by Doyle, Paddy
‘Why are you holding your nose?’ Eugene asked me.
‘Because I don’t like the smell,’ I answered, gripping my nose tightly with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because it stinks, that’s why.’
He laughed at the emphasis on the word ‘stinks’.
I went to the tap that hung from the wall to get some water to clean him. I turned its brass handle, and as I did it swayed on its length of lead piping.
I soaked an old newspaper in the freezing water and rubbed the child’s body with it. His pale skin erupted in goose-pimples and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. He cried from the cold but there was nothing I could do. When I was finished, I warned him not to tell anyone that I had been sick. He said he wouldn’t, but just to stress the point as best I could, I told him that if he opened his mouth I would kill him. Once he had committed himself not to tell anyone, I further warned him that if he told now, he would be lying and that lies would ensure instant death. Then when he was dead he would go to hell. He looked straight into my eyes and then asked me if the devil really had horns.
‘He has,’ I said positively, ‘and he might come and stick them in you if you tell anyone that I was sick.’ By the look on Eugene’s face as I spoke, I knew he would not say a word about what happened in the toilet. He watched me as I swirled his dirty clothes around in a bucket of cold water to rinse them. When they were clean I threw the dirty water down the drain, wrung out the clothes and shook them to remove the wrinkles. As soon as he was dressed in clean clothes he ran out of the toilet, content.
The toilets in St Michael’s were stark and cold. The rough cement floor matched the even rougher cement walls. Ventilation was by means of an 18-inch diameter hole in the wall with thick circular iron bars across it. We urinated against a cement wall which was flushed down every now and then via a piece of pipe with holes at intervals of about an inch. Sometimes I was given the task of washing down these stinking toilets. I had to use a hand-held deck-scrub and a bucket of water into which some Jeyes Fluid had been added. The waste closet was a large wooden bench with three holes cut out of it.
We sat, three at a time, with maybe another six waiting to take our places when we were finished. No partition separated one boy from the next. When one finished he shouted to the rest to ‘have a look and see if you can see it floating down’. Whoever was sitting on the last hole was shouted off it so that we could all watch as the brown lumps of waste floated away. If two lumps happened to be racing towards the outlet at the same time it was certain there would be an argument as to who won. There were arguments about winners; ‘He couldn’t have done anything. Look, his face isn’t even red and he didn’t grunt either. Everyone grunts when they’re going to the toilet.’
I walked back to the assembly hall with Eugene by the hand. Mother Michael had relieved Mother Paul and she had gathered the children around the gramophone. A record turned on its deck and the voice of John McCormack filled the hall. ‘Machusla, Machusla, your sweet voice is calling, calling me softly . . .’
‘Where were you?’ Mother Michael demanded to know. ‘I was in the toilet . . . cleaning my charge,’ I answered.
‘I hope he is properly cleaned and that his clothes are washed?’ She took Eugene from me and sent him to the front of the group of children with the instruction that he listen to the music, then she told me to take a message across to the convent.
‘Give it to Mother Ita,’ she said, handing me a small parcel, ‘and come straight back. Her bell is three rings,’ she said, before remarking that I should know it anyway. I did know. Groups of us often played games guessing what different nuns’ ‘bells’ were. Before leaving the assembly hall I had to remove my heavy black boots and put on a pair of white-soled canvas shoes.
Even though it was a part of the same building, the area of St Michael’s where the nuns resided was totally different to that where we lived. The corridor leading to the convent smelled of wax from the polished floor and from the candles that burned in their holders at the feet of the statues that stood stoically against the dark wood panelled walls. My light shoes squeaked as I walked along the parquet floor. I tried to lighten my step by walking on my toes, fearful of breaking the silence. I stopped and looked out of one of the windows at the well-kept gardens, a large circular flowerbed covered with a variety of flowers swayed gently in the breeze. From the centre of this magnificent display rose a large grey-painted cross and high in the air a crucified Christ, the dead custodian of St Michael’s and of the world. I gazed at this pathetic figure, his head hanging to one side crowned with thorns, his face spattered with blood, painted in bright red on sunken cheeks. His emaciated body was held to the cross by three nails that were inadequate to support the weight as it leaned slightly forward. Birds flew above the statue landing on the crown of thorns or on the outstretched arms, carelessly chattering as they did so. A robin landed and I remembered the story told so often by the nuns of how this tiny creature came to have a red breast; he was trying to pluck the thorns from the head of Christ at the time of his Crucifixion.
The corridor became narrow and much darker. A flickering light was given off from a candle burning at the feet of a large statue of the Virgin Mary. I looked around for a bell but could see none. A round brass gong hung from a silver chain and to one side there was a stick with a padded leather-bound head. I picked it up and banged the gong once, twice, then a third and final time.
I had hardly replaced the stick when a nun rushed towards me. She placed her hands on the gong to stop its sound reverberating through the convent.
‘I have this message for Mother Ita,’ I said, handing over the package which I had been given.
