by Jess Smith
We looked at each other, and within no time thoughts of menace were replaced by giggles and laughter, as we pictured in our mind’s eye the policeman’s big red hooter.
This was our Mother’s way of avoiding mass hysterics amongst her brood, change the subject quickly. It worked. A clever woman, my mother.
For the rest of the night I worried dreadfully for my father’s safety. It was then my imagination conjured up Greenwing, the wee Cumbrian flying monster. He told me children shouldn’t worry. Instead they should play. So off on his wings I went, as he flew me over the velvet hills of his home ground. After playing all kinds of fun games he took me back to bed, where I slept soundly.
In the morning weary Daddy came home, muttering to himself about keeping his big trap shut next time. Thankfully, though, that was the one and only time we had to go through polis night visits. They left us in peace for the duration of the winter on the waste ground at the far end of Cheetam Hill.
Mona asked if the polis hurt or manhandled him in the jail.
‘God, no, they were a fine bunch o’ lads; we played cards all night long, won myself twenty-three bob.’
‘The last time I worry about you, then,’ snapped Mona as she huffed out the door.
If she’d taken the time, as Mammy did, she’d have noticed at his hairline an ugly, bruised swelling. Or if she’d looked closer at his face she would also have seen a dark red trickle of dried blood round his nostrils.
After another week passed, the three eldest girls found work at a hamburger canning factory in Sale, on the outskirts of the city. Janey, although only twelve, didn’t go to school that winter; she and Mammy took turns ragging and watching after the wee ones, Renie and Babsy.
Ragging consisted of handing round big brown paper bags containing six washing pegs and a sample-size packet of Rinso (older readers may remember this washing powder). Included was a note saying ‘we are not begging, please accept the contents for the filling of the bag with rags, preferably woollens.’ The ragman gave more money for woollens.
Most folks were grateful for a free box of washing powder with pegs, and took the contents before filling the bags with cast-offs, but there were dirty, vile people who, after helping themselves to the pegs and Rinso, left the fillings of their bowels as payment instead. I won’t tell you what my father called these creatures. Thankfully they were few and far between.
Mammy washed and pressed the best of the rags, selling them at the local open markets, which were common in English cities, even up to the present day.
Mary and I went to the nearest school, a convent. Not because of our religion, but because it was the nearest to the site, a mere half mile away. That doesn’t seem far, but in the thick smog on a freezing morning it felt like miles and miles.
Let me tell you about our nun-run school, and I promise you this, it certainly wasn’t the proper way to start an education. Mary was four years old in the December. This was when we both started at the school. The Mother Superior, after a visit from Daddy to say he didn’t want Janey taking care of three little girls, said there were plenty under-fives at the school and she’d be happy to take us both.
As we walked hand in hand to school that morning, the cold December wind blew smog into our eyes. Mary cried that she wanted Mammy. I reminded her that I too was frightened going to a new school, after all I was not yet six. But I pretended to be brave for her sake.
We gathered in the playground: a crowd of pitiful-looking children with running noses and sad faces. Some had thin, torn coats and bad-fitting shoes. Others didn’t even have coats, only flimsy woollen jerseys with darned elbows. Several hadn’t even the luxury of shoes. Instead they wore plimsolls on their wee feet, and it winter time too! I think they were from the poorest run-down areas, ones the gypsies called slums.
A loud bell rang, not like a school bell, more akin to what you’d hear from a church. We all rushed in together like ewe-less lambs and huddled close for warmth. Perhaps we totalled thirty in number, not much more. A woman dressed in black and white, I heard kids say she was the Mother Superior, led us in. Other women in grey and white followed; they were called sisters. Then it was us, into a hall with a ceiling so high I could hardly see the long thin flex the yellowed light bulbs were suspended from.
Silently everyone knelt down: a thin arm belonging to a tall lad yanked me onto my knees, and Mary did as I did.
‘Bow your head. If she sees you, you’ll get the Jesus Box!’ said the lad, glancing swiftly over in the direction of a nun who I later was told went by the name of Sister Alice.
