Behind closed doors...
Physical abuse and relentless emotional torment was my world. Fear, guilt, punishment the daily routine of my existence. Life was about surviving the endless years of gratuitous cruelty at the hands of certain heinous 'good people of the church' who, in all impunity, day-in, day-out, were shamefully able to wantonly inflict unspeakable suffering on helpless children. They had the protection of the facade of the respectability of their religion - as a home boys I had none. Brian Roy - April 2015. |
Episodes...
Having spent all of my adult life trying to block out the first sixteen years of my existence - that is to say the trauma of life at St. Mary's Home - this page is about stating facts that I know to be true, since they are my own, personal experiences.
What was done, can not be undone - that evil people exist is a sad fact of life - that defenseless children were put in their hands without ever a question asked - sadder still. The many, cruel individuals into whose 'care' I was abandoned, if they developed a conscience - for at the time they certainly had none - , will have had to live with the shame of what they did.
Here I have set down certain 'episodes' which are either representative of the countless, disturbing experiences which left the deepest scars, or which are one of the few 'positive' experiences occasioned by the kindness of "outsiders", sadly so rare and yet so enormous in their impact given the general grimness of my life in the home.
FOR ALL THE "HOME BOYS"
Having spent all of my adult life trying to block out the first sixteen years of my existence - that is to say the trauma of life at St. Mary's Home - this page is about stating facts that I know to be true, since they are my own, personal experiences.
What was done, can not be undone - that evil people exist is a sad fact of life - that defenseless children were put in their hands without ever a question asked - sadder still. The many, cruel individuals into whose 'care' I was abandoned, if they developed a conscience - for at the time they certainly had none - , will have had to live with the shame of what they did.
Here I have set down certain 'episodes' which are either representative of the countless, disturbing experiences which left the deepest scars, or which are one of the few 'positive' experiences occasioned by the kindness of "outsiders", sadly so rare and yet so enormous in their impact given the general grimness of my life in the home.
FOR ALL THE "HOME BOYS"
EPISODE 1: From the Rocking Horse into the Fires of Hell
One day, my pal Terry Killeen and I decided we would jump onto the rocking horse in the babies play room and catch some ‘baddies’. Off we galloped into the unknown…in the quest for innocent, childish adventure and fun!
Suddenly, from the corner of my eye I spotted this giant of a man striding towards us in huge, hob-nailed boots. Before we knew it, Terry and I were grabbed by the scruff of our necks - hauled off the horse - across the play room - out through the door into the outside play yard - direction the boiler house. The door was opened - down the concrete steps we were dragged, deep into a dark, fume-filled abyss. Releasing us from his grip, this man then opened one of the boiler doors. The innards of this boiler were a mass of lashing tongues of fiery red, blue and orange flames which blasted us with a roaring, ferocious heat. This same man, repossessing us by the scruff of the neck and the back of our trousers, then proceeded to go through the motions of throwing us into the furnace - releasing his grip just in time to let us hang in front of the fires of hell. The type of misdemeanor, or 'grave sin' which could possibly warrant such punishment of seven-year-old children remains unknown to both Terry and myself to this day - the emotional trauma of the experience, it, however, remains ever vivid in our minds. Neither Terry nor I ever jumped onto that rocking horse again. The 'baddies' remained free to commit whatever, sick, brutal monstrous acts they felt like - when and wherever they chose - unfortunately for us there were no 'goodies' to stop them. EPISODE 2 : COMPANY SERGEANT MAJOR FRED DRAKE.
6th Battalion Durham Light Infantry Cadets – St Charles School, Durham Road, Spennymoor. As
senior boys in St Mary's home many of us aspired to be an army cadet in our
local school. When that day of enlistment came we were all very excited and
keen to be awarded our uniform after a short probationary period. We
all loved the drill, being on parade, carrying a rifle, field-craft, map
reading, and numerous other related military subjects.
