‘This is Ozzy,’ she said, going over to give him a hug.
He looked like he’d lived on the streets all his life, but I still thought he had a charm about him. We joined him on the steps. I was freezing, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold. As he spoke, it became clear that he’d been ducking and diving for a long time and obviously got a buzz from it. I couldn’t imagine him ever being the kind of person who would live conventionally, working nine to five to pay his bills.
But Patsy was right, he was a nice person, and he seemed genuinely to care about our predicament. He offered to phone Bernadette Devlin to see if she could help us in any way. I wasn’t sure what she’d be able to do but thought it was worth a try. He went to phone her while we waited on the step.
He came back with a smile on his face. ‘I’ve got yous a lift to see her at her house in Cookstown,’ he said. ‘It should be here any moment.’
I had no idea how far Cookstown was, but there was no time to think about it. A car beeped nearby. ‘That will be yer lift now. Don’t worry, she’s great and she’ll help ye.’
Ozzy and Patsy walked us to the car, and the driver told us to get in. We waved to Patsy, not knowing when we’d see her again. It was a long drive, lasting well over an hour, but at least the car was warm.
When we arrived at Bernadette Devlin’s house, she was standing at the door waiting for us. We got out of the car, feeling a bit unsure of why we were there. She was very welcoming, shaking us by the hand and asking us to come in, but as we entered the house, I caught a glimpse of some nuns and a priest through the living-room door. Anger shot through me when I realised she’d betrayed us. I turned to make a run for it.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Come on through to the kitchen and we’ll talk.’
I didn’t move, even when she reassured me that the nuns would remain in the living room. She said that, as an MP, she had to respect the law and inform St Joseph’s that we were coming to her house, but she promised that we wouldn’t be disturbed and that we could have a good talk about our grievances.
I fought my instincts to flee and followed her through to the kitchen. Over tea and biscuits, Mary and I described what it was like in the convent, why we’d run away and why we couldn’t go back. We talked for a long time, but all the while I was aware of the nuns in the living room and couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable. They were probably devising our next punishment with relish.
Bernadette Devlin seemed really nice, but she told us that she could only help us if we went back with the nuns. Obviously, we didn’t like the sound of that.
‘Ye don’t know what they’re like!’ I said. ‘We’re not going to get away with running away and talking to ye about them. They’ll go mad on us!’
‘Please don’t send us back, or it will all have been for nothing!’ Mary blurted out.
We were terrified, but it seemed inevitable that we were going back to the convent.
‘If yous want me to help ye, then yous will have to trust me,’ Bernadette said. ‘I will talk to the nuns before ye go back, and I don’t think that they’ll be punishing yous this time. Come on, girls, you can use my bathroom to clean up your faces and tidy your hair.’
I was brushing my hair with a round wooden brush when she came in to tell us that she’d spoken with the nuns and it was time to go. Not wanting to meet her eye, I stared sadly at the hairbrush in my hand.
‘You can keep that, if ye want. Take it with ye,’ she said.
I couldn’t believe it. This was going to raise my status back at St Joseph’s. We were allowed a few basic possessions, like clothes and photos, but no one there could say that her hairbrush used to belong to Bernadette Devlin, MP.
A few months later, Sister Mary came to find me in the sacristy. I was on my knees next to a bucket of Jeyes Fluid and water.
‘Reilly!’ she barked. ‘Go to the dormitory and get your things together. You are leaving us today.’
I put down my scrubbing brush and stood up. ‘What do ye mean?’ I stammered. ‘Where am I going?’
‘You are going to work for a good Catholic family in Portadown, and I hope they work you hard, Reilly. Good riddance to you, that’s what I say. You won’t be missed at St Joseph’s, that’s for sure. A car will be picking you up at three.’
My mouth fell open. ‘I’m getting out? Today?’
‘I’ve already told you that, Reilly. Now get yourself to the dormitory, sort your possessions out and report to the Mother Superior.’
‘Yes, Sister!’
As I turned to run out of the sacristy, I knocked over the bucket of Jeyes Fluid and water. Sister Mary shouted at me to come back and clear up the mess, but I just went on running as if I hadn’t heard her.
I rushed to find Sinéad. She was in the laundry with a couple of her mates.
‘I’ll come and visit ye as often as I can,’ I promised.
‘When ye do, don’t forget to bring me stuff,’ she said.
‘As much as I can carry,’ I said, hugging her.
At three o’clock that afternoon, dizzy with fear and excitement, I walked out of the main convent building and into a waiting car, carrying nothing but an extra set of clothes, a nightdress, a comb and a toothbrush in a case supplied by the nuns. Bernadette Devlin’s hairbrush had been stolen a while back, so I had nothing of my own, apart from the emotional scars left by a childhood of abuse. As the car pulled away, I looked back and saw Sinéad standing on the steps, waving goodbye. I waved back and went on waving until she was out of sight. I had no idea what lay ahead of me as the car passed through the gates, but one thing was clear: at last I was free.
