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The building was grim and austere as they came up to the high gates. From the back of the car, the complex looked huge. Claire gave a slight gasp and felt the Nun’s grip on her right-hand momentarily tighten.

As they slowed, the large arched door swung back through the early light of that Autumn Sunday morning. In the opening stood another Nun – probably in her mid 50s but in any event in the same robes and full habit as the others, just a little older.

Sister Bridget stared impassively at what confronted her. As Sister Nora clambered out of the car and turned to get the girl, it was the large red handbag her colleague was clutching that she saw first. Then as Sister Nora held out her hand, it was the girl’s pampered hand, with rings on most fingers, a dangly bracelet and painted nails that she saw next, watching as Claire surrendered it meekly to the nun. As Sister Nora helped her from the car, it was an otherwise bare foot in massive high-heeled sandals, followed by a bare leg and then a face looking anxious, if not a little upset, beneath long silky hair and colourful makeup.

Claire she stood 5ft 4 at most in the heels, a black mini-skirt and an otherwise revealing sparkly-black top under her expensive white coat. Sister Bridget watched as she raised her free-hand to wipe away a slight tear as it slid from her eye.

‘She could poke her eyes out with those nails’, Sister Bridget thought to herself, as the girl’s hand sparkled in the half-light.

“So what have we here?” she asked.

“Sister, this is the girl the Gardai telephoned about” replied Sister Judith holding firmly on to Claire’s arm as her colleague stood to the other side. “The Police arrested the boy she was with earlier but they weren’t sure what to do with her. She’s been in America too long and her parents are obviously over there, but she’s not telling where. Claimed to be 19 but they didn’t think she quite looked it, even dressed like that, and certainly nothing to prove it.” And then Sister Nora, with just a hint of astonishment in her voice: “So they put her in care!”
Care. Claire felt a lump in her throat. She was in care. It just didn’t make sense. She was nineteen. But here she was arriving in an orphanage of all places. Why had the police not believed her? Simply let her go back to her hotel? Instead they had let these Nuns take her into care, like she was a child, and bring her here to some sort of childrens’ home or school or convent or whatever it was supposed to be. Surely it was some big mistake?
“What did they arrest them for?” asked Sister Bridget.

“I think it was drugs or something he’d done. Apparently she was a right little madam to the Guards.”

There was a pause.

“Was she now?” the nun asked rhetorically. “Well, there’ll be none of that now she’s here.”

“Oh, she already knows that Sister” interjected Sister Nora, then turning to Claire and snapping: “Come on you little tart, let’s get you inside.”
Sister Bridget went in first, followed by Sister Nora. Then Claire stepped slowly over the threshold, looking down at her feet as the heels carefully found the flooring down the step, then briefly looking up from under all her floppy hair to the grim-faced Sister Bridget as Sister Judith followed.

‘All that makeup!’ the old nun thought to herself. Her dark eye make-up was smudged just slightly around her now watery eyes, contrasting the dark red of her lips and cheeks. Her glossy hair was down her shoulders. And then there was her jewellery, both dangly earrings and 2 sets of ear studs, an obvious nose stud catching the light…Yes, the Sixties were finally reaching her part of Ireland. She had seen these girls in the papers, but never had one been brought in to St Joseph’s or St Mary’s before.

Claire looked around at the bare walls, as a feeling of horror rose inside her again, now that there was no escape.

She shuddered but begun: “I-I th-think there’s been some mistake…”

“Silence Child!” Sister Bridget interjected sternly. “You will speak when you are spoken to. And you will address all the Sisters as ‘Sister’ now you are here”.

Claire felt the lump resurfacing in her throat – she had forgotten that rule already...

“Right!” growled the nun to her colleagues, “I’ll be ready for her in 20 minutes. I’ve got a few things to attend to first. Take her through!”

* * *

She had found herself distinctive on her visits to that part of Ireland. She outshone the local girls with their dowdy clothes and the local lads turned their heads when she passed. Even the desk sergeant had eyed her when they brought her in with the others, even though she was tiring after the long night of the party. She had given the Police her haughty treatment knowing she had done nothing wrong. She had even blown cigarette smoke into a police woman’s face when they asked where her parents were.

Now she sat smoking in the Gardai canteen in the dim light. 5 o’clock. The Garda woman was eyeing her from a few seats away. All that makeup thought the Garda. Yes, they’d gotten themselves a real little madam here.

