This insult stretched him beyond any form of self-control. His right fist shot out and, although I jumped back, it still made contact with my lip, which immediately swelled and oozed blood from the corner of my mouth. The sight of blood seemed to spur him on. His whole body crashed into me and we fell in an untidy heap onto the grass. He straddled me, pinning my arms underneath his knees, and viciously backhanded me across the face.
The pain brought tears to my eyes but I still managed to spit a mouthful of saliva and blood into his face, where it dripped off the side of his chin. He grinned and backhanded me again across the face. ‘Cocksucking queer, is it?’ he panted. ‘I’ll show you cocksucking queer.’ He swung back with his other hand, knocking my face sideways. ‘By the time I finish with you, you’ll never want to come home again.’
The blows came in quick succession. Right to the head. Left to the head. My head was flipping from right to left in rhythm with his blows. I was rapidly losing consciousness but there was no let-up in the amount of hits. I heard a voice that seemed a long way away, screaming, pleading, ‘Stop it. You’re killing him,’ and then there was blackness.
I awoke to the sensation of hot water being dabbed gently on my cheek. I kept my eyes shut and tried to push my battered face even deeper into my mother’s lap. I loved the smell and the warmth of her body as it always gave me a feeling of peace and safety. Nothing bad could happen to me when surrounded by such a beautiful aroma. I wanted to cry. I slowly opened my eyes and the tightness around my eyelids told me that they must be swollen. I reached up to touch them but her hand restrained me. I heard her say quietly, ‘Lie still, John.’ I was trying to focus on her face but everything seemed blurry.
I shut my eyes again to get rid of the weird images. I must have passed out again as I remember nothing until I felt Mum trying to lift me off the floor. I reopened my eyes and slowly her face appeared. I could see she was crying. I struggled to break free from her and with an enormous effort managed to sit up.
‘I wanted this day to be so nice,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, son. When you’re older I’ll explain it all to you. It isn’t like he said. He’s lying. You are his son.’
‘You don’t have to explain anything to me. I don’t care what he said. He’s just a nasty bastard.’ I strained my neck to look around. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘I do know that he said he wouldn’t be back until after you’ve gone. So that means we can have a nice peaceful day and you can tell me all the things you couldn’t put in your letters.’
‘Come,’ she took my hand and pulled me gently to my feet. ‘I think it’s about time I made you a nice cup of tea. I’ve also got something special for dinner.’ She squeezed my shoulders affectionately. ‘We’ve got an apple crumble.’
I still felt light-headed as I sipped the sweet tea. My head felt sore from the beating I had taken and I occasionally touched the swelling around my mouth and cheekbones, trying to force back the tears. Feeling sorry for myself would do me no good and would upset Mum even more. I had become a master at hiding my emotions so it was easy to switch my attention away from my injuries and into the task of rolling a cigarette. Tobacco had become a tranquilliser for me. I sucked deeply on the cigarette, inhaling as much smoke as my lungs would allow, and watched the diluted smoke drift out of my mouth and disappear into the atmosphere. Eventually, after smoking three I was feeling more like myself.
Mum had been watching me intently since I came into the house. ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘are you going to tell me about your new school?’
‘There’s not much to tell. It’s just a school.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I know you too well,’ she gently rebuked. ‘I can always tell when you’re bottling something up. It’s what you haven’t said that makes me believe something isn’t right. If you were happy, you’d be chatting away nineteen to the dozen. Tell me all about it, I really want to know.’
I shook my head. ‘What’s the sense in worrying you with my problems? You can’t do anything about them.’
She smiled. ‘A problem shared is a problem halved. Even if I can’t do anything, I can give you some adult advice. It might help.’
‘How do you advise someone into being something that they’re not? I’m frightened of the other boys and I’m being bullied. I’m not a fighter and I’m scared of getting hurt.’ I angrily wiped the tears away. My voice was breaking up uncontrollably. ‘So, tell me what I should do.’
‘You’re not a fighter! You’re scared of getting hurt!’ My mother sounded astonished. ‘You’re the bravest boy alive. What do you think just went on in the garden? The only coward out there was your father. I’ve seen you take beating after beating and I’ve never seen you afraid. I know this sounds silly, but you’re my hero. Nobody on earth could ever accuse you of being anything but a hero.’
I hated to see her like this and wished I hadn’t said anything. I reached out and took her hand. ‘That’s why I never told you, Mum. I knew you would get upset.’
‘Of course I’m upset. It’s my fault you’re in that place. If only – if only I had been braver, none of this would be happening to you.’ Her anger was evident and her maternal instincts were aroused. ‘I want you to tell me what’s happening to you in that place. Who is hurting you?’
I told her of all the beatings I had seen and how they frightened me. I told her of the cruelty being dished out daily by some of the Brothers, and about the numerous times I had been bullied by older boys and how they had hurt me. I didn’t tell her about Wilkinson. That was my secret and I was still trying to come to terms with the shame of what had occurred.
‘So now you know everything, Mum,’ I said quietly, averting my eyes so she wouldn’t detect the lie. ‘How do I deal with it?’
I watched as she brought her emotions under control. Her hand was visibly shaking as she opened a packet of cigarettes and put one in her mouth. I lit a match for her and watched as she puffed the cigarette into life. She relaxed back into her chair and blew out a long stream of blue smoke.
‘I hardly know what to say,’ she said quietly. ‘If I could take your problems onto myself, I would do it willingly. But I can’t.’ She took a long puff on her cigarette. ‘You know that, don’t you?’ She stared at me fixedly until I nodded in agreement. ‘You have to believe in yourself. Get rid of all that nonsense in your head that you’re a coward. You’re not a coward. You’re just a young boy being forced to grow up too quickly in a dreadful environment. Did you know that the biggest coward of all is a bully? Well, he is. You never see a bully hit someone he knows will hit him back. Why? Because he’s a coward. The only real way of dealing with a bully is to bully him. I suggest that the next time one of these boys decides to hit you, you pick up a big piece of wood and hit them hard across the head with it.’
‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’ I asked, incredulous.
‘Yes I do, and don’t you forget it. I hate the thought of those little bastards hitting you. I will feel a lot better if I know that you are going to deal with it.’ She stubbed the cigarette out angrily in an ashtray. ‘As for the Brothers, those evil, sanctimonious bastards, you’ll just have to try and keep out of their way. I’ve always hated the Catholic clergy and the way they behave.’ She hesitated, deep in thought. ‘I should never have converted when I married your father. I knew what they were like. Every time the parish priest comes around he stinks of drink, and how many of them have appeared in the Sunday papers for abusing young boys?’ She took out another cigarette. ‘And as for the Brothers, they are notorious for their cruelty. Nothing you’ve told me about them surprises me. They are all destined to burn in hell.’
I was shocked by what Mum had said. She was advocating that I use weapons to defend myself but I knew in my heart I wasn’t capable of that. Weapons frightened me. I needed to speak to Bernie and