Scars that Run Deep

by Patrick Touher

  I noticed his hand shake as he lit another cigarette. It was at that moment I felt sorry for this man who once abused me only to feel sorry for me later. I liked him because he was more human than the rest of them. He drew hard on the cigarette, then glanced at me.

  ‘It was an experience I regret deeply, marrying Laura. Her parents blamed me on her losing the baby, and her awful depression that followed. You see, it was a dreadful time. I was not fit to be married, more suited to a sheltered life, I’d say.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t recommend a married life for me then?’

  His gaze rested on me, and his tone was deep and sincere. ‘Perhaps you are different after all. You never abused boys or had to beat them as I had to. It’s not easy to bury the past, not a bleak past such as mine.’

  ‘Are you contented now?’

  His smile returned, ‘Indeed I am. A sheltered life suits me.’

  Suddenly he started a dreadful bout of coughing. ‘’Tis the lungs, me boy. Will you join us, Pat?’

  Thoughts of the girls I had known flooded my mind. ‘What would I do, Brother? Would I travel a lot?’ I smiled at the idea of it.

  ‘Good Lord, no, Pat. Very few of us enjoy that. ’Tis my job to find new recruits.’

  ‘Then where would I be based, and what exactly would my job be?’ I liked the idea of teaching, as I was certain that was what he meant when he said I’d make a fine preacher.

  ‘Well, you need a direct answer, I see. You don’t beat about the bush. Well, Patrick, I believe you would make a fine shepherd on our large sheep farm, and you could also use your skill as a baker for a few months to begin with, to help clear your mind, and you would attend lectures at night.’

  By the time he finished, my mind was on the soft rain of Ireland. The feeling for home and my passion for love were too great. I realised then that New Zealand wasn’t for me and that I desperately needed to go back home. I smiled at him. How could I tell him I didn’t want to mind his sheep? I said, ‘It was lovely meeting you again, Brother, but my heart is in Ireland.’

  For a long, silent moment we both gazed out across Auckland Bay. My eyes rested on the blue horizon as a tall ship appeared.

  It was such an odd experience meeting Brother Simon again. He was so much older and heavier than the man who came to share a room with me, and so different to the Brother I had known at school.

  I walked away, knowing I’d never see him again; yet he was a far happier man than I was, and that bothered me for a long time, even as I sold up the business and travelled down to Wellington for my voyage home. It was with great sadness that I learned of his death a few years later.

  20

  ON 18 NOVEMBER I stepped on board the great Italian liner Angelina Lauro, with over two thousand other passengers bound for Europe, on a voyage that would take me to Chile, Uruguay, Argentina, Brazil, Portugal, Spain, England, and home to Dublin. There was a terrific feeling on board, and I knew I was going to enjoy it. I chose the Angelina Lauro because of its fantastic route.

  The first port of call after the Magellan Strait and Tierra del Fuego was Punta Arenas in Chile. It was freezing cold, and the streets were full of deep cracks. I never got to meet any of the ordinary people, but a tour was organised for a party of us to meet a few generals, and I was asked to give them recipes for soda bread and Irish stew.

  I was looking forward to Rio de Janeiro. The weather was getting so hot and I had heard so much about the famous Copacabana golden mile that I was ready to plunge into the sea once I set foot on the beach.

  I met a few English and Welsh lads, and they had planned to hire a minibus in Rio to see the sights; they invited me to join them. The driver stopped every few miles and asked for more money, and the lads simply emptied their pockets and wallets to coax him to drive on. It was a crazy trip. I was broke from paying the driver at the start, and I felt sorry for the lads who had brought more cash with them to buy presents.

  The driver was going to dump us all out when we were about ten miles from Rio. As one of the Welsh lads reckoned, we had paid enough to buy the minibus as it was. When the driver threatened to leave us unless we paid him again, one of the lads lost his temper and punched and kicked the driver to the ground. He shouted at us and threatened to go to the police. The lads gave him a choice: ‘Drive us as you were paid to do, or we take over the bus.’

  He refused. I took the wheel and shouted, ‘Let’s hit the road, lads!’ and drove back to Rio without further problems.