Claire waived the cigarette lightly around in her right-hand, the dim light catching the glisten of her jewellery…Her other hand sat on the table, tapping at her lighter with her manicured finger.

The door opened and the Inspector walked back in, the girl turning her head slightly to his direction, her long silky hair moving only slightly across her shoulders.

“Well, young lady”, the Inspector began, “we will need to speak to you again next week, probably on Monday…”

“So I can finally leave, can I?” retorted Claire sharply.

“Errr, no.”

Garda McMullen felt her eyebrows rise as the Inspector continued. “We need to make sure we get you back here. You’ve given me no identification, so for alls I know you’re not eighteen, perhaps not even sixteen.”

“What?” Claire snapped sharply.

“Well, how old do you think she is, Garda McMullen?” the inspector grinned to her.
Garda McMullen could see the glint in the Inspector’s eye as she glanced over to the girl’s dolled-up face and back again. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps this morning, this girl could be eating her breakfast in St Mary’s Industrial School, her hair in a ponytail and her face scrubbed of makeup, sitting in silence with two hundred others under the watchful gaze of the Reverend Mother. Oh yes. It took just a split second for her to decide to play along.

“Oh, about fifteen, I’d say” she smirked as she looked back across to the girl.

“Fifteen!” exclaimed Claire. “I really haven’t got time for this. I’m going back to my hotel to pack. Order me a taxi!”

“Well” replied the Inspector, “I’ll need to have a word with the District judge first. As it’s you I’ll pop straight over and wake him” then sarcastically “I’ll explain why this is so important, shall I Garda McMullen?”

She smiled, her head following the Inspector as he left, then back again to the girl. The District Judge, like he would be interested at this time of the morning.

Claire sat smoking, still looking defiant and boasting, her decorated hands moving her cigarette to her red lips, dragging on it, throwing her head and all her hair back as she blew the smoke out with her darkly made-up eyes half closed...
The policewoman felt the warmth of satisfaction rising in her as her mind ticked over with the clock. This stuck-up girl, she thought, this haughty little rich girl had been so rude to her, acted like she was so superior all dressed-up like that, had even blown smoke in her eyes…But in an hour her privileged pussy could be in High Park Orphanage, where they sent the delinquents and urchins they found. In an hour she could be in the communal showers, knowing the other girls could all see the humiliation as she was told to wash her madeup face and silky hair for the first time with carbolic soap, while a Sister of Charity bagged up her clothes and shoes, counted up confiscated jewellery and threw all her lipstick and makeup into trash...

No. She had to contain herself, she thought. After all, would the Sisters really take the girl? What if the judge wouldn’t grant the order, or insisted on seeing her and realising her true age, asking why she hadn’t been charged?
The clock ticked. Twenty minutes or so seemed like an age as the silence was punctured at intervals by some other glib comment or arrogant demonstration by the girl: repairing her lipstick, spraying her perfume or just raising her nose in the air as she spoke.

No, thought the Garda as the clock ticked towards 6 O’clock. Nuns got up really early, didn’t they? Perhaps she would phone the Sisters herself and ask whether they had any vacancies, she thought.

As she made her way down to the front desk, the Garda could feel a kind of perverse excitement in her stomach. Then she realised she was filled with it, the thought of this girl in care: this girl with all her makeup, jewellery and fancy clothes being received in to the old Industrial School by the Sisters, their sharp tongues lashing out the order to strip, their hands waiting with the scrubbing brush and an ill-fitting uniform...

No, it wasn’t going to happen, now was it? But as she sifted through the paperwork, her mind not really engaging, hoping the number would jump out at her, still she thought of that girl in the reception ward at High Park, the Sisters scalding her as their rough hands unstrapped high heeled sandals from pedicured feet, prized off rings from manicured hands and pulled silk knickers down waxed legs to leave a shock of pampered pubic hair – now all confined to an Industrial School.

No. No. It would be too much. She was getting her hopes up. If they didn’t charge the girl – and it was far from clear that they could - that was going to be it. The inspector surely wouldn’t have gone to wake the district judge at this hour. Sure, they were said to be old friends from way back, but that would have been a big favour and why would he ask it – it was she who the girl had really shown real arrogance to.
She dialled the number. It rang. What would she say? And then again, she would give up after 6 rings or so. A third and a fourth...then a click.

