Sins of the Mother (14 page)

The couple turned to each other, dismayed. I could see they were upset but I didn’t care. I didn’t understand why the Mother Superior was trying to make me go home with these
strangers when I already had a family of my own. The more the Mother Superior tried to insist I leave with Mr and Mrs Donavan, the harder I wept until, after a few minutes, I was nearly
hysterical.

At that point, Mr Donavan interrupted. ‘Sister, I think you better let her go back to her siblings. We don’t want to distress the child any further.’

‘Of course, Mr Donavan,’ Mother Superior said through gritted teeth. ‘Go on, Irene. Run along now!’

And with that I bolted out of the office and fled into the sitting room, cramming myself under one of the chairs. I knew I was in trouble and I didn’t want sister to find me. After a few
minutes I heard Mr and Mrs Donavan leaving under a siege of apologies from the Mother Superior. I listened as their footsteps disappeared down the corridor and, another minute later, heard the
inevitable, ‘IRENE COOGAN!’

Oh no!
I gulped hard then slunk out from my hiding place. She stood in the doorway of the sitting room, her face purple with rage.

‘MY OFFICE!’ she thundered. ‘NOW!’

I knew what was coming. Of course she would beat me for being so insolent and for not doing what she wanted but I didn’t have any regrets. I had a mammy and a daddy and I knew one day I
would go home to them.

‘You’re an evil child,’ she insisted in tense, clipped tones as she closed the door behind us, then she hitched up her habit to unbuckle the thick leather belt that was
fastened round her waist.

‘A horrible, ungrateful child,’ she went on. ‘Nobody will ever love you, nobody will want you. You had your chance at a home and you threw it away! This is how you repay us and
all we’ve done for you? BEND OVER!’

Later that night, once lights were out, I told Agatha all about what had happened.

She listened in horrified fascination as I described the Donavans, their fine clothes and eager expressions.

‘But we’ve got a mammy and a daddy,’ I explained in hushed tones. ‘So I said no, I wouldn’t go with them and the Mother Superior got really angry and that’s
when she beat me.’

‘Why do you think they came to take
you
away?’ Agatha asked, bemused. ‘I mean, why you? There’s lots of children here.’

‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. ‘It wasn’t right. I didn’t like the man.’

I lay awake that night, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, my legs and bottom blistered, red raw and pulsing with pain. It had all been so strange. All these years I had dreamed of another
family, of a ‘real’ mammy and daddy who would one day take me away to live with them. Yet when some actual living, breathing people had come for me, I had found it so frightening. I
realized it wasn’t what I wanted after all. However hurtful she could be, I just wanted to be with my real mammy.

That Saturday I went into the dark space of the confessional box and for the first time in months I actually had something to say. Usually, I had to rack my brain to think of a
‘confession’ because, in truth, I never did anything wrong in St Grace’s. What could I do? I had no freedom, no life, nothing beyond school, work and praying. But we didn’t
have a choice – we had to take confession every week, even if we hadn’t done anything wrong. Some weeks I made stuff up, which I knew was a sin, and so the following week I could at
least confess to telling a fib.

‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned,’ I whispered. ‘It’s been a week since my last confession. This week I shouted at some people and I went against the Mother
Superior’s wishes and I made her very cross at me.’

The father gave me absolution and told me to say ten Hail Marys and a decade of the rosary, just like he had the week before.

Strangely enough I did actually see my mother three weeks later, although she didn’t see me. It was the last weekend in May and we were taken out of the orphanage for the
annual show at the Jacob’s biscuit factory. It was a special day of the year and most of the families from our council estate on the Liffey went along because there was free music and
sweets.

At the orphanage, all the older children piled onto a bus for the drive to Bishop Street for the celebration and, for a very short time, as we sat on the upper deck, we could all pretend we were
normal children. The buzz and the excitement in the air was wonderful. I stared out of the window the whole way, thrilled to get a glimpse at the outside world again. It had been over a month since
my communion in April when I had left the orphanage with my father.

Suddenly my heart stopped. There, in the street directly below us, I saw my mother walking arm in arm with a friend, looking for all the world like a carefree young woman.

