As I went home that evening I felt ashamed at what Mr Bradley had said. I wasn’t whistling as I walked either. I began to realise that I was not wanted.
The thoughts of being rejected frightened me. If an ex-Artane lad was rejected by his work because he did not fit in he was returned to Artane if he had no family to look after him. Being an orphan, I would have had to return, as I would not be able to pay for my keep. That night as I lay down to sleep I felt unwanted, but I prayed as I had learnt to pray in Artane. I made up my mind that I would not be going back. I knew I could fight to achieve that end, and, thank God, I did. I was bitterly determined to succeed.
By the end of 1958, I was more settled in work. Mrs Bradley was very kind. She must have felt sorry for me. She brought me into the house some evenings to feed me. How I loved that!
I walked to work from the boys’ home to the little bakery in Fairview, getting up at about four, with no breakfast, just a few ‘prairie sandwiches’ to take with me. The lads often had no lunch with them, and Eddie and Matt would be glad to share mine. Eddie would often remark, ‘For Jesus’s sake, Pat, could they not find a bloomin’ thing to put in them?’
‘Bread and margarine? What yeh expect for seven shillings and sixpence a week?’ said Matt. ‘Ham and bleedin’ eggs, no way!’
I liked Eddie, though often he’d get ratty with me. A favourite expression of his was ‘Look, Paddy, for feck’s sake, d’yeh want me to lose me rag? Do yeh?’
Matt was quite something else. He showed all the signs of an Artaner. He enjoyed ordering people about, and he loved his authority; he spoke down to everyone when there were people about. He was more at home and normal when he found himself in trouble, as the times when Eddie didn’t come in to work. Matt would need me to help him through the day, and he was a better bloke then.
One day I was working with the boss and Eddie. During tea break neither Mick nor Eddie had anything to eat with them. We never stopped for long, as there was always bread or whatever it was to come out of the oven. I was the only one who brought lunch with me. The boss looked at me. I was apprehensive about offering him some of my prairie sandwiches. Mick glanced at me. Putting down the cup he said, ‘Goddamn it, Pat, can I have one?’ Eddie laughed. I watched as Mick opened the bread up. ‘Is this all they feed you with? Damn shame.’ He looked me in the eye and spoke softly. ‘You know, son, you’ll have to find a real home. You’re living far too long with Artane.’
‘He reeks of Artane!’ Eddie shouted.
‘You need a good woman to sort you out, Pat,’ Mick said, as he turned to face Eddie. ‘What do you think?’
Eddie almost choked on his Woodbine, and then responded, ‘If there was a room in my place me ma would look after him.’
Mick reacted instantly. ‘Ah, sure, ’tis the old story, Eddie. If I had the money I’d buy you a jar. If only I had this and that, I’d do wonders, Eddie.’
Some days later I was asked to do the garden and paint the bakery windows, as there was not enough work in the bakery for the three of us. I was asked to come up for tea by Pauline. I began to get the feeling for real home life as I made myself comfortable. Mick Bradley asked me if I’d like to see around. How could I say no? As I stood in their large bedroom I imagined what it would be like to sleep in a nicely painted room all to myself, with carpet on the floor. As I meandered back from the Bradleys’ house I felt happy within myself but realised that that kind of happiness is too instant, and once I got back to the boys’ home I was back down to earth.
In September 1958 Dublin got to the All-Ireland final in Croke Park. My boss, Mick Bradley, was on a high. The bakery was decked out in the red-and-white colours of Derry and the blue of Dublin. I didn’t see Mick for a few weeks after Dublin’s great victory. When I did see him he was on crutches. He had broken his leg trying to climb a wall outside Croke Park to get in to the game.
In those days I was an ardent Dublin supporter. I recall seeing the Macker, the Sheriff and a few more Brothers at the games. On many an occasion ex-Artaners, especially those living in Sheriff Street and the Catholic Boys’ Home, threw apples or bottles at the Brothers. The Sheriff got hit on many occasions, yet it never changed him one bit. I realise my feeling might be incomprehensible to some, perhaps a complex result of the abuse, but it hurt me to see the Brothers being attacked like that. It was never my attitude.
