From then on, Teresa and I kept our distance from each other. She passed no more remarks about me—at least none that I could hear. Calling me a stray still stung, no matter how Mrs. Shaw had tried to explain it away. But I tried hard to put it out of my head.

Instead, I put my mind to improving my manners. At mealtimes I watched Mrs. Shaw like a hawk, copying how she held her teacup, what knife or fork she used for meat or for fish, and how she dabbed her mouth with a cloth called a serviette. She always swallowed her food down before she spoke and took wee sips of wine rather than great gulps. I copied how to pour various sauces onto the food, learned that the green stuff wiggling in a bowl was mint jelly for the lamb and the red stuff was cranberry dressing for turkey. Changing my brogue was harder—my words came out faster than I could catch them, but I was able to tame my bad language most of the time—except the times when my temper got the better of me.

I had a lot to learn and it was going to take a while, but I was convinced it would stand me well in the future.

Delia

Delia

After my outing to Mass with Mrs. Donahue, I forced myself to venture farther away from the house. Sometimes I took Lily, other times I wandered by myself. One day I returned alone to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. On this midweek afternoon, when the Sunday crowds were long gone, it was quiet and comforting. I sat in a rear pew, staring up at the main altar, letting my thoughts roam. The noises from outside—the deafening roar of motorcars, the rattle of horse-drawn carriages and the clamor of voices—faded away, leaving me wrapped in a peaceful cocoon. In the silence, my other senses were heightened. I smelled candle wax mingled with faint, sweet incense. I noticed people dotted about the pews, most of them alone, heads down, hands clasped, and I wondered what stories they had to tell. I became mesmerized by the flickering candles. I felt small in the cavernous space and my concerns shrank to insignificance.