Chapter Text
She didn’t expect it to be a pleasure. After years of trying to instil the fear of God and a distinct lack of interest for bombs into cohorts of Londonderry boys, the notion of pleasure had become somewhat theoretical. Not that she wasn’t used to it. Its last appearance in her life dated back from her all-girls college accommodation, and the exhilaration of having, as they said, a room of her own. She could, through well-chosen words, invite whoever she wanted in, then. That was before taking residence at the Academy, and teaching with a mostly male staff she spent her time monitoring with a degree of mistrust. She rarely tried to be liked. Crippling terror was generally much more efficient, and most people weren’t worth the effort anyway.
The whole bus trip had been nothing short of a nightmare. If anything, she was rather jealous of whoever was in charge of the other side of this whole affair. Catholic girls school must have been its own particular flavour of hell, but at least no one was sneering at your heels. Hopefully. With Catholics, you never knew.
And then came the moment, as she got off the bus, when she met the stern, surveying gaze of her counterpart. A nun. Of course. She knew she was raising an eyebrow that could lend itself to all sorts of interpretation, but she somehow hadn’t thought much about who she would find there. The sight woke up an old nervousness, like she was a fifth year again, and late for class. Taking comfort in the fact that she was wearing her best suit, she raised her chin, barked at the boys, and prepared for impact.
The handshake was reluctant, but firm.
“It’s a pleasure.”
“I know.”
It was like missing a step in a dark and foreign staircase, but she found, in the exchange that followed, that she quite enjoyed the fall.
She would have thought that nothing earthly could capture her attention after a three hours ride in a poorly ventilated van with a pack of male teenagers, but the Lord might have sent her a sign. It was rare to meet your match in dry humour, but for that match to be a Catholic nun, well... she found it all a bit exhilarating.
And since she refused to interpret it as a Catholic calling, she was forced to consider it her celestial gift for actually giving a damn about peace. All in all, there was nothing but very Christian sentiment at play there, she told herself as the nun blankly suggested that their students should be kept under lock and key. So she gave her smile free reign and allowed herself to enjoy the weekend.
*
After the initial pleasantries, they observed the introductions and less than equitable gift exchanges from afar. Janet was under the impression that her boys were not the only ones being assessed.
It seemed there was something in her appearance that made Sister Michael twitch – perhaps she disapproved of the pinstripes, or the hair. Perhaps it was just the Protestantism. She had no objection there. After all, though the last decade had given the idea of convents a lot more appeal than it originally had, the sheer amount of underlying polytheism involved in the faith just made her want to roll her eyes.
Sister Michael had triumphantly taken a thermos of tea out of her bag, and found them an old set of cups lying around. As she watched with some fascination her boys being struck dumb by the sheer intensity of Our Lady Immaculate girls, a steaming mug manifested in her field of vision. She hummed gratefully as she took a sip, and from the corner of her eye could see the nun smile in satisfaction.
“So what should I expect from that lot?” she asked, glancing at the crowd of teenagers doubtfully. “Prone to abduct local peasant girls and to ravage the land, are they? Or do they have as much sheep in them as our own wee English fellow over there?”
She pointed her chin at a curly hair boy who, if Janet had understood the note that she had got a few weeks prior, was something of a lost import.
She had built her whole career on never smiling in public, yet she had had no choice but to grin more or less continuously since they had entered the room. It was a lesser evil. God forbade she actually laughed in front of twenty sixth years.
“I did what I could,” she said dismissively, “but I’m afraid they’re still boys.”
Sister Michael made a noise that suspiciously sounded like “ugh”, but she gathered the effort was appreciated.
“Well I suppose it can’t be helped now. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
Putting her own cup down, the nun did a quick tour of the lions pit to give instructions for the next day’s activities. The term “buddy” was uttered, and she received a weary look that was perfectly timed.
