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ground, with my bare legs spread out on the wet grass. I was shivering from cold. I still didn’t dare move. I was afraid to get up. He was wrong about my age but I just mumbled ‘yes’ and then there was silence as he walked off.
    The next day, the priest arrived to collect me. He told me that I was going to stay with a niece of my foster-mother. He said that I would be staying with her for the duration of my foster-mother’s stay in hospital. In the end I stayed there for about six weeks.
    I liked it there.
    I was well fed. I never felt hungry. I was allowed to take food from the cupboard, whenever I wanted some. At home, I was never allowed to eat unless I was given the food by my foster-mother. When I realised that I could eat whenever I wanted, I was not shy about it. I ate more and more, at every opportunity. They had such lovely food. The woman of the house was a very good cook. She baked all sorts of sweet cakes. She baked apple and rhubarb tarts. I had never tasted such wonderful food. But I know that they never expected a young girl to eat so much or so often.
    They used to say prayers at night and they wanted me to join in. At first, I could not recite the prayers, as I did not know the words. But they taught me the words. Through nightly repetition, I learned them all.
    I really enjoyed being included.
    The prayers were said out loud and everyone knelt on the floor, facing a chair. Everyone had his or her head bent down, and you weren’t supposed to look around. I often sneaked a look, just to see what everybody else was doing, while praying. They were always earnestly involved in their recitations. Everyone took turns to say certain prayers. When it came to my turn, I used to shout them out loud and I was never shouted at for shouting.
    I was enrolled at their local school in Knocklong, County Limerick. The teacher there was very kind to me. She spent some time teaching me some different prayers, and she started to teach me some reading and arithmetic. I also made my first attempts at writing. I was 12 years old before I wrote my first word. That first word was my own name, Celine. It was very scratchy, but I had written it myself. I felt so proud that I could write. I knew that I wanted to continue going to school. I wanted to learn lessons in school.
    I gradually began to realise that there was a better life to be had, than the life that I was leading. I also began to realise that what was normal in my life, was not regarded as normal for other people.
    One day I was told that my foster-mother was being discharged from hospital. The lady of the house said that I would have to go back to her house to look after her. She said that my foster-mother was recovering, but that she would need constant care and attention.
    I was devastated.
    I could not believe that I would have to return to my foster-mother. There was nothing I could do about it. I was powerless.
    I was delivered back to the house that I hated, by bicycle, the very next day. I did not have a chance to say goodbye to anybody at the school.
    When I saw my foster-mother, I saw a frail old woman in the bed. She was only a pale shadow of her former self. I now find it difficult to understand why, but at the time I felt sorry for her. But I soon found out that she was in no way remorseful. She may have been ill, but while she was confined to bed, she remained her usual grouchy self, especially in her attitude towards me.
    She felt that it was my place in life to cater to her every need . Considering that I had been told so often that I was unwanted by anyone else and useless, I just did what I was told. I started to look after my foster-mother, with as much motivation as I could muster.
    When my foster-mother came home from hospital, her male friends did not call as often as previously. She was not able to drink alcohol or to remain out of bed for more than one hour at a time. Once out of the bed, she quickly became exhausted. She had no stamina and her