Little Drifters: Part 3 of 4. Kathleen O’Shea

time do you call this?’ Sister Helen addressed us shrilly.

      ‘We don’t know, Sister,’ Tara replied. ‘We don’t have any watches.’

      ‘Mind your cheek, madam!’ Sister Helen fixed her with a steely stare. ‘It is now 4 p.m. – you are late!’

      ‘How can we be late?’ I objected. ‘We left as soon as school finished and walked all the way back. We didn’t talk to anybody or stop for nothing.’

      ‘Yeah,’ Tara backed me up. ‘How can we be late?’

      ‘You are late because you walked!’ Sister Helen explained, as if to a five-year-old. ‘You have fifteen minutes to get home every day. If you don’t get back in fifteen minutes by walking then you run. You understand? You run!’

      ‘Yes, Sister,’ we chorused back. It had only been a few days and we were already sick of this place, sick of all the stupid rules, sick of Sister Helen, the staff, their casual insults and boundless cruelty.

      From that very first day we realised the nuns didn’t allow you any time to actually get to and from school. It was just about possible to get up in the morning, say our prayers, dress, wolf down breakfast and clear away before we had to run to school to get there on time.

      If we were late of a morning we’d get a beating from the nuns there. At lunchtime we had to go back to Watersbridge, which meant running two miles again to the house and another two miles back to school afterwards. At the end of the school day we had to run once more to get back in time. The whole day you could stand in one place and just see a bunch of children running backwards and forwards through the town to avoid punishments. It must have looked funny from the outside, all these children zipping about, but it was exhausting for us. And it meant the food we ate barely touched our stomachs – we were constantly hungry for running all the time!

      Once back at Watersbridge we would take off our uniforms, lay them on the end of the bed, ready for the next day, and then put on our play clothes. All the children would then do their homework at the big kitchen table. Once finished we’d be sent into the garden to play until they called tea-time, which was often just some bread with cheese and hot tea. Then we’d be allowed to watch a bit of TV in the living room before bed. I loved this – I’d never watched TV much before so even the boring holy programmes the nuns made us watch were fascinating to me at first. And if we were really lucky we got to see cartoons. Then it was prayers and bedtime.

      A week after we arrived in Watersbridge Lucy and Libby were brought back from the hospital. They looked so much better and we were thrilled to be reunited again. They even put us in the same room at first.

      That night, Libby called out to me after lights out: ‘Kathleen! Kathleen! Can I come in your bed, please?’

      ‘No, Libby. They don’t like that. If we get caught we’ll be in trouble.’

      ‘Please, Kathleen,’ she begged. I could just about make out her silhouette in the darkness, curled up in a ball under the cover, shaking like a leaf. Poor thing! She was only six. Lucy lay on a bed on the other side, sleeping soundly. I reached out to Libby and she jumped into my arms.

      ‘Come on now,’ I soothed, giving her a big hug. There was nothing of her – she was skinny as anything and still shaking.

      ‘Stay for now,’ I said. ‘But in the morning you’ll have to go back to your own bed.’

      So I wrapped her up like that and she quickly fell asleep. I worried that night I wouldn’t wake up in time to get her out of my bed but luckily I woke with the sun that morning and managed to lead her back to her own bed before Sister Helen came round.

      Poor Libby, she was so quiet, so intimidated by everything and everyone. The moment she heard a nun she’d jump and just scurry out of the room, making herself small enough so that nobody would notice her.

      Each morning they called us at 7 a.m. for those who wanted to go to mass. For everyone else we could get up just before breakfast at 8 a.m.

      ‘Why would you want to go to mass anyways?’ I asked Gina one morning.

      ‘They treat you better if you go to mass,’ she whispered. ‘It makes them think you want to be a good person.’

      ‘But it’s too much praying!’ I said. ‘I’ve been praying non-stop since I got here anyway.’

      Nevertheless, I did try it a few times. Anything for a break from the constant beatings. It seemed that no matter what I did, it was never right. Sister Helen and the staff seemed permanently angry with all of us and it was a sheer miracle if I could get through a day without being walloped. I took myself off to mass in the mornings and nearly fell asleep again during all the Latin prayers. I was bored to holy tears! But it worked for a short while. Sister Helen remarked she was glad to see I was turning to the Lord for guidance, and for a few days I didn’t get a beating. It didn’t last. One morning I was late for mass and nearly fell in the convent door in my haste.

      ‘Oh feck!’ I exclaimed. Sister Helen was so appalled she picked me up by the scruff of my neck and marched me all the way back down the road to our house, beating me all the way.

      It was one thing getting beaten myself. But watching my siblings suffer was something I never got used to. And at first, neither Tara or myself could accept it. Although Lucy and Libby had returned to Watersbridge, they were still being treated for their coughs and had to take a medicine every evening before bed.

      The little ones were sent to bed earlier than us but when Tara and I came upstairs one night we saw one of the younger members of staff called Elaine trying to force Libby and Lucy to drink their medicine. She had the spoon jammed down Libby’s throat and was beating her about the head at the same time so that poor Libby was choking and gagging. She’d obviously just done the same to Lucy, who was spluttering, crying and holding her throat.

      ‘Shut up, you stupid girl!’ Elaine was shouting at Libby as she slapped her about. ‘Shut up and drink it!’

      But of course Libby couldn’t swallow it down because she was being pummelled so badly. Without even stopping to think, Tara pounced on Elaine. She grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from Libby, who had now collapsed on the floor.

      ‘GET OFF MY SISTER!’ Tara screamed, beating Elaine about the head with her hands.

      Elaine was temporarily stunned as Tara attacked her, smacking her all over her body. But she soon recovered and was now fighting back, beating Tara’s hands away. The two of them were scuffling around on the floor, hands and legs flying everywhere. I ran to Libby and Lucy to check they were okay, and though some part of me was willing Tara to give the cow a taste of her own medicine, at the same time I was terrified for Tara.

      ‘Stop it!’ I yelled at her. ‘You’ll make it worse. Come on, Tara!’

      Tara dragged herself away from the woman, who was now throwing her arms about blindly to hit back. Elaine then staggered to her feet, breathing hard and staring at Tara, who had now come over to where I was huddled with the two little ones. Tara stood in front of us protectively, defiantly, daring Elaine to come near us.

      Elaine looked at us as she adjusted her skirt and jumper.

      ‘Don’t take it then!’ she spat at Lucy and Libby, now cowering under my arms. ‘Just go on being sick! I don’t care!’

      And with that she stormed out of our room and went back downstairs.

      We all stood there, watching after her, our hearts in our mouths, fully expecting Sister Helen to come storming up the stairs any moment.

      ‘You’ll get into trouble!’ a trembling Lucy whispered to Tara.

      ‘Ah, don’t you worry about me. I can take care of meself,’ Tara reassured her, but her worried eyes told a different story.

      Remarkably, Elaine didn’t report Tara to the nuns on that occasion, but it didn’t stop the beatings. For some reason, our youngest sister Lucy was always on the receiving