by Irene Kelly
We exchanged tearful waves at the door and then they turned to walk back down the drive. I waved for a long time, until I heard a tetchy voice above me say, ‘That’s enough. Get inside!’
It was the Mother Superior – she must have seen and heard everything. The way I had screamed and cried not to be sent back. In a panic, I took off down the corridor, desperate to get away from her before she could tell me off for making a fuss.
The blood pounded in my ears as I ran at full pelt until an icy blast stopped me dead: ‘IRENE COOGAN!’
Terrified, I turned round and there she was, at the end of the corridor, her face a mask of fury. In that moment, everything I’d eaten that day just fell out of me. I stood, helpless with fear, as my body collapsed in fright. The Mother Superior flew at me. The next thing, her hand made contact with my face and I rose up off the ground with the force and fell back down again in a crumpled heap. My nostrils filled with the scent of my own faeces and I saw my beautiful clothes were smeared and soiled.
‘Look what you’ve done, you disgusting child!’ she snorted with loathing. ‘The devil is in you, Irene Coogan, and I’m going to make it my business to beat the devil out of you. Now get a bucket and clean up your revolting mess!’
I didn’t get any tea that evening – I was too busy cleaning the corridor and myself. All the nice feelings I had from my day out were destroyed in an instant. I went to bed that night tired, hungry and ashamed.
In July the school holidays started and some of us younger children were shipped out by bus to a different orphanage in the beautiful countryside for three months. It was all open fields swaying with wheat and corn and long sunny days. Since there was no school we were allowed to play outside all day long, which was better than being stuck in a classroom with Mrs Lawley. Only two nuns from St Grace’s came with us; the rest of the nuns were from the country and they didn’t beat us, which was a nice change.
But while other children were happy to skip and play all day long, running around, chasing one another seemingly without a care in the world, I sat in a corner of the yard most of the time, just staring at them all. How can they be so happy? I wondered to myself. What is there to laugh about? I didn’t feel anything any more – not happiness, not sadness. Nothing. I was empty.
Cecily and Martin were here too but I didn’t have much to do with them. The older children like Agatha stayed behind in the orphanage.
One thing that was better about being on holiday in the country was the food – the vegetables were much fresher and now I could actually tell the difference between the vegetables in my stew. Cabbage, carrots, turnips, swedes and potatoes – I took real pleasure in identifying and savouring each mouthful.
Since the church was at the other end of the village, we were marched through every morning and evening for Mass and Benediction. From the orphanage we passed down the main street with all the shops and saw the grocers, butchers and bakery every day – there was a market there too so it was a busy little place with lots of people at the weekend. Clumping past the villagers in our big hobnailed boots and gabardine coats, I felt their eyes on me and I hated it. Sometimes I even heard them, heads cocked to one side, muttering to one another.
‘Oh, look at the poor little orphanage children – here for their holidays.’
‘Aren’t they sweet?’
‘Very well-behaved. There but for the grace of God . . .’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’
I kept my head down as we went by, angry and resentful. I didn’t want their pity. I hated being paraded in front of the villagers like this. It was almost a relief when summer ended and we could go back to St Grace’s where we didn’t have to face ordinary folks day in, day out, reminding us how different we were, reminding me daily of the rejection at the heart of my life.
Back at St Grace’s, I stopped expecting things to get better and something in my heart hardened and closed up. The weeks passed slowly. I didn’t cry any more when the nuns beat me, I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I rarely saw Agatha because she had been moved into the older girls’ dormitory, and I avoided going into the nursery so I didn’t see much of Martin or Cecily. I didn’t think about them either. I didn’t think about anything. It was better not to think or hope or dream. It was less heartbreaking. So I became like a machine. The food went into my mouth now and I didn’t even taste it. At night, I closed my eyes and, instead of dreaming of going home, I just fell straight to sleep, relieved that another day was over. So when the nun fetched me one brisk morning in November to tell me my mother had come to take me home, at first I didn’t actually believe her.
