Cyril Kelly

When I got to know Margie in the early 1960s, she was the last tenant left in a red brick terraced house on Gardner Street in Dublin.

She had a single room on the top floor in what was once the servants' quarters.

Many houses on that street were almost derelict at the time.

Margie was elderly, always breathless, frequently dizzy.

Her only source of drinking water was a tap in the basement, so every day she had to negotiate the five flights down.

All she'd ever carry back up in her enamel bucket was a couple of quarts.

Any more and she'd never make it back to the top of the house.

She used to say that climbing those steps was like calvary.

Unlike our Lord, she'd grin and gasp, I have to stop more than three times.

But her smile never reached those jaded eyes.

At the time, I was a student in St.

Patrick's Training College, a member of the Vincent de Paul Society.

I visited Margie once a week.

For an 18-year-old first time away from carefree Kerry, cosseted by the timetable security of college life, Margie's existence was a shock.

Her clothes had the grimy sheen of neglect.

Her face and frail hands were besmirched with ingrained lines.

Apart from myself, Margie's only other visitor was the landlord.

He always stuffed the rents from his portfolio of properties into the lining of his black hat.

And for whatever reason, the same gent forbade Margie from having any religious emblems on display when he called.

So, on Thursdays, she had to gather up her rosary beads, crucifix and holy water font.