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‘Oh Christ,’ Tara whispered under her breath. ‘What now?’
‘What time do you call this?’ Sister Helen addressed us shrilly.
‘We don’t know, Sister,’ Tara replied. ‘We don’t have any watches.’
‘Mind your cheek, madam!’ Sister Helen fixed her with a steely stare. ‘It is now 4 p.m. – you are late!’
‘How can we be late?’ I objected. ‘We left as soon as school finished and walked all the way back. We didn’t talk to anybody or stop for nothing.’
‘Yeah,’ Tara backed me up. ‘How can we be late?’
‘You are late because you walked!’ Sister Helen explained, as if to a five-year-old. ‘You have fifteen minutes to get home every day. If you don’t get back in fifteen minutes by walking then you run. You understand? You run!’
‘Yes, Sister,’ we chorused back. It had only been a few days and we were already sick of this place, sick of all the stupid rules, sick of Sister Helen, the staff, their casual insults and boundless cruelty.
From that very first day we realised the nuns didn’t allow you any time to actually get to and from school. It was just about possible to get up in the morning, say our prayers, dress, wolf down breakfast and clear away before we had to run to school to get there on time.
If we were late of a morning we’d get a beating from the nuns there. At lunchtime we had to go back to Watersbridge, which meant running two miles again to the house and another two miles back to school afterwards. At the end of the school day we had to run once more to get back in time. The whole day you could stand in one place and just see a bunch of children running backwards and forwards through the town to avoid punishments. It must have looked funny from the outside, all these children zipping about, but it was exhausting for us. And it meant the food we ate barely touched our stomachs – we were constantly hungry for running all the time!
Once back at Watersbridge we would take off our uniforms, lay them on the end of the bed, ready for the next day, and then put on our play clothes. All the children would then do their homework at the big kitchen table. Once finished we’d be sent into the garden to play until they called tea-time, which was often just some bread with cheese and hot tea. Then we’d be allowed to watch a bit of TV in the living room before bed. I loved this – I’d never watched TV much before so even the boring holy programmes the nuns made us watch were fascinating to me at first. And if we were really lucky we got to see cartoons. Then it was prayers and bedtime.
A week after we arrived in Watersbridge Lucy and Libby were brought back from the hospital. They looked so much better and we were thrilled to be reunited again. They even put us in the same room at first.
That night, Libby called out to me after lights out: ‘Kathleen! Kathleen! Can I come in your bed, please?’
‘No, Libby. They don’t like that. If we get caught we’ll be in trouble.’
‘Please, Kathleen,’ she begged. I could just about make out her silhouette in the darkness, curled up in a ball under the cover, shaking like a leaf. Poor thing! She was only six. Lucy lay on a bed on the other side, sleeping soundly. I reached out to Libby and she jumped into my arms.
‘Come on now,’ I soothed, giving her a big hug. There was nothing of her – she was skinny as anything and still shaking.
‘Stay for now,’ I said. ‘But in the morning you’ll have to go back to your own bed.’
So I wrapped her up like that and she quickly fell asleep. I worried that night I wouldn’t wake up in time to get her out of my bed but luckily I woke with the sun that morning and managed to lead her back to her own bed before Sister Helen came round.
Poor Libby, she was so quiet, so intimidated by everything and everyone. The moment she heard a nun she’d jump and just scurry out of the room, making herself small enough so that nobody would notice her.
Each morning they called us at 7 a.m. for those who wanted to go to mass. For everyone else we could get up just before breakfast at 8 a.m.
‘Why would you want to go to mass anyways?’ I asked Gina one morning.
‘They treat you better if you go to mass,’ she whispered. ‘It makes them think you want to be a good person.’
‘But it’s too much praying!’ I said. ‘I’ve been praying non-stop since I got here anyway.’
Nevertheless, I did try it a few times. Anything for a break from the constant beatings. It seemed that no matter what I did, it was never right. Sister Helen and the staff seemed permanently angry with all of us and it was a sheer miracle if I could get through a day without being walloped. I took myself off to mass in the mornings and nearly fell asleep again during all the Latin prayers. I was bored to holy tears! But it worked for a short while. Sister Helen remarked she was glad to see I was turning to the Lord for guidance, and for a few days I didn’t get a beating. It didn’t last. One morning I was late for mass and nearly fell in the convent door in my haste.
‘Oh feck!’ I exclaimed. Sister Helen was so appalled she picked me up by the scruff of my neck and marched me all the way back down the road to our house, beating me all the way.