Soon she was a hovering presence by her shoulder again, and Janet had to refrain from turning to face her. Sister Michael apparently amused herself for a moment with the spectacle of one of her girl and the English fellow fighting to get their share of Protestant, before she commented to her:
“Girls are hard enough to keep in line, but boys? Can’t get my head round the idea. I mean, they’re barely cognisant.”
Which was a good point well made, as far as she was concerned.
“Pays better.”
“Now that’s a shocker,” was her jaded answer, and she heard more than she actually saw the eye-roll.
It was a strange temptation, but she was beginning to realise she really wanted to keep the conversation going. After all, she could give as good as she got, and she so rarely had the occasion these days.
“And two times a month, rain or snow, you get to watch them run over each other on the rugby pitch. Parents still believe it builds character. Sometimes there’s blood. Last year a fellow lost a teeth. Truly, it’s grand.”
Sister Michael clicked her tongue in appreciation.
“Lucky you. All we have is talent shows. It’s no wonder the country still isn’t reunited.”
At that, Janet pivoted to shoot her a look, trying to appraise the degree of seriousness involved in the statement. Her instinct told her it was fine, but these days you could never really say. For a second she wondered if she had let herself be drawn by brilliant barbs and a truly great face, and her heart sank a little. Her next-door neighbour had seemed friendly enough, until she realised that “perhaps we should blow up the Vatican” hadn’t been a joke at all.
The nun frowned, and there was something in her eyes – hazel, she noted, irrelevant as it was – that was so earnest she couldn’t resist it. After a few seconds, the concern she thought she saw turned into something more like distraction. Eventually she sighed and looked away.
“I just meant... Trust me, once you’ll hear Jenny Joyce’s rendition of ‘I say a little prayer’, a refugee status in the Channel Islands will have a lot more appeal.”
And maybe that was what she had meant. In truth, she had no way to decide, not yet. It was perhaps the worst element of this whole situation (well, apart from the actual bombs, obviously): talking had become even trickier than it used to be. Liking people, well, that was evidently a minefield, especially for her. A leap of faith. But there was... something there. Honest eyes. She took a steadying breath and said, pinching her lips just the right amount, as if she was really considering the option:
“No, I don’t see it. No cause is worth being that close to France.”
There was the slightest pause, then a surprised chuckle by her side. When she finally spoke, Sister Michael sounded perhaps a bit awed:
“Janet Taylor, I think you and I are going to work great together.”
Half a cup of tea later, the problem of the mediator arose. To discover the nun despised priests was as appealing as intriguing, yet she was unsure where she stood on the matter.
Sister Michael was still rolling her eyes at her description of Father Peter .
“Oh, so you know him then?”
“He’s the bane of my existence, like.”
Janet looked at her nails, considering her options. It was one thing to get friendly with a colleague, if Sister Michael could be called that, when you were both in the same inescapable pickle. It was another to be surrounded by an actual net of Catholics. Maybe she needed to test the waters a bit more, even if that meant being contrary. After all, hating France was more common sense than an actual badge of honour.
“That’s not a very neutral arrangement, I have to say.”
Sister Michael considered her for a moment with something like frustration.
“Think nothing of it. They must have done it to piss me off. The archbishop hates my guts since that whole ‘washing feet incident’ three Easters ago.”
Now that was definitely a story she needed to hear, but it somehow appeased her to see that the nun was annoyed too. It wasn’t like this country had any shortage of clerics.
“Could have been one of ours,” she pointed out. “A female rector, possibly.”
It was Sister Michael’s turn to raise an eyebrow that was more curious than dismissive.
“Are they any better than the rotten alcoholic bunch we call our ministers?”
“God no. I can’t stand myself a clergywoman.”
The nun raised her cup at her.
“Happy days.”
