Living With Evil Cynthia Owen (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

Jesus hanging on the walls, holy ornaments on the fireplace, and once there was even a pot of holy water we had to dip our fingers in on the way into the bedroom.

But Mammy told us only sinners went to church, to ask God for forgiveness. ‘We’re better off at home,’ she’d say. ‘I’m not going again and havin’ posh folk lookin’ down their noses at us!’

Sometimes the parish priest would come hammering on our door of a Sunday evening, demanding to know why we hadn’t been in church again. Daddy would go mad about being ‘shamed’ on his own doorstep like that.

Mammy would stub out her cigarette and rush to the door to tell the priest one of us kids had been ‘so very ill, Father’ even when I was sure everyone was well. I thought it wasn’t right to tell a fib to the priest, but I knew better than to say anything.

The following Sunday an older sibling would have to take us to church to ‘shut the priest up’ and ‘stop him sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted’.

On the rare occasion I did go to church, I liked the feeling of peace there. Nobody shouted, and I knew nobody was going to hit me, what with the good priest and holy nuns all around. I believed in God and said lots of prayers. I felt safe, and it was nice and clean and bright compared to our house.

I was sure being taught by nuns in a grand school was going to be just like going to church, only better. I simply couldn’t wait to start, and I grinned all the way there on my first day.

Chapter 3

Meeting Mr Greeny

The school stood like a giant palace by the sea. The blue water was twinkling behind it, and it looked so grand it took my breath away. Although I was only four-years-old, the closer I got to the towering building, the tinier I felt.

By the time I walked through the doors I felt as small as one of the grains of sand on the beach, and butterflies started to flutter in my tummy.

It was busy and noisy in the wide hallway, and I was relieved when Peter and I were ushered into a classroom. It felt safer in there, even though there were lots of children filing in around us. The sound of shoes on wood echoed around me, and I saw that there were row upon row of wooden desks. They seemed to go on for ever, and were raised on steps the further back you looked.

I squeezed Peter’s hand and tucked myself into his side.

‘My name is Mrs O’Reilly,’ said an old lady with fluffy white hair, clapping her hands sharply to make us all look round. She was standing by a big blackboard at the front of the class and looked stern. I felt scared.

‘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