Sins of the Mother (12 page)

We had to make at least twelve a week and I made sure I just kept my head down and got on with my work. I shut myself away in my own little world and tried to concentrate on staying out of
trouble. At least with the rosary beads I wasn’t tortured by seeing all the little babies and what the nuns and Bernie did to them. Still, at night, in the silence, I could hear the sound of
the babies crying. They sounded so real but we were too far away from the nursery ward to hear them so they must have been in my head.

I got used to the random beatings – no matter how much I tried to be good, it was impossible to avoid getting a daily wallop across the head. I could be hit if I was talking in line, if my
hemline was down, my hair was too messy, my shoes were dirty, I didn’t clear up my bed properly, I gave the nuns cheek, I didn’t move quickly enough, I moved too quickly, I prayed too
loudly I didn’t pray enough, if I was late or early . . . on and on it went. The list was endless and made no sense. I could never get it all right so I just got used to getting hit. The
beatings only served to fill a deep well of injustice inside me. Apart from that, life was more or less a daily struggle to get enough food in my stomach so that I didn’t keel over.

As for my brother and sisters, it was hard to think about them. I didn’t talk to anyone; I was just trying to get through it without anyone really noticing me. Agatha would take herself
off to the nursery in the evenings to see Cecily and Martin because she was like a mammy to them, but I didn’t go. Not after what happened to me while I was there. Something inside me had
gone away and I didn’t know if it was ever coming back.

At Christmas we put on a Nativity show. We did our little show in the church on Christmas Eve and the place was packed with ordinary people from the town. For the first time I realized that the
nuns acted differently when there were outsiders around. They put on their best voices and they didn’t shout at us or beat us in front of the visitors. I was given the role of King Herod. We
had had rehearsals but they were a chore and I didn’t enjoy them at all. Now in the church I nearly forgot my lines because I was too busy scanning the faces of the women in the audience,
looking for my mother, but she hadn’t come.

Afterwards the Mother Superior gave a speech about how they were grateful to all the outsiders and their donations to the orphanage. Then, incredibly, one of the visitors was invited onto the
stage and he handed out a box of chocolates to every child in the Nativity play. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I was given a gorgeous box with a big gold bow – Butlers Chocolates!
Oh my God, I’d never had one Butlers chocolate before, let alone a whole boxful!

One by one we filed out of the church and back towards our dorms. I held my box of chocolates in front of me like one of the Kings holding his precious offering to the Baby Jesus. But this was
better than gold, frankincense or myrrh – this was chocolate! Each child who carried a box of chocolates was excited.
I’ll share them with Agatha, Martin and Cecily
, I decided
as I walked back.
Then we’ll all get something special this Christmas
.

But the moment I stepped back inside the orphanage, Sister Beatrice, who was standing in the doorway, ripped my box out of my hands. I opened my mouth to object but Sister Beatrice barked at me,
‘Keep walking, Irene. Come on – don’t dawdle.’

More children were coming in behind me and all the ones with boxes of chocolates had them whipped off them. Some seemed resigned, like this was what they had expected, others were as shocked and
outraged as I was. They had given the chocolates to us but then, when the outsiders weren’t looking, the nuns had taken them away! Nobody knew the truth about these cruel nuns because they
never let the outsiders see what was really going on. I didn’t get anything for Christmas that year and I wondered for a long time who ate my chocolates.

By January, we had been in St Grace’s for three months and I was used to the daily rituals. At the end of each week we were made to stand in a line to hold out our
knickers for the Mother Superior to inspect, just to make sure we hadn’t soiled ourselves. I dreaded these inspections – they were humiliating and horrible for everyone. I was always
terrified they would pick me and put my knickers on the pole like in the first week, so sometimes I tried to clean my knickers during the week under the tap in the sink. It wasn’t easy and
since we only had one pair at a time I had to put them back on wet, but it was the only way. My heart skipped a beat every time the Mother Superior walked past. But then, when someone else was
picked, that was awful too. Often the girl was beaten for being ‘dirty’ and then she had to stand at the window with the offending knickers on the pole. Of course, I was grateful it
wasn’t me but I always felt terrible for the girl who had to stand there at the window. It was painful for all of us to watch.

That month the nuns cut my hair. I had long brown hair which was nearly halfway down my back when I was ordered to have a haircut.

‘Please don’t make it short,’ I begged the older nun who wielded the scissors. But she didn’t take any notice. She cut it all off so that I was left with a very severe
bob that just reached the bottom of my ears. I left the nun’s room that day, my face burning with anger and outrage. My hair was my crowning glory! That was what my mother always said, that
was what she told us. Our hair was our crowning glory and that’s why we had to look after it and keep it long. That’s what girls do! I’d been shorn like a sheep. I felt like I had
nothing left that was mine any more. They just did what they liked with us and they never cared how we felt.

A few days later I was called up to the front of the class. I hated Mrs Lawley now – I hated her more than I hated anybody in my life before. She was a mean, wicked old witch. I
didn’t even learn anything in her classes – it was all just copying her writing and keeping my head down so I didn’t get the ruler. Recently she had also started to use the cane
on us.

Since St Grace’s orphanage school was the only one in the area, it took a lot of children from the tenement blocks too. But one thing I had noticed was that Mrs Lawley never did that dirty
thing with the children who had mammies and daddies to go home to each night. These girls didn’t get beaten like the rest of us, or made to do horrible things, it was only us orphanage
children. Today she wanted me to do
that thing
to her but I shouted ‘No!’ and struggled so much that this time she brought out the cane and she beat me really hard on my hands.
Then she beat me on the back of the legs as well. I hobbled back to my desk and eased myself down gingerly on my seat. The bloody cow! I hated her so much I wished she would die.