‘Mammy!’ I screamed and banged on the window. She was talking and laughing with her friend, throwing her head back so her beautiful blonde locks tumbled down her back. She looked
very much recovered to me, tottering down the street in her high heels and a tiny red skirt.

‘Mammy!’ I shouted desperately, banging away like crazy. ‘Mammy! Look up! Look up!’ But the bus rolled on and she never saw or heard me.

It was hard to enjoy the concert after that. I wanted to feel pleased that I’d seen her, but the way she had trotted along, smiling and giggling like a young girl, depressed me. I
didn’t want to admit to myself what had seemed so clear in those snatched few seconds.
She’s happier without us. She doesn’t miss us at all.

For a couple of hours, we were paraded in front of the city, the ‘poor, orphanage children’, and everyone felt sorry for us and then we were sent back to hell. On the bus on the way
back, my anger and despondency grew. Mammy didn’t look ill to me and she was obviously out of the convalescent home, so why were we still living with the nuns? They didn’t care about
us. Nobody cared.

Life went on as usual in St Grace’s – the nuns and staff scolded, slapped and beat us for no reason and then forced us to confess our sins. I struggled to get through each day and
sank into oblivion each night. In St Grace’s I had no dreams, just nightmares. It was the same for all of us. Often the night’s silence was punctuated by the uneven, distressed cries of
children fighting evil monsters in their sleep. Sometimes we woke up and the monsters were still there.

One Sunday in June, just after breakfast, we were instructed to line up in our year groups as it was a ‘special day’.

‘There are some volunteers coming today,’ Sister Beatrice explained. ‘Each couple has very generously offered to take a child out for the day. So look smart, behave, and
– if you’re lucky – they might pick you!’

A ripple of excitement passed down the line. We did our best to look nice for the visitors and, when they came, ten couples passed in front of all of us. I smiled winningly to try and look
appealing. There was a young couple who stopped in front of me and after a whispered exchange the woman reached out and touched my arm.

‘Hello – would you like to come and spend the day with us?’ she asked. She had large hazel eyes and a sweet, earnest face.

‘Yes please!’ I responded eagerly.

Since there were only ten children for ten couples, we were allowed to have special clothes for the day. I was given a lovely dress with little daisies on it, a smart green coat with large black
buttons and shiny brown patent shoes. Oh, the shoes! They were gorgeous and I couldn’t stop looking at them as I was led to the visitors’ building where the young couple waited for
me.

‘My name is Elizabeth,’ the young woman introduced herself. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. ‘But you can call me Betty. And this is my fiancé
Mark.’

Mark nodded at me – he was short but very handsome with a clear, open expression. I don’t know why but I liked and trusted these people from the start.

They were so sweet and so kind and they took me first bowling and then back to Mark’s mother’s house. I couldn’t believe it when we walked in – the dining table was
groaning with food. There were sandwiches, cakes, buns, doughnuts and biscuits – everything you could possibly want. My eyes nearly popped out of my head. I’d never seen so much lovely
food all in one place before.

Betty broke into a giggle when she saw my mouth hanging open in shock.

‘It’s for you, Irene,’ she laughed. ‘Go on – help yourself!’

I looked around me then, confused and upset. I felt too scared to take anything.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Mark’s mother whispered to him. ‘Why won’t she eat?’

‘Ah, she’s probably just a little overwhelmed, Mammy,’ he reassured her. ‘Give her a bit of time.’

The truth was I couldn’t bring myself to touch any of that delicious food because I didn’t feel I deserved any of it. I was a horrible, nasty, evil child. That’s what the nuns
had told me all this time and now I believed them. Kindness? I couldn’t understand kindness. Eventually, Betty cajoled me into eating two egg and cress sandwiches and a slice of Victoria
sponge. It was heavenly – the nicest food I’d ever, ever tasted. Betty was so lovely – she told me all about her job as a clerical assistant and the wedding that she and Mark were
planning. They were such warm and loving people, I wanted to stay in that house as long as possible. But, too soon, it was time to go back to the orphanage.

Despite Betty’s bright and cheerful comments, I couldn’t talk on the bus journey back to the orphanage. A huge lump stuck in my throat and a black mood settled over me as soon as we
passed through the gates and up the drive. Eventually, as we approached the front doors I turned to them both in desperation.