‘I am Mother Ita,’ she replied, her breath quickening and her voice beginning to rise.
‘Who told you to ring the gong, you stupid child?’
‘Mother Michael said that your bell was three.’
‘It is, it is, but my God, child, do you not know the difference yet between a bell and a gong?’
I remained silent. She grabbed me by the arm, led me across the corridor to where an ornate piece of rope hung through a small hole in the ceiling, and held the tasselled end of the rope close to my face.
‘This, you stupid child . . . is a bell!’
‘Yes, Mother,’ I answered.
‘That over there,’ she said turning, ‘is a gong.’
Then she pointed to a small printed sign on the wall and asked me to read it.
‘Bell,’ I said.
‘Yes, B.E.L.L.,’ and with the back of her hand she slapped me across the face. ‘That gong is an ornament and it is not meant to be rung, you have disturbed Jesus in the Tabernacle. The very least you could do is go to the chapel and say that you are sorry.’
The chapel was small and dimly lit by a stained-glass window depicting a cross. On either side of this there were two other smaller windows on which the black roller blinds were pulled down. The flame from the ever-burning sanctuary lamp which hung from the ceiling on its triangular chain hardly moved in the still air. The big statues made the chapel look smaller than it actually was. St Michael the Archangel, triumphant, his foot firmly placed on the back of a serpent. A snake, once the most beautiful saint in Heaven banished to eternal damnation for the sin of pride. Lucifer, serpent, symbol of evil, the devil. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the nun was watching me, and to give the impression that I was praying I bowed my head and moved my lips, certain that she would be impressed. After some minutes I found that I was actually praying.
‘Lord, if it be your holy will, please don’t let me get into trouble.’ I was always taught that it would be wrong to ask God for anything without first prefacing the request with the words ‘if it be your holy will’. Mother Ita got up from where she was kneeling but I remained in prayer just to reassure her that I was serious about what I was doing. As we left the chapel I noticed she had calmed a great deal. She ran h
er fingers through my hair and asked me if I was one of the new altar boys.
‘Yes, Mother,’ I replied.
‘What age are you?’ she enquired.
‘Six and a little bit,’ I replied confidentially.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘didn’t Jesus Himself make the odd mistake, I’m sure He’ll see His way to forgiving you.
‘You can tell Mother Michael that there is no message.’
I walked quickly, and on my way back to the assembly hall stopped again to look out at the figure nailed to the Cross, with a sparrow now perched on one of the outstretched arms, resting.
Twice each week we went for long walks along the country roads outside St Michael’s. Before leaving we were instructed on the need to be clean, and how to behave when we were out. To salute a priest, if we met one, by raising one hand to our forehead and bringing it down sharply to our side, just as a soldier would in the army. The walk we took happened to be the same one as the priests took to say their offices from thick, black, leather-bound missals, with page-edges gilted in gold.
Lined up two-abreast, we were inspected by Mother Paul and Mother Michael. Trailing bootlaces had to be tied properly. Hair not properly combed was fixed with the black combs each of the nuns carried. I hated having my hair done by them, their strokes were heavy and the teeth hurt my scalp. When I tried to shift away from either of the nuns they gripped my chin tightly so that I could not move. Snotty noses were wiped with checkered handkerchiefs to mutterings of ‘dirty little pup’. I tried to find a place midway down the line for these walks to avoid being constantly under the eye of the leading nun, or the one at the end of the procession. This allowed a certain amount of freedom to chat with some of the other boys, and at the same time for a degree of alertness in case either of the nuns checked the line during the walk.
The large grey wooden gates swung open and enthusiastically we filed out. Talking was strictly forbidden unless we were told that it was all right. The walk was always the same, about a mile and a half out along the road and if the weather was fine we would stop in one of the many fields in the area for twenty minutes or half an hour. During this time we were allowed to break into groups and chat to each other. If the weather was not to the liking of the nuns we turned around and went back to Saint Michael’s. I loved the freedom of the open fields. I picked buttercups and held them under other boys’ chins to see if they were brave or cowardly. A bright yellow reflection from the skin was a sure sign of bravery, less bright the mark of a coward.
On those rare occasions when they were so engrossed in conversation that they took little notice of us, we used to sneak across the field near to a derelict house. It was a bungalow, with the path which at one time had led to its door now covered with grass and weeds. All of its windows were broken and the frames hung precariously outward. The roof was in poor condition. The slates from the apex had slid down and broken through the rusty iron guttering. Some of the others and I used to gather stones and when we got the chance we’d throw them at the roof where they landed with a sharp clack. I would turn quickly towards the nuns, watching them as they tried to discover what the noise was. I believed that the house was haunted and a banshee lived in it. Every time a stone struck the roof I ran, terrified that the banshee would appear.
Just like the other boys I was sure there was a huge hole in the floor of the house, and that any children caught would be thrown into it. Every time I got anywhere near this house I was filled with feelings of terror and a peculiar sense of delight. The fun ended with the call to ‘line up’. Two by two we marched back to St Michael’s and confinement.
