No One Wants You Read online

  The cruelty officer pointed to a vacant chair behind the man at the desk. He said, ‘Sit on that chair and do not move one inch and do not let me hear one sound from you. If you as much as move a muscle or squeak, the four policemen will arrest you, and put you in jail and throw away the key. Isn’t that right guard?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said one of the policemen, supporting the cruelty officer.

  I was left sitting in that chair for about four hours. I never moved a muscle or uttered a sound. I wanted to go to the toilet but dared not ask. Eventually I could not hold out any longer. I allowed the contents of my bladder to trickle silently down my leg, over the edge of the chair and away from me. I was terrified that somebody would notice.

  My cruelty officer had disappeared and the policemen were busily immersed in intense discussions with the man with the large book. As they talked about grievous bodily harm, public house licences, bicycles without lights, lorries without road tax, tractors without white lights, as well as drunk and disorderly conduct, none of them noticed a long thin stream of urine appear from under the desk and gently meander its way across the floor, out the office door. It escaped undetected and away to freedom.

  It must have been sometime in the afternoon when my cruelty officer reappeared back in the office. He came over to me and said, ‘Come on you, hurry up, you’re on shortly.’

  To be addressed in such a manner was a normal everyday occurrence for me, so I tried to hop down off the chair. As I had not moved a muscle for so long, the back of my bare legs felt as though they had been glued to the chair. When I stood up, the chair came with me. It was attached by dried sweat to the back of my legs. The back of the chair hit me between the shoulders and both the chair and I fell forward on to the ground. As I fell forward, I dislodged a pen and inkstand at the edge of the man’s desk. A large and heavy cut-glass inkwell, full of blue ink, fell on the cruelty officer’s nicely shined brown shoes and the bottom of his beige coloured trousers.

  He jumped two feet in the air with shock. It was as if somebody had poured sulphuric acid over his feet. ‘Me shoes are ruined and look at me trousers,’ he shouted.

  Two policemen and the man with the big book laughed heartily at the fate of the cruelty officer. ‘Awww, Aww come on lads,’ he moaned with outstretched arms, as if appealing to the policemen.

  This comic interlude had lightened their day considerably. For me, I thought this would surely see me consigned to jail for ever.

  When the commotion had died down, the ink-stained and embarrassed cruelty officer dragged me roughly out of the office and pinned me against the courthouse wall.

  I began to cry again.

  ‘Shut up, and listen.’

  I sobbed harder.

  ‘If the judge asks you a question,’ he emphasised, ‘you reply, “Yes, your Honour”. Do you understand?’ he queried.

  I tried to say yes, but I could not utter any sound, due to my distressed sobs.

  ‘Do you understand?’ he yelled.

  ‘Yes, your Honour,’ I replied, in innocence.

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, young one,’ he snapped.

  I nodded, as I still could not raise any sound.

  ‘Now stop crying because we are going in for your case.’

  I gulped back my sobs, and climbed the stairs to the courtroom. The size of the room amazed me. There were men everywhere; men in suits, men behind desks and a great many policemen. There was a man dressed in a black robe sitting on a raised platform. He seemed to be wearing a small curly wig on his head.

  I sat beside the cruelty officer, behind a desk, facing this man. As I sat down, the cruelty officer said to me, ‘That’s the judge.’

  I sat mesmerised by my surroundings.

  A man stood up and in a raised voice announced, ‘State versus Clifford.’

  At the time it meant nothing to me. It was only the second time in my life I had heard the name Celine Clifford. I was Celine O’Brien.

  The cruelty officer took me by the hand and brought me to the judge. I had to stand in the dock at the judge’s right-hand side, facing the crowd in the main body of the court. I could barely see over the edge of the dock. I was facing everybody in the room. They were all looking at me. I was mortified. I tried to stay down under the ledge so that nobody could see me.

