Seemingly stern with the young scamps in their charge, we nevertheless suspected that the nuns secretly enjoyed our pranks.
In St. Agnes’ Convent, Matale, the boarders were free to walk around the premises on Saturdays - within limits. Certain places were out of bounds to us with good reason. One of these was the school quadrangle which was some distance away from the boarding and quite deserted on Saturday afternoons. Since all things forbidden draw children like magnets, we often found our feet leading us to those very places.
And so it happened that one quiet Saturday afternoon my little friend Millie and I, both nine-year-olds, having made sure that no one was watching us, stole down to the quadrangle. In the centre of this large grassy area, high up on a concrete pedestal stood the statue of St. Agnes, the patron saint of the school. The statue was grey with age and the elements had taken their toll. Nevertheless, St. Agnes stood looking down benignly at the convent school dedicated to her. She was our special protector.
Millie and I stood in the quadrangle looking around for something to play with, when our eyes fell on a battered old hat belonging to the school gardener; lying close to it on the ground was a bamboo stick.
The combination of statue, hat and stick acted on us like a charm. There was no need for words. We looked at each other - two minds with but a single thought. It was the work of a moment to place the hat on the end of the bamboo pole and hoist it towards the head of the statue. After a couple of attempts on my part failed, Millie took the stick from my hands. She held it in her own small hands with all the aplomb of a veteran javelin thrower, took careful aim and sent the hat flying far above the statue.
We watched breathless as it descended on the statue, wobbled a bit and then settled at a rakish angle on St. Agnes’ crowned head. We were still admiring our handiwork when Mother Principal descended on us.
“What are you children doing?” she cried, appalled. It seemed that an elderly gentleman passing by on the road outside the convent walls, had seen the unusual sight of St. Agnes sporting a hat and, shocked to the core, had rung the parlour bell to report “the disgraceful spectacle.”
Mother Principal (whose name by a happy coincidence was also Mother St. Agnes) delivered a scathing lecture to the two of us. She used lots of big words -'irreverent’ and ‘desecrate’ and so on.
We hadn’t meant any disrespect, really. It’s just that we reacted much the same as laboratory monkeys would at the sight of a stick, a stool and an overhanging bunch of bananas.
“And just look at you,” continued Mother, taking in our disheveled hair, dirt-stained dresses and dusty feet, “like two ragamuffins.” She paused for breath, “You’re incorrigible” she said, “the pair of you - just incorrigible.” She regarded us frowningly for a long moment. “Now go back to the boarding and get washed,” she ordered.
We ran off hand-in-hand, unable to believe our luck in having been let off so easily.
As I ran I tried to keep in mind the new words I had picked up from Mother Agnes’ lecture. Mother Agnes could always be relied on to come out with some new and interesting words when she was annoyed. “Ragamuffins’ for instance had a suggestion of the deliciously tasty, but I loved “incorrigible’. It had a lovely crunchy sound, like eating nut chocolate.
What’s the meaning of “incorrigible”? I asked my friend as we ran. “I don’t know,” she shrugged.
“Well,” I declared firmly, “Whatever it is, I’m glad I’m it.”
We stopped behind a verandah pillar and took a cautious peek to see how Mother Agnes was tackling the situation. She was gazing up at the face of her patron saint and I swear I saw her biting her lip to hide a smile. |
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