The Convent by Maureen McCarthy

thick black hair knotted up into a number of little buns at the back of her head. Mum always says that Stella knew exactly how she wanted to dress by the time she was three. On her first day of school she insisted on wearing her pink tutu with green socks and runners. Mum and Dad tried to dissuade her, thinking that she’d feel silly in front of the other kids, but there was no way Stella could be convinced. There was no uniform at Fitzroy North Primary, but the other girls turned up in nice new cotton school dresses, with white socks and school sandals. At the end of the day, when Mum came to pick her up, a bit worried that she might have been picked on for looking odd, Stella had made fifteen new best friends and wanted to know if she could stay at school for the night because she was having so much fun. On the way home she declared casually that she was glad she wore the tutu because, ‘I looked better than everyone else.’
    Then, in secondary school she found her voice. Literally. Was it only two years ago that she came home grinning from ear to ear?
    â€˜Guess what?’ she whispered dramatically.
    We looked at her and waited. Her eyes were glowing.
    â€˜I got the lead part in the musical.’
    Her singing voice was outstanding, just like Nana’s. Mum’s mother had been an opera singer and Stella inherited the deep contralto voice. It’s the kind of voice that sends shivers down your spine. Not that I’ve heard it in a while.
    I get to the entrance of the Abbotsford Convent five minutes early. I stop a moment to peer around at the odd collection of buildings, the trees, and the people coming and going. I’ve never actually walked through the Clarke Street gates before.
    I walk in further and stare around, no idea where to go. About to check the directions board, I notice the Boiler Room sign straight in front of me. There are a dozen wooden tables set up outside with people sitting around talking and drinking coffee. So far so good. I walk towards the big brown doors and push them open.
    The wonderful smell of fresh bread nearly bowls me over. Inside the large dark room, two big glass counters are filled with pies and tarts, glistening cakes and long baguettes filled with avocado, cheeses and salads. All different kinds of bread are stacked on the shelves behind. The first person I see is Cassie, serving coffee to a couple sitting at a small round table to the side of the room. There are probably a dozen of these small tables. Cassie grins and motions me towards the door behind the glass counter.
    â€˜He’s expecting you,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Don’t say anything stupid, okay? Make sure you get the job.’
    â€˜Okay.’
    Then I see Nick serving bread. He’s a guitarist in a local band, Slick City, and I’d forgotten that he’s working here. I used to see a lot of Nick because he and Fluke are friends. We smile at each other.
    There are two other people serving the small crowd: a tall guy with long blond hair tied back with an elastic band and a dark skinned girl in a headscarf. They also smile as I edge past them and through the door into the room behind. There is a wood-fired oven set into the wall down one end, a couple of big square tables covered in flour, and over by the far wall sit big containers. A small neat swarthy man sits down the end of one of the tables, drinking coffee and frowning over figures.
    â€˜Can I help you?’ he asks in a perfunctory way.
    I suddenly feel nervous.
    â€˜I’m Peach, er, I mean Perpetua. I’ve come about the morning job.’
    He stands up and holds out his hand. ‘I’m Sam. Come and sit down and tell me about yourself.’
    I perch on a long bench running along the opposite side of the table. ‘Well, I’m a student at the moment,’ I say shyly, because he is taking me in now, noticing my hair and skin, my legs in my short skirt. ‘I’ve just finished