Scars that Run Deep

by Patrick Touher

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Leaving his abusive Irish boarding school after eight long years, Patrick Touher thought his troubles were over. But the adult world was a dangerous place for a naïve adolescent. From the Dublin Catholic boys’ home to arriving alone in London, again Patrick is seen as easy prey.

  Yet Patrick’s strength, honesty and sense of humour never left him. The boy they couldn’t break fought back and eventually found love and a family. But the shadow of his early years was always with him. With the encouragement of his wife – a constant witness to his traumatic nightmares – Patrick set about taking the Christian Brothers to task.

  The eagerly awaited sequel to bestseller Fear of the Collar that doesn’t disappoint, Scars that Run Deep is a deeply moving and ultimately triumphant true story.

  About the Author

  An orphan, Patrick Touher spent his early years in a foster family before being sent to Artane Industrial School in Dublin at the age of seven. Living there from 1950 to 1958, he was trained as a baker and went into this trade on leaving at 16. He spent the 1960s and 70s travelling, and in 1972 he married his late wife Pauline and they had three children together. In 2003, Patrick received a settlement from the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse and he was finally able to put the past behind him.

  Scars that Run Deep

  Sometimes the Nightmares Don’t End

  Patrick Touher

  To Paula, John and Suzanne,

  May the future be kind to you. A little faith

  goes a very long way

  *

  In grateful thanks to Bishop Dermot O’Mahony

  for being there for Pauline

  And to Father Michael Carey

  for his pastoral care of Paula and Suzanne

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of non-fiction based on the experiences and recollections of the author. The names of most characters in the book, including the proper names of the boys in Artane Industrial School, have been changed where necessary to protect privacy. Any resemblance of the substitute names to actual persons is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

  1

  MARCH 1958. THE day before my sixteenth birthday. The day before I was to leave Artane Industrial Christian Brothers School, the place that had been my home for the past eight years. During those eight years I had suffered many forms of abuse – physical, mental and sexual – and yet what I felt wasn’t relief at being free from my tormentors at last, nor was I looking forward to the future; no, what I was experiencing was fear.

  I had experienced this emotion many times before, in fact fear engulfed me on a daily basis, but that was the fear of abuse, of being interfered with. What I was going through now was something much less tangible: fear of change.

  I was nervous and frightened of having to face a new beginning once again, and to face a world outside, a world so far removed from the one I was leaving behind. The past eight years had been desperately hard and lonely, but at least at Artane I knew what to expect.

  Each morning we would march to Mass, and that morning, the one before the day I was to leave, was no different. The sound of marching feet was enormous, a boys’ army stamping their hobnail boots loudly down upon the concrete parade ground as though tomorrow would never come. Whenever I think of Artane, that sound comes back to haunt me. The Sheriff’s voice echoed from the handball alleys to the church doors: ‘Left, left, left right left, lift ’em up or face the wall.’

  I wept as the choir sang in Latin at the Mass. In my awful loneliness I had found sanctuary in this beautiful chapel. I found peace and comfort just to sit alone listening to the haunting sounds of the choir as they practised, and as their wonderful sound filled the heavenly air. ‘Adoro te Devote’ and ‘Panis Angelicus’ were engraved in my memory.

  After Mass I began my last day at work in the bakery. As the last batch of the day was drawn from the two stone ovens I helped Joe Golden, the baker, peel the batch for the final time. Joe winked at me and said, ‘Come here, son.’ His arm rested around my shoulders, his voice soft. He said, ‘Now boys, ’tis time for prayer,’ as he said every day. Joe took his baker’s flat hat off his bald head. He gazed around at all the boys and said, ‘Now let us say a decade of the Rosary for our friend here.’ He paused for a moment to look at me, and then continued, ‘Patrick leaves us as he came, a friend, but we shall pray to God that he be kept safe and out of harm’s way. As he has no home to go to we pray he finds a nice place to rest. We wish him well, wherever he travels, and we pray that the road rises to meet him. Let us pray. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, let us pray together, boys.’

  I felt emotionally drained as I waited for the prayers to end. When they did, old Joe put his flat baker’s hat on and led me to the front door. The boys were streaming out of the workshops. ‘God be with you, son, all your days,’ said Joe. Few men I met in my childhood were worth their salt; Joe Golden was worth his weight in gold.

  It was normal finishing time, four o’clock, and we would get to the parade ground between 4 and 4.15 to relax and play games until the Dude, Brother General, blew the whistle for fall in at 4.45pm. Fall in meant every boy had to line up in his division. There were nineteen divisions all lined up for drill exercise given by the drillmaster, who we called Driller the Killer. We marched, slow march and quick march, and marched time, as the Driller, aided by the monitors of each division, shouted, ‘Left, left, left right left. Lift ’em up.’ In my eight years at Artane the system never changed. At five o’clock we marched to the toilets and out again and then we marched to our classrooms for night school, after which we marched to the chapel at 6.40pm for the Rosary, Benediction and hymns.

