But then his father raised his voice and said, ‘’Tis not luck at all, Jim: sure he’s blessed.’ He looked at me and added, ‘You must have said your prayers this morning.’ I was pleased by Pauline’s interruption: ‘He’s fine. You know, Father, he’s only a baker. He wouldn’t have much time at half four in the mornings to pray. He couldn’t think straight at that unholy hour.’
At last the day of the wedding was set: 10 February 1973; and as each week passed a little bit more was done to the house. I had bought some carpets, and when they were put down I was in great humour. I looked around the empty rooms with Pauline and said, ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Everything matches up just lovely. All we need now, Pauline, is the furniture!’
She smiled in her attractive way and said, ‘There’s much more to life, Pat, than fancy tables and cosy chairs, you know.’
I was startled at that, after thinking about all I had done. I didn’t think that Pauline might have other priorities. Our relationship was on the rocky side yet we loved each other. Money was so scarce it made life difficult. Pauline had walked out on me on several occasions over what she called my dominant ways. Her mother often remarked how I marched into the house, and through life on the whole, like a soldier. ‘You should calm down, Pat, and take it easy, son.’
As the time drew near I began to question whether I should get married at all. I wondered how I could settle down to a home life, and be a father, perhaps. I became tense and acted in a rather irritated manner towards Pauline and those I worked with. I was steadily getting used to living alone in my own home, which was bad, as the longer a person lives alone the harder it is to adjust when they get married. I found it tough going getting the house furnished and paying all the bills on a very low wage.
It was a smashing August evening as I ambled in from work to find a letter waiting for me. I rarely received post, and as I opened it I realised it was from Pauline. I could feel the tension mount. I went up to my bedroom to lie down to read it. After the first few lines I felt choked, and by the time I reached its conclusion I was disappointed and confused. Now what is she playing at? So she needs time to think, a few weeks. Well, she can have as long as she wants!
I stood at the window staring out. My mind was flooded with the memory of the many times I was close to getting married only to see it all crumble, for one reason or another, and now again! What had I done to deserve this?
I was fed up with my lifestyle. Getting up at four in the morning, getting to Boland’s Bakery by 5.45am, not getting home until 6pm. I was jaded, tired. In fact I hated my life so much I was tempted to return to New Zealand. But I loved Pauline.
‘Things will get better. It takes time to get it together when you move into a new house,’ Mrs Megan explained. ‘You’ve got the house, Pat, and the girl and a beautiful one she is. Take my advice and marry her.’
I decided to go for a walk. I stared out across the sea, thinking what a fool I’d been, and as I gazed out to the horizon I got a longing to get on board a liner and go around the world without ever getting off. I knew that Pauline was right to take her time, and that she could have all the time she needed to decide whether she wished to marry me or to simply say goodbye. I knew I had found a woman worth waiting for. And I made up my mind that if she broke it off, I would set off for distant shores.
One evening I travelled home by train. As I walked through Donaghmede Shopping Centre I was stopped by two Christian Brothers whom I instantly recognised from my time in Artane, Brother Crowe and Brother Monaghan. I was surprised to discover how young they looked. Both were anxious to know what my opinion was of Artane School. Though I was taken by surprise with their questions, and unprepared, I decided to answer them frankly.
‘On the whole I’d say it was an endurance test. As each day began I feared so much, most of all the hard men. It was an experience more than an education.’
I tried my best to sum up for them what they were capable of and what they were good at doing. I said, ‘Education is not a trial, Brothers. In Artane you were all part of a system. The system came first, and you were masters at how to make the harsh system work and to make us suffer.’
Their expressions hardened. Brother Monaghan smiled and said, ‘Please go on, though I hope you can explain as well what we were good at.’
‘’Tis a shame the Brothers had to act so cruelly for minor faults. Education is not about how hard or disciplined you are or how you keep order. I believe it is all about learning in easy stages, to help the child’s mind to develop. I believe the system you helped to develop only helped to destroy a lot of the good things you were doing; and without those hard leathers in the classrooms I would honestly say that the Christian Brothers would have achieved the highest standards, which you were indeed capable of.’
