I decided on my own that as I was not in a steady position that I liked – it was a dreadful source of bother to me that I was in night work and that I couldn’t get a decent-paying, non-union bakery job – I would leave Ireland but keep in touch with Noreen. It never crossed my mind to ask Noreen what she thought. I suppose I didn’t realise how Noreen really felt about me. I believed I was doing the right thing for the future. Now I believe it’s wrong to put a love affair on ice, as I did – hoping to make a fortune somewhere and return to claim the girl you left behind, only to find her not there.
One night I’d been invited to Nulty Park House Golf Club by Noreen. I asked Lorcan along with his mother Mary. As we got ready to go out, Lorcan asked me about Noreen. ‘What do you do when you’re together, Pat? After all, I take it she’s in love with you as well?’ His tone was sincere and I could sense he meant what he asked, as though he really cared for me.
I noticed his mother listening now. I became embarrassed. I loved Noreen a great deal, possibly without showing it. I answered as best I could. ‘Well, Lorcan, I simply do as she does. I tend to follow her, kissing, cuddling and that sort – know what I mean?’
‘Is that all? Not try anything else?’ He stared at me and then quickly glanced towards his mother as though waiting for a signal to go a step further.
Suddenly May spoke. ‘Look, Pat, you’ve much to learn, and the sooner you do, the better. There’s so much you can do with Noreen that will bind your love. I’ll put you in touch with Father Tracy. He’s very good at that sort of thing.’
I began to wonder what ‘thing’? What else is there?
A few days later I sat in front of the priest, an elderly man. I couldn’t wait to hear the good news about what Noreen and I were missing out on. I told him my confession. He quickly gave me my penance and shut over the tiny window. I knocked and he reappeared.
‘Yes, son, what is it?’
I began to ask him in my own words. ‘Well, Father, you see . . . I’m in love with this girl and I believe I should be doing things to make her happy and I’ve been told to come to you – that you know all about that sort of thing, Father.’ I waited anxiously for his response.
Suddenly he blurted out, ‘Whatever are you talking about, son? Who put you up to this?’
Good God, the sweat oozed out of me in the little dark confessional. ‘Someone who knows you, Father.’
‘Oh, I see – so they couldn’t do it and they want me to explain it for you.’ He paused. I could hear him sighing, and his breathing was heavy. He spoke quickly now. ‘Do you interfere with each other’s private parts?’
How could I tell him I felt her naked bottom while we kissed in close encounters, as my hands roved beneath her long skirt, but never any further. Nor did she touch me in that way. It was a very loving relationship without sex.
‘Do you feel each other’s bodies?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘So you’ve committed mortal sin by your actions.’ To cover his embarrassment, which was obvious, he added three decades of the Rosary to my penance, and the Stations of the Cross for good measure. ‘Is she Catholic?’ he asked.
My heart almost missed a beat. I answered, ‘Yes, Father,’ and waited.
He raised his voice. ‘The Devil is in both of you, and as he always makes work for idle hands, I suggest both of you join your hands in prayer. I want to see you at the novena and sodality every month.’
I left the confessional none the wiser.
In 1961, after much deliberation, I knew in my heart and soul I had to go away, as I had no papers or diplomas to prove my skills as a baker. Although I loved Noreen, the desire to do well for myself came first. I will never forget the night I told her. She was ever so quiet. If only I had asked her how she felt! I was too full of self-importance, I suppose, always talking about doing the right thing. Though my ideas were good and made sense, I now believe I made the wrong decision.
My first port of call was Manchester. I kissed Noreen farewell and promised to send for her. As I sat up on the deck of the Leinster that night, my mind tossed and turned, and staring at the darkness of the sea all I could think of was my lovely Noreen. But I knew then I had to go on. My heart and mind ached for the one I left behind.
