On this night, the sisters convened in the kitchen after all the children were tucked safely in bed. They were discussing the future of their enterprise. A tray of biscuits and pot of tea on the table were largely ignored.
“Bleak!” Sister Anna Grace announced. Spread before her on the table’s scarred surface were the orphanage’s ledgers, displaying an alarming amount of red ink. 11 “We are in a very desperate situation, sisters. Our creditors have been quite patient with us up to now, but we can’t hope to rely on their patience much longer. They will not wait forever to be paid.”
“Why shouldn’t they wait?” Sister Hildegard grumped, her normally sour expression deepening, lips twisting, and nose wrinkling as if the air itself offended her. “We do the Lord’s work here!”
“Indeed, Sister Hildegard.” Sister Cecilia, the Mother Superior, raised a hand in gentle entreaty. She was tired and had no stomach for Sister Hildegard’s belligerence, even when it was aimed at others. “We must thank them for their generosity. They have done so much for us up to now, extending our lines of credit and donating all they can, but one must remember that they have families of their own and businesses to run. They have been kind, but we must face the possibility that St. Bartholomew’s may be forced to close its doors.”
The announcement silenced the nuns. For a long moment the kitchen was filled with the sound of rain lashing against the windows and water dripping from the leaking roof into a metal bucket placed in the middle of the table. Sister Cecilia looked at each of the sisters in turn, her watery blue eyes taking in the defeat on her colleagues’ faces. She sighed inwardly.
Motivating the staff was becoming more and more difficult. The sisters worked so hard in the face of so many difficulties. And who was going to shore up her own flagging spirits? No, she chastised herself. You are the Mother Superior! No time for self-pity.
“Sisters,” she said, masking her worry with a smile, “let us not be so downcast. We still have a little time. I suggest we all get some rest and perhaps the Lord will send us some inspiration. Say an extra prayer tonight. Remember: miracles do happen. The Lord will provide.”
“Sister.” The heavy male voice made all the nuns startle. They turned toward the doorway and saw Finbar, the groundskeeper and general handyman, looming there, his flat woollen cap in his thick, scarred fingers. Finbar had served in his post for many years, coming to work at St. Bart’s after his sentence at the old prison was finished. His large ruddy face and pale blue eyes spoke of his Irish origins, and broken veins on his florid cheeks spoke of his fondness for whisky, a failing that the sisters chose to overlook. He had a full head of thick white hair. He was tall and solid, filling the doorframe with shoulders that were still wide and sturdy despite the fact that he was well into middle age. A career as a petty thief and housebreaker had landed him in jail many times. When the Toronto Central Prison finally closed in 1915, the then Mother Superior, despite the other sisters’ objections, had decided to take a chance on him. Finbar had been with them ever since. He was good with his hands and could fix almost anything. He also seemed to have a soft spot for the young children, teaching those who were so inclined woodwork-ing and basic mechanics in his workshop across the yard. In a nightly ritual, he informed the sisters, “The windows is all latched and the shutters closed. If there be nothin’ else, it’s me for bed.”
“Thank you, Finbar. Good night.”
The big man nodded and clomped off to the cellar, where his bed was nestled in a cozy nook, up against the warmth of the ancient furnace.
“As I was saying, sisters, a fervent prayer would not be out of place tonight,” Sister Cecilia suggested with a confidence she didn’t really feel.
“Humph,” huffed Hildegard, pushing her chair back from the table. “It’s a miracle we’re hoping for, is it? Well, they’re few and far between these days. And the Lord didn’t have a mortgage.” 12 With that, Hildegard tramped out of the kitchen. Sister Cecilia and Sister Anna Grace listened to the tread of Hildegard’s feet on the stairs as she ascended to the nuns’ sleeping quarters on the third floor beneath the rafters.
“I’m sorry, Mother Superior. I wish the news was better, but we’re just running out of money.”
“I know, my dear,” Sister Cecilia said. “Don’t worry. You’ve done an excellent job. There’s only so much any of us can do. Never mind Sister Hildegard. No one likes to hear bad news. You gather up your things and go to bed now. Those children will be up early tomorrow as they are every morning. You need your rest.”
