By Liam Cosgrove
Longford Leader
July 8, 2009
http://www.longfordleader.ie/news/34At-last-my-shame-has.5440827.jp
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| Jim Flood |
The events of May 20 2009 constituted the end of a long and torturous journey for many.
It was the day when High Court judge Sean Ryan closed the final chapter of a nine year search into the horrors surrounding clerical child abuse.
As onlookers, and indeed experts, grappled with the catastrophic findings contained in the 2,600 page document, almost simultaneously the glare of the media world turned towards the thousands of children who were failed by a system which had ironically been designed to protect them.
Hardly a month on, Edgeworthstown man Jim Flood has opted to disclose just some of the ghosts, or as he terms it "demons", that he carries around from his own school days in Clonmel.
County Wexford born Jim suffered a fractured childhood to say the least.
Estranged from his family, upheaval was very much standard practice for Jim during his early childhood. Worse was to follow soon afterwards when having to say goodbye to her mother at just five years old.
"The last time I saw my mother was when I made my first holy communion. She (mother) told me that she could not see me again. The nuns in the County Home would not allow it. I never saw my mother again," he sombrely noted.
The next few years were spent with a woman by the name of Frances Doyle. That too however proved short-lived when Ms Doyle's health began deteriorating.
Another transfer it seemed was on the cards only this time the destination - St Joseph's Ferryhouse in Clonmel was an altogether different proposition. It was here Jim's nightmare begun.
"My earliest memories of Ferryhouse are of its dark, foreboding buildings, dark red brick and granite stone walled buildings forming a large square in the middle.
"All the buildings were accessed from this square. There were three dormitories, each sleeping around 70 boys. Each dormitory had a side room where the brother who was on duty slept," he added.
The relative serenity Jim was previously accustomed to quickly evaporated, as the slight and unreserved schoolboy became chastened with the number 027. It was a tag that would remain with him throughout his five-year stay.
Assigned to a dormitory comprised of about 70 other children deemed to be petty thieves, truants and the offspring from dysfunctional families, it was only a matter of days before Jim experienced the first of countless physical assaults.
"The physical abuse consisted of being beaten with a thick leather strap about 14 or 15 inches long.
"The strap was made by sewing two pieces of leather together. Coins were inserted between the pieces to give it weight and rigidity and when sewn together it was about half an inch thick.
"The beatings were severe and sadistic. It did not matter to them where they hit you, across the head, back arms, buttocks or legs. Most of the time you were stripped for the beatings. We were only children. These were grown men and my particular abuser was over 6ft tall," he said.
Fighting back wasn't an option. And in such an isolated backdrop along the banks of the River Suir, the chances of being heard or even believed for that matter were remote in the extreme.
"This particular brother who sexually abused and tortured me also had a particular liking for playing golf. I can't remember any golf course around but he didn't need one as there was a farm attached to Ferryhouse.
"In my own particular case and others he practiced his tee shots in a novel way. He paced out a couple of hundred yards in the field and got you to stand still on the spot.
"He went back to where his golf bag was and started driving golf balls to where you were standing. "The nearer the balls were to you the better or even still if they hit you that was I think regarded as a hole in one.
When he drove the last ball you had to retrieve them as quickly as possible and bring them back to him for more practice. If you were too slow you usually got the belt of a golf club," he said.
Like many instances contained in the Ryan Report, Jim's physical torment led to a heinous torrent of sexual abuse.
"I was there about two years when the sexual abuse started. It could happen in a room off the dormitory where the brother on duty slept or in what was called the tuck. When you were called in to either place you did not know whether it was for a savage beating or rape. They sometimes went together and I was subjected to both on numerous occasions.
"When I would go into the room I was actually told to strip off my clothes. I was beaten by the brother and then brutally raped. I would be weak from the beating and could not resist. Over a long period of time these beatings and rapes took place in various parts of the institution.
"They were not schools and were more akin to torture camps. I never got any medical attention after these and I would be bleeding, not to mention in indescribable pain.
"You were told if you said anything you would get another beating. You were also constantly told that you were a nobody, were worthless and that nobody would believe you. I had nobody to turn to and you were targeted by these sadists because you had no parents," he said.
After another year and a half of torture, Jim finally got a reprieve, or so he thought, when the opportunity to work on a farm back in Co Wexford arose.
