fluffy gets the sack

Warning: contains cruelty to an animal.

Daddy passes me the tin lid, full of birdseed. I rattle it, call “tom-tom-tom” into the sky and watch for the pigeons coming home. It’s hot up here on the roof of the pigeon loft. My head’s a bit dizzy but it’s a very important job. The pigeons are flying home from France and I need to get them down quickly so Daddy can clock them in.

Mammy won’t like it that I’m on the roof, but she’s gone across the street to help Mrs Diamond get her baby. It can take quite a long time, so that’s all right.

Daddy picks up his air rifle. I’m not allowed to touch it, but when I’m a bit bigger I can go with him to shoot rabbits. He’s not very good at shooting, because he’s been trying to get Miss Barr’s cat for a long time. It still comes after the pigeons, crawling through the hedge from next door. I don’t know why Daddy worries because it never catches one.

I can see it now, sneaking through the grass. It’s big and fat and ginger. Miss Barr calls him Fluffy. Daddy calls him ‘that fuckin’ cat. I’m not allowed to say that word, Mammy would have a fit, and Daddy never says it in the house.

He bangs the gun twice and the cat scoots away, back under the hedge.

I tell Daddy he’s going to stop the pigeons coming home if he makes loud bangs and he laughs and messes my hair up. I like it when he does that.

The garden gate creaks open and two of Daddy’s friends come into the garden. They look funny, because Mr Fitzsimmons is big and fat like Fluffy and Mr O’Neill is not much bigger than my brother, Sam, who’s two years older than me. I don’t like them coming round, because Daddy forgets about me.

He jumps off the roof and stands with his friends, smoking fags and saying ‘fuckin’ cat’ a lot. Mr O’Neill thinks Daddy’s going about it the wrong way, he’ll never get him with the gun, what he needs is a sack.

They get a sack from the red brick outhouse that Daddy built and Mr O’Neill lies down on the ground beside the hedge. Daddy looks up and tells me to stop rattling the tin for a wee while. I don’t want to stop because we need to get the pigeons clocked in, but I don’t want to feel the back of his hand, so I keep quiet. 

From the roof, I can see Fluffy in the next-door garden. He’s playing with a leaf, having fun and getting closer to the hedge. Mr O’Neill nods at Daddy and lift the sack. Fluffy chases the leaf through the gap in the hedge and the nasty little man pounces on him, dropping the sack over poor Fluffy.

Daddy and his friends all laugh and slap each other on the back. I can’t see why they’re so happy when the cat is going crackers inside the sack, fighting to get out. I can hear him crying and spitting from here. I don’t like this and call for Daddy to get me down. He comes over and I jump down into his arms, leaving the tin lid on the roof.

I pull on Daddy’s sleeve to tell him he needs to get up on the roof to clock the pigeons in, but he tells me to get myself away into the house. That’s not fair because Sam is coming up the garden and he gets called over to see Fluffy in the sack. Nobody’s looking at me anymore, so I go round the side of the outhouse to see what happens.

Mr Fitzsimmons has got the sack now and he opens it a bit to show the cat to Sam. Fluffy gets one paw out and rakes his claws down the fat man’s hand. I think Fluffy will get away but Daddy grabs the sack and smacks it on the ground. Fluffy cries really loud. It makes me want to cry as well and I wish I’d got myself indoors when Daddy told me.

Sam laughs when the cat cries, but he’s just doing what the men do. I want him to get the sack and let Fluffy out. Instead, he puts on a pair of Daddy’s gardening gloves and pulls the cat out by his tail. Daddy and his friends are telling Sam to go on and do it. He looks like he’s going to be sick and Fluffy is squirming and clawing at him.  

My head is dizzy again and I’m too hot. I walk round the side of the outhouse to tell Sam to let the cat go. Before I can get to him, he swings Fluffy by the tail and smashes him against the brick wall. I scream at him to stop, but Daddy and his friends are all cheering at Sam to do it again and nobody hears me.

Sam swings the cat again and again. Now he looks like he’s enjoying it. And everybody’s shouting. And I’m screaming. And then I’m sick all over the grass. 

