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Authors: Michael J. Malone
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breakfast and were on their way to school. This had the added dimension of making us late for school.
Our shame didn’t end there. Public humiliation was a strong weapon in Sister Mary’s arsenal. At her earliest convenience the subject of bed-wetting would come up.
‘What else can we expect from a boy who wets the bed?’ She would address everyone in the vicinity. Then she would laugh, throwing her head back like a pantomime villain.
All those present would be expected to join in. Ears burning, staring at the floor, you could do nothing but wait until something or someone else attracted her attention.
Children are wonderful mimics. And in Sister Mary they had a wonderfully persistent teacher. As a result, taunting the bed-wetter became a ritual, like going to Mass or saying the Rosary. At least when other children began to taunt you out of earshot and sight of the nuns, a well-placed knee or elbow would quickly persuade your tormentor to choose someone else.
Fortunately for me, I outgrew my sinful bladder before John did his. His shame continued for some time. Until the morning he didn’t turn up at school.
I passed his bed that last morning, just as Sister Mary left the room. On hearing a cough that made me think someone had sneaked a dog into the room I had one last chant at him before I went off to Mass.
‘Hey, wet-the-bed,’ I hoped that it was loud enough for the nun to hear, ‘you’re going to Hell.’
John was propped up on a pillow, wrapped in his foul-smelling sheets. His small frame shook with the force of his coughing as he tried to answer me back, his expression hot with anger. My face burned with shame when I gauged his reaction. I didn’t like it when people did it to me. Why was it right to do it someone else?
‘Shut… it.’ he managed a syllable before another cough wracked his body, almost lifting him off the bed with its force. ‘Tell Jim… I’ll be… down… later.’ Leaning forward I looked at his face. Coughs and colds were a normal occurrence in the Home, but I’d never seen such a white face before.
When I turned to leave Jim was right behind me. So close behind me that I walked into him as I turned. His expression was one of naked hate. At the time I remembered wondering who he was angry at. Me or John? It must have been me. Why would he hate his brother? Jim’s eyes burned through me as I moved away from the bed and towards the door. I stuck my tongue out at him and walked from the room, knowing as I walked that it was important that I didn’t show any fear. But not knowing why.
We were never told how John died, although the play-field at the back of the convent was buzzing with guesses. As one of the last people to see him alive I was granted some status in the debate. The cough I heard was altered till it resembled a wolf howling at the moon. The colour of his face I described as a plate of ice cream, minus the jelly.
We were simply told that he had been taken to hospital. A week later we were told he was dead. His brother Jim withdrew from life at the Convent.
Always the quieter of the two, he became as insubstantial as a shadow and was often seen talking to the empty space to his side. The nuns couldn’t tolerate this behaviour for long and he too disappeared. We were told that Jim wasn’t well and that he had been taken to a place where he could be looked after properly. In no time at all he would be better and would rejoin us. We never saw him again.
‘Thank you, Sister.’ I stand up and leave. We have taken down all the names of the children who stayed here while Connelly was sowing his evil oats. With one notable exception. I would have to have a word with Allessandra, make sure she understood.
‘If we can be any more help,’ Sister Margaret has one hand on the door, preparing to close it. ‘Please come back and see us.’
‘We will, Sister. Thank you,’ says Allessandra.
At the car, I throw her my keys. I need to think. Theresa would describe
Our shame didn’t end there. Public humiliation was a strong weapon in Sister Mary’s arsenal. At her earliest convenience the subject of bed-wetting would come up.
‘What else can we expect from a boy who wets the bed?’ She would address everyone in the vicinity. Then she would laugh, throwing her head back like a pantomime villain.
All those present would be expected to join in. Ears burning, staring at the floor, you could do nothing but wait until something or someone else attracted her attention.
Children are wonderful mimics. And in Sister Mary they had a wonderfully persistent teacher. As a result, taunting the bed-wetter became a ritual, like going to Mass or saying the Rosary. At least when other children began to taunt you out of earshot and sight of the nuns, a well-placed knee or elbow would quickly persuade your tormentor to choose someone else.
Fortunately for me, I outgrew my sinful bladder before John did his. His shame continued for some time. Until the morning he didn’t turn up at school.
I passed his bed that last morning, just as Sister Mary left the room. On hearing a cough that made me think someone had sneaked a dog into the room I had one last chant at him before I went off to Mass.
‘Hey, wet-the-bed,’ I hoped that it was loud enough for the nun to hear, ‘you’re going to Hell.’
John was propped up on a pillow, wrapped in his foul-smelling sheets. His small frame shook with the force of his coughing as he tried to answer me back, his expression hot with anger. My face burned with shame when I gauged his reaction. I didn’t like it when people did it to me. Why was it right to do it someone else?
‘Shut… it.’ he managed a syllable before another cough wracked his body, almost lifting him off the bed with its force. ‘Tell Jim… I’ll be… down… later.’ Leaning forward I looked at his face. Coughs and colds were a normal occurrence in the Home, but I’d never seen such a white face before.
When I turned to leave Jim was right behind me. So close behind me that I walked into him as I turned. His expression was one of naked hate. At the time I remembered wondering who he was angry at. Me or John? It must have been me. Why would he hate his brother? Jim’s eyes burned through me as I moved away from the bed and towards the door. I stuck my tongue out at him and walked from the room, knowing as I walked that it was important that I didn’t show any fear. But not knowing why.
We were never told how John died, although the play-field at the back of the convent was buzzing with guesses. As one of the last people to see him alive I was granted some status in the debate. The cough I heard was altered till it resembled a wolf howling at the moon. The colour of his face I described as a plate of ice cream, minus the jelly.
We were simply told that he had been taken to hospital. A week later we were told he was dead. His brother Jim withdrew from life at the Convent.
Always the quieter of the two, he became as insubstantial as a shadow and was often seen talking to the empty space to his side. The nuns couldn’t tolerate this behaviour for long and he too disappeared. We were told that Jim wasn’t well and that he had been taken to a place where he could be looked after properly. In no time at all he would be better and would rejoin us. We never saw him again.
‘Thank you, Sister.’ I stand up and leave. We have taken down all the names of the children who stayed here while Connelly was sowing his evil oats. With one notable exception. I would have to have a word with Allessandra, make sure she understood.
‘If we can be any more help,’ Sister Margaret has one hand on the door, preparing to close it. ‘Please come back and see us.’
‘We will, Sister. Thank you,’ says Allessandra.
At the car, I throw her my keys. I need to think. Theresa would describe
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