Sister Anna Grace gathered up her ledger books. “What about you, Mother Superior? You should get some sleep. You look tired.”
“Oh, I’m fine, dear. One always looks tired when one gets to be my age,” Sister Cecilia said with a rueful sigh. “I’ll just clear away these tea things and I’ll be right up.”
Left alone in the kitchen, Sister Cecilia cleared away the remnants of the sisters’ meeting. Placing pot and cups, creamer and sugar bowl, and crumb-laden plates onto the tray, she carried it to the counter and set it down by the sink. The window over the kitchen sink gave her a view of the rain-lashed waste ground across Liberty Street and farther on to the lights of cars crawling along the expressway. The grey bulk of the buildings that made up the Exhibition Grounds rose in a dark silhouette, backlit by flashes of lightning. In years past the great lake beyond had spread out as far as the eye could see, but the concrete span of the highway now blocked it from view.
“Not that I could see that far these days,” Sister Cecilia mumbled ruefully to herself. She was getting old. Her seventieth birthday was approaching, and in the damp early mornings she felt every year in her bones, the dull ache lingering longer and longer into the daylight hours.
Sister Cecilia had been born Nuala Callahan in the County of Cork, Ireland, far across a sea of water and years. She’d gone to teachers’ college and graduated high in her class, applying for missionary work overseas and dreaming of a posting in remote African climes or South American jungles. She was shocked and slightly disheartened to find herself appointed as a teacher in Canada at the orphanage of St. Bartholomew’s in the burgeoning city of Toronto.
She’d found herself shuddering west along King Street in a rackety red and yellow streetcar, crushed against the window by a grimy worker who was eating an enormous sandwich. Past warehouses, past a hospital, past some small shops, she watched the city go by. She was so engrossed she almost missed her stop. If she hadn’t asked the driver to alert her when Strachan Avenue came up, she would have ridden to the end of the line.
“Strachan,” the streetcar driver announced, drawling the name over the loudspeaker, missing the “ch” in the middle completely and saying it “Straaaaawn.” By the exasperated tone of his voice, he must have had to repeat himself to get Sister Cecilia’s attention. Flustered, the nun hauled her suitcase out from under the seat and made her way through the car and stepped down onto the street. The doors clattered shut and the streetcar pulled away.
Sister Cecilia stood on the side of the road looking around in bewilderment. She fished out of her pocket the directions she had written down on a scrap of paper. Before she could even look at them, a gust of wind plucked the paper from her hand and sent it sailing high into the air.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Sister Cecilia shouted. She watched the scrap of paper disappear over the roof of a house.
“Strong language from a nun.” The deep voice startled her. She spun around to see a tall man in overalls and a flat cap. His blue eyes were smiling.
“Oh, yes. Well… I lost my directions.”
The man nodded slowly. He swept the hat off his head, revealing dark hair heavily salted with grey. “Aye. That can certainly happen.”
“You’re Irish?” Sister Cecilia asked.
“I am.” He smiled again. Before she could ask more, he picked up her suitcase. “What’re ye lookin’ fer? Reckon I can guide ya.”
Sister Cecilia bit her lip. A strange man, albeit someone from the home country, was holding everything she owned. He could just walk away and leave her there with nothing in this strange new city.
“Don’t worry,” the man said. “I’ll not walk off with yer valuables, Sister. We bog-trotters 13 have to stick together.” He grinned again.
Sister Cecilia couldn’t help smiling back. “Saint Bartholomew’s Orphanage. Do you know it?”
The man nodded once. “Well, isn’t that a happy turn of events. Amn’t I goin’ that very way meself.” He turned and headed south down Strachan toward the lake. Sister Cecilia had to trot to catch up with him.
They walked down the road, passing crumbling brick warehouses. The road was potholed and rough. Trucks passing by kicked up clouds of dust.
“Are you sure this is the way?” Sister Cecilia asked.
“Have no fear,” the man rumbled. “I wouldn’t steer ye wrong.” A foul stench filled the sister’s nostrils.
