Scars that Run Deep (7 page)

When I entered the confessional my mind raced over the past few weeks. Gosh, I've nothing to confess, I said to myself. It's a waste of time.

I heard the little hatch go across. I smiled, as I had no bad thoughts and had committed no dirty deeds. The middle-aged priest spoke clearly: ‘How long since your last confession?'

‘Not long, Father: a few weeks.'

The priest continued, ‘Well, lad, what have you got for me? Anything to confess?'

‘No, Father.' And I thought that was that.

As though he didn't believe me, he raised his deep voice. ‘Do you attend all services: Mass, Holy Communion, novenas, and your sodality?'

‘Yes, Father, at all times, Father.' I thought that was it, but more was to come.

The priest grunted. ‘Ah sure, 'tis too good, lad, you are. Tell me, do you use swear-words?'

‘No, Father, the Brothers taught us not to, sir.'

‘Do you play with yourself at all?'

‘No, Father. I play with others, though.'

‘Tell me, do you see the others play with themselves at all?'

I was baffled. ‘You mean in the snooker room or in the park?'

He raised his voice, angrily I thought. ‘No, damn it, anywhere, boy! Did you see them play with their bodies?'

Suddenly the thought struck me. ‘Yes, Father, quite often.'

‘Where did all this take place, my son?'

‘Oh, mostly up in the dormitory, and at times in the shower room, Father. I don't understand it, though.'

‘I see, I see . . . I'll have to visit there. 'Tis better that you don't understand, lad, as it will only corrupt your mind. And
remember to continue to go to Holy Mass and all the services. 'Tis a mortal sin to perform dirty acts with another, to indulge in self-abuse of your own body for enjoyment or fulfilment. Remember to keep your hands joined when temptation strikes. It's Satan's way of corrupting the mind. Now for your sins, say five decades of the Rosary and do the Stations of the Cross at least once a week.'

As I settled down in my new home I found it difficult to shake off the shackles of Artane. I was glad about some aspects of the boys' home. I had my own toothbrush, soap and towel – a big change from sharing with so many others. I kept going to church services; I was an emotional and institutionalised ex-Artaner, out of my depth in a big city – though I was finding my feet.

I began to fall in love with the city. I walked along Bachelor's Walk on summer evenings, dreaming of what I wanted to be. I was driven by a desire to be someone great – to achieve greatness. This meant that I started to take a closer look at myself, especially when I was out in the city alone. I took note of how other teenagers dressed, and it wasn't long before I realised that I could never really look much different in my Artane Sunday outfit, a heavy serge suit. I longed to have the money but I wondered how I could get enough of it.

One thing that I was certain about was that I was different in some way from the other ex-Artaners with whom I shared the facilities in the Catholic Boys' Home. I was a bit of a loner, and rather choosy about who I mixed with. I was old-fashioned in my ways and I was very particular about my cleanliness and how I appeared to others.

But even as I adjusted to life outside Artane, I was still plagued by nightmares and sleepwalking, which I continued to be for many years afterwards, as I found it so difficult to shake off the draconian system that I had endured. The best advice I received was from a priest who came to visit us in the boys' home. Father Brien explained to me that the only way you can truly hope to recover from your experience in Artane is to change your ways. I remember the evening so well as I sat facing the soft-spoken, affable, middle-aged man talking to me about how I could travel abroad. I smiled at him. ‘You are afraid of change and you believe it's not possible,' he said. I was quick to agree with him, but he wouldn't let go and said, ‘You need a way out of your nightmare experience of Artane. You are naive, lonely and you are a very institutionalised young man. You will not break away from that experience unless you are willing to fight it. Travel, young man, see the world, learn new ways, meet new people and make new friends. That's what you need.'

He drew hard on his pipe then exhaled. My eyes followed
the smoke as it rose to the ceiling. Father Brien stood up, clutching his pipe, and smiled at me. He began to move away and then, as though he'd forgot something, he turned back to me and said, ‘I sincerely hope you make it, and find a sweet young girl while you're at it. You certainly could do with a good break, lad. God bless you.'

As he went on his way, like the passing cloud of smoke, I wondered just how, or where, I could get the money to travel.

ON MY FIRST
day at work I got the early bus out to Fairview, carrying with me the handwritten note Segoogee had given me. I showed it to the conductor, and he let me off at Edge's Corner.

