by Doyle, Paddy
‘Walk over to the other side of the yard,’ she ordered.
I could feel their eyes on me as I looked down at my foot, trying to ensure it was not turned in. Mother Paul spoke.
‘Take him to the bathroom, give him a good washing and see that he has underwear on him. I want to take him to see Doctor Black and God help him if he’s acting the fool, just God help him.’
‘Why have I to go to the doctor?’ I asked nervously.
‘Because you refuse to walk properly.’
‘I can’t help it, Mother, honestly,’ I pleaded.
Mother Michael ran the bath while I undressed slowly.
‘Hurry up,’ she demanded.
There was a lot of steam coming off the water and before getting into it I told her it was too hot.
‘In the name of God, child, how do you know when you haven’t put a finger into it?’
The unfamiliar steam rising from the water scared me. I put one leg over the edge so that just the tips of my toes touched the water, withdrew it quickly and told Mother Michael again that the water was too hot. She took no notice. Using all her strength, she pressed me down until I was up to my armpits in it.
‘It’s burning me,’ I screamed.
She hit me with a wet flannel across the back of the head and told me to be quiet. Only when I persisted crying did she eventually run cold water into the bath, stirring it with circular sweeping movements of her arm. She scrubbed my back with carbolic soap and a rough piece of cloth. I stood up in the bath to allow her to wash my legs. She lost her temper with me when I said that she was hurting me and hit me across the thighs with the cloth. ‘You’re worse than any two-year-old. Now get out,’ she commanded.
She dried me quickly and gave me a white vest and under-pants to wear, all the time urging me to hurry. I was given the suit I wore for my First Communion and a clean pair of socks. She fine-combed my hair with a steel comb which dug into my scalp and when I protested she dug in even harder saying that I probably had a head full of lice.
‘Wait here,’ Mother Paul ordered, putting her head out the front door to see if the convent car had arrived. Mr O’Rourke was driving. He opened the door and pushed the seat forward to allow me in followed by Mother Paul. The drive was only about two or three minutes and when we got to the house the nun asked the driver to wait. When she wasn’t looking the old man winked at me through the open window of the car.
In the doctor’s waiting room a man was contentedly puffing his pipe, sending great clouds of smoke towards the low ceiling. When he saw the nun he took off his hat and saluted her, suggesting that she should see the doctor before he did. She accepted the offer and thanked him, before sitting upright in her chair and crossing her hands on her lap. The old man took a newspaper from his coat pocket and unfolded it.
‘You don’t mind if I read, Mother?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ she said.
‘I see there’s talk of putting dogs into outer space,’ he said, ‘I wonder what they’ll be thinking of next?’
‘God only knows,’ she replied.
‘I just hope they know what they’re at,’ the man said before relighting his pipe.
The surgery door opened and a woman came out bidding the nun good evening as she walked quickly past.
Mother Paul got to her feet and led me in. The doctor was a white-haired woman in her mid fifties who wore glasses which she carried around her neck on a golden chain. She had a friendly face and gentle voice. She greeted Mother Paul and then looked at me closely.
‘I’ve often seen this little man serving Mass,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘He’s one of the finest altar boys I’ve seen in the church and a great credit to you. You must be very proud of him, Mother.’
‘Indeed we are, doctor,’ the nun replied.
The doctor sat down behind her desk and began to write on a sheet of paper, asking the nun my name and age.
‘And what is the problem?’ she asked, removing her glasses and allowing them to hang from her neck.
‘He’s walking with his foot turned in, and he seems to be dragging it along the ground,’ Mother Paul said.
‘When did you first notice this, Mother?’
The nun thought for a minute before replying that she couldn’t say for sure, but it had been going on for a good while.
‘Can I have a look at your foot, Patrick?’ the doctor asked. Her voice was gentle and kind.
It took me some time to undo the laces and I could sense the impatience of the nun as the doctor told me to ‘take it easy’, before she eventually helped me to undo both boots.