In this most exciting part of our life we came under the guidance of a former World War II Durham Light Infantry veteran. His name was CSM Fred Drake from Spennymoor – a man who was to have an ever-lasting impression upon our conduct and how we took great pride in our unit. He was our leader and we had the greatest respect and fondness for him. Fred Drake did not suffer fools, idleness, nor any disrespect whilst in or out of uniform. He had a stern yet approachable manner. Direct in his words and at all times very clear as to what he expected from us as his cadets. He kept an extra keen eye on us home boys. He was, I suppose, our ‘army dad’. Annual camps were the high points of our army cadet life, taking us away from school and the confines of our daily survival in the slavery of the orphanage. My first annual camp was in Nottinghamshire. At this point in my cadet life I had been promoted to lance corporal, one of my responsibilities as such being to take care of the pocket money we had been allocated for the duration of the camp. This money I would then hand over to CSM Fred Drake for safe keeping and our daily allowance which the CSM controlled. This was done by we home boy cadets reporting to his office after our evening meal - always in uniform; ‘pay parade’ I suppose. As our camp entered its second week we all realised that our money had run out, so we did not report for pay parade and just moped about in our billet block. Shortly after the missed parade the billet door was abruptly opened and in marched CSM Fred Drake. Addressing me, he demanded to know why we had not attended pay parade. Standing to attention I promptly replied “Because there's no money left Sir”, to which he replied “No money left? No money left? I'll tell you when there's no money left! Get your men on parade now and report to my office, move!” We never missed another pay parade; clearly CSM Drake had, from his own pocket, funded money for his cadets from St. Mary's home. He truly was, still is and will always be our hero. I recall this memory with heart-felt gratitude and affection towards a genuinely good man who, through his altruism and kindness, made us 'home boys' feel worthy; made us feel ‘we counted’ for something to somebody. EPISODE 3 : SHINING THE GREEN (TOP JUNIORS)
Each and every morning after ablutions and wet bed inspections, we had the cleaning of the dormitory chores to do before breakfast.
The one that caused us the most stress and fear was the aptly named ‘shining the green’; the green’ being a strip of green lino with wooden beading either side which ran from one dormitory, through the wash-room area, into the second. Each morning, on hands and knees, we would layer the full length of ‘the green’ with wax in preparation for ‘the shining’. Then, from a very large cardboard box, all of us boys would take rags. These assorted rags we would then wrap around and under our feet and tie. Then, having formed lines across the green, holding hands, when ordered and with the demanded effort, we would do a sort of army mark time. The idea was, of course, to remove the wax and leave a ‘shiny green’. Miss MM would proceed our formation to remove the heaviest of the wax with a bumper. This item was a large, heavy, wooden block, underneath it a cloth pad, and attached to the block a long wooden handle. This useful aid was, however, also employed as a weapon; a floor-slung missile. Any slacking of the frantic pace of our feet would incur immediate punishment. Miss MM would hurl this low-level missile across the floor and, with accurate effect, fell the culprit or ‘her victim’. Once downed on the green, the dreaded order by Miss MM was bellowed out: ‘give him a good hiding! Such was our fear of this monstrous woman that over time we would automatically beat each other up once dropped and ordered to do so... Nothing personal, just part of our morning routine. EPISODE
4 : 'VERY NICE PEOPLE'
Wrath for our life-long hurt To
those who committed acts of depravity, brutality, and cruelty, physical or emotional, against ‘the home boys’ of St Mary’s, and to those who choose to
disbelieve our individual and collective, veracious and graphic, horror stories,
shame on you all! - In refusing to admit the truth and recognise the horrendous
wrongs committed against us, you add to our long and silent sufferings!
