Echoes by Maeve Binchy

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 wouldn’t 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 didn’t leave any behind. It was best to have a pile of them ready.
    It was worthy work but it ate into homework time. Miss O’Hara 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 Hugh’s army on its way down from the north when she heard the voice calling. Perhaps if she pretended she didn’t hear . . . This was the wrong thing to do. The door was thrown open and her mother stood quivering with annoyance.
    â€œAren’t you a fine lady thrown on the bed when you’re needed?”
    â€œI’m not thrown. I’m filling in this map, look.”
    â€œI’ve looked at enough of that childish nonsense. You’re a grown girl. Get downstairs and help your father at once. We’ve been calling and calling and not a word out of you.”
    â€œIt’s my homework.”
    â€œDon’t 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€œBut how will we reach them—what’s the point of putting things up there?”
    â€œAre you going to debate this from up here or come down like you’re told!”
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    â€œWhere are you off to, Chrissie? We’ll be taking down all those old notices stuck to the windows this evening . . .”
    â€œOh, I can’t stay, Mam. I’m going up to Peggy. . . . She’s going to teach me how to make a frock.”
    â€œA frock?”
    â€œYes, she’s got a pattern. She says it’s easy to cut around it. Soon we’ll be able to make all our own clothes.”
    â€œWell, all right, but don’t be late home.”
    â€œNo, I won’t. Bye, Mam.”
    â€œClare, what are you doing?”
    â€œThe trade winds. We’ve got to know all about where they come from and why they blew the fleets of . . .”
    â€œRight, get a bowl of hot soapy water, will you? And come with me. These windows are a disgrace. You can’t see through them in or out.”
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    â€œClare, child, I know you work hard at your books but couldn’t you give your mother a hand with the washing? She’s got very thin on us altogether.”
    â€œThe washing, Dad?”
    â€œWashing the clothes. I asked her to sit down and have a cup of tea and she said she couldn’t, there was a pile of washing to do. You’ll have to do washing when you have a home of your own. Why don’t you take a turn now and learn how to do it properly? There’s a good girl.”
    â€œWhat about Chrissie, Dad, could she do it tonight, and I’ll do it the next time, I’ve this legend to learn. There’s all kinds of desperate names in it.”
    â€œChrissie’s gone to do her homework with Kath.”
    â€œUh,” Clare said.
    â€œYou could go on saying the names to yourself as you did the washing,” her father said.
    â€œNo, the book would get wet. Do I have to, Dad?”
    â€œYou don’t have to. I thought you’d be glad to help your mother.”
    â€œTommy or Ned?” She