“Good morning” answered the voice. The garda stuttered as she introduced herself and started to explain: a girl, could be under 16, her parents not here, up to no good, arrested with a man, dressed like a little tart she added. Perhaps they wouldn’t charge her yet. And it was too early to annoy the judge, what were they to do?

“Oh have her ready, Garda” replied the voice so reassuringly “and Sister Nora will be down by 7 to collect her.”

She walked back upstairs feeling stunned. They were just going to take her? Without the order? No. Surely not, she thought, as she walked back into the canteen.

“I hope he isn’t going to be much longer” Claire snapped. She watched as the girl babbled on, her elbow on the table, a chained-bracelet and a bangle dangling from her wrist…Claire held the cigarette away from her in two raised ringed forefingers, the backs of her painted nails protruding well over her finger-tips, her ringed thumb wrapped round to meet her remaining fingers, a massive half-inch long reddy-purple-painted thumbnail alternating between the cigarette butt and the nails of her ring and little fingers, painted the same shade and looking almost as long…

“I really need to be going soon”, the girl added, as some matter of fact.
Perhaps she did, thought the Garda. But in an hour, she could be having those long painted nails cut by a nurse in the Industrial School. Yes, it really could all happen now – now that the Sisters coming to take her. And before the morning was out, the Sisters would have her learning to scrub floors or clean toilets or wash dishes with the others. Wonderful!
No, she thought. No, it would be too much to expect them to take her once they saw her. By this age, it was only the ones in real trouble, in the family way, who were sent up there. And never girls from the wealthy families.

Then the voice of Garda O’Ryan – finally another female – entering the canteen as she signed on for duty.

“Moira! The inspector was asking for you to go down to see him” adding “I’ll look after this one for yours”.

Downstairs, the Inspector grinned.

“Well” he smiled as he handed over a piece of paper “I’ve sorted out her taxi”. She looked down and suddenly it was all true. It was the order!

“How did you get this?!?” she asked as the joy flushed through her. “You didn’t go and wake the judge at this?”

“I didn’t need to” smiled the Inspector “Section 20 says that if I’ve got reason grounds” – he began to read from a book on his desk – “for believing that a crime may have been committed in relation to her – and I think I have - I can send her to a ‘place of safety’!”. The irony was not lost on either of them as he showed her the text...Place of Safety! Yes, she could was to go to an Industrial School for a few days at least while enquires were made, then perhaps for another 21 days, then perhaps longer if the District Judge ruled ‘improper guardianship’. Her face lit up as she read on excitedly, almost oblivious to the opening of door and the inward flow.

“Good Morning” said the voice “I’m looking for Garda McMullen and the girl she’s got for us”.

And there stood two nuns, their faces beneath huge starched white habits.

*
Claire had sat for another half hour or so in that canteen, dozing slightly, repairing her makeup and lighting another cigarette as the daylight began to come through the windows, wondering where the last policewoman had gone. As the clock-hands passed 7 o’clock it had meant little to her, her mind drifting back in to tiredness again.

But that Policewoman saw it happen before it actually did, as she climbed the stairs with the two Sisters, her mind in overdrive: Claire’s painted face twisted with sudden shock as she held the notice in her manicured hand, the reddy-purple polish of her long thumbnail and the glisten of the thumb-ring as they rested in stark contrast beside the key words -“Childrens Acts 1908-1949”, “lack of proper guardianship” and “Certified Industrial School”.

And it was just like that as they approached. A sudden jolt as Claire re-awoke from her momentary drift. Then a sudden gasp as she saw them, her red lips parted as the nun tossed the order to her with contempt. And that was it. She was in care.

Suddenly she was no longer the glamorous young woman or the socialite. Suddenly she was just an over-dressed teenage girl, as a grim-faced Nun began barking out orders to her.

“On your feet child!” she shouted, before Claire had barely read the title of the document. Claire started to stand, “W-what’s going on?” she asked in a daze, as a sudden hand-jolt from one of the nun’s grabbed her already expired-cigarette and stubbed it in the ash-tray for good measure.

