by Irene Kelly
‘The fact is, Irene, you won’t pass so there’s no point even going along,’ my teacher said in her most disdainful voice when I asked her about taking the exam for secondary school. ‘You’re just not bright enough. Think about a factory job or staying home to help your mother. Hmmm? I think you might be more useful to your family if you were earning your keep.’
I didn’t reply – I just nodded and left the classroom. The following week, and without my teacher’s knowledge, I went along with Debbie to sit the exam – and two weeks later, I was sent my results. I had passed with flying colours! It gave me no end of satisfaction to take my results letter into school that day and flaunt it in front of her. She was too shocked to say anything. What could she say? I’d hoped my mother would be pleased for me but she seemed less than impressed.
‘What do you want to go to secondary school for?’ she sneered. ‘How’s that going to help me feed and clothe you all?’
‘I’ll get a good job at the end of it,’ I insisted. ‘Then I’ll have loads of money to give yous.’
‘Hmmm . . . fat chance,’ she grumbled, and we left it there, but she didn’t stop me. My granny was proud of me. None of my siblings had been to secondary school except for Aidan. Granny even bought me a new outfit to start the new school year – it was a navy smock. I loved it – it felt very grown up and smart.
‘That’s for getting yourself an education,’ she said as she smoothed down the collar of my new dress. ‘You stick with it, Irene. I’ve got a feeling you’re a bright one.’
So aged thirteen, full of hope and excitement, I started at the secondary tech school. I had two specialist classes – tailoring and bookkeeping – as well as the usual classes in English, maths, history and religion. I loved it all – well, everything apart from religion. By now I had lost my faith in the Catholic Church. As far as I could see it was full of hypocrites and bullies, and whatever they did was just for show. Underneath, they were corrupt, nasty and evil, and all their ‘holiness’ and ‘goodness’ was just on the surface. It was an opinion I kept firmly to myself, though, since all the people I knew loved the nuns and the priests and wouldn’t hear a word against them.
A very nice teacher called Mr Franklin ran my tailoring class. He had black hair and a fussy manner but he really cared about the students, you could tell that from the start. For our first project we had to make a skirt, based around a pattern of our choice and using our own fabric. I bit my nails and fretted anxiously at the back of the class as Mr Franklin explained the different techniques we would be using to cut and sew our skirts. Then, after the bell had gone, and all the other girls had left the classroom, I approached his desk.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Franklin,’ I told him. ‘But I can’t get the material, I’ve got no money.’
‘Don’t worry, Miss Coogan,’ Mr Franklin said to me respectfully. ‘I have an account with one of the haberdasheries in town and if you go there and give them my name, you can order your fabric and they’ll put it on my bill.’
‘Are you sure, Mr Franklin?’ I was overwhelmed with his kindness.
‘Of course! We can’t have you falling behind in class, can we?’
So I collected my black-and-white houndstooth fabric from Mr Franklin’s haberdashers and used it to make a mid-calf pencil skirt. I put my heart and soul into it, and when it was done I was pleased with the result. The seams were neat, the cut was elegant and sharp, and the skirt fitted me really well. Mr Franklin seemed delighted with my work.
‘That’s excellent!’ he said when I had finished. I blushed at his fulsome praise – I wasn’t used to it. ‘You work well with the material, like you’ve always been doing it. Keep it up and I think you’re going to do very well in this class.’
I was thrilled! I’d never been complimented in this way before. For the first time it felt like there was somebody who saw a future for me and wanted to give me a chance. That Friday afternoon, I came home from school with a spring in my step.
‘Irene!’ Mammy greeted me with a shout when I came in the front door. ‘Will ya come in here a minute?’
‘Sure, Mammy.’ I walked into the living room where Mammy sat on the settee, thick plumes of cigarette smoke curling out of her nostrils.
‘Irene, you’re starting work on Monday,’ she said, tapping the end of the cigarette on her plastic orange ashtray.