  We stopped in Copacabana for a swim, and couldn’t wait to strip off. The heat was overpowering as I ran out on to the beach. I turned and shouted to the others that it was a high tide. I noticed a very tall lifeguard some yards away. He shouted something, but I couldn’t understand him, and didn’t know if he was shouting at me or at the girls who just passed me, both of whom were topless.

  The beach seemed to dip sharply into the sea. I noticed the English lads standing on the wall. One of them shouted, ‘You going in, Paddy, or are yeh scared, mate?’ Without any further encouragement I was in, and suddenly I lost my footing, as I could feel no sand beneath me. I began to shout frantically for help, but a wave went over me, and I was certain I was done for. Then a mighty dark wave swept over me, and I was pushed towards the stony beach, trying desperately to cling on to the stones. The arms of the lifeguard began clutching at me. I tried to stand up but it was too steep. The lifeguard was only a few feet in front of me as the next wave surged upon us, knocking us both forward. He grabbed hold of my wrist and held on, and pulled me to safety, with the aid of the English lads, who were pulling him.

  I stood close to the lifeguard, thanking him. He spoke in Portuguese, and then he shouted at the English lads, who were enjoying a laugh at my expense: ‘You English all mad, just like your English friend here.’ I laughed.

  As I lay in my cabin later that night, my thoughts were not on the drama in the high tide at Copacabana but on the twenty thousand huts on the hillsides overlooking the famous resort city: huts made of tin, wooden boxes and even of cardboard that were homes to the poor people of Rio. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t offer any help to any of them, except a smile and my prayers. I have never forgotten the faces of the women and the hungry children I have never forgotten. Whenever I think of Rio de Janeiro and the splendid richness that is Copacabana I think of them, and their most famous footballer, Pelé.

  Our last port of call was Vigo in Spain. On this occasion I decided to go it alone and see the very attractive Spanish port my way, by foot. I followed the road to the centre of the city, then walked along the dusty road as it turned and twisted into the hillside.

  I got the smell of bread being baked. I followed the lovely aroma, which brought me along a narrow track up the hillside, where I stopped by a farmhouse high above the sea. There was a fantastic view of the port and of the liner. The sky was deep blue, and I could see for miles. An old man answered my knock, and I asked for a drink of water. I was led into the oldest bakery I’d ever seen, and handed a full glass of red wine. They all spoke a few words of English. The bread was all made by hand. I showed them that I was a baker; I took up the peel and drew crusty, well-baked bread from an oven that was a hole in the wall cut into the mountain.

  The wine began to affect me, and as I finished my glass it was quickly filled again. The bakery was part of the farm and vineyard. They made their own wine, a beautiful red fruity wine. When I reappeared outside I was seeing two ships!

  I turned to say goodbye and I was offered a further glass, and the bakers came out to the horseshoe-shaped door and stood smiling at me. I wanted to have a chat with them, and I could see they wished the same. We settled for nods and winks, and I drank a further glass of their red wine.

  It was so flaming hot outside I began to wonder how I was going to get back down over the rough terrain. I looked at them, then at my watch and towards the ship. They must have understood me: a horse and cart pulled up, and the men cheered loudly as I got in. I could have cried as I
waved goodbye to them. ‘Salt of the earth,’ I said to myself as I left.

  I was home in Dublin for Christmas 1971. I quickly found a job in KC Bakery and Confectioners in the north city where I was told I was the manager! When I went and informed the few bakers, they simply roared laughing! Tony explained: ‘You see, Paddy, the boss tells every lad he takes on these days the same thing. Soon he’ll have a house full of bakery managers!’ I got the message.

  There was a lot of talk among the lads about joining the union. I kept my mouth shut on this one, as I didn’t want to walk into it again. I had a feeling I had made a bad decision in coming back, as I soon realised that some things never changed.

  I was standing at the oven with the boss the day the union secretary walked into the KC Bakery. With him was the union president.

  The boss spoke softly, like a whisper, as I stood by the oven. ‘What’s going on, Pat?’

  I was amazed he didn’t know. I got it off my chest quickly. ‘The Bakers’ Union are here, sir. Tony and the lads are going to join, and if you don’t agree with them, they’ll leave, sir.’

