She sits at the back of the class, flanked by empty desks. What would it be like to have a friend? Nuala hasn’t a clue. Back home in Cavan, Mammy used to say it was because of Da. But Da’s dead. So now Mammy’s excuse is that it takes time.  

Not Mammy. Nuala digs a thumbnail into her wrist until it leaves a crescent indentation: a frown between two freckles and a reminder to say Mom.  

Three days ago, on a frigid January morning, not long after Nuala and Mammy arrived to live with Aunt Sheila in Canada, Nuala stood at the classroom door and shouted, ‘Bye, Mammy’ to the figure escaping down the hall. Nuala’s classmates exploded into giggles until Mr Henderson cracked the pointer down on his desk and shouted for silence. At recess that morning, a group of girls surrounded Nuala, penning her in.  

‘Mammy, Mammy, who wants her mammy?’  

Their shrill voices grew louder as they circled Nuala. They nipped at her hand-me-down winter coat. Marcella stomped on Nuala’s shoes. No time to buy boots yet. Nor money. 

When the bell rang, the pack ran off, mittens on strings dangling behind them like dead rats. Nuala curled in on herself, licking her wounds until a coatless Mr Henderson came slip-sliding across the icy playground. He helped Nuala up then rubbed her frozen hands with his own. They were red and raw, though he’d come from inside the school. Nuala tried not to flinch. 

‘What happened, Nuala?’ he said. ‘And where are your mittens?’  

Nuala shoved her hands in her pockets and followed him mutely back inside. She had never been and never would be a tell-tale-tattler. Outside the classroom, Mr Henderson patted Nuala’s shoulder. ‘First days are hard’, he said. ‘Especially halfway through the school year.’ 

First everything is hard in a new country, Nuala thinks. Walking home from school she keeps her head down, silently reciting Mom, Mom, Mom. But even when the word is trapped inside her head, it hurts her tongue. 

* 

Mammy asks Aunt Sheila why she doesn’t buy herself a cheap ring. Then she poses her hands around her face like she’s in a film. ‘We could waltz into Mass together. The wretched widow sisters. Sure, the auld wans would be falling over themselves to offer up prayers for our dear departed husbands.’ 

Sheila laughs. ‘Jacek may have fecked off back to Poland’, she says, ‘but he wasn’t my husband, and I won’t pretend he was. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.’  

Baby Stefan clings to Sheila; his fat little thighs grip her hip. She nuzzles his cheek, and he squeals with delight. Then she settles him on the floor, saying, ‘Play with Nuala-nu, now.’ As Nuala settles in beside her cousin, Sheila slips her a quarter. Nuala stacks blocks to build a tower. Stefan chews on a red block, drool spilling down his undershirt. ‘Nu, nu’, he babbles and Nuala grins. Stefan is the very best thing in Nickel Bridge. 

Sheila’s still talking. ‘Besides, I don’t want to go to Mass.’ 

Mammy covers her mouth with her hand, feigning shock. 

‘I like my Sunday lie-in’, Sheila continues. ‘It’s not like back home. There’s no one telling me I have to go. I’m done with all that shite.’
Mammy gestures at the sacred heart picture dangling crooked above the couch. ‘Then why in the Christ is his nibs hanging up there on the wall?’ 

* 

Has it always been winter? Nuala remembers the first night she and Mammy arrived in Nickel Bridge — sugary mounds of snow, frosted lace windowpanes and Christmas lights twinkling in the deep blue night. But lately, the mounds of snow are crusty and grey: too hard for snowballs, and Nuala is too old for snowmen.  

Her winter coat stretches tight across her shoulders and pinches under her arms. Mammy shortens jeans or takes in dresses, but Sally Ann’s coat is beyond even Mammy’s talent with the needle. Nuala would like to meet this Sally Ann who has so many clothes to pass on. She must have bags of money. Nuala kicks dirty slush with her too big boots as she galumphs home from school. Her classmates wear puffy moon boots. Nuala wishes they’d fly to the moon.  

