In this photograph, my grandparents, Annie and Pete, proudly flank their daughter, Maggie, in a convent garden. It was 1961, Maggie was 22, she had taken on a new name and was on her way to the African missions. All three appear sombre; this was goodbye, and Maggie and her parents expected they would never see each other again on this earth.
A week later, chaperoned by two senior nuns, Maggie boarded a flight to South Africa and, as far as everyone was concerned, that was where she would spend the rest of her life.
With the benefit of hindsight, this seems like a cruel fate for a young woman – the modern-day equivalent of a one-way ticket to Mars – but at the time, it was considered a privilege to have a daughter make this supreme sacrifice. I was only three when Maggie went away but I remember the loneliness of my mother and grandmother in the years that followed. They wrote every week and Maggie responded on transparent airmail paper, sometimes enclosing black and white snaps.
She was the heroine of our family; we talked about her every day, and prayers for her safety were included in the trimmings of our nightly rosary. I dreamed of the day when I would go to Africa to help Maggie look after the black babies and get on everyone’s nerves as I processed around the house draped in a sheet and tea towel. Towards the end of the 1960s, the nuns modernised their habits, and the coifs, long veils and flowing robes were replaced by shorter, streamlined outfits. I lost interest in dressing up.
Maggie never did see her father again; he died a few years after her departure. Eventually, Vatican II made changes and Maggie returned regularly to spend time with her elderly mother. Fifty years after this photo was taken, Maggie (wearing a smart, navy and white ensemble) came back from Africa and continues to live, work and serve God in a convent in Ireland.
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