again.
‘Shut up, and listen.’
I sobbed harder.
‘If the judge asks you a question,’ he emphasised, ‘you reply, “Yes, your Honour”. Do you understand?’ he queried.
I tried to say yes, but I could not utter any sound, due to my distressed sobs.
‘Do you understand?’ he yelled.
‘Yes, your Honour,’ I replied, in innocence.
‘Don’t get smart with me, young one,’ he snapped.
I nodded, as I still could not raise any sound.
‘Now stop crying because we are going in for your case.’
I gulped back my sobs, and climbed the stairs to the courtroom. The size of the room amazed me. There were men everywhere; men in suits, men behind desks and a great many policemen. There was a man dressed in a black robe sitting on a raised platform. He seemed to be wearing a small curly wig on his head.
I sat beside the cruelty officer, behind a desk, facing this man. As I sat down, the cruelty officer said to me, ‘That’s the judge.’
I sat mesmerised by my surroundings.
A man stood up and in a raised voice announced, ‘State versus Clifford.’
At the time it meant nothing to me. It was only the second time in my life I had heard the name Celine Clifford. I was Celine O’Brien.
The cruelty officer took me by the hand and brought me to the judge. I had to stand in the dock at the judge’s right-hand side, facing the crowd in the main body of the court. I could barely see over the edge of the dock. I was facing everybody in the room. They were all looking at me. I was mortified. I tried to stay down under the ledge so that nobody could see me.
Years later I got a copy of the Substance of Complaint which was under the Children Acts 1908–1941. It read: ‘Application to commit to a certified industrial school Celine Clifford who appears to the court to be a child under the age of fifteen years, having been born so far as has been ascertained on the November 14, 1948 and who resides at Ballyculhane, Kilmallock, having been found having a parent or guardian who does not exercise proper guardianship.’
As I was still gingerly peeping around the courtroom, I realised the judge, the cruelty officer and many other men were discussing me, my foster-parents, my school and many other aspects of my life. I did not really understand what they were talking about. I really wished I didn’t have to be there.
In those days there was no such thing as previously taped interviews or videos, so children do not have to go through the trauma of giving evidence in court.
When I heard, ‘And now young lady, what is your name?’ I looked at my cruelty officer, praying for some guidance.
He nodded back at me, as if telling me to answer the question.
‘Yes, Honour,’ I gulped.
The cruelty officer threw his eyes up to heaven.
‘What is your name, young lady?’ the judge bellowed. The sound of the judge’s voice echoed around the courthouse. He sounded so stern. I was petrified.
‘Celine O’Brien,’ I ventured in a tiny, barely audible voice.
‘Speak up, I cannot hear you,’ the judge said, sounding angry. I was so frightened, my throat felt tight. I couldn’t get any words out.
I looked again to the cruelty officer, hoping he might help me. He had his mouth covered with his hand and was looking at some distant point on the ceiling. I realised that he would be no help to me.
‘Celine O’Brien, sir,’ I yelled back at the judge, in the loudest voice that I could raise.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ the judge demanded, looking around the courthouse.
The cruelty officer jumped up from the desk saying, ‘No, no, your Honour, her name is Clifford, Celine Clifford. Her foster-parents’ name was O’Brien.’
Again commotion erupted. I thought it was all my fault for shouting at the judge and I was sure I was in for some terrible punishment.
During all the arguing, I noticed a tall, thin woman in a beige coat, standing at the back of the courtroom. She was the only woman in a room full of men. She
‘Shut up, and listen.’
I sobbed harder.
‘If the judge asks you a question,’ he emphasised, ‘you reply, “Yes, your Honour”. Do you understand?’ he queried.
I tried to say yes, but I could not utter any sound, due to my distressed sobs.
‘Do you understand?’ he yelled.
‘Yes, your Honour,’ I replied, in innocence.
‘Don’t get smart with me, young one,’ he snapped.
I nodded, as I still could not raise any sound.
‘Now stop crying because we are going in for your case.’
I gulped back my sobs, and climbed the stairs to the courtroom. The size of the room amazed me. There were men everywhere; men in suits, men behind desks and a great many policemen. There was a man dressed in a black robe sitting on a raised platform. He seemed to be wearing a small curly wig on his head.
I sat beside the cruelty officer, behind a desk, facing this man. As I sat down, the cruelty officer said to me, ‘That’s the judge.’
I sat mesmerised by my surroundings.
A man stood up and in a raised voice announced, ‘State versus Clifford.’
At the time it meant nothing to me. It was only the second time in my life I had heard the name Celine Clifford. I was Celine O’Brien.
The cruelty officer took me by the hand and brought me to the judge. I had to stand in the dock at the judge’s right-hand side, facing the crowd in the main body of the court. I could barely see over the edge of the dock. I was facing everybody in the room. They were all looking at me. I was mortified. I tried to stay down under the ledge so that nobody could see me.
Years later I got a copy of the Substance of Complaint which was under the Children Acts 1908–1941. It read: ‘Application to commit to a certified industrial school Celine Clifford who appears to the court to be a child under the age of fifteen years, having been born so far as has been ascertained on the November 14, 1948 and who resides at Ballyculhane, Kilmallock, having been found having a parent or guardian who does not exercise proper guardianship.’
As I was still gingerly peeping around the courtroom, I realised the judge, the cruelty officer and many other men were discussing me, my foster-parents, my school and many other aspects of my life. I did not really understand what they were talking about. I really wished I didn’t have to be there.
In those days there was no such thing as previously taped interviews or videos, so children do not have to go through the trauma of giving evidence in court.
When I heard, ‘And now young lady, what is your name?’ I looked at my cruelty officer, praying for some guidance.
He nodded back at me, as if telling me to answer the question.
‘Yes, Honour,’ I gulped.
The cruelty officer threw his eyes up to heaven.
‘What is your name, young lady?’ the judge bellowed. The sound of the judge’s voice echoed around the courthouse. He sounded so stern. I was petrified.
‘Celine O’Brien,’ I ventured in a tiny, barely audible voice.
‘Speak up, I cannot hear you,’ the judge said, sounding angry. I was so frightened, my throat felt tight. I couldn’t get any words out.
I looked again to the cruelty officer, hoping he might help me. He had his mouth covered with his hand and was looking at some distant point on the ceiling. I realised that he would be no help to me.
‘Celine O’Brien, sir,’ I yelled back at the judge, in the loudest voice that I could raise.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ the judge demanded, looking around the courthouse.
The cruelty officer jumped up from the desk saying, ‘No, no, your Honour, her name is Clifford, Celine Clifford. Her foster-parents’ name was O’Brien.’
Again commotion erupted. I thought it was all my fault for shouting at the judge and I was sure I was in for some terrible punishment.
During all the arguing, I noticed a tall, thin woman in a beige coat, standing at the back of the courtroom. She was the only woman in a room full of men. She
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