* 

Snowflakes aren’t white; they’re translucent. This makes no sense to Nuala, but that’s what her teacher says, and Mr Henderson knows everything. Still, when she looks out the window at the snow falling thick and fast, it looks dead white to her.  

Mammy calls, ‘Get up off that couch, and come here to me.’ 

Nuala mopes into the kitchen where Mammy swans about in a minidress. ‘Ray says I’ll get better tips with this dress.’ When she twirls, Nuala can nearly see her bum.  

Raysays 

Raysays 

Raysays 

Nuala is sick to the back teeth of Ray. His wavy hair is longer than Mammy’s, and he wears a headband and a belt with a big silver peace sign for a buckle.  

A car horn sounds. Nuala counts three beeps.  

‘That’ll be Ray. Mind yourself, Nuala.’ Mammy skitters down the hall in her go-go boots, ponytail swinging as she flies out the door. Nuala rushes to the living room window in time to see Ray reverse down the driveway, furry dice swaying from the rearview mirror as he peels out into the street. Then Nuala lies on the couch underneath the painting. Jesus’ hypnotic eyes bore into hers; his slender hands frame the glowing sacred heart. But it isn’t Christ that Nuala sees. It’s Mr Henderson — same brown eyes, long hair, beard and moustache. 

* 

Nuala wakes to Mammy singing Black Velvet Band. Something good’s after happening, so. She throws back the bedclothes and finds Mammy at the kitchen table, stirring Coffee Mate into her cup. Her mascara is smudged; her hair droops around her shoulders. When she spots Nuala lurking, she pushes a paper bag towards her. ‘Ray says these don’t fit his daughter anymore.’ 

Nuala grabs the treasure, runs back to her room and tips out the contents. She paws through the pile, finding pyjamas, mittens and a pair of denim shorts that look too big. Nuala hopes they’ll fit by the summer, if winter ever ends. Ray says summer is magic in Nickel Bridge. Nuala isn’t holding her breath. 

At the bottom of the pile is a green top with a sequinned patch. Nuala has been desperate for one, but Mammy said they were too dear. Yvonne’s top has a sparkly rainbow. A tiger with golden eyes growls out from Jolenta’s. Nuala’s, for it is most definitely her top now, features a juicy apple, with a big bite out of it. She hugs it tight then puts it on for school. It’s too cold for short sleeves, but Nuala doesn’t care. 

After lunch Mr Henderson stands at the front of the class. ‘Nuala.’ He beckons. ‘Come up here, please.’ 

It’s not her turn to read. She exchanges glances with some of the girls. Jolenta shrugs. Yvonne rolls her eyes. Nuala slinks from her desk and walks slowly up the aisle. As she passes Marco, he slides his leg out. This time, Nuala doesn’t trip. She looks up into her teacher’s eyes, kinder even than Jesus’. Her stomach fizzes like ginger ale. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and spins her to face the room. Marco sticks out his tongue. Mr Henderson tightens his grip on Nuala. Loose flakes of skin fall from his hands and drift down to settle on Nuala’s top.  

‘Class, you all know what happened in the Garden of Eden.’  

Nuala fidgets. What is he on about? Religion is tomorrow morning. It’s supposed to be English now.   

Mr Henderson’s voice darkens. ‘Eve was told not to eat the forbidden fruit. She disobeyed God.’ 

Nuala looks down at the apple on her top. 

‘And here we have it. Original sin. Parading across Nuala’s chest.’ Nuala’s face burns at this last word. 

Marco whistles. Jolenta cups her hand over Yvonne’s ear and whispers. Both girls laugh. When Mr Henderson releases Nuala, she stumbles to her seat and looks up at the ceiling to stop the tears from falling. She was wrong. Mr Henderson is not like Jesus. Not at all. He’s so mean, he might as well be a nun. When Nuala looks down, the scaly skin from Mr Henderson’s hands is still on her top. She wants to brush it off but can’t bear to touch it. Then she remembers what Mammy always says about Eve. Never put your faith in a snake. 

