Living With Evil (5 page)

‘Boys are to sit on one side, girls on the other,’ she said firmly. My bottom lip started to wobble when Peter pulled away from me. I felt lost and so alone, and hot tears burst from my eyes.

‘What is it, child?” asked Mrs O’Reilly. ‘Can you not be seated like all the other children?’

‘Please, Miss, I don’t want to be parted from my brother,’ I sobbed.

Forty pairs of curious eyes turned to me. I felt so silly and small, and I just wanted to disappear.

‘Very well,’ said Mrs O’Reilly briskly. ‘Just for today, we can make an exception - but just this once, young lady. There’ll be no more of this.’

I sat down quietly next to Peter on the boy’s side, but I could tell I was still being watched. Stealing a glance up through my wet eyes, I saw a wobbly sea of rosy pink cheeks, smart new jumpers, crisp cotton dresses and neat new haircuts.

The girls had pretty hairclips and dazzling white socks. The boys looked as if they’d been scrubbed from head to toe ten times over. Their faces shone, their clothes were beautifully clean and creased in all the right places, and their hair was freshly clipped.

I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat and stared down at a deep line of ink etched along a groove in the wood of my desk. Why were they staring at me so hard? I glanced at my navy skirt. There were little bobbles on the front, so it didn’t look brand-new like the other girls’ skirts and dresses. I had dirty rings around my cuffs too. But I wasn’t scruffy. I looked fine, didn’t I?

Sometimes Mammy filled up the tin bath and put it in front of the fire on a Sunday night so all us kids could have a wash. I frowned when I thought about it, because I couldn’t for the life of me remember the last time I’d been in it.

I wished I’d had a bath last night so that I would look all scrubbed up like the other children. Maybe they wouldn’t be staring then, maybe they would be smiling and trying to be friendly instead?

I didn’t like the bath. I shuddered when I thought about how the water was always cold and gave me goosebumps. We had no soap, and the whole family shared one towel. I usually went in last, when the water had a film of greasy dirt on top, so I guess I never looked all scrubbed up anyway. The bath wouldn’t have made a difference. No, it didn’t matter that I hadn’t had a bath. I didn’t remember Daddy ever having a bath, and lots of people liked him. He had lots of friends. I was going to be fine.

The eyes kept watching me, making me wriggle and fidget. Maybe they were just curious because I cried and I was sitting on the boy’s side? I squinted around again, feeling confused and trying to work out why I felt so out of place. My heart started to sink when I worked out that my hair must look very messy indeed compared to the other girls’. I scratched it all the time, and I didn’t have a brush, so I just knew it was sticking out in all directions like it always did.

I felt so embarrassed that I wished I could turn invisible, but instead it felt as if every light hanging from the ceiling and every pair of eyes was shining on me, making me stand out even more.

I glanced at my hands, and seeing a thick ridge of dirt under each of my fingernails, I quickly sat on them to hide them. Next I tucked my feet as far behind me as I could, to hide my Wellingtons under my chair. Nobody else had Wellingtons on, it seemed like they all had shiny new shoes.

Mrs O’Reilly told me I could choose where I wanted to sit over on the girl’s side. I scoured the room nervously, and my gaze fell on a girl I recognized from going to the shops near our house. She wasn’t staring at me like the others, and I noticed her clothes didn’t look as fancy, so I asked if I could sit by her. She gave me a friendly smile, and from that day on we became good friends.

Later, we were told an older girl was coming into the class to help out, as Mrs O’Reilly had to leave early, and to my delight it turned out to be Esther. That put a big smile on my face, even though I sensed from that very first day that school was not going to be the wonderful place I had dreamed of.

When the neighbours and local shopkeepers asked me how school was I said, ‘Grand.’ In some ways, it was. The bits I liked were that it was warm and clean and I didn’t have to worry about what Mammy might do, but I didn’t say that to anybody. That’s what I thought of school though. Despite the fact that I hadn’t settled in yet, I reckoned it was going to be far better than being at home.

