No One Wants You (11 page)

If my mother had thrown her arms around me and said, ‘I love you,’ I would have forgiven her everything, there and then. I would have forgiven her for the 17 years of sexual abuse, pain, torture, starvation and deprivation that I had suffered through.

She stopped in front of me, more than an arm’s length away from me. As she began to speak, I think I realised subconsciously that the physical distance between us represented an emotional chasm.

‘I think that you should change your name by deed poll, to a completely different name, so that nobody will find out who you are. I do not want anybody to realise that I am related to you,’ my mother said to me. ‘I think that it would be better, for all concerned, if you could go and work in
America
. Nobody would know who you are there. I will never admit that you are my daughter. Here are some presents for you. These are rosary beads and white scapulars. Both of those came from a grand-aunt of yours. She is a nun in America. Oh, I nearly forgot, here is some Roses’ hand cream from your Aunt Rosaleen,’ whom she pointed to across the room, as if in introduction. In her own friendly, yet distant, way, Aunt Rosaleen waved daintily at me.

‘We will be going now, and I wish you well in the future,’ my mother said to me, in final farewell.

She turned away from me.

‘Come, Rosaleen,’ she commanded. ‘Thank you so much, Sister Bernadette,’ she said to the nun, as all three disappeared out of the parlour.

I heard no more conversation.

She was gone! And she had not shed even one tear. She had not even touched me. Sister Bernadette came back into the room. I later found out that my grandmother had gone to school in Laurel Hill, Limerick, with Sister Bernadette.

‘Will you be all right?’ she enquired, as she held the parlour door open for me.

It was obvious that it was time for me to leave. The heavy outside door was already open. She led my slouched shoulders and my heavy heart through it, out into the bright sunlight.

‘Well, goodbye, Celine. If you need me for anything that you think is important, please write to me. You have my address,’ said Sister Bernadette.

With my mother’s speech ringing in my ears, I walked back to Mrs Cooke’s house. At least I must have walked back to the house. I do not remember. I was so traumatised, that the remainder of that afternoon, even now, is a complete blank.

I was up bright and early for my work, the following morning.

SIX

Daring to Dream

FOR THE NEXT
six months I remained with Mrs Cooke, working as a housemaid. She had a bad heart and she became progressively weaker. She was unable to do even the slightest physical exercise, without having to rest for a long period afterwards. As her condition worsened, she was unable to climb the stairs so she decided to live downstairs.

She had her bed moved down to the large sitting room. Her doctor and Father Bernard O’Dea seemed to be the only visitors that she received. To her doctor, she was a patient who required his medical services, and their relationship was business-like. But Father Bernard was a special friend. She was well able to socialise with him. She called him Bernard and he called her Peggy. They seemed to have a close friendly relationship.

My duties as a housemaid became less and less formal. Most of my time revolved around Mrs Cooke’s daily needs. I had to cook her light meals, when she felt hungry. I had to prop her up in bed when she slumped down off her pillows. I had to help her go to the bathroom, when she needed it. I had to give her a bed bath, as she was unable to wash herself. But most of the time I was required to sit and talk to her, or to sit and listen to her.

Mrs Cooke and I got on very well together. While her
body
was lethargic and unable to sustain itself physically, her mind was bright and as active as ever. She used to have
The Irish Independent
newspaper delivered every morning and read it from cover to cover, over the course of the day.

One day she called me over to the bed.

‘Celine,’ she said. ‘Would you be so kind as to read the newspaper to me aloud today, as my arms do not have the strength to hold the paper aloft?’

‘I will try my best,’ I stuttered. ‘I cannot read very well.’

‘Of course you can, everyone can read these days,’ she insisted.

I took the newspaper, and looked at the front page.

‘What would you like me to read for you?’ I asked sheepishly, as I tried to find some familiar words, as well as the shortest possible ones.

‘Start on the front page, read any article you like,’ she said in anticipation.

After about five minutes of my reading to her, she said crossly, ‘Stop child. You really cannot read. I cannot believe it. How can you expect to get on in life if you cannot read?’ she asked me, incredulously. ‘We will have to remedy this, my girl.’

