“A leopard never changes its spots” was a phrase I had heard mentioned lots of times and I didn’t quite understand the logic behind this comparison. Why the leopard, when there were many other spotted animals to choose from? Skunks and snakes sprang to mind. The thieving hyena was another, which for me was a much closer comparison to us all, considering we were sly, thieving buggers who would laugh at getting away with the things we’d done wrong.
If I were to make comparisons with myself and other animals, spotted or otherwise, it would be based on its environmental instincts. And the environment I’d been born into had given me the instincts I needed to survive, by begging, stealing, and scavenging on the streets. I’d never once stopped to consider or realise that stealing someone’s personal possessions was a bad thing, especially during the times I was being used by my father to help him steal. I only ever saw the results of the stealing: putting some food on the table and keeping him and Mammy in booze for a few days. And it did make me feel sad later, to know how personal and upsetting it is to have something you own taken from you. Even as young as I was, I could so easily have refused to help Daddy with his robberies, regardless of the consequences. But I didn’t.
It did seem the powers that be were intent on letting all of us know there was no hope for the likes of us. Their real message, once a thief always a thief, was instilled into our “tiny brains” on a daily basis. But despite the leopard comparison, I believed I had changed over the past couple of years. And just as my environment had changed, so, too, had my instincts. I was bathed, clothed, fed and educated. And while I no longer had a need to use my stealing instinct to survive, I had to quickly sharpen other instincts to survive the cruel environment I found myself in. That said, I would still help myself to the odd jar of sweets from the local sweetshop.
One of the biggest changes in me was that I was no longer illiterate. I never thought it possible that I would ever be able to read or write. But I was learning new words every single day. And the joy of learning to pronounce a written word correctly as I read it remained as overwhelming as the joy I’d felt when I had first read the line “The cat sat on the mat” all on my own and without any prompting.
I wondered what Daddy would have thought of me being able to do that. Would he be impressed? Would he be proud? Probably not. Somehow, it would be all thanks to him. He’d probably let me read all the letters that came to the house, so he didn’t have to get stressed out about them. I recall him being the only one in the family that I ever saw reading and writing. I was always fascinated listening to him reading out the letters like short stories and using such long words as Authority, Custody, Prosecution and Tosspots.
He once went up the wall about a pile of bills he’d received. “Nothin’ good ever comes in through dat feckin’ door, save for begging letters,” he’d moaned. “The coalman, the milkman, the council – all after me hard-earned money. Can yah believe this? Seven shillings in rent arrears! They should be feckin’ payin’ us ta live in this dump. Der all at it! Ten shillings for being drunk an’ disorderly. Drunk an’ disorderly my hole! I was dancing, that was all!”
“After half-killing your cousin, Paddy Ward,” Mammy reminded him.
“Half killing him? Jaysus, that gimpy-eyed eejit’s been walking around half dead for years.”
“An’ yah kissed one of them coppers.”
“It was a peck, was all. Everyone kisses everyone on New Year’s Eve.”
“Yah feckin’ never kissed me!”
“Well, Paddy Ward was makin’ up for dat!”
“He was bein’ friendly, was all.”
“Friendly my arse. He was feckin’ stuck ta yer lips. Til I flattened the fecker. And look at all them homos who were kissing an’ cuddling each other. Not one of them arrested. It’s us, Lizzy, everyone hates the Irish.”
“The copper that arrested yah was Irish.”
“More reason why he shouldn’t have arrested me, the feckin’ turncoat.” Daddy had thrown all the letters straight onto the open coal fire.
At St Vincent’s we were relatively free over the weekends to do nothing, apart from Mass on Saturday and Sunday mornings. The part-time staff, all four of them, arrived at the school, while the full-time staff (barring the one on weekend duty) left the school behind them for two blessed days.
Mr Sweet was on weekend duty and in charge of the whole school. I couldn’t stand the fat bullying bastard. Two weeks earlier, he’d belted me hard around the side of my head, causing my ear to ring. And, although the ringing noise had settled down to a softer tone, I could still hear it and it was so frustrating at times, especially when I was on my own, or trying to concentrate on reading my Janet and John book. Bedtimes seemed to be worst, with the silence only exaggerating the sound in my ear. But I learnt a simple trick, which helped me to drift off into a deep sleep. I just closed my eyes and imagined I was on a battlefield with the sound of big guns blazing around me. And before I knew it, the following morning had arrived.
The reason for the slap? We were out on one of our many expeditions to Formby beach and some eejit had decided to throw a skinny three-foot stick, no thicker than my finger, on to the railway track. We were immediately ordered to march back to the school, with Mr Sweet remonstrating with us about how that could so easily have caused a derailment of the train, with the loss of hundreds of lives. When we arrived back, we were made to stand on parade in the playground for three long hours, until the culprit owned up, or someone pointed out the would-be mass murderer. And when the first part of the miracle hadn’t taken place, we were dismissed to the dining room for our tea and told in no uncertain terms that unless the culprit was found, it was straight up to bed without any association time.
“Get your hands washed and then to the dining room. And if there is any one of you wanting to have a little word in my ear, you’ve five minutes to do so,” said Mr Sweet. “No one will know who you are.” And some grovelling little shitbag went and pointed me out as the guilty party.