I can clearly remember meeting Mother Dorothy, who ran the school. She was very tall and looked fierce and strict. She made us quake just by walking in the room, and we all sat to attention and watched and listened in perfect silence, lined up like little soldiers, hanging on her every word.

With a stony face, she told us that bold behaviour would not be tolerated. God was everywhere, watching our every move. As she said this, she looked straight at me, and I felt very uncomfortable, but I didn’t know why. I was sure I hadn’t done anything wrong, but by the way she looked at me, Mother Dorothy seemed to think I had.

We were to be sure our sins would be found out, Mother Dorothy went on. If we sinned, we would have to do penance. I thought that must mean saying the Hail Mary and asking God to pray for us, like I did at church. I liked saying my prayers, so that was fine.

But then Mother Dorothy said that if we didn’t do enough penance we would go to the burning fires of hell! How much penance was enough? How many prayers would I have to say to stop being burned? I had no idea at all, but I made a secret vow to say extra prayers that night, just to be safe.

‘Make no mistake,’ she continued, pointing a bony finger around the class, ‘I will see to it that bold children are severely punished. They will be punished in front of the whole class!’ As she said this, she banged a long, thin cane into the wooden floor, which made such a loud noise we all sat up even more.

Now I was rigid with fear, my spine straighter than the cane as I sat bolt upright. Being punished in front of the whole class sounded worse than going to the burning fires of hell. Ever since that first day, all I had wanted was to hide at the back of the class so nobody could see my scruffy clothes and messy hair, and I was terrified of being beaten with a cane in front of all these other children.

I could tell from the start Mother Dorothy didn’t like me. I watched her smile at other children all the time, asking politely after their parents. ‘I saw your daddy on television last night,’ I’d hear her say to one of the rich kids. ‘What wonderful work he’s doing! Please send him my regards. Has your mother got a new car? How lovely!’

But she seemed only ever to scowl at me, and before long she was giving out steam to me all the time.

‘You stupid child! What are you wearing? You’ll catch pneumonia! ’ she barked one day. I didn’t have a coat, it was lashing down with rain, and Mammy had ordered me to wear a pair of old sandals with no socks instead of my Wellington boots. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t argue. Sometimes Mammy made up funny rules like that. If I argued I knew Mammy would go mad and hit me, so I did as I was told.

My toes felt like little icicles, and I was frozen to the bone, but I didn’t think Mother Dorothy really cared about how I felt, because every time she spoke to me she always made me feel worse. ‘I’m real sorry, Reverend Mother, truly I am,’ I said, pleading for forgiveness with my eyes and not knowing what else to say.

Mammy didn’t like me telling anyone our business, so I couldn’t say I didn’t have any socks or shoes at home. ‘I promise faithfully I won’t do it again,’ I said, not knowing if Mammy would let me wear the Wellingtons the next day or not.

‘Make quite sure you don’t, you stupid girl,’ said Mother Dorothy. ‘Or you will have me to answer to.’

However much I tried to be invisible, she always found a reason to pick on me, and her criticisms just got worse.

I knew whenever she was gunning for me. Her dark eyes would narrow as she lowered her forehead and directed her steely glare straight between my eyes. I always started to quiver like a little leaf, knowing I was in for another shameful telling-off.

‘Cynthia Murphy, come to the front of the class now!’ she demanded one day.

Cheeks glowing bright red, I trooped up and stood there, squirming inside, wondering what I had done this time. I wanted the ground to swallow me up, and I felt like bolting for the door, but I stood rooted to the spot, burning with shame, as everybody stared at me once more.

‘Why are you wearing that filthy jumper again? I told you last time to smarten yourself up, young lady. Look at your hair! Have you never brushed it? Class, will you look at this dirty girl? What a terrible child!’

I was absolutely devastated every time she picked on me. I wanted to learn, not be told off. Mammy and Daddy didn’t have enough money to buy me new clothes to make me look smart like the other children. It wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t fair.