‘Which foot is it?’ she asked.
‘This one,’ I said, pointing to the left.
Taking my bare foot in her hand she moved it up and down, then in a circular motion, all the time enquiring whether I was experiencing any pain. She checked the right foot, manipulating it in the same manner, asking if I could feel any soreness or discomfort. During the examination my fear and tension must have been obvious to her because I was being constantly reassured.
‘Will you walk down the room and back towards me please, Patrick?’ she asked, watching closely as I did so, then asked me to sit on the couch and let my legs hang over the edge to check my reflexes. She tapped my knee gently with her black rubber triangular hammer and the lower part of my leg shot outwards involuntarily. It was a funny sensation and I laughed. With the same instrument she checked my ankles before instructing me to put my boots and socks on again. As I did I listened to her question Mother Paul.
‘How is his health generally?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ the nun replied. ‘He eats well and gets plenty of sleep.’
‘Is there any history of disability in his family, anything that you think I should know?’
‘No.’
The doctor put her glasses on again and looked over the notes she had written. Then told Mother Paul that she could find nothing wrong. I trembled when I heard this because I knew that my punishment would be severe.
‘There is the possibility, Mother, that the child is imitating someone with a limp, perhaps his father or mother, and this is his way of bringing attention to himself. I presume his parents are dead if he is in the orphanage?’
‘Yes,’ the nun said attentively.
‘I think the child is suffering some form of trauma and time will put this matter right. It may well be that he needs reassurance and a great deal of kindness. If either of his parents or someone else close to him had a limp it is quite likely he would imitate that, not out of any sense of mockery or anything.’
‘I understand,’ Mother Paul said.
She asked was I a nervous child and the nun mentioned my fear of dogs.
‘Has he had any bad experience with dogs? Has he been bitten or frightened by a dog?’
‘Not that I am aware.’
‘Does he have nightmares? Has he ever mentioned his parents?’
‘No,’ the nun replied, ‘but we do encourage the children to pray for their parents every night.’
‘I see,’ the doctor said. There was a brief silence before she spoke again.
‘Just one final question. What did the child’s parents die from?’
‘An accident,’ the nun answered.
‘A road accident was it?’
‘Yes, doctor.’
This story was different from what I had overheard my aunt saying, but again it made little impact on me at the time.
‘Thank you very much, Mother, I’d like you to keep a close eye on this little man and bring him back to see me in about a fortnight. We can review the position then.’
The doctor handed me a sweet, wrapped in paper, which she took from the pocket of her white coat. I held it in my hand.
‘That’s not the place for it, is it?’ she asked kindly. ‘Are you not going to eat it?’
I undid the wrapper and put the sweet into my mouth, aware that Mother P
aul was watching.
‘Do you like school?’ the doctor asked me.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Are you happy there?’
‘Yes.’
She took both my hands in hers and asked me if anyone had ever frightened me, or if I could remember anything terrible ever happening to me. She wondered if anyone had ever beaten or locked me up. I wanted to talk to the doctor, to tell her about the beatings and other punishments given to me by the nuns and about the image of the man hanging that I linked somehow in my mind with my father. I was sure she would believe me but because of the presence of Mother Paul I couldn’t speak. Since my parents’ death I had been surrounded by a conspiracy of silence. That evening in the doctor’s room fear made me an accomplice in it. Looking back I see it as one of the turning points of my life.
Back in St Michael’s I played in the yard while the two nuns discussed what had happened at the doctor’s. I remember Mother Paul towering over the smaller figure of Mother Michael as they talked. I can only assume that Mother Michael agreed that she was right in lying to the doctor. They must have realized too, that the caretaker, Tom O’Rourke, limped, and that it was probably him I was imitating. I think they resolved that day to make a greater effort to ensure I would eliminate from my mind the image of a hanged man because any time I mentioned him now I was caned severely. My constant talking of him turned to a frightened silence.
