The House Children

by Heidi Daniele

  The House Children

  Copyright © 2019 Heidi Daniele

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or

  portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,

  A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC

  Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007

  www.gosparkpress.com

  Published 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-943006-94-6 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978-1-943006-95-3 (e-bk)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018959803

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For the lovely ladies from Saint Joseph’s Industrial School

  “Stone on stone,

  No mortar, still strong.

  Like the rock walls of Ireland may you withstand the weather.”

  —Heidi Daniele

  A Sentimental Journey

  CHAPTER ONE

  M y birth was a sin and a crime. I was born in the Tuam Mother Baby Home to an inmate serving a year of penal servitude, her crime an out-of-wedlock pregnancy. When she was discharged, she was forced to leave me behind in the care of the Bon Secur nuns. This archaic system imposed an unbearable weight of shame that both my mother and I carried into our futures.

  I’m grateful that, as I look back in time, the further I go, the fewer memories I have, but then I wonder why these particular memories have remained. I spent my first four years in that home and the only knowledge I have about it is what I’ve since read in newspapers. There were reports of neglect and early deaths of so many children, their bodies disposed of in a rotting septic tank in the rear of the property. So I was one of the fortunate ones with no memory of that time and having survived.

  My earliest recollections are from when I lived with the Clearys, my foster family. Their small thatched cottage was in a remote town in Galway called Lissawullen. The Clearys appeared to be a typical Irish family. Mrs. Cleary ran the household, her two children went to school, and her husband was a farmer. Their home was sparsely furnished and decorated with a few Catholic pictures and statues. At first I thought they were my family, but when I called Mrs. Cleary “Mam,” she quickly retorted, “I’m not yer mam, yer an illegitimate.”

  Mrs. Cleary’s two children attended school, but she kept me home even though I was of age. When I asked if I could go to school she said, “Yer too wee ta make the long walk.” Instead, rain or shine she’d send me outside where I’d wander freely around the fields and play with Sheppard, the family dog.

  The sight of Mr. Cleary herding his sheep into the barn at dusk was my signal to return to the house, where I was confined to a short, three-legged stool by the hearth. At bedtime Mrs. Cleary would toss me a blanket and I’d lie down by the fireplace with Sheppard at my side. The warmth of the fire could never suppress the dampness that came up through the thin cement floor.

  Each morning I’d sit quietly on my stool and watch Mrs. Cleary feed her children, and then comb their hair before they left the house. Meghan would smile and say goodbye to me as she gently pat Sheppard on the head and Sean would lean down and pinch me before walking out the front door. The first time he did it I cried and Mrs. Cleary hit me on the head, so after that I just braced myself each morning and held back my tears. After they’d leave, Sheppard would nuzzle up against my legs and we’d wait for Mrs. Cleary to feed us the leftover scraps before opening the door to let us out for the day.

  The most vivid memory I have from that time happened on a summer night in 1943. Images of that night still creep into my mind and keep me from sleeping. I was sitting on my stool looking at the flames still alive in the fireplace where Mrs. Cleary had cooked supper. The air in the kitchen was hot and arid, adding to the tension that was suffocating the room. From the corner of my eye I could see Mrs. Cleary standing by the sink wiping her brow with a dishrag. Sean and Meghan were at the table eating their supper and they began to giggle and that irritated Mrs. Cleary. “You two get in the back room!”

  I held my breath and watched them leave the kitchen. Mrs. Cleary went to the table and grabbed a piece of uneaten meat from one of the plates and tossed it my way. I picked it up off the floor and ate it, chewing it slowly to make it last.

  The front door swung open and I looked down toward the floor and watched the dirt fall from Mr. Cleary’s boots as he stumbled over to the table. “Where’s my supper?”

  Mrs. Cleary banged the dishes in response and then her sturdy black shoes moved across the floor toward the sink and then back to the table where I heard her set down a plate. I poked at a hole in my shirt and listened as he mocked her.

  “I wouldn’t feed this slop ta an animal!” he yelled and then he called for his children to come and sit with him. I heard Sean open the door and step into the kitchen. I looked up when Mrs. Cleary shouted at him, “Get back inta that room!” He quickly disappeared closing the door behind him. Then Mr. Cleary stood up and I thought he might be coming for me, but instead he shoved his wife violently and she grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling. I looked down at the hole in my shirt, hoping he wouldn’t notice me.

  Suddenly Mrs. Cleary grabbed the stool out from under me and I fell backwards, my head crashing on the floor. I let out a loud cry and watched as Mr. Cleary tried to grab the stool from her as she waved it in the air before smashing it over his head. He dropped straight to the floor and lay there motionless. She stood there her face flushed, and her breath heavy, the stool still in her hand hanging at her side. I sat up and began to retch at the sight of blood pooling around Mr. Cleary’s head.

  “Shut up and stop yer sobbing!”

  I tried to swallow my tears and slid backwards, terrified she was going to hit me next. I pulled my knees close to my chest and watched the red stream from Mr. Cleary’s head slowly flow toward my shoes.