From past experience I know there are some people who will choose to go into denial over the linear history of the abuse and stifled suffering of us home boys at the hands of perpetrators only too well-known to us all. Broadly speaking, the 'deniers' fall into two categories, those who did actually commit child abuse and those who were in friendship with them over a long period of time and who would be inclined to retort something along the lines of "well I/we knew them for so long as carers of the home boys - and they were such very nice people, good people - such accusations could not possibly be true". Inference: good people don't abuse children, therefore we home boys must be lying about our past recollections of the misery and cruelty we endured in St Mary's Home. Fact: they most certainly do and did. Some five years ago, with my then girlfriend, I made a stop-over at Tudhoe village whilst in the area. Part of our walk included a visit to the church we attended as home boys – St. Charles Church. Entering that place which held so many dreadful memories was upsetting to say the least, but strangely I felt compelled to do so. The door was unlocked and so we timidly advanced into part of my sacred past. I could immediately smell that distinctive, ‘old churchy’ feel. My girlfriend took me by the hand and I led us toward the front of the church and towards the sacristy, a place infamous to my past. As we approached, the door opened and out stepped an elderly, smiling, friendly-looking priest. We greeted each other with handshakes and the introduction of names. I then boldly and proudly informed him of my past connection with this sanctified place. The Father appeared surprised and, whilst remaining unperturbed, immediately became defensive of accusations of a former home boy who had recently gone public, via the media, in expressing his recollections of the abuse he suffered at the hands of certain 'carers'. The priest emphasised his objection and rejection of these 'malicious' accusations outright. I'm afraid the ‘good lord’ did not prepare him for, nor spare him my retort. I agreed with the priest that the accusations by the former home boy were indeed most dreadful and very damming to the perceived benign and holy order of the local Catholic past establishment - I understood how they might put a huge question mark on the current followers of their faith. And now I drop the bombshell. I tell the priest that the accusations which had been made were all the more dreadful, because they were all true! His demeanour instantly changed, my girlfriend tried to contain my directness, I refused to comply. I now explained that both myself and the home boy in question survived as babies right through until our teenage years when we were finally freed of a life-time of dire misery. I then walked over to the other side of the church, sat down on a bench that we, as boys, used to occupy in this then devout posturing of the enforced religion, and I wept; I wept with so much sadness in my heart - my tears were for all us home boys. As I stood up I realised I was within touching distance of the 13th Station of the Cross depicting Christ being taken down from the “infamous gibbet”. How ironic for me as a former altar boy (compulsory) who had, on countless occasions, stood at this very station with a long, heavy wooden staff, at the top of which was a large, highly polished brass cross. I felt that I was still on the cross of my tormented past, in this place of supposed love, repentance, forgiveness and peace. Question: why did this priest automatically, as with other deniers, reject outright the truth spoken by the home boy via the media as "too dreadful to be true", directed at those well-known to us, whom we accused of serious wrongs against us as children? Why do they continue to deny, to refute, without the slightest attempt to verify our claims? Why? I do not know. I imagine they do not want to be exposed, perhaps because they may well be remembered and still known as very nice people; good people. EPISODE 5 : THE MONSTER COUGH
Coughing in bed: be silent or be beaten. (Top Juniors – typically 13 years old.)
The monster Miss MM, had a cubicle at one end of our dormitory. Her private lair. When we were finally ordered into bed, silence of the night was to be strictly adhered to, regardless.
