When Habits Fall Away​​

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It was exactly half past five on a Tuesday evening. I was Prisoner number forty three in Sister Assumpta's study hall. The room squatted in the bowels of her private world, we were cut off from the main school by a long red corridor.

 

The air always tasted of floor polish and a bit of teenage desperation. However, somewhere in that chemical cocktail lurked strawberry and Hubba Bubba gum, which was instantly swallowed the moment Sister Assumpta's footsteps echoed down the corridor.

 

Forty two other souls shared my jaw grinding journey. Each in blue jumpers, wool so scratchy it could sand furniture, and grey skirts that fell two inches below the knee.

 

Anne Flanagan sat to my left. Her geography book spread before her like a prayer mat. Her yellow highlighter moved across the page, painting the Sahara Desert one fluorescent line at a time. Her marker dragged across paper a thin, awful sound like a field mouse caught in Mrs. Bollard's cat's teeth, that final wheeze before the world goes quiet. My eyelids grew heavy. The geography of the Sahara Desert blurred into yellow streaks. Anne's voice faded to a whisper, then to nothing. The scratchy wool of my jumper softened against my skin. The clock's Roman numerals melted into shapes that meant nothing.

 

Anne's finger traced the yellow line across the Sahara. Her Cork accent turned each word into something wild. "Hey hey, did you know the desert gets less than ten inches of rainfall a year? Would ya think Ireland would give them a few buckets of it? Enough here to drown the globe if it wanted to. The Irish overspill, we could call it."

 

She leaned closer.

 

"Ya know, like the Irish Sea, but Irish overspill instead."

 

Her eyes lit up while the highlighter cap clicked between her teeth.

 

"I get it, I get it."

 

I stared at my Irish grammar book. I always hated how the conditional tense mocked me in Gaelic. Dhéanfainn – I would do. Dhéanfa – you would do. But what would any of us do, beyond memorise conjugations of a language half the country pretended to speak anyway.

 

The clock on the wall, round-faced, ticked with all the energy of a dying donkey. Each second stretched, pulling us deeper into the evening. Somewhere beyond these walls, people watched Glenroe or Fair City, ate their tea and lived lives that didn't revolve around the Penal Laws and the pronunciation of "síocháin". 

 

Through the tall stained glass windows, the last light of day bled orange across the convent grounds.

 

Sister Assumpta's presence haunted the room even in her absence. Her empty chair at the front desk seemed to watch us with invisible eyes, and I swear I could smell her lavender and righteous indignation. The woman could detect a whispered conversation from three counties away and had the supernatural ability to appear behind you just as you were about to pass a note.

 

My pen lay across the copybook. Blue ink bled from its tip, spreading into a perfect circle on the white page. The stain bubbled there like a tiny lake trapped between ruled lines. "Lough Ennell". That's what it looked like. The exact shape of water where Caroline and I sat last week, our legs dangling from the hazel tree swing, the branches creaking like old bones above our heads. Oasis's "Wonderwall" drifted from her fancy cassette player. The Benson & Hedges packet stolen from Ma's handbag.

 

Caroline's fingers shook as she struck the match. A flame died, danced again. The cigarette caught, and she drew deep, her cheeks hollowing. Smoke leaked from her lips in grey circles.

 

"Let's share it," she whispered, passing me a drag.

 

The ink pool spread wider on my copybook. Sister Assumpta's study hall had faded a moment. I was back there by the water, tasting tobacco, feeling the hazel branch sway beneath us while Liam Gallagher stood there looking so handsome.

 

Amazing how a puddle of ink in the most boring of places could drag you back to the exact moment when you felt most alive, I thought.

 

"Come on girls, not long to the Leaving Cert, get your heads down," came from Sister Assumpta.

 

Around me, the sounds of study hall, rustle of pages turning, scratch of pencils against paper, the occasional sigh that escaped before its owner caught it. Mary Fitzgerald, two rows ahead, had perfected the art of sleeping with her eyes open, her head propped on her hand in a pose that suggested deep contemplation of Pythagoras, as if she were some sort of philosopher when she was dreaming of whatever Seventeen year old girls dreamed of in 1999.