*
“This way child” announced Sister Nora. Garda McMullen stood in silence, if not wonder, as she held the door and the Sisters led their new charge out to the station steps. What a sight, she thought, as two passers-by stood and joined in staring from the street. What a spectacle! This dressed-up dolled-up stuck-up rude young woman, now remanded into care and being led from the Station by two Sisters of Charity. An old Nun in her long dour robes and full habit, now carrying Claire’s confiscated red leather handbag in her right hand, and in her left the manicured hand of their new charge. The girl still in her expensive white coat, sequinned top and 3-inch high-heels being led awkwardly down the front steps of the Station...

Claire’s madeup face, from which such arrogance had flowed, was now wide with the humiliation, her smokey eyes now watering. Claire’s pampered hand, that she had waved so ostentatiously around the canteen, was now held firmly like a child’s in the rough hand of a Sister of Charity - her rings, bracelets and long painted nails all awaiting the Sisters’ closer attention.
Claire felt knots in her stomach and the natural colour of her face rising. What were they going to do with her? All these people could see her like this: the old women by the street shaking their heads, a couple of young girls from last night, dowdy local girls, now smirking at her in captivity as the Sisters led her to the car...the car that the onlookers knew would take her up to the Convent, the Industrial School and the Magdalene laundry…

As Moira McMullen completed her paperwork and drank her tea, the inspector was quick to remind her that the nightshift was finally over. She fetched her coat and walked home through the thin sunshine, a smug sense of satisfaction on the achievements of her shift.

* * *

Reality began to occur to her still further, as they reached another door and Sister began unclanking the lock...

“You go out with the others until we’re ready for you” she said, opening the door and letting the light flood in. Claire felt dazzled as she was pushed out before realising she was in some large courtyard, surrounded by high walls. And 100 or so pairs of eyes, staring at her from 100 or so mostly thin-pale figures in dull, almost makeshift clothes, a few taller older girls, and a mass from 12 to 2...There was nowhere to go, nowhere to sit, just somewhere to stand with her arms half-folded, thankful that at least she still had her coat, as the autumnal chill plagued on her lack of sleep.

“Just look at her!” one of the voices exclaimed. Then another, asking “What did she do wrong?”

The first few minutes seemed like a lifetime. Yes, she thought, she just had to stand here and wait...

“Can I try your shoes on?” one of the voices asked. “Can I try your coat?” added another.

W-What was she doing here? She so didn’t belong here. Why had she been brought here? What were these girls going to try and do to her? They were only kids, but...

“Are you deaf?” growled a voice as an older stockier girl stepped forward, dressed like the others in a scraggy old dress, her frizzy hair pulled back from her face, followed by her mate.

“They want your coat and shoes!” she continued. “Come on!”

Claire heard the voices from the others behind her: “look at her legs!” and “Her face!”

“Have you got any makeup?” asked a younger girl.

“T-the Sisters t-took it all from me when I arrived” Claire heard herself explaining...

“Well we’d better have everything else” growled the stocky thuggish girl.

W-What?

“Come on!” shouted the thug, as suddenly Claire felt the pain of a hand grabbing her hair, “Take them off!”

Claire felt another of the older girls tugging at the sleeve of her coat as the thuggish girl stepped up her demands.

“And we’ll have all yer jewellery as well.”

Claire pulled her arm back, tugging it back from the girl, as the thugs grip on her hair tightened. She felt her right hand lashing out at the thug’s face.
“What’s all this!” screamed a nun’s voice as Claire felt a cane suddenly swipe across her back legs, then watched it across the arms of the younger of her attackers.

“It was her Sister” shouted the thug excitedly as the grasped her face in animated pain. “She scratched me with those nails!”.

Sister Bridget turned and looked Claire in the face. “Right child, come with me!”.

*
Claire stood in the corridor, her bare arms semi-folded across her chest as Sister Nora inspected her coat, reunited with the red handbag on a side table.

“Right, Look at me child!” snapped Sister Bridget.

She felt the nun eye her up and down, and then a hand touching her chin, tilting her head back a little and from side-to-side. “Just close your eyes for me child”, the nun said quietly. Claire closed them for a second - why did she need to close her eyes? - before she heard the shout.

“Just how much muck have you got on your face child?” scowled the nun.

Claire stood dumfounded. Why were they questioning her makeup?

“Well child” continued the Sister, “I’m waiting. Why are you wearing makeup?”

“I-I always wear makeup. U-usually different colours during the day” spluttered Claire “I-I was at a party last night until the Police came and…”

“Well Child”, snapped the nun “You won’t be needing it anymore.”