11
IRENE
The Orphanages
I was beside myself with excitement by the time I raced into the sitting room of the visitors’ building. There she stood, waiting for us all. She looked so pretty in a short, light blue mac and knee-high cream boots. Mammy! I ran up to her and hugged her round the waist. Cecily was already there, dressed in her coat, and soon Agatha and Martin joined us.
‘Okay okay,’ Mammy tutted irritably. ‘Let go of me now. Are we all ready to go home?’
‘Yes!’ I shouted. I couldn’t get out of that place quick enough. It had been the longest and worst year of my life. I had all but given up hope of ever going home again, so to hear those words almost made me want to cry. All I wanted at that moment was to get as far away from these cruel and nasty nuns as possible.
On the bus on the way home, we all clamoured for information. Did we live in the same house as before? Was Mammy all better? Where were Peter and Frances? What about Daddy? Mammy did her best to answer our questions.
‘Your father is home for Christmas so they said you lot could all come out and then we’ll see how it goes,’ Mammy explained. ‘We’re still in the same house. I’m well enough for the minute but who knows how long that’ll last? You’ll all just have to be good and help me out as much as possible so that I can stay well enough to look after yous all. You’re still enrolled in the school at St Grace’s, mind, so you’ll be going back there for your lessons and maybe if I need a rest, you might have to go back to the orphanage for a little while, but we’ll see how it goes. Peter and Frances are back at home already.’
It was a strange homecoming, not at all how I’d imagined it. For one thing, the downstairs windows were all boarded up and there was barely a stick of furniture in the place. It wasn’t at all homely. Mum said she’d had to sell all our furniture to help make ends meet and the boards had been put up to stop people breaking in while she was in the convalescent home. There was one settee still in the living room but it was falling apart so we sat on orange crates instead. There was no table, just one bed for us children in the front bedroom and another for Mammy and Daddy in their room. And that was it.
But the biggest shock of all was that our father was there. I’d never spent any time with my daddy before so it was very odd getting used to living with a grown man. At least it meant there was plenty of food that Christmas. It soon became clear to us all that Daddy loved his food and he insisted my mother cook a large turkey with all the trimmings and a cake. It was grand having home-cooked food again – I’d almost forgotten what real meat tasted like and the smell of my mother’s apple pie filling the house was exquisite. Mind you, I couldn’t eat all that much as my stomach wasn’t used to rich food any more. I even got a present on Christmas Day! It was a doll – she had an arm and an eye missing and all her hair had been chopped off but I didn’t care. She was my doll and, to me, she was the best thing in the world.
For the first couple of weeks, I loved just having my freedom back and I took myself off for hours at a time, wandering along the Liffey or through the barren, muddy fields. For the first time in a year, I felt I could breathe freely again. And I cherished being able to spend quiet time with my own thoughts. Though I was almost always lonely in the orphanage, I was rarely alone. I had missed solitude.
Even though I was still enrolled in school at St G
race’s, being a ‘day girl’ was a whole different experience to living there. The teachers were nice to you because they knew you were going home to a mammy and daddy every night and of course we didn’t have to live with the nuns. I was anxious to put my experiences at St Grace’s behind me, as were my siblings. None of us talked about it to our parents or among ourselves. We just wanted to forget it ever happened.
It felt good to be back with my family but there were subtle changes that only revealed themselves slowly. For a start, Peter was different. He was nine years old and there was a simmering anger within him now that occasionally burst to the surface. While we had been housed in St Grace’s he was taken in by the priests at a boys’ Catholic home. It had changed him – he didn’t talk to us easily any more and he seemed to loathe our father. The pair couldn’t be in the same room for more than five minutes before a fight broke out, and then Daddy would beat him with his hands or take the belt to him. It wasn’t the same with my mother – Peter adored my mother and she wouldn’t hear a word against him. And sometimes that made things worse.