This was not always possible. Now and then we broke the silence of her night, as I once did. More fear; the night for some of us was no safer than the day. I'd coughed under my blankets, as others did, to muffle the sound. No good, the unlocking of Miss MM's lair also broke the night silence and the unmistakable sound of her raging footsteps came nearer and nearer, towards my bed. The fear was always the same: intense and paralysing. The assault began. She punched and punched - the layers of blankets offered no protection. Cries and tears were lost on my assailant. Her frenzied attack over, Miss MM returned to her lair. The night fell silent again except for one distinctive noise, a cough; a very loud, repetitive cough. We all knew who the culprit was, only in this instance there would be no punishment: in fact, the guilty one was given special, very special, treatment; sent to a very ‘holy’ place in France, namely Lourdes. This sacred place allegedly had very special healing powers for all sorts of ailments. So the believers and the hopeful ones prayed and were blessed with the powers of special holy water. This water was an object of hope, thought to cure - it could be bought in bottles and brought home. We were never offered any. The person who was given this very special treatment returned to St. Mary's and carried on coughing during the otherwise silence of the night – sometimes punctuated by our always involuntary - never unpunished - interruptions. That special person receiving that special treatment was of course Miss MM; a monster that could not be cured by holy water nor by any other means. In her presence we were never safe nor happy nor treated as children. She terrorised us relentlessly and yet, she was given special dispensation to help her overcome her sickness. Our treatment was severe abuse. “Dear Father, why did you allow this monster to all but destroy us? I pray she has repented. We, your home boys, do not wish that she should burn in Hell. Maybe, just maybe, your Miss MM has found a good life and her cough is cured.” Amen. EPISODE 6 : THE GENUINE NICE PEOPLE
Sister Frances (babies)
Lucy (bottom juniors) Katherine (kitchen) Miss Pat and Miss Josephine (babies and bottom juniors) The above are special individuals that many of us remember with great fondness. These affectionate, kind, ‘human’ and gentle carers are amongst the very few under whose charge some of us home boys were lucky enough to have been. The caring of children who, through no fault of their own, are unwanted, vulnerable, defenceless and homeless should, however, never have been nor ever be a lottery of luck. All children, whatever their background and circumstances should, surely, receive affection and protection, should, surely, be offered a safe environment; the most basic needs of a child should be met. After all, we are not all meant to become monsters, a double take of our abusers. If I have omitted any name in the short list of those who we remember with affection, I apologise. Those included here are simply people who were ‘different’, people who I and others remember because of this and to whom we are forever grateful. MISS PAT AND MISS JOSEPHINE. These two members of staff who worked as carers in St Mary's, are two ladies that we home boys can never forget. I cannot recall, nor my pals anything but kindness from this duo who gave us the much needed human touch. The touch that became infectious. I recall my first encounter with these two very young and incredibly pretty new members of the regime. Myself and some other lads sat with our backs to the outside urinal block (the very place we planned our benediction bunk). We were facing the babies' play room outside entrance. These two lasses were sat on the steps directly opposite and my word, what a sensation that produced for us boys. Over time we began to feel comfortable, then safe, and even in need of their presence. They both had a calming effect between each storm of our ill treatment by the many other staff of “mercy”. Their natural and genuine way with us, would have caused resentment by those entrenched in their more self established and dire methods of controlling us child demons. I along with many others came to idolise these ladies. Miss Pat and Miss Josephine, you both remained in our hearts and time has not lessened our abiding memories of your care and freely given affection to us home boys that were fortunate enough to know the magic of your motherly spell. From all of us, our free hearts thank you so very much. EPISODE 7 : THE SCREAMING CORIDOOR The bottom junior playroom was accessed by and nearest the part of the corridor which lead to the parlour. The parlour also gave access to the main visitors' door. This door we inmates rarely were allowed to use. A reception room was provided for visitors within the parlour area. This room, on the very few occasions that I went into it, always made me feel anxious.
The arrival of new intakes of home boys to be was an event that still haunts me. As parents and guardians of these new boys handed over their charges, the cries and screams began. The parlour and corridor reverberated with the loud and desperate calling of “mummy, daddy, mummy, daddy”. Mummy and daddy had gone. These children were no longer theirs. These children were to be consumed into a way of life in which their ‘guardians’ and 'carers' would have complete control. In my mind, I stand guilty in my part of “the screaming” for whenever this event happened, I and other young veterans, would simply “tut tut” – wondering why on earth these new boys were making such a racket. Why did they need a mum and a dad? Their desperate screams seemed so stupid to us. In truth and unbeknown to us, this was simply because we were unmoved by such emotions and the type of distress new boys endured – we did not understand it – the notion of a mum or dad was one we did not comprehend – we had never known a mum or dad. Sometimes beyond the screaming, an approaching rumble could be heard. The corridor would begin to shake. Windows would rattle and at times tiles would even fall off the side walls crashing down onto the highly-polished floor before shattering. As this ominous rumble came nearer and grew louder, the screaming in the corridor was stifled by this external disruption. The lumbering and heavily laden coal wagons from the village pits, ascending the gradient on the access road right outside the corridor, were the source of the welcome respite. As I recall these distressing events, I feel a sense of guilt. We home boys did not reach out to comfort the screaming intake of terrified new boys, but then how could we - the notion of a mum and dad and the associated sense of security these figures normally procure was sadly foreign to us? Despite the decades that have passed since such traumatic events, I still hear these terrified boys screaming in the corridor of my mind. EPISODE 8 : COBBLERS AND TWO SHILLINGS
Every now and then a respite came our way from chores and punishments. I was now in the seniors and as such was entrusted with a particular errand with reward.