  Years later I got a copy of the Substance of Complaint which was under the Children Acts 1908–1941. It read: ‘Application to commit to a certified industrial school Celine Clifford who appears to the court to be a child under the age of fifteen years, having been born so far as has been ascertained on the November 14, 1948 and who resides at Ballyculhane, Kilmallock, having been found having a parent or guardian who does not exercise proper guardianship.’

  As I was still gingerly peeping around the courtroom, I realised the judge, the cruelty officer and many other men were discussing me, my foster-parents, my school and many other aspects of my life. I did not really understand what they were talking about. I really wished I didn’t have to be there.

  In those days there was no such thing as previously taped interviews or videos, so children do not have to go through the trauma of giving evidence in court.

  When I heard, ‘And now young lady, what is your name?’ I looked at my cruelty officer, praying for some guidance.

  He nodded back at me, as if telling me to answer the question.

  ‘Yes, Honour,’ I gulped.

  The cruelty officer threw his eyes up to heaven.

  ‘What is your name, young lady?’ the judge bellowed. The sound of the judge’s voice echoed around the courthouse. He sounded so stern. I was petrified.

  ‘Celine O’Brien,’ I ventured in a tiny, barely audible voice.

  ‘Speak up, I cannot hear you,’ the judge said, sounding angry. I was so frightened, my throat felt tight. I couldn’t get any words out.

  I looked again to the cruelty officer, hoping he might help me. He had his mouth covered with his hand and was looking at some distant point on the ceiling. I realised that he would be no help to me.

  ‘Celine O’Brien, sir,’ I yelled back at the judge, in the loudest voice that I could raise.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ the judge demanded, looking around the courthouse.

  The cruelty officer jumped up from the desk saying, ‘No, no, your Honour, her name is Clifford, Celine Clifford. Her foster-parents’ name was O’Brien.’

  Again commotion erupted. I thought it was all my fault for shouting at the judge and I was sure I was in for some terrible punishment.

  During all the arguing, I noticed a tall, thin woman in a beige coat, standing at the back of the courtroom. She was the only woman in a room full of men. She seemed to be following everything with great interest. I tried to catch her eye but she stared fixedly ahead of her, avoiding my occasional gaze. Only once, when we made eye contact, did she allow herself to smile briefly at me.

  Did I know her? Did she know me? Who was she? Why was she there?

  My attention was brought back to the proceedings in hand before I could even think about answers to these questions. It was established that my name was indeed Celine Clifford. As far as I was concerned, they were changing my name in case anyone would know about me being in jail. I thought it was the right thing to do as I had brought enough scandal on my original family, simply by being alive. I did not want to shame my foster-parents’ good name, so that all their friends would know that I had to be put in jail, for being bad. I felt as if I was to blame for everything that had happened in my life.

  I had to answer many questions about intimate parts of my body. Sometimes the same person, sometimes others, repeated these questions until I gave them an answer that satisfied them. I had to describe some of the awful things that men had done to my body, over the last six years. To have to tell people, in public, especially a roomful of men, was horrible.

  There was quite a lot more talking around the court and then everything went quiet. I looked up to see what was ha
ppening.

  The judge addressed me directly. ‘Stand up, Miss Clifford.’

  I rose from my seat and the lower half of my body began to tremble.

  ‘I want you to say after me,’ the judge instructed.

  I began to cry once again.

  ‘I swear to remain at Mount St Vincent’s Industrial School for as long as is deemed to be necessary, or as long as directed.’

  I burst out in loud, anguished sobs. I couldn’t remember all the words that the judge had said. So he said the sentence again, in groups of two words at a time and I repeated them. As I finished repeating the words, I felt very alone in the world. There was nobody there for me.

  The cruelty officer gripped me tightly by my upper arm and I was led reluctantly from the court. Once again, I was crying, deep racking sobs.

  So that was it.

  I got a chance to see the Justice’s Memorandum many years later as the Justice’s Minute Book was in the National Archives. It read: ‘Ordered that Celine Clifford be committed to the certified industrial cchool at Mount St Vincent’s, Limerick, to be there detained as and from this date up to but not including the November 14, 1964. County Council notified. No order as to contribution.’