As I went to move away Brother Crowe called after me. ‘Did we fail you, Pat?’
That was an easy one, I thought. ‘No, no, the system left its mark on me, and though it certainly held me back in an educational sense, remember I was a duffer. I also believe that the Brothers were struggling to do their best for us, and there were so many of us. Yet when I left, it was a real struggle to come to terms with the emotional aspect of leaving such a strict institution, which I lived under for so long.’
‘So what you are saying is that you weren’t fully prepared for the outside world.’
‘And I suffered so much awful abuse! ’Twas a pity you had to be so cruel. The punishment was never justified, particularly in the classrooms and dormitories.’
I was unprepared for this, I thought, as Brother Monaghan drew closer to me, his face flushed. ‘So, we were cruel and used physical force. Tell me, how else could less than 100 Brothers keep strict control of 900 boys? Many of those boys were tough and streetwise, Pat.’
I replied, ‘In all my eight years, there was always about 400–500 from the country. We were all treated in the same brutal manner for very trivial and silly offences. Fear was the key of keeping strict rigid control.’
‘But no other system could have achieved that result,’ said Brother Monaghan. Brother Crowe nodded in full agreement with his long-time friend.
‘No other system was ever tried in my eight years of prayer, hard labour and physical punishment and widespread abuse, and both of you were there in most of my time . . . Though ye treated me fine as I recall.’
That brought a smile to their tanned faces, and as I went to go on my way Brother Monaghan said, ‘Take care, Collie.’ Brother Crowe seemed curious and asked, ‘What brought you this way?’
I smiled and said, ‘Well, I’ve bought a house just up the road there.’
‘Ah, well done, boy, a home of your own. You’ve come a long way!’
As I stepped it out swiftly through the crisp autumn leaves I paused to watch young children playing conkers, which brought back emotional memories to my busy mind. But my thoughts quickly changed as I walked home to my own house with its own table and chairs and a bed where I could dream.
23
ONE BEAUTIFUL AUTUMN evening in 1972 I walked into the hall and saw a letter on the floor. A quick glance told me it was from Pauline. I was invited over to her house for dinner the following Sunday.
I was warmly greeted by Pauline’s mother. ‘Come in, you’re most welcome, son.’ Within moments I was being hugged and kissed by Pauline in the narrow hall. By the time Sunday dinner was over I felt I was part of the family.
I could see the change in Pauline. She had made her decision and was keen to go ahead with the wedding, and we began to make the arrangements.
We got married on 10 February on a clear, crisp Saturday. As I stood on the steps of the church in Marino, I wished all my old Artane pals could see me now: Quickfart, Minnie, Jamjar, the Skunk, the Burner. I took my seat and I whispered to the best man, my good friend Tony Lally from Ballybough, ‘Do you think she’ll come?’ He looked at me and laughed.
‘Don’t worry, Paddy, she’ll come, but it might take a while.’
I wondered why he thought it was so funny.
My baker friend from Boland’s pleased the hearts of all the congregation with his beautiful deep baritone voice as he sang ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’, my favourite recessional hymn, while everyone awaited the arrival of the bride. He followed this with ‘Ave Maria’ as the bells rang to announce Pauline’s arrival.
‘She finally arrives,’ said Father Dermot O’Mahony, with a nice smile. Pauline was always late for every occasion.
After the ceremony we set off from the airport on our honeymoon: two weeks in El Arenal, Spain.
It took me a long time to get used to the fact that I was married. I had no inkling of the number of difficulties I had to face in the sudden change from being single, and being able to please myself about whatever I wanted to do, to being a married man and having to learn to share myself and my time and to relate to my wife as my partner.
