Free A Girl Called Blue by Marita Conlon-Mckenna

that’s what they were making this week. These blue and grey and pearl and glass beads were for old ladies who sat in churches and chapels all over Ireland saying the rosary and praying for their husbands and sons and daughters. Blue wondered if it ever crossed their minds to think of the children who made their fine rosary beads. She supposed it didn’t. Larch Hill supplied beads to churches and shops all over the country and even further afield.
    ‘You are doing God’s work.’ That’s what Sister Rita preached to them as they slaved, mostly in silence, fitting the links together and threading on bead after bead. Blue longed to be out in the fresh air in the yard, running around, or even sitting at her desk studying or doing homework. By the time you had spent almost three hours threading beads and shaping the rosaries, your head and neck and back and wrists and fingers ached.
    ‘Offer your discomfort to the Lord,’ advised the nun, her fat face and double chins wobbling. She was sitting, as usual, in the big chair at the top of the room, reading a book, but glancing up every few minutes to check that they were working.
    ‘I hate these stupid beads,’ Blue whispered, her hands and fingers stiff and sore. The line of cracks on her thumb and forefinger from previous work had dried out and filled with yellow pus. Her fingers were never free of sores and cuts.
    ‘Ssshh,’ cautioned Lil, who was sitting beside her, and didn’t believe in attracting trouble.
    ‘Ow!’ Blue jerked out of the way as a bit of metal flew up and almost caught her in the eye.
    Lil was flying through her pile of beads, and had three silver crosses already positioned on the end of each.
    ‘Hurry up, Blue, she’s looking down at you!’ she warned.
    The last thing Blue wanted was the nun to waddle down and stand over her, watching. The last time it happened she had been made to stay behind to finish and had missed her tea; she would have gone to bed hungry except for the bits of crust Lil had managed to save for her.
    ‘Is there a problem, Bernadette?’ Sister Rita called.
    ‘No, Sister, no. I’m flying. Thanks,’ she mumbled, wishing she had the courage to go up and fling the basket of beads all over the nun’s smug face. She sighed and tried to concentrate on what she was doing. Sometimes she would make up a story in her head about the person who was getting the beads. A few weeks ago they had been handed boxes of large brown and blackbeads. Blue had loved the smooth feel of them and imagined the priests on the missions out in Africa in the hot sun, far from home, using the rosary beads that she was making to help them work with people who worshipped different gods. Those crosses had been made of wood and silver, and were plain and simple as could be. The crosses for these rosaries were fiddly and ornate and every time she attached the cross it seemed to turn in the wrong direction, a bit like the wayward tail of a kite she once saw flying up over the high orphanage walls. She jerked and pulled at it, twisting the tiny loop of silver wire that held the cross and forcing it into a straighter position. Lil smiled over at her.
    Blue sneaked a look at the others. Mary had wrinkles across her brow with concentration, and had spread the sets of beads she’d finished in a neat row. Jess was day-dreaming, but she was such a natural with her hands that she could have made a set of beads with her eyes closed. Sinead, who had only just started working on the rosaries, looked like she was about to cry; the bits of wire kept snapping in her hands and she had dropped a few beads on the floor under her bench. Maggie Roche, a big girl of fifteen, was slowly and patiently trying to show her how do it. Blue smiled over, trying to encourage her. They all knew that there was no point in crying over working with the beads because the nuns had no time for those who snivelled and were cry-babies. If anything, the nuns made things worse for them.
    Blue