My Vocation

by MARY LAVIN

I’M not married yet, but I’m still in hopes. And judging by the way my hopes are itching, I’d say I was never cut out to be a nun in the first place. Anyway, I was only thirteen when I got the Call, and I think if we were living out here in Crumlin at the time, in the new houses that the Government gave us, I’d never have got it at all, because we hardly ever see nuns out here, somehow, and a person wouldn’t take so much notice of them out here anyway. It’s so airy, you know, and they blow along in their big white bonnets and a person wouldn’t take any more notice of them than the sea gulls that blow in from the sea. And then, too, you’d never get. near enough to them out here to gel the smell of them.

It was the smell of them I used to love in the Dorset Street days, when they’d stop us in the street to talk to us, when we’d be playing hopscotch on the path. I used to push up as close to them as possible and take great big sniffs of them. But that was nothing to when they came up to the room to see Mother. You’d get it terribly strong then.

“What smell are you talking about?” said my father one day when I was going on about them after they went. “That’s no way to talk about people in religious orders,” he said. “There’s no smell at all off the like of them.”

That was right, of course, and I saw where I was wrong. It was the no-smell that I used to get, but there were so many smells lighting for place in Dorset Street — fried onions, and garbage, and the smell of old rags— that a person with no smell at all stood out a mile from everybody else. Anyone with an eye in his head could see that I didn’t mean any disrespect. It vexed me shockingly to have my father think such a thing. I told him so, too; straight out.

“And if you want to know ,”I finished up, “I’m going to be a nun myself when I get big.”

But my father only roared laughing. “Do you hear that?” he said, turning to Mother. “Isn’t that a good one? She’ll be joining the same order as you, I’m thinking.” And he roared out laughing again—a very common laugh, I thought, even though he was my father.

And he was nothing to my brother Paudeen. “We’ll be all right if it isn’t the Order of Mary Magdalen that one joins,” Paudeen said.

What do you make of that for commonness? Is it any wonder I wanted to get away from the lot of them?

He was always at me, that fellow, saying I was cheapening myself, and telling Ma on me if he saw me as much as lift my eyes to a fellow passing me in the street.

“She’s mad for boys, that one,” he used to say. And it wasn’t true at all. It wasn’t my fault if the boys were always after me, was it? And even if I felt a bit sparky now and then, wasn’t that the kind that always became nuns? I never saw a plainlooking one, did you? Not in those days, I mean. The ones that used to come visiting us in Dorset Street were all gorgeous-looking, with pale faces and not a rotten tooth in their heads. They were twice as good-looking as the Tiller Girls in the Gaiety. And on Holy Thursday, when we were doing the churches and crossed over the Liffey to the south side to make up the number, I used to go into the Convent of the Reparation just to look at the nuns. You see them inside in a kind of little golden cage back of the altar, in their while habits with blue sashes and their big silver beads dangling down by their sides. They were like angels, honest to God. You’d be sure of it if you didn’t happen to hear them give an odd cough now and again, or a sneeze.

2

IT WAS in there with them I’d like to be, but Sis — she’s my girl friend — she told me they were all Ladies, titled ladies too, some of them, and I’d have to be a lay sister. I wasn’t having any of that, thank you. I could have gone away to domestic service any day if that was all the ambition I had. It would have broken my mother’s heart to see me scrubbing floors and the like. She never sank that low, although there were fourteen in her family, and only eleven of us. She was never anything less than a ward maid in the Mater Hospital, and they’re sort of nurses, if you like, and when she met my father she was after getting an offer of a great job as a barmaid in Geary’s of Parnell Street. She’d never have held with me being a lay sister.

“I don’t hold with there being any such thing as lay sisters at all,” she said. “They’re not allowed a hot jar in their beds, I believe, and they have to sit at the back of the chapel with no red plush on their kneeler. If you ask me, it’s a queer thing to see the Church making distinctions.”

She had a great regard for the orders that had no lay sisters at all, like the Little Sisters of the Poor and the Visiting Sisters. “Oh, they’re the grand women! ” she said.

You’d think, then — wouldn’t you?— that she’d be glad when I decided to join them. But she was as much against me as any of them. “Is it you?” she cried. “You’d want to get the impudent look taken off your face if that’s the case!” she said, tightly.

I suppose it was the opposition nearly drove me mad. It made me dead set on going ahead with the thing. You see, they never went against me in any of the things I was going to be before that. The time I said I was going to be a Tiller Girl in the Gaiety, you should have seen the way they went on — all of them. They were dead keen on the idea.

“Are you tall enough, though? That’s the thing,” said Paudeen.