For a week neither of the nuns took their eyes off me. I was constantly reminded to walk properly by a shout or the threat of being beaten.
As I became more aware of being watched I became more tense and my manner of walking grew distinctly awkward. I was constantly conscious of my foot and nervous of being beaten. My limp got worse.
The nuns decided to seek a second opinion and brought me to another doctor. As I walked towards his surgery Mother Paul grabbed me by the back of my jumper and, in a sharp-tempered voice, warned me about walking with my head down, adding that I was bad enough as I was.
The doctor was an elderly man with a red face and a completely bald head. His manner was abrupt and he lacked the sensitivity of the female doctor. After he had enquired from the nun what was wrong with me he made me take off my boots and stockings and walk across the floor.
He enquired whether I had any illness recently and Mother Paul mentioned the measles and the earaches. The doctor spoke to her about polio, reminding her that the country was in the middle of an epidemic of the disease. She assured him that the nuns had warned all the children to keep away from rivers and sewers. The doctor considered for a moment, then told Mother Paul he wanted me admitted to hospital immediately as a precaution. My heart pounded, my breath raced and I could feel tears coming to my eyes. I wanted to plead with him not to send me away, that if he didn’t I would do my best to make sure I walked properly.
He wrote a short note which he handed to Mother Paul, instructing her to take me to Cork that evening. Then he telephoned the hospital.
From the doctor’s house I was driven back to St Michael’s and when we arrived Mother Paul ordered me to stay where I was until she came back. Tom O’Rourke noticed I was crying and he did his best to comfort me by just talking. He took out his pipe and lit it, saying that he didn’t like to smoke when the nuns were in the car. As he drew on the pipe I could hear the moisture make a sizzling sound in its stem. After every few pulls he coughed and waved his arm to disperse the smoke.
‘I do have to do that,’ he said, ‘in case the nuns might think the car was on fire.’ Then he laughed loudly.
‘Begob and d’ye know what it is, I don’t think the ould hospital would be all that bad all the same, and sure didn’t I hear the nun sayin’ that it would be only a week before I’d be going to collect you to bring you back.’ I looked deep into the jaundiced eyes of the old man and through my own tears could see he didn’t really believe what he was saying. I sobbed and still he tried to comfort me. He looked out the car window to see if Mother Paul was coming.
‘Begob they must be having a party in there, she’s a good while gone now.’
I drew a deep breath in an effort to stop myself crying and asked him how far away Cork was. He thought for a minute before answering.
‘Well I suppose it’ll be around the seventy or eighty mile mark,’ he answered. ‘Sure it could happen that I wouldn’t be able to find the hospital at all and then we’d have to come back.’
‘How long will it take us to get there?’ I asked.
‘Three or four hours,’ he answered as he looked at his watch. It was getting dark and rain began to fall in tiny droplets on the windscreen. I saw the convent door open and the figure of Mother Paul come out into the grey evening light. Tom O’Rourke noticed her too and pressed his thumb into the bowl of his pipe and put it into his breast pocket then waved his hand towards the open window, urging the smoke to go out.
‘Whist,’ he said, ‘I see herself coming and she has company with her for the prayers. You’d think I was going to kill them on the road.’ He got out and opened the door. Mother Paul sat in the back seat beside me while the other nun took the passenger seat. As soon as we moved away, the nun in the front began to say the Rosary. Mother Paul responded and encouraged me to join in. I did make an effort, but the sorrow I felt at being taken away from St Michael’s would not allow me to.
As it got dark the lights of oncoming cars dazzled me, and the heavy rain made it difficult to see out. The wipers swished from side to side, but the rain was so heavy, they were of little use in keeping the windscreen clear. Halfway through a Hail Mary Mother Paul nudged me in the ribs.
‘What are you crying for?’ she asked.
‘I don’t want to go to hospital,’ I answered.
