Even on Days when it Rains Read Online Free PDF

parents. You wouldn’t tell them that you had got a hammering because then you’d be admitting that you had done wrong. If you learned your lessons and did what you were told, you wouldn’t get a beating. So I have no one to blame but myself for any hammerings I received from the teachers.
    I didn’t get regular beatings, but there was one day I got 84 slaps between my two hands; that’s something I’ve never forgotten. I was studying to receive the sacrament of confirmation at the time, but I hadn’t bothered to learn my catechism. My turn came to be asked a question, and I hadn’t a notion what the answer was.
    â€˜Julia McGonagle,’ the teacher said with a raised voice.
    I lifted my head after several seconds of silence.
    â€˜Come up here this minute.’
    I left my desk and shuffled to the top of the classroom.
    â€˜If you had bothered your head to study your catechism last night you’d know the answer. Now I’m going to give you something to remember.’ The teacher had clearly lost his temper with frustration; his face was red with rage as he reached for the long leather strap.
    I held out my right hand and took my punishment. It seemed to go on for an eternity.
    The teacher stopped and glared at me. There wasn’t a tear to be seen in my eyes. I had accepted what had been dished out to me with courage. I was feeling proud of myself when he nodded and said, ‘Now the other hand.’
    Well, I nearly died on the spot at the thought of having to endure the same pain again on my left hand. But I had no choice and slowly put out my hand and took my beating. This time round, the teacher was certain that I had learned my lesson. Tears welled up in my eyes.
    It was cruel, certainly, by today’s standards.
    One of the teachers was from the mainland, and he’d come over to the island to give us classes. We’d be cheering with delight on days when the sea was too rough for him to make the crossing. In the winter months there were days when no boat could travel back and forth. That was always good for us children. We didn’t realize at the time that they were probably the best days of our lives. Try telling that to any child. It’s only in adulthood that you realize those things.
    God forgive us, but we used to be delighted if somebody not related to us died during the school term because that meant no school. You’d be laughing if you heard that a distant relative had died because you’d have three days off.
    No one was ever buried on the island. Their remains were taken over by boat to the mainland, and then six men would carry the coffin from the port on the two- or three-mile journey to the chapel, then on to Cruit cemetery after the funeral Mass. Before that, the deceased were waked on the island for two days, and, believe it or not, there was always great fun at a wake, particularly at night. People would be telling stories, and there would be a lot of trick-acting going on among the younger people. I remember how there used to be a quiz and if a girl missed a question she had to kiss some old man at the wake. That was funny, ’cos none of the girls wanted to be kissing an old man.
    The corpse would be washed and laid out on a bed. White curtains would be hung around the bed and three black crosses placed on the covers, one to the left, one to the right and one in the centre. Then a boat would be sent to the mainland to fetch a simple wooden coffin. The body wouldn’t be put in the coffin until the day of the funeral.
    Anyone who could leave the island would attend the funeral. You’d be sad seeing someone from Owey going away in a coffin.
    There was one couple on the island who were always fighting. They didn’t have a happy marriage but had stayed togther despite their differences. Eventually, the wife died. It was the general custom that when a coffin was leaving a house it was carried out feet first.
    â€˜Wait