The Paddy is a lonely man wherever he goes, and it seems to me he can only find solace in the public house. The pubs in Camden Town do a roaring trade all the year round, simply because it’s a town of bachelors who have no responsibility except to pay for their lodgings, after which most of the money is spent on drink. The young Irish lads go dancing at weekends and only patronize their own dance halls. They usually have a fair amount to drink which gives them courage to get on to the dance floor, and after each dance they get dry again and must go out for a thirst quencher. But they give up dancing at an early age and from the time they reach the thirty mark it’s just a constant pub crawl. Only about one in every three ever get married, and those who do marry often wait until they are in the late middle age. The men generally speaking may be said to be poor husbands and fathers. The criminal neglect of children in Catholic Ireland is a disgrace to any so-called civilized society. Hence the large number of young children in industrial schools and convents. The number of children admitted to such places as a result of neglect is more than one in every eight of the population. These places are most unsuitable for any child because the people who run them are not qualified to look after children, owing to the fact that they never had children of their own. The nuns and Christian Brothers live a most unhealthy and unnatural life. They become lonely and frustrated as a result of their interpretation of the religious laws.
The care of children is the most important work in any society, and those whose responsibility it is to train and educate children ought to be chosen by a team of doctors. There is a mental hospital for nuns just outside Dublin, with several hundred patients. Surely this speaks for itself. If those unfortunate women were permitted to live a normal and natural life, I feel sure such a home would be unnecessary. Convents and industrial schools are places where children are destroyed mentally and sometimes physically.
My vocabulary is too limited to explain to my reader the degree of destruction which takes place to the child in the Catholic school in Ireland. In order to give you some idea of what I mean I will make a rather crude comparison between a most beautiful and perfect human machine, namely the child, and the most beautiful and perfect machine made by the hands of man, a watch costing £2000.I have actually seen a watch in a shop window in Regent Street, London, on sale for this figure. As I looked at this watch I thought of the man who made it. I imagined I could see the master craftsman sitting down, measuring, cutting, making and polishing each minute component part to a thousandth of an inch, and spending perhaps years making this precision machine from the most precious materials in the world. Now just imagine the watch falling into the hands of a madman, who places it on an anvil, and strikes it many times with a fourteen-pound hammer. The degree of destruction caused to the child in the Catholic school is much worse because the watch can be repaired very much easier than the mind of the child who has been in the hands of some foul and wretched religious fanatic whose only purpose in life is to cause pain and suffering to an innocent and defenceless creature, knowing full well the child cannot hit back.
It is a most dreadful state of affairs that this is going on in almost every Catholic school in Ireland to-day. Not only is this savage ill-treatment permitted by the Catholic authorities, but a powerful section of our society is fighting to preserve it. It was bad enough having witnessed and suffered cruel and sadistic beatings myself for many years of agony. But now I must listen to the stories of others. It’s only six months since I sat in a small café near King’s Cross Station, London, and listened to a young girl of sixteen tell her sad story of how she was beaten every day by a Catholic nun in a convent in the town of Lanark in Scotland. I asked her to come with me to the police, and make a report, but she begged me to say nothing, and asked me to promise faithfully to do nothing about it because she had two small brothers in this convent only three weeks ago. I met a woman called Anne Bethell who lives at 2 Royal College Street, London NW1 who was an inmate of St Vincent’s convent, Berrington Street, Hereford, England until 1943. She complains of being beaten with a scrubbing brush in the bathroom daily, by Sisters M and P16 (they are Sisters of Charity). Both the Sisters were about 27 years old in 1943. Not far from where I live there is a man called Mr Corrie who left a Christian Brothers school in Ireland twelve years ago. He complains of being beaten with a wet towel in the bathroom, and being beaten around the yard with a stick. (He says he has given up the Catholic religion.)
