At one audition, the only song the girls seemed to want to sing was something called "Ooh Wacka Doo Wacka Day". She smiled at the memory, having had to keep a straight, even stern, expression at the time. But how the other sisters had laughed in the refectory that night when she sang the lyrics and demonstrated the little girls' innocently provocative hip actions. Innocent? They were women from the moment of birth, she thought. She too, she supposed. She was never meant to be a nun. Never wanted to be one, certainly. But for her there hadn't been much choice. Had there? At least the wimple covered her pixie ears.
'Sit in the front rows and we'll take you one at a time. Hurry up now.' She points to the girl at the end, a fair-haired child with blue eyes.
'Your name, dear?'
'Sophie O'Connell.'
'Sophie O'Connell, Sister,' the nun corrects. 'What would you like to sing?'
' "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair." Um, Sister.'
There'd been a revival of South Pacific playing in town for the past six weeks. With a bit of luck, some of the others would also choose something from it.
The girl has an awkward but somehow engaging manner and praise be, she sings in tune.
'Thank you, Sophie. Very nice dear. Sit over there please. Next.'
It has been over forty years since she last saw the Rogers and Hammerstein classic, considered a wee bit racy back then. Goodness, children watch the movie now, but she was allowed to see it only after she turned sixteen. That was in Barnstable, the Victorian town she grew up in. Barry Adams had taken her. Fancy remembering that. He was eighteen and had his own car, like most country boys his age. It was necessary ... those vast distances... and convenient...
She must pay attention. A heavy-set child with a ponytail is screeching an out-of-tune version of "Cruel", a song Sister Gabriel isn't familiar with, but it's obviously off-key. No time for the hopeless. She holds up her hand to stop the girl mid-phrase. 'Thank you, Clare, you may go. Next!'
The auditions continue. There are five girls sitting next to Sophie now - six sent home. Seven hopefuls left. Another rendition of the sudsy dismissal. Not bad. No looks, poor child, no personality - wrong song entirely - but a good strong voice. In.
South Pacific had been magical. It wasn't her first date. That was when she'd gone with Sean Murray to the Catholic Ball. She hadn't been mad about Sean but it didn't matter; she'd danced every dance with a different boy and felt as if she looked wonderful. They all told her she did. The pale blue embroidered satin, tight to her waist, then billowing out to a full-length skirt, was flattering - to her figure, straw-coloured hair and skin which still held a hint of her summer tan. Her mother had styled her hair, usually worn up, so that it fell in soft curls over those awful ears. And the telltale family trait of dimples in the cheeks actually looked quite cute for once. Amazing what a bit of make-up could do.
'No dear, er, Natalie, sorry. You may go. Next.'
After South Pacific, she was allowed to go out more or less as she liked on Friday and Saturday nights. In the season there were balls and dances every week in towns nearby. Well, forty miles was considered reasonably close for a dance in those days.
She had a good voice - did solos at school all the time and was often invited to sing at weddings. At the Highlanders Ball in Cambrooke, when she was still sixteen, her cousin, the MC, called her up to sing with the band. It was Joe White's Fabulous Five and she sang Cole Porter's "Let's Do It" to a chorus of cheers and whistles. From then on, there was no question of what she'd do when she left school. She was in demand for every dance and ball within a hundred-mile radius of Barnstable.
It was tremendous fun - to be so good at something without having to work at it much, must be everyone's dream.
The voice she is hearing now is less than dreamy. How many on Sophie's bench? Only seven.
'Miranda, I want to see you again. You may go now. Thank you, dear. Next!'
Then she met Billy. Billy Winters. He wasn't a Catholic. He wasn't anything. But boy oh boy, was he fantastic. He and his partner, Cherry, did exhibition dances at the balls where Catherine - that used to be her name all those years ago - was booked to sing. They were drawn together so powerfully, Catherine was overwhelmed. He was handsome, he moved so seductively, and he loved her!
"I Don't Know How To Love Him" is being strangled by a redheaded moppet. She's sweet, but who advised her to sing that song? She might get away with something less demanding. Put her on the list of possibles for when she gets desperate. Things aren't looking good. 'Next!'
Billy would take her out to his car. They could never go anywhere because he always had to take Cherry home after the dances and he lived so far away. She knew that otherwise they'd go driving, have coffee, go home and meet the family. Their meetings in the car became hot, uncontrollable bouts of passion. They loved each other. There was never enough.