Sister T, known to us as' the poison dwarf', summoned me to the work room, which usually meant trouble as the work room doubled up as a place for punishment. With some apprehension I entered this place of bad memories and awaited for Sister T to arise from her throne. She explained why I'd been sent there. She pointed at a very large hessian sack that was very clearly stuffed full of whatever. Sister T then explained the sack contained footwear which was to be taken to the cobblers for repairs. Well, I was up for that and couldn't wait to be off. So on with my boots and coat and the sack slung over my shoulder I was away: freedom. A very happy boy indeed. Bent double with my load, back aching under the strain, items poking me through the hessian sack did not bother me. Reaching the cobblers shop, an old wooden shack, I knocked on the door. A very jovial bespectacled elderly man greeted me with a kindly “Hallo, what's your name?I've not seen you before.” “Roy, sir” I replied. “And is that your first name?” he asked. “No sir, it's Brian.” So, I was invited into this marvellous and congested shed with all those wonderful leather and many other smells that filled the shop. After a rest and a chat it was time to leave with a return load of footwear and something else. The cobbler took my hand and placed two shillings into it, and I sort of froze. Patting me on the head and wishing me good bye he also added some advice. “You don't need to tell the nuns about your two shillings”. We both smiled and off I went. On the way back to the home I can't remember any poking, nor weight nor worries - except how to hide my very large two shillings. Thank you, Sir, for your kindness to a home boy, if the value of the coin in itself was enormous, your gesture was priceless. EPISODE 9 : TO 'OUR LORD'
“The Lord knows and sees all things even our
most secret thoughts.”
We St Mary's home boys, according to Catholic religion, were also the children of god, protected by Jesus Christ, the son of god. Well, at least Jesus had a dad and they knew each other. Now this very well known, iconic and much revered biblical character was an every day part of our life. He was featured on many pictures on many walls in many places in all sorts of biblical scenes with all sorts of other well known historical people. One of the scenes that intrigued me the most was the last supper. The table had all sorts of characters around it, but more interestingly, the table had loads of food on it. If only. Every day without fail we prayed to the lord for all sorts of reasons and occasions of celebration too numerous to count. Despite our prayers, many of which were complete mumbo jumbo to us, we were, however, still subjected to abuse and on a daily basis. The lord, when he was on earth, was also abused; 'put through the mill' to use a modern expression. He was spreading the word of his father, wandering into the wilderness, preaching to the poor and helping sick people and in many cases, curing them of their illnesses. He was also a fervent pacifist; a real nice man. He developed a big following. With this increased popularity, he continued to spread the word far and wide. Then came his down fall. The big wigs in Rome took exception to his teachings which were undermining, in their view, the traditional and established way of life and a possible threat to the enthroned dynasty. This Jesus man had to be sorted. He was summoned to Rome and ordered to explain his behaviour to the head sheds and the big man himself the emperor. After much ado and with some reluctance the emperor let the people decide what should be done with this man who was claiming to be the son of god. Jesus was found guilty of all sorts of crimes against the establishment of Rome. He was also perceived as a threat with his magical powers of healing and converting non believers into Christianity. Jesus was was found guilty, mainly on the charge of blasphemy, and sentenced to death by way of crucifixion, as he was now a criminal of the state. With a roaring yes and a thumbs down from the people of Rome, his fate was sealed. As I stood at the foot of the 12th station of the cross in my local church as an altar boy, I could not help at times feeling sorry for this victim of such violent abuse which is so graphically portrayed. Jesus and this chapter of his life became world news. This very pivotal event is remembered and celebrated throughout the world during a period in the Catholic calender referred to as Lent. Many of us home boys took part (compulsory) in this event, either as alter boys or staged followers. Our plight of daily torment from routine abuse did not get a mention, yet we were the children of god. No justice for the wicked. We must then, after all, be the devil's children. In house, strong arming was used to convert us little devils of our wicked ways; Christians in the making. Fortunately for Jesus he had help from family, friends and followers who took him down from this bloody cross of infamy. Jesus was entombed and then after a while ascended to heaven to sit at the right hand side of his father. We home boys were still on earth in our hell and still without succour. Why did he, the one from above, who knows all things and had also suffered when he was on our earth, not respond to the desperate and urgent plight of his children, the St. Mary's home boys? 'Lord' - are you for real? Please show us your hand. Amen. EPISODE 10 : BED WETTING
Very late into the night, the entire dormitory of sleeping boys was awakened to perform the ritual of forming a very long queue, awaiting our turn to perform a forced pee. We were, of course, always groggy and just about able to perform under the evil watch of Miss MM. This cruel, nightly intrusion never did cure those of us who wet the bed. It certainly never cured me.