It goes quiet and when I look up, Fluffy is lying ever so still on the ground and there’s blood all over the wall and splattered on Sam’s clothes. He grins all over his face. I hate him so much. And I scream and scream. And Daddy lifts his hand to me. And I run.

I’m never going back to help Daddy again. He can sit on the roof and rattle the tin himself.

I hope his fuckin’ pigeons never come home.


After school, I have to play outside. Mammy’s at the factory and Daddy’s in England looking for work. I’m not allowed in the house on my own because I can’t be trusted. 

Me and my best friend, Rosemary, sit on the pavement, poking sticks in the soft tar. It’s getting all over our hands and we’ll be in trouble, but we’re bored.

“What would you do if you were rich?” Rosemary asks.

“I don’t know. How do you get to be rich, anyway?”

She thinks about it for a minute. “I guess if you were famous you’d have lots of money.”

“But how do you get to be famous?”

We both stab furiously at the tar for a few minutes, neither of us quite sure how to go about being famous.

Then Rosemary says, “Well, if you got your name in the paper you’d be famous, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, but only important people get in the paper.”


We wander round to the backyard, where there’s a cold water tap. It doesn’t wash the tar off but we manage to get our socks and shoes wet.

I have a good idea. “What if we gave money to the hospital like Mr. Brown did? He got his name in the paper.”

“Yeah, but Mr. Brown’s not rich, is he?” Rosemary objects.

“He’s richer than us, though, because he’s got a car and a job.”

“My daddy has a job.”

“But he doesn’t live with you and he hasn’t got a car.”

“You’re right.” Rosemary sees the sense of what I’m saying. “But where will we get the money to give to the hospital?”

I look at Miss Barr’s apple tree in the garden next door and the branches which hang over the hedge into our garden. She goes mad if we pick her apples and I’ve been told time and again not to touch them.

“We could sell apples on the corner to the people coming out of the factory.”

Rosemary follows my gaze and gasps, “Susie, that’s stealing!”

“No, it’s not, because they’re already in our garden. So, really, they belong to us, don’t they?”

She always believes me and I always get my own way. Rosemary’s pretty but I’m the smart one. Too clever for my own good, Mammy says, which is very nice of her. 

I climb on the dustbin, with Rosemary hanging on to my legs, and pick the apples I can reach, hitting the far-off ones with a stick so that they fall to the ground. Some of the apples have marks on them. That’s all right. We can turn them upside down.

We find a cardboard box in the shed and carry the apples to the corner. It’s throwing out time at the factory. The women frown at us and hurry past. The men laugh as if we’re funny and give us pennies. Sometimes they don’t even take the apples. 

One of the men says, “You’d better watch out, your mammy’s coming.” 

All the apples are gone anyway and we trail behind Mammy as she heads for home. Rosemary decides she’s in charge of the money and counts it. “Two shillings and thruppence. It’s not much, is it?”

It seems a lot to me. 

“They’ll be delighted with that at the hospital. We’ll take it up on Saturday morning.”

She looks doubtful and I have to give her a pep talk.

“We have to make a start, or we’ll never be famous. Wait til our names are in the paper, everybody will be talking about us.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

“I know.”

Rosemary clears off for her tea and I go in to wash the dishes from this morning while Mammy cooks.


The lady at the hospital on Saturday morning is very smiley and laughs a lot.

I nudge Rosemary. “See, I told you they’d be delighted.”

“And what are your names, may I ask?” 

The lady has her pen out. This is it, we’re going to be famous!


We split up at the corner of my road. Rosemary’s going swimming in the Bann this afternoon with her brother, Adrian. I’m not allowed to go to the river, because I can’t swim.  But it’s all right. I’ve got an Enid Blyton book from the library and I get sixpence on a Saturday for sweets.

I help Mammy with tidying up and peeling potatoes for dinner, even washing the dishes afterwards without being told to.  When I’m famous, she’ll be saying how good I was about the house.

I’m a good way into The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters and the Famous Five are showing the police how to do their job when there’s a knock at the door. I ignore it, until Mammy shouts, “Get the door, are you deaf?”

