seemed to be following everything with great interest. I tried to catch her eye but she stared fixedly ahead of her, avoiding my occasional gaze. Only once, when we made eye contact, did she allow herself to smile briefly at me.
Did I know her? Did she know me? Who was she? Why was she there?
My attention was brought back to the proceedings in hand before I could even think about answers to these questions. It was established that my name was indeed Celine Clifford. As far as I was concerned, they were changing my name in case anyone would know about me being in jail. I thought it was the right thing to do as I had brought enough scandal on my original family, simply by being alive. I did not want to shame my foster-parents’ good name, so that all their friends would know that I had to be put in jail, for being bad. I felt as if I was to blame for everything that had happened in my life.
I had to answer many questions about intimate parts of my body. Sometimes the same person, sometimes others, repeated these questions until I gave them an answer that satisfied them. I had to describe some of the awful things that men had done to my body, over the last six years. To have to tell people, in public, especially a roomful of men, was horrible.
There was quite a lot more talking around the court and then everything went quiet. I looked up to see what was happening.
The judge addressed me directly. ‘Stand up, Miss Clifford.’
I rose from my seat and the lower half of my body began to tremble.
‘I want you to say after me,’ the judge instructed.
I began to cry once again.
‘I swear to remain at Mount St Vincent’s Industrial School for as long as is deemed to be necessary, or as long as directed.’
I burst out in loud, anguished sobs. I couldn’t remember all the words that the judge had said. So he said the sentence again, in groups of two words at a time and I repeated them. As I finished repeating the words, I felt very alone in the world. There was nobody there for me.
The cruelty officer gripped me tightly by my upper arm and I was led reluctantly from the court. Once again, I was crying, deep racking sobs.
So that was it.
I got a chance to see the Justice’s Memorandum many years later as the Justice’s Minute Book was in the National Archives. It read: ‘Ordered that Celine Clifford be committed to the certified industrial cchool at Mount St Vincent’s, Limerick, to be there detained as and from this date up to but not including the November 14, 1964. County Council notified. No order as to contribution.’
In those days, the Substance of Complaint, under the Children Acts 1908–1941 was a common method of dealing with children with behavioural problems. It was used to commit children to industrial schools for all sorts of petty crimes, from theft of a loaf of bread, to stealing a bicycle. Some of these children had very abusive upbringings and were full of anger. Some of them were out of control. Perhaps this might explain the rough treatment I got from my cruelty officer.
On March 2, 1962, at 13 years of age, as I was led from Kilmallock Courthouse, now called Celine Clifford, I thought I was beginning a life sentence in jail. The well-dressed lady had disappeared. She had not made any contact with me. I was taken back to the same office where I had earlier spent most of the day.
I entered the office with my head held low. I was looking at the ground, with my hair falling all around my face. It was wet with my tears as they fell, uncontrollably.
I would have been grateful for any human comfort at that time, but none was forthcoming. I would have loved a drink of water even but I was too afraid to ask. In the court world of men I felt I was even the wrong sex and even that was my fault!
I felt that I could not trust anybody. I still believed I was going to jail.
‘You’re coming with me to the orphanage. You’ll be well looked after there,’ the cruelty officer said to me.
I stopped
Did I know her? Did she know me? Who was she? Why was she there?
My attention was brought back to the proceedings in hand before I could even think about answers to these questions. It was established that my name was indeed Celine Clifford. As far as I was concerned, they were changing my name in case anyone would know about me being in jail. I thought it was the right thing to do as I had brought enough scandal on my original family, simply by being alive. I did not want to shame my foster-parents’ good name, so that all their friends would know that I had to be put in jail, for being bad. I felt as if I was to blame for everything that had happened in my life.
I had to answer many questions about intimate parts of my body. Sometimes the same person, sometimes others, repeated these questions until I gave them an answer that satisfied them. I had to describe some of the awful things that men had done to my body, over the last six years. To have to tell people, in public, especially a roomful of men, was horrible.
There was quite a lot more talking around the court and then everything went quiet. I looked up to see what was happening.
The judge addressed me directly. ‘Stand up, Miss Clifford.’
I rose from my seat and the lower half of my body began to tremble.
‘I want you to say after me,’ the judge instructed.
I began to cry once again.
‘I swear to remain at Mount St Vincent’s Industrial School for as long as is deemed to be necessary, or as long as directed.’
I burst out in loud, anguished sobs. I couldn’t remember all the words that the judge had said. So he said the sentence again, in groups of two words at a time and I repeated them. As I finished repeating the words, I felt very alone in the world. There was nobody there for me.
The cruelty officer gripped me tightly by my upper arm and I was led reluctantly from the court. Once again, I was crying, deep racking sobs.
So that was it.
I got a chance to see the Justice’s Memorandum many years later as the Justice’s Minute Book was in the National Archives. It read: ‘Ordered that Celine Clifford be committed to the certified industrial cchool at Mount St Vincent’s, Limerick, to be there detained as and from this date up to but not including the November 14, 1964. County Council notified. No order as to contribution.’
In those days, the Substance of Complaint, under the Children Acts 1908–1941 was a common method of dealing with children with behavioural problems. It was used to commit children to industrial schools for all sorts of petty crimes, from theft of a loaf of bread, to stealing a bicycle. Some of these children had very abusive upbringings and were full of anger. Some of them were out of control. Perhaps this might explain the rough treatment I got from my cruelty officer.
On March 2, 1962, at 13 years of age, as I was led from Kilmallock Courthouse, now called Celine Clifford, I thought I was beginning a life sentence in jail. The well-dressed lady had disappeared. She had not made any contact with me. I was taken back to the same office where I had earlier spent most of the day.
I entered the office with my head held low. I was looking at the ground, with my hair falling all around my face. It was wet with my tears as they fell, uncontrollably.
I would have been grateful for any human comfort at that time, but none was forthcoming. I would have loved a drink of water even but I was too afraid to ask. In the court world of men I felt I was even the wrong sex and even that was my fault!
I felt that I could not trust anybody. I still believed I was going to jail.
‘You’re coming with me to the orphanage. You’ll be well looked after there,’ the cruelty officer said to me.
I stopped
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