"I Can't Get No Satisfaction" sings an obviously rebellious child - uniform too short and double earrings each side. She gets short shrift. 'Next!'
The ball season ended in October. On the night of the last dance their parting was terrible. Catherine wept. When would they see each other again? Billy said he'd write, but though she wrote every week, he didn't, until he sent a Christmas card telling her he'd married Cherry because she was pregnant.
The world stopped. She felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. The card shook in her hands and she couldn't get her breath. How could he have betrayed her with someone else... with Cherry who was only his work associate? Hurt and defiant, she condemned Cherry for leading him astray, for insinuating herself into Billy's life.
She fumed until the following Friday when she went to confession and sobbed out her anger and frustration to the parish priest. He, with hardly a word of censure and only a couple of soft questions, tingled her frame into a sudden, blood-rushing realization that she was a fool. It'd been she, Catherine, who'd done the betraying; Billy and Cherry were more than stage partners - everyone had said so - but Catherine thought she knew better and hugged her secret liaison to herself. How stupid he must have thought her!
She was bewildered, hurt and inconsolable. It was the greatest pain she'd ever suffered. The greatest, that is, until she realised that she too was pregnant.
"Baby Love, Oh Baby Love" is the next contribution from a dark-haired girl who'll grow into a siren, Sister Gabriel thinks. Good voice. Sophie's bench.
She had no idea what to do. She couldn't go to Dr Riley; he'd tell her mum and dad. She eventually spilled it out to the gentle priest. He told her to see the doctor, then to tell her parents. Only thing to do. Ten Hail Marys and Stations of the Cross.
In despair she climbed to the top of her wardrobe and jumped off. She sat on the floor, knees up, and bumped her bottom as hard as she could, back and forth across her room until she was exhausted. She fell into bed and cried, nearly all night. She must not be pregnant!
The next little girl is terribly nervous. She tries to sing "And I Love Him So". It's clear she's had lessons; her teacher has recommended this limited vocal-range song to suit her voice. Okay. Low degree of difficulty but performed nicely. Over with Sophie.
Nothing happened. She was still pregnant. She told her parents. They couldn't believe it. Their precious, beautiful, talented daughter! She knew she'd never be able to make it up to them. It was such a disgrace. If she'd lived away from home, in Sydney or Melbourne, she'd have had an abortion without a qualm. Anything to escape the disbelieving shock on her parents' faces. But that's what she saw. The house was full of damp handkerchiefs, and eyes not meeting her own.
She was packed up, put on the train and dispatched to the Sisters of Mercy, North Sydney. Her parents told them, and everyone at home that Catherine had decided to give her life to God, to become a nun.
The sisters were kind. She worked in the kitchen until her baby was born. A little girl. A bitter-sweet memory - the dreaded family dimples were there, but she was beautiful. Pixie ears looked right on her.
The second last applicant is stepping up on stage. She begins to sing "Evergreen" with wildly dramatic gestures, a Barbra Streisand impression, no doubt. She has guts - she sings in tune - why not?
What happened to her baby? She was taken from Catherine after the first cuddle. Whisked away, 'to go to a good Catholic family who'll care for her.' Why didn't she object? Why didn't she raise the roof and insist that her baby was hers alone? She was railroaded but she was scared, for her baby and for herself. Inside the convent she was safe. Outside? What could she have given her little one? Where would they have lived? She couldn't do anything but sing and that was a precarious existence. Her family had pointed that out to her.
After the birth, the Sisters of Mercy transferred Catherine to the Brigidines, a teaching order. Maybe she could teach music.
For years she searched the faces of children in the streets and children who entered the school. Ridiculous. Pathetic. It was such a long time ago now - her daughter would be forty-two on the thirtieth of June. She hoped she was happy.
The audition is nearly over. One last candidate. Sister Gabriel looks at her. A skinny, straw-blonde twelve-year-old... with pointy ears.
'What would you like to sing, dear? What's your name?'
'Catherine, Sister and I'd like to sing, "This Nearly Was Mine".'
Her voice is clear and warm and true. The dimples in her cheeks need no make-up to complete the picture Sister Gabriel has imagined for so long.
(c) Jillie Shephard, 2004.