I think I was about 6 years old when my parents got involved in BreakAway, a respite programme for children with mental disabilities run by St. John of God's in Islandbridge. My parents explained to my brother and I that a little boy would be coming to us for his holidays, and they told us about some of the special children they had met. The school chose a match for us and in time we got an occasional foster brother, John. He was between my brother and I in age, a difference of no more than a few months. He was the second eldest of nine at home, raised by his mother in a council house in Ballyfermot. We didn't always go into the house when we were picking him up; the local kids chased the car down the street to tell Chrissie that we were coming.
John smelled damp to me, and he always seemed to have snots crusting on his nostrils. He had Down Syndrome. I didn't know what that meant. I knew that he was special and that he loved to be held and hugged, but I was frightened of him and I found him disgusting. Dirty. He always wanted a part in our games but we were close, and I resented his intrusion. Two years earlier, we'd cornered my mother and accused her of loving our new baby sister more than she loved us. I never for a minute thought that she loved John more than us - he was such hard work. But he commanded her attention. He'd run away, he'd shout and swear. "Fuck! Baldy bollix!" he'd roar at the neighbour. He took a piss in our paddling pool.
One morning, when he came in to call us because he'd wet the bed, I threw a shoe at him. I got down from my top bunk, picked up a sandal and threw it at him. Then I threw its match. My brother joined me, and we pelted John with the shoes that had been lined up neatly along the skirting board. He cowered in the doorway, calling for my mam, naked from the waist down, his urine-soaked pyjama bottoms lying on the landing carpet.
John smelled damp to me, and he always seemed to have snots crusting on his nostrils. He had Down Syndrome. I didn't know what that meant. I knew that he was special and that he loved to be held and hugged, but I was frightened of him and I found him disgusting. Dirty. He always wanted a part in our games but we were close, and I resented his intrusion. Two years earlier, we'd cornered my mother and accused her of loving our new baby sister more than she loved us. I never for a minute thought that she loved John more than us - he was such hard work. But he commanded her attention. He'd run away, he'd shout and swear. "Fuck! Baldy bollix!" he'd roar at the neighbour. He took a piss in our paddling pool.
One morning, when he came in to call us because he'd wet the bed, I threw a shoe at him. I got down from my top bunk, picked up a sandal and threw it at him. Then I threw its match. My brother joined me, and we pelted John with the shoes that had been lined up neatly along the skirting board. He cowered in the doorway, calling for my mam, naked from the waist down, his urine-soaked pyjama bottoms lying on the landing carpet.
