Scars that Run Deep Read Free

well along the hillside.
    Even though I was not related to the Doyles, I was treated just like a member of their family. In fact, after I left Artane, I was never once interested to find out who my father was, or even if he was still alive. As far as I was concerned, even back then in 1958, any man worth his salt would never desert his own flesh and blood, so I couldn’t care less about him. All I knew of my mother, Helen, was that she died when I was very young. When she became too ill to take care of me she left me with the nuns in St Brigid’s Convent, Eccles Street, Dublin, opposite the Mater Hospital. I was just twelve months old.
    In my later years I would be plagued by nightmares, but as a child I can’t recall ever experiencing bad dreams. My dreams were pleasant, happy ones, just like my days living up on the hillside of Barnacullia.
    Memories of Barnacullia
    From the clear mountain streams
    In the hearts of my dreams
    To the beauty that surrounds Barnacullia.
    Of my fond childhood days
    Through the sun’s twilight rays
    In my thoughts, you should know I am with ya!
    My childhood dreams like visions to me
    Of sunlit waters and children carefree
    From the Doyle’s cottage door
    My vision so clear
    Barnacullia to Sandyford and the road to Glencullen
    I walked without fear.
    The cottage of my dreams, I see visions
    Of Bridget, Roseanna and John
    As I gaze through the window with sadness
    No light in the heart – ’tis gone
    Fond memories of Barnacullia, inscribed so tenderly
    As I remember young Margaret.
    As a wee orphan, she cared for me.
    I was in foster care from November 1942, when I was one, until just before my eighth birthday in March 1950. No one that I know of ever came to me and explained much about why I was an orphan living in such a picturesque home. Itwas never explained to me who I
really
was, I was not even sure of my actual birthday or my real name. To this day no one ever bothered to explain to me the reasons for my arrest from the cottage, and driven away by the police in a big black Ford estate car to a courthouse, and stood before a judge at 10am on a cold, bright, spring morning. In fact the judge didn’t even tell me I was to serve the remainder of my childhood in the incredibly brutal notorious Artane Industrial School, run by the Christian Brothers. However, I learned in due course that I was not alone in my grim mysterious world. At least five of my best school pals from Barnacullia were to join me within a year of my arrival. Although they had real parents, they had been in foster care as I had.
    I will always remember my arrival in Artane. I was in the main office. Outside the sky was an unbroken shade of blue. The boys were at work on the flowerbeds as I stood at the long pull-up window staring out at them.
    I didn’t worry about how awful the boy gardeners looked in their awful drab serge tufted clothes. I believed the judge in the Court House in Kilmainham when he said I’d be only away for a few weeks.
    As I enjoyed the plateful of fruit cake one Brother gave to me, I had no reason to be afraid, or to fear these nice Brothers dressed in long black cassocks. To me at that time I thoughtthey were all saints, just like the one who gave me the cake – the very old Brother who, I was soon to learn, was nicknamed the Saint.
    I waited, as I had been told to by the Saint, for the clerk of the office to come out to see me. When the brown-panelled office door opened, I looked towards the tall young office clerk. ‘Here, take this and remember it. It’s your serial number, boy. It will stay with you until you are released,’ he said. ‘It’s stamped on your boots and shoes, suits and day clothes.’ He smiled at me as he handed me the dog tag with my serial number. I glanced down at it in amazement. It read No. 12928. ‘You won’t forget it will you.’ His smile was warm and sincere.
    â€˜No sir.’ But I’m only