  In those days, the Substance of Complaint, under the Children Acts 1908–1941 was a common method of dealing with children with behavioural problems. It was used to commit children to industrial schools for all sorts of petty crimes, from theft of a loaf of bread, to stealing a bicycle. Some of these children had very abusive upbringings and were full of anger. Some of them were out of control. Perhaps this might explain the rough treatment I got from my cruelty officer.

  On March 2, 1962, at 13 years of age, as I was led from Kilmallock Courthouse, now called Celine Clifford, I thought I was beginning a life sentence in jail. The well-dressed lady had disappeared. She had not made any contact with me. I was taken back to the same office where I had earlier spent most of the day.

  I entered the office with my head held low. I was looking at the ground, with my hair falling all around my face. It was wet with my tears as they fell, uncontrollably.

  I would have been grateful for any human comfort at that time, but none was forthcoming. I would have loved a drink of water even but I was too afraid to ask. In the court world of men I felt I was even the wrong sex and even that was my fault!

  I felt that I could not trust anybody. I still believed I was going to jail.

  ‘You’re coming with me to the orphanage. You’ll be well looked after there,’ the cruelty officer said to me.

  I stopped sobbing almost at once. I had distinctly heard the word orphanage. If it had been said before, throughout that long day, I had not heard it.

  ‘Does that mean that I am not going to jail for ever?’ I asked in a low voice.

  ‘Of course you are not going to jail. Whatever gave you that idea? You’ll be better looked after there, than before now. You were very lucky that woman made a complaint to the ISPCC.’

  ‘What complaint? What woman? What is the ISPCC?’

  ‘What went on in that house was disgusting. The whole world knows about that house. I just have to sign some papers here in the office and then we’re off,’ he said.

  I had a million questions to ask. But I was afraid to open my mouth, in case I got into more trouble.

  ‘Of course, my shoes and trousers are ruined because of you,’ was the last statement I heard from the cruelty officer.

  Before I left, while nobody was looking, I checked for any evidence of where I had wet the office floor earlier that day. Horror of horrors, it was still visible. I silently prayed to God that nobody would notice the stain. I felt so guilty about it.

  FOUR

  Safe in Prison

  THE CRUELTY OFFICER wasn’t as rough after the hearing. He came back to the office and took me gently by the hand this time and led me away. We were going to the orphanage so I had stopped crying. The journey took about half an hour by car. The time passed quickly.

  We got out of the car and walked to a heavy wooden door. The officer rang a bell and a nun opened the door and she invited us in. She took us into what seemed to be a large waiting room. It was warm and comfortable and smelled of lavender floor polish.

  It was lovely.

  ‘This is Celine Clifford. She is coming to stay with you, Sister,’ said the cruelty officer.

  ‘We are expecting you, Celine. You are most welcome to the Mount Orphanage. This will be your home. I hope you will be happy here,’ said the nun.

  I was still clutching tightly to the cruelty officer, as I looked cautiously around the room.

  The nun said that the other children were saying the rosary and that I might like to join in. As I knew how to say the rosary, I said, ‘Yes, please.’

  She led the way down some long corridors. A faint murmur of sound became a choir of children’s voices chanting the responses to the familiar leads of the rosary. The nun said that she would come and get me as soon as the rosary was over. I was then silently introduced to another nun who was leading the prayers, by a system of nods between the two nuns.

  I was put kneeling down, between two other girls at a long bench seat. As I looked at the girl on either side of me, each in turn smiled a greeting. As the rosary drew to a close, a large number of the children surrounded me. There were so many of them asking me questions, I could barely raise a voice in reply. Some of them wanted to touch me. I recoiled slightly. But they were all good touches.

  A surge of emotion overwhelmed me. I could feel the blood rise to my cheeks. I realised for the first time in my entire life that I felt safe.

