The God Squad (13 page)

Spreading the wax was difficult. First I covered the area and, when I had finished, went back to where I had started and began polishing. It was hard, heavy work, demanding a lot of energy. I used a polishing block which was a large piece of wood, with felt tacked to its base. By pushing this back and forth and leaning heavily on it the floor began to shine. It took me many hours to finish the entire dormitory and by the time I had I was exhausted and sweating heavily. I got help to put the beds back, ensuring they were in a straight line, and sat down on the edge of my own, waiting for Mother Paul to inspect my work. I was dozing when I heard her footsteps and immediately got to my feet,
pretending to be fixing the lid firmly on the tin of wax. She walked slowly up and down the dormitory between the rows of beds not lifting her eyes from the floor. I stood and waited for her to complete the inspection, hoping she would find nothing to complain about.

‘What is this?’ she demanded.

She held her fingers so close to my eyes I had to back away to see properly.

‘Dust, Mother,’ I answered.

‘Why is it there?’ she asked sharply.

‘I don’t know, Mother. I didn’t see it, Mother,’ I answered.

‘If you used the eyes God gave you, you would have seen it. Get the dustpan this minute and clean out that corner properly.’

She stood over me checking and double checking until she was satisfied the floor was clean. I told her that I had missed dinner because I was working.

‘It’s a pity about you,’ she said. Then she pointed to the dormitory door saying that I would go without supper too if I didn’t hurry.

It was during the following winter when we were all walking around the schoolyard in the cold under the supervision of Mother Paul and Mother Michael, that they called me over. I listened to them discuss how I was dragging my left foot and heard Mother Paul say I was bright enough to be acting the fool, and her guess was that there was nothing wrong with me at all.

‘Walk over to the other side of the yard,’ she ordered.

I could feel their eyes on me as I looked down at my foot, trying to ensure it was not turned in. Mother Paul spoke.

‘Take him to the bathroom, give him a good washing and see that he has underwear on him. I want to take him to see Doctor Black and God help him if he’s acting the fool, just God help him.’

‘Why have I to go to the doctor?’ I asked nervously.

‘Because you refuse to walk properly.’

‘I can’t help it, Mother, honestly,’ I pleaded.

Mother Michael ran the bath while I undressed slowly.

‘Hurry up,’ she demanded.

There was a lot of steam coming off the water and before getting into it I told her it was too hot.

‘In the name of God, child, how do you know when you haven’t put a finger into it?’

The unfamiliar steam rising from the water scared me. I put one leg over the edge so that just the tips of my toes touched the water, withdrew it quickly and told Mother Michael again that the water was too hot. She took no notice. Using all her strength, she pressed me down until I was up to my armpits in it.

‘It’s burning me,’ I screamed.

She hit me with a wet flannel across the back of the head and told me to be quiet. Only when I persisted crying did she eventually run cold water into the bath, stirring it with circular sweeping movements of her arm. She scrubbed my back with carbolic soap and a rough piece of cloth. I stood up in the bath to allow her to wash my legs. She lost her temper with me when I said that she was hurting me and hit me across the thighs with the cloth. ‘You’re worse than any two-year-old. Now get out,’ she commanded.

She dried me quickly and gave me a white vest and under-pants to wear, all the time urging me to hurry. I was given the suit I wore for my First Communion and a clean pair of socks. She fine-combed my hair with a steel comb which dug into my scalp and when I protested she dug in even harder saying that I probably had a head full of lice.

‘Wait here,’ Mother Paul ordered, putting her head out the front door to see if the convent car had arrived. Mr O’Rourke was driving. He opened the door and pushed the
seat forward to allow me in followed by Mother Paul. The drive was only about two or three minutes and when we got to the house the nun asked the driver to wait. When she wasn’t looking the old man winked at me through the open window of the car.

In the doctor’s waiting room a man was contentedly puffing his pipe, sending great clouds of smoke towards the low ceiling. When he saw the nun he took off his hat and saluted her, suggesting that she should see the doctor before he did. She accepted the offer and thanked him, before sitting upright in her chair and crossing her hands on her lap. The old man took a newspaper from his coat pocket and unfolded it.

‘You don’t mind if I read, Mother?’ he asked.

‘Not at all,’ she said.

‘I see there’s talk of putting dogs into outer space,’ he said, ‘I wonder what they’ll be thinking of next?’

‘God only knows,’ she replied.

‘I just hope they know what they’re at,’ the man said before relighting his pipe.

The surgery door opened and a woman came out bidding the nun good evening as she walked quickly past.

Mother Paul got to her feet and led me in. The doctor was a white-haired woman in her mid fifties who wore glasses which she carried around her neck on a golden chain. She had a friendly face and gentle voice. She greeted Mother Paul and then looked at me closely.

‘I’ve often seen this little man serving Mass,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘He’s one of the finest altar boys I’ve seen in the church and a great credit to you. You must be very proud of him, Mother.’

‘Indeed we are, doctor,’ the nun replied.

The doctor sat down behind her desk and began to write on a sheet of paper, asking the nun my name and age.

‘And what is the problem?’ she asked, removing her glasses and allowing them to hang from her neck.

‘He’s walking with his foot turned in, and he seems to be dragging it along the ground,’ Mother Paul said.

‘When did you first notice this, Mother?’

The nun thought for a minute before replying that she couldn’t say for sure, but it had been going on for a good while.

‘Can I have a look at your foot, Patrick?’ the doctor asked. Her voice was gentle and kind.

It took me some time to undo the laces and I could sense the impatience of the nun as the doctor told me to ‘take it easy’, before she eventually helped me to undo both boots.

