Sins of the Mother (15 page)

‘Oh, look at the poor little orphanage children – here for their holidays.’

‘Aren’t they sweet?’

‘Very well-behaved. There but for the grace of God . . .’

‘Indeed. Indeed.’

I kept my head down as we went by, angry and resentful. I didn’t want their pity. I hated being paraded in front of the villagers like this. It was almost a relief when summer ended and we
could go back to St Grace’s where we didn’t have to face ordinary folks day in, day out, reminding us how different we were, reminding me daily of the rejection at the heart of my
life.

Back at St Grace’s, I stopped expecting things to get better and something in my heart hardened and closed up. The weeks passed slowly. I didn’t cry any more when
the nuns beat me, I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I rarely saw Agatha because she had been moved into the older girls’ dormitory, and I avoided going into the nursery so I
didn’t see much of Martin or Cecily. I didn’t think about them either. I didn’t think about anything. It was better not to think or hope or dream. It was less heartbreaking. So I
became like a machine. The food went into my mouth now and I didn’t even taste it. At night, I closed my eyes and, instead of dreaming of going home, I just fell straight to sleep, relieved
that another day was over. So when the nun fetched me one brisk morning in November to tell me my mother had come to take me home, at first I didn’t actually believe her.

11

IRENE

The Orphanages

I was beside myself with excitement by the time I raced into the sitting room of the visitors’ building. There she stood, waiting for us all. She looked so pretty in a
short, light blue mac and knee-high cream boots. Mammy! I ran up to her and hugged her round the waist. Cecily was already there, dressed in her coat, and soon Agatha and Martin joined us.

‘Okay okay,’ Mammy tutted irritably. ‘Let go of me now. Are we all ready to go home?’

‘Yes!’ I shouted. I couldn’t get out of that place quick enough. It had been the longest and worst year of my life. I had all but given up hope of ever going home again, so to
hear those words almost made me want to cry. All I wanted at that moment was to get as far away from these cruel and nasty nuns as possible.

On the bus on the way home, we all clamoured for information. Did we live in the same house as before? Was Mammy all better? Where were Peter and Frances? What about Daddy? Mammy did her best to
answer our questions.

‘Your father is home for Christmas so they said you lot could all come out and then we’ll see how it goes,’ Mammy explained. ‘We’re still in the same house.
I’m well enough for the minute but who knows how long that’ll last? You’ll all just have to be good and help me out as much as possible so that I can stay well enough to look
after yous all. You’re still enrolled in the school at St Grace’s, mind, so you’ll be going back there for your lessons and maybe if I need a rest, you might have to go back to
the orphanage for a little while, but we’ll see how it goes. Peter and Frances are back at home already.’

It was a strange homecoming, not at all how I’d imagined it. For one thing, the downstairs windows were all boarded up and there was barely a stick of furniture in the
place. It wasn’t at all homely. Mum said she’d had to sell all our furniture to help make ends meet and the boards had been put up to stop people breaking in while she was in the
convalescent home. There was one settee still in the living room but it was falling apart so we sat on orange crates instead. There was no table, just one bed for us children in the front bedroom
and another for Mammy and Daddy in their room. And that was it.

But the biggest shock of all was that our father was there. I’d never spent any time with my daddy before so it was very odd getting used to living with a grown man. At least it meant
there was plenty of food that Christmas. It soon became clear to us all that Daddy loved his food and he insisted my mother cook a large turkey with all the trimmings and a cake. It was grand
having home-cooked food again – I’d almost forgotten what real meat tasted like and the smell of my mother’s apple pie filling the house was exquisite. Mind you, I couldn’t
eat all that much as my stomach wasn’t used to rich food any more. I even got a present on Christmas Day! It was a doll – she had an arm and an eye missing and all her hair had been
chopped off but I didn’t care. She was my doll and, to me, she was the best thing in the world.

For the first couple of weeks, I loved just having my freedom back and I took myself off for hours at a time, wandering along the Liffey or through the barren, muddy fields. For the first time
in a year, I felt I could breathe freely again. And I cherished being able to spend quiet time with my own thoughts. Though I was almost always lonely in the orphanage, I was rarely alone. I had
missed solitude.

Even though I was still enrolled in school at St Grace’s, being a ‘day girl’ was a whole different experience to living there. The teachers were nice to you because they knew
you were going home to a mammy and daddy every night and of course we didn’t have to live with the nuns. I was anxious to put my experiences at St Grace’s behind me, as were my
siblings. None of us talked about it to our parents or among ourselves. We just wanted to forget it ever happened.

It felt good to be back with my family but there were subtle changes that only revealed themselves slowly. For a start, Peter was different. He was nine years old and there was a simmering anger
within him now that occasionally burst to the surface. While we had been housed in St Grace’s he was taken in by the priests at a boys’ Catholic home. It had changed him – he
didn’t talk to us easily any more and he seemed to loathe our father. The pair couldn’t be in the same room for more than five minutes before a fight broke out, and then Daddy would
beat him with his hands or take the belt to him. It wasn’t the same with my mother – Peter adored my mother and she wouldn’t hear a word against him. And sometimes that made
things worse.

My mother and father weren’t lovey-dovey like I’d seen other couples – they didn’t hold hands or look at each other with fondness. They didn’t even talk much. I
knew they were married but the way they acted it was like they were just living in the same house. My mother put food in front of my father and barely looked at him. He ate his food then went out.
The only time they said two words to each other was to argue. Occasionally Dad tried to make my mother have a Guinness with him and then she would be nice to him but the next day it seemed she was
angrier than ever. But Daddy was always really happy. It was strange and confusing.

