‘I hate her,’ I shouted, breaking the silence and sending a flock of birds up from a nearby tree into the sky where they tried to regroup and relocate. I stomped across the scorched grass in my flip-flops.

Sister Ignatius didn’t look up as I neared. ‘Good morning, Tamara,’ she said brightly. ‘Another lovely morning.’

‘I hate her,’ I said louder, coming close, my voice still raised.

She looked at me then, eyes wide in panic. She shook her head quickly, and waved her arms about as if she was in the middle of a railway track trying to stop an oncoming train.

‘Yes, that’s right, hate her,’ I kept shouting.

She put her finger in front of her lip, jiggling around like she needed to go to the toilet.

‘She is Satan’s spawn,’ I spat.

‘Oh Tamara!’ she finally exploded, and threw her hands up in the air, looking distraught.

‘What? I don’t care what he thinks. I want him to strike me down. Get me out of here, God, I’m fed up and I want to go home,’ I whinged in frustration, then fell back onto the grass. I lay on my back and looked up at the sky. ‘That cloud looks like a penis.’

‘Oh, Tamara, would you stop it,’ she snapped.

‘Why, do I offend you?’ I asked sarcastically, just wanting to hurt absolutely everybody I came into contact with, no matter how good and gentle they were.

‘No! You chased off the squirrel,’ she said, the most frustrated I’d ever seen her. I sat up, shocked, and listened to her long vehement speech. ‘I’ve been trying to get him all week. I laid out some treats on a plate and finally got him-he didn’t want nuts so all those stories about a squirrel and its nuts need to be changed. He wouldn’t touch the cheese, but he loves the Toffee Pops, would you believe. But now look, he’s gone and he’ll never come back and Sister Conceptua will eat me alive for taking her Toffee Pops. I think you and your dramatics gave him a heart attack,’ she sighed, calmed, then turned to me. ‘You hate who? Rosaleen, I suppose.’

I looked at her painting. ‘That’s supposed to be a squirrel? It looks like an elephant with a bushy tail.’

Sister Ignatius looked angry first. Then, as she examined it further, she began to laugh. ‘Oh, Tamara, you really are the perfect dose, you know that.’

‘No,’ I huffed, getting to my feet. ‘Apparently I’m not. Otherwise I wouldn’t have to call a doctor for Mum. I could just fix her all by myself.’ I paced up and down before her.

She turned serious then. ‘You called Dr Gedad?’

‘Yes, and he came this morning. I planned it for when Rosaleen was over at her mum’s stuffing her with food-and by the way, I’ve seen her mum and there’s no way in the world she’s putting away all that food everyday unless she’s got worms. But Rosaleen came home early before Dr Gedad even got up the stairs because-stop the press-she put salt in her apple tart instead of sugar and yes, you’re right to look at me like that because I did it and I don’t care and I’d do it again tomorrow and I’ll know soon enough whether I do or not actually.’ I took a breath. ‘Anyway, she came back to get the apple pie that was supposed to be for me and Arthur, not that I care because all her food makes me fart fifty times a day, and she managed to talk the doctor out of seeing Mum. So he’s gone now and Mum is still in the bedroom, probably drooling right now and drawing on the walls.’

‘How did she send him away?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what she said to him. He just said that right now Mum just needed to rest and if I needed him again for an emergency or whatever, I should call.’

‘Well the doctor would know,’ she said uncertainly.

‘Sister, he didn’t even see her. He just listened to whatever Rosaleen said.’

‘So why shouldn’t he trust Rosaleen?’ she asked.

‘Well, why should he? I’m the one that called him, not her. What if I’d seen her try to kill herself and I never told Rosaleen?’

‘Did she try?’

‘No! But that’s not the point.’

‘Hmm.’ Sister Ignatius went silent as she dabbed her brush in a mucky brown colour and applied it to the paper.

‘Now it looks like an inbred animal who’s just eaten a bad nut,’ I said.

She snorted and laughed again.

‘Do you ever, like, pray? All I see you do is make honey, or garden or paint.’

‘I enjoy creating new things, Tamara. I’ve always believed the creative process is a spiritual experience where I cocreate with the Divine Creative Spirit.’

I looked around, wide-eyed. ‘And is the divine creative spirit on his lunch break?’

Sister Ignatius was lost in thought. ‘I could go see her, if you like?’ she asked quietly.

‘Thank you, but she needs more than just a nun. No offence.’

‘Tamara, do you know what it is that I actually do?’

‘Uh, you pray.’

‘Yes, I pray. But I don’t only pray. I have taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience like all Catholic sisters, but on top of that, I vow to help service the poor, sick and uneducated. I can talk to your mother, Tamara. I can help.’

‘Oh. Well I suppose she’s two out of the three.’

‘And besides I’m not “just a nun”, as you say. I’m also trained in midwifery,’ she said, dabbing at the paper again.

‘But that’s ridiculous, she’s not pregnant.’ Then I registered what she’d said. ‘Hold on, you’re a what? Since when?’

‘Oh, I’m not just a pretty face,’ she chuckled. ‘That was my first job. But I always felt that God was calling me to a life of spirituality and service and so I joined the sisters, and with them I travelled the world with the great gift of being able to be both nun and midwife. I spent most of my thirties in Africa. All around. Saw some harsh things but also wonderful things. I met the most special and extraordinary people.’ She smiled at the memory.

‘Did you meet somebody there who gave you that?’ I smiled and nodded at her gold ring with the tiny green emerald. ‘So much for your vow of poverty. If you sold that you could build a well somewhere in Africa. I’ve seen it on the ads.’

‘Tamara,’ she said, shocked. ‘I was given that almost thirty years ago for twenty-five years as a nun.’

‘But it looks like you’re married-why would they give you that?’

‘I am married to God,’ she smiled.

I screwed up my face in disgust. ‘Gross. Well, if you’d married a real man that exists, I mean one that you could actually see and who doesn’t put his socks in the wash basket, then you’d have got a diamond for twenty-five years’ service.’

‘I’m perfectly happy with what I have, thank you very much,’ she smiled. ‘Did your parents never bring you to mass?’

I shook my head and imitated my father. ‘“There’s no money in religion.” Even though Dad’s totally wrong. We were in Rome and saw the Vatican. Those guys are loaded.’

‘That sounds like him all right,’ she chuckled.

‘You met my dad?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘When? Where?’

‘When he was here.’

‘But I don’t remember him ever being here.’

‘Well, he was. So there you go, Miss Know-It-All.’

I smiled. ‘Did you hate him?’

Sister Ignatius shook her head.

‘Go on, you’re allowed to say that you hate him. Most people did. I did too sometimes. We used to row a lot. I was nothing like him and I think he hated me for that.’

‘Tamara.’ She took my hands in hers and I was mildly embarrassed. She was so sweet and so soft, it was like a bit of reality would blow her over, but with all her travels and her daily work, she’d probably seen more of it than I. ‘Your father loved you very much, with all of his heart. He was good to you, blessed you with a wonderful life, was always there for you. You were an extraordinarily lucky girl. Don’t speak of him like that. He was a great man.’

I immediately felt guilty, and with old habits dying hard, I did what I always did. ‘You should have married him then,’ I snapped. ‘You’d have had a gold ring on every finger.’