It took me longer than normal to get to church for prayers that lunchtime and so I got another beating in the dining hall for being late. After lunch I didn’t even bother to go into the
yard to get some bread – I was in too much pain and I knew I wouldn’t be quick enough today. Instead I turned up towards the school and limped into the classroom early just to give
myself enough time to sit down. Ouch! My legs and hands throbbed continuously. I felt sick from the pain.

I clutched the edge of Mrs Lawley’s desk as I waddled up towards the end of the classroom where I usually sat, and just as I was moving off my eye landed on the cane. Without even thinking
about what I was doing, I picked it up and held it by each end. Then I pushed it hard across my knee until it snapped in two. As I held each splintered end a tiny smile of triumph broke out on my
face.
Ha! Now you won’t be able to beat any more children today at least.

Well, I was wrong about that. When she got back in the class Mrs Lawley went mad and demanded to know who had broken her cane.

‘I done it!’ I shouted defiantly from the back of the classroom. I felt brave as I shouted at her, ‘I done it because you hurt me!’

She beat me then with half a cane. It’s funny though – it didn’t hurt half as much as I expected it would. Though my behind was sore and numb, some part of me was still happy
that I broke the cane.

9

IRENE

Dad

My heart pounded as I ran towards the small visitors’ building. I was excited and nervous all at the same time.
My father is here!
The words chased
themselves around my head over and over again but still I couldn’t quite catch a hold of their meaning. My father? I didn’t know my father!

It was a breezy Saturday afternoon in March and the nun who had come to fetch me from my work had announced it so casually that it didn’t seem real.

‘Irene Coogan to the visitors’ room, please,’ she called out across the rows of children threading rosary beads. ‘Your father and your grandmother have come to see
you.’

For a moment I had stayed completely still in my seat, afraid to move in case she had got it wrong.
Did she really mean my father?
I’d never even met my father before; at least, I
couldn’t remember meeting him. He’d always been away in England working.
Is he really here? Now?

I walked into the small building and saw immediately to my right there was a spacious sitting room with green sofas arranged around small wooden tables. This was where the
other children had their family visits but I’d never been here before now. Sitting in one corner was my grandmother – my father’s mother, who had brought up Aidan and who I
recognized and had seen a few times before – next to a man with jet-black hair in a snow-white shirt. As I crept in nervously, the man rose to his feet. Goodness me! He was such a tall,
handsome man – a firm, square jaw, pale blue eyes and a long straight nose. He was just like how I imagined my fantasy father looked. Was this really my father? Shyly, I went towards the two
of them and my grandmother exclaimed, ‘Irene! Come here, child – don’t lurk in the doorway like that. Come on!’

I sidled up to them and mumbled ‘hello.’ My father smiled back.

‘Look at you, Irene!’ he said. ‘You’re a proper little girl now, aren’t you?’

I didn’t know how to reply so I just sat down next to them. I played with the hem of my corduroy skirt as I snatched sidelong glances at my father, still in awe at his movie-star good
looks. He was like no man I’d seen before.

‘Don’t slouch, child,’ my grandmother chided, before handing me an apple. I took it gratefully. It was rare to get fruit in St Grace’s.

Before long Agatha ran in, shouting, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’

Our father jumped to his feet then and held out his arms. Agatha dived straight into them and he swung her round in an affectionate hug. Agatha was four years older than me so she had seen our
father lots of times before. Martin and Cecily came in next and Daddy’s eyes lit up when he saw Cecily. He barely even noticed Martin, he was so smitten with my baby sister.

Each of us got an apple and Agatha asked Daddy lots of questions about England, Mammy, Peter and Frances.

‘Are you going to take us out of here?’ she asked hopefully.

‘No, I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘Your mother is still in the convalescent home. She’s not very well. But I’m coming in two weeks for your communion,
Irene.’

I should have been pleased but I was struck by sadness and, a second later, began to cry. My father exchanged a worried look with my grandmother, who prodded me and asked: ‘What are you
crying for?’

‘They’re hurting us here,’ I told her. ‘They beat us all the time and they hurt the little ones. I don’t want to stay here any more.’

Thwack!
The slap came so suddenly and out of the blue, I was temporarily shocked out of crying. My grandmother had hit me across the face. Instinctively my hand went to my stinging
cheek.

‘You’re a liar!’ she hissed at me. ‘The nuns don’t do them things and you know it. How dare you say things like that about these nuns that are taking care of you
and feeding you!’

‘It’s true,’ I whimpered.

‘No, it’s NOT true, you evil child, and this is the place to sort you out!’

I felt humiliated in front of my father but also defeated by the force of my grandmother’s response. None of my siblings said anything – even though they all knew what I said was the
truth. So I didn’t say another word and half an hour later it was time for them to go. It had been a strange and difficult encounter. In the six months I’d been at St Grace’s
I’d not had one visitor and seeing my grandmother, and my father for the first time, had been so thrilling. But the reality of seeing them sitting there, knowing they were going to walk out
of the orphanage without us, had made me angry. Why couldn’t they take us away? Why did we all have to stay here? I didn’t understand it at all.

Just two weeks later and I was about to see my father again. It was the day of my communion, a very important day for any seven-year-old girl. To mark the occasion, all us
girls who were taking communion were allowed to stay overnight with our families. Since Mammy was in the convalescent home, that meant my grandmother’s home. For the children who had no
mammies or daddies, strangers offered to take them out. That morning, instead of putting on my usual dark green skirt, I eased my arms into the pure white communion dress I’d been given for
the day.