Scars that Run Deep (20 page)

He looked familiar. From where I was standing he looked like Brother Simon Davaro, the man I had shared a room
with, the man from Artane. But could it be him? If it was, he had certainly changed; he was no longer the slim, handsome young man he once had been.

‘Would you like some tea, Brother?' I plugged in the kettle. As we sat down for tea, I noticed his movements. I was almost certain it was Brother Simon. I decided to test him. ‘You must travel a fair bit, sir.'

‘Yes, Patrick, I travel a great deal in my line of work – and I need young, bright, unattached workers like you to join the missions. You'll be well rewarded.'

How did he know my name was Patrick? A stranger would think I was named Laurence, because of the sign over the door. I watched as he lit a cigarette. I had to ask him. ‘Were you ever in Artane School on your travels?'

There was silence now. I kept my eyes on him. When he spoke again he had lost much of his self-confidence and dominant air. ‘Yes, I was a Christian Brother. I also spent a short term in a place called Letterfrack.'

It was he. I knocked a cup over on the floor, and moved quickly to clean it up.

Changing the subject smartly, he went into great detail about his present work. I reached to the press on the wall and drew out a bottle of Australian red wine that I kept for visitors. I poured him a full glass as he carefully lit another cigarette. ‘Many thanks,' he said, as he raised the glass to his lips.

I was interested to know how he became a Christian Brother. Tentatively I asked, ‘Was it your own choice that you became a Brother?'

He appeared surprised by my question, and uneasy at first. ‘I came from a large family, Pat, being the third-youngest of five brothers and four sisters. My two eldest brothers are priests. One of them, John, is here in Auckland. He's the local priest.'

So that's why he's here, I thought.

He continued, ‘My two eldest sisters are nuns. We were promised to the church at an early age. Like a lot of the Brothers, I was sent to a Christian Brothers' boarding school until I was sixteen.' He smiled as he said, ‘I had a choice, Patrick.' He paused for a moment and sipped the wine. ‘Yes, two choices: the priesthood or the brotherhood.' I laughed heartily. He drew on the cigarette and said, ‘My father, who was a tough, no-nonsense County Mayo small farmer, wanted me to go to the Christian Brothers, while my mother, who was gentler and more kind, wished me to join my two elder brothers in the priesthood.'

I waited for him to light another cigarette, then reach for the wine. ‘Sure it wasn't a choice at all, damn it. The parish priest was for ever coming through our front door. Many's the time he'd look at me and say, “You'll be joining us soon, Simon, I believe, as soon as you're sixteen.” You know, it was
a stark choice between romancing a stone and milking a pig. I didn't want either of them, and life as a Christian Brother in the 1940s and '50s was for a lot of us pure hell.

‘You see, Pat, in rural Ireland in those days, parents were strongly urged to have big families. It wasn't unusual for the local priest to order a woman in the confessional to have more children as penance for her sins. My own mother told me that. The church was forceful in its teachings in those days, I tell you. My two brothers often joked about hearing Mother's confession. I remember one Christmas the family were all around the table for dinner, when my eldest brother, Seamus, jokingly said, “I'll hear your confession now, Ma, since you missed out for Christmas.” As quick as a flash my sister Eileen responded to him: “Now, Father Seamus, Mother has enough poor mouths to feed, thanks to your Catholic Church. Don't you think nine children in one family is enough, or would you prefer that Mother goes on giving birth for her penance until she could field a football team?” You see, in those days, son, there was no real choice at all.'

‘Was it hard for you and your fellow Brothers in Artane?'

‘At times, yes; but it wasn't just because it was Artane or its harsh military system. Oh, no – on the contrary, the food was the best I'd ever tasted. We were at all times given the best when it came to food; but it was at night I found the difference: the loneliness of the place and how I feared being
attacked in a dark corridor. I feared being a failure, and I also had to toe the line. In some ways I knew the life was not for me.

‘The system grew on me. I couldn't fail my superiors. I could never have let them down. I also feared the harsh life of a Christian Brother; not being able to marry or get to know girls. I did have sexual feelings, you know.