 

The strange thing about all of this, I volunteered to be there. Volunteered. Somehow the nun's study hall seemed like peace and quiet, and I hoped these walls would trap me into study.

 

Then inspiration hit me like a slap. I stared at Sister Assumpta, all holy and serene at the front of the room, and thought, what if she wasn't? What if underneath that habit lurked something more interesting?

 

I pulled out my poetry notebook, the one I kept hidden, and slipped it under my science book. The pen moved across the page like it had a mind of its own:

 

"Sister, Sister, sitting there so sweet,

Looking so virtuous, acting discreet,

But when the chapel bells cease their call,

You become the Devil Nun of Boarders' Hall."

 

The words poured out. I wrote about horns sprouting from her head, about her leading midnight revels in the convent corridors, about her trading her rosary for a pitchfork.

 

Anne caught sight of what I was writing. Her eyes widened. She nudged Andrea, who leaned over to read. Soon we had a conspiracy of three, passing glances and stifling giggles like we were planning to rob the Bank of Ireland.

 

The poem grew longer. I gave Sister Assumpta cloven hooves hidden beneath her habit. I had her dancing on the altar after midnight, cackling as she turned holy water into something stronger. The more outrageous it became, the more my friends struggled not to laugh out loud.

 

That's when the shadow fell across my desk.

 

Sister Assumpta stood beside me like the Angel of Death, except quieter. No dramatic swooping, no thunderous voice demanding to know what I was doing. Just her presence, filling the space around my desk.

 

"And what might we have here, young Moran?"

 

Her voice carried a soft lilt. I felt my face burn red as a tomato. My hands shook as I tried to cover the notebook, but it was too late. She'd seen everything.

 

"Science homework, Sister," I croaked, my voice coming out like a rusty gate.

 

She raised one eyebrow.

 

"Science, is it? How fascinating. And here I thought you were composing poetry about..." She leaned closer, reading over my shoulder. "'...horns sprouting from my head.' Quite the scientific observation, young Moran."

 

My heart hammered against my ribs.

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Sister Assumpta held out her hand. "The notebook, if you please."

 

I handed it over like I was signing my own death warrant. She took it with the same care she might handle the communion chalice, then she began to read aloud.

 

"Sister, Sister, sitting there so sweet, looking so virtuous, acting discreet..."

 

The entire study hall went silent. Forty pairs of eyes watched as Sister Assumpta read my verses to the room. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

 

But then something extraordinary happened.

 

Sister Assumpta's mouth twitched. Just a tiny movement at the corner, like she was fighting something. She continued reading, her voice taking on a sort of musical quality.

 

"But when the chapel bells cease their call, you become the Devil Nun of Boarders' Hall..."

 

And then she laughed.

 

"Quite the imagination you have there, young Moran," she said. "Though I must say, I'm not fond of the horns you've given me. Rather unflattering, don't you think?"

 

The room erupted. Forty girls who'd been holding their breath burst into laughter. The tension snapped like an overstretched rubber band.

 

"If only you knew," Sister Assumpta continued, "the humor that lives in the hearts of some of us nuns. We were children once, you know. Hard as that might be to believe."

 

She folded the paper and tucked it into her habit. "I'll be keeping this, if you don't mind. It's been years since anyone's written poetry about me. Even shocking poetry has its charm."

 

"Oh Sister, I didn't mean any harm. It was just... just..."

 

"Just what, child?"

 

"Just that you seemed so... so perfect. I wondered what you'd be like if you weren't."

 

Sister Assumpta studied me for a long moment. The laughter had faded from her eyes.

 

"Perfect, am I?" she said. "Oh, child, if you only knew. We're all just people stumbling through, trying to make sense of it all. Some of us just wear habits while we do it."

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​​By Yvonne Heavey

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Yvonne Heavey is a writer from Jersey Channel Islands. As well as her fiction writing success, her very first play – a full-length piece developed from her short story, The Wake of Yer Man, which won the 2023 Festival of Words – is set to be performed on St. Patrick’s night 2026. Performances in Jersey, Channel Islands, will span March 17th,19th and 20th 2026 – in Jersey, Channel Islands, with further performances planned for Ireland in May, and London in April.