One whole hour later we left the assembly hall. Prayers were said for the morning, the lessons, and the poor little ‘black babies of the world, the food in our bellies, the clothes on our backs’.
Prayer followed prayer and finally, when we got down to lessons, prayers were said at the start and finish. If we needed to go for a pee, we had to pray.
We were the ones who needed the prayers. Our wee knees were lumpy and sore. My head felt like a rain-soaked tennis ball, having hung it down for so long!
There weren’t classes as such, because we were all taught together, and our ages ranged from as young as three up to ten. Three nuns took turns teaching, with the Mother Superior taking morning prayers. The only named nun I remember was Sister Alice, because she took an instant dislike to my wee sister and me. She never missed an opportunity to let us know how she felt. Being so young, the words ‘dirty heathen gypsy’ meant nothing to me.
At playtime I asked the tall laddie what he meant by the Jesus Box.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he said. ‘Even if you’re saintly they’ll still find a reason to put you in it!’
He ran off to join a small band of lads congregating over by the school wall.
That night my wee sister and I had very little to tell the family about the school, except we could now recite several prayers.
‘What did lessons consist of?’ they enquired. So far not much, but that was understandable; after all nothing much happens on the first day.
As I lay in bed that night it was freezing, but I didn’t feel the cold. My mind had visions of a big box with something scary in it, a thing named Jesus! Not my mother’s precious Christ. He didn’t punish little children. No, this must be someone else.
As the night grew darker my fear grew with it. I floated in and out of one nightmare then another. So awful were my fears that Greenwing stayed away from my dreams.
The school day began at seven. Sister Alice stood like a sentry at the door. As we walked in she ticked each of our names on a notepad. ‘Bow your head, gypsy,’ she called out at someone, then added: ‘Have you no respect for a holy place?’
I looked around, feeling sorry for the poor soul who was being addressed, whoever it was, before realising I was the unholy offender! I felt my sister’s fear as she held my hand so tightly the tips of my fingers went white.
The day went by with the same rigorous form of religion, and by the week’s end we had learned nothing but prayers and more prayers.
For reasons known only to herself, Sister Alice had by now shown her dislike by using me as an example of ‘how not to be’. I was, she told everyone, disobedient, unwilling to learn, full of cheek and, oh yes, a heathen gypsy!
After I told my parents, they said they were disappointed in me for being a wee midden. It was as if nuns were superhuman. Scolding me, my mother said, ‘Nuns are next to God, they would never harm a child, Jessie. You must be misbehaving. Stop it or you’ll get a right leathering, my lass.’
Daddy tried to lighten the issue by saying, ‘Why don’t you get the gypsy lassies to show you how to make paper flowers, then you can take a bunch to the sister?’
That sounded a good idea, it was something I’d wanted to learn since first seeing the pretty gypsy girls. So after breakfast I sat amongst yards and yards of coloured crepe paper, learning the art of flower-making, gypsy-style. An old woman with steely blue eyes braided my hair, then
tied a floral apron with a big pocket round my waist. Little cuts of fuse wire were held in the pocket.
Take a yard of the crepe paper, cut in two-inch widths, push thumbs gently into the paper making wee dents, and roll into flower shapes resembling roses. Then tie these using the wire to privet hedge cuttings of twelve inches in length to produce the lifelike flower that English gypsies were so famed for in days gone by. ‘Six red roses and a blessing!’ was the hawker call of these gentle nomads.
I made six for Sister Alice, and was glowing with pride when I tied them together with one of my tartan hair ribbons reserved for Sundays and visitors.
The strictest law in the convent school was Sunday worship. To miss the seven a.m. call was blasphemy! It was six-thirty on that particular Sabbath, and Mary didn’t want to go. I pleaded with her to hurry. Half-eaten jammy sandwich hanging from her mouth, I pulled her, half-running, half-dragging, along the still, dark road towards the chapel. We could hear the bell as if demanding we hurry up or else. I was forcing my poor wee sister to run faster, the chapel was in sight the last gong of the bell trailed away, when suddenly Mary went all her length, badly grazing her knee. Blood poured down, filled the crumpled sock and disappeared into her tiny brown shoe.
