begun,
to see who had the most stylish covers had irritated her no
end.
‘I’m not
spending money on fancy wrapping paper! Your father works hard
enough as it is, it’s not fair to him. You shouldn’t pester him
so... it’ll be the death of him!’
Catherine had
sighed as she put away the bright red paper her dad had brought
home for her, and rewrapped her maths book with the brown paper
wrapping. Dad, hiding behind his newspaper, had grumped and rustled
the pages.
‘Don’t you have
something better to do?’ Alma’s tone had pierced through the
newsprint. Dad had got up and gone to his shed, taking his paper
with him.
‘Not that he
ever does anything useful down there...’
Catherine had
watched her father walk down the path with a queer sense of pain in
her heart. She wasn’t allowed in the shed...it wasn’t suitable for
a young girl to see all that rubbish and clutter lying around. The
door had banged shut and Catherine had known he would switch on
Radio 4 and light up. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house, it
was smelly and unhygienic: her mother hated that he’d started to
smoke.
‘...did you
hear what I said?’
Catherine
dragged her attention back to her mother, who had finished counting
off the books and checking the homework schedule.
‘How you manage
to pay attention in class, I do not know!’
Catherine knew.
Anything was better than the leather belt the nuns used, and the
shame of being made to kneel in front of the blackboard, your knees
aching from the hard wood as you were made to recite ten Holy Marys
and ask for forgiveness. Catherine had only been subjected to the
kneeling once: once was enough. Not like poor Theresa Reddy, whose
hair always came loose, who dropped things and who was never quite
sure of what she should be doing. Teresa had patches in her blazer
as it was a hand me down, and her shoes were scuffed. Mum tutted
every time she saw Theresa and said that the school standards had
dropped. Teresa’s father was the school caretaker and Alma was
furious that he got a reduction on the fees. Theresa spent so much
time on her knees in front of the blackboard, her back to the
class, that the others teased her she was going to be a nun.
Catherine had
never wanted that said to her, and so she had never, ever, missed
the teacher speaking to her again. Her mother continued to prattle
as they went through the pre-school ritual.
‘And I want to
see an improvement in your spelling today. Sister Mary Gabriel said
you got one wrong yesterday.’
Catherine
blushed. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Don’t take
that insolent tone with me.’ Alma pulled up Catherine’s chin so
they were looking into each other’s eyes.
‘I only push
you as I want the best for you, sweetheart.’ Alma’s eyes misted
over, her voice wavered. ‘I just want the best for you, darling. I
want you to have everything I never had. I want you to shine.’ A
tear dripped out of the corner of Alma’s eye. Catherine’s eyes
misted over.
‘Oh please,
Mummy, don’t cry! I’ll get all my spelling right, I promise.’
‘That’s a good
girl.’ Alma took a handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket, wiping
first her own eyes, then Catherine’s.
‘I know you’re
a good girl at heart, you just need to learn to listen.’ Alma
smiled brightly. ‘Now, look at your lunch!’
Catherine
looked at the little Tupperware box.
‘What is it,
Mummy?’
‘Look and see!
I’ve worked extra hard!’
Catherine
swallowed the sigh. Alma had taught Catherine to swallow sighs
well.
She clicked
open the box. Inside were three little boxes. She put the big box
down on the hall table. The first little box contained a sliced
apple.
‘I’ve dipped
them in lemon juice to keep them from growing brown. And lemon
dissolves fat!’
Catherine
smiled, swallowing hard.
The second box
contained some cottage cheese with green bits on it.
‘That’s dill.
It helps the digestion!’
Catherine
smiled and swallowed again.
The third
to see who had the most stylish covers had irritated her no
end.
‘I’m not
spending money on fancy wrapping paper! Your father works hard
enough as it is, it’s not fair to him. You shouldn’t pester him
so... it’ll be the death of him!’
Catherine had
sighed as she put away the bright red paper her dad had brought
home for her, and rewrapped her maths book with the brown paper
wrapping. Dad, hiding behind his newspaper, had grumped and rustled
the pages.
‘Don’t you have
something better to do?’ Alma’s tone had pierced through the
newsprint. Dad had got up and gone to his shed, taking his paper
with him.
‘Not that he
ever does anything useful down there...’
Catherine had
watched her father walk down the path with a queer sense of pain in
her heart. She wasn’t allowed in the shed...it wasn’t suitable for
a young girl to see all that rubbish and clutter lying around. The
door had banged shut and Catherine had known he would switch on
Radio 4 and light up. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house, it
was smelly and unhygienic: her mother hated that he’d started to
smoke.
‘...did you
hear what I said?’
Catherine
dragged her attention back to her mother, who had finished counting
off the books and checking the homework schedule.
‘How you manage
to pay attention in class, I do not know!’
Catherine knew.
Anything was better than the leather belt the nuns used, and the
shame of being made to kneel in front of the blackboard, your knees
aching from the hard wood as you were made to recite ten Holy Marys
and ask for forgiveness. Catherine had only been subjected to the
kneeling once: once was enough. Not like poor Theresa Reddy, whose
hair always came loose, who dropped things and who was never quite
sure of what she should be doing. Teresa had patches in her blazer
as it was a hand me down, and her shoes were scuffed. Mum tutted
every time she saw Theresa and said that the school standards had
dropped. Teresa’s father was the school caretaker and Alma was
furious that he got a reduction on the fees. Theresa spent so much
time on her knees in front of the blackboard, her back to the
class, that the others teased her she was going to be a nun.
Catherine had
never wanted that said to her, and so she had never, ever, missed
the teacher speaking to her again. Her mother continued to prattle
as they went through the pre-school ritual.
‘And I want to
see an improvement in your spelling today. Sister Mary Gabriel said
you got one wrong yesterday.’
Catherine
blushed. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Don’t take
that insolent tone with me.’ Alma pulled up Catherine’s chin so
they were looking into each other’s eyes.
‘I only push
you as I want the best for you, sweetheart.’ Alma’s eyes misted
over, her voice wavered. ‘I just want the best for you, darling. I
want you to have everything I never had. I want you to shine.’ A
tear dripped out of the corner of Alma’s eye. Catherine’s eyes
misted over.
‘Oh please,
Mummy, don’t cry! I’ll get all my spelling right, I promise.’
‘That’s a good
girl.’ Alma took a handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket, wiping
first her own eyes, then Catherine’s.
‘I know you’re
a good girl at heart, you just need to learn to listen.’ Alma
smiled brightly. ‘Now, look at your lunch!’
Catherine
looked at the little Tupperware box.
‘What is it,
Mummy?’
‘Look and see!
I’ve worked extra hard!’
Catherine
swallowed the sigh. Alma had taught Catherine to swallow sighs
well.
She clicked
open the box. Inside were three little boxes. She put the big box
down on the hall table. The first little box contained a sliced
apple.
‘I’ve dipped
them in lemon juice to keep them from growing brown. And lemon
dissolves fat!’
Catherine
smiled, swallowing hard.
The second box
contained some cottage cheese with green bits on it.
‘That’s dill.
It helps the digestion!’
Catherine
smiled and swallowed again.
The third
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