So the early morning awakening started, as usual, stomach churning and knotted with the fear of the wet bed inspection. Once identified as guilty, punishment of this crime automatically followed. Off to the open bathrooms we shuffled and awaited the order to plunge into a bath of freezing cold water, usually three of us at a time; one sitting, two standing. Our heads, in turn, were then forced under the icy water and held down for an eternity, even when we thrashed around trying to surface, gasping for air. Our backs ached with the continual pressure of the repeated duckings. When we were finally allowed to remain on the surface, a flannel thickly layered with red carbolic soap was applied with considerable pressure - not to the area of our body which might logically require cleansing - but to our face - all over our face - and in particular rammed up our noses. The effect of this was very painful and caused bloodshot eyes. Rinsed off, dried off, dressed, then onto the next event: shining the green. During the winter period the wet bed duckings were more painful still. Breakfast, more chores, the forced run to school, then run back for lunch. Run back to school again, and the final run back at the end of the day. This was all part of a home boy's daily, severe and abusive treatment. Treatment that terrorised us children as part of a routine that we were forced to accept - we had no one to turn to; the adults who cared for us had so much to account for and yet they were not accountable to anyone. The good lord provided us no succour and most of his shepherds continued to abuse their flock. And so it went - many of us had been upon a cross for longer than the period of the 12 stations. The aftermath of these traumatic and deprived years of lost childhood and innocence meant that still in adult life, many of us remain upon our “infamous gibbet”, the St. Mary's home boys cross. “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.” “Father forgive those who abused us, even though they knew what they were doing and did so for so long, so gratuitously, and under your watch.” Amen. EPISODE 11 : A WOOLIE BIG EGG
Easter for most children nationwide is generally, first and foremost, about bunny rabbits and a large assortment of chocolate, decorated eggs. These much welcome delights are often embellished with very attractive extras that add to the overall effect of excitement and anticipation of this annual event.
Of course, for home boys, it was also a significant religious event and much time and effort was spent with our nuns, priests and other followers of the faith preparing and participating in our local church special services to honour the resurrection of Jesus after his death by crucifixion. Palm Sunday, Easter Sunday, these very holy and revered dates were of very significant meaning to us all. Equally, however, or perhaps even more importantly for us home boys, was another related event which occurred on Easter Sunday. My word, and did the good lord do us all very proud on this occasion! He had nominated our very own Spennymoor town branch of Woolworth's to donate a very special, very oversized, chocolate Easter egg. This gigantic egg was created especially for the home boys. Woolies, you did us all very proud, thank you Sirs. So the moment arrived for us to break the egg. This was done with much excitement, a sizeable gathering of chocolate Hungry Horaces and a hefty claw hammer to shatter this awaiting feast. As the egg was fragmented, so was our gathering, as up until then we had waited in an orderly group which now descended into a free for all. On this occasion there would, however, be no punishment for this breach of discipline as our guardian, protector and participating leader was Miss Pat. Thank you Miss Pat, on that rare, joyous occasion for allowing our young souls the pleasure of having fun; the pleasure of excitement and enjoyment, the pleasure of being children. You and Miss Josephine showed us what kindness you could and you did so because you had a heart for us all. You are both still very much in our hearts, but not just for the memories of “A Woolie Big Egg.” EPISODE 12 : BENEDICTION BUNK
After yet another boring Sunday evening service, a major after-church event was planned by a desperate small group, myself and five other boys; escapees to be.