They sat in comfortable silence, watching their pupils bump into each other like headless chickens as they looked for their “buddies” and tragically attempted to connect. Janet knew her head was slightly too inclined in the direction of the other chair for her posture to be considered dignified, but her curiosity was piqued. She didn’t know a lot about nuns, admittedly, but the image she had in mind didn’t coincide at all with the woman currently sitting besides her, quietly chuckling every time she caught one of the boys staring at a Catholic in horror. Maybe she was prejudiced – well, more than the reasonable amount. Or maybe Sister Michael was just the kind of exception she admired, someone who understood the degree of masquerade in everything and enjoyed the joke privately. If so, she felt privileged she was willing to share.
She must have been staring too hard, for the nun ended up catching her gaze. But before she could say anything to create a distraction, the other woman said:
“To be honest, I expected you to be a man. Boys school and all.”
“Must have been a delightful surprise, then.”
That earned her another raise of eyebrows, but when the nun looked away, she was smiling to herself.
“You’re the one who’s called Michael,” she felt obliged to add, rather stupidly.
Sister Michael seemed to consider the remark for a moment.
“I am indeed. I suppose the fact I’m such a ray of sunshine is meant to compensate for all the other suckers’ faults.”
As she said this, her e yes fell on the priest with the good hair, who had just entered the room and was now making his way through the crowd of teenagers, and Janet had to bite her lips not to laugh. S he could have sworn Michael watched her as she did.
*
A fter a frankly embarrassing list of more or less accurate stereotypes , they were finally freed. At dinner, Sister Michael managed to scare Father Peter off long enough from the staff table to tell her the full story of his disgrace. That put an end to her worries: a priest with a wobbly faith and a cynical nun didn’t exactly sound as a set-up to convert her pupils overnight. They talked some more about their respective teaching positions – which confirmed Janet’s suspicions that a girl s school was somewhat more liveable –, about the pains of choir practice and, amazingly, about Raw h ide (“I can’t stand horses, but the fellow knows what he’s doing. I respect a lad who has moves.”)
The children had wandered o ff , Peter was gone God knew where (praying? t hey were supposed to do that a lot, after all). And she was just sitting there, studying all the fantastical expressions on Michael’s face (watching her trying to will the priest away while eating had been a true spectacle), and was beginning to realise she didn’t want to spend any minute of this week-end away from the nun.
Over coffee, Michael fell silent, and looked pensively at her cup for a minute or two.
“So,” she said eventually, squinting her eyes a bit like she was suspicious of her, “since allegedly you laugh and suffer and whatnot like the rest of us – though honestly the argument felt somewhat weak to me –,” she allowed herself a dramatic pause to survey Janet once more, “do you enjoy poker in the evening?”
*
Sister Michael’s room was exactly the same as hers, and yet it wasn’t. It was hard to tell if it was the glow that the lit lamps cast over her opponent that distracted her so, or the evidence of her presence that kept catching her eye, like the Stephen King novel on the bedside table or the rather unexpected box of cigars on the mantle. There had been a sort of edge to the evening, interrupted by a strange parents’ call (something about a bowl, quite mysterious) but she had assumed the blame laid on the intensity of the game. After all, you couldn’t expect a quiet night of camaraderie when the honour of your side was at stake.
They surveyed each other over their cards, barely blinking. Not only had Sister Michael a great face, but it had to be said she also had a phenomenal poker face. It was fascinating to see how the corner of her mouth didn’t even twitch when she got a flush in her first draw. But after losing a couple of hands, Janet had got the gist of it: years at uni and life in general had taught her neutrality wasn’t always the best way to get through anything. It was too hard to sustain. Emotions were, in many cases, a better mask. So she had opted for chaos. She laughed, smirked, shifted in her chair and watched Sister Michael’s composure crumble through the game.
She did not always win. But she did win when she shouldn’t have.
Fanning herself with what was in essence a pair of three and useless junk, she leaned back supplely and directed her attention at her nails before asking:
“So? What say you?”
“I’m thinking two.”
“Alright then. I’d say... probably four. No, make that five.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, putting a lock back in place. Sister Michael’s gaze followed the gesture as if it held the secret of the cards.
