The Magdalen Martyrs

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The girl was on her knees, polishing the floor. She was dressed in shapeless faded overalls. A spotless white apron bore witness to the laundry she was confined to. For three hours she’d been attempting to bring a high gloss to the floor. She knew it wouldn’t be complete till the very surface reflected her face. The baby she’d had to give up hung like a wound on her soul, searing the very prayers she was trying to mouth.

A dizzy spasm hit her and she bent forward, mopped her brow with a rag from beneath her sleeve. She heard footsteps and the click of heels on the wooden floor, a nun approaching. The voice came like a lash.

“Who told you to stop working, you lazy trollop?”

She knew better than to answer back but did lift her head momentarily to see which of the nuns it was. The swish of the heavy black beads came too quickly for her to duck, and it caught her full across the face, cutting her cheek and laying a welt along the ridge of her eye. The blood came spurting, marking the clean floor. The nun raised the beads again, saying,

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