There were days when the strict regime of the school was less in evidence. First Communion day was one. On 29 May 1957, a few months after my sixth birthday, the day before I made my first communion, I was marched to the bathroom with eight other boys. Before any of us were stripped for a bath we had to have our heads treated for lice, whether we had any or not. The lotion used was like urine to look at and had a very strong smell. It stung as it trickled down my forehead and into my eyes. I clenched them shut as I groped for something to wipe them with. Once my hair had been soaked in this foul-smelling liquid I was stripped and ordered into the bath. The heavy hand of a nun rubbed the rough flannel over my body, nudging me to lift my arms so that she could wash beneath them. Then I had to stand up, the water reaching just halfway up my shins. Naked, cold and embarrassed, I let the rest of my body be scrubbed. Mother Paul said it was important that I be ‘spick and span’ before Jesus entered my body.
In the bathroom there were two cast-iron baths stained from the constant dripping of water and chipped-off enamel from use over many years. It was a big room with black and red quarry tiles on the floor and dark green painted walls. There was no heating. Every second Saturday as many as sixty children waited their turn to be washed. Everyone stripped at the same time. As one child got out of the bath so another stepped into the ever clouding dirty water. Each child had to dry himself and it was not unusual to have three or four boys waiting for the same towel, their bodies shivering as the carbolic-stained water ran down their bodies onto the cold floor.
I was nervous from the moment I entered the confession box to make my first confession, afraid that I would say something wrong.
‘Yes?’ a gruff voice said.
I took a deep breath and began: ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession, Father. Father, I told lies, Father, I was disobedient, for these and all the sins of my life I humbly ask pardon of God.’
I was not actually aware of having told lies or of having been disobedient but these were the words I had been taught in the weeks leading up to my confession. Then on the day, I recited them like a poem I had learned at school. The priest began his absolution prayer while I said an Act of Contrition. His mumbling distracted me and I lost my way halfway into the prayer I had rehearsed so often. He didn’t notice, and if he did, he didn’t seem to care.
On the morning of my First Communion I was not allowed to eat or drink anything. Mother Paul came into the dormitory, her arms laden with clothes. Jumpers, shirts, dicky-bows and ties as well as trousers and jackets. She tried various outfits on me before deciding that a coarse grey wool suit would look best. Instead of the usual heavy boots I was given a pair of shiny black shoes and knee-length white socks to wear. She put her two fingers into a jar of Brylcream and rubbed it into my hair before parting it at one side and then warning me not to touch it. From that moment on I was to prepare for Jesus by praying and asking him to make me worthy to receive him. Before leaving for the church I was reminded that He only stayed in my soul for fifteen minutes. It was important, during those minutes, that I prayed for anything I wanted. The importance of praying for those who looked after me was stressed. Then there were those who had died and gone to God, those that were in Purgatory. I had to pray for the souls who had gone to Limbo, babies who died before they were baptized, and who would never see God. She impressed on me the importance of praying for those who had gone to Hell because they had not led good lives. Protestants too needed prayer so that they would believe in the Blessed Virgin.
On no account was I to touch the Sacred Host with my teeth. Great care was to be exercised to ensure that the host did not fall out of my mouth and even if it did I was never to touch it with my hands. Only the priest could do that. If it became stuck on the roof of my mouth it was permissible for me to gently peel it away using my tongue.
Having gone to the altar-rails and taken the white host into my mouth I returned solemnly to my seat where I bowed my head and closed my eyes. My prayers were a sort of a test for Jesus. I never did pray for the nuns. Nor did I pray for the souls of those who had died in a state of sin and, as for Protestants, I never mentioned them. I was very specific about what I wanted. I asked Him to bring me an apple and an orange and sixpence. I had seen apples and oranges but never tasted either. Despite the fervour of my prayer, the fruits never materialized and I only got hal
f the money I asked for.
Later in the day, Miss Sharpe, our singing teacher, brought us out for a walk through the town. It was a hot sunny day and the local people who were standing at their hall doors stared at us. Groups of local children laughed and jeered, mocking our clothes. Some of the older people gave us money. I got a thrupenny bit and, if I could manage to hide it, I was going to buy three ice-pops. Miss Sharpe went into a shop and bought a bag of sweets while we waited outside gaping through the window. We walked until we came to a field where she suggested we go in and sit down. She sat on the grass for a while and then moved to where there was a big grey boulder. She sat up on it and called us to gather round her so that she could share out the sweets. Before doing that she asked had any of us got any money, I admitted that I had and she took it from me saying that it was part payment for the sweets. We were not allowed to have money. She gave us two sweets each and said that she would raffle the remainder before we went home. Just as St Michael’s was home for us so it was for her. We gathered daisies and made them into a long chain, looping one through the pinched-out stem of the other. I pulled some grass from the field and tossed it into the air, explaining to one of the other boys that this was how farmers tested to see which way the wind was blowing.