  After chapel we marched once again in division formation to the refectory for supper. Supper was a loaf of bread between four boys with a bowl of warm dripping to dip bread in and a mug of boiled sweetened tea. Breakfast and supper were always the same, except on Easter Sunday morning when at breakfast each boy received two hard-boiled eggs.

  The last day was the same as any other, but as I marched from the refectory I was informed that Brother Shannon – alias Segoogee – wished to see me in the chapel. Segoogee was a quietly spoken, very friendly man. His dog, a red setter, was always by his side. Us boys liked him, and his dog. ‘So you are leaving us, boy,’ he said to me kindly.

  I looked at him, misty eyed, and muttered, ‘Yes, sir.’

  His smile widened as he held out a piece of paper to me. ‘Here, boy, take it. You will go to work for this man in Fairview.’

  I remember that the organist was playing all the while I was in the sacristy of the beautiful old chapel. The Latin hymn ‘Pange Lingua’ filled the air scented with the blessed incense after the evening Bene
diction. I left Segoogee, the piece of paper unopened, feeling more confused and depressed than ever. As I made my way to my dormitory for the last time, a strange feeling came over me. Tomorrow I’ll be free, I thought, and smiled to myself.

  I entered the dormitory as the Sheriff was beating the kids who were facing the wall. His stern voice rang loud and clear. ‘Brogan, you pup, playing soccer. You know it is an English game and strictly forbidden, yet you defy us and insist on breaking the rules. Bend over that bed, lift up your night-shirt, this will teach you to obey. You will suffer for the poor souls in Purgatory.’ The sound of the leather crashing against naked flesh made my body crawl. Each stroke brought another terrifying scream and shouts from the terrified child. ‘Please, oh please, sir, I won’t play soccer again I promise, sir. Please, sir, you’re killing me.’

  The Sheriff’s response was loud and crystal clear. ‘I know you won’t, boy, because I will crucify you, you pup.’

  I got into my bed that night as terrified as any night in the previous eight years, all the fears of my childhood haunting me.

  That last night of my eight years at Artane was just like any other gone before. In my dreams I was being hounded by men in black chasing after me over the hills with guns. I screamed and screamed for help as they drew closer and closer to me as I came to the cliff’s edge. Looking down I was terrified and screamed.

  When I woke up I was outside on the parade ground in the freezing cold, dressed only in my night-shirt. I had been walking in my sleep again. Arms were around me, a voice spoke softly in my ear. ‘You’ve been sleepwalking, come back with me now, son.’

  I was safe in the arms of Angel Face. I felt good.

  ‘What time is it, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s almost 4am, boy. Time you got some real sleep.’

  When I woke up it was my sixteenth birthday. I was awakened, as usual, by the voice of the Sheriff shouting, ‘Up, up, up, you pups, first three rows into wash, last two in face the wall.’ It was the day I was to leave Artane, the day I had to stand on my own two feet, to work for my keep in a world far removed from what I had been used to for the last eight years.

  As I made my bed to perfection I felt a twinge of sadness. I glanced up and there I could see my pal Rasher, his towel at the ready. He winked at me. I nodded over to Quickfart, who smiled and pretended to look busy while we waited for our turn to go into the washroom.

  There were long rows of white wash-hand basins. A rack on the wall held the toothbrushes, and I shared mine with a lot of other boys. I dived on a red lump of carbolic soap and scrubbed my hands and face; then I scrubbed my teeth with the same soap and handed my brush to Quickfart. He was delighted. ‘Thanks, Collie, you’re a pal.’

  Rasher shouted, ‘Can I have it after yeh, Quickfart? I don’t aim to be last out. The feckin’ Sheriff is on, yeh know.’

  I paused for a moment to look out the tall windows of the washroom, facing south. I got a glimpse of the outside world – Marino, Donnycarney, and beyond. I’d be out there within a few hours. But instead of anticipation, I was dreading my departure; I was not used to change and it terrified me.

  My thoughts were broken by the Sheriff screaming, ‘Last two out will face the wall! You’ll suffer for the poor souls in Limbo, I promise!’

  Poor Blossom and the Skunk were the last out, and the Sheriff wasted no time in dealing with them. ‘Last again, Blossom! You’ll have to learn to hurry yourself up. Bend down, touch your toes, boy. Remember the poor souls in Purgatory and Limbo.’ He gave him six of the best then he told the Skunk to bend over. The lad was a tough sort; he refused. The Sheriff grabbed hold of him and forced him over the nearest bed a few feet away and flogged the backside off him, to the sounds of ‘Leave me alone, leave me alone, you swine!’

  That morning, as the boys’ choir sang the Latin hymns, I wept openly. I was a Christian Brothers’ boy through and through, and after such a long period in their care I had become institutionalised. Even though I lived in a state of fear for most of my days at Artane, it was preferable to the unknown terrors of the world outside its gates. At that moment, if someone had offered me the chance to stay, even though it would mean continuing with the abuse I had undergone over the past eight years, I would have grabbed it with both hands. When I glanced up I saw the Sheriff singing with all the strength of his conviction. I knew he was a dedicated man, like so many of his colleagues. But for all that conviction he had such an evil streak in him. Even as a child of just ten years old I had experienced the violent, sadistic nature of this tall, fearsome Christian Brother.

