Scars that Run Deep

by Patrick Touher

  ‘But it’s me, sir, making my Confirmation, and one of my pals too. How did you keep them so good, sir, for so long?’

  I looked again at them. I noticed all the lads who were in my class that year, back in 1954. He suddenly handed me the envelope and said, ‘Keep them, Collie. I’ve had them long enough now. I suspect you’re keeping well and out of trouble, as so many have problems, you know. Keep up your prayers and go to Mass.’ He turned and walked away.

  Though I was shocked, I suddenly felt a tinge of sadness for this cruel and brutal Christian Brother. It’s so difficult to harbour revenge and hatred for so long. In many ways I’m sure he had regrets for being so cruel and evil towards so many boys in care, as he was to my pal Minnie and me. Time takes care of all our sorrows and heals our wounds, I thought, as he went on his way. In many ways he reminded me of Simon Davaro. The shadow of Artane haunts them all, I mused.

  I met that Brother several times after that, riding his bike through Fairview, and he always stopped and chatted to me, always giving me sound advice. After each occasion we met I understood more of the man and the fact that the shadow of Artane had left its mark on him also. It struck me then that it is never too late to change.

  At the turn of 1963 things were not really working out in Home Bakery. I found working with some of the lads a bit too much. The wages were awfully low: four pounds ten shillings. I told Jim I would have to leave if he couldn’t give me a rise of at least ten bob – 50p. In response he drew out a right, and I hit the floor. After a punch-up we ended up shaking hands in Clontarf Garda station; and I did get a small increase after that.

  From 1960 to 1968 I seemed to be working between Ireland, England and Jersey. I got that bug about working in Jersey for the summer season. Each time I’d return to Dublin I would stay with one of my old landladies. I went back to the Mooneys in Fairview quite a lot.

  While waiting at Dublin Airport for my flight to Jersey, I came face to face with my former drill master, better known as Driller the Killer. With him was none other than the famous Brother nicknamed the Hellfire, dressed in casual clothes. As I sat down and waited for my flight number to be called, I thought of those two Christian men.

  Hellfire, who taught me for two years, got his nickname from producing pictures of Hell and scaring the children in the classroom with them. He beat boys’ naked buttocks so badly that the blood seeped through their shorts. He often made me stand out facing the wall with my hands held above my head for long periods; if I let my hands drop, he would beat the legs off me. Driller the Killer was no ordinary drill instructor. He beat lads so badly that they were often removed to hospital or to the infirmary. Some lads never returned.

  Summer of 1967 was special. I met up with Helen, a lass from Bingley in Yorkshire, at a dance. Helen was light on her feet, the music was old-time and we danced until the music died. Every moment with Helen was simply wonderful. I quite easily fell in love with her as we walked home to her apartment by moonlight to the sound of the tide lapping and slapping over the rocks in Grave de Lec. I was floating like a piece of driftwood on a moonlit bay as I entered her apartment.

  ‘Make yourself comfy,’ she said. ‘Take your coat off. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea. Thank you.’

  As I looked about I noticed piles of children’s homework. So Helen was a teacher. Her voice rang out. I loved her accent. ‘Do you like toasted ham and cheese?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘It’s on the table. Come and get it. You can tell me all about yourself then.’

  I gazed at her as I drank the hot, sweet tea. She was so chatty and cheerful while I became slow and somewhat overwhelmed by her. ‘So what’s your full name then?’

  I began, ‘I’m Patrick.’

  ‘You told me you were Larry at the dance.’ She seemed to be surprised.

  ‘Laurence is my middle name and I’m known as Larry at work. You see, they have one chap who is called Paddy and one Pat.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it then. I much prefer Larry anyway. So you are a baker, then?’

  I nodded, ‘Yes.’

  ‘More tea then, or do you prefer red wine perhaps?’

  I couldn’t tell her I was a teetotaller. I took the glass of wine. I felt relaxed in her company, though she always took the lead. As I sipped the red wine I realised we had many things in common: her passion for drama, music and travel and, by the time the bottle of Merlot lay empty on the floor, her passion, drive and hunger for love.

