nobody know anything.”
It was only when its small helpless face came back to her that her inner strength waned. Its eyes kept coming and going when they spoke of these things and one day she found herself crying aloud
to one of her workmates, “Stop it! Stop it! I don’t want to talk to you!” The young girl looked on in amazement, whitefaced. All she had said was, “There was a girl in here
whose baby died on her.”
Apart from the one incident, Josie merged anonymously into the workaday life of the laundry and slowly the extra punishments they gave her began to dwindle. She no longer was instructed to scrub
toilets with toothbrushes or peel potatoes with scissors. The nun stopped hounding her and turned her attention to other burgeoning recalcitrants.
At night the smell of women washed with kitchen soap turned Josie’s stomach.
She left the window of the laundry open on a number of occasions to see if it would be noticed. On each occasion it was still open the following day.
She made her decision to leave the convent six months after the nun had brought her there.
Standing in the corridor, she could still see the blunt outline of the virgin. The black disc of the gong. She held her slippers in her hand and crept to the laundry. She climbed on the wicker
basket and eased the window open. The night air wiped the clammy smell of the laundry off her face. It was a short drop to the ground. She was not afraid for she had planned it for so long and she
knew every move she was going to make. She put the convent behind her and did not look back until she was far down the avenue. Its twin spires grinned evilly at her. She thought of all those
sleeping soft white bodies, all those heaving little breasts. Oh Phil, oh Culligan, wouldn’t you all like that? Wouldn’t you now?
Phil Brady’s face appeared at the window of the cottage, a grotesque mask lit by a candle. He clasped his hand over his mouth in horror. She knew that this time his fear
would be greater than his desire, so she opened her blouse and took out one of her breasts for him, slowly kneading it with her fingers. “Please Josie,” he said. “You don’t
know what that priest said to me. You don’t know what they can do.”
Josie let him speak, then she took his face in her hands and whispered to him, “Oh Phil, I’ve missed you so much. You were so nice to me.”
He crumbled like clay as she stroked his forehead and she said, “I’m going to need some money, Phil.”
He looked mournfully at her. “Yes Josie,” he said.
At first light she crept to the kitchen and took the stained bag from behind the sink. She put the notes into her slipper and closed the cottage door behind her, setting off for the town across
the border. It took her over two hours to walk and her feet were sore and blistered because of the cheap slippers. She bought herself nylon stockings and shoes, as womanly as she could find to rid
herself of the clutch of the convent. She treated herself to a large meal in the café with the jukebox. Then she went to the cinema where she spent two calm, soothing hours watching Alan
Ladd trudge the black rainy streets of New York in his belted raincoat.
After that, she took a taxi to the docks and waited for the rest of the evening in the terminal until she stepped up the gangway of the Liverpool ferry at ten o’clock that night.
After a week in a boarding house in a dingy back street not far from the docks, Josie Keenan found herself standing in front of a fat-bellied Englishman with a cloth on his left
shoulder who eyed her up and down and said to her, “You’ll do, gel. But you gotter remember—the blokes like a nice pretty barmaid. Get yourself a nice dress. I’ll pay for
it. The blokes what comes into my place—they like a good time. Know what I mean? Doesn’t have to be anything serious, mind, but you get my drift.” “Yes,” replied Josie
and thought of the nun tightening her grip on her wrist.
Some
It was only when its small helpless face came back to her that her inner strength waned. Its eyes kept coming and going when they spoke of these things and one day she found herself crying aloud
to one of her workmates, “Stop it! Stop it! I don’t want to talk to you!” The young girl looked on in amazement, whitefaced. All she had said was, “There was a girl in here
whose baby died on her.”
Apart from the one incident, Josie merged anonymously into the workaday life of the laundry and slowly the extra punishments they gave her began to dwindle. She no longer was instructed to scrub
toilets with toothbrushes or peel potatoes with scissors. The nun stopped hounding her and turned her attention to other burgeoning recalcitrants.
At night the smell of women washed with kitchen soap turned Josie’s stomach.
She left the window of the laundry open on a number of occasions to see if it would be noticed. On each occasion it was still open the following day.
She made her decision to leave the convent six months after the nun had brought her there.
Standing in the corridor, she could still see the blunt outline of the virgin. The black disc of the gong. She held her slippers in her hand and crept to the laundry. She climbed on the wicker
basket and eased the window open. The night air wiped the clammy smell of the laundry off her face. It was a short drop to the ground. She was not afraid for she had planned it for so long and she
knew every move she was going to make. She put the convent behind her and did not look back until she was far down the avenue. Its twin spires grinned evilly at her. She thought of all those
sleeping soft white bodies, all those heaving little breasts. Oh Phil, oh Culligan, wouldn’t you all like that? Wouldn’t you now?
Phil Brady’s face appeared at the window of the cottage, a grotesque mask lit by a candle. He clasped his hand over his mouth in horror. She knew that this time his fear
would be greater than his desire, so she opened her blouse and took out one of her breasts for him, slowly kneading it with her fingers. “Please Josie,” he said. “You don’t
know what that priest said to me. You don’t know what they can do.”
Josie let him speak, then she took his face in her hands and whispered to him, “Oh Phil, I’ve missed you so much. You were so nice to me.”
He crumbled like clay as she stroked his forehead and she said, “I’m going to need some money, Phil.”
He looked mournfully at her. “Yes Josie,” he said.
At first light she crept to the kitchen and took the stained bag from behind the sink. She put the notes into her slipper and closed the cottage door behind her, setting off for the town across
the border. It took her over two hours to walk and her feet were sore and blistered because of the cheap slippers. She bought herself nylon stockings and shoes, as womanly as she could find to rid
herself of the clutch of the convent. She treated herself to a large meal in the café with the jukebox. Then she went to the cinema where she spent two calm, soothing hours watching Alan
Ladd trudge the black rainy streets of New York in his belted raincoat.
After that, she took a taxi to the docks and waited for the rest of the evening in the terminal until she stepped up the gangway of the Liverpool ferry at ten o’clock that night.
After a week in a boarding house in a dingy back street not far from the docks, Josie Keenan found herself standing in front of a fat-bellied Englishman with a cloth on his left
shoulder who eyed her up and down and said to her, “You’ll do, gel. But you gotter remember—the blokes like a nice pretty barmaid. Get yourself a nice dress. I’ll pay for
it. The blokes what comes into my place—they like a good time. Know what I mean? Doesn’t have to be anything serious, mind, but you get my drift.” “Yes,” replied Josie
and thought of the nun tightening her grip on her wrist.
Some
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