A Girl Called Blue

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  The tea was strong, the scones warm and delicious and Mrs Maguire’s thin face lit up with appreciation at Blue’s praise.

  ‘I’ll give you some to take back to Larch Hill,’ she promised.

  Blue hoped that there would be a few cherry ones.

  ‘Where are the boys?’ asked Blue.

  ‘Frank and Dermot are out playing football and won’t be home for another hour or two at least, and Paddy is outside somewhere, playing,’ laughed their mother. ‘Boys will be boys. They are never around when you need them.’

  After a while Mrs Maguire decided to show Blue the rest of the house. There was a small scullery behind the kitchen and a dark, narrow room, which held a long mahogany table and six chairs.

  ‘We hardly use this room,’ explained Mrs Maguire.

  Blue had already guessed that, by the musty smell and the boxes stacked in the four corners.

  Upstairs there were four bedrooms and a bathroom.

  ‘This is your room.’ Mrs Maguire opened the door to the smallest bedroom. It barely held the narrow bed and heavy, oak wardrobe. There was a green sateen quilt on the bed and heavy brown and beige curtains, which almost covered the small window that overlooked the farmyard. The room was filled with the smell from the yard. Any hopes of Mary’s pink girly bedroom were immediately dashed and Blue swallowed hard, trying to imagine herself sleeping in the lonely bed in that awful room.

  ‘I was trying to air it before you came,’ the woman apologised, pulling the window closed. ‘You can hang your clothes up here.’

  Blue felt ashamed when she saw the hangers dangling in the empty space, wishing she had some nice things to hang up instead of the single bottle-green jumper and some tatty, faded underwear.

  When they got back downstairs, the Maguires’ ten-year-old son Paddy had appeared, and he was busy polishing off two buttered scones. He stared blankly up at her.

  ‘Paddy, be a good boy and show Bernadette the cows,’ prompted his mother.

  Blue was glad to get outside in the fresh air and followed the boy across the yard, trying not to step in dirt and dung in her good black shoes.

  He climbed up on a gate, pointing as he told her the names of some of their small dairy herd. The cows mooed balefully at them.

  ‘Are you coming to live with us?’ he asked, unnerving her.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ She shrugged.

  He made no other comment and asked no other question of her, which she thought was a bit strange, as he showed her how to pat the cows’ heads and give them a handful of straw to eat. Over at the far end of the yard there was a pigsty with a large sow and eight pink piglets, all running and squirming and trying to climb up on their mother.

  Blue thought the baby pigs were the cutest animals she had ever seen as they squealed and pushed against each other.

  ‘What are they called?’

  ‘They’ve got no names.’

  Blue reached out towards a small piglet, who tottered over to her searching for food, the little wet snout twitching at her fingers.

  ‘He’s so sweet.’

  ‘It’s a she.’

  ‘Well, she’s beautiful … she should be called Bonnie.’

  Patrick laughed.

  Blue thought of the fun she could have naming all the piglets.

  Mrs Maguire was in the kitchen and was in the middle of cutting up meat for a stew when she went back inside.

  ‘Can I help?’ she offered.

  Mrs Maguire gave a huge grin. ‘In a month of Sundays the boys would never lift a finger to help me in the kitchen,’ she exclaimed, ‘and here you are only a minute in the place and you know what’s needed. You chop up those carrots there and I’ll do the onions.’

  Work was something everyone in Larch Hill was well used to. By the time Blue had finished Mrs Maguire was sitting at the kitchen table lighting up another cigarette from the red Carroll’s Number One packet.

  ‘Don’t ever start smoking, dear, for ’tis the very divil to give up,’ the woman cautioned, taking a huge drag of the cigarette.

  Blue watched, fascinated, as she smoked one cigarette, then another, stubbing them out in an old cockle shell that she used as an ashtray. Mrs Maguire talked a lot about the boys and Blue was more than curious to meet the other two. From what she could gather, nothing was too much for the Maguire boys as far as their mother was concerned.

