The trip to New Zealand was more of an adventure than a sea voyage. Life aboard the ship was fantastic. I took part in stage shows, the best of them South Pacific. They organised a poetry reading, with pride of place for anyone who recited their own poetry. I was driven to write at that time, so I entered for the reading, which was to be held in the great dining room after the evening dinner, as a form of cabaret.
On the night of the poetry reading Andrea came to dinner with me. She wanted to hear my poems. She looked beautiful in her red dress with a blue silk sash around her waist. Her smile simply radiated confidence and encouragement for me as my name was called out. I was being either honoured or disposed of quickly – I wasn’t sure which – but I was the first to perform. I had to stand on stage before two thousand people, the captain, the officers and crew and hear the host describe me as a new Irish poet. I took out my first poem, called ‘Some Mother’s Son’. It’s about a young man washed up on the sands at the end of the Second World War, whom I learnt of while on my first visit to the Isle of Man in 1959. I followed that by reading ‘The Coal Fire’, for which I received a rapturous applause.
I tried to leave the stage, but everybody stood up and began chanting for more, and I was led back. I tried to get a glimpse of Andrea, and when I spotted her I felt fine. I wanted her to hear the poem I wrote with her in mind and dedicated to her, ‘The MS Shota Rustaveli’.
From the moment I got up at around nine every morning until I went to my cabin for the night between midnight and two, there was always something for me to do. Each morning I took charge of the keep-fit fanatics’ class at half ten. There was a writers’ workshop at noon. One-act plays were performed at night in the main lounge in front of over 500 people, and I took part in these too.
After lunch there were sports, from basketball to clay pigeon shooting. There were three small cinemas, which showed the very best films. There was also a choice of bars, lounges, dancing, cabaret, and stage shows. I was eager to participate in all the sports and shows, and in this way I was always kept active. Andrea was always close at hand but she was a real mystery to me. I couldn’t figure her out at all.
When we arrived in Auckland, the sun was extremely hot. I was dressed in a pure wool three-piece suit, and I was stared at as I walked down the gangway. God, I muttered, how am I going to stick this heat? Andrea came towards me, and once again I blew it – as always! I felt she had ignored me at times to be with other men friends at night in clubs and at the roulette tables. I thought she was simply using me to suit herself. When Andrea asked me if I had a place to stay, I felt cold and distant towards her.
I looked at her, and without really giving it a second thought I said, ‘I’ll stay in Auckland. After all, I’ve come twelve thousand miles to be here. I’ll find some place to stay.’ She looked sad as she silently went on her way. Little did I realise that I would never again see the beautiful New Zealand girl who had stolen my heart in the first hours of the long voyage. Once again I blew it, perhaps. She was sincere, but I couldn’t take the chance after what happened with Noreen.
Afterwards I felt lost, lonesome and foolish as I settled in to my room in the YMCA hostel in the city. I must admit that down through the years I have made some dreadful decisions that later left me sick with self-pity.
There were times when I wanted to end it all, and once I actually tried. I was out along the beach at Bream Bay, and I was feeling so homesick that I would have offered everything I owned for the sound of an Irish voice; and a piece of Irish music on the radio had me in tears. I walked into the water from the golden stretch of sand. I simply wanted to keep on walking, when I took a fall over some rocks beneath the water. I heard a voice shouting, ‘You okay out there, mate?’ Within moments I was lifted out to safety, with blood oozing from a head wound. I opened my eyes to find a young woman cleaning my wounds while her boyfriend helped her. I was taken by surprise when I realised she was topless!
His accent was a mixture of Yorkshire and New Zealand. ‘Sorry, mate, for the way we’re dressed, or undressed.’ He smiled. ‘We come here at weekends and swim out to the reef like this – quite a lot of us do in these parts.’ He looked at his girlfriend and said, ‘This is Jean. She comes from a place near Te Aroha, near Morrinsville.’ He shook my hand. ‘I’m Erin.’
Odd name, I thought, and smiled. Blood was getting into my eyes and I felt dizzy. I just heard him say, ‘I’ve got an Irish passport,’ and then I passed out.