I was exhausted coming home from Boland’s, and became a real mixture of all sorts. I wasn’t able to understand Pauline’s problems, and there were problems from the day we crossed the threshold in the house in Grangemore Estate.
Pauline was pleasant and easy-going, as she remained for the rest of her life. Thank goodness for that, as I was so domesticated and dominant. My concept of marriage was very different from hers. I believed in the old style: my wife would be waiting with my dinner cooked, and a smile, as I came in from another hard day at work. But to my amazement I would arrive home to find a note saying, ‘Dear Pat, As you could be out all hours and as you yourself don’t very well know what time you’ll be home at, I’m at Mother’s and I will have my dinner there.’
Once I got over the shock of her not being at home, I’d swear under my breath at the way she would sign off the note with, ‘Good luck, you can help yourself, Love, Pauline.’ Help myself? I wasn’t fit to stand up when I got in after being out from before five in the morning. I’d laugh at the whole idea of her ‘take it easy’ style and ‘don’t worry’. This kind of situation in a newly married’s home is fun for television viewers, but it’s not funny in reality to stare into an empty fridge or to put on the kettle for a cup of tea only to find there’s no milk.
After a few weeks I began to realise that there was a lot more to being married than I had imagined. I was soon to come face to face with hurt of a different kind, as I discovered when, on arriving in from work, I might pass some remark more suitable for the chain gang in Boland’s than for the sensitive ears of my wife. Even when I’d only mutter or grumble a harsh remark, though it wouldn’t seem harsh to me, she would pick it up. Soon I discovered that I couldn’t behave as though I was coming home to the lads in the Catholic Boys’ Home; and yet as I would hear the door slam I would say to myself, ‘Good God, what have I done now? Ah, sure I just said the wrong thing.’ I’d laugh at my simple explanation.
I believe after all these years of trial and error that she was right in many ways and I was wrong. I was far too domesticated for Pauline: I always had to be doing something or other, like tidying, cleaning the windows, dusting everything, while she was only concerned with watching her favourite programme on television. What surprised me was that she would never thank me for doing a good job in the house or in the garden. I’d march in feeling great and say, ‘Thank God that’s done.’ She’d simply say, ‘Good for you, Pat. What do you expect, some kind of payment?’
Ten months passed when our first child, Paula, was born in December 1973, one week before our first Christmas together.
On a cold crisp day in January 1974, our firstborn was christened by our parish priest. Pauline couldn’t agree on a name after weeks thinking on it. At that time, we called my wife Paula. It was the priest, Father O’Mahony, who came up with the solution. ‘Why not call the baby Paula, and you can refer to your wife as Pauline.’ So our firstborn was christened and baptised Paula Ann Touher.
The experience made a huge change to my marriage; it tied me down and made me a better person. Just one year later we had the best New Year’s present we could have hoped for when John Patrick was born.
While Paula had her baby brother to keep her occupied, Pauline was constantly busy with the two children. Money was tight: every last penny I could earn was needed in the home and we never had enough. But we were happy together. Being a dad and devoted husband to Pauline gave me a real sense of well being and satisfaction. At last I felt normal!
The summer of 1975 was one to remember. I was more or less putting up with my lot as a baker, working long hours, getting up before dawn and getting home after dark. I longed to write; but when I came home and sat down to discuss my dreams with Pauline, she would only encourage me to go up to bed and do my dreaming there!
I began to get some encouragement to write about my childhood. While I was in Boland’s I had heard the men say whenever Artane School was mentioned that a book should be written on that place. The more I heard it said the more inspired I’d become, only to find myself too tired to think, let alone write.
In August I was out in the front garden. The sun was high, the sky was blue and cloudless, and I was leaning on the wooden fence when I heard a van pull up. A man got out and walked towards me. ‘I’m looking for Pat, he’s a baker. I think it’s Touher or something like that.’
I said, ‘You’ve found him. What can I do for you?’ He reached out his hand and introduced himself.