* 

Sheila sings along with the radio day and night. Sometimes she and Mammy put on shows for Nuala and Stefan. They sing These Boots are Made for Walking and I am Woman and Cotton Jenny, but The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia is Nuala’s favourite. She holds Stefan up next to the light switch, and every time Mammy and Sheila sing that line, Stefan flicks the switch to turn the light out, shrieking with laughter when Nuala turns it back on. Mammy and Sheila point their fingers like pistols when they sing about the little sister who never misses with her gun. 

On Wednesdays, after lunch, Nuala’s class has singing, and Mr Henderson plays his guitar. Sometimes he takes requests. Nuala raises her hand. ‘Sir, do you know The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia?’ 

Mr Henderson frowns. ‘That song is not appropriate for a Catholic school. And I’m quite sure you don’t comprehend what it’s actually about, Nuala.’  

Does he think she’s a baby? Sure, before he died, didn’t Da have a baby with yer wan up the road in that ramshackle house with the green door? Mr Henderson is so dumb. Nuala comprehends cheating just fine. 

* 

All winter the boys chased the girls, plucking their hats from their heads or pelting them with snowballs or stuffing snow down the back of their necks. But when the weather grew warmer, coats were cast off, and the boys found a new game. Marco is top scorer.  

As Nuala waits her turn in Double Dutch, Marco catches her by surprise. Before Nuala can smack his hand away, he pinches one of her buds hard and twists it, screaming ‘Purple Nurple’. A gang of boys surrounds him, slapping him on the back and cheering raucously. Jolenta says it means Marco likes her, but Nuala doesn’t want to be liked like that. That night, when she tells Mammy and Sheila what happened, they say it’s time for a training bra. Nuala wonders what she’s meant to be in training for. 

* 

Sheila looks up from her magazine. ‘Listen to this rubbish.’ She makes her voice all hoity-toity. ‘The right hairstyle can draw attention away from your problem areas.’ 

Mammy takes a drag from her cigarette and slowly exhales a perfect smoke ring. ‘Sure we don’t have any’, she says, and the pair of them laugh. 

Nuala’s eyes track Mammy’s smoke ring across the room then fall to her own chest. Her training bra now covers that problem area, but Marco has discovered a new one. Whenever he passes Nuala, he yanks her ponytail so hard it feels like he’s pulling the hair right out of her head.  

That Saturday Nuala gathers all the pennies and nickels and dimes and quarters that Sheila has given her and puts them in an empty coffee jar. She sidles into the beauty parlour down the road, plonks the coffee jar on the counter and asks for a haircut. 

The hairdresser settles Nuala in the chair and wraps her in a black plastic cape. ‘How short?’ 

Nuala shrugs. 

‘Shoulder length?’  

Nuala shakes her head. She’s having second thoughts, but the hairdresser is now brandishing the scissors and catches Nuala’s eye in the mirror. 

‘Pixie?’ 

Nuala isn’t sure what that haircut is, but she likes the sound of it.
That evening, Mammy and Sheila find Nuala lying face down on the couch in the dark. 

‘What’s the matter, Nuala-nu?’ Sheila says.  

Mammy switches on the light. ‘Oh.’ 

‘It’s too short’, Nuala wails. ‘I look like an eejit.’ 

‘You look like a warrior’, Mammy says. ‘Like Joan of Arc.’ 

Sheila starts singing I Am Woman, and Mammy joins in. When they reach the chorus, they point at Nuala when they sing about being strong and invincible. Nuala remembers all the times Mr Henderson has humiliated her for no reason. She thinks about Marco and all the other boys who terrorise the girls on the playground and in the classroom, pinching, kicking, pulling. About the teachers who shrug and say boys will be boys. She stands up. Like a warrior. Because all of a sudden, Nuala-nu comprehends exactly what she’s in training for. 

2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize Shortlist