It was one thing getting beaten myself. But watching my siblings suffer was something I never got used to. And at first, neither Tara or myself could accept it. Although Lucy and Libby had returned to Watersbridge, they were still being treated for their coughs and had to take a medicine every evening before bed.
The little ones were sent to bed earlier than us but when Tara and I came upstairs one night we saw one of the younger members of staff called Elaine trying to force Libby and Lucy to drink their medicine. She had the spoon jammed down Libby’s throat and was beating her about the head at the same time so that poor Libby was choking and gagging. She’d obviously just done the same to Lucy, who was spluttering, crying and holding her throat.
‘Shut up, you stupid girl!’ Elaine was shouting at Libby as she slapped her about. ‘Shut up and drink it!’
But of course Libby couldn’t swallow it down because she was being pummelled so badly. Without even stopping to think, Tara pounced on Elaine. She grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from Libby, who had now collapsed on the floor.
‘GET OFF MY SISTER!’ Tara screamed, beating Elaine about the head with her hands.
Elaine was temporarily stunned as Tara attacked her, smacking her all over her body. But she soon recovered and was now fighting back, beating Tara’s hands away. The two of them were scuffling around on the floor, hands and legs flying everywhere. I ran to Libby and Lucy to check they were okay, and though some part of me was willing Tara to give the cow a taste of her own medicine, at the same time I was terrified for Tara.
‘Stop it!’ I yelled at her. ‘You’ll make it worse. Come on, Tara!’
Tara dragged herself away from the woman, who was now throwing her arms about blindly to hit back. Elaine then staggered to her feet, breathing hard and staring at Tara, who had now come over to where I was huddled with the two little ones. Tara stood in front of us protectively, defiantly, daring Elaine to come near us.
Elaine looked at us as she adjusted her skirt and jumper.
‘Don’t take it then!’ she spat at Lucy and Libby, now cowering under my arms. ‘Just go on being sick! I don’t care!’
And with that she stormed out of our room and went back downstairs.
We all stood there, watching after her, our hearts in our mouths, fully expecting Sister Helen to come storming up the stairs any moment.
‘You’ll get into trouble!’ a trembling Lucy whispered to Tara.
‘Ah, don’t you worry about me. I can take care of meself,’ Tara reassured her, but her worried eyes told a different story.
Remarkably, Elaine didn’t report Tara to the nuns on that occasion, but it didn’t stop the beatings. For some reason, our youngest sister Lucy was always on the receiving end of the worst of them. I caught Rosie giving out to her so bad one time I grabbed her arm to stop her hitting her but then she swung around and walloped me too. Really hard. Then she went back to beating Lucy.
Around the same time Lucy started suffering from nightmares. But they weren’t like normal nightmares; it was as if she was fully awake. I’d be fast asleep in my bed when suddenly I’d be woken by a terrible screaming coming from Lucy’s room. I’d jump out of bed and run in to see her cowering in the corner, eyes wide open, shaking like a leaf.
‘Mammy’s here!’ she’d tell me earnestly. ‘Mammy’s here!’
‘Ah, Mammy’s not here,’ I’d say, trying to calm her down.
‘No, she is! She is, Kathleen! I seen her. She’s under the bed! Look under the bed!’
She was so convincing she’d have me crawling around on the floor, looking under the bed for our mother, who I knew couldn’t possibly be in her room. This happened a lot. One time Daddy came back, another time Mammy was there and she jumped out the window. Poor Lucy was haunted every night by the loved ones who’d let her down.
As for me, I couldn’t work out what to do. All our lives we’d survived by helping each other, but now, in this new world, we could do nothing to protect one another. In fact, it was the opposite. Our siblings could get into trouble just for being associated with us.
One time I had just come in from playing in the garden when Sister Helen stopped me in the hallway.
‘You’re filthy, you dirty tinker!’ she spat. ‘Just look at your skirt, covered in mud.’
‘Ah, sure, it’s only a bit of dirt, Sister,’ I said. ‘I’m sure God will forgive me a bit of dirt.’
Lucy was just standing innocently a little way off from me but Sister Helen had her in her sights. She grabbed Lucy and smacked her hard across the head. Lucy howled in surprise and pain.
‘What did you do that for?’ I asked, shocked.
‘That’s what happens when you back-chat me!’ Sister Helen replied. ‘Now go and get cleaned up!’