What? No makeup? Why?

“I assume you’ve got more of that muck with you, child?” the nun continued.

“Y-yes” Claire responded “I-its in my handbag”

“Is it now?” the Sister retorted “Well, I’ll be taking that thank you. And any money or other belongings you’ve got on you.”

It was dawning on her: they really weren’t going to let her wear makeup…

“B-but I always wear makeup…”

“Are you a little whore, then?” growled Sister Bridget loudly, her grim face peering down about a foot from hers, “Is that why we need to be looking after you?”

Claire stood in stunned silence. W-what sort of a question was that? What was an Industrial School? Why were these nuns going through her things? Snapping at her like this?

“Or are you just simple, child?” the nun continued “Just simple and vain?”

“I-I’m neither” Claire began to retort, finding volume in her voice, “I-I’m a college student...”

She stopped. The Sisters glared at her.

“Give me your hands child”. Claire looked up. What did the nun want with her hands?

“I said show me your hands”

Sister Bridget was holding her hands out palm up. Claire slowly raised her hands forward, sideways on, towards the nun. She felt the Sister take them and begin inspecting them: flattening the fingers, then turning her hands over to look at the palms, glaring at the ends of her fingers. Then with the palms down again, the nun’s thumbs over the base of her fingers and over her jewellery – the nun’s worn hands inspecting Claire’s soft hands.

“And you need these fingernails to study all your books, do you child?”

Claire felt numb with the growing sense of shock.

“And all this metal?” added the Sister rhetorically.

Claire swallowed hard.
“You’re in care now Child” explained the Sister, suddenly much softer. “You won’t be needing your vanity in here. Now, I’ll take your makeup, your jewellery, and any money you’ve got.” Claire felt the horror running through her: these nuns were taking everything.

“Now!” snapped the nun.

Claire reached out her hand for the bag as Sister Judith obliged, lifting it from the table. She unclipped it nervously and foraged inside. Everything was out of order from where the older nun had riffled through it at the station…then item by item, she found it, and picking out first the lipstick and mascara, then the eyeliner and eyeshadow, a small bottle of foundation and her powder compact, passing each item to the nun...then on to the pile of pound notes and dollar bills... Sister Bridget glared at each item in turn, passing it to her other hand and then holding out for the next, watching intently with a growing look of disdain as the girl’s decorated hand, with rings, bracelets and painted nails, surrendered money and makeup that no good girl in Holy Catholic should have had. And as Claire passed the last item to the nun, and felt the sister grab the bag from her hands, she heard the voice came back to her.

“Now take off that jewellery!”

Quickly but fumbling, with her right hand Claire began removing the rings on her left. First the pinkie, then the ring finger, then the index finger. She couldn’t believe they were even confiscating her jewellery. She sheepishly passed the pieces over to the nun who gave them a cursory glance and placed them on the desk.

“And the rest” she added “come on Child.”

Next came her thumb ring, her bracelet, the rings on her other hand and her watch. Handing them to nurse, she needed no prompt to start on her earrings – both the drops and the studs, and her necklace and then carefully her nose stud.

“Right Sister” started Sister Bridget, turning to Sister Judith, “She’ll need a bowel of water, a flannel, some soap, nail scissors and a scouring cloth.”

W-What? Claire thought as another feeling of horror rang through her, and the other nuns left, leaving only Sister Bridget.

“Now let’s have a proper look at you child.”

Claire stood silent for a second. What was this nun looking for? Then suddenly,

“Come on child. Everything off!”

*
The black knickers looked thin as Sister Bridget held them to the light. The heels on the black sandals looked absurd to the nun. How could anyone even walk with these?

“What on earth are you thinking off child?”

Claire stood shivering in silence, the floor cold against her bare feet, a draft against her bare buttocks as she tried to hold her breasts and pubic area with her hands.

“Now, I thought I told you to take off all your jewellery!”

Her crotch was a foot away from the nun as she struggled with both hands to remove her naval ring. But it did not end there.

She felt the nun’s hand grasp her arm and the Sister leant over, Claire knew that she was noting the tattoo above her left buttock...and then an icy feeling went down her spine as she felt the nun’s thumb and fingers part her butt cheeks. She felt her heart thump and her breath quicken as the nun swapped hands, and then the fingers parting and lifting her breasts...then prodding between her legs...as the other two nuns returned.
“Right, wash your face!”