Sighing loudly, to make sure she hears me, I make my way to the front door. Norman, from across the road is outside. I know from the look on his face he’s got something he’s just dying to tell me, but I won’t ask him and put on my patient face to stare him out.

It’s a waste of time, anyway, because he blurts straight out with it. “Your friend, Rosemary – she’s drowneded!”

He’s so stupid, the same age as me and he can’t even read yet. I tell him, “First, it’s drowned, not drowneded. And, second, if she was drowned, she’d be dead.”

His mother (he doesn’t say Mammy like ordinary people) comes running across the road after him and grabs him by the arm.

“Come away, Norman,” she says and looks at Mammy, who’s come up behind me. They do that thing grown-ups do, talking without saying anything.

I feel sick, like I’d eaten too many of Miss Barr’s apples.

Mammy brings me back into the house and talks to me ever so soft. It’s true. Rosemary got drowned in the river. 

“But, she can swim. It’s not true. We’re going to be famous.”

I shout at Mammy and slap at her arms. When she cuddles me instead of scolding me, I know it’s true.


The Chronicle comes out on Friday. 

There’s a list of people who made kind donations to the hospital. Me and Rosemary are at the bottom of the list with two shillings and thruppence. Over the page, in among things about people who got born or married or died, there’s a picture of Rosemary in her school uniform. Underneath it are lots of nice things about her and how sad it was she got tangled up in the weeds. I find a bit that says how much her friend, Susie, misses her. I expect Mammy put it there.

Anyway, Rosemary is more famous than me because she got a picture as well as her name printed twice. I don’t mind.

Being famous isn’t at all like I thought it would be.

Black is black

He sidled round the edge of the door just before closing time. His face was waxy yellow, the tightly-stretched skin giving him a cadaverous mien. Wisps of white hair clung to a dandruff-dusted scalp. His bony arms dangled out of an over-sized sports coat and he shuffled into the office on heavy, highly polished brogues.

“Eh, we’re closed, mate.”

He advanced to my desk as if I hadn’t spoken and placed a cheap, plastic bag in front of me.

“I think you’ll find there’s exactly five hundred pounds in there,” he said. “Is that enough to print my poetry book?”

It’s not every day you get a bag of money dumped on your desk, so I rethought my attitude.

“Well, that very much depends on how many pages you’ve got and how big the print run is, Mr …?

“Cooke. Mr Cooke.” He proffered a bony hand, the knuckles shiny with sweat. I knocked a few sheets of paper off my desk and exclaimed in annoyance as I bent to retrieve them. Somehow, in the fussy little moment, the handshake was avoided. 

I straightened up to find a small blue exercise book had joined the bag of money.

“This is my complete collection,” said Mr Cooke. “I leave it entirely in your hands, except to say it must be a hardback with a dust cover; the paper should be heavy and cream coloured and, most importantly, the ink must be black. Shall we say a week today for proofs?”

With that he gave a slight bow and glided back out of the door, pausing only to add, “I trust you will let me know if you need any more money.”

I said to the empty room, “Wait, you need a receipt,” but he was gone, leaving only a faint trace of Old Spice in the air.

It was going to be a very slim volume indeed. The exercise book had one short poem on every page, written carefully in pencil. There twenty four in total, and a note to say the author’s name was Malcolm Joynes and the publisher’s name was Smythe Productions.

The guys in the studio did their best with it and I had to admit it was a decent job. Elegantly set out in Palatino and with a few well-placed glyphs on the half title and imprint pages, it was more than I had hoped for.

Exactly on time, seven days later, Mr Cooke reappeared, again carrying a plastic bag. He remained standing as he gave a cursory look at the proofs I had laid out for him, plus an abstract design for the dust jacket. 

“That’s all very satisfactory,” he said as he turned to go. “I’ll be back in a week to pick them up.”

I was a little quicker than him this time and managed to place myself in front of the door to stop him leaving. “Mr Cooke, you haven’t said how many books you want printed or what colour the leather should be.”

“I told you I would leave everything to you but, if you insist, blue leather and just two or three dozen will be fine.”

“Two or three dozen? Our minimum run on something like this is about 500 to give you a reasonable price per unit.”