‘From Artane I was despatched off to Letterfrack. If you think Artane was tough, well, then, Letterfrack was hell, me lad. It was my job from the first day to take out those boys who were listed to be punished. Myself and a chap called Damian were on duty for unruly boys. We got them out at six each morning, and their punishment was that they cut and draw turf across the bog for long hours. Any boy who didn't conform had to be flogged. We used buckets of salted cold water to throw over them afterwards. I still lie awake at nights at the sight of the blood from their thighs and buttocks, running down on to the cold stone floor. I got to like flogging the tough boys while they were strapped up. It began to eat into me, and I began to feel like a jailer; but the sexual abuse I couldn't tolerate at all, at all.

‘Letterfrack, Patrick, was like deportation and isolation. It really began to affect me. I was flogging boys' naked bottoms in my sleep. I began to have nightmares. It all changed so suddenly. Perhaps it was for the best, really.'

We stood outside my small bakery shop. It was very hot. We began to walk. ‘What became of your friend Damian?' We headed towards the harbour. ‘Damian got married soon after he left the order, just as I did. Poor Damian, that dreaded disease TB got him. He had a beautiful wife. I only met her once, and that was at his wedding in Dublin.'

The view of Auckland Bay was breathtaking. I turned to Simon and said, ‘It's like one of the wonders of the world watching the great ships on the horizon as they come and go across the world, bringing people to a new country to start again.'

He smiled warmly and with a loud voice he said, ‘Well, me lad, I couldn't have put it better meself. You certainly would make a good preacher. You have a way with words.'

He went on, ‘So tell me, Patrick, have you any intention of getting married, making a home for yourself?'

Caught unawares, I said, ‘Yes, I'd like that if I found someone nice who would accept me and my ways, Brother.'

As he exhaled, I studied the big man. ‘In many ways,' he said, ‘you are like me, Pat. A sheltered life would suit you, I'm certain of it.'

I looked away towards the Bay. But you got married: what happened to Laura? I will always remember her picture on the dressing table in Molly's.

‘Laura? Yes, poor girl.' He sighed. ‘It was doomed from the
start, I believe. I stayed too long in the order, and my health suffered, you see. I was having constant nightmares and awful dreams of my past. All the floggings. I loved Laura but she couldn't live with me – my strict ways, among other things. The last I heard she was living in Boston.

‘I was ill prepared for married life, Molly was right. She really did shame me when she told me of my nightmares and disturbing the lodgers. It was so close to the wedding I couldn't turn back, you understand.'

I noticed his hand shake as he lit another cigarette. It was at that moment I felt sorry for this man who once abused me only to feel sorry for me later. I liked him because he was more human than the rest of them. He drew hard on the cigarette, then glanced at me.

‘It was an experience I regret deeply, marrying Laura. Her parents blamed me on her losing the baby, and her awful depression that followed. You see, it was a dreadful time. I was not fit to be married, more suited to a sheltered life, I'd say.'

‘So you wouldn't recommend a married life for me then?'

His gaze rested on me, and his tone was deep and sincere. ‘Perhaps you are different after all. You never abused boys or had to beat them as I had to. It's not easy to bury the past, not a bleak past such as mine.'

‘Are you contented now?'

His smile returned, ‘Indeed I am. A sheltered life suits me.'

Suddenly he started a dreadful bout of coughing. ‘'Tis the lungs, me boy. Will you join us, Pat?'

Thoughts of the girls I had known flooded my mind. ‘What would I do, Brother? Would I travel a lot?' I smiled at the idea of it.

‘Good Lord, no, Pat. Very few of us enjoy that. 'Tis my job to find new recruits.'

‘Then where would I be based, and what exactly would my job be?' I liked the idea of teaching, as I was certain that was what he meant when he said I'd make a fine preacher.

‘Well, you need a direct answer, I see. You don't beat about the bush. Well, Patrick, I believe you would make a fine shepherd on our large sheep farm, and you could also use your skill as a baker for a few months to begin with, to help clear your mind, and you would attend lectures at night.'

