All Swollen

Unfortunately I wanted to reason with this irate nun. That was pointless. I couldn’t have got through to her anymore then, than if I had tried to convert her to Hinduism. She was not listening. Eventually in her dictatorial rage, I realised the other students had in fact set me up. They hadn’t just ‘not’ finished their assigned chores and gone out to play, they had maintained a vigil, so as soon as I left, after completing my task of cleaning the blackboard, they all returned to the classroom, appearing very industrious for the sisters return. She had of course returned to find, someone else wiping the blackboard (for show) and no Mr Dwyer. The children had then ‘reluctantly’ claimed I had thrown a tantrum and stormed off home, saying something derogatory about the sister (which they had been ‘forced’ to repeat to the nun). So now I was left to face the wrath of the nun, the bite of ‘Muddy Doo’ (six times on the right hand and six on the left) and the definition of a liar and villain. Not to mention the dire threats in between that I would be cast in the pits of Hell if I continued to behave in this way.

Lets face it, six smacks on each hand was excessive, even by my understanding. I could not even hold the broom she made me push about the classroom, trying to sweep the floor and ‘thinking on my sins’.

Finally, the punishment ended and I began the slow walk home over the  three short hills again. My hands had of course, swollen, my confidence, had shrunk. My loathing of all things religious was also growing disproportionately.  Why would we be put through this sort of ridiculous instruction. I thought religion was supposed to help you save your soul, so far all religion was doing was wrecking my childhood. What was worse was, once again I had done nothing wrong, but had received a violent punishment. How was I to learn right from wrong, when everything was so inconsistent?

I eventually made it home to a distracted mother who thought I had been out playing with ‘friends’ and had nearly got dinner ready for us all. My sisters thought I had just dawdled after school and hadn’t mentioned to my mother that I was on blackboard cleaning for the sister. My father had not yet come through from the post office section. That was thing about living in the same building as where our father worked. We knew when he actually finished for a change, when he came through to the living area, or, when he went up the road to the local to consume some post work beverages. I took my bag up the narrow staircase to the room I shared with my brother. I went back downstairs after washing my hands, well, running them under cold water for as long as I could. The moment I walked into the kitchen, my mother took one look at my face (crying tends to make you very puffy around the eyes) and said…..” What’s the matter?” Then suddenly, “What did you do?” “Nothing” I replied. “It was the sister. She got it wrong.”

(Continued tomorrow)