Scars that Run Deep (3 page)

I was no longer the child with the blushing smile from the hillside cottage home in beautiful picturesque Barnacullia. I became hardened and Artane slang words took over from my way of expressing myself.

My pleasant boyhood dreams of clear-water streams, plush pastures green, of the hills, and my pals, and going to school through fields, and growing up in a normal life in a cottage home all began to fade. As my dreams slowly became darker I began to walk in my sleep. My dreams turned to nightmares as I fought my demons. I was hunted and haunted as I ran from men in black.

New visions haunted my dreams. Boys wet their beds through fear, fear of the collar; fear of the men in black. I wet my bed on just a few occasions in the early years, 1950 to 1952. I remember one bitter cold morning in the winter of 1951. The Brothers known as the Apeman and the Sheriff were on duty. After wash-up time we knelt down for morning prayers by our well-made beds. The Apeman marched up and down the long centre passage. The Sheriff stood in front of the altar and said the prayers, which we repeated together out loud. At the end he said, ‘Remember what Christ Our Lord Jesus said, “Little Children come unto me”. Remember in your prayers the good the Christian Brothers do for you.'

‘Pray for us,' we repeated aloud.

Then he said, ‘Any boy who soiled or wet their bed, report
to the monitor and bring your soiled and wet sheets with you as we leave. Boys with dirty sheets must march around the centre lamp on the parade until all the boys are in the chapel. Boys with wet or soiled bedclothes must then march to the laundry and hand in your dirty linen.'

That freezing cold morning I was one of the kids who'd wet the bed. I marched around the tall lamp post in the snow and ice. I had no overcoat, or gloves, as I recall. I cried with the pain of the cold as my fingers ached. I remember that, as I marched in a circle with a dozen boys, the Brother on parade duty was dressed in his long black cassock and a cloak was draped round his broad shoulders, his hat down over his forehead to keep the snow from his eyes. The Dude's voice rang out crisp and as ice cold as the bitter east wind, ‘Left, left, left right left, lift 'em up or face the wall.'

That wall haunted my dreams. We were made to stand there with our hands held high straight above our heads. It was torture. On bitter cold winter mornings no mercy was shown or given to those of us who were told to face the wall. We would face the wall just for being the last two or three in or out of the freezing cold wash room. And as we stood there, we'd be beaten across our naked bottoms, six of the best from the Apeman or the Sheriff with their iron-hard leathers. The pain was more cruel and excruciating as a result of the cold.

In the autumn of 1952, late in the afternoon, I was playing
with my pals the Burner, Oxo, Minnie, Stewie, Jamjar and Bubbles. We were playing conkers when Bubbles threw one at Jamjar. The chestnut missed its intended target and hit the Brother known as Hellfire in the face. It was around five, an hour before night school, as I recall.

The Brother came over to us. He was clutching the handle of a hurley stick. ‘Hands up the boy who threw the large chestnut at me.'

I stood back as I feared this evil man.

Bubbles went forward. ‘It was me, sir. I'm sorry sir. It was an accident sir.'

The Hellfire's voice rose. ‘Good. I like honesty. Now I will put the smirk where your pals can't see it. Trousers down, you pup. Touch your toes. Now one stroke for every day in the year, to set an example to other brats like you.'

I counted silently as the Brother wielded the stick across the boy's buttocks 365 times. The Hellfire paused to wipe the sweat from his flushed face when he had completed the horrendous beating. Bubbles was lying in a heap on the ground, his body shivering beneath the gold of the late October sun. The Hellfire looked at me and my pals and said, ‘Take him down to the Infirmary. Let the nurse take care of him then get back in time for class.'

My nightmares were formed out of such awful moments. My nightmares and sleepwalking and shouting in my sleep
came about as a direct result of the constant brutal beatings I experienced, and from witnessing other boys in my class and in the same dormitory receiving the same violent attacks.

But there were other forms of abuse, too. I first experienced sexual abuse as early as the autumn of 1950. My dreams began to darken as a direct result of the hard core of Christian Brothers who enjoyed beating boys, naked, black and blue for minor trivial offences, physical and sexual abuse of boys in their care.