  Sean came into the kitchen and stood there speechless, his mouth agape, and Meghan began to cry and scream, “Mam, what’d ya do? What’d ya do?”

  Mrs. Cleary’s eyes darted from her husband, to her children, and then toward me. My eyes went back and forth between the stool in her hand and the expression on her bright, red face.

  “Sean, take Meghan outside.”

  Sean pointed to me and asked, “What about her?”

  “Leave her.”

  They left the house and I remained sitting on the kitchen floor shivering with fear. Mrs. Cleary stepped over her husband and tossed the stool into the fireplace. She washed her hands and then picked up her dishrag from the floor and hung it on a hook. It seemed like a long time that she stood there by the sink looking into the fire watching the stool burn. Mr. Cleary lay on the floor in a pool of blood and for a moment I thought I saw his hand move. Mrs. Cleary came toward me and I raised my hands to cover my head and she grabbed my arm, yanked me up off the floor and pulled me behind her as she walked out the front door.

  “Let’s go,” she said to her children, swiftly moving toward the barn, dragging me behind her. When she let go of me I ran over and stood next to Meghan. Sean helped his mother open the two large doors, and Meghan and I followed them inside, silently watching as they hitched a cart to their horse, Ginger.

  “Get in,” Mrs. Cleary ordered Meghan. Sheppard jumped into the cart behind her and Mrs. Cleary grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off. “That dog has the mange, we ain’t taking him.
”

  I stood there waiting for my instructions.

  Mrs. Cleary got into the cart and threw one of Ginger’s blankets at me. “You stay put.”

  Sean took the reins and guided Ginger through the large opening. Once they were outside Mrs. Cleary jumped off the cart and shut the barn doors, leaving me and Sheppard behind.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been left in the barn; she put me in here often, but it still scared me. I curled up on the blanket and cried. Sheppard came over and lay down beside me. Sheppard and I were the same, both of us targets of the Clearys’ rage. I tried to block out the image of the pool of blood around Mr. Cleary’s head streaming out across the kitchen floor.

  I woke to Sheppard’s wild barking and began to cry again. A woman’s voice called from outside the barn. “Mary Margaret, Mary Margaret!”

  One of the barn doors opened and a ray of sunlight followed a woman as she came inside. She was familiar to me, a rare visitor who’d been especially kind to me whenever she was here. She rushed over, knelt down, and wrapped her arms around me. Her embrace was comforting and she gently rocked me while I wept. “I’m so sorry, Mary Margaret, I’m so sorry,” she said, and then she began to cry, too.

  My memory of what happened next is vague. I recall she took me to another farm where she lived with her mother, father, and a sister.

  The sisters said little amongst themselves as they washed me outside by the well and then brought me inside to feed me. I remember thinking they were so kind and gentle, and I felt safe. They didn’t ask me any questions and I didn’t say much. “She’s still in shock,” said their mother. I don’t recall actually meeting their father.

  I know I slept through the night in a back room on a real bed and woke up confused, unsure of where I was. The sound of people arguing lured me out of bed and I slowly cracked open the door. The family was sitting at the table, the man’s back to me. He banged his fist down and said, “I want her out of here.” The mother nodded her head and said, “I’ll talk to Father Cosgrove.” One of the sisters started to cry and the other one stood up. “But she’s yer blood!” I closed the door when I heard the word “blood.”

  I lay back down on the bed and cried thinking about the Clearys and that I didn’t want to go back there. The older lady came into the bedroom and patted me on the head. “Now yer ta ferget what ya saw over there,” she said and wiped my face dry. Then she asked me, “Are ya hungry?” and I nodded my head and forced a smile.

  The older lady left the house and the sisters fed me, dressed me and then took me outside. They told me to stay by the house and to keep out of the fields. I knew it had something to do with the man cutting turf in the distance. I sensed they were trying to keep me out of his sight and I was familiar with that feeling.

  The following morning the sisters fussed over me, washing me, brushing my hair until it was smooth, and dressing me in a pretty blue frock. I enjoyed the attention and recall thinking about how lovely it would be to stay with them. My fondest memory of that morning was when the woman that found me in the barn scooped me up into her arms and her sister said, “Smile fer the camera.” That was the first and only time I had my picture taken as a child.

  The sisters laughed and played with me outside while their mother sat somberly on a chair by the front door. Their mood changed quickly when a black car pulled up in front of the house and a lady dressed in a dark skirt and white blouse emerged from the passenger seat.

  The next thing I remember is feeling a hand on my back gently pushing me toward the car and someone saying, “Go on now, Mary Margaret. Mrs. Moran will see ta it that yer taken care of.”

  “Am I goin back ta the Cleary’s?” I asked Mrs. Moran as she helped me into the back seat. She smiled and said, “No.”

  It was a relief to hear that, but I was still scared of the unknown ahead of me. I stood up on the seat and looked out the rear window as the car pulled away from the curb. I waved to the three women. One of them waved back, the older lady looked down, and the other one brought her hands up to cover her face.

  We drove for what seemed like a long time, down narrow country roads and through small villages, before coming into the small town of Ballinasloe. The driver stopped in front of the district court house, a large, intimidating gray building.

