"What will be will be"

A poem in defence of nun's
and for all those who deserved better.

I went there, and until my dying day will regret
that I ever heard of the place.
But as the song said: "What will be will be"
And my name is there on a plaque on the wall.
And no experience is an entirely bad experience.
For it to be bad, good has to be present - somewhere.

And I rubbed shoulders with the great:
two cardinals, before either of them knew that
"What will be will be".
And I sang solo for Sir. Malcolm Sergeant
before most of you had heard of him.
And I was a silent witness to a miracle in the Philharmonic Hall,
where a man with a stick knew how to use it.

As we left, I knew that the roughneck from Crossmaglen,
had been on the road to Damascus.
Undaunted by the eloquence of the orchestra,
this country yokel had opened his soul
to, "The Flight of the Bumble Bee".
And when he turned up in school with a melodeon
and didn't know what to do, and I taught him to play,
he took off like a bee, and flitting from tune to tune,
within weeks, was better than me.

We went to New Brighton when New Brighton was a place worth going to.
And to Chester, on an outing sponsored by a benefactor,
whom the nuns feared wouldn't be a benefactor, after some of us,
forgetting our manners, made pigs of ourselves in a posh hotel.

On a good day you couldn't tell the difference
between St. Vincent's and Bedlam.
The corridors were long and cold, and slamming doors
together with the incessant and discordant sound of pianos
echoed and re-echoed through the place.
In their spare time the Irish fought the English.
And one boy, disturbed by things other than his blindness,
poking his fingers into his eyes rocked mournfully too and fro.
While the twins, blind, and newly arrived,
and separated from their mother for the first time,
cried pitifully, for days.
John, cried out for "Joe". And Joe, cried out for "John".

It was a mad place!
A school and convent rolled into one,
with the sacred and profane cohabiting.
And where the nuns, taking prolonged refuge in the chapel
once a month, emerged refreshed. But,
"What will be will be",
and in the evenings as they prepared for school
it was to the strains of Paul Anka's
knowing and orgasmic lyrics booming down the corridor:
"Thrills I get when you hold me close. Oh! Diana! you're the most!"
But if it was a mad, mad, place, "thanks be to God"
there was only one "mad nun" in it.

But tell me God, why, after everything else I had to endure her?
That demented soul, who, with her brood gathered and coronet wagging,
told us, more than once, that the happiest day of her life
would be the day of her death.
But meantime, and with no less fervour,
she killed the spirit of many a lad, and told her brood:
"If I were you, I would take a leaf out of that new boy's book".
Meaning me!

For a term and a half and not used to such overt affection,
I enjoyed and moped on this kiss of death,
until experience and native cunning told me,
that this wasn't me.
So studiously I ignored her attentions,
and refused to join the brood of the weak and unthinking.
But instead, cried like a fountain cascading down the Glens of Antrim,
when a proclamation on the classroom door, declared me - bottom.

That was the first and only time that I was ever bottom of anything,
save in the mad nun's books.
There I was either top or bottom, never in the middle;
because in her pathetic existence, and for me,
there was no middle. But,
"What will be will be", and with others I had to endure
mindless pep talks, tolerate her tantrums,
and witness her picking on the weak, and making their lives a misery.

As in the early morning darkness, I a prefect,
stood to the side and watched, as her venom was directed at a lad
to whom she had taken an instant dislike.
Raising her hand, just before Mass, and whacking him across the face
she sent his glasses slithering across the polished floor.
And this, a school for the blind and partially sighted.

And a friend of mine with no talent, got a dispensation
and left early, for a job in an egg packing station.
And I left on schedule, with no job to go to, despite my industry and thrift,
and the fact that I could play, "Sonata in C", by Mozart. But,
"What will be will be", and before we "Irish boys", left, seemingly en masse,
Sister Aloysius had us sitting by the tress in the spring air on Sundays,
while she read from "Our Faith".
Conspicuous in her blue serge and white breastplate
and coming, (I think), from Galway; as she read and talked
I sensed that a part of her was leaving;
and that she really did care about what might happen to us
in a hostile world.