‘Don’t be stupid, thousands of children your age go into hospital every day of the week – most of them much worse off than you are. You should be thanking God that your complaint is just a simple one that will take no time to put right. Now join in the prayers.’
I did my best to join the nuns as they went from one decade of the Rosary to the next and on to the Litany of Saints. Only when the car stopped and they got out to go into a big store did the prayers stop. When they got back in and the engine started they resumed praying.
Coming into Cork city I was amazed by the different colours of lights flashing on advertising boards, particularly by an advertisement for Donnelly’s Sausages, a neon Don tossing a neon sausage to a neon Nelly. Reading the advertisements and listening to the lilting voices of newspaper sellers distracted me from what was happening and I stopped crying. I had never been outside the Industrial School after dark except to go to the local church to serve at Benediction when the missionary priests were conducting their annual retreat for the local people. Now I was in a city, buses, cars and people. Brightly lit streets and illuminated shop windows with shop models dressed in the latest fashions. Despite the noise of traffic, the voices of the newspaper sellers could be heard through the streets urging people to buy an evening paper.
‘Would ye mind if I stopped for a minute, Mother?’ Tom O’Rourke asked. ‘I just want to go into one of the shops to get something.’
‘You won’t be too long, Tom, will you?’ Mother Paul said.
He pulled the car in to the edge of the pavement and limped into a shop that had its window and interior brightly lit. I could see him talking to the shop assistant, indicating with his finger that he wanted something from one of the high shelves behind the counter. The girl stood on a small step-ladder and took down a large box which she handed to him. He looked at it for a few seconds before handing it back to her to be wrapped. When he came out of the shop he was carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper which he put into the car behind his seat and in front of me. He got in and remarked that ‘the next problem would be to find the hospital.’ He laughed, the nuns didn’t.
The Morris Minor stopped outside a red-bricked building with tall Georgian type windows. Light was shining from each of them. A light over the fr
ont door shone onto a large brass plate with the words ‘Mercy Hospital’ etched onto it. Mother Paul stepped from the car and coaxed me out. I hesitated, but eventually followed her.
Going up the rain-soaked steps to the entrance of the hospital, I stopped and pleaded with her not to allow them to keep me in but to bring me back to the other boys. Embarrassed by the commotion I was causing she grabbed me firmly by the arm and tried to force me up the steps. I stood absolutely still and I would have run but for the tightness of her grip. Her lips puckered as she became annoyed but it didn’t worry me. I knew she couldn’t hit me now.
‘You are only going to have to stay a couple of days,’ she said, stressing each word.
‘I don’t want to go in there,’ I screamed.
‘In one week, maybe even less, you’ll be coming home to us again,’ she promised.
Because I believed that nuns never told lies, I stopped crying and walked slowly up the steps with her holding my arm.
A bespectacled, sharp-featured lady took details from Mother Paul before ringing for a nurse to take me to one of the wards. As she arrived I held onto the nun’s black habit and pleaded with her not to leave me there. My knuckles were white as she tried to prise my fingers loose. The nurse bent down to try and lift me into her arms.
‘No,’ I screamed as loud as I could. ‘I don’t want to stay here, I want to go home. I don’t like this place.’
As the nurse tried to talk to me I shook my head violently from side to side, screaming at her to ‘go away’, but she persisted and eventually succeeded in lifting me into her arms, telling Mother Paul that I would settle in once she was gone. I watched as the nun opened the main door to walk out. As she did so, Tom O’Rourke walked quickly past her, carrying the parcel he had earlier bought and came towards me. He gave me the present, telling me it would pass the time. I dropped it and put my arms out to him, begging him to take me back to St Michael’s with him. Looking him straight in the face, I realized that I loved this man, like a son would love his father. He held my hand tightly in his, and told me that he would probably be staying in Cork for the night because it was too late to return to Waterford. He would be back first thing in the morning to check with the doctors if I could go back with him.