‘What? What do you mean, Mammy?’
‘I mean, you’ve got a job and it starts on Monday. So no more school.’
I couldn’t believe it. My good mood evaporated in an instant – and with it, all my hopes and dreams.
‘But . . . but I’m doing really well, Mammy,’ I objected in a small voice. ‘Mr Franklin, my tailoring teacher, he says I’m a natural. I want to stay at school, do my exams . . .’
‘Yes, well, exams don’t put food on our table.’
‘I’ve just made a skirt, Mammy,’ I offered limply. ‘Can’t I go for a little longer?’
‘No! Now stop your arguing. You’re going to work and there’s an end to it.’
I was devastated. That weekend I hid myself away in the bedroom and cried for hours on end. There was no point arguing with my mother; I knew I could never change her mind and bringing it up again would only make her cross. Also, I knew in my heart I had a duty to my family to make sure there was enough money in the house for food and clothes. But I couldn’t help it – I’d only been at school for around six months and I felt wretched about leaving. The worst part was that I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Mr Franklin or thank him for all his help and encouragement. The following Monday I started work at a paintbrush factory.
12
IRENE
Growing Up, Growing Strong
The smell from the chippy made me weak at the knees! As I stood outside, stamping my feet against the cold, I breathed in the heady aroma of deep-frying potatoes mingled with salt and vinegar. It carried down the street, and out here, right outside the shop, the scent was intoxicating.
‘I’m getting meself some of those chips!’ I burst out when my sisters joined me five minutes later. Fran and Aggie worked in a sweet factory up the road from the paintbrush factory, so every day we walked to work and back together. Today was Friday so each of us clutched a small wage packet. It had been a tough week, but not terrible. Each morning I was up at 6 a.m. to help out with the younger ones before leaving at 7 a.m. to walk half an hour to work, and we finished each day at 5 p.m. There was no breakfast and no money for the bus – I had to walk to work every day on an empty stomach.
The work wasn’t hard – in fact, I quite enjoyed putting the glue and then the hair into the silver part of the brush head and then attaching that to the wooden handle. It was engrossing and not too difficult, and I found that the harder I worked, the less troubled I was by my thoughts. I was quicker than most of the other girls on my line so even if I finished my brush heads early, I was keen to help out the others or find more work to do. The harder I worked, the happier I was.
But holding that little brown envelope in my hand and standing outside the chippy, I could only think of one thing – buying some of those gorgeous chips!
‘Oh no, you can’t do that!’ Agatha exclaimed.
‘Mammy’ll kill you if you spend your wages,’ Frances echoed.
‘But it’s my money!’ I reasoned. ‘I earned it and if I want chips, I’ll get chips.’ I had earned myself £7 this week and a packet of chips only cost a few pennies so I couldn’t see the harm. Defiantly, I marched into the chip shop and when I came out with a newspaper cone filled with chips my sisters both burst out crying. It was so daft, I couldn’t help grinning at them as I dug in my wooden fork and took a mouthful. Oh, they were marvellous! Crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, scalding hot, salty and tangy with vinegar, I just had to have more.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Agatha sobbed, wiping away her tears with her threadbare gloves. ‘You’re going to be in so much trouble, Irene. Mammy’ll beat you black and b
lue for this.’
‘I’d like to see her try!’ I smiled back. ‘Now look, don’t get upset. Here, have a chip!’
As we walked home, I shared the lovely chips with my sisters, though they were crying so hard I didn’t think they appreciated them as much as I did. By the time we were home, we’d polished off the lot.
As we walked in, Mammy jumped up from the settee and strode towards us, her hand outstretched. Obediently, Frances handed over her wage packet – Mammy peered inside, took out ten shillings and handed that back to Frances. Ten shillings from seven punts? Was that all she got for a week’s work? We were sent out to the factories with no food in our bellies, no money for bus fares, nothing, and ten shillings was our reward? My blood boiled.