  I thought to myself, ‘I am going to love this place.’

  The nun came back to collect me as promised. She asked me if I had been fed. As I had not been given any food during the day, I suddenly felt hungry. In truth, I was always starving but in the past months I’d gotten used to being fed so I was now hungrier than ever. The nun said that I should join the other children for supper, and afterwards they would bath me and show me where I would be sleeping.

  She took me down to the refectory, where all the other children were already noisily ensconced at the various long tables. It smelled of sour milk. I never heard such bedlam. Everyone seemed to be shouting or talking at the same time. Each one wanted me to sit at her table. It was so exciting.

  Supper consisted of bread and jam, washed down with cold milk. There was a plate piled high with bread and jam. I wolfed down as many slices as I could. The menu for supper was always to consist of bread, margarine, jam and cold milk. But there were rules about the bread, margarine and jam.

  You could have bread and margarine for supper. You could have bread and jam for supper. But you could NOT have bread AND margarine AND jam together for supper. This little rule did not bother me.

  After supper, two different nuns took me to the washing area. They told me to fill a bath and I did not know what they meant. They showed me how to turn on a tap. With two inches of water in the bath, I turned off the tap. The nuns laughed at me. Some of the orphan girls heard the laughter and came to see the fun. They began to tease me. It did not feel nice to be teased about being dirty and not knowing how to fill a bath for myself.

  One nun took charge. ‘Get out of here the rest of you, and Sister and I will show Celine what we mean by clean,’ she said. Then they filled the bath full of clean warm water. They asked me to take off all my clothes and get in and sit down in the bath.

  As I undressed, I laid my pretty suit on a nearby chair, together with my cream shoes and blue socks. On top of these, I laid my precious brown leather handbag, with my name Celine embossed in gold for everyone to see.

  When I was in the bath, the two nuns rolled up the sleeves of their habits. They gave me a cleaning all over that I will never forget to this day. Every piece of flesh that was reachable was scrubbed clean. They used some vile foul-smelling potions on my hair and the rest of my body. When the bath was finished, the nuns wrapped me in a
huge towel, and partially dried me off.

  As I was rushed out the door of the washing area, between the two nuns, I glanced over my shoulder at the chair that held my jealously guarded special possessions: my pink cardigan, my blue skirt, my cream shoes, my blue socks and my beloved leather handbag. These few items represented all that I owned in the entire world.

  I was never to see any of them again.

  I asked the nuns where they were many times, but my questions were always dismissed lightly. They disappeared into thin air. I had just learned that if you get an unexpected present and you become attached to it, be careful because it may not be yours to keep for ever. It was a lesson that I was to learn many times in life.

  When I was dry, I was given a nightdress to put on. I was then shown to what was to be my bed for the months to come. It was in a dormitory where there were about sixteen beds, lined up in two rows. The nuns smiled at me, as they reassured me about staying at the Mount Orphanage and put me to bed. The bedclothes smelled so clean. As I drew up the covers around my neck, I felt comfortable and warm.

  I felt safe.

  After such a long, stressful, exhausting day, I quickly fell asleep.

  Sometime, in the middle of the night, I was woken up with a jolt. I screamed loudly as something hard hit my entire body. I had no idea where I was. I had felt so safe before I went to sleep, so I could not understand what had happened. I had fallen out of the bed. I had never slept in a single bed before!

  I was gradually introduced to the other children in the orphanage and I made some friends for the first time, which helped me. I also met the nuns who were responsible for its efficient, disciplined daily routine. I only met the nuns on a need-to-know basis. On the day of my arrival at the orphanage I had almost felt special but on the days following my introduction, I was let know, in no uncertain terms, that I was not in any way special. I was, in fact, only a small cog in what the nuns perceived to be a large and very important wheel. The nuns actually believed that they were providing an essential and valuable service to the Irish public at large. The public face of the nuns showed that they were providing a caring service, for poor unfortunate children, mainly the product of unscrupulous, unmarried mothers.