’Where is she now?’ Ettie had asked when she was small.
‘The good Lord called her to be his angel.’
‘Is she an angel now?’
‘She’s a Dublin angel for sure,’ Sister Patrick assured her. ‘Colleen O’Reilly, Jesus rest her soul, was from the land of shamrocks just like me. She was born in a road I know well meself called Henrietta Street and she named you after it. Though saints preserve us, we all got lazy and know you as our darlin’ Ettie.’
Ettie never tired of listening to Sister Patrick’s explanations of her heritage. It gave her great comfort to know that Sister Patrick and her mother were so closely connected and that Dublin was the city of her mother’s birth. ‘What did she look like, Sister Patrick? Was she pretty?’
‘Ah, as pretty as a picture she was, just like yourself. A replica. Rich brown hair and eyes the very same shade as God’s own soil. And her countenance, well, it might have lit up the whole convent if she’d lived.’
‘Did she really love me?’
At this, Sister Patrick would look astonished. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, child, why wouldn’t she? You were her very own miracle.’
‘Will I ever see her again?’ Ettie persisted, having studied her catechism sufficiently to believe in miracles.
‘Without a doubt,’ Sister Patrick would reply. ‘Don’t we all rest in the arms of our Blessed Saviour and his angels?’
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, 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 wanted to become like Sister Patrick and all the nuns and dedicate her life to children. Her ambition was like a rosy glow inside her; she woke up with it 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 gentle 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.’ 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 children most in need. Whenever a pupil struggled in lessons, they were sent to Ettie. She would spend many hours with them, teaching in her own childlike way all the lessons that 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 arrived at 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