It was during the August holiday Monday in 1958 that I paid a nostalgic visit to the Doyles up in Barnacullia. I set off early from the home with my old pal Seamus, having borrowed Fatser’s bike, as Seamus had decided he would like to make a day of it and leave after breakfast.
We decided to stop at the old schoolhouse in Sandyford and take a walk around the playground before turning up the old road to Barnacullia and Glencullen. We put away our bicycles; locks and chains were not necessary then. We walked the road, up to the old grocer himself, the Tiller Doyle. Bald on top, a touch of silver along the sides, he shouted out: ‘I remember ye, boys. Oh, God be good to those who return to thank those who cared for them!’
I said goodbye to him in a whisper, but never did the words mean so much. All my childhood dreams and fond memories came flooding to my mind. I could only nod to Seamus as we walked on up the climb until we reached the turning of the road that led up to the row of cottages on the hill. The track, as we called it when we lived there, was still the same. I stopped at the well where as a young boy I fetched buckets of water for Bridget Doyle. I could see that Seamus was gazing down the hill and across to Carty’s Green. I knew that he was reliving his lost childhood, as I was.
Mrs Doyle looked as healthy as ever as I put my arms around her. I wondered where Margaret and her brother John were. Before I could ask, in walked Margaret, followed by John – tall, thin but strong-looking, and smiling. As I greeted them, Margaret first, my heart missed a beat. As I turned to shake John’s hand I couldn’t believe how much older than me he looked. I just smiled and cried with joy. I thought of Margaret as my sister, and how I wished to God that she truly was.
Mr Doyle was seated by the open fire in an old well-worn armchair, smoking his pipe; Shep the dog, his muzzle now grizzled with grey, was by his feet.
Bridget was putting homemade apple pie and bread into the oven. She turned to her daughter Margaret. ‘Why don’t you take the lads across the hillside for an hour. Tea will be ready when you return. ’Twill do yeese good, sure. Be back by five o’clock.’
Just then the old clock on the black dresser struck four. The sweet sounds of the chimes brought back fond memories when I was one of the family and believed I was one of them and not just some kid passing through. ‘Ye better be going before it’s time to come back, Margaret,’ Bridget said as she closed the oven door. She raised herself upright, wiping her hands in her colourful pinafore. The beautiful aroma of the apple pie and homemade buttermilk bread in the oven filled my lungs, made me feel hungry. I wished – not for the first time – as we made our way from the cosy hillside cottage that Bridget was my mother.
After the walk with Margaret, we had tea and then I said goodbye to the Doyles. I stood on the green hilltop for a better view of the picturesque landscape that opened up before my eyes. All the beauty of Barnacullia to Glencullen, and behind us lay the ever-changing colours of green and gold that formed part of the Dublin hills, and, below Sandyford, Stepaside to Enniskerry. My dreams were real. The visions I harboured as a prisoner in Artane Industrial School were not imaginary after all. I smiled sadly as I thought that so much I had missed of a normal life as a child can’t ever be brought back.
What I would have given for a foothold in this beautiful hillside, a cosy cottage home with an open log fire, a dog like Shep, a clock on the dresser and a mother like Bridget with a heart of gold. To come home to the aroma of fine cooking where I could sit and dwell and dream by the fireside sure would be real nice, I thought.
I stared down the hillside. Although I was free, each night I had awful nightmares, I walked in my sleep. I shouted
and screamed until perspiration dripped from me. Then there would come the calming voice of the kid holding me. ‘You are all right, Paddy, you’re back from hell or wherever it was you were at. Come on back to bed.’
For a long, silent moment, alone with myself in paradise, my thoughts ran wild, ran free in my childhood days walking down the hillside with my pals, in the gold of autumn, trundling through the piles of crisp fallen leaves and collecting pocketfuls of shiny chestnuts – gosh, at that moment, though I was free, I wept, as I muttered I wish to God that Artane was really only a very bad dream.
As I meandered across the hillside to meet Seamus I cried, yet I wanted to scream and shout out this is where I lost out, my childhood snatched, stolen and brutally crushed by state, power and fear. ‘Fear of the collar,’ I muttered as Seamus approached me.
