Книга - Little Drifters: Part 3 of 4

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.

‘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.

‘What are you doing here?’ Rosie said when she came in to investigate the hullabaloo.

Daddy smiled at her pleasantly: ‘I’ve come to see my little girls, haven’t I?’

‘No, you’re not supposed to be here,’ she replied primly, pulling her black woollen cardigan over her gigantic breasts.

Daddy towered over her.

‘And who says I’m not? No reason I can’t see my kids – and take them out to get sweets!’

And with that me, Tara, Lucy and Libby started cheering enthusiastically.

‘Won’t be long!’ he called back to Rosie, now utterly stunned and stammering with unconcealed fury.

‘But, but …’

Daddy plonked Lucy on his shoulders, took Libby by the hand and Tara and I skipped gaily out the front door by his side.

It was so wonderful to see our father – he looked well again, and all the way to the sweet shop he asked us about our new life.

‘Yes, they treat us good, Daddy,’ Tara told him happily.

‘We like it here!’ I agreed. ‘There’s nice children and I’m going to school now.’

None of us told him the truth – what was the point? He couldn’t do anything about it now. We were all wards of the state until we turned 16. It would only have brought him anguish and more guilt.

‘We thought we saw our mammy in town,’ Tara confided later as we sat sharing a bag of toffees on the park bench.

‘Yes, I heard she was in town too but I ain’t seen her,’ he nodded sadly.

When he dropped us back at Watersbridge an hour later the police were there, and Rosie was standing next to them, shrieking and pointing at my father: ‘There he is, officer! That’s the man who abducted the children.’

‘What seems to be the problem, Officer?’ My Daddy turned on his famous charm. ‘These are my children and surely you won’t begrudge a man coming to visit his kids or taking them out for a toffee once in a while?’

‘Mr O’Shea,’ the officer said, nodding respectfully at my father. ‘According to our records you only have a twice-yearly visiting permit for these children. And that’s got to be at appointed visiting times.’

Rosie’s little head was bobbing along as he spoke.

‘That’s right!’ she announced triumphantly, jabbing her fat little finger at my daddy’s chest. ‘Twice yearly. And appointed times. You can’t just swan in here without asking and take the children away.’

Sister Helen was standing on the other side of Rosie, smiling coldly at us all. I could see she was acting a part to the police officers. The caring, saintly nun. You’d never believe for a moment that this kindly-looking woman, who’d dedicated her life to the Lord, spent most of her day walloping the heads of little children.

‘Come along now.’ She put on her posh voice as she bundled us inside. ‘Let the officers sort this out with your father. It’s tea-time.’

Daddy winked at us all as we looked back at him longingly.

‘See you next week!’ he called out after us, and we laughed as Rosie exploded at him again.

Nothing on this earth would have kept my father from us. It’s true he only had visitation rights twice a year but he ignored that as much as he ignored Rosie and the nuns. Every two or three weeks he’d come wandering into the house, wherever we’d happen to be, and he’d take us out for toffees. The nuns called the police on him again and again, but only succeeded in annoying the police.





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