‘Which foot is it?’ she asked.

‘This one,’ I said, pointing to the left.

Taking my bare foot in her hand she moved it up and down, then in a circular motion, all the time enquiring whether I was experiencing any pain. She checked the right foot, manipulating it in the same manner, asking if I could feel any soreness or discomfort. During the examination my fear and tension must have been obvious to her because I was being constantly reassured.

‘Will you walk down the room and back towards me please, Patrick?’ she asked, watching closely as I did so, then asked me to sit on the couch and let my legs hang over the edge to check my reflexes. She tapped my knee gently with her black rubber triangular hammer and the lower part of my leg shot outwards involuntarily. It was a funny sensation and I laughed. With the same instrument she checked my ankles before instructing me to put my boots and socks on again. As I did I listened to her question Mother Paul.

‘How is his health generally?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ the nun replied. ‘He eats well and gets plenty of sleep.’

‘Is there any history of disability in his family, anything that you think I should know?’

‘No.’

The doctor put her glasses on again and looked over the notes she had written. Then told Mother Paul that she could find nothing wrong. I trembled when I heard this because I knew that my punishment would be severe.

‘There is the possibility, Mother, that the child is imitating someone with a limp, perhaps his father or mother, and this is his way of bringing attention to himself. I presume his parents are dead if he is in the orphanage?’

‘Yes,’ the nun said attentively.

‘I think the child is suffering some form of trauma and time will put this matter right. It may well be that he needs reassurance and a great deal of kindness. If either of his parents or someone else close to him had a limp it is quite likely he would imitate that, not out of any sense of mockery or anything.’

‘I understand,’ Mother Paul said.

She asked was I a nervous child and the nun mentioned my fear of dogs.

‘Has he had any bad experience with dogs? Has he been bitten or frightened by a dog?’

‘Not that I am aware.’

‘Does he have nightmares? Has he ever mentioned his parents?’

‘No,’ the nun replied, ‘but we do encourage the children to pray for their parents every night.’

‘I see,’ the doctor said. There was a brief silence before she spoke again.

‘Just one final question. What did the child’s parents die from?’

‘An accident,’ the nun answered.

‘A road accident was it?’

‘Yes, doctor.’

This story was different from what I had overheard my aunt saying, but again it made little impact on me at the time.

‘Thank you very much, Mother, I’d like you to keep a close eye on this little man and bring him back to see me in about a fortnight. We can review the position then.’

The doctor handed me a sweet, wrapped in paper, which she took from the pocket of her white coat. I held it in my hand.

‘That’s not the place for it, is it?’ she asked kindly. ‘Are you not going to eat it?’

I undid the wrapper and put the sweet into my mouth, aware that Mother Paul was watching.

‘Do you like school?’ the doctor asked me.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Are you happy there?’

‘Yes.’

She took both my hands in hers and asked me if anyone had ever frightened me, or if I could remember anything terrible ever happening to me. She wondered if anyone had ever beaten or locked me up. I wanted to talk to the doctor, to tell her about the beatings and other punishments given to me by the nuns and about the image of the man hanging that I linked somehow in my mind with my father. I was sure she would believe me but because of the presence of Mother Paul I couldn’t speak. Since my parents’ death I had been surrounded by a conspiracy of silence. That evening in the doctor’s room fear made me an accomplice in it. Looking back I see it as one of the turning points of my life.

Back in St Michael’s I played in the yard while the two
nuns discussed what had happened at the doctor’s. I remember Mother Paul towering over the smaller figure of Mother Michael as they talked. I can only assume that Mother Michael agreed that she was right in lying to the doctor. They must have realized too, that the caretaker, Tom O’Rourke, limped, and that it was probably him I was imitating. I think they resolved that day to make a greater effort to ensure I would eliminate from my mind the image of a hanged man because any time I mentioned him now I was caned severely. My constant talking of him turned to a frightened silence.

For a week neither of the nuns took their eyes off me. I was constantly reminded to walk properly by a shout or the threat of being beaten.

As I became more aware of being watched I became more tense and my manner of walking grew distinctly awkward. I was constantly conscious of my foot and nervous of being beaten. My limp got worse.

The nuns decided to seek a second opinion and brought me to another doctor. As I walked towards his surgery Mother Paul grabbed me by the back of my jumper and, in a sharp-tempered voice, warned me about walking with my head down, adding that I was bad enough as I was.

The doctor was an elderly man with a red face and a completely bald head. His manner was abrupt and he lacked the sensitivity of the female doctor. After he had enquired from the nun what was wrong with me he made me take off my boots and stockings and walk across the floor.

He enquired whether I had any illness recently and Mother Paul mentioned the measles and the earaches. The doctor spoke to her about polio, reminding her that the country was in the middle of an epidemic of the disease. She assured him that the nuns had warned all the children to
keep away from rivers and sewers. The doctor considered for a moment, then told Mother Paul he wanted me admitted to hospital immediately as a precaution. My heart pounded, my breath raced and I could feel tears coming to my eyes. I wanted to plead with him not to send me away, that if he didn’t I would do my best to make sure I walked properly.

He wrote a short note which he handed to Mother Paul, instructing her to take me to Cork that evening. Then he telephoned the hospital.

From the doctor’s house I was driven back to St Michael’s and when we arrived Mother Paul ordered me to stay where I was until she came back. Tom O’Rourke noticed I was crying and he did his best to comfort me by just talking. He took out his pipe and lit it, saying that he didn’t like to smoke when the nuns were in the car. As he drew on the pipe I could hear the moisture make a sizzling sound in its stem. After every few pulls he coughed and waved his arm to disperse the smoke.