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Little Drifters: Kathleen’s Story
Kathleen O’Shea
The harrowing true story of a travelling Irish family bonded by love, broken apart by life, and then betrayed by their carers in a cruel convent in Ireland.“For those who we lost along the way, I tell this story. For all the children who suffered in this terrible place. For all those I consider my brothers and sisters; the ones who died, the ones who lost their minds, the ones who drown their memories everyday in a bottle of whisky, I tell this for you.Because in the end we are all brothers and sisters – and if we don’t feel that bond of love between each other, just as human beings, then we are nothing. We are no better than the monsters that ran the convents.”Based in Ireland in the 1960s and 70s, Kathleen’s story is a story of extreme hardship, suffering and abuse. It is the story of 11 siblings, abandoned by their mother and torn from their father, incarcerated in convents and then driven apart in the cruellest ways imaginable; it is the story of their ruined childhoods and their fight for recompense. But more than that, it is a story of courage, survival and the incredible strength of sibling bonds against overwhelming adversities.Out of terrible darkness comes a remarkable story. In the tradition of Irish storytelling, Kathleen offers a mesmerising account of her family’s experience.
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Dedication (#u609982a6-788d-5dd7-b273-1f9e8879f02c)
Little Drifters is dedicated to Grace, a very special person who was always there in my time of need. Rest in peace.
And to all the survivors in all the institutions and to all those who sadly did not make it. This is for you.
Epigraph (#u609982a6-788d-5dd7-b273-1f9e8879f02c)
When we were young, wild and free
The happiest times for all to see
Had its moments of sorrow and pain
But I would live them all again
Brothers and sisters sticking together
Mother and father in all kinds of weather
Life can be cruel and often unkind
Now it’s a memory engraved on my mind.
(‘Memories’, Anon.)
Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries.
Without them, humanity cannot survive.
(Dalai Lama XIV)
Contents
Cover (#ua2a9ddce-fbb1-5a76-a603-fbc48903e716)
Title Page (#ulink_5f889949-2ac5-5d59-9f73-db4cf310209a)
Dedication (#ulink_af5f9040-328e-5c07-b90c-8734097730b8)
Epigraph (#ulink_292e53cd-b30e-5541-8aa0-1c6982a15634)
Prologue (#ulink_289d423f-d7b2-5f8e-bbab-329f33e468da)
PART I: Bonded
Chapter 1: The Cottage (#ulink_fb1da7a4-4494-5a19-ab7f-b6067067741a)
Chapter 2: Life on the Road (#ulink_742f92f3-4410-5e7c-b442-67cdde6291e3)
Chapter 3: Harsh Reality (#ulink_1372f5c1-1b75-5e3f-bc39-aac4442742cb)
Chapter 4: A Birth and a Death (#ulink_8cbebf6d-f187-5617-8520-5fee07c27564)
Chapter 5: Needles and Haystacks (#ulink_baeaad9a-9999-56be-821b-95c2c4ebb316)
Chapter 6: A New Home (#ulink_1c929515-e42d-554e-9cd8-4dc1fc4746c7)
PART II: Broken
Chapter 7: Gloucester (#ulink_1a9c1951-8304-5b0d-a1b8-fd2833adcce0)
Chapter 8: Daddy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9: North Set (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10: Despair (#litres_trial_promo)
PART III: Betrayed
Chapter 11: Watersbridge (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12: Grace (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13: Losing Tara (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14: Abuse (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15: Drugged (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16: Attacked (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17: Love (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18: Losing It (#litres_trial_promo)
PART IV: Survivors
Chapter 19: Escape (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20: A Child in London (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21: Moving On (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22: Reunion (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23: Loss (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24: Redress (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue by Katy Weitz (#litres_trial_promo)
Further Reading and Support Groups (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Exclusive sample chapter (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u609982a6-788d-5dd7-b273-1f9e8879f02c)
I never had any intention of returning to St Beatrice’s Orphanage. And yet here I was, standing in front of the house I had called home for five years. A home filled with misery, cruelty and abuse.