‘Oh pet, I am so sorry. Look, forget the chapel, your wee leg needs a clean. I’ll explain to the nuns in the morning, it will be alright, they’ll forgive us.’ Mary nodded through her tears as we turned and went off home.
I won’t say I wasn’t frightened to go into school that Monday morning, because I was terrified, but perhaps my peace offering of coloured flowers would smooth the waves?
Who was I kidding? Sister Alice took one look, then screwed my gift into a crunched-up ball between her fists before throwing it into the big dustbin at the playground gate.
I bit my lip. Her actions made me angry and confused. Looking back I am certain the woman had been verbally cursed by some rough gypsy body in her past, and it was fear made her act the way she did. We were marched along to the Mother Superior’s room.
Our punishment for being absent from Sunday worship would soon be known.
‘You shall both go in for punishment this morning. Mary, you will go first.’
‘No, that’s not fair, it was my fault we missed chapel! Please don’t put my wee sister in,’ I cried. ‘Look, she cut her leg yesterday. We went back home and were too late for your stupid chapel,’ I screamed. ‘She did nothing wrong, I tell you!’
Completely ignoring me and determined to rid the devil from our innards, the elder woman took hold of my sobbing sister and repeated her judgement. ‘Sister Alice, please put this child in for her punishment.’
As the nun grabbed my sister by the arm, I lunged at her fingers, sinking my teeth into her thumb. She screamed, instantly letting go of Mary’s wee arm.
‘You touch her and I’ll chew the hand off you,’ I warned.
‘To the boxroom, sister, at once,’ repeated the Mother Superior.
For a moment I was rigid with fear, but then, grabbing hold of my sister firmly by the coat sleeve, we ran as fast as we could, out of the wood-lined study, down the long corridor and we didn’t stop until halfway home!
Mary’s face was blood-red with running, poor wee cratur. I wet the edge of my cardy with my tongue and wiped it across her tear-streaked face. That’s what my mother usually did.
‘Blow your snottery nose, pet, it’s filling your mouth, you’ll be sick.’ Mary pulled a flannel square from the fold of her own cardy sleeve and did as I asked.
‘God,’ I thought, ‘I’m for it now. I’ll get killed for doing this.’
Daddy hadn’t yet left for ragging, when we ran into the bus, panting. Like two gurgling turkeys we unsuccessfully tried to explain why we were not at school!
‘Jessie, what is it?’ he asked, sitting me down. ‘Take your time now, tell Daddy.’
I did the best I could to explain our absence from the convent school. ‘The Jesus Box, Dad, they were putting us in the Jesus Box!’
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘A punishment, Daddy. A place where you meet a monster called Jesus!’
‘Better not let your Mammy hear you say that. Now, while she’s at the shop getting bread, we’ll go back to the school and sort out this carry on.’
Holding each of us by the hand, he walked into the Mother Superior’s room. Surprisingly she smiled and held out her hand, saying ‘A misunderstanding, Mr Riley, let me explain.’
We were ushered out to stand in the cold corridor flanked by Sister Alice, while my father sat listening to the saintly-looking head-covered nun.
In no time he came out smiling and said, ‘Jessie, wee Mary will not be punished, but I’ve heard you’ve been a little madam, so you will have to take yours.’
Kneeling beside me on one knee he smiled, then winked, saying, ‘Now, lass, I don’t know where you got the idea that Jesus was a monster in a box, but someone has told you fibs. Be a good girl and take your punishment.’ Those words said, he walked off down the long passageway, leaving me to my fate.
Sister Alice walked Mary into the classroom while the Mother Superior marched me off. At the farthest end of the school we climbed a narrow, winding, metal stairway that clanked noisily with every step. Reaching the top she opened a heavy dark wood door of the smallest room I had ever seen, though I’d never been in a house apart from Granny Riley’s. Perhaps this was normal. I peered in, only to see a wee three-legged stool and nothing else.