"I was sent by the institution to work for a woman and her 25 or 26 year old son on a farm back in Co Wexford…During this time my treatment at Ferryhouse was constantly on my mind. At around 17 and a half I told the woman and her son about my treatment at Ferryhouse.
"I thought they were sympathetic at first until one day in the fields her son gave me an unmerciful beating and told me I was a liar. I was now back at zero point. The story was retold to him and I was accused by him of telling lies about the Church, about its priest and its brothers.
"I was treated with damnation and that I would burn in the flames of hell for eternity. The people in the vicinity were told of my terrible accusation against the church and I was treated like vermin.
"No one believed me and the power of the clergy reigned supreme. I was eventually told to leave the locality by the Garda Sergeant in Bunclody and this was just some months before my eighteenth birthday," he said.
Informed that his brother was dead, a brief and fruitless stint in the army followed. Emigrating to England seemed the only option.
Thoughts of Ferryhouse, however, meant nailing down a secure job and establishing meaningful relationships with women were becoming decidedly onerous.
"The shame of my childhood continued to plague me and I started to drink heavily and lose jobs. Also I couldn't maintain relationships with a woman.
"When they got serious and I told a girl of my past I was told goodbye and that their parents back in Ireland would not want them to marry a bastard.
"After these rejections I made-up a past myself and lived the lie for many years. I told people my parents were dead and that I was an orphan. I got myself together and lived with my mental anguish for many, many years," he said.
Then in 1970, Jim's outlook changed when he met his future wife. Almost two years later, they were married and soon they were rearing two beautiful children.
All the while, thoughts of Ferryhouse remained etched in his subconscious. These notions would gradually harbour more sinister feelings.
"Over the years the shame of my past got progressively worse. The heavy drinking, not being able to talk to my wife and family was destroying my marriage and the love my wife and children had for me.
"I had come to a time in my life when the mental anguish was beginning to overwhelm me. I came to a decision that I could only get peace of mind by committing suicide. I thought about my wife and family and came to the conclusion that they would be better off without me."
Little did he know, his ultimate salvation would arrive in the most unorthodox of forms.
"On the night I was going to end my life by jumping off a bridge over the Thames in London I was walking towards the bridge. I stopped at a crossing and there was a man pushing a wheelchair with a teenager in it. I was within earshot of them and I heard the girl tell her dada that she loved him.
"I continued for a while thinking about what I had heard and thought about my own teenage daughter. I went home and when my wife asked me where I had been I told her I had been in the pub.
"The next night I told my wife I had something to tell her. I told her about a child who had been sexually and physically abused in an institution in Ireland. She asked if it was me and I said no but deep down I knew she realised I was talking about myself."
With a huge weight gone from his shoulders, Jim moved to Edgeworthstown in December 1997, just before the commission into child abuse was formally rendered. The anguish still remained despite years of counselling and support from his loving family.
Some 50 years on from those terrible events in hi slife, Jim holds no thoughts towards his abuser or those who oversaw such odious acts of child abuse in Ferryhouse.
In fact, now he is contemplating returning to his studies as "a very mature student".
He still has plenty of regrets though. Among them is the loss of his faith, the strain exacted upon his family and many more.
And despite having received compensation through the Redress Board and vindication via the Ryan Report itself, Jim said no amount of financial assistance can erase his emotional pain.
"It was never about the money. I don't give a flute about money though but what I don't want to see is it going into government coffers. It should be set aside for something like a trust or scholarships for kids that can get on and get University scholarships. That would be a great memorial, it really would. I waited a long time for the Ryan Report and finally we were vindicated.
"We were believed we weren't liars and that we weren't part of a conspiracy to destroy the Church. On the contrary the Church was part of a conspiracy to destroy us. At last my shame has been lifted, the clouds have parted and there are blue skies.
"I did nothing wrong to bring such catastrophe on my life. I have nothing to be ashamed of and in the words of the late Martin Luther King 'Free at Last, Free at Last'.
"I hope my friends I have lied to in the past will see it in their hearts to forgive me," he said.
A fitting depiction of Jim's experiences are summed up by the man himself in six short and heart wrenching lines:
"A regime of terror reigned,
Reigned there,
No kindness ever shown,
You could not report the brutality,
Because behind the walls of Ferryhouse,
You were on your own."
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