  ‘The bloody union my arse! Who needs them!’ He stood facing me. ‘How many will join, do you know?’

  After a deep breath – and I felt sure I was going to be out of a job after his next question – I said, ‘All the lads, sir; I’m not sure about the girls.’

  He looked flushed. He spoke softly for a big man, and I liked him. ‘They can have their union, they’re welcome to it wherever it is, but it won’t be in here. Never. I built my business without it.’

  I could see his concern. He was apprehensive about change, but though I sympathised with him, in my heart I couldn’t agree with him. He asked abruptly: ‘Are you with them?’ He expected me to say no: not even the lads knew that I would jump at the chance to join. I answered briefly. ‘Yes, I’m with them. I always wanted to join, since I left school, sir.’

  ‘Okay, then, get your coat and join them, and good luck.’

  I went home that evening out of a job, but with the news that I was to report to the Bakers’ Union in 46 Gardiner Street, Dublin, at six the following morning.

  Peter Flanagan, the secretary of the union, was a real father figure to me. That he had turned me down on the many occasions I had tried to join since I left Artane in 1958 was of no real significance. He quickly pointed out to me and the other lads that we would only be jobbers, but that if we were kept in any one union bakery for two or more years we would then become fully fledged members of the union. I was told then to report to Jack Barrett, the foreman in Boland’s bakery in Grand Canal Street.

  I felt proud but apprehensive as I set off from what was then known as the Hall in Gardiner Street and stepped it out, Artane style, along the city quays.

  My first impression of Boland’s was that it resembled a railway station. There were tracks and belts all over the place. As far as I could see, almost everything was moving, overhead and on the ground. Even the huge ovens were travelling. I had never seen such plant before, and I was instantly confused by it all. As I was a skilled tablehand-baker, I began to wonder what all the fuss was about that prevented ex-Artaners like myself from setting foot on their sacred union soil. As far as I could see, a pig farmer could do the work just as well as any of those men who served four-year apprenticeships.

  I was surrounded by old acquaintances. ‘Oh, God,’ I moaned as I was put working alongside my first foreman in Bradley’s Home Bakery in Fairview, Eddie Kavanagh. For some reason Eddie was known in Boland’s as the Virginian. There were a few other ex-Artaners; and soon I came face to face with my old friend Mando.

  It was an experience to be sent for my first tea break and told to report to Jemser’s oven, where the lidded pans were baked off. I got my mug of tea and followed the Virginian over to a table. One man said in a loud voice, ‘I don’t mean to sound rude or harsh to yeh, just fuckin’ tell us where yeh served your time.’

  Another man shouted, ‘Yeah, give us your pedigree, mate. Who’d you serve your time with, shithead?’

  I looked at the hardened men around the table, and knew I was seated in the wrong place. These men don’t like strange faces, or jobbers perhaps. I looked at the Virginian, and he gave me the wink. I was glad to go back and join the chain gang at Jemser’s oven.

  The Virginian warned me not to tell them too much, and not to take them too seriously, but I felt confused by it all. ‘Who’s Jemser?’ I asked the Virginian; a tough character passing by shouted back at us, ‘Jem Kelly, yeh mutton-headed fucker.’

  Jemser’s oven was down alongside the wall. I looked at the men: tired, overweight, hardened, their working whites worn and tattered and more grey than white. There were five of them, and I was to make up the gang to six, which was called Kelly’s chain gang. As Jemser controlled the speed of the huge oven, I followed the gang as we moved in a circle to pick up a long lid from a bin, grab a shape with the pan inside and force the lid on to it, then place the shape on the slow-moving oven. We had to follow in the circle for over one and a half hours, until the shapes were all on the oven.

  By the time they were all up it was time for another break, and the lads were glad to get away for a smoke. Once again I was the odd one out, as I didn’t smoke.

  I was completely disillusioned by the end of my first week with the total lack of skill or craft required to work in the first union bakery I ever set foot in. I was puzzled by the fact that young lads were serving four-year apprenticeships to work in bakeries that were so mechanised that skill was done away with. Each time I was sent to work on a chain gang, or to stand for two hours in front of the giant travelling ovens loading on pans, I felt I was becoming like them: robots or, worse still, zombies. I never felt or believed I was a trained baker.