The Irish dance halls in London, Birmingham, Leeds and Liverpool are often the subject of serious reports by the police, who complain of drunken brawls, and rowdyism after the dances. I have seen many times hand to hand fighting on the main streets of Leeds and London during which time traffic has been held up. This usually happens after the public houses are closed. A famous Irish dance hall, called the ‘Blarney Club’ in Tottenham Court Road, London, is a special headache for the local police. A number of police with police dogs may be seen on duty at the main entrance during the last hour of the dance. The large number of Irish prostitutes in Hyde Park, London was the subject of a front-page article in an English newspaper two years ago.
I have now started work in Goswell Road near the city. It’s a small tailor’s shop. The manager who gave me the job has not asked what nationality I was, but in the course of the day mentioned casually that he did not like Irish workmen because they only come to work when they are broke and they often make trouble with the other men. ‘They are bad-tempered and narrow-minded. They think if you are not a Catholic there is something wrong with you.’ I asked him if he realized that I was Irish, he looked surprised, and said ‘no’. ‘But,’ he added ‘there are exceptions. I have met some nice Irish lads.’ I wanted to leave the job that first day, but decided to remain for a week. But I stayed three months.
Back in my lodgings I went out occasionally with three of the lads in the building, the other two in the room with us kept to themselves. One lad had a girlfriend he saw two or three times a week. The other boy was young and rather shy and didn’t bother with anyone. My three companions hardly ever went any place except the pub. We usually went to the Holny Arms at the end of Chatform Road, just under the bridge. This is where a large number of the lads congregate on Sunday morning and can be seen at 11.45 a.m. in the digs. It’s taken for granted that everyone is a Catholic and actually they all go to mass. It would be a terrible thing if anyone thought you did not go to mass. We are in the pub and my pals are all drinking pints of draught Guinness. I only drink half pints, and I always carry the fountain pen and pencil. ‘What do you carry the pen and pencil for?’ asked one of the lads. I answered saying I had a poor education and was learning how to write. They looked puzzled. These lads are terrible drinkers, ten pints each opening session is about their capacity and they always carry out a few bottles. They talk about very little else. They judge a man by the enormous amount he can consume. If a man treats them to a drink he is a good fellow – one of the best. If you are a slow drinker or drink only half pints you are looked on as mean, you are out of place in the public bar and should be in the lounge with the gentlemen. A non-drinker is a most extraordinary individual. A chap who goes with a girl is looked on as a cissy, he is soft, or unmanly. My pals sometimes go the ‘Blarney’ dance for the last hour. They don’t dance but only go there for the crack, that is to meet other lads they know, and make conversation. The dance night is usually on a Saturday. They therefore go to the pub a lot earlier so that a full quota of drink is ensured.
I have changed my job many times, and am living in a furnished apartment in Highbury, North London. It’s better now as I can have a meal out or cook a light meal in my apartment. I am working in Regiment Street for Hector Power and I get on fairly well until it’s discovered that I am Irish. Three of the men don’t speak to me except to remind me of the shortcomings of my people. I am kept fully informed of any fresh shooting incident in Northern Ireland. I am now fed up with everyone and I walk out of my job at 10 a.m. one Monday morning and wander a
bout the streets for several hours. I called to the post office. Why I couldn’t be sure. I now made up my mind to write home, and inform my mother I would be going to see her shortly, after which I should go abroad. Where, was unimportant. I gave a Leeds address, and travelled north that night. I started work two days later, and had completely forgotten about my letter home, when I received a card with a Dublin postmark from my brother telling me that my mother was dead and he had sold the small farm.
As I had little or nothing to do with my family for many years I felt no great sorrow. On the contrary, I was relieved. My mother had been ill for as long as I can remember. She had lost the use of her hands several years ago due to rheumatism. During the few years I spent at home after leaving school I used to wonder how long my mother would have to go on living. She was suffering terribly and would cry most of the night. It was then I began to look upon death as a companion and true friend. The first time I thought seriously about death was when I saw John Kelly dead, the boy who was run over by the coal lorry. He looked so relaxed and peaceful. He looked as though about to smile, very much different to the frightened and terrified look on his face when he was being beaten. My father had died during the first year of the war.