It didn’t take long before I started to feel cross with Mother Dorothy. There was nothing I could do about the way I looked. Mammy was always telling me how very poor we were. That’s why wealthier people from the neighbourhood left charity bags on our doorstep. I picked out the nicest things I could from under the stairs, but they were never good enough. I didn’t have shampoo or a hairbrush, so I couldn’t wash or brush my hair, and we never had any toothpaste or a flannel, so I couldn’t help having dirty teeth and a grubby face.

One day, instead of calling out my name, Mother Dorothy marched over to my desk, grabbed hold of my shoulders and pulled me violently out of my chair.

I gasped in shock, and my brain started whirling as I tried to work out what I had done wrong. It must be something really bad, because she looked madder than ever before.

I’d been at school a few years by now, and Mother Dorothy had started to tell me off for not having the copy books and pencils Mammy and Daddy were meant to provide, and for not doing my homework.

I couldn’t tell her that Mammy wouldn’t give me any money for those things, or that she refused to let me do my homework. I was sure Mother Dorothy would think I was lying and would tell me nobody’s mammy behaved like that. But mine did. ‘Education is a waste of time - you’re a girl,’ Mammy said whenever I asked for a pencil or a book. ‘You’ll just get married and have babies, what’s the point in learnin’?

‘Peel the potatoes instead,’ she’d tell me. ‘Make the beds, clean the gas cooker for your mammy.’ I didn’t even have a school bag to carry my work in. How could I tell Mother Dorothy all that? I just couldn’t. What if she went knocking on our door? Daddy always threatened me with trouble if the nuns came complaining, and he would probably beat me with his leather belt for telling people our business.

I had worked out by now that Daddy only liked people to see him as the man he was outside of our house. The side everybody saw was the hardworking family man who grafted by day to feed his kids and enjoyed a drink with all his pals at night. I don’t think anybody knew what I did. Nobody knew I lay in bed at night feeling terrified of his fights and rows with Mammy. I was sure no one knew he hardly had anything to do with his family, unless he was shouting or swearing.

All these thoughts crashed around in my head as I let Mother Dorothy drag me to the front of the class, sinking her sharp fingernails into my shoulders as she did so.

I chewed my lip so as not to cry as I waited for her to tell me what I had done that was so very wrong. I knew there was a big list to choose from, because she’d gone though it so many times before. But I wasn’t prepared for what she said this time, because it was just so unexpectedly cruel.

‘Look, everyone! Cynthia Murphy has lice in her hair!’ she said in a nasty, mocking voice. I gasped in shock. I knew I had lice, I always did, but she sounded more like a playground bully than Mother Dorothy.

My heart thumped in my chest. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help the thought that flashed though my head: ‘You wicked old cow! I’ll get you back one day!’ I told myself. In that moment, I didn’t care if my sinful thoughts would make me burn in hell, as long as I got some revenge on Mother Dorothy.

‘Why have you come to school with lice in your hair, child?’ she went on, poking me in the shoulder and glaring at me. ‘Don’t you dare come to school with lice in your hair again, you filthy child. This time it will be ten lashes. Next time I will double it.’

I started to shake uncontrollably when she reached for her green cane. She normally kept ‘Mr Greeny’, as we called it, locked in a cupboard. This was the first time she had punished me with it.

She had warned that she would bring it out for ‘very bad children’, and so I knew once and for all that in her eyes I was one of those very bad children. I was sure none of my sins was my fault, but that didn’t seem to matter. Mr Greeny and I got to know each other very well over the years to come.

‘Hold your hand out,’ snapped Mother Dorothy. ‘And hold the other hand underneath to keep the top one steady, child! If you move your hand away I will add ten more lashes.’

I held my breath as I held out my hands. I was trembling so much I struggled to keep steady as she had ordered, and the more I shook the more angry Mother Dorothy became.

I recoiled in shock when I stole a glance at her. She was purple with rage and was actually frothing at the mouth as she towered over me with the cane raised high.