‘I’m Jimmy Mack. How would you like to come back to work and manage the home bakery for us? We need a good man who knows his job and who’s the best at the soda bread. The hours are 10am to finish around four or so.’ I gasped, wow!
I agreed to go down to the bakery in Windsor Avenue in Fairview and talk to the boss. I knew Jim Behan well, as I had worked with him and for him in Bradley’s when he took it over. I liked him and his family. I had fond memories of the days I went out to his mother’s in Bray to help with the harvest, which brought back memories of my own childhood in Barnacullia.
For the next six years I managed the bakery with the help of Ken Quinn. I was back at the bakery I had first worked in after I left Artane, when Mick Bradley was my boss.
I began to enjoy work, as I was at the heart of things in Behan’s Home Bakery, back to my roots. I had moved from Grangemore to Woodville Estate in Coolock, and whether by luck or by error I discovered I was back in full view of Artane School and that I would be passing it every day of the week. I saw quite a lot of the Macker and his colleagues around the area.
24
AT THIS TIME, the turn of the eighties, I was doing reasonably well in work and in my marriage. Pauline and I were a real item and I loved her so. I was leading a normal life with a beautiful wife and two children in school, and another on the way. However, when Pauline told me that the children would have to move on to more senior schools a change loomed. The road for John would lead straight back to my past. John would have to attend St David’s National School, which would prepare him for St David’s Seniors – what in my day had been Artane Industrial School. When we told John he cried and cried, and Pauline and I decided to move far away from the bleak, grey stone, haunting buildings that cast their long, dark shadow over our lives. The search for our new home and a new job was completed just as Suzanne, our third child, entered the world. It turned out to be a very inspiring move to the seaside town of Balbriggan.
It was about 1979 that my friend Ken Quinn talked me into doing a soccer referees’ course under Kevin Redmond and Tommy Hand. I was none too keen. Since I was a child I’ve had a phobia about written tests or exams. At first I dismissed the idea; then I began to see myself out on the pitch among twenty-two players, running with them, enjoying one of the greatest field games in the world. A feeling of warm excitement began to grip me.
The referees’ course turned out to be a most enjoyable experience. I met people who were just as scared of written tests as I was, but the inspectors and committee members from the Irish Soccer Referees’ Society went out of their way to make the course run as smoot
hly as possible for us all. The chief inspector at that time was Kevin Redmond, and he was my guiding light. His relaxed manner ensured that every one of the class had a comfortable passage through the short course.
The more forceful characters, like Sean Fitzpatrick, Albert Walsh and the driving force behind the Dublin branch of the Referees’ Society, Tommy Hand, lectured us constantly on the rules of the game until we were ready to scream ‘foul’. It was men like them and, later, the calming influence of big Willy Attley that ensured the course was a success. With their help we became good referees. It was their untiring and devoted work that had brought the Irish Referees’ Society to the top.
I was given no less than three match cards for my first weekend. Kevin Redmond signed the cards for me and said, ‘Follow the simple rules, Pat, and you won’t go far wrong. Treat the players as you would wish to be treated if you were a player. Don’t be rude to them, or to the team managers. Turn up well before kick-off. Dress neatly, and don’t act like a dominant schoolmaster. Simply go out there and enjoy what you’re doing.’
I followed Kevin’s advice for twenty-five years.
I will always remember my first match as a soccer referee. It was out in Collinstown, near Dublin Airport, on a Saturday afternoon. Fenstanton were at home to Whitehall Rangers. Instead of measuring the balls in the dressing room, I decided to check them on the pitch, as the teams had changed outside because the weather was so hot. I had a piece of string with me that I had measured before I left home; I had a knot tied in each end of it, and from one knot to the other measured twenty-eight inches, just as Kevin Redmond had instructed us on the course.
I felt really important as the manager of Fenstanton came up to me while I was checking the nets. ‘How’yeh, ref? Here’s the match balls. I suppose you want to check them as well.’
Scars that Run Deep Page 18