The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [55]
“The devil put an itch in yer knickers, did he? Well, we’ll soon knock that out of ye!” was the first thing Sister Delia had said to her. Sheila had never heard a nun speak like that before. When her breast milk had seeped through her dress, Sister Delia stood her up in front of the whole refectory and pointed it out: “Were you not a filthy slut, that milk would be to feed your infant. But instead it is a reminder of harlotry. Take that dress off!”
And she had made her do it. Sheila took off her dress and stood there shivering in her graying underwear while Sister Delia circled, pointing at the milk stains on her bodice and shouting about lust and sin and all the time slapping at the girl’s arms and legs with her big brown belt.
“Eighty-two! Hurry up! Don’t make me come over there or you’ll be sorry!” Sister Delia’s voice now echoed around the courtyard. She was standing there in the doorway of the lye room.
Fucking dried-up old fucking bitch! May she die roaring! Sheila thought to herself and started again with the pump.
19
The stairs creaked deep into the surrounding silence as Brother Boland made his way to the oratory. As was his custom, he would go alone to the dark oratory and recite a decade of the rosary for the repose of his mother’s soul. Not that Brother Boland had any idea who his mother was, but it made her feel real to him. For the week since the centenary he had been saying an extra decade for Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly.
Alone in the oratory he whispered the prayers through his trembling lips. He knew that the Virgin Mary would be able to make out what he was saying. Lost in the prayerful lip smack and clatter of his dentures, he did not hear the straining that softly, casually played and stretched itself in the rafters above him.
“Haymery fur gray lorbeweeiu dib, dib, dib …”
Slowly Brother Boland became aware of something approaching out of the distance behind his words. It was like an onrush down a long tunnel. There was a gathering, clenching tension that was suddenly all around him.
A soft cloud of sawdust and plaster flakes tickled his scalp just moments before the enormous light fixture fell from the ceiling and crashed heavily two pews behind where he was sitting.
“Dib, dib, dib, Mother of dib, dib, dib, God!”
Brother Boland dived for cover under the pew. There he cowered and listened to the soft crackle of plaster falling like snowflakes on the pews and floor around him. He looked at the gaping hole in the ceiling that the chandelier had left and then peered accusingly at the chandelier itself where it sprawled across two pews like some grotesque wrought-iron spider.
In the aftershock silence Brother Boland waited. Nothing more, it seemed, was going to happen. He untangled himself, got out from under the pew, and stood up stiffly. Just as he was having another look around the oratory, there was a tired wheezing sound and parts of the ceiling and the back wall came thundering down, showering him with wood, plaster, and a couple dozen Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly miniatures.
Brother Boland fell to the floor and curled his arms over his head. Over his long life of misfortunes and clumsy accidents, this had become a vital reflex.
In the darkness of his mind, the Brother prayed to Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly. The general gist of his prayer was: I know the hymn says bend me to Your will but I hope me being killed by a falling ceiling is not part of Your will and that You help me survive this.
In seeming answer to his prayers the noise stopped. Brother Boland opened his eyes slowly and tentatively for fear that any sudden movement would cause further destruction. On the floor around him lay fragments of plaster, pieces of electrical wiring, hunks of rotten wooden beams, and, scattered among the detritus, pieces of Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly. Brother Boland stared in horror at the tragically disfigured effigies of the Brothers’ founder. A wave of awe and terror rolled up from his stomach and pressed against the base of