“Rhattigan! A word in your tiny ear.” Mr Sweet had beckoned me out of the dining room and I jumped to his command, taking my plate of beans and toast with me.
“Why did you throw the stick onto the railway lines?”
“I didn’t, sir.”
“You were seen throwing it.”
“Whoever said that is a liar, sir.”
“There was more than one person who saw you.”
“Then they are all lying. Sir.”
I was expecting it to happen, but I didn’t see it coming until the open palm of his podgy hand had already hit me across the side of my head, catching me around the ear. He was a big man and had once bragged about weighing in at 18 stone. So, there was a lot of power behind the wallop, which had almost knocked me senseless. Though not senseless enough to make me drop the plate of food, which I held onto for dear life as I fell to my knees. He’d gone on to berate me about the number of people I could have killed as a result and how I would have to explain my actions to Mr Lilly when he arrived back from his holiday in Rome.
I could do nothing to defend myself but stand there, staring defiantly back at him, dried-eyed and wishing the years would roll by to when I was 18 years of age, so I could come back here to pay him a visit – bigger and tougher than the bullying fat bastard.
I suppose I could have argued the fact that Mr Cuthbert had mentioned the stick had been thrown by someone behind him, and as I had been walking further up the group from him, this ultimately should have proved my innocence. But there was no point in even attempting to argue the toss with him, or indeed any of the grown-ups. Ultimately, someone was responsible for throwing the stick and with a couple of cowardly tosspots conspiring to point the finger at me (probably to protect one of their own mates), that was good enough for Mr Sweet. Fortunately for me, he’d forgotten to report the incident to the headmaster because I got away without further punishment.
A Proper Plank
I made my way across Formby Beach to meet up with Noddy and a group of the boys who’d been too scared to join in the usual war games, which I’d been playing just a short while earlier. As my men were stupid enough to get captured and were probably being tortured, I’d decided to abandon them. The boys had found a rusty bonnet of a car and were taking it in turns to sit in it and slide down the largest of the sand dunes. I asked Noddy if I could have a turn but he just kept nodding and said I would have to ask Martin Gore, as he was the boy who’d found the bonnet. So, I made my way to the top of the sand dune, where the fat eejit was standing.
“Hi Martin.” I gave him a pleasant smile.
“It was Fatty yesterday.”
“I was only having a laugh with you, Martin.”
“Well it’s not nice calling fat people fatty.”
Ah, shallup yah fat lump of lard! is what I really wanted to say, but I held back from doing so, as I wanted to have a few turns at sliding down the sand dune in the old car bonnet. “You’re not that fat, Martin.” I added for good measure, “I’ve seen fatter people than you.”
“Yeah? Like who?”
“The Michelin Man, for starters,” I told him, after a pause. I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand what I had said to upset him, but after that he refused point blank to let me have a go. And with a couple of his best friends standing at his side, convincing me he meant it, I gave up.
I’d been on the point of walking off, when I spotted the plank-sized length of driftwood lying a short distance away on the other side of the dune. It was about 7ft long and 2ft wide and wasn’t all that heavy. So, I dug it out of the sand and hauled it back to the top of the dune.
Setting the plank at the edge of the sand dune, I sat on the wider part of it, before shouting across at Noddy, who was sitting inside the car bonnet ready to go down. “Last one to the bottom is a tosser,” I yelled, before launching myself downwards. But my cry of “Geronimo!” turned quickly to a scream of agony!
The plank had flown down the dune at speed before coming to a sudden halt at the bottom of it. Unfortunately for me, though hilariously funny for the others, I kept sliding along the length of the driftwood and got speared by a large splinter of wood that had been protruding upwards. I attempted to get up on my feet, but was unable to, because my arse had become firmly attached to the plank. How deep the splinter was stuck inside me was anyone’s guess, but to my relief the initial pain had subsided to a throb. However, every time I made the slightest move, I could feel the skin pulling away from the plank.
Feeling like a proper goon, I had to sit astride the length of driftwood as eight lads carried me up, down, and around the sandy dunes of Formby beach like an Egyptian Pharaoh being carried by his slaves. Only this lot were well and truly taking the piss.
“I knew you had a wooden head, but not a wooden arse.”
“Did yah just drift together?”
“Always knew you were as thick as a plank.”
Ha bloody ha. Idiots, the lot of them.
We stopped at the first house we came to and Mr Mears asked the old woman living there if she could telephone for an ambulance. She fussed over me like she was me auld Granny, bringing me out a large tumblerful of fresh, cold orange juice. I milked it for all it was worth, drinking slowly and making loud gulping noises, while the others looked on, all dry-mouthed and sweaty, having carried me for almost half a mile.
“Are you alright, mate?” was the first question one of the two ambulance men asked me. Was I alright? What a question! I’d a seven-foot plank sticking out of my backside!
“You look bored, fella,” his companion quipped. “Board! Ha-ha-ha.”
“I don’t think the lad’s twigged it, yet! Ha-ha-ha.”
