1970
I turn twelve. That September, I leave Mucknamore for the first time, am driven into Wexford town by Mrs D. to boarding school. Convent boarding school. The routine there is rigid, every hour accounted for with prayers, meals, classes, study, exercise or pastimes. The nuns are strict and expect “The Highest Standards of Behaviour”. They tower over us in their stiff black habits, shrinking us to silence, decorum, obedience.
Our day begins with the dormitory bell and Sister Elizabeth — we call her Lizzy — singing a chant at us, the same words every morning in her up-and-down voice: “Good morning, girls…Seven o’clock…Mass at half-past…Praised be Jesus.” Then she brings a font of holy water round from cubicle to cubicle, thrusting it through our curtains with a Latin blessing. We have t