Once in Manchester I found digs, and couldn’t wait for Saturday to go to Old Trafford to see my dream team, Manchester United, who were playing Burnley. After seeing the game I became a United fanatic. But I still had itchy feet, and I didn’t like the digs or the city. The house I stayed in was in the district of Chorlton-cum-Hardy, near Medlock. It was a real Irish district. I shared a room with three young men from County Mayo. One of them, named PJ, was sitting in the room with me one day as he wrote a letter to his mother. He looked at me and said, ‘It’s hard to believe you’re a Dublin man. You’re so different really, and you haven’t got a Dublin Jackeen accent.’ I sat there listening, but my mind was on Noreen.
He tried again. ‘You look homesick, Pat. What you need, boy, is a nice girlfriend. ’Twould be the best thing to settle you down.’ I simply nodded at him, not knowing how to respond. Then he surprised me. ‘You know, Pat, there’s nothing better in life, and I mean it now, than spending the night with a lovely sweet girl – having sex with her. It’s the most wonderful feeling you’ll ever get, I promise.’
I sat there agreeing with him, and yet I couldn’t relate to what he was saying. I was out of my depth, and I knew it. I thought about how experienced he was, and here I was, so gullible and naive. I began to think then that I was staying with all the wrong people. I knew I had to leave and move on.
After chatting to PJ I learnt about the islands of Guernsey and Jersey. I wasted no time, and booked a flight to Jersey. I was my own worst enemy, running scared, always packing my bags – on my way to somewhere, but it was really never important.
St Brelade’s Bay, Jersey, in spring I can best describe as a semi-French tropical garden. I quickly fell in love with it. All that filled my mind as I wandered through the narrow cobbled streets of St Helier was, ‘I must share this garden of beauty with Noreen.’
I found employment without any real problem as a baker-tablehand in the Sunshine Bakery in St Helier. I worked with a couple of old men, George and Alf; they told me no young people were interested in the trade because of the night work and long, unsociable hours. How right they were! But I was trapped. I was lonely and homesick and working like a slave far from home. But I was over-anxious to get on and make money.
I was going out to work at eleven at night and working harder than I had ever done since I left Artane. I was arriving back in my tiny bedsitter at seven or eight in the morning, yawning like someone who hadn’t slept for a week. The best part of working nights was listening to the BBC Radio music hall shows. Radio was my great friend.
I knew I didn’t look too good, and George and Alf were getting concerned for me. George, the older of the two, suggested I bring over my girlfriend. Old Alf, sitting up at the table and changing his false teeth to eat his supper, spoke very quickly, with a peculiar French accent. ‘Every young man needs plenty of it.’ Not even comprehending what it was I needed, I’d simply let his words wash over me while I thought of Noreen. Alf would continue: ‘You know, Irish, you can’t go on masturbating for ever, you know. You’ll have to get your girl over here before you go blind.’
I worked with those two old-timers all through the dead of night in 1962, knowing full well how far behind I was in sexual matters. Crudity in the workplace and talk about sex confused and upset me. I knew I was one of the Brothers’ boys: I felt I was better than those I worked with – which only helped to distance them from me. In reality I was no angel: I was simply short on experience.
I met Noreen at the airport. She hadn’t changed a bit. ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked shyly as I stood back to get a good look at her.
‘Well, about you, of course. You still look the same – it’s as though we were never apart.’
She s
eemed amused. Her voice was clear as always. ‘You’d think you were away for years, the way you’re going on.’ She smiled and shook her head, as though she was confused. A bad start, I thought.
I began to dream of more pleasant things as I settled down to life in Jersey with Noreen nearby. No longer was I having nightmares or walking in my sleep. But I started to become anxious, fidgety and cranky in work and at home. I couldn’t even please Noreen in the way she wished. I was always tired, and going to late-night dances at the weekends was out for me.
I was so naive I never once believed for a minute that Noreen would leave me. When she did, I took it as a joke and was overconfident by a mile, assuming that she’d come running back to me. I was sadly mistaken! I became very depressed and lonely, but as each day tore at my heart and mind I decided to tough it out, as I had been taught to by the Christian Brothers.