I looked about and saw the sign over a shop: Milk – Dairy – Brennan's. I went in, and suddenly a big, stout woman entered the shop. She spoke rather loudly and abruptly. ‘Are you from Artane Industrial School, boy?' As I looked down at my shoes and clothes I supposed they told it all. She reached out her fat hand. Her grip was firm and she left butter on my fingers. ‘I'm Mrs Brennan. They're expecting you in the bakery. You'll like Mr Bradley. He's a countryman from Derry.' She looked at me. ‘I suppose you're from Dublin?'

‘No, ma'am, I'm from Artane School.'

She smiled and said, ‘Bill will take you to the bakery, son.'

She reminded me of Bridget Doyle in Barnacullia.

For a few moments I stood gazing at the place in which I
was to begin my working life. What a bleak-looking house, I thought as I entered the yard. However, there was a well-kept lawn, and the garden had a spring freshness about it, with tall palm trees on my left, then the bakery. As I approached I became apprehensive as I heard male voices shouting very crude and vulgar words, some I had never heard before. My mind was filled with all sorts of fears.

I heard a man's voice with a northern accent. ‘Hello, son. Are you the new boy from Artane?'

On top of the old stone steps that led into the house stood a very tall middle-aged man, who was to be my first employer. ‘Come on in, son, and tell us about yourself and Brother Shannon.'

Mr Bradley seemed huge as I stood looking up at him in the front room: taller than the Sheriff and even the Macker, I reckoned. ‘Are you ready, Pauline? I want you to meet our new baker from Artane.' I shook hands with his wife, who was young and very attractive. I was taken by surprise when she gave me a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek. Her smile and warmth made me long for a mother's love. ‘Now, you'll have some breakfast with us before my husband brings you down to meet the lads. They're both ex-Artane boys, and they're both from Dublin, like myself.' I sat down to the first bacon, sausage and egg breakfast I had ever seen.

Soon I met the other boys I was to work with. Eddie was
a fair-haired young man in his twenties, a Dublin lad from Whitehall. I got on with Eddie much more than with Matt, his deputy, who came from the inner city. They treated me like an errand boy. When Matt ran out of cigarettes he would order me to go out and look for as many butts as I could find around Fairview, and often I would stop a person and beg a cigarette from them. Knowing Matt, I was afraid to come back without any.

The work itself wasn't hard, though I found it monotonous, and the baking powder gave me a runny nose and head colds. The hours were short, but getting up so early made each day seem long. Sometimes the bakers would start work at three in the morning, and I'd have to be in at half four. Getting up so early made me cranky, but within a few months I was settling down to the way of things. I can clearly recall those early days, stirring the buttermilk left in big tall milk churns by Merville Dairies. After the bake I often sat on a bag of soft Boland's flour and ate a chunk of white griddle bread and homemade apple pie.

I found it difficult to fit in at work. I couldn't relate at all to people who were not ex-Artaners, and I had no idea about girls. I often irritated the men. Eddie complained that I talked too much and sang too many of the songs I learnt in school. I had formed a habit of whistling or singing ‘The
Croppy Boy' and ‘The Boys of Wexford'. One day I couldn't stop laughing at Mick Bradley as he was making griddle bread with Eddie, and he spoke seriously to me about my ways. ‘One day, Pat, you're going to find a great deal of trouble, the way you go on here, singing and laughing when spoken to. You give the impression that you either have a wee chip on your shoulder or that you're odd.'

As I went home that evening I felt ashamed at what Mr Bradley had said. I wasn't whistling as I walked either. I began to realise that I was not wanted.

The thoughts of being rejected frightened me. If an ex-Artane lad was rejected by his work because he did not fit in he was returned to Artane if he had no family to look after him. Being an orphan, I would have had to return, as I would not be able to pay for my keep. That night as I lay down to sleep I felt unwanted, but I prayed as I had learnt to pray in Artane. I made up my mind that I would not be going back. I knew I could fight to achieve that end, and, thank God, I did. I was bitterly determined to succeed.

By the end of 1958, I was more settled in work. Mrs Bradley was very kind. She must have felt sorry for me. She brought me into the house some evenings to feed me. How I loved that!