A group of persistent bed wetters, we, had previously tried an ingenious self-cure remedy which, unfortunately, had not worked. We had held a meeting in the outside toilet the previous Sunday after Benediction and agreed upon a plan whereby after the routine pee which preceded our night internment, we would help each other tie a length of string around the end of our ‘pee pipes’. Needless to say this initial plan devised out of desperation had not produced the required results. This time we’d hatched a more realistic plan to avoid any more wet bed punishment: the boys' escape. Yes, we were actually to abscond; go AWOL, “doing a bunk” the term we used for our epic idea. A somewhat light-hearted title considering what were to be the reprisals of our subsequent, inevitable recapture. And so the moment had arrived to put our simple, now committed plan to do a bunk into action. Pre-checks: map, food, torch and spare clothing, the route out to our destination and action on being split up or captured. Results: none. Good to go, then! Our backs to the home, off we sped in the general direction of freedom, soon to find ourselves in Tudhoe Colliery – a whole mile from the home! Here, however, we attracted the unwanted attention of some locals. More speed, more distance; that was our response. Out of this well-known and much loved village we just kept on running, holding onto each other, even having a brief giggle between our gasps. Next point of reference, “The Nicky Nack”, a pub in nearby Croxdale village. Little did we know the significance of this place, for decades later, in June 2015, it would be in this very pub, renamed “The Daleside Inn”, that we home boys would indeed be offered our ultimate freedom through the telling of our lives and experiences to people who cared; people who wanted to know the truth about what had gone on in St. Mary’s home. “STOP!” a voice called out from in front of the “Nicky Nack.” All we could make out in the darkness were two silhouettes. These obscure forms walking towards us then turned into real, official bodies: policemen. Bunk over; our short-lived attempt to break free was at an end. Fear, guilt, punishment once again immediately shot into our young minds with their paralysing grip! “Where are you off to?” asked the policemen. “Nowhere, sir.” we all replied. “Right, let's have you in the car then. The nuns are all praying for your safe return.” The black police car was parked nearby. Into the back seat of the car we were bundled and within minutes we were out of the car and back into captivity. Those who had so caringly prayed for our safe return along with other home staff attending our reception were, of course, most cordial and motherly in the presence of the officers. The police were thanked; job done - with a policeman's salute to our ‘maternal’ nuns and ‘dedicated’ staff, off they went. These officers had been gentlemen throughout our recapture. Now we found ourselves in the parlour area, in the back drop of this dreaded place a very large statue of the blessed Mary, at her feet ubiquitous candles flickering away in their blood-red glass holders. A peaceful image soon to be demonised by ‘the holy ones’, these attendant Sisters of Charity and their cohorts. Now the moment they had prayed for was theirs; now they started; revenge, violence, shouts of verbal abuse akin to a baying mob. Their unreserved aggression was vehemently unleased upon us without any reservation nor hesitation in the presence of their, our, holy lady. Nothing new there then. They punched, slapped and slashed at us with the keys they kept tethered to long leather straps around their waists and with the venom and pain of their wrath biting savagely into our children’s’ bodies we were herded up into the dormitory. This, however, had been but a mere ‘fore taste’ of what was to come and appropriate punishment for our sins would be awarded the following evening after school, tea and our mandatory chores. “The benders” as we called them would be metered out by holy hands, in revenge for our sin, the attempted escape, our Benediction bunk, for we had brought the otherwise perceived, goodly, godly, oh so holy, name of St Mary's home into disgrace. To anyone wondering what “the benders” were – allow me to explain. The benders were so called as receiving them involved bending over a bench or table, to be beaten; thrashed, with a thick cane. The blows were usually dealt from a significant height to inflict maximum pain – and we received six or eight of ‘the best’. This important task was entrusted to a male member of staff as a male thought to be stronger than a female, the harder the blows could be. Needless to say that floggings were always public with the other home boys made to watch – the purpose being double-fold: to cause us acute humiliation and to send a terrorising message to others. Thank the lord we had been safely returned - now our sufferings could recommence in our home of “holy hell”. The pernicious evils of our ‘carers’ knew no constraints. AMEN. EPISODE 13 : TELLING THE TIME