And the tears came into my mother’s eyes. “That’s what I always wanted to be when I was a girl,”she said, and she dried her eyes and turned to my father. “Do you think there is anyone you could ask to use his influence?” she said. Because she was always sure and certain that influence was the only thing that would get you any job.

But it wasn’t influence in the Tiller Girls: it was legs. And I knew that, and my legs were never my strong point, so I gave up that idea.

Then there was the time I thought. I’d like to be a waitress, even though I wasn’t a blonde. But you should see the way they went on then too.

“A packet of henna would soon settle the hair question,” said Paudeen. And Mother was only worried about my morals. “ Although I’m sure some waitresses are good girls,” she said. “It all depends on a girl herself, and the kind of a home she comes from.”

They were doubtful if I’d get any of these jobs, but they didn’t raise any obstacles, and they didn’t laugh at me like they did in this case.

“And what will I do for money,” said my father, “when they come looking for your dowry? If you haven’t an education you have to have money going into those convents.”

But I turned a deaf ear to him.

“The Lord will provide,” I said. “If it’s His will for me to be a nun, He’ll And a way out of all difliculties,” I said grandly and in a voice I imagined to be as near as I could make it to the ladylike voices of the Visiting Sisters.

And then one day what did I see but an advertisement in the paper.

“Wanted, Postulants,” it said in big letters, and then underneath, in small letters, there was the address of the Reverend Mother you were to apply to, and in smaller letters still, at the very bottom, were the words that made me sit up and take notice: “No Dowry,” they said.

“That’s me,” said I, and there and then I up and wrote off to them, without as much as saying a word to anyone, only Sis.

Poor Sis — you should have seen how bad she took it. “I can’t believe it,”she said, over and over again, and she threw her arms around me and burst out crying. She was always a good sort, Sis.

Every time she looked at me she burst out crying. And I must say that was more like the way I expected people to take me. But as a matter of fact Sis started the ball rolling, and it wasn’t long after that everyone began to feel bad because, you see, the next thing that happened was a telegram arrived from the Reverend Mother in answer to my let t er.

“It can’t be for you,” said my mother as she ripped it open. “Who’d be sending you a telegram? ”

And I didn’t know who could have sent it either until I read the signature. It was “Sister Mary Alacoque.”

That was the name of the nun in the paper.

“It’s for me all right,” I said then. “I wrote to her,” I said, and I felt a bit awkward.

My mother grabbed back the telegram.

“Glory be to God!” she said, but I don’t think she meant it as a prayer. “ Do you see what it says: ‘Calling to see you this afternoon Deo gratiosy? What on earth is the meaning of all this?”

“Well!” I said defiantly. “When I told you I was going to be a nun you wouldn’t believe me. Maybe you’ll believe it when I’m out among the savages!” I added. Because it was a missionary order: that’s why they didn’t care about the dowry. People are always leaving money in their wills to the foreign missions, and you don’t need to be too highly educated to teach savages, I suppose.

“Glory be to God!” said my mother again. And then she turned on me. “Get up out of that and we’ll try and put some sort of front on things before they get here. There’ll be two of them, I’ll swear: nuns never go out alone. Hurry up, will you?”

3

NEVER in your life did you see anyone carry on like my mother did that day. For the few hours that remained of the morning she must have worked like a lunatic engine, running mad around the room, shoving things under the bed, and ramming home the drawers of the chest, and sweeping things off the seats of the chairs.

“They’ll want to see a chair they can sit on, anyway,” she said. “And I suppose well have to offer them a bite to eat.”

“Oh, a cup of tea,” said my father.

Put my mother had very grand ideas at times.

“Oh, I always heard you should give monks or nuns a good meal, ‘ she said. “They can eat things out in the world that they can’t eat in the convent. As long as you don’t ask them. Don’t say will you or won’t you! Just set it in front of them — that’s what I alw ays heard.”

I will say this for my mother: she has a sense of occasion, because we never heard any of this lore when the Visit ing Sisters called, or even the Begging Sisters, although you’d think they could do with a square meal by the look of them sometimes.

But no: there was never before seen such a fuss as she made on this occasion.

“Run out to Mrs. Muliins in the Front Room and ask her for the lend of her brass fender,” she cried, giving me a push out the door. “And see if poor Mr. Duffy is home from work—he’ll be good enough to let us have a chair, I’m sttre, the poor soul. The one with the plush seat,” she cried, coming out to the landing after me and calling across the well of the stairs.

As I disappeared into Mrs. Mullins’s I could see my rpother standing in the doorway as if she was Irving to make up her mind about something. And sure enough, when I came out lugging the fender with me, she ran across and took it from me.

“Run down to the Return Room, like a good child,” she said, “and ask old Mrs. Dooley for her tablecloth — the one with the lace edging she got from America.” And as I showed some reluctance, she caught my arm. “ You might give her a wee hint of w hat’s going on. Won’t everyone know it as soon as the nuns arrive, and it’ll give her the satisfaction of having the news ahead of everyone else.”

