Scars that Run Deep

by Patrick Touher

  Late August the following year I was in dormitory three, I remember the occasion very well. I was returning from the toilets, which were, in fact, outside the dormitory off the landing. As I re-entered the dormo, I heard a loud whisper calling me. ‘Collie.’ Angel Face summoned me to his room. It was a small, well-furnished room. His voice was soft. His smile lit up his handsome features. ‘Are you lonely? You look frightened, son. Are you? Do not be afraid of me, son. Are you afraid, boy?’

  I lied, of course. I guess it didn’t always pay to tell the truth, I thought.

  ‘Come and lie down beside me.’ I got this strange but very nice scent from him. As he drew me close into him, I barely felt him lift my night-shirt. On this occasion he drew me on to his naked chest. I felt really odd. I had never been this close to someone before, never held in such a tender warm embrace. But I wondered what would happen now. I was fearful, yet I felt secure, insofar that I trusted that he would in no way make me suffer excruciating pain. That thought comforted me to a degree. But when he lay down on top of me I could feel him. It was then I feared him.

  I began to cry out. ‘Please, sir, please not down there, sir, it hurts. Please.’

  I feared he was about to forcefully penetrate me. But I could not prevent him as he was on top of me, unlike the time with Joey Boy in the long hall. That time I struggled free from the perverted evil he was, but not without suffering a severe beating. But this is different, I thought. I can’t fight him or hope to crawl out from under his body. So I cried out as he drew me up to him. He began beating himself off with loud groans.

  When he let me go, I had no pain. He did not hurt me, physically at least. Emotionally, he did. Enough for me to never forget him. He got satisfaction from holding me naked as he enjoyed self-masturbation against me.

  After a long silent moment, Brother Davaro brushed back his silky hair. His smile widened. ‘I hope I haven’t hurt you.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m fine, sir.’ I lied, as I was really scared.

  ‘You better get to bed, son.’

  I remember the final moment that warm night as he stood there brushing his fine crop of hair, facing the mirror on the dressing table. I was naked. My night-shirt was between his feet. I remained seated on the edge of his bed, thinking how smooth and gentle he was. How vastly different he was to the other Brothers, yet still I was scared. I was crying when he moved away. I reached down to retrieve my night-shirt. I felt his warm hands holding me. His scent was warm fragrance, his voice soft and very comforting, like his smile.

  ‘Are your parents living?’

  ‘No, sir.’ I was anxious to get dressed. I was relieved to get my night-shirt on. It helped me feel better as I really felt odd standing naked in front of him.

  ‘So you are an orphan?’

  I nodded yes.

  ‘I want to be your friend. Do you like chocolate?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And sweets?’

  I nodded yes.

  He embraced me, hugging me warmly, close to him. ‘You better go to bed. I will look after you before I leave here. Sleep well, now. I’ll remember you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll remember you too, sir.’

  ‘Promise me.’

  I looked up at him. His smile was soft. ‘I promise, sir.’

  It was a promise I faithfully kept in my dreams and nightmares.

  For me, not getting a severe beating that night from Brother Davaro was a great relief. But the fact he was leaving us made no difference to my life or that of my pals, as the truth is there was always the very evil hard-core band of Brothers who enforced the strict, rigid military system. Fear was the key.

  5

  THE DAY I left Artane memories flooded back to me as I stood at the bus stop opposite the main gates and stared at the great school building that so dominated the area. I looked up at the clear blue sky, and watched a flock of birds flying over. As the number 42 bus pulled up, I smiled as I hopped on the back. ‘Free as a bird!’ I said to myself with a soft smile.

  I sat downstairs on the bus, clutching my brown paper parcel. Suddenly I heard the conductor shout, ‘Fare, son! Where are you going, lad?’

  My mind was all at sea.

  The conductor asked again, ‘Where are you going, lad?’

  ‘Where are you going to?’ I replied.

  The conductor looked amazed and spoke sharply. ‘The Pillar, mate. It says it on the front, lad. The Pillar in the city centre.’

  At least I knew where I was going to get off. I paid my two pence and sat tight.