  For weeks that hot summer we walked miles along the golden sands of St Quans and St Brelade’s Bay. It was odd, but because we were together all the time I never thought to get her phone number. One evening we strolled along the sandy beach at St Quans, not far from West End Park where I was soon to start a new nine-to-five job. I could tell that she had something to say to me. ‘What’s on your mind, Helen?’ I felt anxious, while I waited for her answer. There was a strange pain in my forehead and my back ached.

  ‘I’m going to Australia with my best friend, Gloria. She’s from Bolton, Larry, and we’re both going to teach there. We got it all sorted out. The school is in New South Wales.’

  ‘When? How soon?’ I held her. As she gave me the details, I muttered, ‘December, my God. When do you leave Jersey?’

  ‘September. I will be at home in Bingley. You can come and visit me there if you want.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ My foolish heart. I was sorry I said that.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Don’t you trust me? I’d love you to come to my home in Bingley. It’s Yorkshire for me, Larry, and New South Wales for Christmas. What will you do?’

  ‘Go back home, I suppose.’ I felt gutted. ‘No, I got no place to go home to, Helen.’

  ‘Oh goodness, Larry. I’m so sorry. I mean it. Come to Australia with us. Think about it.’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s the darn night work and lack of sleep, that’s all.’

  As we parted, Helen said, ‘You’ve got my address in Bingley. Write to me. I’ll let you know when you can come visit me and you will think about coming to Australia, won’t you? Promise me.’

  I promised I would. But she was right about me not looking so well.

  I began in my new job at the beginning of August and I was feeling just awful. I decided to visit the hospital near West End in St Helier.

  The tall, well-built, heavy-set doctor addressed me in a thick Scottish accent. ‘Can I help yeh, laddie? What have you come here for?’ His tone was gruff.

  ‘I think I got maybe a flu. My head aches awful.’

  He stood towering over me, his tone as rough as Scottish haggis. ‘You’ll live, laddie. All you Irish and English who come in here with summer colds think yer dying. Now clear off, I mean it, and do a good hard day’s work, lad.’

  I was stunned to silence and I felt embarrassed. I walked back to the flat that I shared with a man called Billy from Dundee and an English lad, feeling light-headed.

  A few days passed. It was about four o’clock in the morning. Billy heard my groans for help but he fell back to sleep. He was fond of Scotch whisky. I felt I was dying as I found it so difficult to breathe. The time was nearer 4am. I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow. My head ached. I moaned. Then the English lad muttered, ‘Go to the doctor, Larry, or go to the hospital first thing. Now get some sleep.’

  I just closed my eyes as any bit of light affected me. The hours dragged on like days. I tried to pray to God for forgiveness for all my sins I was sure I’d committed with Helen, as even thinking about her nakedness, of her breathtaking body, is a mortal sin. I felt scared to die in a state of mortal sin, yet I couldn’t get those thoughts out of my mind. I was moaning when I heard a voice with an English accent. ‘Here, Larry, take these and drink this.’ My flatmate lifted my head up as I took the painkillers. ‘Drink all the water, Larry. You got the flu. Now try to sleep.’

  The next day I was able to get up. I decided to go to the chemist along the main road. I felt strange to be in the sunlight
. It hurt. I remember entering the chemist. The staff wore white coats. My gaze rested on a young, dark-haired female assistant who approached me. ‘Can I help you at all?’

  I remember her brown eyes searching me. Her voice was more anxious than before. ‘Gosh, let me help you. Come this way, please. You are not well. We got a doctor upstairs. She will see to you.’

  How I felt the burden of each step. I felt the nurse’s arms around me. I heard a female voice.

  ‘I’m going to take your temperature. Pulse low, temperature, goodness, 105. Doctor, doctor.’ Her tone was anxious. ‘Call the ambulance. Say it’s most urgent.’

  The doctor asked, ‘Are you here alone?’

  I mumbled yes.

  ‘Got a name? Try to whisper it to me. Please try.’

  I managed to give the doctor some details.

  ‘How long have you been feeling this way? Please take your time. A week. I see. Been to see a doctor, have you?’

  I nodded yes, in hospital, and blurted, ‘He’s Scottish. A big man.’

  I felt her hand holding mine. ‘You’ve done fine. Say no more now. We know the one you mean.’ I heard the siren. It must be outside, I thought.