I had been torn away from a normal life in the loving bosom of a family home in the hillside in Barnacullia, and that scarred me. And Artane scarred me, it shattered my hopes and dreams. These scars are deeply engraved in my memory, in my heart and in my soul.

I was in my first year. I was in dormitory five, it was mid-November, an awful windy night. Since then I have always dreaded the month of November, always have done since.

The Macker and the Bucko were two tall men. We all feared them as they could be so cruel, even inside the classrooms.

That evening I awoke to find the Macker standing by my bedside. His voice was huskily deep. He'd scared me as he pulled the bedclothes down, pulled up my night-shirt to reveal my nakedness. His foul breath smelt of tobacco.

I've never ever forgotten his first words. ‘Why are you sleeping on your tummy?'

At that moment I was so frightened, so alone and in fear. Not just of the November storms but because I had no one to cry out to for help. When the Macker spoke again I cried out, ‘I want to go home, sir. Please, sir.'

He leaned in over me and smiled, ‘Yes, now why were you lying on your tummy, boy?'

‘I don't know, sir. I don't understand, sir,' I half muttered, unaware what was on his mind or why he was asking such a question. It was then the very tall, very strict Brother arrived, known as the Bucko. Most kids called them the Terrible Twins. Two dark, evil men.

The Macker put his hand on my penis. I was shocked and I felt really awful as now there were two of them. ‘What's this for, boy? Tell me no lies.' The Macker held my penis. The Bucko leaned in over me. His voice was low, his breath was stale, and made me feel sick. I've hated the stale smell of tobacco ever since.

‘I don't know, sir. I don't understand, sir. Honest, sir.' I felt so scared. I was terrified of them both. ‘I don't know, sir.'

The Macker kept feeling my penis. It hurt. ‘The truth, boy, or I will scourge you naked.' How I cried; I wanted desperately to scream.

‘What is this for, you pup?' The Bucko's words made me
shiver while the Macker felt me, his finger forced up into my anus. I just wept.

The Macker forced down my foreskin with his thumb, all the while feeling and holding my small penis and testicles. I just cried out, ‘I don't know, sir. Honest, sir.' The Macker's smoky breath fanned my lips as he leaned over me. I blurted, ‘I pass water with it sir.' I waited, stark naked, and too scared to move a muscle.

‘Are you sure that's all it's for, boy?' said the Bucko. ‘No lies now, or I will trounce you naked, you pup.'

The Macker pulled down my night-shirt as he said, ‘Tell me, boy, what's it for and why you lie on your stomach, or I will have you in my room.'

‘I go to the toilet, sir, to pass water, sir. I often sleep flat on my tummy, sir, as I feel good, sir, it's comfortable, sir.'

‘So you feel real good, boy, lying flat on your stomach, and you talk in your sleep, boy. Tell me who Big Betty is, you filthy pup. You talk dirty in your sleep boy.' I stared at the Macker. There was a weird grin on his face. His voice was deep, husky, very low and frightening. ‘The truth, boy, or I will scourge you, I mean it.'

I knew both of them meant it.

‘She's an old cow, sir, my favourite cow, sir.'

The Brothers just laughed. ‘A cow. Big Betty is a cow?' said the Macker.

‘Yes, sir, it's true, sir. I helped Maggie milk her every day, after school.'

I hated those two Christian Brothers, who haunted my dreams and helped to destroy my childhood. That was the first sexual encounter I had as a child.

After they left me I turned over to lie flat on my tummy when I suddenly remembered the words from the Macker and the Bucko. ‘You'll commit sin, boy, lying flat on your tummy.' So I lay on my side, my eyes wide open. I tried to sleep. I closed my eyes when suddenly I heard the hauntingly beautiful sound of ‘The Four Green Fields' filling the spacious dormitory. As most of the boys slept I lay awake listening.

‘Yeh still awake, Collie?' whispered my friend the Burner.

‘Yes, I can't sleep,' I said. ‘My thing hurts me.'

‘I know, you had a shagging nightmare. Now here comes the bleedin' Whistler.'

‘But he's okay. I like him, although he scares me.'

‘A bleedin' shadow scares the bleedin shit ou-ra-yeh Collie. I know 'cos they were feeling you up and messing about with yeh, cos you're a good-looking kid and an orphan. They'll bleedin' have you, Collie.'