My eyes scanned the large black front door rising up from the path, the heavy wooden gates, the tree in the front garden, and I felt anger swell inside me. It was just a house. From the outside, you would never have guessed the secrets and sadness this place had hidden for so long. Now, nearly 20 years after my escape, it was no longer one of the houses run by the Sisters of Hope from St Beatrice’s Convent. It was no longer Watersbridge, a home for children made wards of the state from myriad different personal tragedies. It was just an ordinary house. You might pass by this house and not look at it twice. It was just like all the others in the road – two storeys, small front garden, large Victorian windows, nothing special. And yet that’s not what I saw.
I saw the children of my past in every part of the grounds, so real I felt I could reach out and touch them. So vivid, I could hear their voices. Here, on the roof, Jake squatted – keeping a watchful eye down the road for Sister Helen in case she came trundling down the road on her bicycle, ready to send up the signal to the rest of us that ‘Scald Fingers’ was returning. That’s when we’d all scurry through the gate to the garden at the back. There, sitting on the wall, was 10-year-old Megan, her bare legs swinging and kicking against the red bricks. Jake’s brother Miles clambered over the gate, one dangling leg testing the ground below before dropping into the front garden, where we loved to play, even though we weren’t allowed. Six-year-old Anne, the little girl I adored, sat in the crook of the tree’s branch, shouting and laughing at the children below, her pure white hair blowing around her pretty face like a halo. Shay, seven, rested on the ground, a look of fierce concentration on his face as his small, bony hands dug a hole in the earth with a twig. And scattered about, I saw others: James, Victoria, Jessica and Gina. I could picture every one of them – saw their fleeting smiles, their innocence, warmth and energy. Dead now. All of them dead.
‘You all right, Mum?’
My daughter Maya interrupted my thoughts and the visions started to recede from my sight. The voices drifted away and, as they left, I felt a familiar ache inside. I hadn’t spoken or moved in minutes. Maya stood at my side, concern in her voice and eyes.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine,’ I reassured her. I pulled my cardigan around me tighter, though it was a warm spring day.
‘Do you want to go in?’
I glanced again at the ghosts from my past as they played, carefree and happy. So much to look forward to back then. Now their voices would always be silent.
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘I’d like to go now.’
I said goodbye to the children in the house and left them there – still playing, still blissfully unaware of their future. Too much pain, too much horror and torture went on in this house. I couldn’t bear seeing any more of those lost children.
The fact was, I had never intended to return to Watersbridge. It was purely by chance that my daughter and I, on a trip to visit my father, had decided to pass through this town again. But as I turned away, I realised that coming back was important.
You see, I made it.
Out of so many children that passed through these doors, I was among the very few that came out alive and in sound mind. I saw myself as no more than fortunate in that regard. I have struggled myself for years to fight down the demons from my past. I was lucky to come through the other side – many others did not.
So the fact that I was here at all was a symbol of defiance against this heartless place that tried to break us, my brothers and sisters, and those we came to look upon as our family. The fact that I came back with my own family was a sign that ultimately love won this battle for our souls, for our very survival.
But for those whom we lost along the way, I tell this story now.
For all the children who suffered in Catholic convent orphanages all over Ireland – the ones who died, the ones who lost their minds, the ones who drown the memories every day in a bottle of whiskey, I tell this for you. Because in the end we are all brothers and sisters – and if we don’t feel that, feel the bond of love between each other just as human beings, because we are human beings, then we are nothing. We are no better than the monsters who ran the orphanages.
PART I
Chapter 1
The Cottage (#u609982a6-788d-5dd7-b273-1f9e8879f02c)
I loved to hear the story of how my parents met. Sometimes at night, when we were all gathered around the fire, Daddy would entertain us with his music and stories.
‘Tell us about meeting Mammy!’ we’d beg him.
Mammy, standing by the big sink in the kitchen, would tut and shake her head: ‘Sure, you’ve heard it a thousand times already!’
But Daddy, now flushed with the drink, didn’t need encouraging. He loved to tell us stories. He’d take a long swig of his Guinness, wipe the foam from his lips, then fix us all with a roguish grin.