Next, Agatha did the same – she handed over her wages and was given ten shillings in return. I wasn’t going to stand for that. So instead of giving Mammy my wage packet, I emptied it out onto my hand and put half the money in my pocket. The rest I gave to her – three punts and ten shillings.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked sharply.
‘I’m giving you your wages,’ I replied calmly.
‘That’s my wage packet!’ she snapped.
‘No,’ I said patiently, though my heart was pounding. This was the first time I had stood up to my mother. ‘That’s my wage packet. You’re not having it. I earned that money. You will get what I feel you’re entitled to and that is all.’
Though I could feel the blood surging in my ears, I braced myself against the fear, determined not to shake, not to give myself away. I’d had enough of Mammy’s bullying and her beatings. She had stopped me going to school so that I could work in the factory but I was damned if I was going to simply hand over everything I’d worked for that week. For the first time, I realized I had some power over her. If she wanted my money, if she wanted me to work for her, she had to accept it on my terms.
‘I’ll beat you till you’re black and blue,’ she growled.
‘I don’t care,’ I shot back. ‘I don’t care, Mammy. I don’t feel the beatings no more. I don’t care what you do, you’re not getting all my money.’
She stared at me for what felt like an eternity but it couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. Then she turned away. That was it! We were all standing there, holding our breaths, waiting for her to launch herself at me but no, nothing. It was like she accepted it. And as she walked away, I breathed out with relief. I had won an important battle. I knew that, from now on, Mammy would never ask me for my wage packet again. I had wrested back a tiny bit of control and it felt good.
I didn’t know how it happened but it seems, over the years, I had grown quite strong. Though I was still very thin and frail, I had an inner strength and I dared to look Mammy square in the eyes now and fight my corner. I discovered that instead of crying when people tried to hurt me, it made them angrier if I laughed. I had to show them they couldn’t hurt me and then I had the upper hand.
I’d had enough of being weak and pitied – I was growing up and I wasn’t going to be pushed around any longer. I even started to dress differently. For so long, Mammy had told me I was ugly and looked like a boy, so I decided to dress and act like a boy. I cut my hair short and I wore men’s suits instead of skirts and dresses. In my dark, three-piece suits and big, clumping hobnailed boots, I felt powerful and strong. And with a little bit of money in my pocket I was more in charge of my own destiny than ever before.
But two weeks after I started work at the paintbrush factory, I was given the sack.
‘I’m sorry, Irene,’ the floor manager told me, scratching his head. ‘I’ll have to let you go.’
My heart sank – now Mammy really was going to kill me!
‘Why?’ I asked, confused. ‘I’m a good worker, Mr Cox, the best on this floor. What have I done wrong?’
‘It’s nothing you’ve done,’ he sighed. ‘You’re just too young. You’re thirteen.’
This didn’t make sense – the factory owner knew I was thirteen when I started. In any case, it was my birthday tomorrow.
‘I’ll be fourteen tomorrow,’ I told him.
‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m sacking you now but you can start back again on Monday.’
Thank God for that! It didn’t seem to make sense to me but Agatha explained later that the factory owners had to pretend they didn’t know when you were underage. As soon as I turned fourteen, it meant I was properly legitimate and they could put me on the payroll.
As the months passed, I started to exercise my newfound independence. Now, each weekend, I went out drinking in pubs and clubs with Agatha. Since she didn’t have any money, I would buy her drinks for her. Alcohol helped numb the pain I felt inside, it made me feel invincible and let me forget about my miserable past. At home, I tried my best to protect the younger ones from the worst of Mammy’s temper, and now, when Mammy took an overdose and put herself in the hospital, all us older ones rallied round to make sure the house still ran smoothly and that Cecily and Emily, our two younger sisters, stayed with us at home instead of being taken to the orphanage. Now Agatha acted like their mammy, showering them with hugs and kisses and putting them to bed at night, and I spent my wages on buying them sweets and clothes. The little ones, they were my only weakness.