  In the hospital I was naked, surrounded by a team of male and female doctors and nurses. I screamed in agony as they probed a long needle up into my lower back for fluid. The pain was horrendous. ‘We got it, lads. We got it. Get it to the lab. It’s an emergency.’

  Later that night I lay naked as nurses cooled me down with ice-cold towels. The doctor came by, on his round, I guess. ‘How is he, nurse?’ God, it’s him. It’s the big Scot who told me to get out. I was surrounded by the team in white coats.

  As I lay flat on my back, my eyes unable to face the light, I listened to the nurse give my details to the big Scots doctor and the team. ‘Temperature slightly improved, 103. Pulse flow same. Remains feverish, can’t face light.’

  ‘Okay, nurse. Let me get a closer look at him,’ said the doctor. His tone was much more polite. He was very apologetic too. ‘Well, we meet again, Patrick. But I promise you we are going to take very special care of you this time. ‘You’re overheating, lad. Too much sun. You’ve got a severe form of viral meningitis, Patrick. When we get you back up and out, you must promise me you will keep out of the sun. It does not agree with you. Take good care of him, nurse. Minimum visitors, one at a time, and give them protective clothing and masks. No lights, keep the blinds closed. Plenty of water. Expect he’ll be with us for a long stay. I’ll see you tomorrow, Patrick.’

  I heard the team walk out, the door closed. The sounds hurt my head. How I longed to see Helen now. I felt so weak. I couldn’t lift my head from the pillow or open my eyes to see the daylight. I received one visit during that time from my friend Billy. He told me that he would try to find Helen for me, but that was the last I ever saw of him.

  A few weeks later the Scottish doctor came to give me good news. ‘You are on the mend, laddie, you are going to learn to walk again, and you will get to see the northern lights of old Aberdeen, I promise you. It’s 105 degrees outside, the hottest August on record. Aren’t you lucky you are out of the sun in here in the shade, with a team of pretty nurses taking care of you.’ He squeezed my hand in his and said, ‘I prayed every day and night for you.’

  ‘A prayer for you too, doctor.’ I had come to admire this man, and I was deeply moved by his words of kindess. ‘I would love to see Aberdeen.’

  ‘In the gold of October,’ he said. I nodded in agreement.

  I will go there, I thought.

  Once I was able to stand up without support from the kind, caring nurses, I slowly became strong enough to walk the long, polished corridors. Nurse April, a dark-haired young lady who was on duty to escort me up and down the stairs, helped me to get strength back into my legs and was there for me in the days when I felt I had no desire to live. I’m certain I would not have survived without her special gentle care. She was my angel.

  It was a beautiful golden day in early September. I was building up my strength walking along the white sandy beach when I heard a voice calling. ‘Larry, Larry.’ My heart stopped briefly as I turned around. ‘It’s me, Gloria, Helen’s friend.’

  ‘Where is she?’ I felt so emotionally drained. I just wished she would embrace me. I wasn’t disappointed.

  ‘She’s gone home to Bingley. She left a get-well card. We heard far too late about your awful illness and your close shave with death. When we got the news we both cried,’ she blurted out.

  Gloria withdrew Helen’s card from her shoulder bag. As I read it, I smiled. My heartbeat raced.

  ‘Good news, Larry?’

  ‘Yeah, Helen would like me to stay a few days in Bingley once I’m fit enough.’

  ‘That’s a nice surprise after all you’ve been through. You know Helen and I are off to Australia in December.’

  After a long pause I said, ‘Yes I do. But I guess it would be far too hot a climate for me. I’m off to Aberdeen soon.’

  We walked for miles as we chatted about Bolton, Bingley, Shipley and Aberdeen. She was so much taller than Helen and she spoke so clear. A school teacher to the tip of her fingertips, I thought.

  After I was discharged from hospital, I did go to Aberdeen as I had promised the doctor. There I found work and also met a girl, Sarah, whose family seemed to be planning our wedding after two weeks. I liked her, but she was no Maria or Helen. I was a non-drinker and non-smoker, while she smoked like an old chimney and drank her Scotch the way I drank tea. And then when I’d tried to kiss her she smacked me, and this was when she was sober. I feared what she’d do after a few drams too many!

