Free Three Summers by Judith Clarke Page B

from the storeroom and stalked in through the door. ‘What’s this?’
    â€˜It – it’s a play. It’s Romeo and Juliet .’
    â€˜Bloody snobs’ rubbish!’
    Flick. Tinny dance music had filled the room. ‘There, that’s better,’ he’d said.
    She’d never bothered to check through the radio pro–gramme again.
    After a while you stopped wanting things. She didn’t want Ruth ever to stop wanting things.
    â€˜Maidie?’ the old priest was saying.
    â€˜I want Ruth to have a profession,’ she repeated stubbornly.
    He shifted in his chair, leaned forward to her again. ‘But don’t you see, Maidie, how it makes the man feel shamed when the wife has a job outside the house? People think he can’t support his wife and family, they talk.’
    â€˜People will talk about anything.’
    â€˜Ah—’ he spread his hands in sympathy, ‘but it makes him feel useless, Maidie.’
    â€˜The more fool him!’ she cried. They glared at each other. ‘I want her to get away from all that!’
    The priest exploded. ‘Did Our Blessed Lady want to get away?’ he demanded. ‘Did Our Lady’s mother, the blessed Saint Anne, want her daughter to have a profession? And yet the angel came to Mary, uneducated as she was, and she bore a child, and wasn’t that child our dear Lord Jesus, the light of all the world?’
    Somewhere in the house the telephone was ringing. Father Joseph stopped shouting and listened. The shrilling ceased, and in the silence that followed they both heard the housekeeper’s voice saying, ‘Saint Columba’s Presbytery, Mrs Ryan speaking.’ Then there was another small silence in which they both heard footsteps approaching down the hall. A tap on the door.
    â€˜Come in,’ roared Father Joseph. The door opened and Mrs Ryan’s pink face, timid as a sugar mouse, peered round.
    She frowned at Margaret May and turned towards the priest. ‘That was Mr Lester on the phone, Father.’
    â€˜Yes, yes,’ said Father Joseph impatiently. ‘Tell him I’ll call him back later, would you, Mrs Ryan?’
    â€˜He wants to know if you’ve spoken to the boy.’
    Father Joseph shifted his weight in the chair. ‘Tell him I have.’
    â€˜Yes, Father. And would you be wanting tea?’
    â€˜Maidie?’ he asked, and Mrs Ryan gave the visitor another frown.
    â€˜No, thank you,’ said Margaret May.
    â€˜And you, Father?’ the housekeeper persisted.
    â€˜No thank you, Mrs Ryan.’
    When the door had closed behind the housekeeper Margaret May said in a low, passionate voice, ‘So this is your kindness!’
    He looked bewildered. ‘Eh?’
    â€˜When I was little, at the orphanage, there was this day I told you the nuns were cruel to us—’
    â€˜You were a child !’ He waved his hand dismissively, but she refused to be put off in this way.
    â€˜You said sorrow makes us cruel, and that one should always try to have kindness in this world.’
    â€˜You’ve a memory on you like an elephant, Maidie.’
    â€˜I’m glad of it,’ she said. ‘It helps when you’re trying to work things out.’ She leaned forward. ‘So do think spoiling a young girl’s great chance in life is kindness, Father Joseph?’
    He was ready for her. ‘It’s kindness all right, Margaret May, for I’m not spoiling the girl’s chances, I’m trying to prevent her being spoiled.’
    She rose from her chair. ‘ I was spoiled,’ she said bitterly. ‘I was spoiled, Father, and it wasn’t education or Sydney University that spoiled me.’ She picked up her basket and walked out of the study, straight down the hall.
    Mrs Ryan was dusting the statue of Saint Peter that stood by the front door. She glanced up avidly as Margaret May swept past.
    Father Joseph walked