‘Who is God?’ Sister Magdalen boomed.
‘God is our father in Heaven, the creator and Lord of all things’ they all sang back.
Cathy watched the clock. The time ticked by.
‘What is the Blessed Trinity?’ boomed Sister Magdalen, this time her long, pale finger pointing at Cathy. Cathy stood up.
‘There are ...’
‘Stop.’
‘... three ...’
‘I said stop! Cathy Browne!’ Cathy stopped and peered at the teacher through her fringe. The nun walked slowly towards her. ‘How many times do I have to repeat myself to you?’ She glared at Cathy. Cathy didn’t know how to answer this question. The nun’s arms shot out from under her bib and she held them out as if she were ready to be nailed to the cross. ‘Do I look like a parrot to you?’
Cathy was tempted to answer: No, Sister, a penguin, but she knew better.
‘I asked you, Miss Browne, do I look like a parrot?’
‘No,’ Cathy mumbled.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No, Sister Magdalen.’ Cathy spoke louder.
‘Good. So you know that I do not intend to tell you each and every day to get that hair out of your eyes, do I?’
‘No, Sister Magdalen.’
‘Well, do it!’ the sister screamed, and the whole class jumped!
Cathy put her hand to her forehead and with a flick of her head, the hair flew back to leave her beautiful, but now frightened, eyes bare.
The sister smiled. ‘Good, now, what is the Blessed Trinity?’
‘There are three divine persons in the one God: God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost.’
The door opened and the first five victims were back.
‘Sit down, Miss Browne,’ Sister Magdalen said as she walked away from Cathy. Cathy sat, and her fringe dropped down again. She looked at the clock: twenty to twelve.
Christ, she thought, twenty minutes - not long enough! At this rate Cathy would be stripped before the big break.
Don’t panic, she told herself, maybe the next group will be longer. They weren’t. They were back in class before twelve o‘clock. At sixteen minutes past twelve the third group returned. It was time. Cathy’s group rose. She was shaking as she walked out. The corridor was empty and the five went without a word to the cloakroom to strip. Cathy undid the leather straps on her sandals and slowly began to remove them. Her breath was coming in short gasps. As she pulled off her socks the tears began to well up in her eyes. Suddenly a woman came into the cloakroom. She was a pretty woman — not a magazine model, but pretty. To Cathy she was an angel, for she said: ’Sorry, girls, the doctor is going on his lunch break, so go back to your class and you will be the first after lunch.‘
Cathy was the first to be dressed. She returned to the classroom, and, as one of the group explained to Sister Magdalen what had happened, Cathy stared at the giant but sad Jesus and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
The school yard was filled with screeches and yelps as the two-hundred-plus girls enjoyed the big break. In the middle of the yard a skipping rope was turning and a group were singing ‘Down in the valley where the green grass grows’. These were the third-class girls. The fourth-and Fifth-class girls were bouncing balls up against the side of the bike shed singing, ‘Plainy a packet of Rinso’, while the sixth-class girls were giggling and talking about sixth-class boys and who kissed who. Cathy Browne was oblivious to all of this as she stood behind the bike shed and plotted her escape, her only comrade her cousin Ann.
‘Why do you have to go home?’ asked Ann.
‘I just have to, that’s all. Now will you bend over?’
Ann bent over beside the railings to be Cathy’s ‘step up’ on to the top. Cathy stretched her leg up and gripped the railings, ’A one, and a two and a ...‘ Cathy stumbled because Ann straightened again. ’But if you’re caught, you’ll be killed,‘ Ann announced.
‘Ann Reddin, if you don’t bend over and stay bent, I’ll give you such a kick in the hole that me shoe will come out your mouth!’ Cathy was angry. Ann bent over.
But even as Cathy was standing on her back Ann was still talking. ‘If you’re caught you better leave me out of it!’ she grunted as Cathy pushed off her back and clambered over the railing. Cathy’s feet had barely touched the ground when she took off, running flat out for home. Within ten minutes she was standing on the landing outside the flat. She pushed open the letter box and tugged the piece of blue wool that hung across it. She pulled the wool out and bit by bit the door key made its way to the opening. She quickly slid the key into the lock and opened the door. She ran to the sink. The knickers were dry! She changed into them rapidly, discarded the pinnies and in less than two minutes she was bounding down the stairs to the street.