I was so mad right then I just wanted to run up to her and pull her stupid veil off her head. My fists clenched at my side, fingernails digging into my palms.
‘I said go!’ Sister Helen barked. ‘Get out of here, both of you!’
Lucy had already run upstairs and I followed behind, boiling with impotent rage. For the first time in our lives we could no longer protect each other. In Watersbridge we had to find a whole new way to survive.
Chapter 12
Grace (#u04575501-f1aa-5c92-a615-a5ded47aad27)
There was one nice person in our house and that was Grace, our cook.
She joined Watersbridge not long after we arrived, and from the moment she started working there our meals improved no end.
Now the fish that we had on Fridays actually tasted like fish, the sausages weren’t burned, the mash was creamy, not lumpy, and the stew was delicious, not just a watery bowl of tough meat and soggy vegetables. Grace was kind – she was an older woman with lovely curly, white hair, and unlike the other staff or the nuns she actually seemed to like us children. So I spent as much time as I could in the kitchen, helping her out and letting her peaceful, loving presence soothe and calm me.
One day, after I’d helped her wash, dry and put away the dishes, I sat at the kitchen table, staring forlornly out the window.
‘What’s the matter, Kathleen?’ she asked gently. ‘Don’t you want to go out and play with the others?’
I shook my head, scared to say what was on my mind.
‘Come on, petal,’ she urged. ‘Tell Grace. What’s wrong?’
‘Grace, how am I ever going to learn to read?’ I erupted. ‘All them other children can read and write and I don’t know how. I can’t even read the baby books!’
I was desperate to learn how to read and write but nobody at school ever made the effort to help me. The teacher was so fierce and angry the whole time I just tried to keep quiet and stay out of her way. All the while I was falling further and further behind. Now the lessons just drifted by in an incomprehensible blur. If I failed to do my homework I got called a ‘lazy tinker’ and made to stand outside the headmistress’s office. She had beaten me a few times too. Most of the other kids knew I was having problems and sometimes they’d do my work for me or they’d help me out if I was called on in class to give an answer. But it didn’t help me improve. I had been in Our Lady School for three months now and I was no better off than when I’d first arrived.
Grace looked at me with real concern.
‘I’ll teach you to read,’ she offered.
‘Really?’ I couldn’t believe my luck.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not that difficult. We’ll just go step by step. First we have to learn how to spell. Let’s start here in the kitchen.’ She looked around and then went over to the cooker. ‘Right, this is a cooker.’
She sounded the word out: ‘Coo-ker. Get your pencil out. I’m going to write it down for you.’
So I scurried off to get my pencil and rough book. Bringing it back, she spelled out the word on the page then she pointed at every letter individually and read out each one: ‘That’s C-O-O-K-E-R. Right, now you try it.’
So I looked at her work and saw the word and looked at the letters. One by one, I copied them out, saying the sounds in my head as I did so. Then Grace made me do it again and again.
Then she pointed to one of the letters.
‘What’s that one?’ she asked.
‘It’s a K,’ I said.
‘Good!’ she smiled.
Finally, she turned the page over and said: ‘Now try spelling it on your own without looking.’
That was my first lesson. The next day we did table, then chair, fridge, floor, door, ceiling, plate and cup. By the end of the first week we’d exhausted all the words in the kitchen so Grace took me outside to the garden and we went through the whole process out there: sky, grass, house, window, boy, run. For weeks Grace put aside an hour every day to helping me learn to read and by the time I turned 11 I was able to keep up in class.
The only other person I liked was my music teacher in school. At first we just learned the recorder but I found very early on that when it came to music I could hear the tune and just pick out the notes afterwards. I suppose that came from my father. The music teacher was a tall, slim English lady called Deirdre and she was one of the only teachers in the whole school who treated me with kindness and respect. Perhaps because I was good at music, perhaps because she knew I got picked on by the other teachers, or maybe because she was simply a nice person, but for whatever reason she was good to me and I lapped it up. Within a short time she’d moved me on to the piano.
‘Oh, you’ve got a fine ear, Kathleen!’ she praised me whenever I managed to master a new song.
Twice a week for an hour, I shone. Me, Kathleen, the dirty tinker, the girl from the orphanage. I could be somebody. And I could make music with my own hands. I felt uplifted, I felt happy.
