The Row Boat

By far the best thing about the dinghy we used to commute across the small lake was the rubber ring.

It was supposed to be there  to save lives, but when rowing back, after a visit to Mother Superior, it came into its own to save our tender hides.  We could row serenely and calmly, like good little novices should do when about their errands, and not a soul – particularly the leery eyes of unkempt school children – had any reason to think the errand was one of administration, not one of instant justice.

Our convent was on the north side of Lake Winderless, and the parochial boarding school was barely half a mile away from it, but over on the South side.   Because of the shape of the lake, the shortest distance by road meant nearly a twenty mile round trip.   By water, it was considerably less.

Most novices, like me, were lucky enough to get posts as teachers – well, to be honest, as assistant teacher - in the school.  And on Sundays and holy days when school was in attendance, coaches would ship all of us by winding road, to the convent, for our religious services.  And back later, to an afternoon of leisure.

But, whether for administration or discipline, if just one of us novices had need to return alone to the Convent, a mile of rowing was considerably cheaper.   And it was considered to be good exercise for us, as well.   There had been a little motor boar once, but maintenance and operating costs led to the decision to retire it in favor of a row boat.

The headmistress of the school was Sister Bartholomew.   She was “old school” – the sort of nun, like her second in command, Sister George, who would take on a male name when taking final vows.   There was distinct air of coolness between the old school nuns, and the “new school”, who kept their original birth names, like Sister Margaret.  It was sisters like Sister Margaret who the children adored, and those like Sister George that they revered through an emotion akin to fear.

I was still a young novice, and such serious politics as choice of name was still some distance away in my future.

It was autumn, and the apple and pear trees were in full fruit.   Eating the windfalls was not against school rules – picking them up and wolfing them down was.   Windfalls went into the big tub at the end of the dining hall – and were given out to the children after their evening meal, as they passed in an orderly line before Matron.

It was the biggest, reddest, most delicious looking apple I had seen in many a year - and it was lying by the path where I was walking – walking for 15 minutes of quiet meditation on the inappropriateness of using modern slang words in front of fourth formers.  Sister George had no time for modern slang words, and any novice who used one or more in her ear-shot would spend 15 minutes walking, in quiet meditation.

The apple was so perfect  that I just had to pick it up off the ground to give it to Sister Margaret later.  

She would be tickled pink by such a treat.

I turned into the Quadrangle, and walked straight into Sister George for my second confrontation with her in less than half an hour.

“A very short meditation was it?”

I bowed my head.   “No, sister, it was a full fifteen minutes.”

“What are you carrying, there?”

I was trying to keep the apple out of her view, and by so doing had actually attracted her attention to it.

“You were taking an apple for yourself!” she thundered.

“No – not for me, it is for Sister Margaret.”

“Sister Margaret!   Did she put you up to this?”

“No – it was going to be a surprise.”

“Humph!   I rather think Sister Bartholomew will want to learn about this.   Come with me.”

My interview with Sister Bartholomew lasted less than five minutes.   And four of those were while she wrote a note, placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Mother Superior.

I went to the dock and climbed into the little yellow dinghy.   Part of the agony was not knowing what punishment had been recommended, and whether Mother Superior would add or subtract from it according to her own better judgment on these matters.

But, should I need it, the red life bouy was tucked below the mid seat.

The sun was bright, the air calm, a truly glorious day as I rowed across the lake.   For a few minutes, in such peace and beauty, I was able to forget my forthcoming ordeal and rejoice in the moment

Having docked on the North side, it was less than a minute’s walk to Mother Superior’s office – her office had a very fine vista of the water frontage.

She was waiting for me – a telephone call had warned her of my imminent arrival.   She was very young to be a Mother Superior and had that handsome beauty which often comes to women of power.

I sat opposite her.   She carefully read the letter.   She smiled me one of her most beatific smiles as she said “I really shall have to punish you for this.”

We both nodded.   “But this really needs more than my strap.”   She wrote a note.   “Give this to Sister Luke”.   I glumly took it.   “And do have a safe trip back to the school.”

The difference between her strap and Sister Luke’s stick was the difference between pins and needles and a stubbed toe.   With one, a bit of flexing and massage, and it was quickly over,   With the other, all you could do is stand frozen with closed eyes for as long as it took for that awful sensation to subside to a tolerable level.

I found Sister Luke by the barn – as usual – and handed her the note.   She was a muscular, stout woman, with gimlet eyes set deep in her face.   Piggy eyes I might have called them, if I was less charitable,   I had an uncanny feeling that she enjoyed all of her duties, particularly this one.

She glanced at the piece of paper, pointed to the barn and simply said “In.”

The procedure was simple.   I grabbed my ankles and adjusted my clothing; she grabbed her long wooden stick, swished it a couple of times and then delivered six almighty powerful swipes to my bared bottom and said:   “There.   Do try to keep a clean sheet from now on.”

I limped tearfully back to the dock with the pain raging across my backside.   It was very, very difficult to be benevolent in ones thoughts about a fellow sister when she had delivered such a fearsome cascade of pain to one’s hind quarters.

The hard wooden seat on the dinghy simply slid in and out of place between two slots.   It was easy to take it out, and lay it down in the stern.   And then to place that soft, red life buoy in the space the unyielding seat had occupied.

Which changed the hard, numbing board into a rubber ring:  one which had an airspace in exactly the same area that my body was yelling blue murder in agony.

So, calmly and serenely, I rowed back across the lake.  My bottom swaying over open air, cooling down, free from all distress and without the constant rekindling that would have come by rubbing it on hard wood.

By landfall, there was not a single tear to show any spectator what had befallen me.   Surely, all the children would think I had simply been sent to deal with some routine correspondence.

And one thing was certain.   If they did suspect the real reason for my trip, they would never say a word about it.   Constantly rowing back and to across the lake built up the muscles of the forearm so much, that not one of them readily risked getting a swat or two from me for being cheeky.