Mr. O'Sullivan

Chapter 6: 1923 by Harry Leslie Smith

During an era of economic collapse, nothing lasts, not love, not loyalty, not even friendship. In, those times, anything, not essential, was discarded. Sentiment was like ballast that is dropped from a faltering balloon in danger of collapsing to the ground. I know my mother didn’t set out to abandon my father, but The Great Depression robbed her of the ability to act nobly. She understood, by the time we came to living doss house rough; my dad was a dead weight that could drown us all. In that era, my mother’s only hope of escaping her poverty was to find another man who could take her out of it.

So, when the handsome quick-talking Irish navvy O’Sullivan moved into the doss house we occupied, my mother crashed into his orbit like a moon embraces gravity. She was smitten by his compliments, jokes and flirty manner. He was different from the other workman who resided in that house with us. O'Sullivan dressed better. He carried himself like a soldier and was sure of himself. The economic crash hadn’t stolen his sense of self-worth. Confidence was an aphrodisiac to my mum, who had lost hers after too many midnight flits.

O’Sullivan was not worried by all the poverty, stagnation, and rot around him. He made my mum smile and laugh, and despite my young age, I knew she liked him more than she should. For my mum, O’Sullivan’s attentions were like a life preserver thrown to a drowning person. She reciprocated his affections and beamed in his company. Whereas when she was with my dad, she became more acerbic and cruel.

At night in our room, my mum cursed my dad for leading her into a life of harsh poverty. My father did not fight back but instead apologised for his age, infirmities and the things that were not his fault. But my mum was never sated by his acceptance of guilt. My dad saying sorry was not enough for her. My mum resented my dad because she was the one who begged, borrowed, and stole to ensure that my sister, and I had at least bread and drippings for our tea each night.

My mum liked that O’Sullivan desired her physically and I think she fell in love with him because it was an escape from the reality of her existence. It was a fantasy more than anything else. Yet, it had horrible consequences for everyone but O’Sullivan. My mother deluded herself into believing a new life could be at hand for her and her kids with this attractive young workman who promised her a life of plenty down south. My mother was so convinced that O’ Sullivan would marry her; my sister, and I became Roman Catholic to appease him. She didn't understand that the church would not allow him to do it even he wanted to because my mum would have to divorce my dad first.

Yet it was not just lust that drove my mum to embrace the Church of Rome. My mum had heard that the catholic church in Bradford provided better food parcels than the Church of England. So, to sate my mum's carnal love of a man, not her husband and the promise of a better food parcel, I became a Catholic at the age of six.

I remember my first day at that catholic school and being terrified by the priests whose faces were whisky-red from too many nights of cards and cigarettes. I soon learned it was not the priests you should fear but the nuns who taught me my catechism.

Sister Christine was the nun I learned to fear above all else because she seemed charged by God himself to deliver his wrath against me. Sister Christine was a dour, unhappy character who took no joy in beauty or in children.

One day at school, the Sister instructed our class to draw an apple that sat upon a table at the front of the room. Like a creeping Jesus, the Sister moved around the room on rubber-soled shoes to inspect the drawing prowess of each student as if she was a judge at an art competition. When Sister Christine came to inspect my drawing of an apple, she was not pleased. It was sloppy, smudged an insult to her and God. The Sister was so outraged by my drawing; she struck me across my head. The strength and ferocity of the blow almost made me lose consciousness.

My mother even noticed my injury when I returned home from school. My injuries disturbed my mother so much she arrived the next day unannounced at the classroom of Sister Christine to confront her about my beating.

My mum said to the nun, “I hear you’ve been disciplining our Harry for not meeting your fancy apple approval.” Sister Christine obfuscated and claimed I had been acting out in class.

“Sister,” my mother said, “mark my words, you touch my boy again; if there is the slightest scratch on him; I will beat you black and blue with my very hands.”

Upon leaving, my mother said to the nun whose mouth was agape in surprise and fear, “Justice is mine sayeth the lord.”