but it worked, and they kept her arse warm.
After a slice of toast, Cathy left for school, in her pinnies. She skipped through the early-morning inner-city traffic and at the comer of Cathedral Street met up with Ann Reddin, her cousin. The two then headed up to Moore Street and Agnes’s stall. Cathy liked to call there every morning on her way to school. Agnes had her daughter’s ‘lunch’ ready for her - a sandwich of strawberry jam and a piece of fruit. She gave her the once-over and then sent her on her way. Cathy would eat the fruit at her first break and the sandwich for her ’big’ break, when she would be given the tiny free bottle of milk, provided by the State, to drink with it.
With the little bit of sunshine, the sisters had turned off the heating, and the classroom was a bit chilly as Cathy and her thirty-two classmates stood to recite the ‘Hail Mary’ in Irish. After the ’Amen‘, they all said the ’Sign of the Cross’ aloud and sat down. The teacher, Sister Magdalen, began to clean the blackboard. The chalk dust rose, and for a few moments was caught in the streaks of sunlight that came through the four long, sixteen-paned windows. Sister Magdalen started to write on the board.
Cathy, as was her way, held her head in one hand and glanced dreamily around the class. The framed Proclamation of Irish Independence was surrounded by the photographs of the signatories. They died for us, Cathy thought. Then there was a huge crucifix, upon which hung a sad Jesus, with blood streaming from his speared side. He died for us as well, she thought, wondering if anybody lived for ‘us’. There were four pictures along the windowless east wall. Nearest the light switch was John F. Kennedy. He died. She wondered if it was for ‘us’ or did he just die? Next to him was Pope John the twenty-third, who was, according to Sister Magdalen, a good man who meant well. The first of the living was next: Éamon de Valera, President of Ireland. Cathy often thought that being President of Ireland must be an awful job, because Mr de Valera always looked so unhappy. She was glad she was a girl and never had to worry about becoming president! The final picture was of Archbishop McQuaid, a man to be feared, a man who held the keys of heaven and the power of hell. A shudder ran through Cathy. In two weeks she would make her confirmation and come face-to-face with Archbishop McQuaid. She was dreading it. If he asked her a question from the Catechism and she didn’t know the answer, he would put her out of the church, and she would be damned forever. She pushed the thought from her mind and looked to the blackboard. The word ’doctor’ was written there in large capital letters. Sister Magdalen spoke.
‘The doctor will be giving all of you a general examination today. However, we shall not let that interfere with our lessons, or our preparation of you all for the Holy Sacrament of Confirmation. You will leave the classroom in groups of five. You may strip in the cloakroom down to your knickers, and then wait quietly on the seats outside the Tea Room until you are called. There is to be no ... listen carefully! ... NO talking. When you are finished with the doctor, dress and return to class quickly and quietly, is that clear?’
There was a chorus of ‘Yes, Sister Magdalen.’ Cathy, however, was not one of the chorus. She had gone pale. Strip! she thought in a panic, strip to the knickers? She was lightheaded. The nappy-pin holding up her mother’s knickers felt like an anchor. She began to blush. Her hands began to shake. She stared at the crucifix: Please, Jesus, help me, don’t make me take off my clothes ... please, Jesus, do something.
Sister Magdalen was speaking again. ‘You five will go first, and we shall go anti-clockwise from then on.’ She was pointing to the row of desks nearest the door. Cathy counted the seats in groups of five up to where she was sitting. She would be in the fourth group. She had to
After a slice of toast, Cathy left for school, in her pinnies. She skipped through the early-morning inner-city traffic and at the comer of Cathedral Street met up with Ann Reddin, her cousin. The two then headed up to Moore Street and Agnes’s stall. Cathy liked to call there every morning on her way to school. Agnes had her daughter’s ‘lunch’ ready for her - a sandwich of strawberry jam and a piece of fruit. She gave her the once-over and then sent her on her way. Cathy would eat the fruit at her first break and the sandwich for her ’big’ break, when she would be given the tiny free bottle of milk, provided by the State, to drink with it.
With the little bit of sunshine, the sisters had turned off the heating, and the classroom was a bit chilly as Cathy and her thirty-two classmates stood to recite the ‘Hail Mary’ in Irish. After the ’Amen‘, they all said the ’Sign of the Cross’ aloud and sat down. The teacher, Sister Magdalen, began to clean the blackboard. The chalk dust rose, and for a few moments was caught in the streaks of sunlight that came through the four long, sixteen-paned windows. Sister Magdalen started to write on the board.
Cathy, as was her way, held her head in one hand and glanced dreamily around the class. The framed Proclamation of Irish Independence was surrounded by the photographs of the signatories. They died for us, Cathy thought. Then there was a huge crucifix, upon which hung a sad Jesus, with blood streaming from his speared side. He died for us as well, she thought, wondering if anybody lived for ‘us’. There were four pictures along the windowless east wall. Nearest the light switch was John F. Kennedy. He died. She wondered if it was for ‘us’ or did he just die? Next to him was Pope John the twenty-third, who was, according to Sister Magdalen, a good man who meant well. The first of the living was next: Éamon de Valera, President of Ireland. Cathy often thought that being President of Ireland must be an awful job, because Mr de Valera always looked so unhappy. She was glad she was a girl and never had to worry about becoming president! The final picture was of Archbishop McQuaid, a man to be feared, a man who held the keys of heaven and the power of hell. A shudder ran through Cathy. In two weeks she would make her confirmation and come face-to-face with Archbishop McQuaid. She was dreading it. If he asked her a question from the Catechism and she didn’t know the answer, he would put her out of the church, and she would be damned forever. She pushed the thought from her mind and looked to the blackboard. The word ’doctor’ was written there in large capital letters. Sister Magdalen spoke.
‘The doctor will be giving all of you a general examination today. However, we shall not let that interfere with our lessons, or our preparation of you all for the Holy Sacrament of Confirmation. You will leave the classroom in groups of five. You may strip in the cloakroom down to your knickers, and then wait quietly on the seats outside the Tea Room until you are called. There is to be no ... listen carefully! ... NO talking. When you are finished with the doctor, dress and return to class quickly and quietly, is that clear?’
There was a chorus of ‘Yes, Sister Magdalen.’ Cathy, however, was not one of the chorus. She had gone pale. Strip! she thought in a panic, strip to the knickers? She was lightheaded. The nappy-pin holding up her mother’s knickers felt like an anchor. She began to blush. Her hands began to shake. She stared at the crucifix: Please, Jesus, help me, don’t make me take off my clothes ... please, Jesus, do something.
Sister Magdalen was speaking again. ‘You five will go first, and we shall go anti-clockwise from then on.’ She was pointing to the row of desks nearest the door. Cathy counted the seats in groups of five up to where she was sitting. She would be in the fourth group. She had to
Similar Books