‘Please, please don’t make me go in there,’ I pleaded, clinging onto Betty’s sleeve for dear life. ‘Please take me with you. I want to go with you!’

She was alarmed at my outburst and shook her head apologetically. ‘We can’t, Irene,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry but we really can’t take you home with us. You
have to go back.’

‘Please, please,’ I implored, as tears started to form. ‘They’ll let you take me if you ask them. They will! They do that! You can take me home and they won’t mind
a bit.’

‘No, no, we can’t do that,’ Betty insisted, her eyes misting over with tears of her own. ‘Mark? Mark, tell her we can’t take her. Oh Lord, Irene. I’m so
sorry.’

I burst into tears then and buried my face in her coat. She held me to her and for a while I just stood there, weeping silently. She rubbed my back and then pulled me away, kneeling down so that
we were eye to eye. Her mascara had run a little down her cheeks.

‘You’re such a dear girl, Irene, and if I had a home to give you I would give it to you tomorrow, but I don’t,’ she explained patiently. ‘We’re not marrying
for another six months and who knows what will happen by then. Maybe your own mammy will be better and she’ll fetch you home to live with her?’

I bit down hard on my lip and in a thin little voice I whispered, ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course,’ she smiled. Then she drew me to her in a warm embrace and for the first time in many months I felt comforted. And safe. I let the tears roll freely off my cheeks.

We exchanged tearful waves at the door and then they turned to walk back down the drive. I waved for a long time, until I heard a tetchy voice above me say, ‘That’s enough. Get
inside!’

It was the Mother Superior – she must have seen and heard everything. The way I had screamed and cried not to be sent back. In a panic, I took off down the corridor, desperate to get away
from her before she could tell me off for making a fuss.

The blood pounded in my ears as I ran at full pelt until an icy blast stopped me dead: ‘IRENE COOGAN!’

Terrified, I turned round and there she was, at the end of the corridor, her face a mask of fury. In that moment, everything I’d eaten that day just fell out of me. I stood, helpless with
fear, as my body collapsed in fright. The Mother Superior flew at me. The next thing, her hand made contact with my face and I rose up off the ground with the force and fell back down again in a
crumpled heap. My nostrils filled with the scent of my own faeces and I saw my beautiful clothes were smeared and soiled.

‘Look what you’ve done, you disgusting child!’ she snorted with loathing. ‘The devil is in you, Irene Coogan, and I’m going to make it my business to beat the devil
out of you. Now get a bucket and clean up your revolting mess!’

I didn’t get any tea that evening – I was too busy cleaning the corridor and myself. All the nice feelings I had from my day out were destroyed in an instant. I went to bed that
night tired, hungry and ashamed.

In July the school holidays started and some of us younger children were shipped out by bus to a different orphanage in the beautiful countryside for three months. It was all
open fields swaying with wheat and corn and long sunny days. Since there was no school we were allowed to play outside all day long, which was better than being stuck in a classroom with Mrs
Lawley. Only two nuns from St Grace’s came with us; the rest of the nuns were from the country and they didn’t beat us, which was a nice change.

But while other children were happy to skip and play all day long, running around, chasing one another seemingly without a care in the world, I sat in a corner of the yard most of the time, just
staring at them all.
How can they be so happy?
I wondered to myself.
What is there to laugh about?
I didn’t feel anything any more – not happiness, not sadness.
Nothing. I was empty.

Cecily and Martin were here too but I didn’t have much to do with them. The older children like Agatha stayed behind in the orphanage.

One thing that was better about being on holiday in the country was the food – the vegetables were much fresher and now I could actually tell the difference between the vegetables in my
stew. Cabbage, carrots, turnips, swedes and potatoes – I took real pleasure in identifying and savouring each mouthful.

Since the church was at the other end of the village, we were marched through every morning and evening for Mass and Benediction. From the orphanage we passed down the main street with all the
shops and saw the grocers, butchers and bakery every day – there was a market there too so it was a busy little place with lots of people at the weekend. Clumping past the villagers in our
big hobnailed boots and gabardine coats, I felt their eyes on me and I hated it. Sometimes I even heard them, heads cocked to one side, muttering to one another.