He laid one hand gently on my arm to nudge me aside. “I will bid you good evening. Please remember, the ink must be black.” And, again, he was gone.

I selected an expensive, heavyweight cream paper, we printed the book in black ink and had them bound in a dark blue leather, finishing them off with a cream and blue dust jacket. As I waited for Mr Cooke to arrive, I felt quite proud of the elegant little tomes.

He walked in, carrier bag in hand, and picked up the sample copy I’d left out for him on top of the boxed books.

“Very nice.” He flicked the book open. “Oh, dear.”

“Something wrong, Mr Cooke?”

“I’m afraid the ink isn’t black enough. I did specify I wanted black ink.”

“I assure you …”

“No, I’m sorry, they won’t do. Can you print them again, please.”

The customer is always right, so I swallowed my words. Besides, the five hundred pounds he’d left with me was enough to cover a reprint.

“Very well, Mr Cooke.” Before he could speak again, I added, “We’ll see you again next week, then?”

“Precisely. Will you see that these books are destroyed, please.” He placed the carrier bag on my desk. “Your remuneration for printing the books again.”

With that, he performed his usual vanishing act, leaving me with another five hundred pounds. I locked the money in a drawer to keep it safe until I returned it to him and we set about reprinting the books.

I stood by the press, pen in hand, ready to sign off the print, which was over-laden with black ink. Just about to OK the sheet, praying the ink wouldn’t set off on the other side of the paper, I stopped to read one of his poems.

His hands were cold

And his nose was runny,

The old man who left me

All his money.

“Have you seen this?” I asked the guy running the machine.

“Oh, yeah. They’re all like that.”

Mr Cooke was very happy with the second print run. There were fifty books in the box and he very carefully extracted thirty of them and packed them into two carrier bags he removed from his pockets.

“You can dispose of the remainder,” he instructed me. “I find quality is much more important than quantity, don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I’ll bid you goodbye, then.”

“Before you go, I’ve got your money here. You’ve already paid in full for the work we did.”

“No.” One long, narrow hand was raised deprecatingly. “One must always pay one’s way in life.”

All right, I’ll be honest, I didn’t protest too much.

Occasionally, I catch sight of Mr Cooke in the street. He always has a carrier bag in his hand and I always wonder what’s up to now with the old man’s money. 

Bridget’s story

Note: this is not my story. It was given to me many years ago by a friend with one proviso: that I didn’t publish it until she was no longer with us. It is set in Ireland and I believe the era she was writing about is late 1940s / early 1950s. I have changed nothing. It is exactly as ‘Bridget’ gave it to me.

The big yard with its rounded benches here and there, the many windows with bars across. The part of the big yard has a big shed where you could warm your feet and hands on the pipes; where you could see women doing the washing and listen to the steam hiss from the high windows. You could climb on the pipes to see the women at work, each with a cloth cap and white apron. A few had large rubber aprons and boots. Don’t let anybody catch you looking. You might get slapped hard as often happened.

Lots of childre, standing, running, crying, laughing, skipping and some staring. I’m sure it was the pool of water at my feet they stared at. I wasn’t frightened. My big sister held my hand. She was told to. The big people in black and white were pointing their sticks in all directions. Lines of children formed. Nobody showed me where to go. I cried, and the pool of water at my feet again. I had a big mug of bread and milk with sugar on the top. I ate it really quick and somebody yelled, “Glutton”.

I cried again. They took my coat and hat. Now I had the same grey smock dress and grey socks and brown boots as all the other children had. We all sat on benches, staring. I was crying. I don’t know why.

This was my first day at my new home for the next thirteen years. I was told later in life that I was an orphan. My mother died a very young girl and my father walked off the face of the earth.

Time passed with fighting, crying, never too worried except you would just die if you had your bootlaces robbed or your hair clips.

That teacher with the hump, an ex orphan I later found out, she was really useless. The one in the kitchen was horrid. She had a big lump on her neck, always chasing the girls. Mother in charge was skinny with glasses, had a stick in her hand day and night, didn’t know any different.

