“Singing With The Orphans”

by Diana McCaulay (Jamaica)

“Do I have to go to the carol singing tonight, Sister?” Patrice asked.

“Of course, Patrice! Why wouldn’t you want to go? The Lord has blessed you with a gift and you must use it for His glory.” 

Patrice looked at the wooden floor. She knew its every crack and creak, every raised nail, because the girls had to take turns cleaning it, down on their knees using coconut husks to apply a reddish polish. She did not want to explain her reluctance to sing in public to Sister Abigail. Her voice was hers, maybe the only thing she truly owned, and she hated to share it. She had been caught singing alone a year ago when she had been sent to throw vegetable cuttings on the compost heap. “You can sing?” Sister Elizabeth had exclaimed and then sent her to bed without supper for a week to atone for the sin of hiding her God-given voice.    

“You’ll get a nice dinner,” said Sister Abigail. “Probably even ham. Definitely rice and peas.” Patrice didn’t answer. “The Stirlings will invite only the best people and collect money for the orphanage.” Sister’s voice had sharpened. “I want you to go to the dormitory now and pray to be more appreciative of what is done for you, Patrice.” 

“Yes, Sister,” said Patrice. She hated Christmas.  

The Sacred Heart Home for Girls was in a colonial-style house with a big yard at the edge of downtown Kingston. The girls blessed the donor at prayer every evening. Four nuns and eleven orphan girls lived there, the girls ranging in age from nine to sixteen. The nuns shared the bedrooms; the girls slept in army cots in what had once been the dining room. Patrice had been born in a place called Country and brought to the nuns by a man who had named her. That was all she knew of her birth.  

The orphanage was a black and white place – there were few colours inside the old house, just the floors, the warm brown of heavy, ornate furniture, the faded prints of upholstery and curtains. The girls were black, the nuns, white. The nuns wore a black and white habit, the girls wore a white tunic over a black blouse and skirt. The walls, sheets and plates were white. Outside, the trunks of the trees and the curbs were whitewashed. Patrice believed the nuns would paint the grass and the leaves of the trees if they could. She often thought of things the nuns could not make into black or white. The sky. They would never reach the sky. She longed for a bed near a window because then she would see dawn colour the sky every morning.   

She stood in a line with seven other orphans, waiting to get on the bus. Patrice was twelve; the youngest of the seven chosen to sing. Maybe she would see the sunset tonight.   

There was a new driver in the minibus; he too wore black and white, black peaked cap, white shirt, black trousers, black shoes. He greeted Sister Abigail who sat behind him, taking up the whole second row. The girls crowded into the back seats, vying for a window to feel the breeze brought by motion, and to better see the world outside the orphanage. 

She was going to have to sing in public for the first time. Could she get away with just mouthing the words? No, Sister Abigail seemed to listen especially for her voice. Just think of ham and rice and peas, she told herself.  

The bus turned through a gate and entered a long driveway. Two people wearing servant’s uniforms were filling brown paper bags with sand and adding candles to each one. Another carried a stack of chairs. A man hurried up to them and flagged them down. “You not suppose to be here!” he hissed to the driver. “Go roun to di back gate. Mek haste!” The driver reversed onto the street and drove around a corner lot with a graceful grey house set in the middle of a mowed green lawn. They went in through a back gate between two poinciana trees. “Now girls,” Sister Abigail said, waiting for the driver to open the door of the bus. “Here we are. Do your best.”

An elderly white woman wearing a floral dress and a string of pearls stood at the top of a short flight of stairs at the back of the house. “Ah Sister Abigail,” the woman said. “Welcome. Have the girls eaten? Would they like some refreshment before the programme?”

“Thank you for having us, Mrs Stirling,” Sister Abigail replied. “I think refreshments after the performance would be best. If you would show us where the girls can change?”

“At least some iced water,” Mrs Stirling said, turning to speak to someone behind her. “Lorraine! Eight glasses of cool water to the front room. Use the green tumblers.”

Nine, if you count the driver, thought Patrice. 

Mrs Stirling led them through a large kitchen, a dining room with a shining wooden table, a narrow corridor and then into a bedroom. It was the same kind of house as the orphanage, but here the rooms had retained their original purpose. Patrice drew a deep breath – the house smelled of lemon Pledge and abundant food. Her throat was suddenly dry, and her stomach cramped. 

Two white children stood in the bedroom, the older of the two running her hands over a pile of costumes on a four-poster bed. Angel wings were stacked on a white cloth on the floor, and an armchair held halos made of gold tinsel. The white girls turned and the older one held onto her skirt and made a little bobbing movement. “How sweet!” Sister Abigail said. “You must be Alice Stirling?”

“Yes, Miss. And this is my sister Elaine.”

“You are very well mannered, Alice. Who taught you to curtsey?”

“My ballet teacher,” said Alice Stirling.  