By the time he finished, my mind was on the soft rain of Ireland. The feeling for home and my passion for love were too great. I realised then that New Zealand wasn't for me and that I desperately needed to go back home. I smiled at him. How could I tell him I didn't want to mind his sheep? I said, ‘It was lovely meeting you again, Brother, but my heart is in Ireland.'

For a long, silent moment we both gazed out across Auckland Bay. My eyes rested on the blue horizon as a tall ship appeared.

It was such an odd experience meeting Brother Simon again. He was so much older and heavier than the man who came to share a room with me, and so different to the Brother I had known at school.

I walked away, knowing I'd never see him again; yet he was a far happier man than I was, and that bothered me for a long time, even as I sold up the business and travelled down to Wellington for my voyage home. It was with great sadness that I learned of his death a few years later.

ON 18 NOVEMBER
I stepped on board the great Italian liner
Angelina Lauro
, with over two thousand other passengers bound for Europe, on a voyage that would take me to Chile, Uruguay, Argentina, Brazil, Portugal, Spain, England, and home to Dublin. There was a terrific feeling on board, and I knew I was going to enjoy it. I chose the
Angelina Lauro
because of its fantastic route.

The first port of call after the Magellan Strait and Tierra del Fuego was Punta Arenas in Chile. It was freezing cold, and the streets were full of deep cracks. I never got to meet any of the ordinary people, but a tour was organised for a party of us to meet a few generals, and I was asked to give them recipes for soda bread and Irish stew.

I was looking forward to Rio de Janeiro. The weather was getting so hot and I had heard so much about the famous Copacabana golden mile that I was ready to plunge into the sea once I set foot on the beach.

I met a few English and Welsh lads, and they had planned to hire a minibus in Rio to see the sights; they invited me to join them. The driver stopped every few miles and asked for more money, and the lads simply emptied their pockets and wallets to coax him to drive on. It was a crazy trip. I was broke from paying the driver at the start, and I felt sorry for the lads who had brought more cash with them to buy presents.

The driver was going to dump us all out when we were about ten miles from Rio. As one of the Welsh lads reckoned, we had paid enough to buy the minibus as it was. When the driver threatened to leave us unless we paid him again, one of the lads lost his temper and punched and kicked the driver to the ground. He shouted at us and threatened to go to the police. The lads gave him a choice: ‘Drive us as you were paid to do, or we take over the bus.'

He refused. I took the wheel and shouted, ‘Let's hit the road, lads!' and drove back to Rio without further problems.

We stopped in Copacabana for a swim, and couldn't wait to strip off. The heat was overpowering as I ran out on to the beach. I turned and shouted to the others that it was a high tide. I noticed a very tall lifeguard some yards away. He shouted something, but I couldn't understand him, and didn't know if he was shouting at me or at the girls who just passed me, both of whom were topless.

The beach seemed to dip sharply into the sea. I noticed the
English lads standing on the wall. One of them shouted, ‘You going in, Paddy, or are yeh scared, mate?' Without any further encouragement I was in, and suddenly I lost my footing, as I could feel no sand beneath me. I began to shout frantically for help, but a wave went over me, and I was certain I was done for. Then a mighty dark wave swept over me, and I was pushed towards the stony beach, trying desperately to cling on to the stones. The arms of the lifeguard began clutching at me. I tried to stand up but it was too steep. The lifeguard was only a few feet in front of me as the next wave surged upon us, knocking us both forward. He grabbed hold of my wrist and held on, and pulled me to safety, with the aid of the English lads, who were pulling him.

I stood close to the lifeguard, thanking him. He spoke in Portuguese, and then he shouted at the English lads, who were enjoying a laugh at my expense: ‘You English all mad, just like your English friend here.' I laughed.

As I lay in my cabin later that night, my thoughts were not on the drama in the high tide at Copacabana but on the twenty thousand huts on the hillsides overlooking the famous resort city: huts made of tin, wooden boxes and even of cardboard that were homes to the poor people of Rio. I felt ashamed that I couldn't offer any help to any of them, except a smile and my prayers. I have never forgotten the faces of the women and the hungry children I have never forgotten. Whenever I think of
Rio de Janeiro and the splendid richness that is Copacabana I think of them, and their most famous footballer, Pelé.