EPILOGUE
Sinéad left the remand home two years after I did. By then I was back in Omagh. She came to find me and moved to Omagh, too. A few years later I moved to Antrim, and she followed me again. I love her, but we never became really close again. The only thing we ever talked about was the convent; it was so hard to move on from it. A few years later she had to move away, and we lost touch. I’ve not seen her now for about thirty years.
I met Loretta again when I was twenty-three. She was living in London with my mother and two younger brothers. My first question to her was, ‘Why did you leave without telling us?’ She said nothing, just gave me a look as if to say, ‘just did, so what?’ I visited her again several times after she moved out of my mother’s. We got on well, and I was always pleased to see her, but all we really had in common was the convent and my mother. Both were painful subjects for us. She still could not write, and the scars on her back were still clearly visible. The visits triggered painful memories, and over the years we saw less of each other. Then, after about ten years, the visits stopped altogether.
I almost wish that I hadn’t met my mother again: she was a huge disappointment to me. I’d hoped and imagined her to be something like Siobhan at the farm, the only mother figure I’d ever had, so I was disgusted to find her in a drunken state when I arrived at her house at eleven o’clock in the morning. The house was a mess. I asked her why she’d put us in the convent. ‘I didn’t want yous girls growing up and stealing my blokes,’ she said with a harsh laugh. I took a good look at her and thought to myself, I’ll never be like you. I visited her again several times, searching for a more satisfactory explanation and for some glimmer of remorse. Eventually, I realised there was none.
I finally met Marie, my eldest sister, when I was twenty-five. She was a wonderful women, but seriously scarred by her childhood, just like the rest of us.
I retained my enthusiasm for singing and spent many years working as a professional singer in pubs and clubs throughout south-east England, though I have not sung professionally since my youngest child left home, about thirteen years ago.
I learnt how to read and write with my children, using simple ABC books and watching children’s television. Soon I was picking up adult books, skipping over the words I didn’t understand. A very patient shopkeeper taught me about money. He’d wait until all his other cust
omers had left the shop before saying, ‘Show me what ye’ve got, sure, and I’ll tell ye what ye can buy.’
After leaving the remand home, my interest in the supernatural deepened. I continued to have premonitions and also found that I can sometimes pick up on people’s thoughts. Normally I have no control over what I pick up, and often it seems to happen when I am feeling low. My friends tell me I have a gift, but I have never thought of it like that.
I didn’t see any of the girls I had grown up with until a few years ago, when we met at a Nazareth House reunion in Belfast. It felt strange – a group of women asking each other, ‘What was your number, then?’ Later we had a bit to drink and started singing the songs that we had sung as children. I remembered the words of all the songs that got us through the bad times. When I told them that I was taking the nuns to court, they were very sympathetic, but only one of them, Ann Marie, felt able to support me. She had already contacted the police and had asked to make a statement, but she backed out because she felt that without support from other victims she would not be believed. I knew how she felt. We have kept in touch and I visit her regularly in Belfast.
I never saw Francy again, the boy who saved me from drowning, but I’ve never forgotten him. I would not be here to tell my story if it wasn’t for his bravery. Thank you, Francy.
Shortly after I started taking legal action against the Nuns, I felt unable to cope with my depression and went to see my GP. She suggested that I have some counselling and set up an appointment for me with a counsellor, Merril Mathews.
Merril was a great counsellor, and the sessions with her began to put the events of my childhood into perspective. During our sessions I relived my experiences in the convent. Then I went home and wrote about them, while they were fresh in my mind. It was around this time that I wrote some of the hardest chapters of the book. Counselling proved to be the best thing that I have done to help myself. It wasn’t only her counselling skills that helped me. She was caring and warm; a genuinely wonderful person who I know shared my pain at our sessions. I considered myself very fortunate to be placed in such good hands. Merril and I still keep in touch on the phone, and I have a lot of respect and love for her.
Putting my thoughts down on paper was very painful, but in conjunction with the counselling, it helped me understand what had happened to me. Also, and most importantly, it helped me realise that it was not my fault. Very slowly, I felt that I was gaining control over my memories. Now, when I think about my childhood, it’s still painful, but I no longer feel the devastation that I felt when I first started writing.
Finally, after nine long years, my legal action against the Poor Sisters of Nazareth has been settled. It has been a long and difficult struggle, but one during which I have gradually gained in strength and confidence. I know I still have some way to go, but at last I feel that my life is heading in the right direction. I have been asked by so many people why, after so many years, it was so important to me to pursue this case. Why put myself through the pain? My answer to that was simple enough, I had no choice: my life had fallen apart and if I was to move forward I had to confront the demons of my past. An important part of the healing process for me has been transferring my memories to paper.
It is my hope that publishing my story will not only help but will lead to a better understanding of the long-term damage that abuse can do. When I came into contact with other girls from Nazareth House, during the writing of this book, I saw that all of them were victims who have been damaged to some extent. Meeting them again, I realised that for too long we have suffered in silence. It is time for our story to be told.
Suffer The Little Children Page 25