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

I tried hard with my work and wanted to read and write well, and not be like Mammy, who had to ask me to write all her lists when she sent me to the shop. It just wasn’t fair. Why was I treated so badly?

One day I was struggling with a word in class and asked Mother Felicity to help. She leaned over my copy book and started talking, and as she did so blobs of spit flew out her mouth and landed on my work, making my ink blot all over the page.

I didn’t want to be rude and say anything, but when she saw the blots she went mad and slapped me across the face really hard. ‘Don’t spit on your work, child,’ she warned. I was cross and confused. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. She had it in for me too. Why? It didn’t make any sense.

I dreaded Mother Felicity looking at my work, because she did the same thing every single time. It seemed so weird, and in the end I decided she must enjoy slapping my face and seeing me flinch and cry. There was no other explanation. She had to be mad.

At break time she had another game. She would rummage in the dustbin, find a half-eaten sandwich that was mouldy, and thrust it in my face.

‘Be glad you have something to eat,’ she warned. ‘The black babies in Africa would be glad of that sandwich.’

The way the nuns treated me had made me start to rebel, so once I replied that I would hate to do the black babies out of a bite and handed the sandwich back to her, saying, ‘If the babies are so hungry, I wouldn’t want to deny them food, so why don’t you post it to them?’

She slapped me again for my cheek, but I was glad I stood up for myself, and it gave my friends a bit of a laugh.

I got beaten and called names and was picked on whether I was good or bad, so I thought I might as well have some fun if I was going to be punished anyway.

I worried about my penance though. It still worried me how you knew you’d done enough. I had no idea, and sometimes I said extra Hail Marys or recited the Our Father in my head, hoping it would save me from hell and purgatory and eternal damnation. I didn’t want to end up there, I really didn’t. Those things sounded worse than any of Mammy and Daddy’s fights or beatings, or any punishment the nuns could give me.

In one lesson, Mother Dorothy announced to the class that we were all preparing for our First Holy Communion. I knew this was a really special event and that all little girls making their Communion wore beautiful white dresses. I couldn’t quite believe I was going to be one of those little girls. Maybe it would make me holier too, and less likely to burn in hell?

My head filled up with images of myself parading through the village to honour the Blessed Virgin Mary. In my daydream I was wearing a long satin dress and holding a wicker basket full of pretty pink rose petals. I smiled as I took them out of the basket one by one and kissed them before throwing them on the ground behind me.

That’s what happened every year at the May procession that took place before the Holy Communion. I’d seen it several times, never dreaming I’d be taking part myself one day. People hung out yellow and white papal flags from their windows and on the street lamps and smiled and waved as the children paraded past their houses.

I started to worry about where my dress would come from and how I would explain why my mammy wasn’t in church when I took the holy bread for the first time, because I knew Mammy wouldn’t come, even to such a big event in my life. I wasn’t sure how I would get round those problems, but I was determined I would have my special day somehow.

To help us prepare for the big event, Mother Dorothy staged a mock confession in the class. She pretended to be the priest and asked us to confess our sins, telling us, ‘If you do not tell the truth, God will know and strike you dead!’

My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t know what to confess, but I knew I had to come up with something fast, as Mother Dorothy was waiting. I desperately tried to think. I didn’t want to be struck dead, and I started to quiver with nerves as my mind raced.

What had I done wrong? I didn’t want to mention my dirty clothes or my hair, but that was all I could think of because that’s what Mother Dorothy went on about all the time. Then I remembered. I’d pinched a pencil from the school office because Mammy wouldn’t buy me one and Mother Dorothy had given me steam for not having the right equipment.

Thank goodness I had a confession to make! I blurted out my sin, thinking it was saving me from being struck down dead, but Mother Dorothy’s face twisted with anger. I realized my mistake straight away and my blood ran cold. In that instant the thought of another of Mother Dorothy’s punishments seemed a fate worse than death, but that’s what I had to accept.

‘I won’t let her spoil my big day,’ I thought as she slapped my face, called me a wicked thief and an evil sinner and sent me outside, telling me I wasn’t fit to sit with the other children. ‘I don’t care,’ I thought. ‘She can’t hurt me! Nothing is going to spoil my Holy Communion.’

I was going to be special for the day. Although Mother Dorothy had me frightened, maybe God might listen to my prayers more now I was big enough to