Father Bernard called that particular afternoon to see Mrs Cooke. As soon as he was settled, sitting at Mrs Cooke’s bedside, with a cup of tea, and a piece of porter cake, Mrs Cooke raised the topic of my illiteracy.

‘This lovely young girl is only able to communicate verbally, Bernard. She is unable to read or write,’ she scolded. ‘You being a man of letters, Bernard, will you help her? I need somebody to read my newspaper to me in the mornings.’

‘I would be delighted to assist,’ he said.

‘I want you to promise me that you will ensure that she will be able to read and write perfectly, even if I am not here to supervise her progress. Will you promise me that?’ she exhorted.

‘When you put it to me so strongly, it does not look like I have much of a choice,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I would be delighted to help and if I make you a promise, I will adhere to it.’

‘Would you like me to help you, Celine?’ he asked me.

‘Yes, I would like that very much, Father Bernard,’ I replied earnestly, and I meant it.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can start today. You can write me a letter telling me all about yourself. We will proceed from there. A letter will give me some idea of how much you already know. Here is my address.’

My first attempt must have been somewhat less than satisfactory, as it took me the best part of two weeks to write two pages. I must have used ten envelopes just trying to write his address correctly. But I loved it. I was determined to be able to read and write perfectly.

After he received my first epistle, he brought my letter back to me on his next visit to Mrs Cooke. He had corrected all my misspellings. There were so many, but all his comments were positive and encouraging. I wrote him a letter as often as I could, sometimes two or three per week, telling him different aspects of my life but keeping many things about my past hidden.

He never complained. He continued to correct my misspellings and always commented positively. He encouraged me to read more, and gradually both my reading and my writing began to improve noticeably.

I began to visit Father Bernard at his home, which was only a short walk away at Glenstal Abbey, on my half-day off each week. We used to have tea and biscuits at the Abbey, and he would talk to me about life in general. On one of my visits to him, I told him that I wanted to be a nurse. I expected him to laugh and say that it would be impossible without examinations. But he did not ridicule me. Instead, he said that he would write me a reference, and he gave me
some
advice on what to expect, if I set out on my journey towards a career in nursing.

In between times, while I was learning to read and write, and dreaming about a career as a registered nurse, I used to go to dances with some of my friends from the orphanage. Many of them were also working as housemaids in various wealthy houses around the city of Limerick. We used to meet, usually at a dance in the Jetland Ballroom, on a Sunday night. We had great times, laughing and giggling about the sometimes funny characteristics of our respective employers.

These shared experiences were also great when it came to knowing how to deal with the unwanted advances of the husbands of employers. Alcohol was usually the reason behind their indiscretions. The talks were also useful for sharing shortcuts and making life easier for us poor skivvies. We were generally regarded as the lowest form of life by our employers, and were exploited in any and every way possible.

At one of these Sunday night dances I met a fellow called Michael.

He asked me to dance, and I said yes. The dance ended and he asked me to stay for a fast dance. I accepted once again. The band played a medley of rock and roll Elvis-type songs. He whisked me up and down the floor. I was exhausted but impressed. He asked me to ‘stay with him’ for the remainder of the night, which I did. He was a superb dancer and he wore his hair in the Elvis style. I really thought that he was lovely.

After the dance he took me home in his black Morris Minor car. He asked if he could meet me again, on the following Sunday night. He said that I was one of the best dancers that he had ever seen. He said that he would collect me before the dance, next time. I just nodded my head. I was too pleased to speak.

On the following Sunday evening he called for me at Mrs Cooke’s house. This time he had a motorbike as transport.
He
told me how to hold on to him, as we were speeding along. I was scared silly trying to get my balance. As we went around corners, the motorbike would lean over, and I used to think that I would surely fall off and be killed. I eventually got used to the technique of ‘lean into the bend, will ya,’ and really enjoyed the thrill of speed.