I had a good nurse looking after me in Jean. I was brought back to their house near Wellsford, where I stayed for a few days. Jean was a teacher with first-aid experience. She was the kind of girl I dreamed of ending up with.
After I had settled down in the YMCA in Auckland, I began to find my way around the city. I searched for a new start. However, I could find none; no job offers came my way.
I had no choice. I realised I had to find work in a bakery, or face life on the dole. No way, I thought, was I going to join the dole queue in New Zealand having come across the Equator 12,000 miles. While out walking I happened to come across a home bakery on a busy main road. A sale sign was in the window. I entered and a tall gentleman came to meet me. ‘How can I help you, mate?’ He’s English, I thought. For a while I worked with him and his wife. Eventually I agreed to take over the leasehold and I opened the Home Bakery as Laurence’s Home Bakery, as Laurence is my middle name. I held a small opening party.
I was unaware of some of New Zealand’s customs, and I ran into a few sticky problems. I put on what I thought was a fine spread of food and drink, but as the guests arrived I noticed there was going to be a far bigger crowd than I invited. How was I going to have enough for everyone? Some of the guests I already knew from the voyage. I had kept their addresses and I was glad to meet them again.
I had met Dave on board ship, and we kept in touch. He was a mature young school teacher, born in New Zealand to English parents. He quickly became my adviser as I tumbled from one problem to the next. He pointed out that when one invites a Maori to a party, they believe they can bring the clan. It doesn’t always happen, but in my case I had invited an English lad who was married to a Maori chief’s daughter, and she turned up with over fifteen members of their family.
I began to wonder why they had all brought their own food. I asked Dave, and he told me that it’s the custom in New Zealand to bring your own ‘tucka’ and drink to such gatherings. So, after my initial worries, I was left with a hell of a lot of uneaten food.
Just before Christmas the priest, Father John Davaro, was outside the church to greet everyone personally after Mass. When he came to me his first words were, ‘So you’re the new man in our parish – just in from the old sod. So tell me, where are you for dinner, Patrick?’
I told him, ‘I’m alone, Father. I’ve just moved into the bakery in Ponsonby. It’s called Laurence’s Home Bakery – formerly Don’s Cake Tin.’
‘Yes, yes, I know it. Too bad – it’s not nice to be left alone at Christmastime for dinner. So you’ll come with me to my mother’s up in Helensville for a few days? Mother will take care of you. She’s a wonderful old lady, Patrick, and she’ll simply spoil you, I can tell you now, just to get all the news from home, you see.’
I readily agreed, thrilled that I had someone to talk to during the days ahead. I believed that by keeping up my faith and praying at intervals during the day, good things would really happen and it would help me to settle into my new home. On the way up to Helensville I noticed that the beaches were crowded. I smiled as I thought of Ireland. To tell the truth, I was missing the foggy dew and the frosty winter mornings.
Also, I was having a tough time of it making a living. I soon realised I had made another awful decision. The bakery trade was slow: New Zealanders on the whole didn’t go in much for cakes, or indeed sweet things. Once more I was left cursing my rotten decisions.
I began to make Irish soda bread. The brown soda wouldn’t sell, but the Maori really went for my white bread. How
ever, they soon got fed up buying it. They invited me to the home of a chief, and I was obliged to show them how I made the bread. Soon after that business fell away.
Winter started to draw nearer. Suddenly I began to enjoy going to bed at night, as the climate was much like home now. I joined the GAA club for the forthcoming football and hurling league. I was asked by Peter, a new friend, to join the soccer club he was in, and I obliged. I enjoyed every moment playing alongside Peter. Soccer was at about the same level as any one of the junior leagues at home, but no better. Rugby was the main New Zealand sport. There were only about five or six Gaelic clubs in Auckland, and Celtic were the best of a poor lot.
The winter was wet but mild. I decided to try to sell the lease on the bakery, but there were bakeries for sale in every second street. The country was troubled by England joining the EEC, and concerned about their beef, butter, lamb and cheese trade.