Principal of the school, she was pragmatic and without vanity.
So when naively I told her that I wasn't speaking to the mad nun,
she didn't say: "how dare you! you insolent boy!"
But contented herself with: "You must always speak with the sisters".

And what of that English Rose, whom all the boys loved,
but whom I loved and feared in equal measure, Sister Clare,
who gave the lie to the cruel jibe, that nuns were "jilted women."
Young, vivacious, scholarly and committed, she drove herself to distraction
trying to teach me and others Latin.
And when she awoke one morning, to find that she had lost the sight of one eye,
it was as though a sword had pierced all our hearts.
And when, after months of convalescence, she appeared and smiled
and I saw the colour in her cheeks, that hadn't been there before;
I knew how easy it was, for someone as dynamic and selfless,
to have been neglected.

And Sister Marie.
A country bumpkin from somewhere in Ireland,
who had a wonderfully fresh and youthful face,
sparkling eyes, a ready smile, a sense of fun,
and a presence in her posture that was rare.
And who spent her days in boots, in the steam sodden laundry.
And against whom I might have borne a grudge,
for preventing me and a lovely young woman employee
from defining puberty more accurately, but
that she did it with assurance and grace.

And Sister Margaret, retired, and still sacristan.
A gentle woman, who wouldn't have said "boo to a goose."
'Who talked fondly of Newry, and probably hadn't been there
for fifty years.

And lastly, Reverend Mother, Sister Lucy.
A bulwark of a Lancastrian, who,
arriving after me, was there when I left.
If ever a woman knew how to call a spade a spade,
it was Sister Lucy; and she called me "laddie".
And deep in my soul I knew that she was good for the nuns
and therefore - good for us.
On my way to a party and complaining of pain in my tummy, she said:
"Ho ho laddie! you've come to the right place",
and thrust me through the door,
and I never felt better.

And since, "What will be will be", and the past is eternally present,
the good, as well as the bad,
I must write about what I know, and in defence of nuns.
And never mind the terrible truth, that I returned home,
a stranger,
and lost,
in my own home town.
__________

© Cormac McCloskey

Note: This poem was amended on 22nd November 2010, / 17th February 2011 / 2nd February 2011

N.B. Archbishop Godfrey of Liverpool, and his successor Archbishop Heenan, both in turn became the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster.

Sir Malcolm Sergeant was a guest of the adjudicator, at a singing competition at Rushworth & Drapers in Liverpool. A competition in which I came second. And as I remember it, I would have come first, but that I sang the last line of each of the two verse the same, when there was in fact a slight variation. The verse that I remember is:

Is it I wonder a rum thing,
or nothing to wonder upon?
That when ever a man's doing something,
there's always a boy looking on.
He may stand for hours like a dumb thing.
But this can be counted upon.
That wherever a man's doing something,
there's always a boy looking on.

Sir Charles Groves , Principal Conductor of the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra gave lunchtime concerts for schools.

St Vincent's School is in the West Derby district of Liverpool. In my time there, 1954-58, it was run by the Sisters of Charity of St Vincent de Paul. Even by the standards of those days, the level of education that if offered was well below the norm. Something that the nuns were aware of. And which they tried to address, (for some of us), by adding Latin to the curriculum. An experiment that failed. This lagging behind, was due in part, to the general expectation of what could be achieved for children with disabilities. But another factor in the low achievement was, that the nuns allowed their hearts to rule their heads. It wasn't in their nature to say no. And as a consequence, there were a significant number of children at the school, who had multiple problems. Undoubtedly that had a bearing on what was seen as possible, in terms of academic achievement.

How I cam to be there, and why I was left there, though interesting, is probably for another time.

N.B. This, informal poem, reflects my experience, and response to life at St. Vincent's. And it is not intended, either directly or indirectly, to be a reflection on the school as it is today.