ANOTHER TIME OF ABUSE
The story of this daily ordeal is an event that many boys endured, I speak, for those fellow brother home boys,of yet another episode of abuse on us children of god. We were in the play room, under the hawk eyes of Miss MM, her voice easily over powered the noise we children were making. “Roy”, yelled Miss MM. “Yes Miss” was the immediate reply, “Go and tell me the time!" - "Yes Miss”. I made my way out of the play room and into the corridor towards the dinning room end. There, above a door frame, hung a large clock, the dials and hands were easily read - well to some that is. Now all I had to do was to remember where the big hand was pointing, and the little one too, then return back to the playroom and loudly announce this information to the assembly but speaking directly to Miss MM, who then checked her wrist watch. When I did this, she erupted; I had awoken the monster. “Go back and tell me the right time!” she scowled . “Yes Miss”. Back to the big clock with the big hands and now with bigger fear and bigger consequences if I got telling the time wrong again. “The little hand is on...?, and the big hand is on...?” I couldn't concentrate because I was in fear of the automatic ridicule and punishment for my error. I kept repeating the settings of the hands and then realised I'd walked past the playroom door in my futile effort to remember the time. Retracing my steps and re-entering the play room, I was already doomed, time up, time for the monster to strike, time for her wrath. Lashing out with venomous tongue and flailing arms and fists like metal, the assault began. This brief but ineffective punishment served only as as a warning to the next victim in the wrong 'telling of the time'. It was only a matter of time before her hands would strike again. The hands of time kept marching on and we home boys could never envisage an end to hostilities against us, at any time. Getting by on a daily basis was as much as we could cope with. Here we are children of god, children who were in need of saving, children who had no way of escape from daily, gratuitous and mindless abuse. Those that committed such depraved acts of violence against us, were some that wore the clothing of their religion, accompanied with others in their every day attire, normal people, with an abnormal and insatiable desire to inflict their demonic hatred of us, their unrestrained nemeses. We must be Satan's little demons, not the Children of the Lord. Lord why do you forsake us in our hour of great peril and need. Amen. EPISODE 14 : THE RUN TO SCHOOL
THE ORIGINAL SCHOOL RUN
We home boys got to school and back by means of a certain power and speed that the human rights and the health and safety acts of today would have to put an immediate stop to: the St Mary's Home school run. From bottom juniors upwards, we boys assembled into teams on every school day to prepare for the school run. A team leader was appointed - I was one - to check over the team: tidy hair, clean footwear, correct numbers, holding hands, and waiting for the command to go. Powered by our tiny but stout legs and the urge to be away, off we went. We had speed and power from lungs and legs and held hands the whole way. Staying together meant we had a chance of being the first team to arrive at school. Chariots of home boys motoring to school would turn far more heads than any Chelsea tractor. Today's children have the right to be taken in the comfort and safety of motor transport on school runs. We would run back to the home from school for lunch, then return to school after lunch, and finally the last run back to the orphanage at the end of the school day. There were never any awards for winners. But the last team home meant being guilty of something; therefore punishable. The team leader would take his losing team to the boot, shoe and welly room and, depending on what footwear had been worn that day, organised his team into sections. One to wipe over all footwear with a damp cloth, another to dry off, another to apply polish and finally a section to buff the shoes to a very shiny finish. Followed, as always, by a full and anxious inspection. A whack around the head was the normal added punishment for any infractions and, of course, no reward for a job well done. Again, nothing personal, just another day, another event, and many more to follow... |