  It wasn’t long before I contacted Helen and I was on the next train to Bradford. Our agreed meeting place was on the bridge in Bingley town over the River Aire and as I stepped from the Bradford–Bingley bus my heart missed a beat. As she embraced me, I could not stop the flow of tears and emotional joy that overwhelmed me. When she released her hold, her eyes met mine. Her tone was soft and wavering. ‘Oh, Larry, forgive me for not getting to see you in hospital when I heard of how close to the end you were, but I had left for home then. Gloria told me all about how you almost died. Oh God, Larry, if only I’d known I’d have been there for you. I cried so much when Gloria phoned me. In fact we both did. She told me everything. I want you to know I really loved you then.’

  My hopes raised. ‘And what about now?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Larry, I’m so fond of you. I had to see you again after all you’ve been through but you know I’m going to Australia.’

  As we strolled along the mossy green banks, I listened to her explain her plans in New South Wales and how she had dreams of going to Australia since she was a young teenager. ‘If only you could come with us to Australia, Larry.’

  I was taken by surprise and I knew she was being sincere. While my heart ached and I longed for her, I was too scared of going to such a hot climate.

  I looked away as I said no. My stubborn, foolish heart ached for her love.

  ‘What about New Zealand, then?’ she suggested. ‘I think you would like it, it’s got a nice climate. I’d say Auckland would suit you better. It’s a very green and picturesque country. Larry, are you listening to me at all? I did love you.’

  I gazed at the fast-flowing waters. She was in my arms, our lips found each other. To me it was like being in a beautiful dream. ‘If only you could stay here, I’m sure we could find a way. I’d make you happy here in Yorkshire.’

  She raised up to face me. Her voice was sincere. ‘If I were to stay in England, it would have to be in Yorkshire. Like I said, it’s Yorkshire for me. But I’d like you to know I would stay with you, Larry. But you are welcome to come with us to Australia and I do understand your reason why you can’t. I did love you.’ Her eyes met mine.

  I took out the poem I wrote for her, ‘It’s Yorkshire For Me’, and gave it to her. As she read it, I gazed at the waters below.

  So Pale is the moonlight by the river I
see

  Through a window on high from your home in Bingley

  As I gaze o’er the green with a clear crystal view

  I remember the good times – the sad were so few.

  The Moors, Shipley Glen and lovely Bingley

  I remember you saying ‘It’s Yorkshire for me.’

  The moon tonight will shine bright and clear

  On the calm crystal waters that flow through Yorkshire

  By bracken and thorn and many a small town

  Through the window of my dreams I have watched you flow down,

  The Moors, Shipley Glen and lovely Bingley

  I remember you saying ‘It’s Yorkshire for me.’

  As I closed my eyes beneath the old oak tree

  Where the Ayre quietly flows through lovely Bingley

  By the evergreen banks that I know so well

  Sure I can faintly hear the Village Church bell.

  The Moors, Shipley Glen and lovely Bingley

  I remember you saying ‘It’s Yorkshire for me.’

  Your sweet voice I can hear, calling to me

  As I dream of the river that flows through Bingley

  I see the ripple on the waters, ever gentle and clear

  How I long to be with you by the lovely River Ayre

  The Moors, Shipley Glen and lovely Bingley

  I remember you saying ‘It’s Yorkshire for me.’

  For a long moment there was little I could think of doing, except to stare at the calm waters. I wanted to hear what her opinion of it was. Suddenly I glanced at her. Her smile looked sweeter than ever. ‘Oh, Larry, you are such a romantic,’ she said. She smiled, wiped her eyes and, in a swift, loving movement, her arms were embracing me.

  ‘I know you’ve fallen in love with me,’ she said softly and drew a breath. Then she added, ‘You promised me you wouldn’t.’

  ‘I am very weak when it comes to matters of the heart. More so when someone as beautiful as you is involved.’

  All she did was laugh at me. I said, ‘Well, you know how I feel about you.’ As she drew closer, I desired her so much my actions got the better of me. She laughed, ‘No, no, Larry, not out here. Tonight in my place it will be much more comfortable.’