Loco Parentis

One day Mrs Breen saw Roger belting Jerry outside Fahy's shop, on Connaught Street Bridge.

"Roger, why are you hitting your brother?" she asked.

"Because he wouldn't do what he was told," he answered.

It was the culture of the time that older children were put in charge of younger children. You would often see a ten year old girl in charge of a whole clatter of younger kids. The older child was given responsibility to keep the others under control.

So, Roger, though only six or seven at the time, I imagine, whether with  delegated or assumed authority, was responsible for Jerry's behaviour. He had to keep Jerh under control, and disciplined him the same way my father would have disciplined himself.

It may very well be that the whole expedition was unauthorised, for Roger would often disregard the parental instruction not to go "beyond the silver lampost," (which marked the boundary of the Keyhole). Roger would sometimes take a few pence off the mantel-piece and sneak off to the shops for sweets. If Jerry was with him on the street, he would, of course, take Jerry with him, and then would feel responsible to get Jerry home safe again.

A few years later, he took me to the shops on such an expedition. He and Dessie Breen had acquired a pocket-full of cash. They bought a big bag of sweets each, and then went down the laneway of the Tramway Cottages to guzzle them down in this secret hide-away. This lane was out of bounds, because it was a hangout for older lads. While Rodge and Des apparently thought this was great fun, I felt very uncomfortable and found no enjoyment at all, in a forbidden place, on a guilty expedition, trying to stuff sugary sweets hurriedly into my gullet.

Since Roger was the senior brother, whatever happened to any of the three brothers, when out and about, Roger got the blame 

I mention elsewhere how I was conscious, as a wobbler, of Roger being blamed for my misbehavior in crawling into the city of sticks in our front garden.

When Jerry fell off Kelly's wall and cut his hand, Roger got the blame. Well, it wasn't actually Kelly's wall and Jerry didn't actually fall off the wall, if I remember correctly. The wall continued from Kelly's to bound a bit of waste ground, but we called it Kelly's. Jerry jumped down, as anyone would, and, landing on all fours, cut his hand on a bit of glass someone had discarded on the waste ground.

We were not supposed to climb up on Kelly's wall, but climbing walls was great fun. Why was Roger blamed for Jerry's climbing? Well, he was, as oldest, in loco parentis!

We were having great fun, another day, playing on our hands and knees in the sandhills of Dollymount, when Jerry cut his knee on a bit of glass hidden in the sand. Again, Roger got the blame.

When Irish dancing came to St Peter's School, I was too young to enroll. Roger and Jerry quickly lost enthusiasm for the classes, but the parental decision was that they had to continue. The numbers fell and the classes, amalgamating with others, moved to a premises in town. After my seventh birthday, I was old enough to enroll, and persisted in my demand to be let go to the classes, despite Roger's best efforts to discourage me. So, one fine Saturday morning, the three of us set off for the classes. 

We were supposed to get two buses to get there, one bus to O'Connell Bridge, and another bus from there down to the Macushla Ballroom. However, we got off the first bus at Nelson's Pillar, and, walking down Talbot Street, saved the second bus-fare for sweets.

When we reached the ballroom, Roger said it was too early to go in, so we sat on the steps outside, playing jack-stones. When the pupils started to come out, (by a small side-door), Roger said it was too late to go in, so we set off for home. Roger could not bear to face the dance teacher, with whom he was obviously on very bad terms. I was warned not to be a telltale tattler. 

Seven years' old, I was deemed to have reached the Use of Reason and was preparing for my First Confession. I had to decide which was the Greater Evil, telling lies or Tell-Tale-Tattling. 

I knew what my father would say: "A lie is always sinful and nothing can excuse it."

The consequences for Roger, if I came clean about the dancing class, would be severe. He would be taken into the sitting room and told to take down his trousers. Then he would receive ten or twenty lashes of the leather belt on his bare back-side.

So I broached my dilemma quietly to my mother.

She told me how, when she was a child, her big brothers were fighting for Ireland's freedom, in the War of Independence. If she told where she believed they were hiding, they would be executed. So, sometimes, telling tales may be the greater evil.

"Perhaps," she said, "the best thing would be to tell the truth about your own actions, and let others answer for themselves."

So, I said to her that I had not attended the dancing class. The upshot was that the dancing classes were quietly abandoned by the Killeens, and I never got to learn how to dance.

Another sin I had to bring under control was Anger. As the youngest of three brothers my preference was constantly over-ruled. I could take a lot of putting down, but sometimes I would explode into a fierce temper. From being "Poor Little Francie" I would transform into an incredible hulk, fists flying in a frenzy like Cú Chulainn in battle, and, though Roger was three years older than me, in this condition, I could, and often did, make mince meat of him.

Adults advised that I should control my temper, but Jesus himself said to me, "Be angry and sin not."








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