Scars that Run Deep (2 page)

As we filed out I was stopped by Brother Monaghan, who smiled and took my hand in his. He spoke softly. ‘Take good care now, and remember us in your prayers, Collie. Go to Mass and visit the house of God often.' His last words almost had me in tears. ‘I hope we were not too hard on you, Collie.'

I stumbled out of the church.

I quickly joined up with my division. The monitor came towards me, smiled and said, ‘Last day, Collie! Soon you'll be free of all this.' Then the Macker blew his whistle for us to march off to the refectory for the first meal of the day.

As the last of the fifteen divisions marched up the centre passage to chants of ‘Left, left, left right left', I felt tears in my eyes. I had no thirst or hunger for food or drink, as my thoughts were elsewhere.

The Drisco approached me and spoke quickly. ‘You're leaving after all these years. How are you going to manage without us?' I wondered that too. As I was about to say, ‘I don't know,' he reached out his fat hand to say goodbye. I just cried.

The Drisco was a tough, hard Brother, short, stocky and with a fierce temper on him; a difficult man to get to know. As a boy working in the kitchens, I feared but never totally disliked him. When he was in a bad mood he was dangerous, like a mad bull. There were times when he punched the head off me or beat me with a long, heavy stick for some silly thing that went wrong in the kitchen, forgetting to put the sugar in the tea boiler, perhaps, or leaving out the salt in the soup – yet when he was being nice, he was likeable. He was an odd sort of character. As he gripped my hand I could tell he was being sincere. ‘Have you a home to go to now when you get out?'

I said, ‘No, sir. I don't know where I'm going, sir.' I hadn't yet had the courage to look at Segoogee's instructions.

Suddenly the Sheriff blew his whistle for grace after meals, and the Drisco boomed out in his clear Cork accent, ‘Good luck now, and may God be with you. I'll say the Rosary for you; and you'll go to Mass and say your prayers now.'

The Sheriff's whistle sounded for march-out. The monitors shouted, ‘By the left, quick march! Left, left, left right left! Lift them up or face the wall!' I glanced behind me and caught sight of the Sheriff for the last time as he clattered a boy across the face so hard that he was knocked to the floor.

Some things just never change, I thought, as I marched to the parade ground. I had as much fear as ever in me as I
swung my arms high and stamped my hobnailed boots as hard as I could, even knowing it was the last time I would have to go through it. I was glad when the monitor shouted, ‘Halt! At ease! Fall out!'

I was tense and emotional as I stood before the Macker, who was standing with the drillmaster on parade. They smiled, shook my hand and wished me well. As I marched up to the storeroom to collect my new suit and working clothes for my life outside, thoughts of my first day back in 1950 flooded my mind – it was here I had come to when I received my first Artane clothes and hobnailed boots.

After saying goodbye to my pals and a few Brothers I encountered, I was on my way out of one of the toughest institutions in Ireland, yet I found it hard to hold back the tears.

I put my hand into my pocket to take out the address Segoogee had given me earlier. He said they would put me up and I would be at home there – but I could have kicked him! The writing was just a scribble. I couldn't make out the home I was to go to, or indeed the address of the bakery I was to work in either.

It was a long walk from the parade ground to the bus stop on the Malahide Road. I felt utterly alone. A car approached as I passed the old quarry to my right. I noticed two young lads aged about twelve years old in the back. The driver shouted, ‘Could you tell me the way to the main office?'

‘Yes, sir, you'll find it on your right, just as you pass the statue of the Sacred Heart.'

I glanced at the two boys seated in the back and I couldn't help it – the tears flowed down my cheeks. I hurried across the Malahide Road and waited anxiously for the bus that would bring me into the future.

