Opinion

Tom Collins: Surviving life in St Colman's College with Fr Malachy Finegan

Tom Collins

Tom Collins

Tom Collins is an Irish News columnist and former editor of the newspaper.

St Colman's College in Newry, where paedophile priest Fr Malachy Finegan worked from 1967 and was president from 1976 to 1987
St Colman's College in Newry, where paedophile priest Fr Malachy Finegan worked from 1967 and was president from 1976 to 1987 St Colman's College in Newry, where paedophile priest Fr Malachy Finegan worked from 1967 and was president from 1976 to 1987

Surviving life in the school for scandal I’d never really thought of it as abuse. Violence was an accepted part of college life, so much so that in one class we made it a sport. We kept a table of how many times we could get caned in a term by a particular priest.

I wasn’t a troublemaker, but I was an attention seeker, and my memory tells me I was caned more than 100 times that term and still didn't make first place. We did not regard him as an ogre, but it’s fair to say he was well-practised at his art. He aimed for the finger tips with unerring accuracy.

Another priest, who found God through the Charismatics after he’d left St Colman’s, trained one of the Gaelic teams. He incapacitated one of his star players with a misjudged swipe of a cane.

As 11-year-old freshers, having negotiated induction (a ducking down a toilet bowl) we were shown a hole in a blackboard – allegedly caused by a priest-teacher whose victim had ducked just in time.

I could go on.

Malachy Finegan is accused of a catalogue of physical and emotional abuse
Malachy Finegan is accused of a catalogue of physical and emotional abuse Malachy Finegan is accused of a catalogue of physical and emotional abuse

I imagine the experience in countless other Catholic schools in the seventies wasn’t that different. Like much of what was going on around us, violence was institutionalised, and all too visible. Bonitas, disciplina, scientia was the college motto – goodness, discipline, knowledge.

One classmate was brought to college in an army helicopter after a night’s interrogation - from the caring arms of the state to the benevolent trust of the Church. I’m not sure who whipped him more.

And then there was Malachy Finegan.

Flappy we called him because of his jug ears. I remember disbelief at his appointment as president after Francis Brooks’ elevation to the See of Dromore. I admired Brooks, but couldn’t comprehend why he had chosen Finegan. I am sure I was not alone.

Finegan was touchy-feely, with little sense of ‘personal space’. He was also a snob and had favourites – inevitably boys from better-off families, and there were lots from Belfast’s Malone Road. In the midst of the Troubles, St Colman’s was regarded as a ‘safe place’ to learn.

He drove a flash car and had a passion for golf. It was only after reading Kevin Winters’ story in the Irish News that I remembered the darkened room that was his office. Canes and belts would not have been worth noting. They were literally part of the furniture.

Finegan was a powerful figure. But he was not respected.

Going into Newry on Saturday afternoons was a perk of being a sixth form boarder. Early in his presidency, some guys were late back and Finegan imposed a ban. I was in fifth year and unaffected.

When we woke up on Sunday morning, AFC (Anti-Flappy Campaign) stickers obliterated the pictures of him on the college walls - ironic given the recent decision to airbrush him out of history. The sixth form had launched a campaign of civil disobedience.

Finegan supervised breakfast. We were told to eat slowly so he would miss his. 120 boys eating cornflakes one flake at a time is something to behold. Instead of chatter, there was silence. A colleague rescued him and we finished eating before he’d barely left the refectory.

At Mass the president gave out communion with the officiating priest. We all lined up on the priest’s side of the chapel. Finegan stood, the body of Christ in his hands, snubbed. We feared the sixth form more than him.

I can think of no greater insult to a priest than the deliberate refusal to accept communion from him.

After Mass he faced us. “Boys,” he said. “I don’t want war.” And he capitulated. Instead of once a month, we could go home every weekend; the sixth form could go into town any day after class without permission, and they could go to bed when they wanted – lights out would normally have been 10.20pm or so.

We held him in even greater contempt after that. As well as being obnoxious, he showed himself to be a spineless coward.

Once someone defecated on a desk. Finegan made us draw lots for who would deal with it. “Unfit for humans to clean up,” he told us. Impersonating him later, a friend finished the line. “This is unfit for humans to clean up, so I will do it myself,” he said in Finegan’s voice.

Like all the priests I have mentioned, Finegan was a product of the college: from pupil to Maynooth to teacher.

As students we did not know – or possibly want to know - what was going on behind closed doors. But we knew he was not fit for office. It is unquestionable that others knew too.