‘I had never set eyes on your mother before,’ he’d start, and we’d all smile in anticipation. ‘Not before this day. I was 23, getting on with my own life, engaged to be married to a local girl. And who should turn up in our town but your mother with her mammy and sisters.
‘I was out riding my bike one day when I caught sight of her in the chip shop window. I stopped then and there, right outside the window, and looked in. Jesus, but she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life! Long golden hair, sparkling blue eyes – all of 17, she was a picture. That night I went home and I told my sister: “Mark my words, I’ll marry that girl!”
‘So I called off the wedding and my parents went mental. But I didn’t care. The next day I found out where your mother lived and I went to call on her. And I just came straight out with it and told her she was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen and she’d be mad not to go out with me. And naturally, she said “yes”.’
‘Because you’re brazen as anything!’ my mother interrupted him.
‘And pure handsome of course!’ he added, a twinkle in his eye. ‘And that was that. My family went mad at me because your mother is from a travelling family and they didn’t like that, which is nothing but prejudice, so we ran away together, your mother and I. The police came looking for us but there was nothing they could do. We were madly in love. I bought a ring a month later and we got married.
‘And that’s how all you’s lot came about!’ he’d finish off, laughing and poking at us all.
It was so romantic, so beautiful, we could all picture it – our father, the tall, dark-skinned, raven-haired man, and the young, slim blonde beauty. We never got tired of hearing that story.
Even as the years went by and the harsh realities of our lives took their toll, I kept that special story locked away in my heart. I held it there, like a secret, and told it to myself over and over again. When the darkness took over and the loneliness seemed to open up a cavernous hole within me, I’d reach for that story. And then I could hear my father’s voice again, coming to me through the night, reaching out to comfort me, stroke my hair and hold me close.
That was the time we were all together, I’d hear him say. That was where you came from, Kathleen. All you’s lot! You were part of something very special.
By the time I was born my parents had already been together a long while and we were a large family, getting larger every year. I was just three but I can still remember the cottage we lived in, the hills, the river nearby and all the lush green fields where beets, spuds and cabbages were harvested according to the seasons.
The cottage sat pretty on an isolated hilltop, surrounded by wide-open countryside with a beautiful river running past the foot of the hill. Our nearest neighbour was about two miles away, a farmer who owned most of the surrounding fields. You could see horses and cows grazing within stone walls that defined the field boundaries. These walls stretched for miles, gliding up and down the hill, following the contours of the land. Groups of trees dotted the landscape, and there was a stream and a woodland close by, adding charm and tranquillity to the place. It was such an idyllic setting and, for us, the younger children, it was an adventure playground.
The cottage itself was built from local stone and was a single storey with a slate roof. It wasn’t big, especially for 10 of us, but we muddled along. There were three bedrooms. The older children – Claire, 14, Bridget, 13, Aidan, 12, and 11-year-old Liam – shared a room, and the younger ones – Brian, five, Tara, four, Kathleen (that’s me), and our youngest brother Colin, two – occupied the other bedroom. Our parents were in the third bedroom. Later my sisters Libby and Lucy and brother Riley would come along, making 11 of us kids in total.
Each one of us was either dark like my father Donal, or blonde like my mother Marion – we looked like a salt and pepper family! Tara had long dark hair, I was fair, Colin was dark, Brian was blond, Bridget dark, Claire blonde and the older boys both dark like my father.
Our mother kept the cottage neat and tidy as best as she could. Most mornings she put out a plate of sliced soda bread and a pot of tea on the wooden table in the parlour, where we all helped ourselves when we got up. We had a small parlour with a log-burning stove. Pots and pans hung around the stove on big metal hooks attached to the walls. The wooden table was under the window and we’d sit, watching her washing away with the laundries, squeezing and flapping the sheets loose before hanging them on the rope that was tied to two nearby trees.
Of course we all tried to help as best we could. In a family so large, everyone has a job, no matter how small. Water needed to be carried in buckets from the nearby river. Mammy would bring us to the riverbank where she’d find a safe spot and show us what to do.
‘Now mind where you put your feet down,’ she’d warn. ‘Be careful you don’t fall in the water.’
She’d scoop up the water and lift the bucket, moving away from the river’s edge.