“Five?” she commented neutrally. “My, my, aren’t we getting greedy.”
Janet only smiled, and with the tip of her finger pushed forward five matches to the centre of the table. There was already a reasonable pile there, a vestige from their previous rounds. She looked up at the other woman, and her smile turned into a smirk. It was frankly hard not to laugh, and Michael, to her credit, quietly chuckled to herself before turning her attention back to her hand. Or at least she tried to. Almost immediately, her eyes came back to the stack of matches Janet was still fidgeting with. For a moment, she seemed lost in thoughts.
Then, just as Janet was beginning to fear she had misinterpreted the tic in her left eyebrow, she shook her head in disbelief and looked at her cards again, as if waking up from a deep slumber.
“Something’s the matter?” Janet asked, letting her poker facade slip.
Michael’s frown only accentuated.
“No, it’s nothing. I’m just appalled at myself.”
She looked so puzzled that, for the first time, Janet was unsure if she should follow up with a joke or not. But it could never hurt to restate the laws of the game, could it?
“I’ve heard it comes inherently with being a Catholic.”
That brought Sister Michael out of her stupor, and won her a heartfelt eye-roll she found nothing short of delightful.
“Oh for Christ’s sake. Alright I fold, what do you have in hand?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she tutted, pressing her cards to her chest. Her jacket was long gone, abandoned on the arm of the leather chair, and so was the nun’s cardigan. The other woman sighed and, rolling one of her sleeves back, placed a pair of queens on the table. Janet chuckled and revealed her own cards, savouring her opponent’s discomfiture.
“This is witchcraft, pure and simple. Anyway, I believe that’s it. What are you going to do with all those matches, if I may ask?”
Janet considered her small loot carefully.
“Any suggestion?”
“Well, there are a number of options. If you want to honour your roots, you can probably set a trail of fire and destruction from here up to Letterkenny. Or, I don’t know, burn me at the stake.”
She was smiling, but there was a sort of sadness lingering in her eyes that threw Janet a bit off balance. In an attempt to fix whatever had just passed between them, she gestured at the mantelpiece and said:
“As appealing as that sounds, I think I’d rather light one of those for you, what do you say?”
It turned out Michael could blow rather impressive smoke rings. She watched them float toward the open window and dissolve into the night. It became rather hypnotic after a while, and she forgot she was trying to hide the fact she hadn’t had a cigar in ages and was dreadfully out of practice. They had drifted into companionable silence, and in the smoky, warm atmosphere she felt so at ease it took her a while to notice how sleepy she was getting. It was only when she caught Michael looking at her with something like curiosity that she remembered she was probably outlasting her welcome.
“It’s late. I should probably go.”
As she rose to her feet the nun, who was leaning against the mantle savouring the end of her cigar, turned her head away and let out a quiet “aye”.
“Thank you for the game. Well, the invitation. I’ll have something to get us through the morning tomorrow.”
Picking up her jacket, she turned around when she reached the door.
“Sleep well,” she said in a quiet voice, her eyelids feeling heavier by the minute.
Michael shot her something of a fond look, before throwing the butt of her cigar into the hearth.
“You too.”
*
At breakfast, she was informed that it hadn’t, in fact, been such a restful night, thanks to the impromptu party in the dormitories.
“You should have woken me up,” she told Sister Michael over her fried eggs. “My boys were as much at fault as your girls.”
“I was alright on my own,” Michael said casually, blowing on her coffee. “For one thing, I was still awake, when you looked ready to pass out in my armchair.”
“That’s a shame though,” Janet pointed out as Peter entered the hall, with foggy eyes but hair still perfectly coiffed. “They wouldn’t have known what hit them.”
“I’m sure we’ll have other occasions. The day is young.”
It was a reasonable point, but she was one bollocking behind, as it were. Reluctantly, she rose from her seat.
“In any case, I have to scare them off a bit. They are my charge, and I’m not about to let them believe I’ve grown soft.”
