Free The Mammy by Brendan O'Carroll

‘so do not lie to me here,’ she pointed to the crucifix, ‘before God our Saviour.’ The nun now seemed to be shaking as much as Cathy. ‘Hold out your hand,’ she said as if telling Cathy to sharpen her pencil. The child stretched out her hand and bent her fingers back so that her palm was sticking up. She closed her eyes.
    ‘Why did you leave the school grounds today?’
    The question was simple, the answer embarrassing. Cathy was afraid to lie before ‘God the Saviour’, yet she could not tell the truth, it just wouldn’t come out. Whack! The pain shot up her arm and out through her head. Her hand was tingling.
    ‘I am waiting for an answer, Madam,’ the nun said and raised her arm again.
    Cathy opened one eye. The huge, dark figure loomed over her, the arm pointing to Heaven, the strap flapping like a wild animal’s tongue. Cathy withdrew her arm and ran to the door. The nun was startled, but quick enough to catch Cathy before the door was opened. Cathy had now balled her hands into two fists and had them under her armpits. The nun gripped her above the elbow and dragged the girl easily along the polished floor to the desk. She threw the strap on the ground and, still holding the child’s arm, rummaged with her free hand in the drawer.
    ‘I’ll teach you, Miss ... Miss ... trollop!’ she said as her hand came out of the drawer clutching a chrome scissors.
    By the time Cathy reached home her tears had stopped. As she entered the noisy flat, Agnes said, ‘Cathy, your dinner is in the pot, do your homework before you eat it. Where did you get that bloody thing?’ Agnes was pointing at the woolly hat with a tassel that Cathy was wearing. It was called a ‘monkey hat’, after Mike Nesbith, one of the band The Monkees, Cathy’s favourite band.
    ‘Ann Reddin gev’ it to me.’
    ‘Well, it looks stupid,’ Agnes said. But knowing that kids will be kids, she did not interfere with their fashion whims. ‘I’m goin’ down to Marion. You be in your bed when I get home.’
    Cathy went to her bedroom and cried.

Chapter 10
     
    WEDNESDAY MORNING CAME, Marion’s day for the doctor. Agnes stood beside the two prams at the bottom of the church steps. As usual, Marion was doing her early-mom- ing shout, except this time, when the echo of ‘Good morning, God, it’s me, Marion’ died down, Marion said softly, ’Don’t leave me in trouble today.‘ As she came back down the steps, Agnes simply said to her: ’All right?‘, to which Marion answered, ’All right!‘, and off they went to ply their wares. The morning was busy so the time flew by. Before Marion knew it, Agnes was standing beside her, waiting to leave for Dr Clegg’s clinic.
    ‘Are you right?’ Agnes asked.
    ‘Nearly. I’ve only half me apples washed, me mind is not me own.’
    ‘Leave them. Fat Annie will do them for yeh. Come on, it’s nearly eleven. Get your coat.’
    Marion did, and the women set off on the fifteen-minute walk to the doctor’s clinic rooms. They walked to the end of Moore Street and took a right down Parnell Street towards Summerhill, where Dr Clegg sat each morning from eleven to one. There was no conversation between the women before they reached the huge triangular edifice that was the Parnell monument at the northern end of O‘Connell Street. As they passed beneath the giant outstretched hand of Charles Stewart Pamell, Agnes said: ’Did I tell you that my Mark is gettin’ pubic hair?‘
    ‘Where, on his willy?’
    ‘No, on his tongue! Of course on his willy!’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘He told me. Very worried he was. Thought he was abnormal - reformed or somethin’.‘
    ‘Ah, God love him. Did he ask you about the “birds and the bees”?’
    ‘No, not really.’
    ‘What do you mean, not really?’
    ‘Well, he asked me why he was getting hair on his willy.’
    ‘What did yeh tell him?’
    ‘I told him it was to keep his willy warm when he’s swimmin’.‘
    The women roared laughing as they