Marilyn’s Child - Lynne Pemberton

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what they call the charisma thing, you know like film stars have. You’ve got it.’

      I can feel my cheeks burning as Bridget urges me to open the envelope. It contains a card. On the front is an image of a girl with flowing blonde hair; she’s dressed in an ankle-length white dress with a midnight-blue sash cinched at her waist. It’s a classical card edged in gold leaf. Inside, there’s a mushy verse. I begin to read but Bridget insists I read it aloud. I hesitate and look up as Sally and Mary Neesom sit down opposite, identical twins so alike it’s scary. I know they can’t help being ugly but one would have been more than enough.

      On the opposing leaf, Bridget had written in her childish neat hand: Happy Birthday to my best friend Kate. I love you and am going to miss you (LOADS).

      I kiss Bridget on the cheek and at the same time whisper in her ear: ‘Ditto, and thank you very much. I’ll cherish this –’ I touch the brush – ‘for the rest of my life.’

      ‘So how does it feel to be getting out of this place?’ Sally Neesom asks, nudging her twin in the ribs. ‘Looking forward to working for our heavenly Father?’

      ‘I can’t start to tell you what it feels like to be leaving this Godforsaken place, and as for working for Father Steele – I’m very excited!’

      Simultaneously the twins stick out their tongues. ‘You, Kate O’Sullivan, get all the bloody luck. It’s not fair.’

      ‘Sure it’s fair. And anyway, like I’ve always said, you make your own luck in life. We –’ as I utter the word I glance around the dining hall – ‘we lot were in the back of the queue when they gave out the luck, so all the more reason for us to make our own. We’ve no mams and da’s looking out for us, nobody to run back to if it all goes wrong. It means we’ve got to be extra strong to get where we want to be.’

      ‘And where’s that, Kate – in Father Steele’s bed?’

      It was Sally, the louder of the twins. Her sister giggles. I feel irritated, and pleased a second later when Bridget snarls, ‘Remember it’s a priest you’re talking about. Just don’t let anyone hear you blaspheming.’

      They both shrug and speak together: ‘Sure, it’s only a joke.’

      ‘And what is it you’ll be doing for the curate?’ Sally again.

      The word char stuck in my throat. ‘Answering the telephone, paying bills, keeping the books, making appointments … You know, like a PA. He’s even asked me to teach him to paint.’

      The twins look suitably impressed.

      ‘It’s only temporary, for a few months before I leave Friday Wells.’

      ‘Where will you go, Kate?’ a wide-eyed Mary Neesom asks.

      ‘I intend to go right to the top. Nowhere else will do.’

       Chapter Five

      After breakfast I’m summoned to Mother Superior’s study. I know why, but the knowing does nothing to dispel the dread. All girls have to say a formal farewell. To summon up the courage to refuse, to make a stand to leave right there and then, head held high, feet as light as air, was tempting. Don’t think I hadn’t considered it, yet I knew for certain my action would deem me unfit to work for the curate. On my solitary march to the nuns’ domain I talk to myself every step of the way. There is nothing any of them could say or do to hurt me. It’s a formality, something to endure for a few minutes before I get a life.

      My rap on the door is followed by a brisk, ‘Come.’

      On stepping into the room I’m momentarily taken aback. All the sisters are there except Mother Thomas: eight in total, lined up like tin soldiers on either side of Mother Superior, who sits menacingly still, her long back stiff as a board behind her highly polished mahogany desk.

      ‘Good morning, Kate,’ Mother Superior says, her lips barely moving, like a ventriloquist.

      ‘Good morning, Mother Virgilus.’

      Unsmiling she beckons me to approach her desk. Once there she hands me a brown parcel tied with string saying, ‘It contains regulation garments given to all girls leaving the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. There’s a good set of clothes: a dark blue woollen skirt, a white cotton blouse, a six-button blue cardigan, and a grey mackintosh. You will find ten pounds in an envelope, and your birth certificate.’

      I take the package from her right hand as she picks up a large brown manila envelope with her left. ‘This arrived for you yesterday. I’ve no idea what it contains.’ She thrusts the envelope into my hand. A quick glance tells me it’s from a firm called Shaunessy & O’Leary in Dublin.

      ‘And this–’ Mother Superior taps the cover of a bound book – ‘is a gift from the Sisters of Mercy. A specially embossed and bound bible. I hope it will be a reminder of your time here and the goodness and mercy bestowed upon you by this charitable organization.’

      She hands me the bible; I make no effort to take it.

      ‘I hope you will cherish this fine gift, Kate.’

      I manage a nod.

      ‘Do you not have a tongue, girl? I asked you a question. I expect a civil answer.’

      ‘Do you want me to tell the truth, Mother Virgilus?’

      ‘Of course. What else have we taught you here but to tell the truth in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost?’

      Under my breath I mutter, You asked for it. Aloud, I say, ‘I don’t want the bible or, for that matter, anything that might remind me of my time here.’

      I see her face begin to turn red, in anger I suspect, but I don’t care. She asked for the truth. ‘Apart from Mother Peter’s kindness, I want to forget this place ever existed.’ I glance in Mother Peter’s direction; she averts her eyes. ‘Have you any idea, Mother Virgilus, how it feels to be an orphan child, totally alone and at the mercy of monsters like Mother Thomas and Mother Paul?’

      ‘How dare you, Kate O’Sullivan, you ungrateful pup? How dare you accuse me of –’ Mother Paul moves forward as if to strike me. I stand my ground, triumph lighting up my eyes.

      Rising like a black spectre from behind her desk, Mother Superior refuses to meet my gaze. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

      ‘Don’t worry, I don’t have to be asked twice.’

      I start towards the door and, as I open it, I hear Mother Peter say, ‘God bless you, Kate O’Sullivan, all the days of your life.’

      Scarcely able to contain my glee, I bounce back to the dormitory on freshly sprung feet. The orphanage is quiet as most of the girls are at school. I mount the stairs thinking that in less than twenty minutes I’ll be going down the same flight for the last time.

      Once in the dormitory I sit on the edge of my bed. The mattress feels hard, the horse-hair spread coarse to the touch. Images are beginning to filter into my consciousness. I blot them out with thoughts of tomorrow. A new bed with a bright candlewick counterpane, I hope, and a wooden headboard; a dressing table and a chair with a floral-covered cushion and matching curtains.

      Next to each bed is a locker, mine empty now, and above that a shelf where each item of clothing I’ve ever owned has been folded and neatly stacked in exactly the same way every day of my life. Daily inspections kept us neat – God help anyone who had a fold out of place. I wonder if I’ll ever get out of the habit of folding my clothes and stacking them in neat piles.

      The parcel of clothes rests on my lap. I fumble with the string; it gives way easily and I slide the clothes out of the package. I rummage for the envelope and, tearing it open, I find a ten-pound note and a neatly folded document. With shaking hands I unfold my birth certificate. My heartbeat quickens as my eyes

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