My mother and father weren’t lovey-dovey like I’d seen other couples – they didn’t hold hands or look at each other with fondness. They didn’t even talk much. I knew they were married but the way they acted it was like they were just living in the same house. My mother put food in front of my father and barely looked at him. He ate his food then went out. The only time they said two words to each other was to argue. Occasionally Dad tried to make my mother have a Guinness with him and then she would be nice to him but the next day it seemed she was angrier than ever. But Daddy was always really happy. It was strange and confusing.
It was almost a relief when Daddy returned to his work as a truck driver in England after Christmas. The house was quieter, less of a battleground. We attended our school lessons in St Grace’s and, for a while, things went back to the way they were before the orphanage. Mammy still had a hot temper and a vicious tongue but at least I didn’t live under the tyranny of the nuns. There was only one of Mammy, but there were dozens of nuns! And even though the children on our estate teased us and called us ‘The Orphanages’, I didn’t mind so much. I stood up for myself more and more – I fought back.
Now that Mammy was getting social welfare, there was enough money to feed us all so it was rare I went a day without food. In time, the boards came off the windows. But Mammy’s health was up and down and she still took it into her head occasionally to sit us all down to watch her ‘commit suicide’ with her pills and a bottle of whisky. It meant we were sent back to St Grace’s every few months to give her a ‘rest’.
Things were starting to change a little at St Grace’s too. There was a record player in the living room now and a couple of games as well. The cruelty was still there but the nuns didn’t beat me as much – I didn’t know if it was because I kept my head down and I knew how to stay out of trouble or because they knew we were going back home to our mammy. They were only short stays this time, the longest one being two months; even so, I was always scared I would get stuck there for good and Mammy wouldn’t come and get me. One time they didn’t have space for all of us and we were placed in another home called the Rose House.
The Rose House couldn’t have been more different from St Grace’s – for one thing it was run by kind, gentle nurses. There wasn’t a nun in sight. The beds were soft and warm with crisp, white sheets, the food was tasty and wholesome, the sitting room was filled with toys and games and there was always fun going on. In the Rose House the children laughed and smiled – there was happiness in the air and that was because the nurses were nice people. They spoke in a soft, soothing way which made you feel they really cared. Nurse Abigail was my favourite – she was plump and cuddly and always gave me big hugs. If I was having a bad day or felt sad, she’d come up to me and ask me gently: ‘And what’s with you today, Irene?’
And just that, just a little interest and affection, made me feel better. It was the nicest place I’d ever lived and the only time I felt really safe so it wasn’t surprising that at the end of our allocated six weeks, I didn’t want to leave.
Before the year was out, my father was back in the house, only this time he had no job so he had to sign on the dole. It caused a lot of arguments with Mammy, who was now pregnant, because she never saw any of his money. My father spent it down the bookies or the pub.
‘Are you just expecting to be fed out of thin air?’ my mother would goad him. ‘Do you think bread, meat, potatoes – they’re all free? How do you expect me to feed your enormous bloody appetite with nothing? You selfish bastard! Leaving me alone to raise your children with no sodding money. No wonder I’ve lost my mind!’
‘Ah, quit your bloody nagging, woman!’ Daddy yelled back. ‘That’s my money and I’ll do what I want with it!’
‘Why not? You’ve spent your whole life doing what you want. Why should now be any different? Thank God I’ve got Fran and Peter here to support the family or these children of yours would all be back with the nuns! You’re a useless husband! Useless! I should never have bloody married you.’
‘I’ve had enough – I’m going out.’
And then he would storm out of the house and not return until late at night. I could understand my mother getting so upset with my father. After all, he ate like a horse. It drove me mad the way he always took a massive portion of food for himself and left us children with one bowl to share between six of us.
