If I Was a Child Again Read online

  But most of the supernatural stories were completely terrifying. Basically, they would involve a girl being punished for some minor character flaw (being a bit lazy or selfish) by being turned into a hideous creature or trapped forever in a painting or a paperweight or something. In one story, a girl who is always late, to the annoyance of her friends, is late for a Halloween party. She thinks she’s joining her friends when she gets on the train filled with people in scary masks. But they just stare at her, and the story ends with the train going into a tunnel as the terrified girl says, “You are my friends, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  And that’s the last anyone will ever see of her, because in the world of comics being stuck on a terrifying ghost train for all eternity is a suitable punishment for a lack of punctuality. In an even more unsettling story, “I Am Margaret”, a girl who is rude to an old gypsy woman wakes up the next day with her face and voice grotesquely transformed. “But I am Margaret!” she wails in the final hideous panel. This was all the stuff of nightmares.

  Sometimes the victims of the horror were completely innocent. When I was about nine, I was so genuinely terrified by a deeply disturbing story in a Diana annual about evil garden gnomes who come to life and consume an entire family that I threw the annual in the bin, and then couldn’t relax until bin day arrived and the offending annual was taken away to the dump. Less horrifying but still creepy was “Little Stranger”, a masterpiece of paranoia in a which an only child wakes up to discover she’s suddenly got a younger sister whom everyone claims has always been there but is revealed to be an evil mind-controlling alien.

  So what did the several generations of Irish and British girls who grew up on these comics learn from our weekly dose of feverish melodrama? You could argue that we learned that being a girl meant suffering stoically, and sacrificing your own wellbeing for the sake of others; that we had to be perfect and that if we were selfish or lazy we’d be punished hideously; that if we were being badly treated there was no point in speaking out because no one would believe us anyway. These were messages that reinforced the idea of women as victims or selfless Stepford Wives and, as a feminist, I look back at them in horror.

  And yet, despite all these terrifying messages, I can’t help feeling a bit sad that those comics are all gone now. They provided me with a huge amount of entertainment throughout my childhood. And, maybe because I was lucky enough to grow up in a happy, secure home with good friends, I was able to see how crazy the values of the characters often were. In fact, laughing at Miss Angel’s ludicrous saintliness was part of the fun.

  But perhaps the reason I was so fond of these comics is that they presented a vision of the world in which girls were important. Sure, they suffered. But they were also often brave and determined and creative, and they were always the focus of the story. In a world where female characters are still sidelined (a study showed that in the one hundred highest-grossing movies at the US box office in 2012, only 28.4% of speaking characters were female, and I can’t imagine things were better when I was a child in the 1980s), Mandy, Judy, Bunty and their ilk showed that girls could be the centre of the fictional universe. Even if that universe was a little bit warped.

  Anna Carey is a journalist and author. She grew up in Drumcondra in Dublin and studied German and History of Art at Trinity College Dublin before taking an MA in Journalism at Dublin City University. Her first young adult novel, The Real Rebecca, won the Senior Children’s Book prize at the 2011 Irish Book Awards, and the sequel, Rebecca’s Rules, was shortlisted for the same prize in 2012. Her third book, Rebecca Rocks, was published this year. She’s a regular contributor to the Irish Times and RTÉ, and the co-founder of the feminist website and podcast the Anti Room. She likes feminism, singing, confident small dogs and books written and set during the 1930s and 1940s. She lives in north Dublin with her husband Patrick Freyne in a small house full of books and music. She still loves comics.

  Story 9: The Generals

  Ann Carroll

  Sister Cronin’s strengths were planning and execution and she could have been a great general. But sixty years ago an army career wasn’t an option, so instead of soldiers she had fifty-six small girls at her command. Her base was the national school in Larkhill, Whitehall, Dublin and her campaign was the First Holy Communion, 1953.

  Every morning during the weeks beforehand, she paced over and back at the head of the class. Our eyes swivelled with her.

  “We need precise preparation, children. What do we need?”

  “Precise preparation, Sister!” we bawled enthusiastically. A lack of enthusiasm could earn us a stint in the corner.