  She was in the middle of peeling potatoes for the dinner when the eldest boy, Frank, trooped into the kitchen, the mud from his boots falling on the floor. He was about seventeen years old, tall and heavy-set, with a thatch of red hair and a freckled face.

  ‘Mam, can you give us a hand outside?’ he said, ignoring Blue. ‘The milking buckets all need cleaning.’

  ‘I’m busy here,’ she responded, ‘but maybe Bernadette might be able to.’

  Blue felt suddenly shy when the older boy looked at her. He said a gruff hello and then gestured for her to follow him back outside.

  ‘She needs boots,’ called Mrs Maguire, glancing at the mud and dirt already encrusted on her black shoes.

  ‘Put on your boots,’ ordered Frank.

  ‘I don’t have any,’ replied Blue, embarrassed.

  ‘No wellie boots!’ he said, clearly astounded.

  ‘Grab her a pair from the cupboard under the stairs. Those old ones of Dermot’s might fit her,’ suggested his mother.

  Frank passed her a pair of black wellington boots, which Blue pulled on. They were way too big.

  ‘They’ll do,’ grinned Frank, as he pushed open the back door and stomped across the yard. She followed him, trying not to stumble as she got used to the boots which came right up over her knees.

  The milking parlour was small, with room only for a few cows. In one corner stood a pile of enamel buckets.

  ‘We’ll be milking soon, so we’d best get all the buckets done,’ he said.

  Blue picked up a bucket, unsure of what was expected of her. To her eyes the bucket looked clean enough.

  ‘This one seems all right,’ she ventured.

  ‘They have to be perfectly clean,’ he retorted. ‘There’s sour milk on the bottom of that and the sides. It needs rinsing and a good scrub, else the creamery won’t touch our milk and we’ll get a bad name.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Da and I’ll be milking soon so we’d best get a move on,’ he bossed.

  Outside the door of the milking shed there was a cold-water tap and Blue carried out a few of the buckets there and began to fill them. The water splashed everywhere and she was thankful now for the rubber boots.

  Frank tossed her a brush and she scrubbed the bottoms and sides and rims of the buckets as hard as she could.

  He stood, arms folded, watching her. ‘Mind you do the rims properly,’ he warned. ‘The germs stay there.’

  Pushing her hair back out of her eyes Blue worked, scrubbing and cleaning and washing till the buckets looked like new.

  ‘They’ll do,’ smiled Frank, giving her a bit of grudging praise.

  She hoped he’d offer to let her help with the milking, but instead he dismissed her, telling her, ‘You’d best go inside and help my Mam.’

  The ends of her sleeves were wet and the front of her skirt was damp as she went back to the house, wishing she had a change of clothes.

  Mrs Maguire had finished cooking and was busy sorting out laundry. Blue found herself carrying a basket full of clothes out to the clothes line.

  By the time dinner was ready, Blue was starving and exhausted. She helped pass around plates and a big bowl of floury potatoes, before getting her own meal. The beef stew was good and she ate it hungrily. Dermot, the middle boy, pushed in at the table beside her, saying nothing, his black, greasy hair hanging in a fringe over his forehead. He kept sticking his elbows in her way. Mr and Mrs Maguire chatted away to the boys about the milking and the farm and the afternoon’s football match and their neighbours who had just bought a tractor. Blue smiled, listening, waiting for someone to ask her
a question or an opinion, or even if she liked the food, but no one did and she passed the meal in total silence. She blinked, thinking of Mary and Lil and Jess beside her on the bench at meal times in Larch Hill.

  They had cups of tea and a slice of sweet madeira cake after.

  ‘Did you make this cake yourself, Mrs Maguire?’ she finally managed to ask. Every head at the table turned towards her.

  ‘Of course I did, dear,’ she replied.

  ‘It’s just that it tastes really …’

  Blue searched for the word. They never got cakes or sweet things in Larch Hill so she was not used to the lightness of the sponge or the sweetness of the taste. The nuns did not believe in treats or spoiling.

  ‘… beautiful.’

  Mrs Maguire smiled. ‘Thank you, Bernadette. It’s nice of you to say so.’

  Paddy looked over and stuck his tongue out at her.

