No One Wants You (10 page)

I stopped talking to other people about my parents. I began to only think about them in private.

The strange part of the revelation was that I found the story about my father acceptable. I believed that he was a very important solicitor, with a large family, who would be scandalised, and that maybe the whole fabric of society might be damaged if this important man was to be embarrassed in any way, because of the public exposure of my illegitimate existence. So I concentrated on my mother.

I became consumed by my mother.

I became consumed by her actions.

I became consumed by the decisions she made.

I became consumed by the consequences of her decisions.

I became consumed by the fact that she had never tried to find me.

I became consumed by the fact that she had consigned me to the scrap-heap of life.

I became consumed by the fact that she had condemned me, as a young child, her daughter, to a life of sexual degradation, at the whims of uncontrolled paedophiles.

I became consumed by my mother, absolutely!

How could any mother do those things to her young daughter? How could my mother do any of those horrible things to me?

The more I thought about it, the more it affected me. My behaviour changed. I became difficult and uncooperative about my work duties. I couldn’t stop myself looking sad. Over the previous 18 months, I had earned the nickname ‘Smiler’, as my demeanour was always bright and happy and I always had a smile on my face, but it was not always a happy smile. I reasoned that if I smiled at everyone, I would not get into trouble with anyone. It didn’t really work and most of the smiling faces that I wore were yet another attempt at personal survival.

I persisted in asking the nuns when I could meet my mother. I never gave up asking to meet her. After about a year, Sister Bernadette had a message delivered to me, to tell me that she had arranged for my mother to visit me. She was to arrive at the orphanage on a Sunday afternoon, three weeks later. I was over the moon with excitement. I was unable to sleep at night. Every thought that ran through my mind concerned my mother.

What would she look like?

Would she like me?

Would I be acceptable to her?

I was 14 and a half years of age and this would have been the first time that I would have met my mother, the only time since the day that she gave me away, at five months of age.

All the preparations were in place. But it was not to be. I came down with the mumps and so the visit was cancelled.

I was so ill on the day that I couldn’t even get out of bed. I remember I was just left in the dormitory all day. I was heartbroken. I was so disappointed that I had been unable to meet my mother for the first time. But I was optimistic that another visit could be rearranged quickly – it was not to be.

* * * *

When we reached the age of 15, the nuns used to find us jobs outside the orphanage. It was a sort of training for becoming a housemaid. We would go and work for families during the day and we would return to the orphanage at night. We were not paid any wages for this work as it was considered training. We would stay for a period of three months with one family and then we would be swapped around to another house. It was slave labour and to this day I feel that the nuns owe me my pay. I had about five such jobs, one in a pub and others in some posh houses before I left the orphanage for good.

At the age of 16 it was time for me to leave the orphanage and face the big, wide world on a permanent basis. In other words, I was now ready to have a paying job and learn to make my own way in the world. In reality, my credentials for earning a living were very poor. I had no formal education to speak of. I was barely literate. My strengths revolved around the fact that I had experience of cleaning toilets and floors, peeling vegetables and changing babies’ dirty nappies. Yes, I was qualified to work as a housemaid.

I was released into the care of a Mrs Wall from Dublin in the beginning. She was a Limerick woman who had moved to Dublin and I was to be her housemaid. The job only lasted three weeks and I was returned to the orphanage at the Mount because there was a job available to me, as a
housemaid
in a large farming house on the outskirts of Limerick City, if I successfully passed an interview. I was given the address of the house, with rather vague directions telling me how to get there. I was to present myself for interview at two o’clock in the afternoon of the following day. I had worked outside the high walls of the orphanage for the previous two years so I had some knowledge of how to navigate my way around the city. I had no money for a taxi, or even a bus. I had to walk. I asked a large number of people for directions and eventually found the address. The lady of the house met me at the door. She asked me to come in and take a seat. An old friend of hers was visiting her and she told me he was going to interview me, as well as herself. She reassured me that the interview was nothing elaborate. She said that they were just going to ask me a few simple questions. Her friend turned out to be a priest, Father Bernard O’Dea. He was a Benedictine priest from a local school nearby.

Mrs Cooke asked me easy questions, like my name, my age, how long I was at the orphanage and what kind of work I did there. I answered all her questions as best I could. She seemed pleased enough with my answers. Then Father Bernard asked about my education. What class was I in at school? I told him that I had hardly ever been to school. He asked me if I could read and write. In a very low voice, I said that I could. He asked me to write my name on a piece of paper, which he handed to me, along with a pen. I wrote what I considered to be my name, Celine Clifford. I had always practised writing my name. I was not sure why I practised writing it so much. Maybe it was because I liked it, but later in life I felt that it reassured me that I actually was a person, in my own right.

Then he asked me to write the sentence ‘the dog barked long and loudly’. I was able to spell ‘the’ and ‘dog’ but I was not able to spell the other words. I attempted the entire
sentence
, but I am sure the writing was illegible. He looked at it, and said, ‘Thank you, Celine.’

He then nodded at Mrs Cooke.

She said, ‘Let me show you the house and I’ll tell you what your duties would be as we go along.’

When the tour was over, she announced that the pay was two pounds and ten shillings a week ‘all found’, with a half day off per week. She asked me, ‘Do you think that you would be able for it?’

‘Yes,’ I answered shakily. The nuns had warned me that if I was offered the job, I was to accept it, there and then.

‘Are the terms acceptable to you?’ asked Father Bernard.

I nodded that they were.

‘Well then,’ said Mrs Cooke, ‘I am prepared to offer you the position, do you accept? Or, do you need time to think about it?’

‘No, no,’ I blurted, ‘I would be delighted to accept the position, Mrs Cooke.’

‘When can you start?’ she asked.

‘On Monday morning next, if that suits you,’ I recited.

