Legacy
Authors: Jayne Olorunda
Legacy
By Jayne Olorunda
In memory of Abayomi âMax' Olorunda
Dedicated to my Mum and my sister Alison, who I would be lost without.
Published in 2014 by Maverick House Publishers
Office 19, Dunboyne Business Park, Dunboyne,
Co Meath, Ireland.
[email protected]
www.maverickhouse.com
The moral rights of the author have been asserted. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a newspaper, magazine or broadcast.
Foreword
Mum was once a strong, determined person, or so I was told. Personally, I found her quite flighty, almost silly although she did make me laugh. Granted she had her moments when she was sensibility itself, but these moments were glimpsed rarely, now they are so few and far between that I wonder if I imagined them. Mum always had some ridiculous stories and strange little ways; when it comes to the past, Mum's accuracy is scrupulous, yet when she talks about the present she confuses names, numbers and even addresses. She often told me that we had been cursed, that made me laugh the most; until now.
In the winter of 2010, Mum was placed in a secure mental health unit where she could no longer harm others and more importantly herself. It was during this time that I began to wonder about my mother tales. I began to question my scepticism, my persistent doubts, because surely no one could attract as much bad luck as Mum and my family.
Mum always loved to tell me about her youth, the fun she had had and the happiness that she experienced. She would tell me about my childhood and that of my sisters. Her stories were so vivid that I felt I was seeing what she saw and experiencing what she had experienced. She had a gift, a God given talent that allowed her to bring the spoken word to life. Anyone who listens to a true storyteller becomes a captive listener and for a time l was in the front row, her main audience. As I grew older Mum's tales became more and more frequent and to my shame, more and more irrelevant. I was constantly urging her to look forward and stop looking back, to say goodbye to yesterday.
I now care for Mum and try to maintain as stable a life as possible. It is ironic that I once a cynic, have come to see Mum's accounts of yesteryear as my way forward; necessary if I am to ever understand me, where I came from and who I am. Unexpectedly, Mum's story now holds the key to my present and the answers to why my family is such a strange little gathering. It explains the circumstances that led to us being unable to fit into any boxes.
Not fitting in has always been the root of our problems, for my family could be described as neither black nor white, not really Catholic, and not really Protestant, not really workingclass, yet not really middleclass. Hence the dilemma; we fitted in nowhere. Mum raised us in a no man's land. She did her best to get us out, but she never managed to steer us away from that place. She tried with all her might to follow the signposts to stability, happiness and security, but fate always intervened and gave them a little twist. No matter what direction she turned was wrong, her best intentions steered us deeper and deeper into nowhere.
Often she would reach out to a passer-by, asking and even screaming at them for help, but they were busy. Times had moved on and every one of them turned their back on her, leaving her there in that no man's land with no-one but her three children for company. Her children found life in no man's land difficult; those that left could not be blamed. I would never leave; I would never leave Mum alone in that cold place.
In their teens most children are passed houses, cars, knowledge or the family dynasty. I was left with no dynasty only that of picking up the pieces from a soiled legacy. The legacy of a man I did not know, whose existence and death had set in motion a chain of events that had such momentum they had taken on a life their own.
Last year the British Queen, the figurehead of the UK, met Martin McGuiness, the former commander of the IRA. Publically they shook hands to show how much Northern Ireland has moved on. To the outside world and those who went unscathed in the troubles, this historic handshake represented the current beliefs of the population. Yet what of the silent masses? The 3,000 plus dead and countless injured? As foes became friends, the widows, the widowers, the orphans, the brotherless, the sisterless and the maimed were pushed into Northern Irelands closet, the door was marked â
The Past'
and categorically closed. How did the occupants of the closet feel? Did the handshake reconcile their pain, did it bring back their dead, their lost limbs or minds, and did it heal their broken hearts? Or did they wonder as they watched the scene unfold, what was it all about? Countless lives wasted, seemingly atoned for with a simple shaking of hands.
For those like Mum who were left behind, there will never be peace; they carry their losses with them each and every living day. All the handshakes in the world cannot erase her memories nor undo the tattoo etched permanently yet invisibly across her psyche. All the victims have a story to tell; this is the story of just one victim and her unique family. A victim who fought against all to marry, who gave up on everyone and everything she knew to pursue her heart.
I will try to tell her tale as I see it, I will piece together stories she imparted to me and the stories from my memory to describe how it all unfolded. This is my account of my mother's story. What follows is my view of events.
Prologue
Part One
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.
© Max Ehrmann 1927
Chapter One
They say the grass is always greener on the other side and for Gabrielle's father never a truer phrase was uttered. Standing with him at the garden gate looking over the field beyond it, she would listen to him reminisce of when the country was one. He would pick her up on his broad shoulders and point just past the field to his beloved Ireland; for there and only there, was the grass truly green.
