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Little Drifters: Part 3 of 4
Kathleen O’Shea
Little Drifters can either be read as a full-length eBook or in 4 serialised eBook-only parts.This is PART 3 of 4 (Chapters 11-18 of 24).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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Contents
Cover (#u3e888d23-a343-58d3-b5e8-3f6256a3a5c1)
Title Page (#ulink_bd125276-620a-5d38-8243-ed7ab7636714)
PART III: Betrayed
Chapter 11: Watersbridge (#ulink_12221889-7dd1-5f23-95a1-24ad69f60e20)
Chapter 12: Grace (#ulink_cfa91cef-bb79-5526-ba43-9950e1509d56)
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)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PART III
Chapter 11
Watersbridge (#u04575501-f1aa-5c92-a615-a5ded47aad27)
It didn’t take long for me to realise that my return to St Beatrice’s was not going to be like the first visit. From the moment we left the doctor’s study we were taken to a house two miles down the road from the main convent, which we were told was called Watersbridge. This would be our new home. A small, skinny little nun with a pinched face was standing outside to greet me and Tara while Lucy and Libby recovered in hospital. The boys had been separated from us and placed in another house.
‘Children,’ the tiny nun announced, ‘I am Sister Helen. You will be living here with me in Watersbridge now and I expect you to behave yourselves or there will be consequences.’
She looked at us both sternly, as if we had already offended her, just by being there. Behind her stood a lady who was one of the staff – she was also short but with huge breasts that seemed to drag her even closer to the ground. I was wondering how she managed to stay on her feet without toppling forward when I caught a brisk clip round my ear.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I exploded angrily. ‘What was that for?’
Whumph! The nun hit me again.
‘Don’t stare!’ Sister Helen admonished. ‘And don’t say those words, taking the Lord’s name in vain. This here is your new house mother, Rosie. She’ll help you get settled in.’
Tara started giggling next to me and I couldn’t help but smile too.
‘Don’t you start!’ Sister Helen warned her as she led us both inside. It was an ordinary-looking house – on one side there was a large living room with comfy-looking sofas, a television and a pile of magazines in the corner. On the other side of the hall was a room, closed off by a glass door, which we could see had nice chairs and an array of little knick-knacks on coffee tables. That was the ‘good room’, Sister Helen explained. Not for children! We could see the kitchen from across the hall.
By now some of the children had come out to see us, the ‘new arrivals’, and I recognised a few from our previous stay in North Set.
‘Tara! Kathleen!’ one little girl called Gina exclaimed, running up, happy to see us. ‘What are you doing back here?’
It was nice to see a few familiar faces – Jake, Miles, Victoria and Jessica – but there was no time for catching up.
‘Right, you dirty little tinkers!’ Rosie addressed us. ‘Upstairs for a bath. Now!’
‘Don’t be calling us that!’ I shot back. ‘We’re not tinkers!’
‘You’re whatever I say you are, Miss Mouth!’ Rosie pulled my hair down towards her, then with her other hand gave me a ringing belt across my head. No, this was not like North Set.
We were bathed and Rosie scrubbed at us both rigorously. I was now nearly 10 and resented being pulled about like a child but Rosie didn’t pay me any mind. She yanked my arms, spun me about and pummelled my head with soap. Afterwards we were shown into a small bedroom and told to put on the nightdresses laid out for us.
Unlike North Set we had the nun, Sister Helen, living with us permanently in the house and she seemed far stricter than Teddy and Mona. Clearly, Sister Helen ruled the roost and Rosie was her second in command. Apart from them, there were a few other members of staff whom we were gradually introduced to.
Watersbridge had two floors – all the children’s bedrooms were on the upper floor alongside a bathroom, a study and rows and rows of locked cupboards. We learned later this was where all the children’s confiscated belongings had been locked away.
The next morning a nurse nun came to attend to our sores, putting cream and oils all over us. When we were finally done we got dressed and ran out of our bedroom, hungry to join the other children for breakfast.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’ Rosie sneered at us as she stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded, blocking our way.