I walked to work from the boys' home to the little bakery in Fairview, getting up at about four, with no breakfast, just a
few ‘prairie sandwiches' to take with me. The lads often had no lunch with them, and Eddie and Matt would be glad to share mine. Eddie would often remark, ‘For Jesus's sake, Pat, could they not find a bloomin' thing to put in them?'

‘Bread and margarine? What yeh expect for seven shillings and sixpence a week?' said Matt. ‘Ham and bleedin' eggs, no way!'

I liked Eddie, though often he'd get ratty with me. A favourite expression of his was ‘Look, Paddy, for feck's sake, d'yeh want me to lose me rag? Do yeh?'

Matt was quite something else. He showed all the signs of an Artaner. He enjoyed ordering people about, and he loved his authority; he spoke down to everyone when there were people about. He was more at home and normal when he found himself in trouble, as the times when Eddie didn't come in to work. Matt would need me to help him through the day, and he was a better bloke then.

One day I was working with the boss and Eddie. During tea break neither Mick nor Eddie had anything to eat with them. We never stopped for long, as there was always bread or whatever it was to come out of the oven. I was the only one who brought lunch with me. The boss looked at me. I was apprehensive about offering him some of my prairie sandwiches. Mick glanced at me. Putting down the cup he said, ‘Goddamn it, Pat, can I have one?' Eddie laughed. I watched
as Mick opened the bread up. ‘Is this all they feed you with? Damn shame.' He looked me in the eye and spoke softly. ‘You know, son, you'll have to find a real home. You're living far too long with Artane.'

‘He reeks of Artane!' Eddie shouted.

‘You need a good woman to sort you out, Pat,' Mick said, as he turned to face Eddie. ‘What do you think?'

Eddie almost choked on his Woodbine, and then responded, ‘If there was a room in my place me ma would look after him.'

Mick reacted instantly. ‘Ah, sure, 'tis the old story, Eddie. If I had the money I'd buy you a jar. If only I had this and that, I'd do wonders, Eddie.'

Some days later I was asked to do the garden and paint the bakery windows, as there was not enough work in the bakery for the three of us. I was asked to come up for tea by Pauline. I began to get the feeling for real home life as I made myself comfortable. Mick Bradley asked me if I'd like to see around. How could I say no? As I stood in their large bedroom I imagined what it would be like to sleep in a nicely painted room all to myself, with carpet on the floor. As I meandered back from the Bradleys' house I felt happy within myself but realised that that kind of happiness is too instant, and once I got back to the boys' home I was back down to earth.

In September 1958 Dublin got to the All-Ireland final in Croke Park. My boss, Mick Bradley, was on a high. The bakery was decked out in the red-and-white colours of Derry and the blue of Dublin. I didn't see Mick for a few weeks after Dublin's great victory. When I did see him he was on crutches. He had broken his leg trying to climb a wall outside Croke Park to get in to the game.

In those days I was an ardent Dublin supporter. I recall seeing the Macker, the Sheriff and a few more Brothers at the games. On many an occasion ex-Artaners, especially those living in Sheriff Street and the Catholic Boys' Home, threw apples or bottles at the Brothers. The Sheriff got hit on many occasions, yet it never changed him one bit. I realise my feeling might be incomprehensible to some, perhaps a complex result of the abuse, but it hurt me to see the Brothers being attacked like that. It was never my attitude.

It was during the August holiday Monday in 1958 that I paid a nostalgic visit to the Doyles up in Barnacullia. I set off early from the home with my old pal Seamus, having borrowed Fatser's bike, as Seamus had decided he would like to make a day of it and leave after breakfast.

We decided to stop at the old schoolhouse in Sandyford and take a walk around the playground before turning up the old road to Barnacullia and Glencullen. We put away our
bicycles; locks and chains were not necessary then. We walked the road, up to the old grocer himself, the Tiller Doyle. Bald on top, a touch of silver along the sides, he shouted out: ‘I remember ye, boys. Oh, God be good to those who return to thank those who cared for them!'

I said goodbye to him in a whisper, but never did the words mean so much. All my childhood dreams and fond memories came flooding to my mind. I could only nod to Seamus as we walked on up the climb until we reached the turning of the road that led up to the row of cottages on the hill. The track, as we called it when we lived there, was still the same. I stopped at the well where as a young boy I fetched buckets of water for Bridget Doyle. I could see that Seamus was gazing down the hill and across to Carty's Green. I knew that he was reliving his lost childhood, as I was.