He loved to regale her with his family history of how they had come from Co. Mayo, bringing their âProtestant' name with them. When probed about this as he often was, he would scratch his head and inform his audience that in Co. Mayo his name was not a Protestant name, in Co Mayo it was the most Catholic name of them all. A more inquisitive person would ask her father about his unique colouring, something she often pondered over, for it was certainly true that he did not have an Irish complexion. Her father's hair was dark as the night and his skin a rich mahogany even in the harshest of winters. Yet her father would convince anyone who enquired that in Co. Mayo, all the natives were as dark as him. Her father convinced not only himself, but everyone he met that he was an Irishman through and through and with a conviction as firm and deep set as his, he was rarely doubted.
Gabrielle entered the world in 1951, a time of hope and prosperity. Born and raised in the border town of Strabane, Co Derry, she had an idyllic, carefree childhood. As the eldest of a large family she was fortunate to relish in being the only child for six years.
Then, the only thing she hated was school. Every day she was encouraged out the door with a little aid from her mother's constant companion, âthe stick'. Unfortunately, âthe stick' was to cross the generational gap and became an integral part of my childhood too.
For Gabrielle everything about school unsettled her, the huge grey crumbling building, the dank dingy corridors and most of all the wrinkled, torturous gargoyles called ânuns' who roamed them. The gargoyles were responsible for providing the then only cloud on her otherwise blue sky of a life. The gargoyles and their beloved dunce's cap, a great big red and blue striped hat emblazoned with âI am a dunce' became the bane of her childhood. Gabrielle spent most of her school days facing the front of the class, shamefacedly modelling the gargoyles carefully crafted couture.
Gabrielle had many friends, however her very best friend was a little Jack Russell terrier called Patch. Wherever Gabrielle went Patch followed, they were a twosome adored by the adults around them. This situation changed when Gabrielle reached the age of six, when her cosy
only child
bubble was burst.
It happened on an ordinary summer's day, she and Patch were playing when her mother casually informed her that the stork would be coming soon. The stork would bring her a little brother or sister. Now she wonders if a childish remark from her may have had some part in the storks visit. She remembers her mother entertaining guests whilst she was happily drawing in the corner. She wasn't normally privy to adult conversations, so as all children do when given the chance she soaked up every enticing little morsel. The women were talking about their husbands and sharing their beds; apparently it was a necessity to do this when you were married. If you didn't undertake the arduous task of sharing a bed, then children would never be granted. Gabrielle was utterly perplexed by the conversation as for as long as she could remember, her mother shared a bed with her. Questions began to form in her little mind; how on earth was
she
made then? Her internal dilemma and no doubt external facial contortions were obviously visible to all, as very soon one of the ladies noticed her exertion and asked,
“Gabrielle what's wrong?”
Gabrielle pondered briefly and answered.
“If Mummy and Daddy are married, why does Daddy sleep across the hall?”
She further explained. “When he thinks I'm asleep he gets all upset and calls for Mummy to join him, she calls him a dirty auld brute and tells him to get into his bed.”
Gabrielle's mother now a deep shade of scarlet bristled whilst the other ladies burst into raucous laughter; ever since her mother shared a bed with her father.
Unfortunately, for Gabrielle that summer's visit was not to be the first visit from the horrid stork, if she could have clutched that loathsome bird then and there she would have wrung its neck, plucked and stuffed it.
Instead in the absence of the elusive stork, she sought the travellers. They were never far from the doors of the town, regularly peddling anything from mats, to books and if you were very lucky they even took goods off your hands. Gabrielle hoped she would be very lucky, as
she
was about to offer them a whole new market,
she
would offer them her baby brother or sister and she wouldn't even set a price; as far as she was concerned they could have this little irritation for free.
Not even the travellers were interested.
She would just have to get the used to the idea of sharing her mother, father, grandmother, aunties, and uncles with this new little creature. She was not happy as like any only child who is â
blessed'
with a new sibling, she suspected that as soon as the new arrival came her life would change; no longer would her every whim be catered to, from now on she would have to share. This thought did not sit comfortably.
Sure enough the bloody stork came to her house delivering a little brother and a few years later delivering a sister. For the next twenty years it delivered another and yet another until her little house was full and she was well and truly dethroned. The storks delay between visits created an age gap, one that prevented Gabrielle from feeling close to her siblings. With the exception of her brother, she was in her teens when most of them were born. Perhaps this caused the fiercely independent streak that overshadowed her future and the future of those who would follow.
