And for some reason, I don’t think she’s talking about today.
“Here,” she says, brandishing a handheld vacuum cleaner at me. “Run this over the gluaisteán.”
I look at her in confusion, trying to remember my Irish.
“The car,” she snaps in frustration.
I am marched out to Sister Assumpta’s powder-blue VW Bug in the car park, the one that always has the passenger window cracked open. The back seat is filled with rotting leaves, the windows stained with bird poo. It’s a mess.
“There are buckets in the basement,” she says, and wanders back into her office.
Great. I’ve been tricked into valeting a nun’s car.
I wonder, as I’m hoovering out the back seat, if Miss Harris was just sick of having this disgusting car sitting in the car park and bringing down the desperate upper-middle-class attitude of the school. Maybe she noticed that the tarot cards were missing weeks ago, but was just waiting until she needed a favour to cash this chip in.
After I’m done hoovering, I fill two buckets up with soapy water to wash the outside. As I’m trodding back out to the car park, Sister calls from her office. “Don’t forget the boot!”
“OK!” I call back.
“I beg your pudding?”
“I mean, yes, Sister.”
I pop the boot, preparing to give it a quick sweep. Inside, there are rows and rows of black velvet jewellery cases.
It’s a jarringly familiar sight. These are the boxes filled with cheap costume jewellery that Lily and I were forced to carry into school during our first week at St Bernadette’s. We laughed at the strangeness of it. Strange in a way that reminded us of ourselves. Why would a nun have this much flashy jewellery? And what was it doing in the school?
I lift a case gingerly, expecting it to be heavy. It isn’t. Curious, I unfasten each silver clasp on the side of the box. Inside, there’s no jewellery at all.
Just paper.
Newspaper, photographs, doodles, essays. Sister Assumpta wasn’t using these boxes to take jewellery into the school. The soft, satin-lined boxes meant for keeping delicate necklaces and bracelets in perfect condition were being used to store delicate memories instead.
There are a dozen boxes, and I carry them all into the back seat of Sister Assumpta’s car. I picture Jo’s face looking disapproving, saying something about respecting the property of others. But I figure I’m cleaning this woman’s car for free. I deserve a bit of a nose around.
Most of it is just glowing write-ups about the school and records of the achievements of former pupils. “ST BERNADETTE’S TOPS LEAVING CERT RESULTS, BEATING BOYS’ SCHOOL AGAIN” is one, and “CHILDREN’S AUTHOR SAYS BERNIE’S WAS HER INSPIRATION” is another.
It’s all very sweet, really. I’ve never really considered Sister Assumpta as a woman capable of sentiment. She’s been so old the entire time I’ve been at St Bernadette’s that I just know her for rasping complaints at everyone. I’ve always been vaguely aware that she’s considered to be a trailblazer in the city, using her inheritance for good, trying to get Catholic girls an education, blah, blah blah. But there’s something heartbreaking about all of those memories and achievements stored in little black boxes in the back of a car filled with leaves.
All of the boxes are labelled on their underside with white stickers and tiny, chicken-scratch handwriting. There is no order or sense to the labelling system. “1970–79” is one, but “ATTIC EXTENSION” is another. I look around for a “SPRING 1990” box but don’t see anything.
What I do find, though, is a box called “HARRIET”.
Harriet’s box starts in September 1985.
“ST BERNADETTE’S WELCOMES FIRST CROP OF SCHOLARSHIP STUDENTS…”
It’s a small item on one of the local free papers, and includes a big toothy photo of four girls grinning in front of the school. Sister Assumpta is there, nun habit on, hands on her hips.
“PICTURED L to R: Harriet Evans, Sarah Byrne, Nan Hegarty, Catherine O’Faolainn.”
There’s a condescending article about how these girls are being given “the chance of a lifetime”. The journalist asks Sister Assumpta whether she’s worried about bullying, given “the obvious lifestyle differences between the scholarship girls and the fee-paying girls”.
I cringe, sinking deeper into the back seat. I’ve never once thought about this issue before my fight with Roe. I never thought that Fiona might feel there was a difference between her and “fee-paying girls”. Maybe that’s why she didn’t properly mix with anyone else in school before we became friends. I had never suspected she might feel left out, too.
I gaze at Harriet Evans. She’s a big, pretty girl, with nice brown eyes and thick, curly hair like a woman from an Edwardian painting. She has winged eyeliner and a big smile. She looks like fun.
I move to the next clipping, from 1986. It’s a picture of some kind of demonstration, or protest. This one doesn’t mention Harriet at all, and I have to squint to see her in the crowd photo. Harriet is mid-scream and carrying a “VOTE YES” sign over her head.
“CATHOLIC GIRLS’ SCHOOL JOINS DIVORCE DEMO
“Today thousands joined a pro-divorce protest in Bishop Stanley Square, with schoolchildren leaving school in order to voice their wish for a ‘yes’ vote. Teenagers too young to vote in the June referendum are in favour of divorce being legal in Ireland, which many pundits are saying is due to the influence of American films and television. Most surprising of all was the addition of St Bernadette’s Catholic Girls’ School, a school known for its conservative policies. Sister Assumpta, the former nun and founder of the establishment, was quoted as saying that she had her ‘head turned’ on the subject of divorce after ‘sound and passionate pleas from the students who this issue affected’. There have been concerns raised from parents of students, saying that the school’s ‘yes’ stance is a sign of its wavering commitment to morality.”
“Commitment to morality”? I let out a harsh, hollow laugh. Is that what St Bernadette’s was known for? As long as I’ve