To the world outside, I was somebody else, a hard girl. I didn’t let anybody get the better of me, in fact, just the opposite. If I thought somebody was going to have a go, I’d get in there first, calling them names, threatening to punch their lights out. I didn’t have many friends, I didn’t let people get close. Out in the world, there was nobody to help me, nobody to fight for me, so I did it all myself. And I was prepared – I sewed pockets into my suits and carried knives in them. That way, I was ready for anything.
It was worse when I’d been drinking, and most weekends I was drunk most of the time. When I’d first started drinking I was on sherry, but then I moved on to wine and lager, and then spirits like whisky and vodka. Before long, I had adapted my lifestyle to accommodate as much drinking as possible, leaving the house on Friday night and not returning until late Sunday evening. Some nights I just drank right through till the morning and, at other times, I’d go and stay at Debbie’s house. We’d remained friends throughout this time, and she also worked at the factory.
Debbie stuck by me during all the nights I nearly came to blows. Most of the time I was lucky and I got away without a proper fight, though I didn’t really understand why. I would be all up in someone’s face, really going for it, and they would just melt away. It was rare that anyone squared up to me. I asked Debbie one night why she thought other people refused to fight me. She paused before answering, as if trying to pick her words carefully. ‘It’s your eyes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, there’s this strange look that comes over you. You look mad, proper mad, and the other person gets scared. I’ll be honest with you – they think you’re a bit touched. That’s why they won’t fight with you.’
‘Well, that suits me just fine,’ I replied nonchalantly, though I found her words unsettling.
Was I mad? I knew there was something strange about me, for sure. And this was brought home to me just a few weeks later when I nearly killed a girl. I was out as usual on Friday night in a club drinking and dancing with Debbie and her three brothers. At the club there was a group of sisters who came from the other side of Dublin – the Shaughnessys – I recognized their faces. The four of them were known about town as tough characters themselves, the kind of hard-faced girls you didn’t mess around with. But it seemed this one Shaughnessy girl reckoned herself a bit and she had a fancy for my friend’s brother Adam. But Adam wasn’t interested in her – in fact, he spent most of the night chatting to me. For a while she just stood at the other end of the bar, throwing me evil looks, but then around midnight she walked up to me and whispered in my ear, ‘You’re nothing but a dirty slut.’
I didn’t have time to think or react.
A red mist came down and, a second later, I launched myself at her. I didn’t know why she had called me a slut but I didn’t care. All I knew at that moment was that I wanted to kill her. I felt a tug on the back of my collar – the bouncers picked us up and threw us onto the pavement outside. But I wasn’t finished. Before she had a chance to move, I scrambled to my feet and threw myself on top of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and slamming her head back against the pavement. Screaming and shouting erupted all around me now, hands pulled me away, the girl’s eyes rolled backwards and a dark red pool of blood grew like a crown around her hair. Sirens blared somewhere down the road.
‘Get out of here!’ Debbie shouted, dragging me away from the scene. ‘Go on! Go!’
I took off, running up the road, and managed to grab onto the bar at the back of a double-decker bus. I sat down on the bus, shaking like a leaf.
That night I lay in bed, terrified I had killed the girl. What has happened to me? I’d lost control completely. All that rage inside – it was only just below the surface and it had come out in a way that I knew was dangerous. I had to avoid confrontation from now on – it was the only way to avoid killing somebody.
The next day I was a nervous wreck, fully expecting the Garda to knock on the door at any time to take me away to the cells. But nobody came. The following Monday at work, I sought out Debbie who told me the Shaughnessy girl had to have the whole of the back of her head shaved and stitched up. But no one told the police it was me who did it.
‘You could have killed her,’ she whispered, tears in her eyes.
‘I know, I know,’ I told her. ‘I won’t fight again. I’ll make sure I find another way out.’