Another ex orphan had a room, must have been twelve flights of stairs. She would send you to her room for a paper, then sneak up behind you and catch you pinching her biscuits. She enjoyed this and would gladly tell the whole room full of girls how Jesus had told her to follow. Giggle, giggle, wallop straight across the face. Mother of Mercy, it hurt.

Twelve years seems a young age to start work at 5:00 am. We went to bed at 9:00 every night, not to sleep, I hasten to add, but to discuss whose turn it was to jump it tonight. While some girls watched, others would make their way down the long corridors to the outside, sliding drainpipes, going through windows and finally ending up in the convent orchard. There we would fill several pillowcases with apples, gooseberries, tomatoes, pears, in fact anything that was fit to eat. Things were hectic for a few hours. Many times, the teachers would be waiting for us. We’re behind you. When caught, God love us.

The teacher with the hump would be in charge of the kitchen while the one with the lump on her neck was on holiday. She would call two girls, one being me at 4:45 am. Of course we were already dressed under the covers, boots, heavy coat, so as we could get five minutes extra sleep. In complete blackness we would find our way down to the kitchen, always half asleep and very cold.

Make sure you don’t switch on any outdoor lights. You fiddled about for a while, if you took longer than necessary the whole convent would know and Reverend Mother, a nasty woman, would make sure you didn’t take so long the next time. Her stick would come down on your back like it was made of steel. There was a big furnace to light and 9 times out of 10 it didn’t. Oh,  God help you then. Lighting the big black range in the kitchen was sheer murder. You often had to reset it again which took ages. I’m sure it was my fault. I still can’t light a fire. Next you put the enormous black pot on for stir about (porridge). The teacher with the hump was really slow and would rant and rave about lumps in the porridge. This would cause us to go into fits of laughter. She often locked us out of the kitchen, knowing we would be beaten. We would beg her forgiveness. She was so slow in the kitchen desperation would often make her let us in.

Off to the large pantry we would go, first to see how many rats and mice would be caught on this sticky black stuff.Armed with a large cloth we would clear the dead rats away and sing songs like Death to the Young Lorenzo.Fetch out trays of buttered bread and put two slices on each plate. There were about 400 plates. Pour cocoa into each mug, all before 7:00 am. Maybe if we were really quick, we could sneak some bread from the bin and toast it. This was sheer heaven with oozing butter, nearly choking for fear of being caught.

Mass was at 7:30 am but we didn’t go because we were known as kitchen girls. Everyone helped to clear the plates and mugs. We has to wash and dry hundreds of plates and mugs, scrub large wooden tables. Roll up your skirt and scrub stone floors, reset tables for dinner. One plate, one spoon. I can’t remember ever being late for school at 9:00 am. Mind you, my knees were always black and wet.

I didn’t like school at all, always envied the outside girls with their different clothes and white shoes with lovely white ankle socks. Why couldn’t I join in with the outside girls? They were the girls with parents and brothers. I had two brothers but I was told they were put in a school in Dublin. I remember when they came to see us once and, oh my God,they caused chaos, jumping from the windows and chasing the girls all over the place. I think they were banned after that because I never saw them again for two years.

Sister Bridget was a peculiar woman. Looking back now I think they were all odd in some way. This one insisted that all girls lined up for roll call. She always managed to fix her pointing rods right under our breasts. I was very ill once and she came to see me. I was really quite frightened but not fully aware of her act. As I grew older, I heard lots of nasty tales about her.

Our hair was always long and in thick plaits. Once I washed my hair out of time and was punished by not allowing me togo on a seaside trip, which meant I was in this great place all on my own. Reverend Mother called to see me now and again.

Anyway, these seaside trips were really horrid. Even if it was pouring down you had to go in the water with a rotten grey swimsuit and a black cap. The teachers would call you for lunch which was bread and jam with plenty of Luke warm milk, loads of very soft pears and crab apples. One teacher would hand out sweets, about 3 each, that was nice.

Every girl from the age of 10 had to take charge of a younger one. My little girl’s name was Bridget and I loved her very much, but soon it was her time to look after a younger one, and so it went on and on.