Cathy arrived back at the school panting and perspiring. The children were still in the yard. She had made it! Or had she? She had no way back in. How could she have been so stupid? She hid in the doorway of the butcher’s shop next to the school’s main gate — a locked gate. The only person that had a key to that was the principal - her teacher, Sister Magdalen! A car slowly passed her and stopped at the gate. The wine-coloured car was polished and gleamed in the afternoon sun. A man stepped from the car. It was the doctor. He fished in his pocket and took out a key. Cathy saw a ray of hope. She stooped low and scurried along the plinth of the railing until she got to the gate pillar. The doctor was fiddling with the lock. Cathy’s mind screamed: Please don’t look over here, doctor ... please ... please. The doctor did not look over, but as the lock clicked open he spoke, as if to the gate: ‘Wait until I am back in the car and then walk along the side of it as I drive in. I’ll drive slowly.’
Cathy was stunned. The doctor pushed open the two large gates and as he walked back to the driver’s door he looked straight at Cathy, smiled, and winked! Just before he sat back in the car he said, ‘Home to change your knickers, then?’
Cathy was gobsmacked - he was a mind-reader! He wasn‘t, of course - but he had been doing the school rounds for fifteen years. He knew the story. The car moved slowly. Cathy, crouched, held on to the door-handle and crept beside it. As the doctor was locking the gates, Cathy was already half-way across the yard. She looked back at him and he was still smiling. She waved. He nodded. The bell rang.
Cathy put her tongue out as far as it would go. The doctor pressed the lollipop stick down on the back of it and shone his light down her throat.
‘And again,’ he said.
‘Ahhhh.’
‘Good.’ He removed the stick and between his thumb and the palm of his hand, he snapped the stick in two and dropped it into the waste bin. He wrote a note in his book and patted her on the head.
‘Okay, my little escapee, you’re fine! Back to your class.“
Cathy hopped off the chair and made for the door. She placed her hand on the door handle and stopped. She turned, still holding the handle and said, ‘Doctor?’ He had his back to her, but turned, ‘Yes?’ With her left hand she brushed back her fringe and said, ‘Thanks!’ He smiled, ‘My pleasure ... and hey, nice knickers!’
Cathy giggled and left the room. She went to the cloakroom to dress. She had not been back to her classroom since the big break, as she and the other four girls had come straight to the doctor. As she dressed she reflected on how things had worked out so well and that life was indeed worth living! What she did not know was that after break, when Cathy’s cousin Ann did not see her return, she got scared. As soon as the class was seated Ann timidly raised her hand and when Sister Magdalen asked what was the matter, Ann tearfully confessed all. The cat was well and truly out of the bag! As Cathy entered the classroom she noticed a definite air of impending disaster. She did not, however, suspect that this had anything to do with her. She took her seat. Sister Magdalen said nothing to her, but carried on with the English lesson that was in progress.
All was normal for the time being, although Cathy noticed a few peculiar looks from classmates.
&
nbsp; The bell rang through the corridors to end the day’s schooling, and Sister Magdalen issued her instructions: ‘Don’t forget questions sixty-five to seventy tonight, we’ll be doing them first thing in the morning. Oh, and Miss Browne, you stay after school, I wish to speak to you.’
