No One Wants You by Celine Roberts Page B

required to sit and talk to her, or to sit and listen to her.
    Mrs Cooke and I got on very well together. While her body was lethargic and unable to sustain itself physically, her mind was bright and as active as ever. She used to have
The Irish Independent
newspaper delivered every morning and read it from cover to cover, over the course of the day.
    One day she called me over to the bed.
    ‘Celine,’ she said. ‘Would you be so kind as to read the newspaper to me aloud today, as my arms do not have the strength to hold the paper aloft?’
    ‘I will try my best,’ I stuttered. ‘I cannot read very well.’
    ‘Of course you can, everyone can read these days,’ she insisted.
    I took the newspaper, and looked at the front page.
    ‘What would you like me to read for you?’ I asked sheepishly, as I tried to find some familiar words, as well as the shortest possible ones.
    ‘Start on the front page, read any article you like,’ she said in anticipation.
    After about five minutes of my reading to her, she said crossly, ‘Stop child. You really cannot read. I cannot believe it. How can you expect to get on in life if you cannot read?’ she asked me, incredulously. ‘We will have to remedy this, my girl.’
    Father Bernard called that particular afternoon to see Mrs Cooke. As soon as he was settled, sitting at Mrs Cooke’s bedside, with a cup of tea, and a piece of porter cake, Mrs Cooke raised the topic of my illiteracy.
    ‘This lovely young girl is only able to communicate verbally, Bernard. She is unable to read or write,’ she scolded. ‘You being a man of letters, Bernard, will you help her? I need somebody to read my newspaper to me in the mornings.’
    ‘I would be delighted to assist,’ he said.
    ‘I want you to promise me that you will ensure that she will be able to read and write perfectly, even if I am not here to supervise her progress. Will you promise me that?’ she exhorted.
    ‘When you put it to me so strongly, it does not look like I have much of a choice,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I would be delighted to help and if I make you a promise, I will adhere to it.’
    ‘Would you like me to help you, Celine?’ he asked me.
    ‘Yes, I would like that very much, Father Bernard,’ I replied earnestly, and I meant it.
    ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can start today. You can write me a letter telling me all about yourself. We will proceed from there. A letter will give me some idea of how much you already know. Here is my address.’
    My first attempt must have been somewhat less than satisfactory, as it took me the best part of two weeks to write two pages. I must have used ten envelopes just trying to write his address correctly. But I loved it. I was determined to be able to read and write perfectly.
    After he received my first epistle, he brought my letter back to me on his next visit to Mrs Cooke. He had corrected all my misspellings. There were so many, but all his comments were positive and encouraging. I wrote him a letter as often as I could, sometimes two or three per week, telling him different aspects of my life but keeping many things about my past hidden.
    He never complained. He continued to correct my misspellings and always commented positively. He encouraged me to read more, and gradually both my reading and my writing began to improve noticeably.
    I began to visit Father Bernard at his home, which was only a short walk away at Glenstal Abbey, on my half-day off each week. We used to have tea and biscuits at the Abbey, and he would talk to me about life in general. On one of my visits to him, I told him that I wanted to be a nurse. I expected him to laugh and say that it would be impossible without examinations. But he did not ridicule me. Instead, he said that he would write me a reference, and he gave me some advice on what to expect, if I set out on my journey towards a career in nursing.
    In between times, while I was learning to read and write, and dreaming about a career as