“Sister, the piano is in the drawing room over there,” Mrs Stirling said, nodding in the direction of an even larger room. “Do feel free to practice for the next half hour or so.  Our guests will soon be arriving. My granddaughters will just sing along with the choir.” 

Mrs Stirling held out her hands to the white girls. “Let’s get your costumes. You’ll change in my room.” She stopped. “But where is Vanessa?”   

“She’s probably in the plum tree, Granny,” Alice said.

Mrs Stirling shook her head. “Get her, Alice,” she said, and the older white girl left. Patrice sensed this Vanessa was often not where she was supposed to be. 

There was a knock on the open door and a woman came in carrying a tray with a pitcher and glasses. “Thank you, Lorraine,” Mrs Stirling said. “Over there.” She nodded at a small table and then turned to Sister Abigail. “See that door, Sister? There’s a – aah – a waiting area where the girls can sit after they’ve dressed. Bathroom through the other door. I’ll come and get you when it’s time. Do you have everything you need?” 

“Yes, indeed, Mrs Stirling,” Sister Abigail said.   

Patrice didn’t want to take anything from the Stirlings, but she was thirsty and yes, she still had to sing. The water from the pitcher was icy and made her teeth hurt. Ham. Rice and peas. Sunset.   

Sister Abigail sorted out the loose tunics by length, measuring against the girls. The angel wings were secured by a strap around their chests and then the costumes slid over their heads, with a slot in the back where the wings came through. The orphans had to remove their blouses. The tinsel halos were all the same size and Patrice’s came right down to her eyebrows. When the girls were all dressed, Sister Abigail inspected them, straightening wings, adjusting necklines, securing halos with bobby pins. Then she led them into what Mrs Stirling had called a waiting area, which was a side verandah enclosed by white wooden slats. Patrice would not see the sunset. 

She could hear people talking outside and low laughter and glasses clinking. She felt cheated of enormous things, there in the place of waiting, wearing her angel costume.    

Night fell. “It’s time, girls,” Sister Abigail said. She led the way back into the bedroom, where lights had been turned on. Mrs Stirling and the two white children dressed as angels stood in front of a tall mirror. A third girl stood to one side, a scowl on her face. She wore a soiled party dress, and her hair was uncombed. She offered no greeting, certainly no curtsey, but her eyes met Patrice’s and held them.

“We’re missing a costume, Sister,” Mrs Stirling said. “For my granddaughter Vanessa, who is, I am sorry to say, inevitably late.”  

“Missing a costume?” There was a tremor in Sister Abigail’s voice.

 The adults conferred. The orphans looked at the floor. Alice practiced her curtsey in front of the mirror. “It seems we counted wrong then,” Mrs Stirling said. 

The white girl, Vanessa, stood like the old woman, same rigid stance, same scowl, arms folded across her chest. Patrice wanted to whisper to her – you and me, let’s run. She envied Vanessa, who would surely not have to sing. 

“It’s not a problem,” Sister Abigail said. She looked at the orphans, all dressed as angels, assessing their heights. “Patrice! Come here. You’re about Miss Vanessa’s size. Take off your costume and give it to her.”

No one moved for a moment. I am not going to have to sing! Patrice thought. I didn’t see the sunset, but I’ll stay here until the singing is over, and then we’ll get ham and rice and peas. She must hide her relief. She lifted the halo from her forehead and held it out to the white girl. “No,” Mrs Stirling said, taking the circle of gold from her. “Vanessa will just have to do without a halo.”

Sister Abigail helped Patrice wriggle out of the costume and the air was cool on her skin. “Put your blouse back on. You’ll stand at the back. We’ll put the white material over your shoulders.” She pointed at the cloth on the floor, where the wings had rested. Black blouse, white cloth, black girl, thought Patrice. And I have to sing. Vanessa still stared. She would look ridiculous dressed as an angel. Then Vanessa Stirling’s shoulders slumped, and she left, carrying the tunic and wings.   

 “Right, girls,” Sister Abigail said. “O Come All Ye Faithful first. Just like we practiced. Line up!” 

The girls walked out onto the verandah and Patrice saw the rows of white people sitting on the dark lawn, their faces lit by a rising moon, the glow of their cigarettes making red scribbles in the night. She stood behind the girls who were properly attired, and looked up at the evening sky, felt a soft breeze on her face. And she sang. For herself. She listened for Vanessa’s voice, but did not hear it. The choir swung into O Holy Night and Patrice hit every note. The black girls and the white girls, all, except one, dressed as angels, the rich people on the lawn they owned, the servants in the kitchen; yes, they were part of an old and weary world which merited no rejoicing. And although tonight was not the time to run, and she knew there would be no ham or rice and peas for dinner, this, she vowed, was the one and only time she would ever sing to this kind of audience from the verandah of such a house.   

The choir prepared for Silent Night. In the momentary silence, Patrice shrugged herself free of the cloth across her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Then she turned on her heel and went inside the house. Maybe Lorraine would give her some hard dough bread. She did not look behind her to see if the white girl followed.