I couldn’t believe it. The pair of them were taking the mickey! I pretended to cry, throwing out gulping, heartbroken sobs. The granny ticked off the pair of them and told me to complain about them when I arrived at the hospital. Of course, they were very remorseful, and I accepted their apologies after they agreed to give me half a crown to keep my gob shut.
There was a discussion, and lots of head scratching about how to go about detaching me from the driftwood without causing me any further injury. Then some bright spark of a nosy neighbour came rushing along with a saw in his hand, suggesting they saw it off me.
It was embarrassing enough to have all those people gawking at me as if I were a circus act. But I wasn’t prepared for the moment I had to plant my feet firmly on the ground and stand there, like a bowlegged cowboy, astride a plank, while some onlookers held the weight of wood while discussing with the ambulance crew the best way to saw it off.
I was relieved when eventually they managed to saw off the plank from both ends, leaving me with a piece about a square foot still attached to me, along with the six-inch splinter. Mr Mears told me Mr Lilly would be waiting for me at the hospital. And on the way there, I reminded the two ambulance men about the half-crown they owed me, which they reluctantly paid.
Mr Lilly was indeed waiting at the hospital. I was hardly surprised to see his usual unconcerned, tight-lipped expression as he shook his head at me in dismay. But I was sure I detected a slight flinch when he saw the driftwood sticking out of my backside. This was a good sign for me and the thought suddenly jumped into my head that this was my big chance to show my courage and get my just reward.
The previous month, nine-year-old Dave Carole had broken his ankle in two places during our annual inter-house football competition. I can only assume he must have had a brainstorm if he’d thought for one second he could tackle Paddy O’Neill and get the ball off him. As mean as they came, Paddy was built like a brick shit-house and running into a brick wall would probably have caused fewer injuries than running into him.
When Carole had hopped into the assembly hall wearing the plaster-cast boot, Mr Lilly had called him out to the front to talk admiringly of how this brave young man had not uttered one single word of complaint, or shed a single tear when being treated at the hospital. What a load of old cobblers. The minute it happened, he’d been on the ground screaming and writhing all over the field like he’d been gunned down under a hail of bullets. As for no tears, the baby had cried bucketloads, so wouldn’t have had a tear left in him by the time he’d got to the hospital. He also got a bag of mixed toffees for his trouble.
So, there I was, lying on the examination table, with a doctor and a nurse leaning over me, having a good gawk.
“We’ll have to cut your trousers off,” said the doctor. And before I even had a chance to acknowledge him, the nurse had obliged, expertly cutting them off in seconds, before cutting my undies off, too. I think they were slightly caked, but to my relief, she said nothing.
“Can you hold my hand, please?” I asked Mr Lilly, who ignored me.
“Come on, Grandad,” coaxed the nurse.
“I’m not –”
“You can stand over this side, with the doctor.” She stood out of Mr Lilly’s way, leaving him no option but to come reluctantly to my side and hold my hand.
“Okay, Thomas. I’m just going to give this a little pull. Just to see if it will come out.”
I looked straight up into Mr Lilly’s eyes, making sure he could see me grit my teeth tightly.
“Can you feel any pain as I’m pulling?”
“Yes, I can,” I said in a soft voice while pulling a pained expression, though I couldn’t feel a thing, with the injection they’d given me having already numbed my backside. “But you can pull it straight out, if you like. I’ll be brave.”
“Right, I’m going to pull it out now.”
I felt a slight twinge and the skin pulling, as the doctor took out the large splinter of wood. But I remained silent, as planned, looking up at Mr Lilly with my best suffering facial expression – the sort you would be expected to pull if in g
reat pain – squeezing his hand tightly for added effect.
“There we are. It’s out – two stitches ought to do it, nurse.” The doctor had gone before I could even thank him.
Hardly any blood and two stitches later, I was discharged from the hospital, wearing blue and white-striped hospital-issue pyjama bottoms which the nurse had loaned me. She’d thrown my cut trousers and undies into a paper bag which she’d handed over to me, and I gladly took them, knowing the half-crown was safely tucked inside my trouser pocket. But outside the hospital, Mr Lilly suddenly snatched the bag off me and dumped it into a nearby waste bin.
“They’re me favourite trousers!” I told him, promising I’d sew them back together myself if I could only keep them.
“Blithering idiot,” he called me, forcing my hand off the bag and threatening to give me a good wallop and six of the best when we got back to the school if I didn’t let it drop straight back into the bin.
The following day, after we’d finished the morning assembly, without a solitary word about my bravery, Mr Lilly ordered me to come along with him to his office. A large, inviting box of Black Magic chocolates lay on his desk. Jaysus, I must have been convincing, was my first thought. And I’d already set my brain in motion, trying to work out how and where I could hide such a big box of chocolates without the others seeing it and suddenly becoming my friends.
“Here.” The headmaster pushed the box across the desk at me.
“I wasn’t that brave, sir.” A little bit of modesty goes a long way.
“What?”
“Yesterday, sir. When I was in the hospital?”
“Brave?”
“Yes, sir. When the doctor pulled that massive piece of driftwood out of me hole – bum, sir. An’ you held my hand, ’cos I was in so much pain.”
Boy Number 26 Page 12