‘This, my dear, is where we teach children that disobedience is wrong. Our Lord Jesus will decide if you are forgiven or not,’ said the holy lady.
She motioned me to sit down. I did as I was told. Before closing the door she said, ‘Always keep your head bowed. Do not look up, understand?’ I nodded as the door creaked shut, leaving me alone, and I remember thinking, ‘This isn’t so bad, that tall lad must have been pulling my leg right enough’. Perhaps I’d misjudged these saintly ladies of the cloth. ‘I’ll say a few prayers. If I say them loud and she’s standing listening behind the door, that’ll surely please her.’ So I closed my eyes, clasped my hands and prayed for everybody in the school. Parents, poor folk, sick ones, old ones, dogs, cats, on and on I went, finishing only when I’d totally exhausted everything worth praying for, or, come to think about it, everything I could think of whether worth it or not.
I opened my eyes, unclasped my little hands and sat quietly counting the cracks in the stone floor. Surely I’d soon hear the latch open and hear her call me out. But no! I could hear the big church clock ring out hour upon hour. All this time I sat with bowed head until my head became heavy and my neck sore. So, disobeying my superior, I stretched my neck up towards the ceiling. The sight froze my body. I grasped the wee stool beneath me for fear I’d fall onto the stone floor.
Suspended directly above my seat, the Crucified Lord hung from a wooden cross! From his thorn-crowned head to his nailed feet, painted blood trickled down his body like a river of red. So lifelike, so tortured. To go by my memory of it, whoever the artist and sculptor were, I can only imagine they must have been on Calvary and witnessed the Crucifixion themselves.
As if drawn by a magnet my gaze was forced further upwards. I stared deep into his crucified eyes. He stared down at me through the painted tears, and I swear it was as if he spoke to me, saying, ‘Bad child, wicked child. Hell for you!’
I closed my eyes tight. In my head I called in silence for wee Greenwing to take me away, and he did in a magically vivid dream. We flew over the smog-filled city, up and away from the Jesus Box. On and on we flew, over Manchester, Cumbria, the Borders, on and on until the smoking chimney of my Granny’s white cottage in the north of Pitlochry at the foot of Ben Vrackie came in sight. We sat on her rooftop until the pounding in my heart subsided. I had left the evil statue with the staring eyes far behind me.
Greenwing held my hand telling me it would soon be over, this fearful punishment, because he heard the bell ring for school’s ou
t. ‘Open your eyes, Jess,’ he said, ‘the nun comes. I’m away now, be brave.’
‘Don’t leave me, wee friend,’ I pleaded.
I tightened my eyelids even more. I knew the statue would get me if I saw it.
My imaginary friend was gone. I was now vulnerable. Instantly I was back sitting petrified on the three-legged stool in the cold convent. Granny’s Heilan’ Hame was far, far away, and I was at the mercy of the Jesus Box. Here was the Lord of the bloodied cross who frightened children. Mammy never knew this Jesus.
‘Well, child, have you discovered the beauty of your Lord?’ The Mother Superior’s voice brought me back to the world as she pulled open the heavy door.
Keeping my eyes shut tight, I nodded my head vigorously.
‘Good, then that will be the last time we see the bad side of you, my dear.’
Yes, the Jesus Box was a dreaded punishment, because from that day until my little sister and I left, we were, to say the least, angelic!
The tall lad came up to me as we were going home that unforgettable day, and pushed something into my hand. When the school faded into the smog I opened my fingers. There, all crumpled up, was my wee tartan ribbon. He had seen Sister Alice throw it in the bin and retrieved it for me.
On reflection I can say now that that place would have been better suited to a gang of criminals rather than innocent children. Make no wonder that the playground was an unnatural place, it was more like a graveyard with all those sad, silent, little bairns. Not a bit like how they should have been—skipping, playing, loud, happy, healthy children. I have never forgotten them. Even to this day I find my thoughts wandering back. Where are they now, all in holy service maybe, or perhaps not? Who knows? I still believe that was the wrong way to teach religion.
