The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 16

  It’s not what I imagined, she’d written to Brigid. I feel very underused, despite my confessor’s accusations that it’s my ego that’s causing me to feel like this. I thought I’d be like you, out in the community, not trapped in a convent.

  A month later the sage reply had come back:

  Dear precious niece,

  You are being taught humility and patience, something we all have to learn. But I truly understand your frustration. Were I in your shoes, I’m not sure that I’d cope, either. I’ve got used to my “freedom” from the rules and regulations which convent life binds us to. If it gets too much, my advice is to leave. No point in being miserable, and thankfully, you have a profession to go back to.

  I think Veronica sent you to Lagos to test your vocation. And that’s fine, too, Keelin. It’s much easier to leave now than it was when I joined, and if that’s what you decide to do, at least you will have peace of mind knowing the life of a nun was not for you.

  Try and be happy,

  Your loving aunt,

  Brigid

  Her aunt’s letter came as a shock. She hadn’t expected Brigid to urge her to leave so easily. She couldn’t leave. She wouldn’t leave this early in her novitiate. Keelin shook her head angrily, remembering her mother’s prediction: “It will all end in tears.” She’d stick it out for at least six more months, which would bring her up to a year as a novice, and then she’d consider her options.

  * * *

  Four months in, Mère Benedict told her the Reverend Mother wished to see her. Keelin’s heart sank. She’d very little to do with Mère Gertrude, a wry, spry seventy-year-old Frenchwoman who had spent most of her life in Africa. Was the Reverend Mother going to tell her she wasn’t good enough for the Order? Keelin wondered anxiously, thinking how ironic it would be if she got the boot rather than resigning. Perhaps Mère Benedict had complained about her attitude. Keelin found it hard to restrain herself sometimes when the nuns bossed her around. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the Reverend Mother’s office door.

  “Entrez,” came the command. “Ah, Soeur Michael. Please sit down.” The Reverend Mother gestured to the empty chair at the other side of her burnished teak desk. “You speak French reasonably well, is this true?” The question, in rapid French, caught Keelin off guard.

  “Oui, Mère Gertrude.”

  “Excellent. One of our teaching nuns in the Ivory Coast has been stricken with TB and must return to the Mother House in Paris to recover. The nun we had selected to replace her has suffered a nervous breakdown, so we are temporarily stuck. It has been decided to send you there until we sort out a permanent replacement from our professed nuns. The position is in one of our smaller compounds along the coast. Are you agreeable to this?” The nun, sitting straight-backed with steepled fingers, eyed her keenly.

  “Certainement, Mère Gertrude.” Keelin tried to keep the excitement out of her voice, for fear the offer would be withdrawn. “I am God’s willing servant,” she added in a humble voice, hoping this would make her seem less eager and more pliable.

  She wouldn’t be in a convent compound in the city. She’d be out where she’d always imagined, in the countryside, the real Africa, and it was going to be a smaller community, she hoped something like Brigid’s, where she’d have much more freedom from the “nunny” stuff.

  “Bien, we will book a flight for you the day after tomorrow. This will allow you to prepare your pupils for your departure, and give you time to say goodbye to your community. Until you are back with us, I wish you Godspeed and His blessings, my child.”

  “Merci, Mère Gertrude,” Keelin murmured, bowing and backing out of the door as quickly as she could in case the Reverend Mother changed her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Petite chérie. Little puddin’, aren’t you?” Brigid crooned, caressing the cheeks of the plump six-month-old baby boy in her arms. When Joseph had first been brought to the clinic, three months previously, he had been suffering from malnutrition and diarrhoea. Now, after their care, observation, and nutritional advice and aid to the young mother, her first child was thriving, alert, and smiling at Brigid. “Here you are, Yacine; he’s doing great,” Brigid said, reluctantly handing him back to his mother. “See you next month.”