  When they had all finished eating, Blue and Mrs Maguire cleaned and washed up as the rest of the family sat in silence and watched the small black and white TV in the sitting room. Blue felt strange and awkward. Frank disappeared off after a while to visit a friend, and shortly afterwards Mr Maguire put on his hat and coat and said he was needed down at Ryans’.

  ‘He’s off to the local,’ sighed Mrs Maguire. ‘Ryans own the Quarry Inn, about a mile down the road.’

  The two other boys began to play cards and Blue hoped she’d be invited to join in, but the brothers ignored her, so she was left watching the television. Mrs Maguire was glued to Gay Byrne on ‘The Late Late Show’, but Blue quickly became bored.

  By ten o’clock she was yawning and was relieved when Mrs Maguire said to her, ‘You’ve had a long day, dear. Run off to bed and we’ll see you in the morning.’

  The small bedroom was chilly and damp, and Blue wished she had more than her flannel nightdress to sleep in. She washed and changed and climbed into the narrow bed. Automatically she said her night prayers, naming off her list of friends in Larch Hill and her unknown mother, then adding the Maguires’ names as an afterthought. She sat up in bed wondering if Mrs Maguire would come up and say goodnight to her, but after twenty minutes or so she gave up and pulled the blankets and bedspread around her in an effort to get warm. After nearly an hour of tossing and turning she eventually slept, unused to the quiet of the room.

  The next morning the family rose early and drove to Sunday mass. Blue looked around the small, grey stone parish church with its stained glass Stations of the Cross and huge statues of St Patrick and Our Lady, aware that she was the subject of much curiosity. The other church-goers looked friendly, but they were very reserved and merely nodded in her direction as a greeting.

  When they got back to the farm, they all had a quick breakfast and then Mr Maguire and the boys attended the animals while Blue washed up before starting into the Sunday lunch with Mrs Maguire. She longed to go out and play in the fresh air, to run around and explore or go and see how Bonnie and the rest of the piglets were doing, but Mrs Maguire wouldn’t let her off on her own.

  ‘You’ve got to stay where I can keep a good eye on you, Bernadette. A good eye.’

  Mr Maguire fell asleep reading the paper after their big lunch of roast mutton. His snores filled the downstairs and Blue politely tried not to laugh. At three o’clock he got out his car keys, ready to drive her back to town.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me to your home,’ said Blue. She hoped that one of the boys would come along for the ride to keep her company, but they just ignored her.

  Mrs Maguire fussed about, buttoning up Blue’s coat, then ran into the kitchen for a paper bag containing half a dozen scones.

  ‘Bernadette, share them with your friends,’ she offered, as they walked to the door. ‘And I do hope you’ll visit us again.’

  Mr Maguire concentrated on driving and listening to the car radio the whole way back. He didn’t say a word, and Blue just stared out the window, watching fields gradually turn into city streets again.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said politely as they pulled up in the driveway of Larch Hill.

  ‘You’re welcome, girl, welcome, if that’s what the Missus wants.’

  She said goodbye and clambered up the steps, waving to Mr Maguire as the car moved off.

  ‘I’ll collect you next weekend,’ was all he said.

  All the girls quizzed her that night about the visit. Blue sat on the bed and told them all about the cute little piglets and the cows and the three boys. She didn’t bother to mention the disappointment of the shabby house and small bedroom, and the woman who smoked cigarettes one after another.

  * * *

  Over the next two weekends Blue found herself making up more and more stories about the family. ‘I played football in the fields with the boys on Sunday, and Paddy, the youngest, was crying when it was time for me to leave and come back here,’ she boasted.

  The others stared at her enviously and she felt slightly ashamed of what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had the girls’ attention and went on to tell even more lies about the wonderful Maguire family, making them sound almost like saints.

  Blue wondered how she had got herself into such a mess. She was making up things about a family she barely knew, people she didn’t really care about, about boys who were cold and mean to her, but once she had started the lies just kept getting bigger and more outrageous.