  When I stood up to get off I noticed the conductor staring me up and down. I knew then that I stood out in my Artane clothes. I tried to read the address Segoogee gave me, and I cursed his rotten handwriting. It was even worse than mine. I glanced about. I noticed a guard gazing at the new spring wear in the window of Clery’s store. Filled with apprehension, I spoke quietly to him. ‘Please, sir, could you help me find this place? I’m lost, sir.’

  He looked down at me. He was tall – a double for the Macker, I thought. He smiled at me and led me across the road. We stopped in front of the Palm Grove ice-cream parlour. He didn’t ask me if I would like an ice-cream cone: he simply went in and got me one. I was lost for words, but to me his kindness was the mark of a great man.

  He didn’t asked me where I came from. As I followed him to the corner where the Irish Press office stood in Middle Abbey Street, he stopped and said, ‘You’re from Artane School, son?’ He smiled, and I nodded to him in response. Then he pointed to the place where I was to stay. ‘You’re home, son. I’m sure they’ll take care of you.’ Then he nodded and disappeared into the crowd. For a long moment I stood staring emptily after him.

  I looked up at the tall red-brick building. The sign over it read The Catholic Boys’ Home. It did not impress me. I was frightened. I felt out of my depth. I just wanted to go home to Artane.

  I found it difficult to hold back the tears as I walked up the few steps. There was a long room in front of me, and I could smell tea being prepared. There were two long dining tables with white cloths – a miniature Artane refectory, I thought. I heard voices. A door opened on my right. ‘Come this way, boy.’ I stood in the office, nervously gazing at the cream-painted walls.

  An elderly man came to meet me. ‘So you’re the new boy from Artane.’ I half smiled and said, ‘Yes, sir. I got lost.’ He looked me in the eye and spoke with a warmth I had rarely known. ‘Many have done the very same thing, my boy. A darn pity a Brother doesn’t come with you. Perhaps they’re too busy, son.’

  The Catholic Boys’ Home was mainly for boys aged sixteen and over. It was a kind of stopping-off place in the city for boys who had left school and had no home to go to. We paid seven shillings and sixpence a week for our keep. The food was very basic and no better than what we were used to in Artane. But we did have hot showers.

  I remember that first evening at tea quite clearly. I sat down with lads whom I spent years with in Artane – some of whom I didn’t like. But there were others who I didn’t know. The first nickname I heard being shouted was ‘Brown Tango’ – a chap from Africa in his late teens or a bit older. He lorded it a bit, and perhaps he thought he was better than us from Artane. I didn’t like the look he gave me, and I believe he bumped against me on purpose, to knock my mug of tea out of my hand. He certainly threw himself about. Oddly enough, the ex-Artaners did not behave like that.

  It was typical Artane food: bread and margarine and a mug of sweet tea in the evening; breakfast was different though – we had porridge.

  After tea I was shown to my dormitory on the third floor. The front of the dormo looked out on to Middle Abbey Street; the back looked down into the North Lotts, where we watched couples courting and fondling each other at night among the winos. From my bed I could see the clock over the Irish Independent office; and I was happy about that, because I had never had a watch!

  It was noisy in the dormitory, and something I’d never be able to get used to,
I told myself through my tears. I cried as much now as ever I did for my lost childhood, tears of loneliness and self-pity. There was no real sense of being free. In the dormitory were two long rows of beds made of tubular steel and painted grey. The walls were painted yellow and dark green. As I put away my few belongings I was dreading the future. I just wanted to go out and get the bus back to Artane.

  The lads acted in a boisterous way, and at times many were very rowdy. Later I was shocked to see lads from Artane running up and down naked, some of them fondling or messing about with their private parts and generally showing off to others how big their penis was! This was a really new experience for me.

  I got off the bed as a lad came towards me. It was Fatser. ‘Want me to show yeh the city? Come on.’ I looked at him. I remembered the day he broke my nose over a silly matter in 1955. I had gone to the Sheriff who was in charge on parade that day. He had snapped at me sharply. ‘What do you want me to do, boy?’ His next remark stayed with me for ever. ‘Stand up for yourself, boy. Be brave and hit back or kick back twice as hard. Fight him, boy!’

