I knew whenever she was gunning for me. Her dark eyes would narrow as she lowered her forehead and directed her steely glare straight between my eyes. I always started to quiver like a little leaf, knowing I was in for another shameful telling-off.
‘Cynthia Murphy, come to the front of the class now!’ she demanded one day.
Cheeks glowing bright red, I trooped up and stood there, squirming inside, wondering what I had done this time. I wanted the ground to swallow me up, and I felt like bolting for the door, but I stood rooted to the spot, burning with shame, as everybody stared at me once more.
‘Why are you wearing that filthy jumper again? I told you last time to smarten yourself up, young lady. Look at your hair! Have you never brushed it? Class, will you look at this dirty girl? What a terrible child!’
I was absolutely devastated every time she picked on me. I wanted to learn, not be told off. Mammy and Daddy didn’t have enough money to buy me new clothes to make me look smart like the other children. It wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t fair.
It didn’t take long before I started to feel cross with Mother Dorothy. There was nothing I could do about the way I looked. Mammy was always telling me how very poor we were. That’s why wealthier people from the neighbourhood left charity bags on our doorstep. I picked out the nicest things I could from under the stairs, but they were never good enough. I didn’t have shampoo or a hairbrush, so I couldn’t wash or brush my hair, and we never had any toothpaste or a flannel, so I couldn’t help having dirty teeth and a grubby face.
One day, instead of calling out my name, Mother Dorothy marched over to my desk, grabbed hold of my shoulders and pulled me violently out of my chair.
I gasped in shock, and my brain started whirling as I tried to work out what I had done wrong. It must be something really bad, because she looked madder than ever before.
I’d been at school a few years by now, and Mother Dorothy had started to tell me off for not having the copy books and pencils Mammy and Daddy were meant to provide, and for not doing my homework.
I couldn’t tell her that Mammy wouldn’t give me any money for those things, or that she refused to let me do my homework. I was sure Mother Dorothy would think I was lying and would tell me nobody’s mammy behaved like that. But mine did. ‘Education is a waste of time - you’re a girl,’ Mammy said whenever I asked for a pencil or a book. ‘You’ll just get married and have babies, what’s the point in learnin’?
‘Peel the potatoes instead,’ she’d tell me. ‘Make the beds, clean the gas cooker for your mammy.’ I didn’t even have a school bag to carry my work in. How could I tell Mother Dorothy all that? I just couldn’t. What if she went knocking on our door? Daddy always threatened me with trouble if the nuns came complaining, and he would probably beat me with his leather belt for telling people our business.
I had worked out by now that Daddy only liked people to see him as the man he was outside of our house. The side everybody saw was the hardworking family man who grafted by day to feed his kids and enjoyed a drink with all his pals at night. I don’t think anybody knew what I did. Nobody knew I lay in bed at night feeling terrified of his fights and rows with Mammy. I was sure no one knew he hardly had anything to do with his family, unless he was shouting or swearing.
All these thoughts crashed around in my head as I let Mother Dorothy drag me to the front of the class, sinking her sharp fingernails into my shoulders as she did so.
I chewed my lip so as not to cry as I waited for her to tell me what I had done that was so very wrong. I knew there was a big list to choose from, because she’d gone though it so many times before. But I wasn’t prepared for what she said this time, because it was just so unexpectedly cruel.
‘Look, everyone! Cynthia Murphy has lice in her hair!’ she said in a nasty, mocking voice. I gasped in shock. I knew I had lice, I always did, but she sounded more like a playground bully than Mother Dorothy.
My heart thumped in my chest. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help the thought that flashed though my head: ‘You wicked old cow! I’ll get you back one day!’ I told myself. In that moment, I didn’t care if my sinful thoughts would make me burn in hell, as long as I got some revenge on Mother Dorothy.
‘Why have you come to school with lice in your hair, child?’ she went on, poking me in the shoulder and glaring at me. ‘Don’t you dare come to school with lice in your hair again, you filthy child. This time it will be ten lashes. Next time I will double it.’
I started to shake uncontrollably when she reached for her green cane. She normally kept ‘Mr Greeny’, as we called it, locked in a cupboard. This was the first time she had punished me with it.
She had warned that she would bring it out for ‘very bad children’, and so I knew once and for all that in her eyes I was one of those very bad children. I was sure none of my sins was my fault, but that didn’t seem to matter. Mr Greeny and I got to know each other very well over the years to come.
‘Hold your hand out,’ snapped Mother Dorothy. ‘And hold the other hand underneath to
