The God Squad (26 page)

I wanted to be alone with her, to talk. Why was she leaving? Where was she going? Would I ever see her again or would it be just another person I loved and trusted gone for ever from my life?

‘When are you going?’ I asked eventually.

There was a slight agitation in her voice as she answered.

‘I don’t know.’

‘But Bernard said you were.’

‘Look,’ she said, forcing me to look her straight in the face, ‘it’s not as if we’ll never see each other again.’

The moment she spoke those words I knew that a close friendship was coming to an end. At first I didn’t want to know what she intended doing. I made that obvious by remaining silent on the journey back to her boyfriend’s flat. My sulking obviously annoyed her and when I was sitting on a bed she caught me by the hand and shook me slightly.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m very fond of you, you know that. It’s not going to be easy for me to leave. Not only do I have to leave you. What about my parents and my brothers and sisters as well as other friends? Do you think I won’t miss them?’

I kept silent while we had tea and cakes. While they were washing up I got off the bed and slid across the floor on my backside. Neither of them heard or noticed me. As I touched Margaret’s stockinged leg she screamed, frightened by the sudden and unexpected touch of my hand.

‘Why don’t you tell me where you’re going?’ I asked.

She squatted down to be as close to me as possible, then with her eyes fixed firmly on mine she said, ‘Bernard and I are getting married and are going to live in America.’

I went hysterical and began to scream and throw things around the small bed-sit. I accused her of liking ‘that fella’ better than me.

‘You’re the only friend I have in that smelly, stinking ward full of cross old men. You don’t care what happens to me. Do you. Do you?’ I screamed at her and when she tried to put her arms around me, I pounded my clenched fists into her chest and tried to kick her. As her boyfriend moved to restrain me, she told him she was all right.

‘Sister Catherine is very fond of you, and when I’m gone she will take care of you.’

‘I hate nuns,’ I said.

‘That’s not true, and you know it.’ She was getting angry. ‘Sister Catherine is very good to you. Who gets you all the lovely clothes you wear and who goes to the theatre with you? Isn’t she always there when you wake up? She takes better care of you than I ever could and it is not fair to say that you don’t like her.’

‘I wouldn’t have to go to the theatre if she didn’t shave off my hair,’ I shouted.

‘Now you’re being stupid. You know well she’s just doing what she has to.’

I knew she was right and knew also that whether I liked it or not, I was going to have to let go of her. She had her own life which I could not be a part of.

‘Why do you have to leave?’ I asked.

‘Because I will be finished my training and once I get married I’ll have to leave the hospital anyway.’

‘Will you ever come to see me?’ I asked.

‘I’ll try, but America is a long way away, and it costs a lot to get home. There’s nothing to stop you writing and I will always answer your letters. I’ll by dying to know how you’re getting on.’

I didn’t speak on the journey back to the hospital and as she lifted me from the car, Margaret asked me to say goodbye to Bernard. I grunted something or other and when he
pressed money into my hand, saying it was for ‘that famous money box’ I didn’t even thank him. I blamed him for taking Margaret out of my life.

‘Are you never going to speak to me again?’ she asked as she held my face close to hers, going up the steps of the hospital.

‘No,’ I growled.

‘Not even if I promise to buy you a goldfish and bowl before I leave?’

‘That old bitch of a Matron will just take it like she took the budgie.’

She laughed uncontrollably at my outburst. I laughed too. She whispered into my ear that bitch was not a nice word, but that I was right.

That laughter lifted the terrible hatred I felt for her a few hours earlier. When we reached the ward, Sister Catherine and the ward sister brought a sponge cake with ten lighted candles to my bedside. The three of them sang happy birthday and got me to blow out the candles and make a wish. A piece of cake was offered to all the patients, some of whom took it while others refused. While I was eating I stared into Margaret Duffy’s eyes and noticed tears in them. She left the cake on a piece of cardboard and rushed from the ward, saying that Bernard was waiting in the car. That was the moment I accepted the inevitability of her leaving for good.

In the days before she left, I made a point of ignoring Margaret Duffy as much as I could and turning my attention and affections to Sister Catherine. I looked to her to play games with me and for praise whenever I did anything.

Sister Catherine was different in every way from the nuns I had grown up with – kind, gentle and not afraid to show affection. She was never cruel to me and when I did require
a reprimand, it was usually a playful event, like the day I was being particularly difficult, climbing out of bed and sliding around the ward on my behind. I slid under the patients’ beds much to their irritation. She pursued me from bed to bed and suddenly said, ‘Here’s Drac,’ with an urgency in her voice.

I came out from under a bed and was sliding across the floor to my own when she swept me up into her arms. I was laughing as she brought me to an upstairs bathroom and put me sitting in the empty bath, telling me to stay there until I decided to behave myself. She hadn’t thought I would be able to get out of it, but within minutes I was at the top of the stairs calling her name. From there I could see into the office where she was busy writing the day report into a ledger. She noticed me and rushed up.

‘How did you get out of there?’ she asked, lifting me into the office. She put me sitting in a chair at the desk beside her while she continued writing. I couldn’t resist the temptation to lift the black telephone and hold it to my ear.

‘What number do you want?’ a male voice said.

There was a board hanging in front of me with a list of numbers on it and I gave him one.

‘Are you a patient?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Patients are not supposed to use the phone. Where’s the sister in charge of that ward? I want to speak to her immediately.’

I slammed down the receiver, shaking with fear and told her what had happened.

‘Did anyone see you using the phone?’ she asked.

‘Just you.’

