The Barrel of Rumors

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IN DUBLIN, my mother used to take parcels of food to a community of Poor Clare nuns who had their convent a long walk from our house in Ranelagh. Sometimes she used to send my sister and me with the parcels. The Poor Clares are silent. They never speak, to each other or to anyone, and they are a closed order, which means that they never see outsiders and no one ever sees them. These Dublin Poor Clares had no food except what their friends — women, mostly, people like my mother — brought to them. They were forbidden to ask for anything, but we heard that if their food supply got dangerously low, the Reverend Mother was allowed to signal their distress by ringing the bell in the steeple of their chapel. To my regret, our house was too far from the convent to let us hear the bell, but my mother assured me that there was no need to worry; the nuns had never yet been driven to ring for help.

One hall in the convent was open to visitors for a part of every day, and it was there we used to call with our offerings of food. A huge revolving barrel with an open section had been built upright into the narrow end wall that sealed the public hall away from the rest of the convent. We used to place our parcels on the floor of the barrel and then turn it around so that the open section faced the nun on the other side of the wall. The nun would immediately turn it back to us, always sending us a present of a few holy pictures or some medals.

The nun who attended the barrel was named Sister Bridget. She was the only member of the community who had permission to talk to visitors. A tiny square waiting room opened off the hall, and we used to go in there and hold conversations with her through a blind grille in the wall. One of my names is Bridget, and she had the idea that I would someday develop a vocation and maybe become a Poor Clare like herself. She used to offer many prayers for my vocation, and I enjoyed talking with her about it. I was about twelve then.