1973
Mrs D. is late. By the time her car pulls into the convent car park, I am the last girl waiting by the recreation-room window.
The nuns have started to let us go home at weekends. Every second Saturday, we can leave after study at one o’clock and stay out until Sunday evening. It is optional, this home visit, and I’d rather stay in school. I’m pretty certain Mrs D. would prefer that too, but she’d never leave me here like some parents do: whatever would the nuns think of that? So I play my part, lining up with the other girls at the window, calling out, “There’s me,” when I see the blue Ford come in through the gates, swinging down to her with my weekend bag slung over my shoulder, as if Mucknamore is my idea of a good time.
Today, she is not hunched over the steering wheel, but ou