ALTHOUGH I ENTERED
Artane Industrial School just before my eighth birthday, I remember my life before then well, and with great fondness. Mr and Mrs Doyle, my foster parents, treated me with kindness, and their children Margaret, Edward and John were like sister and brothers to me. We lived in a small, whitewashed cottage in the hills of Barnacullia, past Sandyford, County Dublin. The little cottage had just two rooms and a pantry. How and where we all slept – the Doyle family, five in all, with me making six – I cannot quite remember; yet we were comfortable and happy.

Back then, in those days, I can't recall ever being so much as slapped. I had no fears of anything or anyone, not even of the dark. Life was so carefree then. I often walked home from school with my pals through the fields and across the hillside to Carthy's Green, where they'd help me bring in
the cows with Margaret Doyle. Margaret taught me how to milk the cows; one of them – the oldest cow – was nicknamed Big Betty. A great cow was Betty. Shep the collie dog followed Margaret and me everywhere over across the hills to bring in the cows. And every morning Shep would follow me down the dirt track to as far as the Tiller Doyle's shop. A real pal was Shep.

We had no running water or electricity in them days up in Barnacullia, not that I recall, though we were all happy then. Bridget Doyle, my foster mother, baked our bread, scones and apple pies. Every day after school it was my job to fetch buckets of clear water from the well along the hillside.

Even though I was not related to the Doyles, I was treated just like a member of their family. In fact, after I left Artane, I was never once interested to find out who my father was, or even if he was still alive. As far as I was concerned, even back then in 1958, any man worth his salt would never desert his own flesh and blood, so I couldn't care less about him. All I knew of my mother, Helen, was that she died when I was very young. When she became too ill to take care of me she left me with the nuns in St Brigid's Convent, Eccles Street, Dublin, opposite the Mater Hospital. I was just twelve months old.

In my later years I would be plagued by nightmares, but as a child I can't recall ever experiencing bad dreams. My dreams were pleasant, happy ones, just like my days living up on the hillside of Barnacullia.

I was in foster care from November 1942, when I was one, until just before my eighth birthday in March 1950. No one that I know of ever came to me and explained much about why I was an orphan living in such a picturesque home. It
was never explained to me who I
really
was, I was not even sure of my actual birthday or my real name. To this day no one ever bothered to explain to me the reasons for my arrest from the cottage, and driven away by the police in a big black Ford estate car to a courthouse, and stood before a judge at 10am on a cold, bright, spring morning. In fact the judge didn't even tell me I was to serve the remainder of my childhood in the incredibly brutal notorious Artane Industrial School, run by the Christian Brothers. However, I learned in due course that I was not alone in my grim mysterious world. At least five of my best school pals from Barnacullia were to join me within a year of my arrival. Although they had real parents, they had been in foster care as I had.

I will always remember my arrival in Artane. I was in the main office. Outside the sky was an unbroken shade of blue. The boys were at work on the flowerbeds as I stood at the long pull-up window staring out at them.

I didn't worry about how awful the boy gardeners looked in their awful drab serge tufted clothes. I believed the judge in the Court House in Kilmainham when he said I'd be only away for a few weeks.

As I enjoyed the plateful of fruit cake one Brother gave to me, I had no reason to be afraid, or to fear these nice Brothers dressed in long black cassocks. To me at that time I thought
they were all saints, just like the one who gave me the cake – the very old Brother who, I was soon to learn, was nicknamed the Saint.

I waited, as I had been told to by the Saint, for the clerk of the office to come out to see me. When the brown-panelled office door opened, I looked towards the tall young office clerk. ‘Here, take this and remember it. It's your serial number, boy. It will stay with you until you are released,' he said. ‘It's stamped on your boots and shoes, suits and day clothes.' He smiled at me as he handed me the dog tag with my serial number. I glanced down at it in amazement. It read No. 12928. ‘You won't forget it will you.' His smile was warm and sincere.

‘No sir.' But I'm only here for a few weeks I thought as he returned to his office.

