My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress Read Online Free Page A

appeared a wee bit flustered on the morning of the great event, the Exam. After all, her very probity was at stake; she could not be seen to falter in the eyes of the good priest, nor could any of us. When the sharp rap sounded on the door we all scrambled to attention. Silence fell like a great blanket as he entered.
    I’d seen Father Monacle before in the dim light of the confessional, and from a distance as he celebrated Sunday mass (for most of the time with his back to us, in conformation with the Church wisdom of the time). Now I saw him at close quarters.
    He was a heavily built man with an alarmingly bald head that shone, as if he’d used a buffing wheel on it that very morning. His eyes appeared huge and menacing behind bifocals, and his head and neck were all of a piece with a spreading purple hue. He looked like a great, black wine bottle, with his purple stopper head and white elliptical collar.
    The air quivered with his stertorous breaths, the floorboards creaked under his substantial tread as he waded into the room. We watched and waited in the dreadful silence until he finally came to a halt at the front of the class.
    Miss by this stage had begun to unravel, one hand fluttering to the back of her hair, the other smoothing down her skirt. She was swallowing hard, the brooch at her throat rising and falling with the rhythm of her anxiety. Father Monacle struck fear and holy terror into our wee hearts as he stood there, scanning our submissive little faces with his great searchlight eyes, probing for the slightest stain of sin. When at last he spoke it felt like a volcano erupting – a long, low rumbling that caused even our desks to tremble.
    â€˜Are they all good children, Miss McKeague?’
    â€˜Oh yes, Father!’
    â€˜What about young Lagan and McCloy down there? Learning, are they?’
    â€˜Yes, Father. Brendan and Michael are making good progress, Father.’
    â€˜Is that so, miss? Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?’
    And with that he was off on a tour of the room,plucking out surnames and punching us with questions. Miss kept one pace behind him, her pained face and mouth working like a goldfish’s, urging us on as we stammered and babbled our answers.
    Everyone passed of course – that was part of the charade. Father Monacle would appear to soften as he prepared to leave. It seemed as if all the fear and panic he’d spread among us was gathered back into his great, black coat as he bestowed a beaming smile upon us and vented a hearty ‘Well done, children!’ Our little faces melted in the warmth of such praise and Miss gave a huge sigh of relief.
    When he’d gone, Miss had an announcement to make.
    â€˜Because you’ve been such good children, I have a special reward for all of you.’ And she ducked into her storeroom.
    We waited in joyous anticipation, whispering among ourselves, each trying to outguess the other as to what this wonderful prize could be. Some thought money, others were convinced it would be sweets, and the general consensus favoured the latter.
    Miss re-emerged moments later, clutching our trophies: a brand-new, plain brown pencil for each of us. It was a right miserable gift when you come to think of it. We’d set our hearts on a chocolate, or even an Imperial Mint from the frequently replenished little round tin on her desk, but it was not to be. We did get out to play, though, while Miss helped herself to a cup of very sweet tea and a Marie biscuit, no doubt to get her blood sugar levels back to normal, poor thing.
    I fell into the school routine. Lunchtime was always a welcome incursion into the monotony of one’s day, not least because a half-hour of freedom followed.
    The playground was heaven for most of us. I learned to recognise those souls for whom it was purgatory, athirty-minute respite from the headmaster, whose ire they’d called down upon themselves that day. They stood apart from