  “Merci, Soeur, merci.” The young woman handed Brigid a bottle of bissap juice, made from the hibiscus flower native to West Africa. The ruby-coloured drink was most refreshing, and Yacine always added orange peel and ginger to her homemade blend.

  “Merci, Yacine. I will drink this with pleasure.” Brigid took the gift gratefully. She’d already been presented with a chicken, yams, a bead bracelet, and a hand-woven basket in the clinic this morning.

  “Yacine’s the last,” Sister Dominique said cheerfully, closing the door to the examination room. “We should be home before dark.”

  They had a fifty-mile journey ahead of them, and Brigid was relieved that they would be navigating the dirt trails in daylight.

  “Do you want to drive?” she asked the young Senegalese nun.

  “Oh, Brigid, you’re the best,” Dominique whooped. She loved driving.

  “We’re not in the Dakar Rally now,” Brigid reminded her colleague, laughing. Dominique was fast, and Brigid, who liked to drive fast herself, often had to tell the younger woman that she’d like to get to their destination alive!

  They ate some chicken and rice stew, drank a glass each of Yacine’s bissap, and had a mango, before locking up the clinic and packing up the jeep. It had been a busy day and Brigid was tired but satisfied with how it had gone.

  Darkness had fallen by the time they arrived at their small compound, and the welcoming light in the sitting room window shone out on to the veranda, where Sister Philomene was reading under the mosquito net, moving backwards and forward in the rocking chair.

  “Hi, Brigid, there was a call for you from Dakar. Mère Perpetua is flying in from Paris tonight. You have to go to St. Louis tomorrow.”

  “But I’ve a clinic in Diama,” protested Brigid.

  “Dominique and I will take it. She wants to see all the regional heads,” Philomene said sympathetically. “Go and have a quick shower. The water and the electricity went off earlier. I wouldn’t be surprised if it goes again,” her friend advised. “I have lamb casserole for dinner, so go wash up, the two of you, and we’ll have it when you’re ready.”

  An hour later, sitting in the light of a paraffin lamp—the electricity had indeed gone off—they watched lightning zig-zag on the horizon. The lamb was melt-in-the-mouth delicious, and Brigid sopped up the gravy with a piece of bread, wishing the feeling of apprehension that had enveloped her would evaporate. Why was Perpetua flying in from Paris? Visits from the hierarchy in the Mother House didn’t happen that often, but they always spelt change.

  Was it time for her to be moved to another convent in another part of Africa? she wondered distractedly. She loved Senegal and the warm, friendly people she worked with. But a new challenge might be a good thing. She had so much experience setting up and operating the mother-and-child clinics. Brigid prayed silently that her wings would not be clipped, nor her “freedom” curtailed.

  * * *

  “You want me to go back to Ireland?” Brigid couldn’t hide her shock as she sat in front of her Superior in the airy, white-painted office in the convent in St. Louis.

  “As Reverend Mother,” Mère Perpetua reminded her in her soft, whispery voice. “You will spend some time in Paris with us, preparing for your promotion—”

  “But, Mère, I’m needed here. I’ve set up a dozen clinics, I love working here.”

  Mère Perpetua held up a hand and Brigid fell silent.

  “That is part of the reason you have been recalled. Strong attachment to place and job is discouraged in the Order. You know that. You know also that pride in our accomplishments nullifies them in the sight of God.”

  “But my nursing training, Mère. I’ve been able to help so many mothers and babies,” Brigid pro
tested heatedly, raging that she’d been accused of the sin of pride.

  “Indeed, but you have also been able to train the Sisters in Senegal to take over the work, and you’ve trained them well. It is wonderful, is it not, to have been able to do that?” the Reverend Mother said sweetly.

  “Yes, Mère,” Brigid said heavily. It was true; part of her remit had been to work with indigenous nuns so that they could take over and, as she’d thought erroneously, free her to set up new mother-and-child clinics elsewhere on the Missions. That, Brigid had truly believed, had been her path in life, and she’d loved the work.

