it was hard to do and still keep track of where everything was. Each evening they scrubbed shelves and tacked on new oilcloth. The floor was a constant disappointment to them; the lino needed to be replaced but of course there wouldnât be funds for that, so instead new bits were nailed down near the door where the wear and tear was most obvious. Boxes that only contained a few things were emptied out and stored neatly in the storeroom. In the summer, visitors were mad for boxes and lots of the suppliers didnât leave any behind. It was best to have a pile of them ready.
It was worthy work but it ate into homework time. Miss OâHara had drawn everyone in the class a map of Ireland, a blank map. They were to trace it or copy it and reproduce it every fourth page of their history exercise book. Then, when they learned of the battles and the treaties and the marches and the plantations, they could fill them in on their own maps and they would know what happened where. Clare was lost in the Battle of Kinsale, drawing little Spanish ships and Red Hughâs army on its way down from the north when she heard the voice calling. Perhaps if she pretended she didnât hear . . . This was the wrong thing to do. The door was thrown open and her mother stood quivering with annoyance.
âArenât you a fine lady thrown on the bed when youâre needed?â
âIâm not thrown. Iâm filling in this map, look.â
âIâve looked at enough of that childish nonsense. Youâre a grown girl. Get downstairs and help your father at once. Weâve been calling and calling and not a word out of you.â
âItâs my homework.â
âDonât be ridiculous. Nobody has homework drawing ships and little men. Stop that act and come down at once. Your father wants a hand to clean those top shelves before we put things up there.â
âBut how will we reach themâwhatâs the point of putting things up there?â
âAre you going to debate this from up here or come down like youâre told!â
Â
âWhere are you off to, Chrissie? Weâll be taking down all those old notices stuck to the windows this evening . . .â
âOh, I canât stay, Mam. Iâm going up to Peggy. . . . Sheâs going to teach me how to make a frock.â
âA frock?â
âYes, sheâs got a pattern. She says itâs easy to cut around it. Soon weâll be able to make all our own clothes.â
âWell, all right, but donât be late home.â
âNo, I wonât. Bye, Mam.â
âClare, what are you doing?â
âThe trade winds. Weâve got to know all about where they come from and why they blew the fleets of . . .â
âRight, get a bowl of hot soapy water, will you? And come with me. These windows are a disgrace. You canât see through them in or out.â
Â
âClare, child, I know you work hard at your books but couldnât you give your mother a hand with the washing? Sheâs got very thin on us altogether.â
âThe washing, Dad?â
âWashing the clothes. I asked her to sit down and have a cup of tea and she said she couldnât, there was a pile of washing to do. Youâll have to do washing when you have a home of your own. Why donât you take a turn now and learn how to do it properly? Thereâs a good girl.â
âWhat about Chrissie, Dad, could she do it tonight, and Iâll do it the next time, Iâve this legend to learn. Thereâs all kinds of desperate names in it.â
âChrissieâs gone to do her homework with Kath.â
âUh,â Clare said.
âYou could go on saying the names to yourself as you did the washing,â her father said.
âNo, the book would get wet. Do I have to, Dad?â
âYou donât have to. I thought youâd be glad to help your mother.â
âTommy or Ned?â She
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
John O'Riley
Brenda Sinclair
Christopher George
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Karl Iagnemma
Celya Bowers
Jill Gregory
Aria Cunningham