Eric's story - Child abuse in rural Ireland; 1955

Crime, cruelty and concealment

This is a story of cruel abuse. A day in the life of Eric, a neglected 10 year-old child from a large poverty-stricken family, living in a two room cottage. His father was dead and his poor mother worked long hours for a pittance in a wet, cold, apple-peeling plant.

The Murphy report of 2009 lifted the cover on sexual abuse of children within the Catholic church in Ireland and exposed those who colluded with its concealment. In separate investigations, the church's education system has also been rightly condemned for turning a blind eye to the physical brutality suffered by children at the hands of many Christian Brothers in earlier times.

But it wasn't only a Catholic problem and it wasn't only the bishops who turned a blind eye to such criminal excess. Eric knows. I know.

A silent schoolmate

Over 50 years ago I was a pupil at a small village school in Tyrone where I saw, from time to time, cruelty inflicted on the weakest who had no one to speak up for them. There were many abuses, but one in particular, perpetrated on my friend Eric, has troubled me all my life and always will; because I sat mute when I should have spoken out.

Colluders

I share the rising tide of disgust for churchmen who concealed or ignored the evil within their ranks towards children. I hear and support the calls for resignation and other punishments. These colluders with evil were mature adults.

Not fearful children like me and Eric's classmates who, if we overcame our cowardice and spoke out, were subject to the same brutality as the victim we tried to protect. But nonetheless, the effect of our neglectful collusion was as telling as that of the bishops and allowed the same evil consequences for Eric.

Eric goes to school

Early on a chill winter's morning, it was raining heavily when Eric left home to cycle the 4 miles to school. He had no waterproof clothing. Just a thick wool hand-me-down pullover, short flannel trousers and wee lace-up black boots that I saw him in every day. Eric always had holes in his battered boots and he never looked well washed, clean or cared for. But he was tough and cheerful and one of my pals.

Eric's teachers

For some reason the teachers regularly picked on little scruffy vulnerable Eric, but no matter what happened to him - and he was often beaten at school - he never whimpered or cried. I thought he was so strong.

I was a year ahead of Eric, in the Headmaster's class. The class below that was taught by a severe elderly lady who gave great attention to her favourites from better-off families, left the bulk of us alone, and mercilessly picked on the poorer children.

Eric's 'crime'

As Eric pedalled through the rain on his old heavy bicycle, she overtook him in her car and, according to her, he wobbled because he looked backward at her, causing her to swerve.

The Headmaster's class was just about to start when this teacher brought the shivering soaked boy into the room, the water still running out of his leaking boots. She told her story, following which the Headmaster, a pillar of the local community and leading figure in the Church of Ireland, took a cane to poor wee trembling Eric.

Eric's beating

I knew what was coming and I was sick to my stomach - and silent. With the first 6 on the left hand Eric flinched but was quiet. The next 6 on the right hand brought tears but no cries.

This was worse than I had expected and my own eyes filled with tears. My heart pounded and I almost shouted aloud in protest, but conformance and cowardice choked me and stopped my mouth.

Then he was put out alone to the outside toilets across the yard with two final sadistic cane-slashes at the back of his cold wet bare legs.

'Will, don't tell anybody I cried'

The school carried on.

Ten minutes later I was sent out to bring Eric back to his class. He was shaking with deep racking sobs. He couldn't speak. Swollen hands and seared red weals on his legs. When he could, all he said was, "Will, don't tell anybody I cried".

I washed his face, cleaned him up and he walked pathetically and cowed back to the classroom, showing no signs of crying as a result of his trauma. But he carried the physical marks. Everyone had seen the brutal physical abuse. I alone had seen the beaten, crying, broken, shattered spirit.

That wee boy had no love, no respect, no standing, no protection, no hope. The only thing he had to cling onto for survival was a pathetic inner desperate defiance and determination that nobody should see him cry.

I never told that Eric cried sore. I never told. I never told anything.

Sin of silence

My sin was that I told nobody. My puerile weak defence is that I was only ten years old and anyway, this sort of thing happened all the time. God forgive me. I should have told my parents or somebody in authority.

Like most people, I have had my share of ups and downs in life, but the number of regrets I have are few; very few. Today, neglect in failing to intervene for Eric is my only regret that still has the power to reduce me to tears of shame.

That unhappiest day of my childhood materially influenced the way I have interacted with people ever since.

Who casts the first stone?

When the inflamed mob lifts its missiles of righteous anger to target all abusers and their protectors - with shame I remember my own silent sin. I may not be entitled to cast the first stone.

But when I think of Eric's long-dead tormentors I'll lift and let fly anyway.