The Convent by Maureen McCarthy Page B

knew who she was, and why she was where she was. I do. I know who I am. I do. And I know why I’m here. Eventually she rose from her knees, pushed back the curtains and got into bed. She was overwrought, that was all. Overwrought.
    It had been a big day.
    At last the overhead lights were out. Cecilia listened to the quietness of the others asleep around her, and thought of her father and his curt dismissal of everything she held dear. But that didn’t upset her as much as Dominic. Dom was troubled. Anyone could see it in his face, and it tore at Cecilia’s heart. Her eldest brother, who used to put her up behind him on the white pony when she was very little, make up funny little stories for her and whistle tunes for her to guess. When she was old enough, he’d taught her to ride. Now Dom was … lost. If only she could help him. If only she could sit with him, tell him a joke, make him smile.
    â€˜Have you been riding?’ she’d asked shyly that afternoon during a quiet moment.
    â€˜Nah.’ He’d shrugged and looked away.
    She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, letting the tears leak from the corners of her eyes down onto her thin pillow. Most nights someone cried herself to sleep in this room. So now it was her turn.
    She shifted onto her side in the bed and was just dropping off to sleep when she realised that Breda’s bed was empty. Alarmed, Cecilia sat up and looked around.
    Breda was standing by the window, her small bald head bent to one side in the light coming in from the cold moon. She must be up looking at that tree again. Cecilia couldn’t help smiling. Just then the moonlight caught a glint of something silver in Breda’s hand and the smile froze on her lips.
    Oh my God! Cecilia pushed off the bedclothes and tiptoed over.
    â€˜Where did you get that?’ she whispered in awe.
    â€˜Dad,’ Breda said simply, holding out the small transistor radio so Cecilia could see. ‘Today.’
    â€˜But Breda!’ Cecilia was genuinely shocked. ‘If Mother sees it she’ll have a stroke.’
    â€˜Footy,’ Breda said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m sick of relying on Guido.’
    Breda’s only source of information about her beloved team, Fitzroy, was old Guido, a sixty-year-old Italian refugee who worked with Mother Benedict in the garden. Every week she risked the Novice Mistress’s wrath to grab five minutes to find out the Lions’ weekend score. But he didn’t work Mondays, so it meant she had to wait until Tuesday.
    But they weren’t allowed to own anything. Poverty. ‘The female has a natural inclination to make a nest,’ Reverend Mother told them time and time again. ‘My dear Sisters, housewifery is part of our very natures and so must be resisted at all costs. We are not housewives but vehicles for God’s Grace in the world. As such, we own nothing except the sacred vows we have taken and keep as the sweetest flowers near our hearts. They are kept fresh every day with the pure water of prayer.’
    Nothing. We own nothing .
    Indeed, each novice had to humbly beg the community every few weeks to use the simple trifles that she needed to survive, such as crockery and prayer books, the shoes on her feet. If a sister broke anything out of carelessness, then she had to wear it about her person for a whole day as a reminder to be more careful with property that didn’t belong to her. Only the week before, little Sister Paula had had to walk about all day with four broken cups hanging from her belt. The week before that, Cecilia herself had had to carry around a chipped tray that she’d dropped when she was taking one of the old infirm Sisters her breakfast.
    So what could Breda be thinking?
    Cecilia tried with everything in her to hold back the laughter. But when she gave in to it, Breda joined her, and suddenly they were clinging to each other, doubled over and helpless, barely able to stand