It was almost a relief when Daddy returned to his work as a truck driver in England after Christmas. The house was quieter, less of a battleground. We attended our school lessons in St
Grace’s and, for a while, things went back to the way they were before the orphanage. Mammy still had a hot temper and a vicious tongue but at least I didn’t live under the tyranny of
the nuns. There was only one of Mammy, but there were dozens of nuns! And even though the children on our estate teased us and called us ‘The Orphanages’, I didn’t mind so much. I
stood up for myself more and more – I fought back.

Now that Mammy was getting social welfare, there was enough money to feed us all so it was rare I went a day without food. In time, the boards came off the windows. But Mammy’s health was
up and down and she still took it into her head occasionally to sit us all down to watch her ‘commit suicide’ with her pills and a bottle of whisky. It meant we were sent back to St
Grace’s every few months to give her a ‘rest’.

Things were starting to change a little at St Grace’s too. There was a record player in the living room now and a couple of games as well. The cruelty was still there but the nuns
didn’t beat me as much – I didn’t know if it was because I kept my head down and I knew how to stay out of trouble or because they knew we were going back home to our mammy. They
were only short stays this time, the longest one being two months; even so, I was always scared I would get stuck there for good and Mammy wouldn’t come and get me. One time they didn’t
have space for all of us and we were placed in another home called the Rose House.

The Rose House couldn’t have been more different from St Grace’s – for one thing it was run by kind, gentle nurses. There wasn’t a nun in sight. The beds were soft and
warm with crisp, white sheets, the food was tasty and wholesome, the sitting room was filled with toys and games and there was always fun going on. In the Rose House the children laughed and smiled
– there was happiness in the air and that was because the nurses were nice people. They spoke in a soft, soothing way which made you feel they really cared. Nurse Abigail was my favourite
– she was plump and cuddly and always gave me big hugs. If I was having a bad day or felt sad, she’d come up to me and ask me gently: ‘And what’s with you today,
Irene?’

And just that, just a little interest and affection, made me feel better. It was the nicest place I’d ever lived and the only time I felt really safe so it wasn’t surprising that at
the end of our allocated six weeks, I didn’t want to leave.

Before the year was out, my father was back in the house, only this time he had no job so he had to sign on the dole. It caused a lot of arguments with Mammy, who was now
pregnant, because she never saw any of his money. My father spent it down the bookies or the pub.

‘Are you just expecting to be fed out of thin air?’ my mother would goad him. ‘Do you think bread, meat, potatoes – they’re all free? How do you expect me to feed
your enormous bloody appetite with nothing? You selfish bastard! Leaving me alone to raise your children with no sodding money. No wonder I’ve lost my mind!’

‘Ah, quit your bloody nagging, woman!’ Daddy yelled back. ‘That’s my money and I’ll do what I want with it!’

‘Why not? You’ve spent your whole life doing what you want. Why should now be any different? Thank God I’ve got Fran and Peter here to support the family or these children of
yours would all be back with the nuns! You’re a useless husband! Useless! I should never have bloody married you.’

‘I’ve had enough – I’m going out.’

And then he would storm out of the house and not return until late at night. I could understand my mother getting so upset with my father. After all, he ate like a horse. It drove me mad the way
he always took a massive portion of food for himself and left us children with one bowl to share between six of us.

Daddy wasn’t long home before the police came for him. We had just got back from one of our visits to St Grace’s when the Garda turned up at the door and ordered my father to come to
the station to answer some questions. As soon as he returned Mammy poured a cup of hot tea over him.

‘You stupid man!’ she exploded. ‘You can’t do anything right!’

I heard later from Agatha that Daddy had been caught robbing the wages from the hospital at the end of our road and he was sent to prison for a year. I thought that was pretty bad – I
mean, it was a hospital for
sick people
. We were told not to steal at all, but stealing from the sick? Even if he was desperate I thought that was just plain wrong. I hardly missed Daddy
while he was away. Being apart for most of my childhood, I was more used to being separated from him than together.

Another year went by and we left St Grace’s school for good, joining the primary school down the road. After I turned nine, Daddy was released from prison and got himself
a good job as a lorry driver. Now there was another baby, Emily, in the house and the fights between my parents started up again, just like before.

I did my best to stay away from their rows and, over time, I made a few friends. One girl called Debbie lived down the street from me – her family were from England so she was an outsider
in our area. We started talking one day because I was an outsider too and never had anyone to play with. She was a very pretty girl with long mousy brown hair – very tall and tough –
and she was my best friend for a while, always looking out for me. She was my first real friend, sticking up for me to the other children. She didn’t mind the way I was dressed or the home I
came from.

Debbie came from a very loving family – she was the middle one of two brothers and three sisters and they were all very friendly and bonded. They seemed happy to be around each other and
sat down every evening to tea and talked about their day. To me, it felt like this was how a family should be. They had a beautiful home – the furniture was lovely, there was wallpaper on the
walls and it was always warm and clean. They introduced me to loads of new foods I’d never tasted before. At Debbie’s I had my first taste of tinned spaghetti. Oh my God, it was
gorgeous – really sweet and tasty, like nothing I’d ever had before. They also had tomato sauce, fish fingers and tinned pineapple. Those sharp, tangy yellow discs were like little
slices of heaven. At the end of every meal at Debbie’s house, I felt like I’d taken my taste buds on an exotic journey into the unknown. And I always left with a big smile on my
face.