But it would be hard to say who had ihe news first, because I was only at ihe foot of the steps leading to the Return Room when I could hear doors opening in every direction on our own landing, and the next minute you’d swear t hey were playing a new kind of postman’s knock, in which each one carried a piece of furniture round with him, by the way our friends and neighbors were rushing back and forth across the landing: old Ma Dunne with her cuckoo clock, and young Mrs. McBride, that shouldn’t be carrying heavy things at all, with our old wicker chair that she was going to exchange for a new one of her own. And I believe she wanted to get her piano rolled in to us too, only there wasn’t time!

That was the great thing about Dorset Street: you could meet any and all occasions, you had so many friends at your back. And you could get anything you wanted, all in a few minutes, without anyone outside ihe landing being any the w iser. My mother often said it was like one big happy family, that landing — including the Return Room, of course.

The only thing was, everyone wanted to have a look at the room when it was done.

“We’ll never get shut of them before the nuns arrive,” I thought.

“Isn’t, this the great news entirely!” said old Mrs. Dooley, making her way up the stairs as soon as I told her. And she rushed up to my mother and kissed her. “Not but that you deserve it,” she said. “I never knew a priest or a nun yet that hadn’t a good mother behind them.” And then Mrs. McBride coming out, she drew her into it. “Isn’t that so, Mrs. McBride?” she cried. “ I suppose you heard the news?”

“I did indeed, ” said Mrs. McBride. “Not that I was surprised,” she said, but I think she only wanted to let on she was greater with us than she was, because as Sis could tell you, there was nothing of the Holy Molly about me — far from it.

What old Mr. Duffy said was more like what you’d expect. “Well, doesn’t that beat all!’ lie cried, hearing the news as he came up the last step of the stairs. “Ah well, I always heard it’s the biggest divils that make the best saints, and now I can believe it!”

He was a terribly nice old man. “And is it the foreign missions?” he asked, calling me to one side. “Because if that’s the case, I want you to know you can send me raffle tickets for every draw you hold, and I’ll sell the lot for you and get the stubs back in good time, with the motley along with it in postal orders. And what’s more—” he was going on, when Mrs. Mullins let out a scream.

“You didn’t tell me it was the missions,” she cried. “Oh, God help you, you poor child!” And she threw up her hands. “How will any of us be saved at all, at all, with the like of you going to the ends of the earth where you’ll never see a living soul only blacks till the day you die! Oh, glory be to God! And to think we never knew who we had in our midst!”

In some ways it was what I expected, but in another way I’d have liked if they didn’t all look at me in such a pitying way.

And old Mrs. Dooley put the lid on it. “A saint — that’s what you are, child,” she cried, and she caught my hand and pulled me down close to her — she was a low butt of a little woman. “They tell me it’s out to the poor lepers you’re going?”

That was the first J heard about lepers, I can tell you. And I partly guessed the poor old thing had picked il up wrong, but all the same I put a knot in my handkerchief to remind me to ask where I was going.

And I may as well admit straight out that I wasn’t having anything to do with any lepers. I hadn’t thought of backing out of the thing entirely at that time, but I was backing out of it if it was to be lepers!

The thought of the lepers gave me the creeps, I suppose. Did you ever get the feeling when a thing was mentioned that you had it? Well, that was the way I felt. I kept going over to the basin behind the screen (Mrs. McBride’s) and washing my hands every minute, and as for spitting out, my throat was raw by the time I heard the cab at the door.

“Here they come,” cried my father, raising his hand like the starter at the dog track.

“Out of this, all of you!" cried Mrs. Mullins, rushing out and giving an example to everyone.

“Holy God!” said my mother, but I don’t think that was meant to be a prayer either.

4

BUT she had nothing to be uneasy about: the room was gorgeous.

That was another thing: I thought they’d be delighted with the room. We never did it up any way special for the Visiting Sisters, but they were always saying how nice we kept it; maybe that was only to encourage my mother, but all the same it was very nice of them. But when the two Recruiting Officers arrived (it was my father called them that after they went), they didn’t seem to notice the room at all in spite of what we’d done to it.

And do you know what I heard one of them say to the other? “It seems clean anyway,” she said. Now I didn’t like that “seems.” And what did she mean by the “anyway” I’d like to know?

It sort of put me off from the start — would you believe that? That, and the look of them. They weren’t a bit like the Visiting Sisters—or even the Begging Sisters, who all had lovely figures, like statues. One of them was thin, all right, but I didn’t like the look of her all the same. She didn’t look thin in an ordinary way; she looked worn away, if you know what I mean. And the other one was fat. She was so fat, I was afraid if she fell on the stairs she’d start to roll like a ball.

