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certainly kept clean and healthy with much outward scrubbing from the seemingly endless ablutions in the bowl-room, and the inner purging with castor oil of what the nuns called ‘impurities’.  
    They could benefit from the fresh country air that Mam had set such store by since they were taken on regular Sunday walks as well as being given work to do each day in the gardens. There were lessons in reading, writing and reckoning, a library of books at their disposal, games and toys to amuse them, and a play room for the babies.
    But nothing was provided beyond these practical considerations. Rarely was there even a kind word of approval, let alone a warm, loving hug.
    It was true that not all the nuns were as stern and sour-faced as Sister Joseph, or as ineffectual as the more reasonable Sister George, but Ruby thought that even the gentlest and kindest could not compensate in any way for the loss of a mother’s love.
    On the rare occasions when Sister Joseph did appear to soften slightly towards Pearl, who was her favourite, Ruby’s trust in the nun was so low that she never felt comfortable about it and would watch her like a hawk.  
    What the McBride children missed most, and grieved for day after day, was their mother. Gone were the nightly story times, the teasing and tickling, the fun and laughter, the kisses and cuddles. Some of the children had visitors from home, whom they entertained in the parlour on a Sunday afternoon. But there were never any for Ruby, Pearl and Billy.
    Then one day they got a letter. They knew Mam hadn’t written it because she couldn’t even read, but one of the nurses in the sanatorium had found the time to send them a short note, telling the children how much Molly loved and missed them, how she thought of them every day and how she would do her utmost to get better and come to collect them.
    ‘Read us Mam’s letter again, Ruby,’ Pearl would say, clutching her doll tight to her chest.
    Billy’s eyes would shine. ‘She’ll be coming for us soon, won’t she?’
    Ruby too treasured the letter. She kept it safe under her pillow and read it so many times that it was soon falling apart at the folds. Whenever the three children met up at recreation time, they would talk about their mother, huddle together in a corner and watch with keen attention while Ruby wrote down their carefully chosen words in her best handwriting. They liked to tell Mam what they were up to, what they’d had to eat for dinner, which book Pearl was reading and how many marks clever Ruby had got for her composition. Most of all, they needed to give her their love. When they were quite satisfied, they would each of them sign the letter, Pearl and Ruby with their cursive, carefully learned script while Billy, tongue stuck out in fierce concentration, might manage a large B and several sticks, so long as Ruby was guiding his hand.
    Then Ruby would hand the letter over to Sister Joseph for posting, as instructed. They did this every week with hope in their hearts, and never received a single reply to any of them.
    As the months of waiting turned into years, a sort of acceptance crept over them. Ruby decided that her mother didn’t want to worry them over the length of time it was taking for her to get better, and that was the reason there were no letters. She acquired the art of avoiding Sister Joseph, even managing to curb her natural urge to break the rules and stand up for herself.
    Ruby’s body too began to change. She became aware of budding breasts, of hair growing where it never had before, of strange emotions pulsing through her. Yet not once was she able to view her own nakedness. The girls were instructed to undress each night with all due modesty. Not a scrap of flesh must be glimpsed as layers of clothing were removed, most of it wriggled out of under cover of a voluminous night-dress. Having grown used to sleeping fully clothed in the cellar, at first Pearl and Ruby had left most of their undergarments