1904

“Catríona has the voice of an angel,” Sister Mary Margaret, the choir director of St. Brendan’s Grammar School, told my parents over tea and cakes at the convent on the Sunday afternoon that set my life on a path both unintended and labyrinthine.

“It’s a gift from God,” the good sister assured them.

I was fourteen, still climbing trees with my brothers and never having ventured beyond the boundaries of our village on the North Atlantic coast.

Sister Mary Margaret assured my parents that to ignore such a divine gift was not only an insult to the Lord, but sinful. Her proposal to send me as a scholarship student to the Loreto convent school in Dublin run by her order, the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, was met by my parents with a stunned silence.

“Catríona has never been away from home,” exclaimed Mam, twisting her napkin, embroidered with the IHS monogram for Jesus, as if she were wringing out my Da’s work shirt on wash day.

Da put his calloused farmer’s hand on top of hers to still her anxiety.

“What would you be wanting from her, if she goes?” Da had never known anything to be without a price, no matter how enticing—especially from the Church.

“Why, to sing for the glory of God! Every note I’ve heard from Catríona is a prayer.”

“We will think about it, Sister.”

That evening, while I listened in the shadows at the top of the stairs, my parents discussed Sister Mary Margaret’s unexpected offer. Da remained skeptical; Mam, after her initial hesitation, was warming to the idea.

“They train her voice—which the sister says is already near perfect—and what good does that do? She can’t earn a living singing God’s praises, and I don’t think the good sister means for our Catríona to be singing in music halls.”

“She could teach singing,” Mam suggests.

“Which she doesn’t need to go to Dublin to learn. Think about what she said. Every note a prayer. Do you suppose they want Catríona to take the veil? Become one of them?”

Mam was silent. Although I couldn’t see her face, I knew the look that came over her when she was contemplating. She could be staring straight at you, but not see you. She was, instead, examining an idea as if it were a sphere, glowing from the inside and sending out rays of light that Mam would follow—first one, than another—until she had explored every aspect. My cousin Deirdre has a kaleidoscope, a tube with bits of colored glass that you shake and turn, and each time you see something new, some different combination of color and shape. My mother was turning over Sister Mary Margaret’s idea, with each turn imagining a different outcome.

Finally, at Da’s prompting, Mam responded to his question with one of her own.

“Would that be so bad? A daughter a nun? She’d have a home, a community, respect. We wouldn’t have to worry about her marrying, finding a man who would care for her properly. And we wouldn’t have to worry about her being taken advantage of by a man without marriage.”

“It’s not something I ever imagined for one of our own, but then, you know I’m not one to have much imagination. She does sing beautifully, our Catríona. It will be too quiet around here when she’s gone…”

I heard the creak of Da’s chair as he rose, saying, “Well, I guess that’s settled then. I’ll stop by the convent tomorrow and let the sister know.”

I left my perch at the top of the stairs and retreated to the bedroom I shared with my sisters, Graine and Moira. I was cold from sitting so long away from my bed and I curled up into a tight ball with the quilt covering all but my face. I was shivering, not only from the chill night air, but also from my fear and my excitement. Dublin!

I left Ballinskelligs two weeks later with Sister Mary Margaret as a chaperone, a valise packed with my clothes, the missal I’d received at my confirmation, and a basket filled with cold lamb sandwiches, cheese, and Mam’s apple dumplings.

My brothers and sisters lined the platform at the train station with my parents and waved as the train pulled away. I pressed my face against the window and watched my family shrink to spots and then disappear as the tracks curved away and across Ireland.

Sister Mary Margaret and I prayed for a safe journey and then she fell asleep.

I sat opposite her in our private compartment, paid for by the church at Sister’s request. As far as I knew the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary weren’t cloistered, but I think Sister Mary Margaret simply didn’t want to mingle with the outside world. I wanted to explore the train, but was under strict orders from Sister to stay within the compartment. I complied, because I was still an obedient girl then. But I let my mind wander, even if my body couldn’t. Each time the train stopped to pick up passengers I watched closely through the glass. The people boarding into our wagon were prosperous, with fur around the men’s coat collars and flamboyant feathers decorating the women’s wide-brimmed hats. They didn’t look like dairy farmers.

I stood up and smoothed my dress. It was new, sewn by Mam in these last two weeks of frenzied preparations: a list supplied by Sister Mary Margaret of clothing and books to gather for my new life; visits to the homes of my granny, aunts and uncles, and to the cemetery to say goodbye to those who’d already left us; huddled conversations with my best friends Joan and Nessa, with sacred promises to write every week. We’d been friends since primary school and had shared all with each other—scraped knees, ghost stories, first loves. I couldn’t fathom not having them to confide in and laugh with, but as with everything that was happening in the whirlwind of this decision, I complied.