  “And what does precise preparation mean, girls?”

  “Attention to detail, Sister!” we roared.

  No one let their mind wander during this warm-up routine, not after one unfortunate had nodded off and been threatened with no Holy Communion at all. This had caused terrible shock. No Holy Communion surely wasn’t possible? No lovely dresses . . . no special day . . . no presents of money . . . How would we tell our mammies?

  So we were Sister Cronin’s willing troops.

  The opening part of her campaign was our First Confession, for which we learned our Catechism: Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you. Do good to them that hate you and pray for them that persecute and calumniate you.

  ‘Them’ doesn’t seem like good grammar but that’s how we learned it. And though the gist was beyond us, the sounds were great.

  Then we learned the Ten Commandments, nearly all of which were incomprehensible.

  “There’s no need to understand them. Sure you can’t commit most of the sins mentioned in them!” Sister Cronin told us.

  This gave them a wonderful promise of mystery and future wickedness.

  We were to examine our consciences, she said, by sticking to the ones about honouring our father and mother and not stealing.

  “Are you sure the priest can’t tell anyone our sins, Sister?” I asked, worried he might broadcast the fact that I’d robbed Frances Kelly’s new multicoloured pencil. Frances was inclined to be aggressive and if she found out, I’d be bashed up.

  “How many times must I tell you?” Sister Cronin said. “What you say in the confessional is confidential!”

  “Does that mean he can’t tell anyone?” I always liked things clear.

  “He can tell no one. What have you done anyway? Is it murder?”

  Eager to hide the truth, I said, “No, Sister, but I might have calumniated.” Someone must have distracted her for I don’t remember the rest of that conversation.

  Then Sister Cronin taught us the Act of Contrition. A great morning was spent getting each child to kneel down as she would in the confession box, bless herself and say this prayer. After fifty-six rehearsals there wasn’t one who didn’t know it for life.

  When Sister explained the True Purpose of Amendment I secretly left a pencil on Frances Kelly’s desk. It was a bit small and chewed but I’d lost the original.

  On the day of our First Confession we were marched two by two from the school up to the little wooden church. We were warned to keep our heads bowed, not to talk to any neighbours, not to pick flowers and not to pay any heed to the man selling sweets from his cart. We were especially to pay no heed to his horse. This was a pity as the horse was a favourite of mine, being able to move his teeth around the way my granny could. But no, we were to think only of our sins and have them off by heart for the priest.

  The morning was a great success and we each emerged from the confession box, hands joined in prayer as we’d been taught, looking holy and self-conscious. The priest congratulated Sister Cronin on an excellent job.

  She was in great form. “First battle over, children. Now we can prepare for your perfect day, the day of your First Holy Communion.”

  And so we practised kneeling again. Sister Cronin had a huge supply of unconsecrated hosts, which we learned to digest without chewing.

  “Hold it in your mou
th, child! Then swallow. This will be the Body of Christ. Do not munch!”

  She told us about Transubstantiation. We’d no problem believing a wafer of bread and a goblet of wine turned into the Body and Blood of Christ. After all, at seven we were still young enough to believe that on one night of the year a big stout man dressed in red fitted down every child’s chimney in the world, with his sack of presents. The sacrament of Communion was magical, and I couldn’t wait for my soul, lodged somewhere near my heart, to become a shining white circle of goodness.

  But before that could happen there was another general to please, this time on the home front where my mother was waging her own campaign to make this a special day.

  “It’ll be the best day of your life,” she told me. “Perfect.”

  I was the youngest child, the only girl after six boys and my mother took great pride in making my clothes. But I didn’t want a home-made frock for my Communion. Every other girl in the class was going to Clery’s or MacBirneys and would be dressed to kill.

  “What’s Jennie Murphy wearing?” my mother asked one day. Jennie was my best friend.

  “A dress from Clery’s,” I said. “But they’re very well off,” I added, already excusing what I’d be wearing.

  “Huh. We’re as good as them. Mrs Murphy is a romancer. We’ll get everything in Arnott’s so.”