Lonely without Noreen by my side, I became a beach stroller along the golden sands of St Brelade’s. I often meandered from noon until sunset. I dreaded the loneliness of my tiny bedsitter in the Market Street area of St Helier. I became exhausted from being up all night and beach strolling half the day. I lost a lot of weight, and missed Noreen dreadfully.
The summer of 1962 was a scorcher. I hated going out at night to work, and I was blaming the bakery and the long hours for all my problems. In reality, I was my own worst enemy.
I began to realise Noreen was really gone. My first love. Whatever love she had for me suddenly evaporated when she settled in Jersey. My heart ached. My pride hurt beyond repair. I found it almost impossible to come to terms with the suddenness of how I lost her. Nor could I quite comprehend what I’d done to make her leave me in this way. The truth is, I had done nothing. I was so fearful of committing a sinful act. Being so naive, I failed to satisfy and please her. I had done nothing to abate her hunger and passion that could have bound our love. I guess that was the core of my problem back then.
I realised there was something strange about the way I related to girls, but the gulf I was desperately trying to bridge only seemed to get wider. Often I was left with the feeling that if only I had tried to be normal and forget about my high principles, or if only I had tried not to distance myself from them and just go out with them without falling in love too soon, it would have been all right. I was far too naive to please girls, treating them kindly but often with far too much delicacy.
As the season wore steadily on, I was becoming exhausted, having been working up to seventy hours a week, six nights a week. While still hoping for Noreen to come back to me, I took a trip out to St Brelade’s Bay one hot Saturday afternoon in August. The weather and the atmosphere were beautiful.
Then I saw Noreen. She was strolling along the hot sands of the bay with a boyfriend, their arms around each other, two beautiful lovers. My heart sank to a new low, and I was in tears. Then, like a soldier, I stepped it out, and went for a walk along the country roads.
As I made my way along a narrow country lane, I was sure I had heard a cry for help. I looked about, waited, then a second cry. There was a low hedge, and I hurried towards it, past what looked like a mansion – a big farmhouse, I guessed at a glance. I noticed a bicycle lying over the ditch, and beside it a young woman in some distress.
My depression vanished as I offered to help her.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled up at me and added, ‘I’ve got a punctured tyre and hurt shoulder. Please can you fix it for me?’ I was thrilled to be of some help. When she spoke again I fell in love with her French accent, and the way she smiled helped to erase any thoughts of Noreen.
‘I’m Maria Duvarre. I live next to that farmhouse, where I work as an au pair. The family are away. I’m alone.’
I introduced myself, and fell over the scooter. ‘Damn it,’ I said. I looked up at her, she was so beautiful.
With a neat flick of her hand she brushed back her long auburn hair and laughed loudly as I lay across it. ‘Oh, you Irish, you are funny people.’ I hadn’t told her I was Irish.
Having repaired the puncture for her, I was dripping with sweat. As I stood gazing about, wondering where I could wash myself, I heard her voice calling, ‘Pat-rick, Pat-rick, please come and you have shower. You are so dirty and hot.’
While I was working on her tyre, she must have slipped off. I looked about to see where she was, and there she was, up on the balcony of the big stone farmhouse, dressed in a bathrobe. My heart missed a beat. No more ‘if onlys’, I hoped. My time had come at last.
I entered the huge house. Maria appeared. I became flushed as she stood in her pink bathrobe, gesturing to me to come up. ‘Now you need to shower, Pat-rick – perhaps then we have a drink. You Irish love your drink.’ She smiled at me, but little did she realise that I never drank alcohol.
I was shocked as she got under the shower with me. This time I was determined to go along with Maria to please her but also, more important to me, for the experience. It’s now or never, I thought. It was as if I was in a state of complete paralysis beneath the shower as her body touched mine. Then we passionately caressed each other while the cool water flowed down on us.
She held the glasses of sparkling champagne and placed the bottle on the floor. She held a glass up to me and as I took hold of it, we touched glasses. A beautiful feeling came over me. I was always a fast drinker – of tea, that is – and no sooner had I downed my first than she filled it again. For the first time I realised I was intoxicated. I closed my eyes for a silent moment. ‘I’ll have a lot to confess next time,’ I muttered. ‘But nothing can stop me, now.’