The class stood and said the ‘Hail Mary’ aloud. Only the girl standing next to Cathy Browne heard the tremor in her voice. The classroom was soon empty and deathly quiet. Cathy sat alone at her desk. Sister Magdalen had, as usual, walked her girls down to the front door in single file and would return at any moment. Cathy heard the ’clack, clack’ of Sister Magdalen’s heels coming towards the room, and the fear tasted like a rusty nail in her mouth. The nun entered. She closed the door and walked to her desk. She did not look at Cathy. Instead she opened the top drawer of her desk. In this drawer was a Bible, a roll-book, used to mark the daily attendance of the each pupil - a dash for present and a circle for absent - a box of blackboard chalk and the ‘wrath of God’. The ‘wrath of God’ was a strip of leather one and a half inches wide, one half-inch thick and twelve inches long. Somebody, -somewhere had sat over a drawing board and designed this strip specifically for beating children. It served no other purpose. It was expensive to make and to buy. The nun did not take it out. Instead, she placed her hand on it in the drawer. She still did not look at Cathy. Her eyes were firmly on the ’wrath of God‘. She took a deep breath and as she exhaled, she said, ’Miss Browne, do I like lies?‘
‘No, Sister Magdalen.’ Cathy knew what the nun was holding.
‘And do I like liars?’ The nun still did not look up.
‘No, Sister Magdalen.’ A tear shot down Cathy’s cheek.
‘Come up here,’ the nun said as she whipped out the strap and slammed it on the desk. Cathy walked unsteadily to the front of the room. The nun was glaring at her now.
‘What do liars get?’ she asked in a low, husky voice.
Cathy bowed her head and mumbled.
‘Speak up, girl!’ the nun screamed.
Cathy jumped with fright. The tears were now streaming down her cheeks and dripping from her quivering chin. Her long fringe was damp and stuck to her cheeks.
‘The “wrath of God”,’ Cathy cried.
‘The “wrath of God”,’ the nun repeated, ‘so do not lie to me here,’ she pointed to the crucifix, ‘before God our Saviour.’ The nun now seemed to be shaking as much as Cathy. ‘Hold out your hand,’ she said as if telling Cathy to sharpen her pencil. The child stretched out her hand and bent her fingers back so that her palm was sticking up. She closed her eyes.
‘Why did you leave the school grounds today?’
The question was simple, the answer embarrassing. Cathy was afraid to lie before ‘God the Saviour’, yet she could not tell the truth, it just wouldn’t come out. Whack! The pain shot up her arm and out through her head. Her hand was tingling.
‘I am waiting for an answer, Madam,’ the nun said and raised her arm again.
Cathy opened one eye. The huge, dark figure loomed over her, the arm pointing to Heaven, the strap flapping like a wild animal’s tongue. Cathy withdrew her arm and ran to the door. The nun was startled, but quick enough to catch Cathy before the door was opened. Cathy had now balled her hands into two fists and had them under her armpits. The nun gripped her above the elbow and dragged the girl easily along the polished floor to the desk. She threw the strap on the ground and, still holding the child’s arm, rummaged with her free hand in the drawer.
‘I’ll teach you, Miss ... Miss ... trollop!’ she said as her hand came out of the drawer clutching a chrome scissors.
By the time Cathy reached home her tears had stopped. As she entered the noisy flat, Agnes said, ‘Cathy, your dinner is in the pot, do your homework before you eat it. Where did you get that bloody thing?’ Agnes was pointing at the woolly hat with a tassel that Cathy was wearing. It was called a ‘monkey hat’, after Mike Nesbith, one of the band The Monkees, Cathy’s favourite band.
‘Ann Reddin gev’ it to me.’
‘Well, it looks stupid,’ Agnes said. But knowing that kids will be kids, she did not interfere with their fashion whims. ‘I’m goin’ down to Marion. You be in your bed when I get home.’
Cathy went to her bedroom and cried.
Chapter 10
WEDNESDAY MORNING CAME, Marion’s day for the doctor. Agnes stood beside the two prams at the bottom of the church steps. As usual, Marion was doing her early-mom- ing shout, except this time, when the echo of ‘Good morning, God, it’s me, Marion’ died down, Marion said softly, ’Don’t leave me in trouble today.‘ As she came back down the steps, Agnes simply said to her: ’All right?‘, to which Marion answered, ’All right!‘, and off they went to ply their wares. The morning was busy so the time flew by. Before Marion knew it, Agnes was standing beside her, waiting to leave for Dr Clegg’s clinic.
‘Are you right?’ Agnes asked.
‘Nearly. I’ve only half me apples washed, me mind is not me own.’
