Scars that Run Deep

by Patrick Touher

  Even though I was not related to the Doyles, I was treated just like a member of their family. In fact, after I left Artane, I was never once interested to find out who my father was, or even if he was still alive. As far as I was concerned, even back then in 1958, any man worth his salt would never desert his own flesh and blood, so I couldn’t care less about him. All I knew of my mother, Helen, was that she died when I was very young. When she became too ill to take care of me she left me with the nuns in St Brigid’s Convent, Eccles Street, Dublin, opposite the Mater Hospital. I was just twelve months old.

  In my later years I would be plagued by nightmares, but as a child I can’t recall ever experiencing bad dreams. My dreams were pleasant, happy ones, just like my days living up on the hillside of Barnacullia.

  Memories of Barnacullia

  From the clear mountain streams

  In the hearts of my dreams

  To the beauty that surrounds Barnacullia.

  Of my fond childhood days

  Through the sun’s twilight rays

  In my thoughts, you should know I am with ya!

  My childhood dreams like visions to me

  Of sunlit waters and children carefree

  From the Doyle’s cottage door

  My vision so clear

  Barnacullia to Sandyford and the road to Glencullen

  I walked without fear.

  The cottage of my dreams, I see visions

  Of Bridget, Roseanna and John

  As I gaze through the window with sadness

  No light in the heart – ’tis gone

  Fond memories of Barnacullia, inscribed so tenderly

  As I remember young Margaret.

  As a wee orphan, she cared for me.

  I was in foster care from November 1942, when I was one, until just before my eighth birthday in March 1950. No one that I know of ever came to me and explained much about why I was an orphan living in such a picturesque home. It was never explained to me who I really was, I was not even sure of my actual birthday or my real name. To this day no one ever bothered to explain to me the reasons for my arrest from the cottage, and driven away by the police in a big black Ford estate car to a courthouse, and stood before a judge at 10am on a cold, bright, spring morning. In fact the judge didn’t even tell me I was to serve the remainder of my childhood in the incredibly brutal notorious Artane Industrial School, run by the Christian Brothers. However, I learned in due course that I was not alone in my grim mysterious world. At least five of my best school pals from Barnacullia were to join me within a year of my arrival. Although they had real parents, they had been in foster care as I had.

  I will always remember my arrival in Artane. I was in the main office. Outside the sky was an unbroken shade of blue. The boys were at work on the flowerbeds as I stood at the long pull-up window staring out at them.

  I didn’t worry about how awful the boy gardeners looked in their awful drab serge tufted clothes. I believed the judge in the Court House in Kilmainham when he said I’d be only away for a few weeks.

  As I enjoyed the plateful of fruit cake one Brother gave to me, I had no reason to be afraid, or to fear these nice Brothers dressed in long black cassocks. To me at that time I thought they were all saints, just like the one who gave me the cake – the very old Brother who, I was soon to learn, was nicknamed the Saint.

  I waited, as I had been told to by the Saint, for the clerk of the office to come out to see me. When the brown-panelled office door opened, I looked towards the tall young office clerk. ‘Here, take this and remember it. It’s your serial number, boy. It will stay with you until you are released,’ he said. ‘It’s stamped on your boots and shoes, suits and day clothes.’ He smiled at me as he handed me the dog tag with my serial number. I glanced down at it in amazement. It read No. 12928. ‘You won’t forget it will you.’ His smile was warm and sincere.

  ‘No sir.’ But I’m only here for a few weeks I thought as he returned to his office.

  As I look back to that moment on a beautiful spring morning in March 1950 I never once realised that this would be my number until my release on reaching the age of sixteen, a full eight awful years, half of my childhood locked up as number 12928 in Artane Industrial School. My childhood as I had known it was gone for ever, yet no one had the courage or decency to tell me.

  Some tunes will always linger or remain in the back of one’s mind. A tune that when you hear it, no matter where you are, will remind you of the time and place you were in when first you heard it. As I was being led down the granite stone steps by the monitor to meet the Dude, the Brother General, ‘The Foggy Dew’ swept the grounds of this mighty Christian Brothers boys’ industrial school. ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  The monitor, whose name was Billy, smiled as he explained, ‘That’s our famous boys’ band. They’re playing “The Foggy Dew”. They’re practising for the St Patrick’s Day Grand Parade. Come on, follow me. You’ve got to meet the Dude.’

  Sure, I couldn’t quite take it all in as Billy seemed to be so excited, explaining all these things to me. But then I was very slow on learning, on the uptake of things. However, I had a mind that stored up what I’d seen, heard and had done to me, and I’d never be allowed to forget such things!

  As the hauntingly beautiful sound of ‘The Foggy Dew’ swept through the air, the boys’ parade ground, where 900 boys were lined up in their respective divisions, looked like a mighty boys’ army. I was shocked at the awesome sight. ‘What are they doing?’ I asked.

  Billy quickly explained, ‘The boys are lined up in their divisions. Each division goes by age, see.’ He pointed. ‘Look, there, that’s Division One, they’re the older boys, fifteen years of age and over. At sixteen they are set free. You will be in a division called the nineteenth, as you are the youngest. Now you’ve got to meet the Great Brother General.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ I said, scared, confused and bewildered.

  ‘He’s the Dude, Pat. He’s the General Brother in charge. He likes good kids, so you’ll be okay.’

  Suddenly a thundering sound, like a drum roll; the beat carried like a huge echo. ‘What’s that?’ I said, looking at Billy. I reached for his hand. Relief swept through me as he clenched it in his. ‘That’s our boys’ band playing “The Minstrel Boy”, it’s a famous march. We hold our own parades here. Every division marches in it, and the boys’ parents are allowed to attend all parades for great occasions such as St Patrick’s Day, Easter Sunday and Corpus Christi, which are the school’s biggest and best. When you’re older, you will get to march with your own division.’

  ‘Gosh, really,’ I shouted over the music. ‘I’d only ever followed our local band from our school in Sandyford to over yonder in Stepaside.’

  Billy gasped, pulled me to one side and said, ‘I want you to forget words like gosh, and over yonder, as it’s far too posh for us in here!’

  Suddenly, I felt change sweeping in over me, change I’d never believe I’d get used to; change was a word I grew to hate. As the monitor explained angrily to me, ‘Look Pat, you got to change, your choice of words will bring nothing but trouble to you. The kids here will make shit ou-ra-yeh, over bleedin’ yonder, are you kidding me, Pat? Even the kids in your nineteenth will laugh their heads off at yeh.’ His tone softened as he continued. ‘Look at me. I want you to listen to me. This is a very tough place for a kid as young as you. But being so young without any folks won’t get you special privileges. Believe me, this is a very unforgiving place. There is no room for posh, fancy words, Pat. In here, we got our own slang words for most things so I’m asking you to change. It’s not for the best but it’s for your own good. You drop your fancy expressions such as “over yonder”, and “oh, gosh”, do you understand?’

  I nodded, a silent, frightened yes. I began to hate him as I felt so scared.

  ‘Look, Pat. They call me The Sly. It’s my nickname, okay? You’ll have one by the end of the week. Now watch me carefully, Pat!’

  As I was v
ery slow on grasping things, and on the uptake, it would take a long time for me to realise I’d never again be allowed to return to my cottage home, to a normal life in the hills of south County Dublin in Barnacullia.

  Billy was right, of course. As a monitor he knew the ropes. Nothing would ever be so normal again, not in my childhood. I was only just eight years of age, and I had been thrust into Artane Industrial School, just one in an army of 900. The scars run deep.

  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 d
eep, 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.