  As we filed out I was stopped by Brother Monaghan, who smiled and took my hand in his. He spoke softly. ‘Take good care now, and remember us in your prayers, Collie. Go to Mass and visit the house of God often.’ His last words almost had me in tears. ‘I hope we were not too hard on you, Collie.’

  I stumbled out of the church.

  I quickly joined up with my division. The monitor came towards me, smiled and said, ‘Last day, Collie! Soon you’ll be free of all this.’ Then the Macker blew his whistle for us to march off to the refectory for the first meal of the day.

  As the last of the fifteen divisions marched up the centre passage to chants of ‘Left, left, left right left’, I felt tears in my eyes. I had no thirst or hunger for food or drink, as my thoughts were elsewhere.

  The Drisco approached me and spoke quickly. ‘You’re leaving after all these years. How are you going to manage without us?’ I wondered that too. As I was about to say, ‘I don’t know,’ he reached out his fat hand to say goodbye. I just cried.

  The Drisco was a tough, hard Brother, short, stocky and with a fierce temper on him; a difficult man to get to know. As a boy working in the kitchens, I feared but never totally disliked him. When he was in a bad mood he was dangerous, like a mad bull. There were times when he punched the head off me or beat me with a long, heavy stick for some silly thing that went wrong in the kitchen, forgetting to put the sugar in the tea boiler, perhaps, or leaving out the salt in the soup – yet when he was being nice, he was likeable. He was an odd sort of character. As he gripped my hand I could tell he was being sincere. ‘Have you a home to go to now when you get out?’

  I said, ‘No, sir. I don’t know where I’m going, sir.’ I hadn’t yet had the courage to look at Segoogee’s instructions.

  Suddenly the Sheriff blew his whistle for grace after meals, and the Drisco boomed out in his clear Cork accent, ‘Good luck now, and may God be with you. I’ll say the Rosary for you; and you’ll go to Mass and say your prayers now.’

  The Sheriff’s whistle sounded for march-out. The monitors shouted, ‘By the left, quick march! Left, left, left right left! Lift them up or face the wall!’ I glanced behind me and caught sight of the Sheriff for the last time as he clattered a boy across the face so hard that he was knocked to the floor.

  Some things just never change, I thought, as I marched to the parade ground. I had as much fear as ever in me as I swung my arms high and stamped my hobnailed boots as hard as I could, even knowing it was the last time I would have to go through it. I was glad when the monitor shouted, ‘Halt! At ease! Fall out!’

  I was tense and emotional as I stood before the Macker, who was standing with the drillmaster on parade. They smiled, shook my hand and wished me well. As I marched up to the storeroom to collect my new suit and working clothes for my life outside, thoughts of my first day back in 1950 flooded my mind – it was here I had come to when I received my first Artane clothes and hobnailed boots.

  After saying goodbye to my pals and a few Brothers I encountered, I was on my way out of one of the toughest institutions in Ireland, yet I found it hard to hold back the tears.

  I put my hand into my pocket to take out the address Segoogee had given me earlier. He said they would put me up and I would be at home there – but I could have kicked him! The writing was just a scribble. I couldn’t make out the home I was to go to, or indeed the address of the bakery I was to work in ei
ther.

  It was a long walk from the parade ground to the bus stop on the Malahide Road. I felt utterly alone. A car approached as I passed the old quarry to my right. I noticed two young lads aged about twelve years old in the back. The driver shouted, ‘Could you tell me the way to the main office?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you’ll find it on your right, just as you pass the statue of the Sacred Heart.’

  I glanced at the two boys seated in the back and I couldn’t help it – the tears flowed down my cheeks. I hurried across the Malahide Road and waited anxiously for the bus that would bring me into the future.

  2

  ALTHOUGH I ENTERED Artane Industrial School just before my eighth birthday, I remember my life before then well, and with great fondness. Mr and Mrs Doyle, my foster parents, treated me with kindness, and their children Margaret, Edward and John were like sister and brothers to me. We lived in a small, whitewashed cottage in the hills of Barnacullia, past Sandyford, County Dublin. The little cottage had just two rooms and a pantry. How and where we all slept – the Doyle family, five in all, with me making six – I cannot quite remember; yet we were comfortable and happy.

  Back then, in those days, I can’t recall ever being so much as slapped. I had no fears of anything or anyone, not even of the dark. Life was so carefree then. I often walked home from school with my pals through the fields and across the hillside to Carthy’s Green, where they’d help me bring in the cows with Margaret Doyle. Margaret taught me how to milk the cows; one of them – the oldest cow – was nicknamed Big Betty. A great cow was Betty. Shep the collie dog followed Margaret and me everywhere over across the hills to bring in the cows. And every morning Shep would follow me down the dirt track to as far as the Tiller Doyle’s shop. A real pal was Shep.

  We had no running water or electricity in them days up in Barnacullia, not that I recall, though we were all happy then. Bridget Doyle, my foster mother, baked our bread, scones and apple pies. Every day after school it was my job to fetch buckets of clear water from the well along the hillside.