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

‘Cynthia Murphy, come and do this sum on the board!’ she goaded. I was still smarting from the humiliation of being told I wasn’t worthy of sitting with the other girls, and I hadn’t been concentrating at all.

I got the sum wrong, prompting Mother Dorothy to bellow triumphantly: ‘I give up! You are a stupid child!’ Then, I was sent to stand in a corner wearing a large hat with the letter ‘D’ on it for dunce.

‘When you grow up you’ll be standing on the corner under the streetlight!’ she snorted loudly. ‘You’ll go up a lane and come down pushing a pram!’

The other girls looked at each other with puzzled expressions. None of us knew what she meant at all.

Now, as Mammy presented me with Martin in his new pushchair, Mother Dorothy’s remark popped into my head, diverting my thoughts from the dilemma of taking my baby brother to school with me.

‘Where did you get that pushchair from? Did you get it up a lane?’ I asked Mammy curiously.

‘What are you goin’ on about, Cynthia? Stop talking fuckin’ nonsense. You’re to take Martin to school in the pushchair. He’ll be no trouble strapped in there.’

‘I bet you went up a lane, and came down pushing that pram,’ I said to Mammy innocently.

Her fist landed on my cheek before I could blink. ‘What did you say? Are you callin’ me a prostitute?’ she crowed.

‘I’m sorry, Mammy, Mother Dorothy taught me that saying! I’m sorry, Mammy, of course I’ll take Martin to school in the pushchair.’

‘I know you will, because I’m saying you will. Calling me a prostitute and blaming your dirty mouth on those holy nuns! You little lying bitch, Cynthia!’

She thumped me again, on the other side of my face, and Martin started to cry and struggle against the straps.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, look what you’ve done now! You’ve made poor Martin cry!’

That night, when Daddy got into bed beside me, I wondered if he would notice my sore eye and feel sorry for me. It had swollen up where Mammy had hit me, and she had sent me to the chemist to buy a patch.

‘Cover your eye with one hand when you are in the shop,’ she ordered. I could tell she was worried about me for once, because normally she never let me have a patch or plaster for anything. ‘Then cover your bruise with the patch before you walk back down the street. At school tomorrow, tell the nuns you have a stye. I don’t want them poking their noses into our business.’

If Daddy did notice my sore eye, it didn’t make him any more gentle with me. He rubbed up against me harder than ever that night. I don’t think he could have felt sorry for me at all, because this felt like a punishment, and I felt very scared and tearful. He was terrifying me.

I thought about it as I pushed the pram into school the next day. It made my head ache. I just couldn’t work it out. I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t seem to get it out of my mind. My head was itching too, worse than ever. Martin was crying in the pram. His cries ricocheted round my head and I stared at the cloudy sky in front of me, wishing I could block everything out.

I could hear the girls giggling when I pushed the pram into the classroom: ‘What’s smelly Cynthia up to this time? Will you look at the state of that baby! What’s she thinking of? Has she no shame?’

The voices tried to get inside my brain, but my head felt like it was full of thick, damp sand. I felt very tired and I couldn’t think clearly at all.

Did I have no shame? I wasn’t sure. I just felt numb and exhausted.

‘What have we here, child?’ demanded Mother Dorothy, haughtily.

‘It’s my brother Martin, Mother Dorothy. My mammy says to tell you she’s very sick and can’t look after him. There’s no one else in the house, so I’ve brought him into class. I’ll make sure he’s no trouble at all.’

With that, Martin started roaring loudly, tugging at the side of his buggy and shouting, ‘Out, out!’

I didn’t know what to do. I was eight years old. I tried to rock the buggy discreetly with my foot, while Mother Dorothy stood over the pair of us, glaring.

‘Is there no end to your boldness? Settle the child immediately, and if you disrupt the class again there will be severe consequences!’

I wouldn’t have minded being sent out of the class that day. I couldn’t focus on a word the teachers said. My foot ached as I rocked the buggy, shushing Martin and pleading with him with my eyes to quieten down. Every time he grumbled and fidgeted, my heart lurched up into my throat.

I hated Mammy for making me bring him. I didn’t want to tell lies to the nuns. I didn’t want to be made fun of by the other girls. I didn’t like the way my head ached with tiredness and itched after Daddy had kept me awake at night. I just wanted to be normal. I looked around and longed to have clean white socks and clean hair, every day, like the other girls.

I wondered why I was the one who always seemed to get lumbered with so many jobs, and caring for the little ones. With Esther gone, things had got worse at home. I was ordered by Mammy to wash the dishes and feed the children. It wasn’t fair, but I didn’t want Martin or Mary to be hungry or dirty. I loved them, so I cared for them as best I could.

Yet it didn’t matter how much I helped or what I said or did, things were always horrible at home, and the rows continued with scary regularity.

I often heard thumps and thuds and slaps and smacks when I was lying in bed at night. Mammy cursed and