As I look back to that moment on a beautiful spring morning in March 1950 I never once realised that this would be my number until my release on reaching the age of sixteen, a full eight awful years, half of my childhood locked up as number 12928 in Artane Industrial School. My childhood as I had known it was gone for ever, yet no one had the courage or decency to tell me.

Some tunes will always linger or remain in the back of one's mind. A tune that when you hear it, no matter where you are, will remind you of the time and place you were in when first
you heard it. As I was being led down the granite stone steps by the monitor to meet the Dude, the Brother General, ‘The Foggy Dew' swept the grounds of this mighty Christian Brothers boys' industrial school. ‘What's that?' I said.

The monitor, whose name was Billy, smiled as he explained, ‘That's our famous boys' band. They're playing “The Foggy Dew”. They're practising for the St Patrick's Day Grand Parade. Come on, follow me. You've got to meet the Dude.'

Sure, I couldn't quite take it all in as Billy seemed to be so excited, explaining all these things to me. But then I was very slow on learning, on the uptake of things. However, I had a mind that stored up what I'd seen, heard and had done to me, and I'd never be allowed to forget such things!

As the hauntingly beautiful sound of ‘The Foggy Dew' swept through the air, the boys' parade ground, where 900 boys were lined up in their respective divisions, looked like a mighty boys' army. I was shocked at the awesome sight. ‘What are they doing?' I asked.

Billy quickly explained, ‘The boys are lined up in their divisions. Each division goes by age, see.' He pointed. ‘Look, there, that's Division One, they're the older boys, fifteen years of age and over. At sixteen they are set free. You will be in a division called the nineteenth, as you are the youngest. Now you've got to meet the Great Brother General.'

‘Who's he?' I said, scared, confused and bewildered.

‘He's the Dude, Pat. He's the General Brother in charge. He likes good kids, so you'll be okay.'

Suddenly a thundering sound, like a drum roll; the beat carried like a huge echo. ‘What's that?' I said, looking at Billy. I reached for his hand. Relief swept through me as he clenched it in his. ‘That's our boys' band playing “The Minstrel Boy”, it's a famous march. We hold our own parades here. Every division marches in it, and the boys' parents are allowed to attend all parades for great occasions such as St Patrick's Day, Easter Sunday and Corpus Christi, which are the school's biggest and best. When you're older, you will get to march with your own division.'

‘Gosh, really,' I shouted over the music. ‘I'd only ever followed our local band from our school in Sandyford to over yonder in Stepaside.'

Billy gasped, pulled me to one side and said, ‘I want you to forget words like gosh, and over yonder, as it's far too posh for us in here!'

Suddenly, I felt change sweeping in over me, change I'd never believe I'd get used to; change was a word I grew to hate. As the monitor explained angrily to me, ‘Look Pat, you got to change, your choice of words will bring nothing but trouble to you. The kids here will make shit ou-ra-yeh,
over bleedin' yonder
, are you kidding me, Pat? Even the kids in your
nineteenth will laugh their heads off at yeh.' His tone softened as he continued. ‘Look at me. I want you to listen to me. This is a very tough place for a kid as young as you. But being so young without any folks won't get you special privileges. Believe me, this is a very unforgiving place. There is no room for posh, fancy words, Pat. In here, we got our own slang words for most things so I'm asking you to change. It's not for the best but it's for your own good. You drop your fancy expressions such as “over yonder”, and “oh, gosh”, do you understand?'

I nodded, a silent, frightened yes. I began to hate him as I felt so scared.

‘Look, Pat. They call me The Sly. It's my nickname, okay? You'll have one by the end of the week. Now watch me carefully, Pat!'

As I was very slow on grasping things, and on the uptake, it would take a long time for me to realise I'd never again be allowed to return to my cottage home, to a normal life in the hills of south County Dublin in Barnacullia.

Billy was right, of course. As a monitor he knew the ropes. Nothing would ever be so normal again, not in my childhood. I was only just eight years of age, and I had been thrust into Artane Industrial School, just one in an army of 900. The scars run deep.