  “Arnott’s?” This was a cut above the rest.

  “Sure why not? It’s a day that will never happen again.”

  And so we went to town. My mother, who always counted the pennies, bought everything new: vest, knickers, petticoat, white socks and gloves as well as dress, veil, shoes and bag. And it was all top end. Then came the rosary beads, the white prayer book and precious Communion medal with its silver chain.

  Now I was kitted out and I’d be brand new.

  Afterwards, I realised how hard she must have saved for that day. There wasn’t much money coming in. My father was a police sergeant and my eldest brother had just started in the Civil Service. Theirs were the only wages. The next two were twins, nineteen years old. One had emigrated to Canada and the other was in the Augustinian College in Rathfarnham, training to be a priest. The youngest three were at boarding school so money had to be found for fees, uniforms, books, sports-gear and footwear. Boys’ shoes seemed to wear out at an alarming rate and my father tried to stop the process by nailing studs into the soles. This earned them the nicknames Horsy One, Two and Three as they clattered around their college.

  I’d have thought my mother would find it painful to buy clothes that wouldn’t be used for much more than one day, and that any old underwear would do since it wouldn’t be seen. But her extravagance was wholehearted and I can remember her laying out every garment on the sofa in the sitting room – a room that was only used at Christmas or for visitors – and inviting my father to admire her purchases.

  My father said it was all wonderful, and smiled and nodded, very much the bit-player in our grand show.

  The sun shone on cue the day I made my First Communion. We were up early, my mother and I, for Mass was at eight. I dressed and she took the rags out of my long hair and eased the sausage curls into shape. I fastened the crossover shoes. She slipped the silver chain and medal around my neck. Finally she placed the veil on my head and clipped it into place. Then we had a look in the long mirror.

  “Perfect,” she said.

  I could only agree with her.

  “This is the best day of your life,” she said again.

  She said it with such feeling that I remembered the words always. In later years I thought she must have been thinking of her own First Communion.

  When she was nine, her mother died after a long illness and after that she spent some very unhappy years in a girls’ home. She often mentioned her mother and missed her all of her life, so her First Communion Day must have been a precious memory.

  I don’t remember much about the church ceremony. Presumably it went well, for I can still see Sister Cronin beaming at us. I do remember devouring a fry for breakfast, my mother’s huge cardigan wrapped around me to protect the dress.

  Jennie called and we took off on a round of the neighbours, accompanied by my mother’s command: “Do not on any account get that dress dirty!”

  At every house the women admired us, twirled us around and gave us a half crown each. Except for Mrs Gumley who gave us only a shilling. We discussed this lapse on our way down the road.

  “Why only a bob?” I said. “Mammy says she’s a very nice woman.”

  “My mammy says the same,” said Jennie.

  She came up with the answer. “I know! It’s because she’s a Protestant. Sure why would she give us anything? A shilling is very good for a Protestant!”

  When I counted the money at home that evening it came to three pounds, thirteen shillings and sixpence. A lavish amount which my mother later made me put it in the post office for a rainy day. Over the years it dwindled so much in value that, by the time I had sole control, the sum wouldn’t have purchased the spoke of a brolly and this gave me a very jaundiced view of saving which has lasted a lifetime.

  My father took out the old Ford, cranked it up and drove us around to Granny and then to the aunties where I was plied with cakes and lemonade. These could not be refused and each time my mother made sure to take her vast cardigan out of her bag and wrap it around me so that nothing touched my dress.

  Afterwards we went to visit my brother the trainee-priest. My mother’s views on his vocation were well aired. She thought a priest’s life was no life at all and was pleased when he left three years later, got a job, married and had a family.

  But on this day my brother was a particularly grave young man who gave me a holy picture. It wasn’t a present I thought much of. No doubt a little crassness had entered the day with the earlier cash. Still, I had my photo taken with him in the gardens at Orlagh and that’s something still to treasure.

  We were home again and it was after tea when I went around to visit Mrs Murphy, Jennie’s mother. The best till last. She was a lovely woman, always welcoming.