‘Well, that is settled then,’ said Mrs Cooke. ‘Bring your belongings around on Sunday evening. You can move in then, and start on Monday morning.’

As I got up to leave, Father Bernard stood up, came over to me, shook my hand and said, ‘I am delighted to have met you, Celine. I am sure we will meet quite often, as I visit Mrs Cooke regularly.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ I responded.

I was not to know at that moment in time what a valuable and important role Father Bernard O’Dea would play in my life, for many years to come.

I started working for Mrs Cooke on the following Monday as planned. The work was not too hard. Mrs Cooke was middle-aged and was somewhat unwell at the time. She couldn’t do any kind of manual work around the house. She
tired
easily and her doctor had recommended that she rest as much as she could.

Her husband was dead. She lived with her two children who I used to get ready for school. When I had finished my daily duties, most of the remainder of my time was spent listening to her. She wanted, or needed, someone to talk to. I filled that role. It was busy yet enjoyable, just listening to her ramble on about old times. I grew to be a good listener. Father Bernard came to visit about once a week, except when he was away on his travels. He seemed to travel to many exotic parts of the world.

For my first real job, I could not have had a better start. Mrs Cooke was extremely kind to me, and I looked forward to Father Bernard’s weekly visits, as they both included me in their conversations. This alone made me feel acceptable. I would have liked an increase in my weekly wage, but this was not forthcoming. I was afraid to ask for it, so my disposable income remained low.

While still working for Mrs Cooke, I wrote to Sister Bernadette, with Father Bernard’s help, requesting a meeting with my mother. Instead of posting the letter myself, Father Bernard said that he would post it on his way home. Thinking about it now, I think that he contacted Sister Bernadette directly, either by telephone or in person. I think that his intervention was responsible for what happened next.

In July 1965 I received a letter from Sister Bernadette informing me that she had arranged for me to visit the convent at the Mount, where I would meet my mother. The letter said that she would contact me to arrange a date that would be mutually suitable to both my mother and I. My world was turned upside-down once again, as I thought about meeting my mother for the first time.

I was not contacted to see what date might be suitable for me to meet my mother, but I received another letter from
Sister
Bernadette one week later. She told me to present myself at the Mount Convent at three o’clock, on Tuesday afternoon of the following week. The letter politely informed me that my mother would be present, accompanied by her sister.

My every waking thought for the next two weeks was concentrated on the meeting. I fantasised about every aspect of the meeting.

We would fall into each other’s arms.

We would hug each other for a long time.

She would call me her long-lost daughter.

She would say that at long last we have been reunited.

She would tell me that I was coming home with her that very day.

She would tell me how much she missed me.

She would tell me that she had been searching for me for years.

She would cry her heart out and plead with me to forgive her.

She would promise me that she would make up for lost time with me.

She would explain to me, ‘Why?’

It was five minutes to three o’clock on that fateful Tuesday. The scene was set. The players were in place. At age 17, I was ready to meet my mother for the first time. It was a beautiful sunny summer afternoon.

I rang the doorbell at the side of the big heavy wooden front door of the convent. I had agonised over my clothes for days. Eventually I chose a turquoise blue suit. Underneath it was a floral blouse. A pair of blue shoes complemented the clothes, to complete the outfit. I thought it was in good taste, and felt comfortable in it. My hair was long, blonde and curly.

I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted to be acceptable in every way.

A young nun that I did not recognise opened the door. At her shoulder was Sister Bernadette, who greeted me. She directed me into the wood panelled parlour. I recognised the sweet smell of the lavender floor polish. Sister Bernadette directed me to sit on a seat, by the wall opposite the door. ‘Your mother has not arrived yet, but will be here in a few minutes,’ she reassured me.

Within two minutes the front doorbell rang again. My pulse began to race. I could hear the young nun walk across the hall floor. I began to feel really nervous. As the front door opened, I heard two or more women’s voices. The palms of my hands were sweating. Sister Bernadette must have recognised the voices because she left the room to greet the visitors. My floral blouse was wringing wet.

The door opened, and Sister Bernadette ushered two women into the room. The first lady was tall and blonde. She wore a navy dress and jacket. Her face was quite expressionless and her head was tilted back slightly, to give her an air of haughtiness. I thought that she was such a posh, elegant lady. I knew immediately that this was my mother. The lady with her wore a yellow dress and a brown cardigan. She looked dowdy by comparison with her sister. Sister Bernadette ushered the two ladies to the opposite side of the large room, directly across from me.

I stood up, in preparation for the long walk across the room to hug my mother. ‘Celine, I would like you to meet your mother,’ said Sister Bernadette, and without pausing continued, ‘Doreen, I would like you to meet your daughter, Celine.’ At this, I broke down in tears and hung my head.

None of us moved.

I wanted to move but I was rooted to the spot. I had trained myself over the years not to initiate physical contact. But to my shock, my mother did not move towards me.

She just said, in a distant cold voice, ‘Hello, Celine.’

Though I desperately wanted to, I was unable to mutter even a single syllable. The silence in the room was palpable. Sister Bernadette initiated conversation with my mother’s sister. Instead of coming across the room to me which I desperately wanted her to do, my mother turned towards them and joined their conversation. I was still sobbing uncontrollably, but my mother ignored me completely.

My mother, her sister and the nun were having a conversation about people in my family. I heard names mentioned but I did not know who they were talking about. I thought the names of the children were lovely.

There was another lull in the conversation. My aunt gave a brown paper bag to my mother. My mother then walked across the room towards me. I thought, at last she is going to hug me.

I found it hard to stop crying. My breathing was very irregular and I could not speak a word.

My eyes were trying to say what I felt. ‘If she could hear what I was saying through my eyes, she would respond as any mother in this situation would,’ I thought.