I was struck by the many good things in New Zealand, and I realised it far more after I had returned to Ireland for the New Year. Going into Auckland for a bit of shopping was made more comfortable by the practice of having a white line dividing the city footpaths in two. To walk up the main footpaths you had to stay inside on the left-hand or shop-window side; people walking down had to remain on the outside of the pavement. It was all very orderly. You could only cross the street with the wardens, who were at special pedestrian crossings; anyone caught crossing through the traffic got an automatic on-the-spot fine. Churchgoers always went into the church rather than standing at the back. On the whole, people were most orderly, and more tolerant than I had expected.
I noticed as time passed that Irish people stuck closely together and rarely mixed with other nationals, yet I found that I was odd in that sense: I liked to mix with New Zealanders and people from foreign lands.
19
ONE AFTERNOON IN the spring of 1971 I was cleaning up in the shop. Business had not been good; I suited myself when it was time to close. Just as I was about to finish for the day, a tall, middle-aged man entered the shop. I had the cakes and bread that were left over ready to bring down to the convent. This, I found, was the best way of parting with the leftovers. I had been advised by business friends in the area that it was very bad for business to give your goods away for free, even stale bread. They had a point, but as far as I was concerned, it wouldn’t make me any poorer.
‘Hello, Father. What can I do for you?’
He came closer. ‘I’m a missionary Brother, not a priest.’ He smiled. ‘I travel Asia in my work for the missions. Most of our members have to do some work on the land every day and teach others the same.’
He looked familiar. From where I was standing he looked like Brother Simon Davaro, the man I had shared a room with, the man from Artane. But could it be him? If it was, he had certainly changed; he was no longer the slim, handsome young man he once had been.
‘Would you like some tea, Brother?’ I plugged in the kettle. As we sat down for tea, I noticed his movements. I was almost certain it was Brother Simon. I decided to test him. ‘You must travel a fair bit, sir.’
‘Yes, Patrick, I travel a great deal in my line of work – and I need young, bright, unattached workers like you to join the missions. You’ll be well rewarded.’
How did he know my name was Patrick? A stranger would think I was named Laurence, because of the sign over the door. I watched as he lit a cigarette. I had to ask him. ‘Were you ever in Artane School on your travels?’
There was silence now. I kept my eyes on him. When he spoke again he had lost much of his self-confidence and dominant air. ‘Yes, I was a Christian Brother. I also spent a short term in a place called Letterfrack.’
It was he. I knocked a cup over on the floor, and moved quickly to clean it up.
Changing the subject smartly, he went into great detail about his present work. I reached to the press on the wall and drew out a bottle of Australian red wine that I kept for visitors. I poured him a full glass as he carefully lit another cigarette. ‘Many thanks,’ he said, as he raised the glass to his lips.
I was interested to know how he became a Christian Brother. Tentatively I asked, ‘Was it your own choice that you became a Brother?’
He appeared surprised by my question, and uneasy at first. ‘I came from a large family, Pat, being the third-youngest of five brothers and four sisters. My two eldest brothers are priests. One of them, John, is here in Auckland. He’s the local priest.’
So that’s why he’s here, I thought.
He continued, ‘My two eldest sisters are nuns. We were promised to the church at an early age. Like a lot of the Brothers, I was sent to a Christian Brothers’ boarding school until I was sixteen.’ He smiled as he said, ‘I had a choice, Patrick.’ He paused for a moment and sipped the wine. ‘Yes, two choices: the priesthood or the brotherhood.’ I laughed heartily. He drew on the cigarette and said, ‘My father, who was a tough, no-nonsense County Mayo small farmer, wanted me to go to the Christian Brothers, while my mother, who was gentler and more kind, wished me to join my two elder brothers in the priesthood.’
I waited for him to light another cigarette, then reach for the wine. ‘Sure it wasn’t a choice at all, damn it. The parish priest was for ever coming through our front door. Many’s the time he’d look at me and say, “You’ll be joining us soon, Simon, I believe, as soon as you’re sixteen.” You know, it was a stark choice between romancing a stone and milking a pig. I didn’t want either of them, and life as a Christian Brother in the 1940s and ’50s was for a lot of us pure hell.