  As the days passed I began to find my way around the city. We were brought to services in the Pro-Cathedral: sodality, the Rosary, and Benediction. Hearing again the choir singing the Latin hymns moved me emotionally, making me more homesick for Artane. As I stood up after the Benediction was over, the man in charge of us in the boys’ home said, ‘Confessions are being heard now.’ I better go, I thought.

  When I entered the confessional my mind raced over the past few weeks. Gosh, I’ve nothing to confess, I said to myself. It’s a waste of time.

  I heard the little hatch go across. I smiled, as I had no bad thoughts and had committed no dirty deeds. The middle-aged priest spoke clearly: ‘How long since your last confession?’

  ‘Not long, Father: a few weeks.’

  The priest continued, ‘Well, lad, what have you got for me? Anything to confess?’

  ‘No, Father.’ And I thought that was that.

  As though he didn’t believe me, he raised his deep voice. ‘Do you attend all services: Mass, Holy Communion, novenas, and your sodality?’

  ‘Yes, Father, at all times, Father.’ I thought that was it, but more was to come.

  The priest grunted. ‘Ah sure, ’tis too good, lad, you are. Tell me, do you use swear-words?’

  ‘No, Father, the Brothers taught us not to, sir.’

  ‘Do you play with yourself at all?’

  ‘No, Father. I play with others, though.’

  ‘Tell me, do you see the others play with themselves at all?’

  I was baffled. ‘You mean in the snooker room or in the park?’

  He raised his voice, angrily I thought. ‘No, damn it, anywhere, boy! Did you see them play with their bodies?’

  Suddenly the thought struck me. ‘Yes, Father, quite often.’

  ‘Where did all this take place, my son?’

  ‘Oh, mostly up in the dormitory, and at times in the shower room, Father. I don’t understand it, though.’

  ‘I see, I see . . . I’ll have to visit there. ’Tis better that you don’t understand, lad, as it will only corrupt your mind. And remember to continue to go to Holy Mass and all the services. ’Tis a mortal sin to perform dirty acts with another, to indulge in self-abuse of your own body for enjoyment or fulfilment. Remember to keep your hands joined when temptation strikes. It’s Satan’s way of corrupting the mind. Now for your sins, say five decades of the Rosary and do the Stations of the Cross at least once a week.’

  As I settled down in my new home I found it difficult to shake off the shackles of Artane. I was glad about some aspects of the boys’ home. I had my own toothbrush, soap and towel – a big change from sharing with so many others. I kept going to church services; I was an emotional and institutionalised ex-Artaner, out of my depth in a big city – though I was finding my feet.

  I began to fall in love with the city. I walked along Bachelor’s Walk on summer evenings, dreaming of what I wanted to be. I was driven by a desire to be someone great – to achieve greatness. This meant that I started to take a closer look at myself, especially when I was out in the city alone. I took note of how other teenagers dressed, and it wasn’t long before I realised that I could never really look much different in my Artane Sunday outfit, a heavy serge suit. I longed to have the money but I wondered how I could get enough of it.

  One thing that I was certain about was that I was different in some way from the other ex-Artaners with whom I shared the facilities in the Catholic Boys’ Home. I was a bit of a loner, and rather choosy about who I mixed with. I was old-fashioned in my ways and I was very particular about my cleanliness and how I appeared to others.

  But even as I adjusted to life outside Artane, I was still plagued by nightmares and sleepwalking, which I continued to be for many years afterwards, as I found it so difficult to shake off the draconian system that I had endured. The best advice I received was from a priest who came to visit us in the boys’ home. Father Brien explained to me that the only way you can truly hope to recover from your experience in Artane is to change your ways. I remember the evening so well as I sat facing the soft-spoken, affable, middle-aged man talking to me about how I could travel abroad. I smiled at him. ‘You are afraid of change and you believe it’s not possible,’ he said. I was quick to agree with him, but he wouldn’t let go and said, ‘You need a way out of your nightmare experience of Artane. You are naive, lonely and you are a very institutionalised young man. You will not break away from that experience unless you are willing to fight it. Travel, young man, see the world, learn new ways, meet new people and make new friends. That’s what you need.’