The flannel stung with the smell of Carbolic soap as she rubbed it across her face, standing awkwardly knowing that the older nuns could see her full frontal now unprotected by her hands.

“You’ll have to do better than that!” snapped Sister Bridget as she inspected the face, before Sister Judith snatched the flannel and begun trying herself. Claire pulled her eyes tightly shut as she felt the nun scrubbing intensely around them. Then standing with her hair flopping down around her eyes and the steam rising from the bowel, as Sister Bridget held out the scissors.

“Right child, nails!”

What? Thought Claire as she stood shivering, reaching out to take the scissors.

“Those nails are far too long now you’re here. Let’s have them cut.”

“H-how short S-Sister?” replied Claire as she looked at her left hand, holding the scissors in her right.

“Down to your fingertips, child”

“B-but I’m only here for the weekend...” Claire began explaining timidly, conscious of her nakedness and the three surrounding nuns.

“Those nails are not suitable for any girl” snapped the nun back at her. “Now cut them!”

She began to approach her little finger slowly.

“Hurry up. We haven’t got all day. You can stand here all day for all I care. Father Michael is due here in a few minutes, so unless you want him to see you in the raw, I suggest you get cutting them.”

Claire began cutting slowly, the scissors slicing through the coloured polish. It had just been a night out, just one that went a bit far. But here she was the morning after, standing stark naked in the corridor of some grim institution, her face freshly scrubbed and her jewellery in a plastic bag. Here she was, her new guardian having just looked up her bum, being made to cut her lovely long nails by an old nun. She began to sob.

She felt Sister Judith snatch the scissors, and then her left hand. The nun wasted no time, slicing across each nail at her fingertip, the coloured clippings failing on to the table. Then her right hand. But it was the feeling of the air running up her crotch that actually felt worst as she sat on the old chair, raising her left foot, and the scissors sliced across her big red-painted toenail. It was just a few minutes though before the Sister was finished scraping the toenail-polish from her right foot, removing the last traces of her life from the outside, the ends of her fingers feeling raw from the scouring cloth.
And still she sat in that corridor, the cold air wafting between her private parts as a fine comb was run through her hair, yanking at her scalp, Sister Judith a good 6 inches over her.

“Sit still child!” the nun scowled, as Claire squirmed with the pain, little knowing that here such silky hair was an ease and the pain nothing felt by the average new arrival.

“Her scalp’s clean” explained Sister Judith “It’s just the length of it that’ll cause a problem in here.”

And that was it. As Sister Bridget stared on unimpressed, Sister Judith reached for another pair of scissors.

“No!” Claire squealed as she realised what the scissors were for. “P-p-please. Not my hair!”

“Sit still child!” snarled Sister Judith.

“But it took me ages to grow my hair” she began to sob.

“I don’t care child” snapped the Sister. “Whilst you’re in our care, we say how long your hair is, and long hair is not hygienic.”
She felt the nun pull the first stand, then snip. She felt her breath racing ahead of her, as another snip. Then she felt the nurse gathering the bulk of her hair in her hand, her heart thumping. “Please!” she cried to no avail, as she felt the nun scrunching through the hair with the scissors, and clump by clump it fell to the ground. She felt the cold metal around her ears as the woman pressed on, then strand by strand on top of her face. Claire felt the nun’s hand lift her chin as Sister Judith stared. Then she felt the scissors straight across her fringe, and the waft of a few short strands of her hair into her face.

“You’d better get dressed child”, growled Sister Bridget. And as Claire fumbled for her clothes, she heard the nun continue.

“If you’re still here next week we’ll be needing to find you something else to wear. And do something with that hair...”

Claire reached for her shoes.

“Not those shoes” snarled Sister Bridget. “Sister Judith will find you something for your feet at least.”

*
The room was dingy, lined with old beds, 6 on either side, almost on top of one another. The small windows were just under the high ceilings, the bottom of the window-sill about a foot above her head. She heard coughing from one of the beds, and then another cough, and stared in disbelief at the squalor, as the Sister led her by the arm past the thuggish girl and the other old ones, to the far bed.

“You’ll be sleeping here” explained the Sister.