‘Talking to yourself as usual,’ said Seamus grinning at me.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked him. ‘Well, nothing much really, except you’ve always talked in your sleep. Come on, Paddy,’ he said, ‘let’s go home. A shame, I could have stayed forever up here. It’s so peaceful, so clean.’
I nodded in full agreement, wishing the same things from life as him.
On our return home, Seamus never said a word. The few times that I glanced at him I got the gut feeling he was thinking of how different life as a child growing up in Barnacullia would have been and what he had lost out on, as I did.
I realised just then how difficult it would be just getting used to life on the outside. I wondered: would I make it?
7
THE CATHOLIC BOYS’ Home was a four-storey Georgian building, red brick with a very neglected appearance. It was in a terraced row of Georgian buildings with below-level basements. It was the wishes of the Board of Management that we should look for proper lodgings, and we were encouraged not to make the hostel our permanent home. There was no television to enjoy after work. I played hurling and football, though I began to like soccer, which had been forbidden at Artane. I loved playing the matches that were quickly organised by our soccer fanatics, John and Seamus.
As I recall, there was no such thing as unemployment pay or dole at the time. All Artaners were skilled tradesmen and, what’s more, we didn’t mind hard work or getting up early. This stood us well in tough times though I had so little money.
The Catholic Boys’ Home became a meeting place for Artaners who lived in digs or who had joined the army. I knew of many lads at the time who had lost their jobs and found it hard to deal with people or to fit in, who simply got fed up and joined the army. Many went to England to join up. But wherever they chose to go they brought their skills with them.
The dormitory I was placed in had approximately twenty-four beds, all wrought iron painted green. To match the walls I guess, which were a faded cream and dark green. The dining room was painted similarly – deep cream, and below the dado rail a deep awful dark green, more suited to a toilet, which were also painted cream and dark green. Not to spoil things I guess! Evening tea began at 6pm.
As the weeks passed by I was very disheartened by this awful place they called the Catholic Boys’ Home. A shelter for young Catholics without proper moorings and rife with sexual abuse.
I walked in my sleep. This caused me many problems as I crept into other lads’ beds in my sleep. It was okay when they turned out to be ex-Artaners, but not so good when they were total strangers. I was reported and summoned to the office and threatened with dismissal.
The thoughts of me being left homeless scared me, yet in reality what could I do to prevent myself from sleepwalking? I hated my life and the Catholic Boys’ Home.
One evening I decided to take a shower, certain I was alone. Once under the shower, I felt the heat of another behind me. His voice was soft, deep but breathless. I realised it was Brown Tango. He said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you. Now the time has come. You are so handsome, I want you. I’m go-na have ye, and we’re alone, Collie.’
As he embraced me, I knew I had to fight my way out of this. But how, with what? I was naked. He was taller and stronger than me. ‘Please leave me alone. Please,’ I cried. He was trying desperately to force himself on me. I struggled, we both fell to the floor. I heard voices. I shouted, ‘The Burner, help me. Please, please.’
Brown Tango swore at me. ‘Bastard. I will kill you and them if they come near us.’
‘Are you okay, Collie?’ It was the Burner and Stewie.
I cried out, ‘Please help me. Please get ’im away from me. Please help.’
Stewie dived in on top of Brown Tango followed by the Burner. A fierce fight broke out. I stood up. The Burner was lying beneath the shower. He’d slipped and hit his head on the tiled floor as Stewie fought Brown Tango. I decided to help him and pull Brown Tango to the floor. It was one fight I knew I had to win.
Stewie called out, ‘Check to see if anyone’s about. Quick, I can’t hold this geezer down much longer . . .’
‘Watch it,’ I shouted to Stewie. I was too late. Brown Tango got Stewie in a head lock. I shouted for Sean, hoping he’d come in. I was so relieved when he hurried in to help Stewie. Stewie gave Tango a punch smack in the eye. ‘That’s for tormenting my pal Collie. Go near him ever again and you’ll be sorry,’ said Stewie. He pushed Brown Tango against the wall. ‘Let’s beat it ou-ra this queer’s face.’
