Why I’ve never forgotten Sister Cecilia

It is never people, always buildings. Faces change, time blurs them, but – unless they undergo a complete makeover – buildings remain pretty much the same, bar a few coats of paint. Along the second-floor corridor lined with arched windows that overlook the street. Buses grind by below. Up the last short steep staircase and along the very top corridor, which is narrower and lined with books. They call it the library and I am often here, tucked into the window seat reading, but otherwise heading for the arched door – everything is arched here – at the far end. It opens on to a low-ceilinged room with roof lights through which the sun seems always to be shining. Wooden floor, tall cupboards and shelves housing drawing boards, reams of paper – cartridge paper, sugar paper, Kraft paper, A1, A2 – boxes of pens, crayons, chalk, charcoal. Scissors, tables, easels, guillotines, standing desks.