I changed my mind about going abroad. Instead I would try to find out why my people were so disliked. Was their behaviour very much different to that of other nationalities? If so, why? I knew four different families of Irish people living in Leeds, that is chaps who came over to this country (England) and married Irish girls. In some cases the children have already grown up. I study those children for about a year almost daily. I drop in to their houses. I see them playing football or playing in the street. I fail to see any difference in behaviour to that of any other English boys or girls. There are two brothers I know very well aged 17 and 19. One was born in Ireland and came to this country as a baby. The youngest was born here. They are about the same age as Irish lads usually are when they emigrate. The behaviour of the two brothers who have been educated in England is far better than boys of the same age coming from Ireland. As well as observing the boys myself I get reports from their parents. They are honest, truthful, and moderate in their habits. The younger children are more intelligent. They are healthier and happier than most children at home in Ireland. I am talking about the children who go to the day schools and come home in the evening (not those in convents and industrial schools). I am now convinced that it is not the true character of the Irish to be of bad behaviour, but is the result of a bad home life, and a bad system of education at home.
Before leaving London I made a habit of visiting the Irish public houses in the East End (Whitechapel) where almost all the customers are Irish, and I must confess that the behaviour of many of the men was a disgrace to any community. I was severely beaten up for telling them what I thought. I told them we were known abroad as irresponsible liars and drunkards. That the Catholic religion had kept us the most unhappy and the most backward race in Europe. Evidence of our ignorance and backwardness lies in the fact that only a fraction of our people can earn a living at home, and also due to the fact that there were hundreds going about with guns in their pockets. We were a nation of gangsters. I told them there were thousands of overfed priests living on the backs of the people. These parasites must be made to do some useful work. The priest is Ireland’s greatest enemy. He is doing untold harm. The Catholic religion based on fear and myth is the main cause of the high degree of mental illness.
We must have a new religion founded on love, friendship and understanding. Ireland ought to be for the people. The priest has made life intolerable for us at home, hence the stampede to emigrate. We want home rule, NOT ROME RULE.
Notes
Introduction
1. London Metropolitan Police to Owen Sheehy Skeffington, June 1968. Sheehy Skeffington Papers NLI MS 40,543/12.
2. Andrée Sheehy Skeffington, Skeff: A Life of Owen Sheehy Skeffington (Dublin, Lilliput, 1991), pp. 190–1.
3. Mavis Arnold and Heather Laskey, Children of the Poor Clare’s: The Story of an Irish Orphanage (Belfast, Appletree, 1985).
4. As a further challenge to the mainstream 1916 narrative, the elements of Tyrrell’s account arise from the three main lacunae of modern Irish history: those who went to industrial schools, those who joined the British Army, and those who emigrated.
5. See below p. 70.
6. Tyrrell to Sheehy Skeffington, MS 40,543/3.
7. See below p. 184.
8. Testimony of Br. David Gibson to Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse, 16 June 2005. p. 46. http://www.childabuse commission.ie/public_hearings/diary.htm. Accessed 8 August 2005.
9. Tyrrell to Sheehy Skeffington, MS 40,543/1.
10. Tyrrell to Sheehy Skeffington, 22 July 1958. MS 40,543/1.
11. Tyrrell to Christian Brothers 16 Aug. 1953, Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse transcript (16/06/05), p.120.
12. MS 40,545/12.
13. ‘To boys who don’t mind it, corporal punishment does no good; to those who do mind it, it does harm – not physical harm, mental harm; and to some who have never received it the sight of it being inflicted on others can do harm, particularly to young children.’ Owen Sheehy Skeffington, ‘Some Debating Arguments Against Corporal Punishment in Schools. 24/2/57’, OSS Papers NLI. MS 40,542/15.