I was very good at needlework but very bad at knitting. My sister had to teach me, she would pull my hair and pinch me. I just couldn’t knit, when it came to shape the heel, I would make a fist and hope the shape would come.

Singing and acting was my thing. Oh yes. Do you know, I was asked to sing solo once in a Leis. We won the cup. Well, I won’t say it was me but I could dream and pretend. My friend Mary helped me with a composition once, called The Postman. I enjoyed it so much that I read it over and over again. Of course the next day at school the teacher asked me who helped. Lying, I said no one sister. She put my work in her desk and tested me. Everyone was surprised, I was so good. They were all nice to me but it never happened again.

I stole a load of 2p stamps once and sent loads of letters out without envelopes looking for my brothers. I was punished dreadfully.

Winter was awful for me, my feet and hands would be covered in chilblains, all bursted and green. It seemed too that my jumper never fitted, the sleeves were too tight and short. I sometimes had to put black polish on my knees to cover the holes. Mind you, I liked darning.

Sister Bridget asked me, “What is that dirt on your hands?” And before I had time to answer she walloped me across my knuckles which meant my chilblains started bleeding. My sister jumped up and pulled at her veil, nearly getting it off. Of course she was badly punished. 

I loved my sister, I still do. I don’t know where my brothers are, one of them gambles, the other one drinks. Oh well.

My friend Kathleen was nice, we all liked her because she got you in front of the line for bath time, about 20 girls every day in the same bath water, two girls to a bath and Miss Higgins, an ex girl, would sit and

watch. Hair wash day was held in the cottage, down the yard. Two girls would wash, two would dry. I loved hair wash day, everyone had to brush their hair until it was dry and shining. We did have beautiful hair.

My friend Kathleen was nice, we all liked her because she got you in front of the line for bath time, about 20 girls every day in the same bath water, two girls to a bath and Miss Higgins, an ex girl, would sit and watch. Hair wash day was held in the cottage, down the yard. Two girls would wash, two would dry. I loved hair wash day, everyone had to brush their hair until it was dry and shining. We did have beautiful hair.

The cottage was also used for the washing of your own sanitary towels. This time of the month you were made to feel dirty, one kept their towels, clean and used ones under the mattress. Somehow I got them to the cottage without anyone seeing them, but of course everyone knew what was going on. Once you came out of the cottage, there was a small furnace there. I used to wonder what the big girls were doing near the fire. I soon found out, they just burned them.

On Ash Wednesday (holy day) the girls would rub their finger inside the lid of the furnace and make the mark of the cross on their foreheads, make believe that had been to church. I did the same myself when I got older, making sure it was Wednesday, not Thursday.

The white dresses were beautiful with the lovely white veil, white underwear, white stockings and lovely shoes. Oh, I was happy. It was first holy communion day, we were to be blessed by the Bishop. It took ages to walk to the church, but I loved it. Afterwards there was cake and milk.Mrs Newman was my godmother. I never met her. She must have been a lovely lady because she sent me a lovely white rosary beads and prayer book for that special day.

I would leave school one hour earlier to peel the cooked potatoes that were always so hot but you dare not drop them. Teresa was always getting me in trouble, she would giggle and drop her hot potatoes on my foot. The cook would go mad and throw them at us and we would not know what to do for laughing. Dinner consisted of two potatoes in a thick brown soup. It was quite nice, not knowing any better. Return to school at 2:00 pm.

I remember once I had a very bad big toe and couldn’t really walk on it, but I knew they were picking the girls for parts in a play called Pearl the Fisher Maiden. Oh yes, I would be there, of course I got a part. I would cry and let them know I wanted a part. Thinking back, it wasn’t really my crying, I must have been quite good.

Mother Anthony was in charge. My God, how she jumped about and danced, amazed me.She was lovely, she wasn’t in charge of the orphanage girls, maybe we were all the same to her. I even played my mouth organ in one of her groups. We went to Dublin, which was great. Yes, she was good.

There were some really terrible big girls, one in particular. She was always bossing and everyone looked up to her. She would stop the two girls carrying the plates of bread and milk and scoop the sugar off the top until another girl had the same idea. Well, it was dreadful, they were pulling at each other’s hair and overalls. We enjoyed it. Sometimes the big girls would take your bootlaces. Now that was bad, it made you late for school and you were punished. When I got older, I did the same myself.