Daddy wasn’t long home before the police came for him. We had just got back from one of our visits to St Grace’s when the Garda turned up at the door and ordered my father to come to the station to answer some questions. As soon as he returned Mammy poured a cup of hot tea over him.
‘You stupid man!’ she exploded. ‘You can’t do anything right!’
I heard later from Agatha that Daddy had been caught robbing the wages from the hospital at the end of our road and he was sent to prison for a year. I thought that was pretty bad – I mean, it was a hospital for sick people. We were told not to steal at all, but stealing from the sick? Even if he was desperate I thought that was just plain wrong. I hardly missed Daddy while he was away. Being apart for most of my childhood, I was more used to being separated from him than together.
Another year went by and we left St Grace’s school for good, joining the primary school down the road. After I turned nine, Daddy was released from prison and got himself a good job as a lorry driver. Now there was another baby, Emily, in the house and the fights between my parents started up again, just like before.
I did my best to stay away from their rows and, over time, I made a few friends. One girl called Debbie lived down the street from me – her family were from England so she was an outsider in our area. We started talking one day because I was an outsider too and never had anyone to play with. She was a very pretty girl with long mousy brown hair – very tall and tough – and she was my best friend for a while, always looking out for me. She was my first real friend, sticking up for me to the other children. She didn’t mind the way I was dressed or the home I came from.
Debbie came from a very loving family – she was the middle one of two brothers and three sisters and they were all very friendly and bonded. They seemed happy to be around each other and sat down every evening to tea and talked about their day. To me, it felt like this was how a family should be. They had a beautiful home – the furniture was lovely, there was wallpaper on the walls and it was always warm and clean. They introduced me to loads of new foods I’d never tasted before. At Debbie’s I had my first taste of tinned spaghetti. Oh my God, it was gorgeous – really sweet and tasty, like nothing I’d ever had before. They also had tomato sauce, fish fingers and tinned pineapple. Those sharp, tangy yellow discs were like little slices of heaven. At the end of every meal at Debbie’s house, I felt like I’d taken my taste buds on an exotic journey into the unknown. And I always left with a big smile on my face.
Before long, Agatha left school and started
working in a sweet factory with Frances. Peter had left school at the age of twelve but he didn’t have a job; more often than not he went out stealing to bring in money for our mother. She didn’t mind – Peter was her blue-eyed boy. Now I was drafted in to do her jobs in the house – the washing, cooking and cleaning. When I wasn’t doing the housework, I usually had my head in a magazine or a comic. I loved reading and I devoured anything and everything I could get my hands on. My teachers never thought much of me because I wasn’t very well behaved in class but that didn’t mean I was stupid. In fact, I loved reading and I was good at writing too. I found the work we were given in class quite easy and usually finished quickly and mucked around the rest of the time. The teacher said I didn’t apply myself and lacked self-discipline but I had an idea of what I wanted to do with my life.
Over the years I’d decided that I wanted to work for a living. I wanted to make something of my life. I knew that if I got into secondary school I had the chance of learning a profession and getting a good job. But none of my siblings had been to secondary school, at least none of those that lived with us. Our eldest brother Aidan had gone to secondary school but then my granny on my father’s side had brought him up and he didn’t have much to do with us. I had always wondered about Aidan and why he didn’t live with Mammy. One day I asked Agatha.
‘He got took away from Mammy and Daddy,’ she said confidentially. ‘He was just a baby and Mammy and Daddy were young and didn’t really know much about babies. They went out one night and they left him in their flat all alone for hours and hours until a neighbour called the police. They broke in and found Aidan there on his own crying his little eyes out. Anyways, he got took off them because they weren’t looking after him right and he went to live with Granny.’
He’d been there ever since, though none of us envied him – after all, Granny could be a difficult woman and hard to please. We usually saw her once a week after Mass on Sunday and that was enough. But at least he’d never spent a day in an orphanage. And he’d got a good education, which meant that by the time I was twelve, Aidan was nineteen years old and a bus driver.