  The work was tedious. Each day was a strain. It changed me as a person; I became angry and rebellious, and ended up in many a punch-up.

  By the end of my first week I had made a few friends. They were decent, honourable men, and there were many like them in Boland’s. I arrived in one morning hurrying along, as I was late. The foreman, Jack, didn’t like latecomers, and he swore with a vengeance at them. I detested being late, but it happens. Suddenly I heard a voice calling, ‘Paddy, wait.’ I looked back, and I saw Jimmy Quinn, heavy-built, with a round fat face, but always with a smile for everyone. ‘Hold on, Pat. We’re both late – let’s go and face him together. Be better that way.’ I agreed.

  He used the phone inside the hut. I watched as the huge vans and trucks made their way in while Jimmy Quinn could be heard pleading and negotiating our way to work. ‘Hello, Jack, Jimmy Quinn and Paddy Touher down below. We’re a bit late, Jack.’ A long pause. I was astonished at this strange custom, and I felt ashamed that I had fallen so low as to be treated this badly. I was a few minutes late because of the train, but Jimmy and I would be late in joining our shift.

  When men didn’t show up within ten or fifteen minutes of starting time, the foreman would phone the secretary of the union in the Hall, and if men were available they would be sent out for the day, or longer if they were required. All the union bakeries used jobbers from the Hall. Sometimes a man would be half an hour late, only to find a man in his place when he did arrive, because he didn’t phone in to say he’d be late. He would miss a day’s work.

  Before Jimmy put the receiver down I got a blast of Jack’s anger. Jimmy looked me in the eye and said, ‘Come on, Pat, we’re able for that crap. We’re better than that. Jack’s just letting off steam, as usual. His bark is worse than his bite.’

  I was ending my first month in Boland’s when it occurred to me that I hadn’t once handled a piece of dough. A record, I thought, for a skilled baker. I was standing with Jim and the Virginian, and I was asked by the foreman what I thought of my first few weeks. I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Well, Jack, it’s the only bakery I’ve ever worked in that baked so much and where the bakers touched so little.’ I paused a moment then added, ‘You know, Jack, I haven’
t handled a piece of dough yet.’

  He smiled. I could see I had touched a nerve. He looked at a man called Mahogany who had sniggered.

  ‘What d’you find so funny? He speaks the truth, yeh mutton-headed fucker.’

  I felt sorry for such men, who weren’t able to find the words or the courage to speak up for themselves and retain their self-respect against such crude men as Jack – and there were many in the trade who were better suited for an army barracks than a bakery.

  Jack was a hard character, though beneath his tough style there was a man I enjoyed having a chat with about the bad old days, when he had men work the shirts off their backs between the old-fashioned Uniflo ovens.

  His voice softened and he said, ‘So you want to handle up the dough and feel you’re a skilled baker?’ I nodded and smiled. I looked at the Virginian and Jimmy; both were amused. Jack suddenly pointed at me. ‘Okay, show us what you can do and how fast you can do it. If you can mould up the brown sodas over on Wagger’s berth, then maybe I’ll have sorted a few buggers out at last.’

  The Virginian and Jimmy came with me. The Virginian said, ‘For fuck’s sake, Paddy, you’ve walked me into this one! You’ll have the union on our backs now. It’s a showdown!’

  The Wagger was a small, middle-aged Dublin man. He always had a pencil stuck behind his ear and a notebook at the ready; he was always taking notes during the day. I began to mould up the sodas. There were now six men around the table. For a while there was silence; then the Wagger shouted, ‘Hey, Joxer, I get the feelin’ Jack is tryin’ to break up the fuckin’ berth. What’yeh think?’

  Joxer was a very short, stocky man. He moved along the table until he was facing me. I worked the only way I knew how. He noticed I was moulding up quite fast, and it annoyed the rest of the men. Jimmy whispered to me, ‘Slow it down, Paddy. Take it easy – union men don’t work that way. Slow down or there’ll be a bleedin’ strike!’