Michael used to ride that motorbike very fast. I think he wanted to try to scare me. The high speeds did frighten me at first, but then the thrill of the speed also excited me. I used to urge him on, ever faster, once I got used to it. He did not seem to get as much pleasure, once he realised that I was not as scared as he would have liked. He told me that I had a bit of a tomboy streak in me.

After a Sunday night dance, we were sitting in the Morris Minor just down the road from Mrs Cooke’s house, kissing. We always kissed in the car after a dance, before I went home. That is all we ever did, just kissed.

‘Will you marry me, Celine?’ he asked, while retreating from my lips, after a long, lingering kiss.

‘Yes, Michael, I will,’ I said, without pausing for thought.

‘Great, I really want us to get married,’ he added.

‘Does this mean that we are now engaged?’ I asked gingerly.

‘Yes, it surely does,’ he assured me.

‘I’ll see you next Sunday so,’ he said, as he leaned across me to open the car door, so I could get out of the car.

For the next two weeks I told all my friends that I had become engaged.

‘You’re up the pole, aren’t ya?’ some of my friends taunted me.

Being well familiar with the language used, I assured them that it was not the case.

‘Well, you’re a fuckin’ eejit so,’ they said in reply.

But I was officially engaged, as far as anyone was concerned, and that was final. A few of my friends did think
that
I should tell Sister Bernadette, as I was still technically her ‘case’.

‘It is none of her business,’ I replied.

But a doubt was created in my mind and it niggled me for days.

After a few days the guilt got the better of me, so I wrote her a letter, informing her of my momentous decision to get married. I described Michael as best I could. It was a short letter, as I did not know too much about him. She wrote back to me by return. She reminded me that she was the contact between my mother and grandmother, and my ‘auntie nuns’, as she referred to them. She invited myself and my fiancé, Michael, to lunch.

That lunch was to be on May 27, 1967, in the convent, at Mount Trenchard, Foynes, County Limerick, where she was then based. I felt uncomfortable about the entire set-up. We drove there in the Morris Minor, and were treated to a pleasant but uncomfortable convent lunch. Afterwards, Sister Bernadette suggested that I should wait in the chapel, whilst she took Michael for a walk in the convent grounds. She said that she wanted to tell him about my family and background. I now felt extremely uncomfortable.

That day was to be the end of our engagement.

They came back from their walk after about an hour. They collected me at the chapel and after the usual pleasantries with Sister Bernadette, we left the convent. He drove about two miles outside the town and pulled the car into the side of the road. He had not looked me in the eye since we met in the chapel. He told me that he would have to break off our engagement.

‘Why?’ I asked. I already knew the reason.

He said that he could not handle what Sister Bernadette had told him. He said that he came from a huge family of thirteen brothers and sisters. He said that he could not tell this large clan that he was engaged to a girl who was
illegitimate
. Being illegitimate was my terrible shame back then, and here was my greatest fear laid bare for all to see. He also said that when he married he wanted children. Sister Bernadette had told him that I would be unable to have children. She also told him the reason why. He also told me that he had an uncle – a priest, and an aunt – a nun.

I knew that our engagement was now doomed.

I could feel the pain of rejection once again. It was beginning to engulf my very being. Why was I being rejected for something that I was not responsible for? If I was good enough in every way, why was I being rejected because of my paternity?

He drove me home.

I never saw him again after that day.

I told Father Bernard all about my troubles in the love and marriage stakes, as they unfolded between Michael and myself, with the aid and assistance of the spectre of Sister Bernadette.

‘I think it is time for you to begin your career in nursing, Celine,’ Father Bernard announced one day, as I was serving afternoon tea.

I blushed heavily, as I was putting the tray down on the bedside table between them. I had never mentioned to Mrs Cooke, at any time, that I harboured any ambitions to be a nurse. In fact, I had never mentioned to anyone, except Father Bernard, that I yearned for a career in nursing. I had felt that it was so far out of my reach, and that I was not acceptable enough socially, to even contemplate nursing as a career. My self-esteem was so low, that I considered myself lucky to be employed as a housemaid.