  “Sometimes God needs us to do different work than what we feel we should be doing,” Mère Perpetua said briskly. “You have tremendous organizational skills, and we have a convent in Limerick that badly needs reorganization. The last Reverend Mother had an affliction that unfortunately affected every aspect of the community. It’s in complete disarray and needs a younger, more energetic person in charge. We also want it to be a hub for our American postulants and novices. We’re getting a lot of enquiries from young American women about joining our Order. We propose to build a new wing in Limerick where these youngsters can stay and be assessed for their suitability to enter. We feel you are the ideal candidate for the position.”

  Brigid’s heart sank as low as it could go. She, who had entered in a state of mortal sin, was not the ideal person to veto anyone who wanted to enter the religious life.

  “What was the Reverend Mother’s affliction that has affected the community so badly?” she enquired, wondering how she could get out of this nightmare situation.

  “Alcoholism, sadly, and engaging the caretaker to buy drink for her with money from community funds. It’s been going on for a long time, it seems. She’s drying out now in rehab, and retiring to Scotland, from whence she came.”

  “Truly, Mother, I don’t feel I’m the right person to take over the convent in Limerick. I have never sought a position of authority. I am more suited to a less exalted position,” Brigid argued desperately.

  “False humility is a sin, Soeur Brigid. We feel you’re the right person to do God’s work in Limerick. So be it! Now go and pray and give thanks for the new opportunities the good Lord has given you to do His work. You will fly to Paris in two weeks’ time. You will be warmly welcomed in the Mother House.” Perpetua stood up and walked around to Brigid’s side of the desk. “Congratulations, my child. We expect great things of you.” She kissed Brigid lightly on each cheek and ushered her out the door.

  Brigid made her way to the chapel in a state of utter shock. If her niece’s vocation was being tested in Africa, hers was going to be severely tested in the country of her birth. Brigid feared what the outcome of that testing might be.

  * * *

  Her fellow Sisters held a party for Brigid in the garden of the small white house where she’d lived so happily for so long. When word had got around that she was leaving, she’d been inundated with gifts, including a goat from one of the tribal chiefs. Although she tried to put on a happy façade, her heart was raw and full of sadness as she said goodbye to the people she’d loved and made a difference to through her dedicated work.

  The following afternoon, all her worldly possessions packed in a large brown case, which Jakab had stowed in the boot, Brigid said a subdued farewell to her housemates, hugging them all tightly, trying hard not to cry. But it was hopeless, and she sobbed bitter tears as Jakab drove her away from the life she loved to face the unknown.

  “Thank you for what you have done for my people and my country, and for the kindness and respect you have always shown me.” Jakab had tears in his eyes as he placed her case on a trolley at Set Down in St. Louis Airport, where she was taking an internal flight to the capital, Dakar.

  “Jakab, you have been my friend and guide since I arrived in your beautiful country. I could never have done the work I did without you. I was blessed by your friendship,” Brigid said with heartfelt earnestness as they hugged each other tightly. The Senegalese man had been a true friend and had gently instructed her in the ways of his country as he had driven her in the course of her work. Brigid had depended on him greatly and had found comfort in his stalwart presence at her side.

  Eyes blurred with tears, she’d got through check-in and sat awaiting her flight with a heart like lead.

  Four hours later, she settled herself into a window seat on an Air France flight to Paris. Eager to catch her last glimpses of the country she loved, she was dimly aware of someone sitting in the seat beside her.

  “Sorry, Sister,” Brigid heard an unexpected Irish voice say as she was poked in the leg with a handbag. She turned to find an elderly nun trying to locate her seat belt.

  “Sister, I think you’re sitting on it,” Brigid said kindly. “Stand up and I’ll pull it out from underneath you.”

  “Oh, that’s very kind,” said the other nun. “You’re Irish, too.”

  “I am, for my sins,” Brigid sighed. “I’m going home from my beloved Africa. I’ll miss it,” she said, assisting the older woman to fasten her seat belt.

  “I’m going home, too; I’m retiring.”