‘We just want to get our breakfast,’ I told her.
‘And you think that leaving your beds in that disgusting mess is acceptable, do you?’ She gestured over to where our sheets lay crumpled and tangled up on our beds.
‘No, Rosie.’
‘No! You two little tramps are going to have to learn to clean up after yourselves in this house,’ she said loudly. She seemed to be enjoying herself. ‘Now go back in to your rooms and make your beds. Properly. There’ll be no breakfast for either of you till you learn how to leave a tidy room.’
So we returned to our room, smarting from her words.
I didn’t understand it at all – they were allowed to call us all sorts of bad names like tramps and tinkers but the moment we said flippin’ hell or Jesus Christ we got walloped.
‘Ah feck this!’ Tara spat in frustration as she moved around her bed, tugging at the sheets, trying to pull them straight onto the mattress.
We had looked into all the other rooms to see the beds made perfectly, with neat little corners tucked underneath. Nobody had even shown us how to do it!
We must have been up there struggling for half an hour before Gina bounded into our room.
‘Aren’t you going to have breakfast?’ she asked us.
‘We’re not allowed till we’ve done these,’ I told her, showing her our poorly made beds.
‘Here, I’ll show you,’ she offered. Then she demonstrated how to lay out the sheets and fold the sides under one by one until the corners were all neat so you couldn’t see any creases.
With Gina’s help we were soon done and after Rosie’s inspection we were finally allowed downstairs for breakfast.
In the kitchen there was a long wooden table lined with plastic chairs. We were given blue plastic bowls and one of the staff ladled out a measly handful of cornflakes while another poured us each a cup of hot, sweet tea from a large silver teapot. I helped myself to a large slosh of milk for my cornflakes.
It was barely enough to fill us up but by now I was used to being hungry and I’d learned to take whatever food I was given, without question. Afterwards we helped to clear up, wash and dry the dishes.
By now most of the other children had set off for school but once again we had to wait to be allocated school places so we spent the day exploring our new home. In the living room there was a TV and two sofas, not enough for the 16 children in our house to sit down.
The ‘good room’ was filled with nice chairs and a coffee table with pretty china ornaments, but the moment I opened the door to peep inside Rosie shouted at me to close it again.
As the morning dragged on we begged to be allowed to go outside, so one of the staff said we could play in the back garden.
She showed us out the back door into the garden behind the house – it was just a large patch of bare grass. No trees, no toys, just nothing.
The front of the house was far more interesting – it had a couple of large trees and you could see the street and all the people passing by.
But when we asked to be let out the front we were told this wasn’t allowed.
By now our mean little bowl of cornflakes was a distant memory and we wandered into the kitchen in search of food. Nothing. There wasn’t a scrap of food in the cupboards and the fridge was empty save for a bottle of milk and a slab of butter.
So we waited it out until lunchtime when all the other children returned from school and we were given lunch of a plate of mash and gravy with a pudding of instant whip.
It was pretty awful. The mash was lumpy and watery at the same time, and the instant whip, which I think was meant to be strawberry flavoured because it was bright pink, was so sweet it made my teeth ache. It didn’t taste of anything else besides sugar.
It was a relief to see the other children again but there was no laughing and shouting like in North Set; everyone behaved perfectly, quickly clearing their plates and bowls away after lunch and helping to wash and clear up.
By mid-afternoon Rosie was fed up with us hanging round.
‘If you two have nothing better to do, I’ve got some jobs for you.’ She smiled nastily. I didn’t like Rosie from the first. She seemed to take real delight in making us suffer and in that first day alone I saw her wallop the heads of four other children.
She set us to work then, cleaning, dusting and polishing the hallway, banisters and staircase. Afterwards she took us to the airing cupboard, a gigantic cupboard next to the kitchen on the ground floor.
It was a complete mess of clothes and sheets.
‘Right, I presume you know how to fold clothes at least,’ she said. ‘Get folding.’