And for much of the rest of the time I just muddled along. By now I could keep up in English and History but my Maths was shocking. So bad in fact that our male teacher gave up almost immediately. I was so far behind he simply refused to teach me, and during lessons I’d either sit at the back, working on something else, or I’d go out and walk around the playground until it was time for a new lesson. The nuns at the orphanage didn’t care – there were tests at school and most of the children sat them but they didn’t bother with us orphanage kids. We weren’t important enough, we were never expected to make anything of our lives so we just got left to sink or swim. If it hadn’t been for Grace the cook I would have gone through my whole school life without even being able to read.
Three months into our new life at St Beatrice’s we saw Mammy.
Every Wednesday the nuns herded all of the older children into the local swimming baths for an afternoon of swimming. It was fun – there would be about 60 of us all jumping, splashing, shouting and paddling around. There were no lessons so it took me a little while to learn how to swim. In fact, it was Tara that made me. I’d always be clinging to the edge, terrified of letting go. She’d pull me out to the middle of the pool and then swim away, making me doggy-paddle my way back to the edge. Eventually I stopped screaming in terror every time she did it and realised that I was swimming quite well on my own. From then, we had a grand old time, playing and swimming about.
But afterwards, in the changing rooms, it was always a desperate struggle to get back into our clothes without being seen by the staff.
Most of us now were growing and developing and we were embarrassed about our bodies. But there wasn’t a towel for everyone so we’d have to share and Tara and I would hold it up for each other like a wall while the other one changed behind it, sometimes clambering into our clothes still dripping wet. There was one member of staff who looked after another house called Winifred. Winifred was a harsh lady and we all hated her. She’d line up her girls in the changing room every Wednesday and insist they change in front of her. They’d all stand there, naked, shivering, wishing the ground would swallow them up. We tried not to look, afraid of being shouted at by Winifred or making the girls’ humiliation even worse. One poor girl was more developed than the rest – she had proper breasts and hair down there – and it was always torture for her to stand in front of everyone. This one girl always tried cringing behind a little towel but Winifred would whip it away from her.
‘What are you hiding yourself for?’ she’d demand to know. ‘What have you got that the rest of us don’t? Eh? Nothing special about you!’
We were all thankful that Sister Helen and Rosie never felt the need to come into the changing room.
Once changed, we would all be marched across town, set by set, led by a member of the staff from our house. One Wednesday we were just on our way back and Tara and I had fallen behind the others a little way. We were dawdling and messing about when suddenly Tara stopped dead, her face drained of all colour. I followed the path of her gaze towards a blonde woman across the street. It was Mammy!
‘Mammy!’ I shouted, and we both ran towards her. The woman turned round, alarmed, and in that moment I saw the face I’d been dreaming of for years. The face I’d longed to see so very much. But instead of being full of warmth and love, the face was a mask of fear. And then she ran. She ran as fast as she could and we raced after her, dodging in and out through the crowds of people, still shouting: ‘Mammy! Mammy!’
She was so quick and nimble, we couldn’t keep track of her, and after a little while weaving between people we lost her. Tara and I stopped, looking all around, but we couldn’t see her. Bewildered and hurt, I turned to my sister: ‘She ran! Why did she run?’
Tara now was cursing our mother to hell.
‘Why? Because she’s a stupid bitch! I hate her, Kathleen! I hate the living sight of her. I hate her and I hope that she dies!’
My sister’s words were harsh – I could see she was hurting but I couldn’t feel the same, I couldn’t hate my mother. I was just devastated and baffled. Our mother had come back to Ireland; she’d even managed to find her way to where all her children had been taken. I didn’t expect her to come back and get us all – I knew we weren’t getting out now till we were 16. There was nothing she could do about that. But she could have stopped to say hello.
After all these years dreaming of a reunion, silently praying for my mother to come and rescue me, to take me in her arms and tell me that she loved me, she had run away from me. Why had she run?
That night in bed, Tara and I whispered to each other.
‘That was definitely Mammy,’ I told her, as much to reassure myself as her.
‘That was definitely her,’ she agreed. ‘If it wasn’t her, she wouldn’t have run away. Can you imagine, Kathleen? Running away from your own flesh and blood? Don’t you just hate her for it? I won’t waste another second thinking or talking about that woman. She’s as good as dead to me now. Our daddy was too good for her.’
When it came to our father, we knew one thing for sure: he loved us and he would never have run from us, no matter what. In fact, as soon as he was released from hospital he came to see us in Watersbridge. It was the biggest surprise when he just wandered into the kitchen one day, whistling away and beaming from ear to ear. We jumped up and all raced towards him. He picked us all up one by one, swinging us around.
