Three Wise Men. Martina Devlin
flowers – these ones need urgent medical attention,’ Kate bribes her.
‘Make it freesias,’ she barters. ‘And don’t think I’ve finished with you yet, you’ve a shopping trolley full of explaining to do.’
Kate settles the nun in a chair by Gloria’s bedside and scuttles off, pulling faces at her behind the tiny sister’s back. Gloria shakes her head: The woman’s beyond redemption – one minute she’s chanting mea culpas, the next she’s behaving like a skit of a schoolgirl.
However she has a guest to take her mind off Kate’s bombshell, one who looks like she’s been paying hospital visits since the days of dancing at the crossroads. Not that nuns went in for much of that, unless of course they were late vocations. Gloria studies her covertly as she speaks: integrity and sincerity shine from the nun’s eyes; she’s in her mid-seventies, no veil, neatly cropped hair, silver band on her wedding ring finger, mysterious stain on the front of her black dress. Gin or vodka?
As she listens she stems a rising impulse to slap her visitor – a sting to shock her into silence. Gloria looks at her clasped hands on the bedspread and concentrates on controlling them. The nun is talking about God’s will and how he moves in mysterious ways; Gloria nods whenever she looks directly at her and wraps fingers around fingers, pressing until white blotches spread across the surface of the skin.
‘There’s a reason for everything, even if we can’t yet see it,’ explains the visitor in tones Gloria hopes to be conclusive.
‘Indeed there is, sister,’ she agrees dully.
Fourteen years of convent education are no preparation for forcibly ejecting elderly nuns from your hospital room. Besides she’s leaving now – no, it’s a false alarm. The nun lifts her bag from the floor but instead of standing up she’s rooting around for something.
Amazing, notes Gloria. You can spend a lifetime in a convent, devoting yourself to God and good works, but there are certain female traits that can never be sublimated and the instinct to cram handbags to the hilt is one of them.
The nun tracks down what she’s searching for and produces it with a magician’s flourish: a holy picture showing the Madonna and Child. Gloria holds it limply. Our Lady is wearing her usual impractical blue nightdress – who decided the poor woman always has to be kitted out in bedclothes anyway? The small blond toddler in Mary’s arms looks like a right handful, no chance of persuading him to eat his greens if he doesn’t feel like it.
Mother and tearaway have their hands joined in prayer peaks and at the bottom of the card is an invocation, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.’
Even the Virgin Mary has a baby, Gloria thinks sourly. The nun settles herself back in the chair and she stares at her mouth as it opens and closes, opens and closes.
Can the nun direct her to where the Holy Spirit will impregnate her? Otherwise she may as well leave. It doesn’t even have to be a child of God, an ordinary one will do.
A nurse’s head appears around the door. It’s Imelda, Gloria’s favourite one. She and her boyfriend are saving up to emigrate to Australia but they keep having to postpone the departure date because of sessions. Either it’s a session for a brother’s birthday or a session for a friend’s wedding (that can run into week-long celebrations) or a session for their engagement. Sessions are what make life worth living for Imelda but they don’t help her and Gerry the Guard save for their Outback Odyssey.
‘Doctor Hughes is about to make his rounds,’ she announces, a prim figure in her nurse’s white. You’d never think this was the girl who bartered a pint of Guinness and her uniform badge for the male stripper’s lurex thong at a hen party last week, claiming she wanted Gerry the Guard to try it for size. Gloria looks hopefully at her but is unable to signal the necessary distress flare.
Fortunately Imelda’s talents don’t begin and end with partying like there’s no Gomorrah. A glance at the patient’s face shows an unnatural brightness in the eyes. Instead of bustling off, Imelda comes into the room and helps the nun to her feet:
‘I think it’s time we gave you a drop of tea, sister, we’ll have you worn out with all the visits you’re paying.’
No wonder they call nurses angels, thinks Gloria. If Imelda weren’t engaged she’d marry the girl herself. Of course she’s married already, and the wrong sex to pledge herself to someone called Imelda – at least here in Ireland. Still, she feels a rush of love for the nurse in that instant.
‘Here we go, sister.’ Imelda beams down into the older woman’s face as she lifts her bag and attaches it to the bent arm.
‘Well, maybe a cup of something would be pleasant,’ concedes the nun, allowing herself to be led.
She hobbles to a halt as she passes Gloria’s bedside and pats a hand, not noticing the bone poking through the knuckles.
‘I hope I’ve helped you, dear. It’s good of you to let me talk to you. You’d be surprised how many people don’t want to be bothered these days. They tell me they’ve lost their faith, as though they could misplace it like a spool of thread.’
‘Thank you for your trouble, sister,’ whispers Gloria as she potters off.
‘I’m the world’s biggest hypocrite,’ Gloria wails to the empty room.
She buries her face in the pillow, not knowing if she hates this inoffensive nun or herself more. The misery wells up and splashes down her cheeks. It’s not fair, she sobs against the starch. The worst sort of pillow talk. But even weeping requires energy that she can’t muster – the tears peter out and she’s left with a thumping headache.
Imelda lands back with the doctor, who glances at her blotchy face and decides to jolly her along. Gloria imagines him dressed like Ronald McDonald handing out balloons.
‘Now, now, we can’t have this moping, there’ll be plenty more babies,’ he booms.
Imelda sits beside Gloria and holds her fingers in her capable, calloused nurse’s hand – Gloria is amazed at how needily she clings to it.
‘This is only a temporary setback, you’ll be pregnant again in no time,’ insists Dr Hughes.
Feck off, you quack, she says, but only inside her head. She feels better and a twitch that could pass for a half-hearted smile chases across her face. The doctor is delighted with himself.
‘Sensible girl,’ he nods, flicking through her notes.
He’s headmasterly, jowly and heavy-handed with the aftershave. A few checks and he’s on his way.
‘I’ll be seeing you in the maternity ward one of these days,’ he calls from the door.
Not if I see you first, you scut, she says, but naturally it’s only inside her head again.
Kate and Eimear arrive simultaneously: Kate is weighed down with bribes – a stack of magazines in her arms as well as flowers – while Eimear proffers a box of chocolates so large she should have applied for planning permission.
‘God love you, Gloria, you’ve been through the wars. How many pints of blood did they pump you full of? I wonder whose blood it was? I hadn’t a notion ectopic pregnancies were so serious – that you can actually die from them. You’re not going to die on us now, are you, break up the trio?’
Kate rattles through this without so much as drawing breath, she always did take life at the gallop. Eimear is quieter, she perches on the edge of the bed and looks steadily at her friend’s wan face.
Gloria sees Kate’s game, she’s trying to pretend she didn’t visit her earlier. While Eimear struggles to open the window – it’s painted shut – Kate gives Gloria a cautionary look, taps her finger against her lips and says loudly, ‘Mulligan here and I bumped into each other by the front desk.’
As she gushes on about what a fright they’ve had, Eimear leans across, whispers, ‘Poor you,’ and touches