  He drew hard on his pipe then exhaled. My eyes followed the smoke as it rose to the ceiling. Father Brien stood up, clutching his pipe, and smiled at me. He began to move away and then, as though he’d forgot something, he turned back to me and said, ‘I sincerely hope you make it, and find a sweet young girl while you’re at it. You certainly could do with a good break, lad. God bless you.’

  As he went on his way, like the passing cloud of smoke, I wondered just how, or where, I could get the money to travel.

  6

  ON MY FIRST day at work I got the early bus out to Fairview, carrying with me the handwritten note Segoogee had given me. I showed it to the conductor, and he let me off at Edge’s Corner.

  I looked about and saw the sign over a shop: Milk – Dairy – Brennan’s. I went in, and suddenly a big, stout woman entered the shop. She spoke rather loudly and abruptly. ‘Are you from Artane Industrial School, boy?’ As I looked down at my shoes and clothes I supposed they told it all. She reached out her fat hand. Her grip was firm and she left butter on my fingers. ‘I’m Mrs Brennan. They’re expecting you in the bakery. You’ll like Mr Bradley. He’s a countryman from Derry.’ She looked at me. ‘I suppose you’re from Dublin?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I’m from Artane School.’

  She smiled and said, ‘Bill will take you to the bakery, son.’

  She reminded me of Bridget Doyle in Barnacullia.

  For a few moments I stood gazing at the place in which I was to begin my working life. What a bleak-looking house, I thought as I entered the yard. However, there was a well-kept lawn, and the garden had a spring freshness about it, with tall palm trees on my left, then the bakery. As I approached I became apprehensive as I heard male voices shouting very crude and vulgar words, some I had never heard before. My mind was filled with all sorts of fears.

  I heard a man’s voice with a northern accent. ‘Hello, son. Are you the new boy from Artane?’

  On top of the old stone steps that led into the house stood a very tall middle-aged man, who was to be my first employer. ‘Come on in, son, and tell us about yourself and Brother Shannon.’

  Mr Bradley seemed huge as I stood looking up at him in the front room: taller than the Sheriff and even the Macker, I reckoned. ‘Are you ready, Pauline? I want you to meet our new baker from Artane.’ I sh
ook hands with his wife, who was young and very attractive. I was taken by surprise when she gave me a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek. Her smile and warmth made me long for a mother’s love. ‘Now, you’ll have some breakfast with us before my husband brings you down to meet the lads. They’re both ex-Artane boys, and they’re both from Dublin, like myself.’ I sat down to the first bacon, sausage and egg breakfast I had ever seen.

  Soon I met the other boys I was to work with. Eddie was a fair-haired young man in his twenties, a Dublin lad from Whitehall. I got on with Eddie much more than with Matt, his deputy, who came from the inner city. They treated me like an errand boy. When Matt ran out of cigarettes he would order me to go out and look for as many butts as I could find around Fairview, and often I would stop a person and beg a cigarette from them. Knowing Matt, I was afraid to come back without any.

  The work itself wasn’t hard, though I found it monotonous, and the baking powder gave me a runny nose and head colds. The hours were short, but getting up so early made each day seem long. Sometimes the bakers would start work at three in the morning, and I’d have to be in at half four. Getting up so early made me cranky, but within a few months I was settling down to the way of things. I can clearly recall those early days, stirring the buttermilk left in big tall milk churns by Merville Dairies. After the bake I often sat on a bag of soft Boland’s flour and ate a chunk of white griddle bread and homemade apple pie.

  I found it difficult to fit in at work. I couldn’t relate at all to people who were not ex-Artaners, and I had no idea about girls. I often irritated the men. Eddie complained that I talked too much and sang too many of the songs I learnt in school. I had formed a habit of whistling or singing ‘The Croppy Boy’ and ‘The Boys of Wexford’. One day I couldn’t stop laughing at Mick Bradley as he was making griddle bread with Eddie, and he spoke seriously to me about my ways. ‘One day, Pat, you’re going to find a great deal of trouble, the way you go on here, singing and laughing when spoken to. You give the impression that you either have a wee chip on your shoulder or that you’re odd.’