Every morning you had to lay a white towel on the floor and using a fine comb search for anything that might be in your hair. I never found anything but if you did, you had to have black ointment rubbed into your scalp. This was shameful so you worked hard at your hair, just in case.

Every night two girls had to sit upstairs on the landing with the younger ones. There was a staircase, which I’ve never seen open.This would really scare us because the rumour was that this was where the dead nuns came from. I would sit and wonder for hours, often I could see the nuns coming down. I would run for my life.

At 8:00 pm the children were woken, poor things. You had to sit them on the potty even though they already wet their beds. Some of the girls were horrid to the children. I got in trouble several times for putting dry sheets on instead of just turning them. I loved looking after them.

There was a room that nobody ever went in, but there was an older girl there, who would look out the window all day. She would smile and make silly signs, I know now why. She was abusing youngsters and had to be locked up.

Mary had her last blessing from the priest and I remember everyone kneeling round her bed. She had her hands closed and rosary beads dangled in her fingers, she was dying. Soon after, she was up and about but never very strong.

Sunday was nice, when we had our best coats on and, after Mass, go in line for a walk, everyone would be in brown or grey. Finding a penny was a miracle, all the girls would crowd round while she would sneak into a shop and buy a long toffee bar. Somehow, most of us got a lick.

Often one of the girls would make a run for it. This was great because the teachers in charge would go running after her. Sometimes she would be away for days but always brought back in the end.

They said a man got into the convent and hurt a nun. I didn’t know what that meant but she died soon after.Myself and another girl had to sit at the end of her bed while the nuns were at Mass. Talk about fear, we were wetting ourselves, almost convinced she was moving. We would start going for the door but knew we couldn’t. I don’t remember …

(page missing)

Mother Genevieve would sit at the back as well and if you looked away from the altar she would give you the most merciless poke. God, I hated her. Blowing the organ was, I don’t know (funny) but God help you if you didn’t do it properly. If you were with a giggly girl, you just couldn’t concentrate. She would go up when she was supposed to be going down. The nun playing the organ would give you a quick sly rap on the fingers. This often resulted in you rolling about laughing, which meant trouble again because all the other nuns would look up, and this made the girls at the back laugh even more.

Good Friday was a funny day, it was Mass all day, going to kiss the cross. Well, laugh, my stomach hurt. You see, all the nuns would be sitting each side of the small church and the priest would be waiting there to bless you as you kiss the cross. Oh God. One girl, somewhere down the line would kneel on another girl’s stocking, knocking her flat on her face, which meant that the whole line of kneeling girls would go toppling over. Even the priest found it hard to keep a straight face.

The nuns had a holiday home in Carlingford, two girls usually went with them. I would long and dream to be picked and, God Bless me, I was. What a way I felt, getting this suitcase ready, going there was marvellous. But wait for the shock, my God. Went to this room, it seemed 200 miles up the stairs. I was with a girl called Ann, a peevish girl, who was always combing her hair. Straight away we were fighting, do you know she gave me such a thump in my stomach I blacked out. One of the nuns had to look after me. I had a whole two weeks to spend with her. Oh dear God, she was horrid. If only Kathleen had been chosen to go with me.

Our day started at 6:00 am. The cook would come around seven, and the handy man would already have the range working. She was a great big woman and cooked lovely food. The man would have his in the shed at the other end of the yard. The nuns would serve each other, but we would do the cleaning, washing up and run errands.

I washed my best dress for Sunday and Ann poured all green paint over me. I cried so much I was ill. I was even afraid to go to sleep. Of course, I told the nun in charge. I don’t know what happened but I was glad to get away. She was evil.

When we got back to the convent it was the rule to put all our best clothes away in the Sunday cupboard, so it was called. I saw a lovely pair of pink knickers so I took them, knowing full well I would have to hide them wherever necessary. Then I became very ill with sore throat and bad head. Guess what happened. I was caught wearing them and was nearly murdered. I told so many lies as to where I got them.

Oh God, it was awful.