She was the boss, the fat one.

And do you know one of the first things she asked me? You’d never guess. I don’t even like to mention it. She caught a hold of my hair.

“I hope you keep it nice and clean,” she said.

What do you think of t hat? I was glad my mot her didn’t hear her. My mother forgets herself entirely if she’s mad about anything. She didn’t hear it, though. But I began to think to myself that they must have met some very low-class girls if they had to ask that question. And wasn’t that what you’d t hink?

Then the worn-looking one said a queer thing, not to me but to the other nun.

“She seems strong, anyway,” she said. And there again I don’t think she meant my health. I couldn’t help putting her remark alongside the way she was so worn-looking, and I began to think I’d got myself into a nice pickle.

But I was prepared to go through with it all the same. That’s me: I have great determination although you mightn’t believe it. Sis often says I’d have been well able for t he savages if I’d gone on with the thing. But I didn’t.

I missed it by a hair’s breadth, though. I won’t tell you all the interview, but at the end of it, anyway, they gave me the name of the convent where I was to go for probation, and they told me the day to go, and they gave me a list of the clothes I was to get.

“Will you be able to pay for them?” they said, turning to my father. They hadn’t taken much notice of him up to that.

I couldn’t help admiring the way he answered. “Well, I managed to pay for plenty of style for her up to now,” he said, “and seeing that this mourning outfit is to be the last I’ll be asked to pay for, I think I’ll manage it all right. Why?”

I admired the “Why?”

“Oh, we have to be ready for all eventualities,”said the fat one.

Sis and I nearly died laughing afterwards thinking of those words. But I hardly noticed them at the time, because I was on my way out the door to order a cab. They had asked me to get one and they laid given me so many instructions that I was nearly daft.

They didn’t want a flighty horse, and they didn’t want a cab that was too high-up off the ground, and I was to pick a cabby that looked respectable.

Now at this time, although there were still cabs to be hired, you didn’t have an almighty great choice, and I knew I had my work cut out for me to meet all their requirements. But I seemed to be dead in luck in more ways than one, because when I went to the cab stand, there among the shiny black cabs, with big black horses that rolled their eyes at me, there was one old cab and it was all battered and green-moldy. The cabby too looked about as moldy as the cab. And as for the horse— well, wouldn’t anyone think that he’d be moldy too? But as a matter of fact the horse wasn’t moldy in any way. Indeed, it was due to the way he bucketed it about that the old cab was so racked-Iooking — it was newer than the others, I believe; and as for the cabby, I believe it was the horse had him so badlooking. That horse had the heart scalded in him.

But it was only afterwards I heard all this. I thought I’d done great work, and I went up and got the nuns, and put them into it, and off they went, with the thin one waving to me.

It was while I was still waving that I saw the horse starting his capers.

My first impulse was to run, but I thought I’d have to face them again, so I didn’t do that. Instead, I ran after the cab and shouted to the driver to stop.

Perhaps that was what did the damage. Maybe I drove the horse clean mad altogether, because the next, thing he reared up and let his hindlegs rty. There was a dreadful crash and a sound of splintering, and the next thing I knew, the bottom of the cab came down on the road with a clatter. I suppose it had got such abuse front that animal from time to time it was on the point of giving way.

It was a miracle for them they weren’t let down on the road— the two nuns. It was a miracle for me too in another way, because if they were, I’d have to go and pick them up and I’d surely be drawn deeper into the whole thing.

But that wasn’t what happened. Off went the horse, as mad as ever down the street, rearing and leaping, but t he nuns must have got a bit of a warning and held on to the sides, because the next thing I saw, along with the set of four feet under the horse was four more feet showing out under the body of the cab, and running for dear life.

Honest to God, I started to laugh. Wasn’t that awful? They could have been killed, and I knew it, although as a matter of fact someone caught hold of the old cab before it got to Parnell Street and they were taken out of it and put into another cab. But once I started to laugh I couldn’t stop, and in a way — if you can understand such a thing — I laughed away my vocation. Wasn’t that awful?

Not but that I have a great regard for nuns even to this day — although, mind you, I sometimes think the nuns that are going nowadays are not the same as the nuns that were going in our Dorset Street days. I saw a terrible plain-looking one the other day in Cabra Avenue. But all the same, they’re grand women! I’m going to make a point of sending all my kids to school with the nuns, anyway, when I have them. But of course it takes a fellow with a bit of money to educate his kids nowadays. A girl has to have an eye to the future, as I always tell Sis — she’s my girl friend, you remember.

Well, we’re going out to Dollymount this afternoon, Sis and me, and you’d never know who we d pick up. So long for the present.