  “Should I congratulate you?” Brigid smiled.

  The old nun shook her head. “I’m only still in the Order because I hadn’t the guts to leave years ago when I should have, but I’ve no time for the Church or religion after what happened to my community during the Suez Crisis,” she confided morosely.

  “The Suez Crisis, that was a long time ago,” Brigid replied. “You must have been very young when you joined.”

  “I was. Fourteen. It’s all so different now, isn’t it? I’m Martha, by the way.”

  “Brigid! Delighted to meet you,” Brigid said, thinking how glad she was to have someone who spoke English, and a fellow countrywoman at that, sitting beside her for the journey home. “So what happened that made you want to leave? Or can you talk about it?” Brigid enquired delicately.

  “I can talk about it all right. It helps me, actually.” Martha’s bright blue eyes darkened with anger. “We were in a small convent in Suez, about ten of us, and late one night there was a banging on the gates of the compound. I was the one with the best Arabic, so I went out and asked what they wanted. It was the military. They wanted to come in and interrogate us. I told them it was a house of women and they could not enter, hoping that would put them off, but no, they broke down the gates and herded us all at gunpoint into the refectory.”

  “How frightening!” Brigid exclaimed. “But you survived, thank God.”

  Sister Martha looked utterly sad. “I was told to hand over our passports. There were ten of us. Two Irish nuns, five French, and three Egyptian novices. I knew what was going on and I refused. One of the soldiers pointed a gun at the Reverend Mother and said if I did not do as I was told, they would shoot her.”

  “God above! Were you terrified?” Brigid gazed at her in horror.

  “Oh, I was. I most certainly was terrified,” Sister Martha said grimly. “They were so aggressive and full of hate. But then they’d been invaded by the Israelis, the British and French. Nasser was a very good president; I had a lot of respect for him,” she sighed. “But I knew once those soldiers got our passports they would become death warrants.

  “They took our French Sisters away. I heard later that they were raped and murdered. The Egyptian novices were told to leave. Our Irish passports saved my fellow nun and me. We managed to flee the country with the help of some kind locals. When we eventually got home to the Mother House in Ireland, the Church reprimanded us for deserting our posts. Imagine! That was Rome’s response. Nothing about our trauma or our grief, knowing our fellow nuns had been raped and murdered.” Sister Martha shook her head. “That finished me with the Vatican. If we had been priests, there would have been no rebuke. Priests would have been welcomed home with open arms. We were different. We were only women. I was sickened, and to this day, I have no time for the Vatican and its unchristian hypocrisy.”

&n
bsp; She took Brigid’s hand. “You’re a young, intelligent woman—get out before it’s too late,” she said earnestly. “We’ve all been duped, lied to, used to fill the coffers of the Vatican. Read, read, read. Never was there a truer saying than the one attributed to Pope Leo the Tenth: The myth of Christ has served us well. Because the Church’s version of Christianity is a myth,” she added bitterly. “And I try my best to subvert the Church in my own little way, from the inside.”

  “Oh!” murmured Brigid, unsure how to respond. Sister Martha, though frail, was in full command of her faculties. Brigid had been lucky. Apart from being robbed several times—and that had been frightening enough—she’d never suffered violence.

  “If I could, though, I would liberate a young woman like yourself from unwittingly spreading this false religion, and from wasting your life, a life that should be lived in freedom. Were I to accomplish that, I’d feel I’d done the work of Our Lord.” Sister Martha’s vivid blue eyes shone with sincerity as she stared at Brigid.

  “How interesting, Sister Martha,” Brigid said quietly. “I will reflect on your advice and thank you for it.”

  “One thing I’m glad about is that I lived long enough to find my own truth. I hope you do the same,” Sister Martha confided as the engines came to life and the aircraft began to race down the runway.

  Over the weeks that followed, Brigid felt extremely unsettled. She’d the strangest feeling that Sister Martha had been sent to her, to make her think about the life she was living.