So we spent the rest of the afternoon clambering up and down the wooden-slatted shelves in the cupboard, organising and folding all the children’s clothes in the house.
To be honest, it was nice to have something to do.
Two days later we were informed we would be going to Our Lady School and given uniforms to wear. We each had a blue skirt, a white shirt, a blue-striped tie, navy jumper and blue knee socks. I felt very smart in my new uniform and hopeful for the fresh start.
That morning I asked Rosie for a new pair of knickers. I wanted to be as smart as possible for meeting all the new teachers and children.
‘There’s nothing wrong with what you’ve got now,’ she pronounced. ‘You’ll get a fresh pair of knickers at the beginning of every week, just like everyone else.’
So that morning I stood at the sink in the bathroom and washed my knickers from the day before, squeezing out the water before putting them on still wet so I would have fresh underwear.
The nun walked us to school the first day but after that it would be up to us to get to school every day on time. A couple of miles away, it took half an hour to walk with the nun.
‘Now just you mind not to be diddling and daddling on your way back,’ she warned us before she left us and we nodded obediently, both a little nervous, a little scared at being thrown into yet another new place. Once again we’d be in separate classes since Tara was a year older.
The nun went on: ‘As soon as that bell goes, you move it.’
She snapped her fingers to emphasise her point.
‘No talking with other children, no hanging about. It’s straight back to the house. Got it?’
Our Lady was a convent school and my teacher introduced herself as Sister Teresa. She was a brisk, no-nonsense person, I could see that. There were no lengthy introductions. I was shown to my seat the moment I arrived and told to sit quietly and pay attention. Though I’d been looking forward to starting classes, my first day was just a painful lesson in humiliation.
‘Kathleen!’ Sister Teresa trilled midway through the morning. ‘Come to the front of the class.’
I hadn’t been doing anything naughty. I’d barely got my feet under the desk so I didn’t expect anything bad to happen.
‘Stand there and put your hands out in front of you,’ she instructed. So I did as I was told, not thinking anything of it.
The next thing she took out a metre-long ruler and brought it down hard on both my palms.
After the first hit, I whipped my hands away in shock and pain, grasping them to me.
‘Put them back!’ she ordered. I didn’t know why I was being punished and I felt horrible and humiliated in front of all these other children I didn’t know.
Thwack! The ruler came down again on my stinging palms. And again and again. Tears now pricked behind my eyes and I began to cry silently. I don’t know if it was the pain or the embarrassment.
Even my tears felt shameful and wrong.
She gave me ten slaps in total before ordering me back to my seat.
‘Now mind,’ she said. ‘That’s what you’ll get if you misbehave in my classroom.’
I clasped my swollen red hands together under the desk, desperately trying to keep my tears at bay. I stared straight ahead, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. My palms throbbed. There was nothing I could do. All these children would be going home to their parents at night. I was going back to the nuns and Rosie. For the rest of the afternoon I struggled to hold my pencil as my hands were so swollen.
As it was, I wouldn’t have known what to write anyway. The fact was, at 10 years old I still couldn’t read. I’d missed so much school through years of being shunted about that all the other children were miles ahead of me. I just kept my head down and tried not to attract the teacher’s attention. I was too afraid to ask for help, too ashamed to admit my problems. When the bell rang at 3 p.m. I dashed out of class to meet Tara at the school gate so we could walk home together.
‘How was it?’ she asked as we strolled back along the road we’d come from that morning. Grateful for the chance to just relax and be ourselves again, we filled each other in on our day.
‘The nun beat me,’ I told her and showed her my sore hands.
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Ah, they’re a right load of shites around here,’ Tara said warmly, putting an arm around my shoulder. ‘Next time she picks on you just kick her in the shins!’
I smiled then. It was a relief to have a normal conversation where our every word wasn’t being scrutinised. We chatted all the way back about our daddy and the other kids in the house.
By the time we breezed back into Watersbridge Sister Helen was waiting for us in the hallway, scowling like she was sucking on a lemon.
