This answer rarely varied. Ettie never felt lonely because she knew her mother was with her. Sometimes she even thought she could see her holy aura lighting up a dark corner. As time went on, this knowledge was sufficient for Ettie to recover from any sadness she might have felt at being orphaned.
Ettie considered the nuns her family. Like a young duckling, wherever the sisters went, so Ettie followed too. At a very early age, she would wait outside the chapel door while they said their office. She understood that praying hard for the orphans was the most important duty of their day.
Later, Ettie's little figure could be seen trotting after the line of black habits into the kitchen where she would be ordered from pillar to post, carrying and fetching. Any help was welcomed by the nuns who somehow managed to run a convent, an orphanage and a schoolroom at the same time.
Every day, at early morning Mass Ettie knelt on the polished pews of the chapel. Here, she thanked God for giving her such a happy life. Best of all she liked helping the waifs, strays and foundlings who turned up at the doors of the convent orphanage. Just as she had.
A wistful smile came to Ettie's sweet face as she thought of the many children who had passed through the ranks. The nuns made sure that their charges learned the alphabet and their numbers. Some rebelled at first. But not for long. It gradually dawned on them that life in the orphanage was much happier than on the streets. Even if they had to learn the catechism, it was worth their efforts.
As Ettie undid the cords of the wooden ceiling rack, she reflected on her hopes for the future. She intended to become a teacher and dedicate her life to orphaned children.
This ambition was like a rosy glow inside her. She woke up with the glow each morning and went to sleep with it at night. Sister Patrick always encouraged her. ‘For sure, you are a fine scholar, so you are. Sister Bernadette has taught you a little French, and you’ve learned your numbers from Sister Catherine. If I didn’t know better I’d say meself you were an old soul.’
‘What’s an old soul, Sister Patrick?’
’Someone who’s walked this earth before,’ answered the nun mysteriously. ‘But no more questions now. Me tired brain can only stretch so far.’
Lowering the clothes pulley, Ettie began to fold the wet wimples and caps over the long wooden struts. With great care she made certain each one was flat. The ironing afterwards, so Ettie had discovered, was easier if the white headdresses were prepared properly. She knew this was another labour of love and would be rewarded by God.
A light voice broke into Ettie's reflections. A raffia basket overflowing with dirty clothes landed on the table. The smiling, unlined face above it belonged to Sister Patrick. 'Ettie, we still have the children's smocks to wash. Mother Superior will inspect us soon, so?’ The nun removed her small, round wire pince-nez which were fogged up due to the moist heat of the room and squinted at the newly rinsed articles. ‘Ah, so, the wee girl is ahead of me!’
Ettie beamed, for she loved to please. Her training over the years had made her a conscientious worker. After a full day's housekeeping, she went to the schoolroom to help the most needy children. Whenever a pupil struggled in lessons, they were sent to Ettie. She would spend patient hours with them, teaching in her own childlike way, all the lessons the nuns had taught her.
Although Ettie was given Sunday afternoon to herself, she rarely took it. Rather she would help children like seven-year-old Kathy Squires. Kathy was a street beggar who had never attended school until she was sent to the orphanage. And Johnny Dean, who at eleven, had been boxed round the ears so many times by his drunken mother, that he was a bit deaf. At six years old Megan and Amy were twins and had spent most of their young lives thieving. They refused to be parted and even slept head to toe in their bed.
Then there was Michael Wilson, the most unruly and disobedient orphan of them all. A year and a half older than Ettie, he was a rebel. All his young life he had lived off his wits. At first he refused to even look at a book or hold a pencil. And as for a bible or a catechism, he would declare them poisonous.
But Ettie had patiently appealed to his better nature. She found this in his love for adventure stories; Daniel who was thrown into a den of lions. Noah who defied a flood and David who had conquered a giant.
‘Can’t be true,’ Michael had at first argued. ‘A lion would eat you in one gulp. You’d never get all those animals on one boat. It would sink. And a giant would crush you under his foot.’
‘Believe what you like,’ replied Ettie, unoffended. ‘God gave these men special strength. There are women too. Like Joan of Arc who fought in battle, as brave as any man. Look, here’s a picture of her wearing armour and sitting astride a horse.’ She showed him the pages of the old and musty bible. Like all the books that had stood on the convent’s library shelves for many years.
Michael had studied the image with interest. Ettie knew that she had gained his approval. From that moment on, she read him stories of heroic action and adventure. One thing led to another. Michael decided to learn to read so that he could investigate for himself.
Ettie came back to the present as Sister Patrick examined the caps and wimples. ‘Not a crease among them,’ she congratulated. ‘What would I do without you?'
Ettie habitually answered, 'You won't ever have to, Sister Patrick. I'll always be here.'
Mostly Sister Patrick’s response was the same too. 'I pray to Our Blessed Lady that you will.'