‘Leave them. Fat Annie will do them for yeh. Come on, it’s nearly eleven. Get your coat.’
Marion did, and the women set off on the fifteen-minute walk to the doctor’s clinic rooms. They walked to the end of Moore Street and took a right down Parnell Street towards Summerhill, where Dr Clegg sat each morning from eleven to one. There was no conversation between the women before they reached the huge triangular edifice that was the Parnell monument at the northern end of O‘Connell Street. As they passed beneath the giant outstretched hand of Charles Stewart Pamell, Agnes said: ’Did I tell you that my Mark is gettin’ pubic hair?‘
‘Where, on his willy?’
‘No, on his tongue! Of course on his willy!’
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me. Very worried he was. Thought he was abnormal - reformed or somethin’.‘
‘Ah, God love him. Did he ask you about the “birds and the bees”?’
‘No, not really.’
‘What do you mean, not really?’
‘Well, he asked me why he was getting hair on his willy.’
‘What did yeh tell him?’
‘I told him it was to keep his willy warm when he’s swimmin’.‘
The women roared laughing as they stepped on to Gardiner Street and a car screeched to a halt, its horn honking loudly.
‘Ah, keep yer hom for someone what loves yeh,’ screamed Agnes.
The driver gave her a two-finger salute and drove on. Both women returned the gesture.
‘Bleedin’ cars, think they own the road,’ Marion said as a token of support to Agnes’s outburst.
Just one hundred yards up Summerhill and they were outside Dr Clegg’s clinic.
‘Jaysus, Agnes, I’m shittin’ meself.’
‘Ah, you’ll be grand. Come on, in yeh go - you’ll see!’ The women hugged each other and entered the clinic.
That evening at six o‘clock the Browne children sat or stood around the kitchen awaiting their tea. They chattered amongst themselves while Agnes busied herself at the cooker. She was distracted, and was doing things ’arseways‘. She poured the boiling water into the pot but forgot to put tea-leaves in it; she had put bread under the grill to toast it but never turned the grill on. She kept remembering the look of pure terror on Marion’s face as she said: ’He wants me to go in for tests next week in the Richmond Hospital.‘ Marion had burst into tears. They didn’t go straight back to Moore Street like they had promised Fat Annie they would, instead they stopped at the pub on the comer and had a drink. Dr Clegg had told Marion that it might be a malignant tumour and if it were, she would have to have a breast removed. Marion was frantic.
‘That’s only the start, Aggie! First a breast, then a leg, then another leg - bit by bit - and then they bury the bits that are left.’
Agnes slapped her on the face and did some hard talking. ‘Listen you, you’re ’way ahead of yourself! It could turn out to be nothing. And so what if they take a breast - look at Mona Sweeney in the
pawn shop, she has only one diddy and she’s grand! Now get a grip.‘ They had finished the drinks in silence and made their way back to their stalls, and a very irate Fat Annie.
The chattering of the children was rising to a screeching match.
‘Shut up!’ Agnes screamed. ‘All of yis, shut up. This is not the Phoenix Park. If yis have to talk, talk quietly, yis are drivin’ me round the fuckin’ bend.’ All went quiet for a moment, then Cathy spoke up. ‘It’s Dermo, Ma, he’s makin’ Marko mad.’
‘It’s not me, it’s him,’ Dermo said, pointing at Mark.
‘Shut up, I told yis, and Cathy, your brother’s names are Dermot and Mark, keep those nicknames for the street.’ Agnes put the pot of tea on the table and a huge plate of hot, buttered toast. She wiped her hands on her apron and took it off.
‘Mark,’ she ordered, ‘pour out the tea, and there’s two slices of toast for everyone. I don’t want to hear any arguing.’
She left the room and bolted herself in the toilet. Peace and quiet. Mark poured out the tea and the toast was seized upon. Dermot started up again, but this time in a quieter voice. ‘She’s a slut,’ he said with an impish grin on his face.
Cathy was next. ‘She is not. Maggie O’Brien is very nice, and if Mark loves her that’s his own business.‘
The Mammy Page 6