I closed my eyes and listened to the beautiful haunting sound of ‘The Four Green Fields'. The Whistler was a tall, middle-aged Christian Brother, a gentle giant. I wished to
God all Christian Brothers could be like the Whistler but I guess it was just wishful thinking. He was unique and he was very well liked and respected. In my time I had never seen him use physical force or use the hard leather. He cut a daunting figure as he patrolled up the dormitory after lights out. Often he'd linger at the rear of the dormitory and in the long dark corridors whistling ‘The Foggy Dew' or ‘The Four Green Fields'. The sound would echo through the dormitories like he was telling us he was there. This gave me hope. I guess that's what made him so special.

In Artane Industrial School I kept all of my very worst experiences a closely guarded secret. I feared speaking of such awful embarrassing things, and I never understood them or, in my own naive and gullible way, did I ever really comprehend or realise the depth of satisfaction men like the Macker got from the power they wielded over us in such a brutal, physical way.

Looking back at what I experienced and witnessed, much of the physical abuse, and the way in which the worst of the Christian Brothers inflicted pain and punishment, was to a large extent sexually motivated. Young orphan boys like me bore the brunt of this physical and sexual torture. I remember so clearly how fearful the hours between prayer and sleep were. It was the night sounds. As I tried to sleep they became a big part of my nightmares.

IT TOOK ALMOST
two years for me to become a hardened Artaner, and I was glad when my tenth birthday came around in March 1952: not because of birthday presents or a birthday cake and cards – there were no such luxuries in Artane – but because I was to report to the Brother in charge after breakfast to be given a job. I was to be placed in a new division and a new dormitory and, best of all, I was now allowed to take part in parades and the Corpus Christi processions.

I got up that morning as usual at half past six, while the Brother on duty, the Apeman, stood in the centre passage shouting, ‘Up, up, you pups! First three rows out to wash. Last two out will face the wall. Bed-wetters report to the monitor at the double. Soilers bring their soiled sheets to the boot room. I'll make you suffer for the poor souls in Purgatory, you filthy wretches! Next three rows out to wash on the double. Last two back will face the wall!'

Though it was my birthday, it was just like any previous morning in Artane. Whether it was your birthday or Christmas Day or if there was four feet of snow outside, the regimental system remained the same. Break the rules of silence in dormitory, chapel, toilets or classroom and you were put out to face the wall or, when on parade, sent to the charge room to face the Dude or Driller the Killer.

That morning in 1952 I took my place in my old division, the sixteenth. I had a good feeling about the day ahead. When the Brother in charge shouted, ‘By the left, quick march!' I glanced to my right at Quickfart and said, ‘Thank heavens this is our last day in this division.'

‘Yeah, I hear they're lookin' for five or six new boys for the refectory. The Brother in charge is a madman.'

‘What's his name?'

‘The Drisco.'

Suddenly I was scared of a man I had never met. At Mass I prayed the Dude would send me to the Sewing Room in the Long Hall. But my prayers were not answered. I was sent to work in the boys' refectory, seven days a week, until I was fourteen.

I will never forget the noise at mealtimes in the refectory. As soon as the Brother on duty blew his whistle for us to begin to eat we had to shout over each other to be heard, and we had to defend what we were given from other hungry boys.

As a hardened Artaner I enjoyed a good punch-up, and mealtimes were looked upon as ‘mill' time, when fights often broke out over trivial things such as the loaf of bread not being divided evenly.

It had taken all of those first two years for me to adjust to the strict military system. In those early days I lay awake for hours at night listening to other lads crying. They had different reasons for their tears. Some of them were bed-wetters who were flogged in the boot room before going to bed – flogged not just for dirtying the bedclothes but also for being too slow to report it or not reporting it at all. I was one of those who believed the story that our dormitory was haunted by the Devil and that he promised he would return some night to scorch the building. In the early 1960s, in fact, it came about. My old dormitory, along with the cinema, was burned to the ground.

My worst fears, however, were reserved for the classroom. I feared the hard men like the Hellfire, the Lug, the Bucko, the Macker and the Sheriff. But in class I was known as a duffer, and I was awful at spelling, writing and maths. My poor backside was always on fire from the pain of the hard leather.