14. Rules and Regulations for the Certified Industrial Schools in Saorstat Éireann. ‘Discipline: The manager shall be authorised to punish the children detained in the school in case of misconduct. All serious misconduct, and the punishments inflicted for it, shall be entered in a book to be kept for that purpose, which shall be laid before the inspector before he visits. The manager must, however, remember that the more closely the school is modelled on a principle of judicious family government, the more salutary will be its discipline, and the more effective its moral influences on the children.’ Sec. 13 (Punishments) reads: ‘Punishments shall consist of: (a) Forfeiture of rewards and privileges, or degradation from rank, previously attained by good behaviour. (b) Moderate childish punishment with the hand. (c) Chastisement with the cane, strap or birch. Referring to (c) personal chastisement may be inflicted by the Manager, or in his presence, by an Officer specially authorized by him, and in no case may it be inflicted upon girls over 15 years of age. In the case of girls under 15, it shall not be inflicted except in cases of urgent necessity, each of which must be at once fully reported to the Inspector. Caning on the hand is forbidden. No punishment not mentioned above shall be inflicted.’ The inspection books listing the punishments in Letterfrack have disappeared. Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse, http://www.childabusecommission.ie/public_hearings/diary.htm. Accessed 8 August 2005. ‘Evidence of Br David Gibson before Mr. Justice Sean Ryan’, 16 June 2005. ‘There are no Punishment books’, p. 114.
15. ‘Brother Dooley told us that this boy had a lazy mind and it was hoped that the beating would make him think like normal children.’ See below p. 71.
16. MS 40,545/2. When he returned from Letterfrack the first thing his mother said was ‘I thought there was something wrong, you have written only three times in the last two years. How could you forget me?’
17. MS 40,455/8.
18. See below p. 272.
19. MS 40,455/8.
20. MS 40,545/6.
21. See below p. 308.
22. See below pp. 313–14.
23. See below p. 317.
24. MS 40,545/1.
25. MS 40,543/11.
26. ‘I have spent the last few years asking people why they have emigrated, and if and when they desire to return. But such questions are dynamite. Most Irish men and women consider it an insult to be asked a personal question like “Why did you leave home?” “Will you ever return?” Most of those people are deeply religious and patriotic.’ MS 40,545/8.
27. Ibid.
28. Ibid.
29. See below p. 317.
30. ‘When I quoted the priest in Hyde Park recently, they (the Irish) pulled me
off the platform.’ P. Tyrrell to OSS, 16 Oct. 1965. MS 40,543/11.
31. See below p. 328.
32. MS 40,543/8.
33. MS 40,543/7.
34. Skeffington sent him back a cheque for the money Tyrrell sent him. MS 40,545/15.
35. MS 40,543/11.
36. ‘Early days in Letterfrack: Memories of an Industrial School by Peter Tyrrell’, Hibernia, June 1964.
37. Quoted from original prospectus of the group.
38. Tyrrell to Skeffington, 7 Nov. 1964. MS 40,543/12. In another letter Tyrrell refers to Rudd as ‘sincere and conscientious’.
39. The only direct reference to Tyrrell’s testimony in the Report is the following: ‘We have received accounts from a number of ex-pupils of boys’ schools alleging excessive corporal punishment in the past ... The belief that beating was good for boys appears to have been widespread in Ireland in the past but is probably less prevalent today.’ They reported on conditions in Letterfrack that ‘We were particularly impressed by the appearance of the boys. They seemed to be well cared for and were neatly dressed in bright, casual clothes, coloured and floral shirts, blazers and sports jackets. They were cheerful and talkative and, except that some of them had very small physiques, had not the appearance of being deprived or depressed.’ Some of Our Children: A Report on the Residential Care of the Deprived Child in Ireland by a London Branch Study Group (Tuairim, 1966), p. 22.
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