‘You see, Pat, in rural Ireland in those days, parents were strongly urged to have big families. It wasn’t unusual for the local priest to order a woman in the confessional to have more children as penance for her sins. My own mother told me that. The church was forceful in its teachings in those days, I tell you. My two brothers often joked about hearing Mother’s confession. I remember one Christmas the family were all around the table for dinner, when my eldest brother, Seamus, jokingly said, “I’ll hear your confession now, Ma, since you missed out for Christmas.” As quick as a flash my sister Eileen responded to him: “Now, Father Seamus, Mother has enough poor mouths to feed, thanks to your Catholic Church. Don’t you think nine children in one family is enough, or would you prefer that Mother goes on giving birth for her penance until she could field a football team?” You see, in those days, son, there was no real choice at all.’
‘Was it hard for you and your fellow Brothers in Artane?’
‘At times, yes; but it wasn’t just because it was Artane or its harsh military system. Oh, no – on the contrary, the food was the best I’d ever tasted. We were at all times given the best when it came to food; but it was at night I found the difference: the loneliness of the place and how I feared being attacked in a dark corridor. I feared being a failure, and I also had to toe the line. In some ways I knew the life was not for me.
‘The system grew on me. I couldn’t fail my superiors. I could never have let them down. I also feared the harsh life of a Christian Brother; not being able to marry or get to know girls. I did have sexual feelings, you know.
‘From Artane I was despatched off to Letterfrack. If you think Artane was tough, well, then, Letterfrack was hell, me lad. It was my job from the first day to take out those boys who were listed to be punished. Myself and a chap called Damian were on duty for unruly boys. We got them out at six each morning, and their punishment was that they cut and draw turf across the bog for long hours. Any boy who didn’t conform had to be flogged. We used buckets of salted cold water to throw over them afterwards. I still lie awake at nights at the sight of the blood from their thighs and buttocks, running down on to the cold stone floor. I got to like flogging the tough boys while they were strapped up. It began to eat into me, and I began to feel like a jailer; but the sexual abuse I couldn’t tolerate at all, at all.
‘Letterfrack, Patrick, was like deportation and isolation. It really began to affect me. I was flogging boy
s’ naked bottoms in my sleep. I began to have nightmares. It all changed so suddenly. Perhaps it was for the best, really.’
We stood outside my small bakery shop. It was very hot. We began to walk. ‘What became of your friend Damian?’ We headed towards the harbour. ‘Damian got married soon after he left the order, just as I did. Poor Damian, that dreaded disease TB got him. He had a beautiful wife. I only met her once, and that was at his wedding in Dublin.’
The view of Auckland Bay was breathtaking. I turned to Simon and said, ‘It’s like one of the wonders of the world watching the great ships on the horizon as they come and go across the world, bringing people to a new country to start again.’
He smiled warmly and with a loud voice he said, ‘Well, me lad, I couldn’t have put it better meself. You certainly would make a good preacher. You have a way with words.’
He went on, ‘So tell me, Patrick, have you any intention of getting married, making a home for yourself?’
Caught unawares, I said, ‘Yes, I’d like that if I found someone nice who would accept me and my ways, Brother.’
As he exhaled, I studied the big man. ‘In many ways,’ he said, ‘you are like me, Pat. A sheltered life would suit you, I’m certain of it.’
I looked away towards the Bay. But you got married: what happened to Laura? I will always remember her picture on the dressing table in Molly’s.
‘Laura? Yes, poor girl.’ He sighed. ‘It was doomed from the start, I believe. I stayed too long in the order, and my health suffered, you see. I was having constant nightmares and awful dreams of my past. All the floggings. I loved Laura but she couldn’t live with me – my strict ways, among other things. The last I heard she was living in Boston.
‘I was ill prepared for married life, Molly was right. She really did shame me when she told me of my nightmares and disturbing the lodgers. It was so close to the wedding I couldn’t turn back, you understand.’
Scars that Run Deep Page 15
