I wanted to go to school. Everyone I knew was starting school that September but for some reason I was not accepted. I begged, coaxed and finally threw a major tantrum. The answer was still a resounding “NO”. “Why? Why? Why?” I screamed. “You’re only three years old,” my mother patiently explained. “You have to be four years old before the nuns will take you.”
I refused to listen to any explanation and created an even bigger fuss, big enough for my mother to send me to school under false pretences. She filled out the form and wrote in my older brother’s date of birth. At long last I could go to school. And I loved it. I really did. “No, no,” I corrected my aunt, “I’m not in Babies. I’m in Junior Infants.” That sounded a lot more important to me.
I was well settled in for a couple of weeks when Sister Aquin swept in one day. She held a whispered conversation with Sister Bonaventure. (Hadn’t nuns grand and glorious names in those days?) They were eying me surreptitiously through the diaphanous material of their black veils. Their hands fluttered like white cabbage butterflies as they talked and the light winked on their Bride-of-Christ silver rings. At the end of that day I was given an envelope to bring home. It contained a finely worded letter that barely stopped short of calling my mother a liar. I was expelled.
I must have nearly driven my poor mother out of her mind. No wonder then, when I reached my fourth birthday 70 years ago, I was off to school like a shot.
I have a vivid memory of running across the Abbey, cutting through Athlunkard Street and passing by the old Tanyard, to fly into the open arms of Sister Aquin at the House of Mercy. I brought with me a fistful of birthday cards to prove that I was four years old and nobody could take that away from me. My eyes sparkled with delight . My golden curls danced for joy on my shoulders as I repeated over and over again, “I’m four. I’m four. I’m a big girl now. I’m four years old.”
The days sped by until the summer holidays and, as is the way with most Limerick citizens, we were off on holidays to Kilkee in west Clare.
We were to travel by bus and Dad carried our one big case on his bike up to the railway station on his way to work and left it there inside the door for us. He would be joining us on the following week.
The queue for the Kilkee bus was already lengthy when we arrived at the station. My mother bemoaned the fact that we were so late that we would have to take back seats. She greeted a few people but did not strike up a conversation with anyone. That was strange. My mother was a great talker so I could only deduce that there was nobody she particularly liked waiting for the Kilkee bus that day. The bus door opened and we boarded and, as Mother had predicted, we had to take the worst seats – the ones right over the back wheels.
We were being bounced out the Ennis Road just past the Union Cross when the conductor came clicking his silver ticket machine and calling out “Fares please.” “One and a half to Kilkee,” said Mother, pointing to my six-year-old brother. “She’s only three,” She told him, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. She then handed over the money.
Hold it a minute. Did my mother tell that conductor that I was three years old after all the trouble about being four to get me into school? She could get me expelled from the bus. I soared to boiling point and then I did it. I drew in an almighty breath, my eyes wide with indignation and I roared, “You’re telling lies, Mamma Nellie, I’m four.”
My mother frequently spoke of her mortification when every uptown and downtown Limerick head on the bus turned to witness it. There were people present who would tell and retell the whole story, with embellishment, in May Naughton’s over a pint.
The conductor made her pay my fare and he gave me the long strip of tickets to hold because I had told him the truth. After all, I was a big girl just turned four.