And as she looked up at the girls, it wasn’t them in their threadbare clothes, with their rough accents, who perhaps in some cases had seen little of the world outside that she felt sorry for. She still couldn’t understand it. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She had just had some fun – like she always did when she came here. Where was he? At his age, at worst he might be in a proper prison, or in a police cell, or more likely out and about. He wouldn’t be in some industrial school, with a Christian Brother looking up his bum or prodding his cock.

But here she was in care, with a pudding-basin haircut, no longer allowed to wear makeup or jewellery or have ‘unsuitable’ long nails. Here she was in this grim building, with her high-heels replaced by cheap plastic flip-flops and an old cardigan thrown over her sparkly top. Here she was in a group of urchins and delinquents, coming to terms with the stark realisation that to the Sisters, she was just another one of them: a mouth reliant for food, another pair of hands to be put to work, another embarrassment to God.

But it didn’t matter to the girls that Claire had just been brought up from her dressing down and a good scrub. The signs of her outside life were obvious to them as she sat fidgeting. She still wore some of her own clothes. Her waxed-tanned legs still extended from her mini-skirt and down to her well-cared feet now in the plastic flip-flops. The speck of polish on her freshly cut thumbnail betrayed the novelty of this regime to her and her short mop of hair still looked silky, making clear the pierced-dimples in her ears where the Sisters had taken her jewellery and the speckled traces still dotted around her face where the Sisters had washed off her makeup.

No, they would not be giving her an easy time, their minds thought in tandem.
It was the clanging of a brassy-looking pan passing for a cymbal by another old Nun that changed quickly the focus and priorities of the group as the girls began forming a queue.

“Come on!” muttered the stocky thug of a girl, pulling Claire in front of her in the queue, “I’m going to take real good care of you”. The words ran through her like a chill as they filed into a stark looking refectory. It was only 11 O’clock according to the clock on the wall – the Sisters had taken her watch with her jewellery - but it was lunch time here.

And so it was that the novelties came to her one by one. Eating bread and gruel with her now plain hands. Being shuffled into the chapel. That night weeing into a bucket in a large cold dormitory, followed by having to wash it out the next morning over an old drain in the Courtyard. Then for herself, nothing but a strip wash at a sink with a bar of that stinking soap.

*
For Garda McMullen that Monday morning it was a pleasant sight as she looked across square from the window of the little court building, to see those old Nuns emerging from the back of the car. Unfortunately for Claire, the sight of a girl in a mini-skirt still caught the attentions of the locals, as did the sight of such a girl being led into see the district judge by the Sisters.

The brief hearing itself was a joy for the Garda, as in her mind she joined the dots of the girl’s first journey from the station, still in her finery, to her standing before the District Judge as an errant child. But for the mini-skirt and the tanned legs or the top still sparkly if not a little jaded under the cardigan, it was a plain looking girl who answered the questions in her squeaky timid voice. And but for those, the judge might have barely believed the Sisters as they regaled him with their stories of receiving her into their care: the amount of money they had taken from her or the amount of makeup she had been wearing; the jewellery and the piercings; from the height of the heels they had taken off her to the length of her fingernails before they were cut.
But they had been kind to her, the nun said. They had given her a cardigan and something for her feet; they had fed her and given her a bed somewhere safe without any boys. Sister Bridget, their medical officer, had trimmed her hair once she had checked it; even her toenails had been cut for her by a kindly old nun. And now she was learning to do something useful, scrubbing floors and the like in the Industrial School.
For Garda McMullen, it was such kindness that joined the dots in her imagination, knowing how she had waved her long silky hair around or flashed those glamorous nails with such unspoken boastfulness, before entering the Industrial School and having to face that ‘kindly old nun’ with her carbolic soap, pudding-basin and nail-scissors.

Saturday, she mused, this pampered little rich girl would have dolled herself up in the comfort of her hotel room, before spending the night putting herself about town like she owned the place. But last night she was weeing in a bucket in a cold dormitory and this morning she was eating her breakfast in the Industrial School. And now she was standing here without her jewellery or makeup, in plastic flip-flops with a basin-haircut, as the Sisters outlined to the judge why she belonged there.
As the hearing ended and the girl was led away for another week in the workhouse, the Garda mused on. Saturday that girl might even have gone to a Dublin salon for her hair or a manicure. But now she was in care, reduced to having her perfumed hair trimmed for fear of lice and her painted toenails cut by a Sister of Charity. Yes. In Holy Catholic Ireland, there was a God.

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