Living With Evil by Cynthia Owen (best way to read books .TXT) 📕

Granny’s, and I often walked back to school with a lump in my throat, wondering what the nuns might do to me next. I was so scared of Mother Dorothy that on many days it didn’t feel much better going to school than having to stay at home.

Quite often, Mammy kept me home from school when, say, the electric man was coming for his money. She didn’t want to have to get dressed and come downstairs to answer the door herself, so she kept me at home to do it for her. The older I got, the more she did it. I found it strange, as it wasn’t like we had loads of people coming round to pay us visits.

I hated being stuck in the house. It reminded me of the long, cold days before I started school. I didn’t really like being anywhere much. At least the classroom was warmer and brighter, and there were plenty of things to do and learn, but school certainly wasn’t the refuge I’d hoped it would be.

Peter wasn’t in my class for very long at all, but the good thing was that all the other kids knew I had a big brother in the school who would stand up for me if they bullied me. I think it worked, because most of the time the other kids left me alone.

I had my own friends now too, who came from big families like me. They also got picked on by Mother Dorothy sometimes, so we stuck together and looked out for each other. One of my best friends was Eileen. We poked fun at the nuns behind their backs, copying how they walked and talked and collapsing in fits of giggles. The posh kids sometimes said nasty things to me, like: ‘I’m not sitting by you, you stink!,’ but after a while it didn’t even make me flinch. I had my friends, and I was used to Mother Dorothy saying much worse things.

I remember making Eileen laugh with a silly impression at the back of the classroom when Mother Dorothy marched in with a face like thunder.

‘What’s that smell?’ she bellowed, pointing her long nose high into the air and taking long, slow steps across the front of the classroom.

Her heavy black shoes made deafening thuds through the silence that had fallen instantly over the room. My face fell and I twitched with nerves.

She had Mr Greeny in her hand, and she banged it fiercely into the wooden floor every time she took a step.

I just knew I was going to catch one, and I could tell it was going to be a very bad one. My nerves felt like elastic bands being catapulted around my body as I sat there waiting to hear what sin I had committed, and what penance I would have to pay. Hell was waiting for me, I just knew it. But I wasn’t going to die first, I was going to get the roasting of my life right here and now.

Chalkdust puffed up from the floor, making little clouds against Mother Dorothy’s black habit as she stomped towards the back of the classroom.

Other kids looked sideways with puzzled expressions on their faces, but they weren’t frightened like me. I knew I was the one who was in trouble. I stared into the dark, black stain at the bottom of my inkwell and started to feel nauseous.

Mother Dorothy marched up the steps to the rows of desks at the back, getting closer and closer to mine.

‘Does anybody know what that awful smell is?’ she demanded. My stomach was doing somersaults by now and I was feeling very hot. I thought I might faint.

‘Shall I tell you what it is?’ she boomed. She was sniffing very dramatically, as if she had found the source of the foul smell, and she was walking straight towards me with her eyes on fire.

‘That smell is dirty knickers!’ she shrieked. I was so shocked by what she said I blushed bright scarlet. I could feel my heart pumping blood furiously to my face. Nobody ever talked about underwear in our house, let alone dirty knickers. To hear a nun say that took my breath away.

‘You might well feel embarrassed, Cynthia Murphy,’ she went on.

‘You are the culprit! You are the dirty girl wearing dirty knickers. I can smell them. I can smell your dirty knickers!’

I wanted to shrivel up and die with shame. My palms were sweating, and I hung my head so low the back of my neck ached, but she hadn’t finished yet.

‘I’m warning you, Cynthia Murphy, wash them out every night, or I’m doing a knicker inspection!’ she barked. ‘I’m pulling your knickers down and caning you if they are dirty!’

I was wearing the second-hand navy-blue knickers donated to the family by the St Vincent de Paul charity. I knew all too well by now that they marked me out as being from a ‘poor’ family, and just the thought of the class seeing them made me cringe.

Mother Dorothy hovered over me as if she was waiting for a response, but I was dumbstruck. Even Eileen, who usually shot me a little look of encouragement when I was in the firing line, looked away in utter embarrassment. What could I say? The terrible thing was that I knew my knickers did smell. I only had one pair, and wore them for weeks on end, as Mammy hardly ever did the washing.

I thought Mother Dorothy must know all this, or she wouldn’t be telling me to rinse them out myself. Why was she making such a show of me if she knew it wasn’t my fault?

Daddy shouted at Mammy and hit her sometimes when his shirts were too filthy for work, and then she would wash them at night when we were all in bed. I don’t think she did a good job, because she always did it when she had been drinking for hours and was very tired. I was used