Anne Martin

Nell sat beside Mags on Friday night for the women’s retreat. Fr. Reisinger was in charge. His sermon began after the hymns. A gentle, lilting voice lulled her into a false sense of security.
“You very gut for coming out on such a cold evening,” he said.
Nell liked him, and the strange way he pronounced w as v was endearing.
“Now, listen vell. You vimen love and obey your husbands, ja? Gott’s vill is you make babies. Make sex for baby.” His eyes watered as he glared down, and his hands flew in the air as if they had a life of their own. Nell sat bolt upright.
“You must not pleasure. Dat dirty,” his voice shrilled with a new intensity.
Nell looked wide-eyed at Mags, who stifled a titter. It was infectious. Nell giggled, ever so grateful not to be sitting up front beside Mamma like poor Cath. Women shuffled. Some blew their noses. Others bent their heads, wincing as his words rained down.
“Are we to love or not?” Nell whispered behind her hand to Mags, who dissolved into uncontrollable shudders.
The priest realised he was losing his audience. His cheeks burned.
“Making babies Gott’s gift. Only sex… bad.” Perspiration glistened on his forehead.
“He’s not making sense,” Mags whispered. Nell nodded.
“Voman’s place in kitchen. Dis Gott’s word. Mo-des-ty. No tempt young men astray.”
“Spoilsport,” Mags hissed. Nell stared, incredulous. She and Mags wanted to work and had trained for it.
“Girls. Gott lives in you. Be pure. You body sin; you must be gut.” His right hand beat out his orders while flying spit and perspiration glinted in the candlelight.
“Young man like horse. You have reins. Satan make you think sex gut; Satan lies. Sex relations dirty, bad. After marry, den gut, den make baby, after ring on finger!” He held up his left hand, wiggling his ring finger.
Nell was gobsmacked.
“Wait until I tell Mikey he called him a horse.”
Suddenly, Mags nudged her. Fr. Theo pointed at her. Her cheeks flamed. Jesus, Mary, and holy Saint Joseph, how did he know what she was thinking?
He hammered the lectern. Nell flinched as every blow rang out like a bell tolling her doom.
“Gott see all.” Bang. “Know all.” Bang. “You think of boy?” Bang. “Stop!” Bang. “Think on Jesu on cross.”
Nell slid forward, wanting to disappear. Her face puce, her heart clattering, afraid everyone was staring at her. She looked at her tormentor, transfixed, terrified, shame engulfing her, overwhelming her, making it hard to breathe. Her mouth dry, she gulped fast breaths. Mamma would kill her. Oh, holy Mother of God.
“Be good, or Gott vill punish you! And you and you!” The priest pointed to other random, equally flushed girls. Nell exhaled, low and slow—no more daydreaming for her.
Eventually, outside, the cold air was as welcome as a dunk in the Glosha on a hot day.
Fr. Reisinger’s words left her unsettled. Her thoughts must be sinful. Otherwise, she wouldn’t feel guilty. Sex must be dirty.