Martha One Lunchtime 1968

  Martha One Lunchtime 1968.

Sister Martha stood in front of the bench in the refectory awaiting the abbess’s knock for the beginning of grace before lunch. Eyes down looking at her corklined shoes. Black shining. Wonder if you could see how you look if they were shiny enough? Not seen myself in years. No vanity here. No mirrors. The abbess knocked and the grace began, voices in unison to a degree, prayers said so often became worn thin. Stomach empty. Nothing since that slice of brown bread after matins this morning. The grace said the nuns took their places behind the benches and the nun reading from the high place began to speak in monotone with the life of some saint. Martha sat waiting for the serving nuns to serve, watching them as they moved urns from the trolley to the top of each table. Soup first. Wonder what sort. Usual tomato or maybe beef. The nun at the top of the table sat passive. Thoughts elsewhere. Martha gazed at the two slices of brown bread she cut before grace. Fresh baked. Seemed warm still to the touch. The nun at the top end spooned soup into bowls and passed them down the table. Beef. Can smell. She sipped the first mouthful. Dipped in bread after. Auntie Violet made soup like this when I was a little girl. Had a big rosary on the wall hanging between two pegs in the wall. Martha sighed. Gone now, lost her mind towards the end. The serving nuns began to sort out the main course. The nun reading began reading from the life of Nelson, her monotone voice dragged on. She recalled the priest at mass had a stammer. Made the mass seem longer. Her stomach began to fill and settled. The main course to follow. Hopefully something to enjoy. She mused on the letter that morning from Magdalene saying Mary was going to marry that Larkins boy. Magdalene seemed disappointed. Wanted her for herself I expect. The nun next door passed along the dinner plate with chicken and potatoes and two other vegetables. Glad it isn’t Lent. A feast day. Sunlight from the windows behind flicked on the polished wooden floor and dust mites hung in the air like small galaxies twirling around and around. Apart from the nun reading and the soft click of cutlery there was no other sound.