  Sister Monica stopped her in the corridor after mass one Sunday to talk to her. ‘Bernadette, I’m delighted to hear that you have found a good family to take you under their wing.’

  Blue said nothing, not trusting herself to speak, knowing full well that Sister Monica could see right through her, those inquisitive monkey-like brown eyes searching her face and quickly getting to the truth.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nits

  ‘The orphans have got lice in their hair,’ Jackie Thomas told everyone in school one Wednesday morning. ‘My Mammy says they must have passed them on to us.’

  ‘Girls, will you tell Sister Carmel and Sister Agnes to check the heads of all the children in Larch Hill please,’ sighed Blue’s teacher, Mrs Brady, ‘and that goes for everybody else in the class too.’

  Blue sat at the desk, feeling ashamed, as the other girls who lived in the houses and estates near the primary school sniggered and jeered at them.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she complained to Mary and Lil at lunchtime. ‘Jackie’s the one with nits and now she’s trying to blame us for giving them to her. I don’t have lice. I know I don’t.’

  The message was passed on and that evening Sister Carmel inspected a few of their heads before they went to bed, using a tiny comb to search for the insects. Mary had them, and so did Jess and Lil and little Molly, the horrible creatures being passed from one to another. Sister Regina was informed, and Nurse Griffin was asked to order in bottles of special shampoo and anti-lice treatment.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ Sister Carmel declared. ‘They were all treated not long ago and now they’re infested again. Someone from outside must have re-introduced the creatures here.’

  The girls said nothing. Sarah Murphy, a new girl who had arrived only two weeks before, blushed with embarrassment. Sarah and her sister had been placed in the institution following their alcoholic father’s violent attack on their mother, who was still recovering in hospital. Poor Sarah. She was the prettiest girl they’d ever seen, with long blond hair down to her waist, a perfect, heart-shaped face and beautiful blue eyes. Tall and thin, she looked like an angel. At night she said prayers for her mother, hoping she would come and get them soon so they could be a family again. She refused to talk about her father or even mention his name.

  They were all kept back from school the next morning and were instructed to line up at the basins in the washrooms so that their hair could be soaked in the de-lousing solution. It smelled awful. Sister Carmel and Sister Agnes and the nurse ignored the children’s protests as they applied the stinging, rotten stuff that made them cough and t
heir eyes water. Everyone from babies upwards had to get treated with the foul, smelly lotion that made your scalp burn.

  ‘That should definitely knock them dead,’ joked Mary. ‘That smell is enough to kill anything!’

  If that wasn’t bad enough the nuns then combed all their heads with fine combs that tugged and pulled at their hair, to get rid of the insects and their tiny white eggs. Some of the older girls helped with the little ones, who bawled and howled and rubbed their eyes and tried to run away from the torture.

  Little Tommy Doyle kicked and screamed like the other boys his age, but, somehow, Mary managed to coax him into letting her do his hair, taking the comb from Sister Agnes and getting him to sit quietly on her lap. She was like a little mother, thought Blue, the way she was constantly on the look-out for her young brother, the way she talked soothingly to him and took care of him.

  ‘I promised my Mammy I’d look after him, and as God is my judge that’s what I’ll always try to do. He’s the only family I have.’

  They were so alike, with the same eyes and slightly flat, button noses and cheeky faces, Tommy’s sticking-up hair a stronger ginger colour than his sister’s. Blue wished that she had a brother or sister, someone who looked just like her.

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll do when Tommy has to leave here,’ Mary would say. ‘How will he manage without me to keep an eye out for him?’

  Every year Blue and Lil had consoled her with the fact that her brother was still too young to leave Larch Hill, but now Tommy was nearly seven and a half and growing out of his grey shorts and grey jumper. They all knew he would have to leave soon and go to a home for older boys.

  Blue blinked, the lotion stinging her eyes as she watched Sister Carmel clipping the boys’ hair. The boys squirmed and jiggled and were not at all cooperative.

  Then Sister Agnes took the scissors and began to call the girls up.

  ‘Sarah Murphy,’ she said loudly.

  Sarah went red with embarrassment as she walked up and sat in the chair.