  She’d already seen my dress at the church but she wanted to make a bit of a fuss. I sat down with Jennie to a large slice of chocolate cake and some orange squash and without further ado knocked over the glass so the bright liquid poured down my front.

  “Jesus! Your mammy!” Mrs Murphy shrieked. “What are we going to do?”

  She made me take off the dress immediately and luckily the bright stain came out easily with some warm water.

  “You can’t go home in a wet dress,” she said, and sat down to think.

  Then she ran in next door with the dress, and, when she reappeared a good while later, the garment was totally dry. “Mrs Doyle has an old salon hair-dryer,” she explained, and maybe I imagined her adding, “No need for your mammy to know anything about this.”

  At home I never mentioned a thing and when my mother asked, “Did you have a good day?” I smiled and said, “The best!” And meant it. Everything had gone to plan.

  When I was growing up our relationship was at best cautious and uneasy. My mother could change the happy mood of a day in an instant. She had a hair-trigger temper and was quick to take offence where none was intended and we were beyond each other’s understanding.

  But my First Communion was a day of rare harmony between us and as such is vividly remembered. It was perfect.

  Ann Carroll is really a ten-year-old disguised as an adult (quite an old adult) and her aim is to recreate the vivid landscape of childhood for her readers through characters and adventures which are both humorous and gripping. She is the author of six books in the Rosie time-travel series and has also written Amazing Grace, the story of a nine-year-old who finds a magic comb, and Laura Delaney’s Deadliest Day, the tale of an eleven-year-old who gets to be the fifth-class teacher for a day. Currently she is writing the Nutshell series of Irish Myths and Legends, for which Derry Dillon creates wonderful illustrations. All of her books
are published by Poolbeg Press.

  Story 10: Back When the World Made Sense

  Fiona Cassidy

  Looking back on my formative years now, I know I led a charmed existence. I grew up with my parents as an only child in the rolling hills of Galbally in rural County Tyrone, a place I still call home. My parents were both teachers and for their sins both taught me in school, an experience which I look back on with fond memories and some amusement.

  My father used to set “composition” assignments for his class where everyone was given a topic to write about and the author of the best-constructed piece of work was rewarded with the princely sum of twenty pence to spend in the local shop. I remember penning a particular masterpiece featuring a duck as the main character which earned me my twenty-pence reward but I took exception to the fact that the prize was presented to me at home where my father retained the title of “Daddy” and not “Sir” as I had to call him in school. The result of that particular disagreement was that he had to give me my money in front of the whole class the next day as my argument was that if I had earned it then everyone else should know how talented I was and never mind the fact that I was his daughter . . . leaving him worried about others thinking he was showing favouritism!

  Mammy and Daddy adopted me when I was a week short of four months old and I’m like the queen as I have my official birthday on the 7th March but also have a mini-celebration on the 30th June as that is when I “came home” to them. I always knew that I was adopted as my parents were open and honest about the fact and that made life a lot easier for me as I had no shocks to deal with as a teenager. I used to conjure up romantic notions in my head as to why I had been given away and my birth mother used to be cast in the role of a variety of characters, each of whom would have had their own dramas to contend with! She would morph from a tragic heroine who had to float me up a river in a basket reminiscent of Moses, to a young mother who grew up on the shores of Summer Bay in Australia, to a lowly film-set employee who had a love child with Tom Cruise. Top Gun was one of my favourite films growing up and Tom Cruise was my favourite actor and I can remember squinting at the TV screen looking for similarities in our appearance and miraculously always managed to find some. The fact that he had dark eyes, dark hair and a huge nose and was an American citizen with no ties to Ireland didn’t seem to dissuade me in my beliefs that my birth mother, whom I obviously favoured in looks, had had a passionate affair with him. It was such a shame that she ended up having to give her baby away but, as Hollywood contracts frowned on set staff fraternising in their dressing rooms with the main stars, she had no choice. Even at that early age I had an imagination that was inclined to run away with me so I suppose, to my parents at least, it was probably no surprise that their daughter would end up as a women’s fiction author one day in the future.