatties,' said Maggie, in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

As Sister Theresa looked round the kitchen, her gaze alighted on the orphan girl helping Maggie.

There was a note of alarm in her voice as she asked, 'Where's the girl?'

Maggie didn't need to ask, which girl? 'She has the vomiting bug and, sure, I don't want it, Sister, so I've confined her to her room. The last thing we need is vomiting to sweep through this place now and I don't want to be laid up or none of us will eat.'

Sister Theresa looked at the door of the storeroom where Daisy was expected to sleep and which opened straight onto the kitchen. It was closed and Maggie had locked it. The key felt as though it were burning a hole through her ap.r.o.n pocket and scalding her thigh.

Her heart beat wildly as the Reverend Mother stared at the door for what seemed like a lifetime. Suddenly she turned back to Maggie.

'Very well, but don't let her s.h.i.+rk, though. Back to work as soon as she is well. The bishop is in Liverpool for a meeting about the new cathedral, but he told me he wants to see her when he returns.'

'Yes, Sister,' said Maggie.

Maggie kept her head bent as she turned the loaves out onto the long wooden table. She daren't look up in case Sister Theresa detected the panic in her eyes.

Later that evening, when her work was done and she was back at the lodge, Maggie recounted the visit to Frank. They had settled in front of the fire, the way they did each night before bed. Rain was falling steadily, as it had done for most of the day. The fire struggled to catch and throw out a decent flame as smoke billowed back into the kitchen. In another of their familiar nightly rituals, each held an enamel mug of poteen, brewed by Frank himself in a still kept hidden, behind a false wall in the potting shed. He and Maggie often laughed at the thought of what the nuns would do, if they knew Frank brewed his own poteen in the convent grounds.

'Jesus, they would choke and die, wouldn't they just,' said Maggie as she took her first sip.

Tonight, they talked about the Reverend Mother's visit to the kitchen and Daisy's whereabouts.

'That's three days she has been gone now. I reckon we have another week. Reverend Mother, she never visits the kitchen more than once a week. What will we say, Frank, when they discover she has disappeared?'

'You will wail and cry, Maggie, about how that girl took advantage of you, letting her rest whilst she was sick, that's what. No finger of suspicion must ever point at us. Let's hope the police are listening to Daisy and her story.'

'Aye, if she is following the instructions I gave her and there is a G.o.d, all should be well.'

Maggie looked again at the letter they had received from the foreman, Jack.

'Carry on reading now, before the poteen knocks ye out for the night,' said Frank.

Frank had worked in the fields since he was six years old and had never learnt to read. Maggie had attended the local school religiously and had excelled at English and maths, despite frequently receiving the cane across her palms whenever she made the slightest error.

The nuns had failed to beat an apt.i.tude for learning out of Maggie, as they had with most children. Rather, they beat a resilience and determination into her, to get her own back one day.

Maggie resumed reading.

Because she told me on the way over that one of the men she needed to report was a policeman from Liverpool, I decided to take her to the police station in Holyhead.

They were very good and kept her in overnight. I agreed to keep an eye on her, as promised, and booked into the pub next door to the police station for the night. When I called back the next morning, they told me they had got a mighty statement from her and they were taking her to Liverpool where they were hopefully going to make an arrest before the day was out. I have no idea who he was, but a very senior man from the Welsh police came to the station. They let me go and told me that what Daisy had told them amounted to a kidnapping, which is a very serious offence.

I have to say, your comments in the letter about her brother being the state solicitor of Dublin made them jump and I know they telephoned him. I didn't mention your names as promised.

It was a pleasure to get to know you both and, Frank, I look forward to welcoming you to the Shamrock pub in Liverpool, for a return Guinness one day soon, mate.

Your pal from Liverpool, Jack 'That makes me feel good, so it does, that such a bad man will get his due deserts because we have played our part.'

'Aye, it does. Me too, Frank,' said Maggie thoughtfully. 'Watch out for Sister Perpetua. She wants to see kids from the village locked up for stealing apples. Telling tales to the Reverend Mother so she is. She's a wicked one, that one. Watch yer back.'

'Aye, I've noticed her snooping around the vegetable gardens a few times. I will, Maggie, don't worry about me. I keep my wits about me at all times. No one can catch me out.'

Frank had no idea. Someone already had.

Sister Perpetua sat in her room, making yet another entry in the journal she had been keeping over the last month. She knew that when she approached the Reverend Mother, she would need to present a cast-iron case. Not of a single event that could be explained away, but a whole list, which would demonstrate a pattern of deceit, theft and bad behaviour.

Only a few weeks earlier, Sister Perpetua had caught one of the girls returning to the orphanage from the kitchen with her pockets stuffed full of biscuits. When they were removed from her and she was beaten, she confessed to Sister Perpetua that the cook, Maggie, had given them to her.

This had not been an isolated incident. Only the previous week, Sister Perpetua had seen Frank pa.s.sing vegetables through the railings to the village children. Last night, she had seen him taking a bottle of clear liquid from the potting shed and slipping it into his jacket pocket. Her suspicions now thoroughly aroused, she kept an eye on Frank from the orphanage, which overlooked the vegetable gardens, and with her own eyes she had seen him sneakily carry a basket of apples round the back of the orchard to the lodge.

Sister Perpetua was sure in her own mind that the Reverend Mother had employed a pair of thieves and it was her duty to point this out. When she did so, maybe then she would be relieved of the job that she hated so much. Dealing day after day with ungrateful children and digging graves.

The Reverend Mother knew she could trust Sister Perpetua. Only two nuns were allowed to dig graves and Sister Perpetua was one of them. She was also the only nun entrusted with the paperwork, when children died. It was she who decided whether or not to obtain a death certificate and at what point to report the death to the authorities.

'We have no idea who will come asking questions or when,' Sister Theresa had said. 'We must keep everything as obscure as possible and, sure, if no one wanted these children in life, I am quite sure there will be no interest when they are dead, but you never know. Better to be safe than sorry. We must protect ourselves from any charge that could be brought to our door. There are people who indulge children and fail to discipline them. Sentimental, they are, and just the type to think they could do a better job than we have. No traces, Sister Perpetua. Always be vigilant. Nothing recorded that anyone at any time in the future could behold.'

Sister Perpetua had done her work well. There was at least one death a week at the orphanage. She knew this was high.

'We could blame a disease, Reverend Mother,' Sister Perpetua had commented. Sister Theresa was always anxious about the children sent to the orphanage by the authorities.

'Really, Sister Perpetua?' the Reverend Mother snapped. 'Then they would all have died in the same week, not at the rate of four or five a month. Just do as I say.

'There must be nothing that can be traced. No ma.s.s at the graveside. Most of those children were born out of wedlock. They are steeped in a sin that no ma.s.s could erase. No headstones. We don't ever want to encourage mourners.'

Sister Perpetua had created an environment of obedience and orderliness in which penitents could seek forgiveness, exactly as she had been asked. However, after four years of disciplining children and burying them, she was heartily sick of the orphanage. She knew it was difficult to ask for a transfer to the retreat. That was solely in the gift of the Reverend Mother. A reward for loyalty and discretion.