Sister Bernadette

Sister Bernadette is left on her own in a crumbling convent with only ghosts for company. Her sanity is saved by the kids from a local church youth club and the softly-spoken Irish youth leader who breathes life back into the cloisters. 

Transcript

Sister Bernadette

The Convent of Order of St Judes, the patron saint of lost causes once stood in the centre of a huge orchard and gardens; over the centuries the land has been sold off in small parcels to fund the Order. Now it sat surrounded by a housing estate on the fringe of the city. It was an ugly old building which never really had better times and the Order of St Jude’s was never a very successful one.  It’s gray granite exterior and mock gothic turrets looked austere and unwelcoming. It could easily have been in a 1950s horror film, it only needed a few more bats and some lighting flashing across the chapel roof.

The locals stayed well clear as everyone had heard the stories of the nun who haunted the vast gallery that was the main corridor of the house or the spirit of a dead soldier who stalked the small kitchen garden and the little orchard at the back of the house looking for his lost lover. It was an Abbess who it was said made up the stories in the 1960s as a way of keeping out the local youths and was eagerly spread by Father O’Donnell the new appointed parish priest of the nearby parish church of St Barnabas and St Jude’s. 

The Covid pandemic had seen off the few remaining ancient nuns except for Sister Agnes who the church had quietly shipped off to a nursing home for the Incurably Hopeless, Now it’s only occupants were two cats and a novice nun Sister Bernadette who the local Bishop had made the house keeper until the building, which he had personally deconsecrated, was sold or demolished or swallowed by an earthquake Bishop O’Brien didn’t care which one as long as it stopped soaking up his dwindling diocesan funds. 

Sister Bernadette was at forty five, a little old for a novice, but had come to the convent after her husband had died looking for help and solace.  She found the silence and the contemplation helped her and after a while she had no desire to return to the real world and had decided to stay. 

Now as house keeper the real world had come to visit her, she given up attempting to keep clean the Convent with its kitchen, dining room, chapel and sixteen nun’s cells. She had dragged one of the nun’s pallets into the kitchen and with a curtain made a small corner her home. The heat from the ancient range kept the room warm as well as cooking her daily helping of soup and stew. The Order was a closed one but as a novice she had not taken her final vows and was free to go to the local shops and interact with the various estate agents, council officials and occasional visitors who expressed an interest in buying the building but quickly changed their minds once they saw the ruinous state of the Grade One crumbling pile up close.

Father O’Donnell now in his eighties could still belt out a spirited Sunday sermon which many considered old fashioned with his constant admonishments of the failing of his parishioners but it always brought a smile to Sister Bernadette’s face as his parishioners shifted uncomfortably in the pews. However her favourite thing to do was to help out at the youth club on a Wednesday night. It was the only time she could go out without her nun’s habit and wear what John called her civvies. John the youth leader was a softly spoke Irish man in his fifties but had the energy of a twenty year old and his constant enthusiasm seemed to spill over into the motley collection of social misfits who turned up on a Wednesday night. John was good at raising money from local charities and the various funds held by the local council and because of his efforts the parish hall now boasted a state of the art sound system, a cinema projector and screen as well as an impressive collection of sports equipment.  

Despite all of this the favourite way to end a Wednesday night Youth Club session was a game of softball. John had come up with the idea when Father O’Donnell complained about the state of the parish hall floor. John’s idea was to tie rags to the shoes of the players, smearing some wax floor polish around and then the game would begin. The rules were simple, it was a form of baseball with a net at each end and you had to pass the ball between moves. John was the referee and Bernadette kept score. The players slid across the floor like they had been fitted with ice skates. There was much bumping into each other screaming, laughing and pushing but luckily no one was ever seriously hurt and as long as the health and safety people never found out about it they carried on. The night always ended with lots of laughter, some very exhausted children and a beautifully polished parish hall floor.

Bishop O’Brien was increasingly concerned about the lack of a sale for the convent and spoke to the agents handling the sale. They commented on the shabby state of the building and the neglected interiors and recommended a redecorate of the entrance hall and gallery, they also told him the kitchen was made somewhat cluttered by the Nun’s curtained off bedroom in the corner. Bishop O’Brien decided to make a surprise visit late on a Wednesday afternoon and was shocked to find Sister Bernadette not in her habit but dressed in a tee-shirt and jeans. The Bishop explained his displeasure in no uncertain terms. He told her to move back into one of the cells and ensure that the kitchen was kept tidy and the main gallery and entrance was free of dirt and dust and looked a lot more welcoming. Bernadette suggested the Diocesan funds pay for a cleaners but the Bishop just scowled and told her to get on with it.

Sister Bernadette stood in the long gallery. At one end near the entrance were the dining room and kitchen and then the Nuns cells made up the main area of the gallery that led into the Chapel at the end. Staring at the floor she had spent the day cleaning, polishing and washing  her heart sank. The floor has been scrubbed and moped but still the gallery looked scruffy and neglected. Centuries of nuns shuffling backwards and forwards from their tiny cells to the dining room and the chapel had left the oak floorboards dull and lifeless; there was only one thing to do. She picked up the phone in the office and dialled.

“John, It’s Bernie here.”

“Bernie?” John replied

“Sorry, Sister Bernadette.” She was grateful he couldn’t see how red her face had become.

“Ah, Yes, Sister what can I do for you?”

“I have an idea, can you call into the Convent for a cup of tea later today and I can show you.”

“Of course” John said “I’ll be finished here in about an hour I’ll see you then if that’s OK”

“Perfect” Sister Bernadette replied and immediately wishes she has seemed more casual.

Wednesday night arrived as the boys and girls of St Jude’s and St Barnabus Youth Club assembled in the entrance hall of the convent. They were supported by John and various assorted parents, grandparents and the odd Uncle and Aunty who had jumped at the chance to see inside the forbidden walls of the convent for the first time. A large pile of shredded cotton sheets had been provided by Sister Bernadette. There might have been the odd shroud and nuns knickers in there but she didn’t care. Two benches were brought from the dining room and placed on their sides at each end of the hall. The rules were simple, if the ball hit the inside of the bench it was a goal. 30 minutes each half, no punching, spitting or hair pulling. 

Teams had been picked and each side stood ready. Then Sister Bernadette blew the whistle to start the game. A great cry shook the rafters as the game began. To the children of the youth club this was the World Cup and the FA Cup combined. Cries of “Pass” “Goal” or” Our Ball” peppered the screams and the occasional agonised cry as someone bounced off the wall or two players crashed into each other. Bruises were for the next day, that night was about living in the moment. In the end no one was really sure what the final score was or even cared who won. The old oak floor shone like it had never shone before and another chapter had been added to its long history. 

Sister Bernadette announced that juice and cake was now being served by the ladies of the Catholic Guild in the dining room and the children shrieked with delight and pushed and jostled each other to be first in the queue. 

The dining room rang out with laughter and joy but was soon eclipsed by another noise coming from the long gallery. The adults who had watched with envious eyes as their children played softball could not resist the temptation and had wrapped the own feet in the cotton cloths and were adding their own story. 

Sister Bernadette stood in the doorway and marvelled at the sight. For the first time the convent felt alive, the whole building was breathing once again and high in the roof rafter, looking down; the ghost of a long dead Nun embraced the spirit of forgotten soldier. 

John stood beside Sister Bernadette and whispered “Makes your heart sing, does it not Bernie?” as he gently slipped his hand in hers.

Jeff Price

Word Count 1,635