Maria looked at me with a smile. ‘You speak, Pat-rick? Tell me, I like you very much, so you make me very happy.’
I must be doing something right, as Maria was so happy and contented. I couldn’t get myself to express fully how wonderful I felt. This was a joyful new experience for me.
‘You need towel, Irish. It’s here. Come, you’ll see. Hope you don’t mind me call you Irish, Pat-rick.’
Maria was waiting in the open door with a long bath towel. I could taste the breathtaking sweetness of her fragrance as she began to towel me down. What am I to do? I wondered to myself. Just let it happen.
She led me into her room and slowly fell backwards on to the huge old bed with a velvet canopy, pulling me with her. For a while I felt I was lying beneath a chapel dome, though in reality I was on top of beautiful Maria. I was hoping Maria would lead the way; the last thing I wanted now was for me to mess it all up and be left feeling sorry for myself.
I felt Maria’s fingers dig deep into my flesh, her mouth on mine. What do I do now? I wanted her to help me, because I didn’t know what to do.
Then Maria gently took hold of me, and I experienced the ecstasy of love. Afterwards, as I lay on my back, a dreadful thought struck me: I’d committed a mortal sin – but at least I was normal. I’ll confess later, I thought.
Maria reached for the wine glasses. She smiled as she handed me a full glass and said, ‘You make me so happy. It was so good. I’d love to have you to stay whole night but I’m not allowed to have friends after eleven o’clock at night. See, I must go by the rules of this house, okay, Pat-rick?’
I wanted to remain in this fragrant garden for as long as my heart beat.
The room grew darker. I must have dozed off. It was time to go. I gazed down at Maria as I said my goodbyes. ‘I will never forget you, Irish.’ She paused for a brief moment, smiled, and said, ‘Au revoir, Pat-rick, thank you for fixing my tyre.’
As I left Maria, in her perfumed French garden, I suddenly felt sad as I realised that I’d never see her again. Her beautiful naked slim French body was now imprinted on my mind.
As I marched along the narrow road by many such farmsteads and beautiful homes, as the sun lowered to kiss the calm blue water of St Brelade’s Bay, I wondered where I could meet another beautiful French au pair and be so lucky as to enjoy a loving cool shower with her. To experience the gentleness and softness of her French touch, to embrace t
he sensual warmth of her body so eager to be pleased. I longed to meet another Maria.
15
IN OCTOBER I was back home in Fairview, working for James Behan in the bakery in Fairview Strand, and once again I was in lodgings with the Mooneys in Cadogan Road.
While I was playing soccer in Fairview Park one Saturday with a few ex-Artane lads and a team from Fairview, there was a schools hurling match on the pitch beside us. I had noticed the Drisco, who I worked under as a cook and a kitchener in Artane, and also a few other Christian Brothers; but the one who got most of my attention was the Macker. That Brother looked every bit as tall and as hard as the time he battered my best pal, Minnie, around the head and face with his open hands until he told him where he had hidden a pencil in the dormitory. Poor Minnie gave in. The silly pencil was found in a flower pot on the window ledge, and the next morning poor Minnie was practically unrecognisable.
I was close to the Macker as he stood on the sideline watching the team when suddenly I heard him call me, using my Artane nickname, Collie. I walked up to him. ‘You called me, sir?’ I stood looking up at the man who so often beat me with his dreadful leather for such silly things as being caught out of bed swapping a Dandy or a Beano with a lad a few beds away. I had quaked with fear of that tall Christian Brother whenever he was in charge of our dormitory: fear of wetting my bed and of being flogged by him for it. He slowly reached his right hand into an inside pocket and pulled out a wallet. He spoke quickly and smiled as he did so. ‘I’ve got something to show you, Collie. Do they still call you that?’
‘No, sir, not now. They call me Paddy or Pat now.’
I watched him open the wallet and take out an envelope. ‘I’ve got a picture of you, Pat, and a few of your pals from Barnacullia.’ He handed them to me.
Scars that Run Deep Page 12