  “Pick me up at the convent in about two hours,” Mrs. Moran said to the driver and then she led me into the building.

  We entered a noisy crowded courtroom. The judge, robed in black, sat in front at a high table, his clerk beside him. I sat down next to an impish-looking boy close to my age. Mrs. Moran handed me a biscuit and then sorted some papers she’d removed from her satchel. The boy next to me eyed my treat and I could tell he was hungry, so I slid it over to him.

  Silence took over the room when the clerk stood up. “Malcolm O’Neill, ten years old, charged with missin school fer two months and not havin a parent that’ll exercise proper guardianship.”

  All eyes followed the garda and the young boy he escorted down the aisle. After looking over some papers the judge said, “Sentenced ta four years in the Certified Industrial School Artane, ta be cared fer by the Christian Brothers in Dublin.”

  The room filled with whispers about Artane, and a woman behind me began to cry. The judge slammed down his gavel. The noise caused me to jump and the room was silent again.

  One child after another was brought before the judge and sentenced to one industrial school or another.

  My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach when the clerk called, “Mary Margaret Joyce, six years old, the charge is destitute and not an orphan.”

  Mrs. Moran tugged at me to get up and follow her, and I held back the tears as everyone looked at me walking down the aisle. The judge reviewed the papers and then asked, “Parent consent?”

  Mrs. Moran quickly replied, “Yes yer honor. The mother is unable ta support her. The child is illegitimate.”

  The judge lifted his spectacles and looked down at me. “Mary Margaret Joyce, sentenced ta nine years in the Certified Industrial School Saint Thomas, ta be cared fer by the Sisters of Mercy in Ballinasloe.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  T he afternoon air was warm when we left the courthouse and I wanted to run, but I had nowhere to go. Instead, I walked with Mrs. Moran down Society Street to Saint Thomas’ Convent. She pushed open the heavy iron gate that led to an ornate door and rang the bell. A teenage girl with big brown eyes, auburn hair, and a bright smile welcomed us into a grand foyer. After a brief exchange, Bridget, the girl with the sunny personality, picked up a striker and hit a gong-like bell, sending reverberations up a wide staircase and down the hallways.

  A few moments later, my eyes were drawn upward to the large woman with a broad, steely face descending the stairs. She was dressed in black from head to toe, and a clinking sound came from the wooden beads and leather strap that swung from her waist with every step she took.

  “Good day, Sister Constance,” said Mrs. Moran. Then she motioned toward me. “This is the admission Father Cosgrove sent.”

  Sister Constance looked me over with a critical eye, making me feel like an object instead of a person. Her presence overwhelmed me, and I watched her large hand as it reached for the papers Mrs. Moran brought from the courthouse. She told Bridget to serve us tea in Saint Andrew’s Parlor and then left the foyer. I sighed with relief when she disappeared down one of the mysterious corridors.

  Bridget beckoned us into an elegant room, where Mrs. Moran settled herself into one of the four brocade-covered chairs around a highly polished table. I felt daunted by the opulent surroundings but my attention was quickly diverted when Bridget returned carrying a silver tray laden with baked goods and a pot of tea. Bridget smiled at me and said, “Now don’t ya worry, sure it’s the Mercys that’ve reared me, and I’m just fine!”

  The scones were delicious and I helped myself to a second one, slathering it with butter and jam. Sister Constance reappeared just as I was licking the excess off my fingers
. I jumped off the chair and put my hand behind my back as if to hide evidence of my guilt. She gave me a glaring look and then handed Mrs. Moran an envelope.

  “We’d appreciate anything you can do to bring us up to capacity. We’ve room for eleven more.”

  Mrs. Moran left the room and Sister Xavier came in with a ledger.

  “I have recorded Mary Margaret’s information and assigned her number 27.”

  Sister Constance glanced at the documents.

  “Change her name to Peg, we have too many Marys.”

  Then she instructed me to take a seat on the bench just outside the parlor door. Biting down on my lower lip, trying not to cry, I wiped away the random tear that escaped.

  A woman with short cropped hair and slightly hunched shoulders shuffled over to me.

  “Isn’t that a pretty blue frock ya got on?”

  I forced a smile and looked up at her, surprised to see how young she was.

  “I’m Katie Robbins, and I’m ta see ya get settled in.”

  “I’m Mary Margaret.”

  “Not in here, dear. From now on, yer Peg or number 27.”

  She extended her dry, calloused hand, with fingernails bitten to the quick, and took me down a hallway. I pulled from her grip as we left the convent through a rear door. A path led us to a garden adjacent to a large gray building. Standing at the edge of the garden I looked toward two nuns strolling through the flower beds.

  “Yer never ta go inta the garden,” said Katie. “Tis where the nuns go ta walk and pray.”

  Then she turned toward the building and I followed her up the wide stone steps to a white door. As she reached for the knob, a voice rose from the far side of the stoop.

  “Hello Katie, who’ve you got with you today?”

  Katie pushed me toward the voice. “Hello, Sister Carmel, this is Peg.”

  The nun stood up and put her spade on the step. Her round jovial face, encased in black, beamed a bright red.