‘Me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

If I felt particularly lonely I asked to be put sitting on Vincent Flynn’s bed, where I would wave my hands frantically
at him in the hope that he would blink. When that did not bring a response I tugged gently at his hair and even twisted his nose in the way the neurosurgeon used to twist mine. I used to read Enid Blyton’s ‘Famous Five’ books for him and tell him silly ‘Paddy the Irishman’ jokes and laugh loudly into his face. Sometimes I’d hold his mirror in front of him.

For months his parents had been calling to see him every evening, but when it became apparent that he was not getting better the visits became shorter and less frequent. Every time I saw them I longed for the love and affection of a mother or father. Indeed many times as I watched them hold their son’s hand I used to turn my back so they wouldn’t see me crying. They always asked to see a doctor about what was being done for their son and sometimes asked about the chances of a particular operation being successful. I had noticed that when Vincent was being taken to the theatre his father was offered a form to sign which I heard a doctor describe as a ‘consent form’. I never saw anyone sign a form for me but often wondered who, if anyone, did. The other thought I had constantly was if I had parents, would they have allowed so much to happen to me?

One afternoon while many of the patients slept, I noticed a change in Vincent Flynn’s breathing and called the nurse. She was quickly followed into the ward by the sister in charge, who asked that screens be brought to the bed and his parents be contacted.

The chaplain was at his bedside by the time his parents and family arrived. They gathered in a cluster in the middle of the ward as he prayed aloud in Latin. I found myself responding to prayers I had not said since leaving the Industrial School. It seemed appropriate that mine should be the voice most prominent as he died.

I was deeply moved as his body was taken from the ward. The procession of grieving relations and friends made its way from the ward to the morgue at the rear of the hospital. His death didn’t frighten me, though it caused me great sadness. Sister Catherine embraced me, saying that he was better off with God. Her words somehow seemed right.

I was starting to lose count of the number of times I had been to the operating theatre. I seem to have the memory of some form of surgery to my head twice in the same week on two occasions. All I can be certain of is that today there are eight scar marks on my skull. Vincent Flynn was dead and Margaret Duffy was gone to live in America. She sent a postcard, saying she had arrived safely, and would write as soon as she settled in. Weeks passed and no letter arrived. Sister Catherine was on duty less and less as she was in ‘block’, attending lectures in preparation for exams. She was also approaching the time when she would take her final vows which could mean her departure from the hospital.

That summer my head was X-rayed from a number of different angles. A few days later, the neurosurgeon studied the lunar landscape appearance of my brain on the X-ray viewing frame in the ward and drew imaginary circles around different parts of it. He discussed with his houseman what he proposed doing. He told the ward sister that the procedure was difficult, but if it was successful there should be a marked improvement in my condition. He hoped for a reduction in the amount of spasm and a lessening of my
dependence on drugs. Intensive care would be essential in the days following the operation, and a close eye would have to be kept for any emotional or physical changes in me. Before leaving the ward, he twisted my nose and asked me to be brave. He ran his hand over my head, feeling the hair which was just beginning to grow. I could sense that whatever he intended doing it was going to be difficult and though I was only ten I didn’t share the apparent optimism of nurses and doctors that the operation would be a success. As I worried about what lay ahead, the ward sister reminded me that even though the operation was going to be longer than the previous one, it would be worth it all. Success would mean that I could walk again and be able to leave the hospital.

‘Will this be the last time that I have to go down?’ I asked nervously.

‘That depends on how successful it is.’

‘I don’t want to go, please,’ I begged.

‘Now, Paddy,’ she said, ‘if this operation is successful you’ll be able to get up and about.’

‘But I don’t want to have another operation.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to be finished with tablets and not to be afraid any more? Wouldn’t you like to stop living in wards with old people?’

‘I don’t mind old people,’ I replied.

‘Yes, but wouldn’t you prefer to be with children of your own age? Your doctor is a good doctor, you have to trust him. All the patients and nurses will be thinking of you and looking forward to seeing you well again.’

I said nothing. I didn’t care any more what they did to me. I hadn’t the slightest interest in being able to walk or mix with other children. I didn’t pray for the success of the operation and only went to confession out of habit. Not even the prospect of death worried me.

In the late afternoon screens were drawn around my bed and a trolley arrived containing the instruments for giving an enema – a white enamel jug containing saline water, wrapped in towels to keep it warm, a basin of water and a bar of soap. On the lower section of the trolley there was a bedpan covered in a blue check cloth, a funnel, a thin length of reddish rubber hose and a jar containing petroleum jelly.

When the bottoms of my pyjamas had been removed, I was told to turn onto my side and bend my knees up towards my chest. My pyjama top was raised along my back and tucked underneath my armpits. I shivered with cold and fear. One nurse held me while a second prepared to administer the enema. I heard the familiar slapping sound of rubber gloves being drawn on and felt a smear of jelly being applied to my anus before my body was penetrated by a rubber tube. As it was being inserted, the nurse told me to shout if it hurt. I managed to look over my shoulder and saw her holding a steel funnel connected to a thin rubber hose, before the first nurse forced my head back towards her. Warm water was poured into the funnel and ran down the tube into me. The feeling was horrible and I wanted to force it back out. I would have only for the constant reminders to ‘hold on to it’ from the nurses. As more water was poured in the urge to discharge it became unbearable.

‘I can’t hold it any longer,’ I cried.

‘Just another minute or two,’ they both urged.

I gripped the rubber sheet I was lying on, and clenched my teeth.

‘I can’t, I can’t,’ I pleaded.

The tube was withdrawn and before they could get me onto the bedpan, my bowels had emptied onto the rubber sheet. A nurse quickly lifted me off the bed while the other slipped the bedpan beneath me. I was desperately weak and
certain I was going to faint. I lay there embarrassed and terrified.