Sister Michael was on her feet before she could end her sentence, effectively leaving Peter to settle alone at the table. The poor bastard seemed deeply relieved.
“Can I watch?”
As the morning progressed, it became apparent that they would indeed have other occasions to act as a disciplinarian duo. She had made good on her promise with shortbread and tea, but they were soon distracted from their casual banter when the day’s activity went spectacularly off the rails. Sipping in cadence while the fight escalated, they enjoyed the madness for as long as they could.
The scene, as she was currently witnessing it, combined the following elements like the chef d'oeuvre of a Renaissance painter. On her right, a blond girl was engaged in the most pathetic confrontation with Dean O’Connor, tapping his hands repeatedly as he tried to get rid of her and shouting at length about how he was truly ruining any chance of peace for their entire generation, and did he want them to be doomed like their elders, and had he no respect for what they were trying to accomplish, and so on. Not far from them, the English fellow was trying to get Father Peter’s attention, repeating that he was in fact “all for women rights and stuff”, but the priest was too busy trying to prevent Jenny Joyce, of musical fame, to bite Oliver Crowley again. In the distance, Phillip was doing what he could to haul the panicky short one to safety, but she kept falling back down, clenching the rope and yelling biblical insults at him. Somewhere on her left, Harry Forsythe and one of the girl had simply given up and were necking on the grass while the rest of the group kept whining and falling over each other like dominoes. And she could have sworn she had seen two of her boys running for their life in the distance as the girl with the strange beret pursued them with her arms thrown in the air, growling like an animal.
“Sweet Jehovah,” was Janet’s only comment, as she passed the thermos to Michael.
“That’s my girls,” the nun stated proudly, surveying the hordes of pupils like a general her troops.
“Right,” she eventually said, “so if I can suggest a plan of attack, I’d say you flank them by the right, I by the left, and we gather them into a big ball of fear in the centre until they don’t know Dublin from London, how does that sound?”
“Adequate.”
In the end, after a few confused screams and Jenny whining about her ruined new shoes, the battle died in about thirty seconds. The parents were another matter entirely.
*
“Well, let’s call it a day, shall we?” Michael said as they watched the families leave the hall, still fussing. “Considering this was all a raging success.”
Janet gave her a pointed look, but the other woman stood her ground.
“I mean, now that they’ve beaten each other up, it’s sort of out of their system, isn’t it? It will give them something to brag about for ages but they will never actually have the energy to hate each other. You don’t go and stab people you got into fights with as a teenager. Those are the people you go to the pubs with.”
Opening her mouth to reply, she found that she had nothing to add. This made absolute sense, and the nun seemed already smug enough about it. She shot her an admiring look.
“I’ve been told I’m a great pedagogue,” Michael commented in response to her stunned expression.
“It seems to me you’re a great number of things.”
“Come on Taylor,” she sighed contentedly, “the bus awaits. No need to keep flattering the enemy.”
In the yard, they stared at each other quietly for a while, as the students said their goodbyes with surprising reluctance, before blurting out at the same time:
“Are you...”
“Can I...”
They blinked at each other stupidly.
“Should I assume you’ll be here for this next year, if the country hasn’t burst into flames?”
“By all means.”
She forced herself to reign in her radiant smile, biting the inside of her cheeks, to keep her gaze firmly on the bus and away from Sister Michael’s face, before adding:
“I’ll expect a welcome gift this time.”
There was a pause, possibly dictated by the same motives.
“Typical Protestant greed, I see.”
She wanted to properly turn and recognize that yes, actually, maybe that was what it was, a sort of greed she hadn’t anticipated worming its way through the whole weekend. Instead, she elected to look at her feet, noticing that Sister Michael’s weren’t in fact too far from her own, and said as neutrally as she could manage:
“I’m looking forward to it.”
The feet shifted a bit, like they wanted to take a step, but didn’t dare.
“Yeah, me too.”