Michael Clemenger - Holy Terrors: A Boy, Two Brothers, A Stolen Childhood

I was born on 1 November 1950, All Saints Day. Its generally considered a lucky day to be born, but an exception must have been made in my case. Soon after my birth I was baptised in a nearby parish to avoid embarrassing the neighbours and then quickly passed on to the Sisters of Charity, St Philomenas Home in Stillorgan, Co. Dublin

My earliest memory is of being locked in a big room with pictures of Jesus and his mother Mary hanging on the walls. I was afraid because they kept looking at me. As soon as the door opened I bolted out and ran down a long corridor. From other rooms nuns, in various stages of dress, came running out to try and catch me. Eventually I was caught at the end of the corridor and safely returned to my room where the door was locked once more.

I have vague memories of being toilet trained, sitting on a yellow potty and looking up at a clear blue sky. I played with the occasional passing white cloud, turning them into animals in my minds eye.

Jimmy was my best friend. He was a lovely, fair-haired boy. We did everything together. By day we couldnt be parted in the playground, classroom, refectory or chapel, while at night he slept in the bed next to mine. I remember learning our letters and multiplication tables side by side. One time, when we were about four years old, all the windows were covered with blankets after Jimmy and I, along with some other boys, came down with the mumps.

My surname fascinated the nuns because they had great difficulty pronouncing it in class. To this day I cannot recall the name of a single nun who cared for me in St Philomenas. Collectively they treated me in a very impersonal way with little outward signs of love, tenderness or kindness. I found them to be very strict and distant. They certainly talked a lot about the love of Jesus and His mother Mary, but thats about it. They endeavoured more in spiritual things, particularly in the chapel. I often noticed that their countenances only lit up when they were praying. Only then could you be assured of a half smile if you caught their eye. Prayer for them was the essence of their being, and they saw it as their sacred duty to ensure that I learned my prayers with similar enthusiasm. Accordingly, they pinned pictures of Jesus and Mary at the top of my bed and encouraged me to kiss them before I went to sleep. For me, however, a warm smile from Jimmy would suffice to put me to sleep at night.

I have no memory of the nuns ever reading me a bedtime story, tucking me into bed or giving me a hug. There was no physical contact, save in punishment. To me, they seemed always too busy praying to bother with my emotional development in those early years. Anyway I had Jimmy who I loved more than Jesus and Mary together, whatever that meant.

One evening, as I was leaving the chapel after benediction, I asked the Reverend Mother what a mother was. My question seemed to cause her some anxiety and she quickly brushed me along the corridor to supper. Indignantly I promised myself that I would never ask her another question again. A few days later a priest came into the classroom and we all stood up. He announced to us with great solemnity that we would soon be making our First Holy Communion. It meant nothing to me except that the image of Jesus hanging on the wall would soon be living in my belly.

He, Jesus, would be coming into us, the priest said, because He loved us madly unto death. I wanted to ask him what death was, but the class Sister glared at me so I thought better of it. I always wanted to ask questions even at that age. Furthermore, the priest told us, children yes, even us were very special in the eyes of God and his son, Jesus, pointing to the crucifix hanging on the wall. The interchange between the words Jesus and God confused me and that was before Id heard, or understood, the idea of the Holy Ghost. Surely, I thought, Jesus couldnt love Jimmy more than I did? That love was a very strong and intense one and not even Jesus could get between us. Some times I felt Jimmy staring at me when I was not looking. This made me feel very good.

On Visit Days, when Jimmy had a visitor, I always went along with him. I never had visitors of my own, and Jimmy refused to see his by himself. Despite this he was always upset when his visitors had left. His most frequent one was a beautiful, tall woman with a bun in her hair and white beads hanging from her neck. I never understood her relationship to Jimmy and he was quite hesitant with her. She always brought sweets. I would play with some of them on the floor as Jimmy sat uncomfortably, in a tight embrace, on her lap. He remained calm as long as he could see me.

One evening, in the yard, the Reverend Mother called Jimmy to her. The yard sister gave me some sweets, which had never happened before, and told me to stay beside her. Jimmy was going on a visit, so I put some of the sweets into my pocket to give him later. He smiled and waved to me as he walked off with the head nun. In the meantime I settled down to eat my few sweets. At supper time I waited for Jimmy to give him his small share of the toffees. To my surprise there were three sisters and the Reverend Mother on duty that evening. With no sign of Jimmy I looked at the Reverend Mother for answers. She approached; her cold eyes fixed on me while she told me abruptly that Jimmy was gone away and wouldnt be coming back ever again. The other sisters hovered nearby ready to grab me should I react badly to the news. My initial reaction was shock. For a few minutes I couldnt breathe, nor move. Then I began to cry.

The suddenness of Jimmys loss and the cold, callous indifference adopted by the Reverend Mother engendered in me such a rage that it frightened even me. I lunged at her, throwing Jimmys sweets at her, kicking and scratching at her hands and face. Nuns tried to grab me, but I ran under a table. One of the sisters tried to get me out using a sweeping brush. She landed a blow on the top of my head, which started to bleed slightly. Eventually I was unceremoniously dragged out from under the table and carried to a side room, the door was closed and the key turned in the lock. Even here there were pictures of Jesus and Mary, still looking down on me. I glanced up at them with equal bouts of anger, rage and despair in turn.