I looked at Stewie. ‘Listen, thanks for your help, I’d have been done for only for yeh.’ Stewie put an arm around me. I felt safe, though I was naked. He laughed as he said, ‘He’s after your arse, Collie. He’s a violent fucker, and a dangerous one too.’
I began to get dressed. I felt good in Stewie’s company. When he spoke again I could sense the seriousness in his voice. ‘If that Brown Tango goes near you again and there’s no one around, get the hell out and tell the cops. I mean it. I won’t always be around, Collie. I’m on shift work and I’m going to England next week.’
My heart missed a beat. ‘Are your folks over there?’
He stood facing the cracked mirror, combing his hair. His voice was soft.
‘No, no. My parents live here. I don’t get along with my pa. He’s a docker and he’s always full of booze. Do you remember Oxo?’
I felt my spirits raise. ‘Sure I do.’
‘Well, I’m going to London to stay with him. The bleedin’ money is five times more than I get here. Oxo says the English people he works with are far more Christian and human than the shower over here.’ Stewie continued. ‘Look, Collie. This is not a safe place for the likes of you. Your good looks will draw a certain type to you. Brown Tango is vicious and violent. And you are a good-looking bloke, and I guess you spent quite a bit of time on your knees in Artane. It wasn’t all prayer meetings you were kneeling for and I should know. A few of the Brothers tried to force their hard-on up mine; I know they tried it on you. Remember the night we got caught collecting conkers . . .’
I said, ‘Yeah. Of course.’
‘Well, he actually poked his long finger up my arse, and the pervert stroked my privates. My guess, he got what he was after up yours, am I right?’
‘No, not really. But he tried. and then he flogged me while I was naked with his leather and hands. Then he embraced me after he calmed down. He became a real nice man. How’s that do you think, the sudden change I mean.’
I faced Stewie as he shuffled about. I could see that my question embarrassed him. ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll explain it to you since you don’t understand the flippin’ reason: certain types of men prefer to have sex with young males. They enjoy molesting and even abusing us kids. They get pleasure over naked boys in the Saturday showers. Remember, do yeh?’
‘Of course. How could I ever forget. I walk in my sleep, I suffer awful nightmares.’
‘Who are you telling, you got into my bed the other night, Collie. If you were a girl I’d been on top of yeh in a flash. Nothing weird or queer in that, Collie.’
I was amazed at him. ‘Why is that, I mean, what is the differe
nce?’
His expression changed. ‘Look Collie, you are really very naive, you are different to us.’
‘You think I’m queer?’ I said.
He burst out laughing. As he came closer, he put an arm around me. ‘No, you’re not a queer, but you are fucked up. In your head I mean. You need to find a nice girl and learn how to give her pleasure.’
I was confused. ‘What do yeh mean by that? Can you explain?’
He gasped, laughed at me and said, ‘Oh shit, you want a bleedin’ demonstration or what? Look Collie, you’re a pal. But me Ma couldn’t explain that, never mind me Da, as he’s never sober. But if I ever find out, I promise I’ll tell you.’
I never felt safe inside the Catholic Boys’ Home. Just going to the bathroom was – to my horror – a new experience for me. There I would see young teenagers masturbating with each other and fondling each other. I never hung about as I felt they were committing mortal sin. In fact, I was scared to get involved in or indulge in any form of sexual playacting for fear of committing sin. I believed in the teachings of the Holy Catholic Church, and I kept going to Sunday Mass and all the services. I prayed to God for help and I relied on my faith in God to help me get through each day.
The small bakery I worked in was about one mile from the city centre. There was no transport at 4.30am so I walked, or I marched as many people commented on the way I walk. As though you are a soldier, they’d say. An early start brought its own problems to me, as I was back in the Catholic Boys’ Home early in the day. Each dormitory had a snooker table or two, or table tennis. One afternoon I was practising snooker alone. I was leaning over the table when I heard movement behind me. As I tried to stand up, I felt hands pulling my trousers down. I heard a voice say, ‘We got him, Anto.’
Scars that Run Deep Page 6