No One Wants You (23 page)

The relationship with my aunt was in its infancy and I would nourish it and see it grow over the long-term. She had all the information and I wanted it. If she did not give me the relevant data voluntarily, I would have to get it somehow, if not from her then from someone close to her. I would have to be patient, subtle and a little devious, if necessary. If I got lucky, then that would be a bonus.

One significant aspect reared its head over dinner that evening. I asked Terence how he had met his girlfriend, Niamh. They were both in their mid-twenties at the time. He said, ‘I met her at the Regional Hospital in Limerick. She
was
a nurse there. She was looking after my grandmother while she was ill, just before she died.’

Two things were obvious from that. Firstly, Niamh was a nurse. I would be able to strike a bond with her. Secondly, Terence was speaking about his maternal grandmother. I remember thinking at the time, ‘He is speaking in very loving terms about a person who is also MY grandmother. But she is the grandmother who was primarily responsible for my life. She is the one responsible for consigning me to the scrap-heap of life as a five-month baby.’

This grandmother, whom he so fondly visited while she was dying in hospital, was the same wicked woman who would have gladly seen me dead, if she could have arranged it. There were so many low times in my life when I would have preferred it if she had been able to arrange my death, either before I was born or shortly afterwards.

I was consumed with anger, but I concealed my feelings and smiled. I continued the conversation as if I had not made any family connection and pretended that everything was ‘rosy in the garden’. Angry as I was, at the specific reference to my grandmother Clifford, I was quite pleased to be entertaining what I regarded as ‘my biological family’.

It became a regular occurrence for my Aunt Rosaleen, Terence and Niamh, to come to dinner at my home at least every other week. Then one evening Terence and Niamh turned up unannounced and I happened to be looking at some photographs when they arrived. I asked them in and they joined me going through the photographs. Terence saw the photograph of my mother, Ronan and me.

He said, ‘I did not know that you knew Auntie Doreen.’

‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

‘Is Auntie Doreen more closely related to you than me?’ he asked.

‘I think you should ask your Mum that particular question,’ I replied.

The questions and answers were left hanging in mid-air. There was no further probing for the remainder of the evening. At this time his mother was in Ireland on a visit. When she returned to London he asked her, was he, Terence, Celine’s cousin, or was Rosaleen, Celine’s cousin. He said that he was confused as to the actual relationship. He was obviously trying to place me in his extended family. But he must have come to the conclusion that there was something strange about my ‘cousin’ status.

His mother replied, ‘Why do you ask?’

He responded, ‘Is Celine more closely related to Auntie Doreen than to you?’

She confessed the truth to him. She told him that I was indeed Doreen’s firstborn, illegitimate daughter.

Niamh later told me that she cried all night when Terence told her the story. She said to me, ‘They were such a cruel family.’

This was the first statement of public knowledge by that family that I actually existed. Really, apart from my mother, her mother, my mother’s sister Rosaleen and my ‘auntie nuns’, nobody else in my biological family realised that I existed, as far as I knew. But the news of my existence travelled no farther. Terence and Niamh must have been sworn to secrecy. But I did not mind, a chink had appeared in their armour. The strategy of annoy nobody and bide my time was working.

I would find a way in the end.

* * * *

Donna, Rosaleen’s daughter, and her husband, Paul Bell, who lived in Dublin, came to London to visit her mother in the summer of 1983. Paul and Donna had their two children with them. They all came to my house for dinner, with Rosaleen one Saturday evening. After dinner the kids were
tired
, and Donna took them home to put them to bed. Rosaleen went home with them. Paul stayed on talking to Harry and I.

I asked Paul if he knew my mother.

‘Ah yeah, Doreen. Sure, of course I do, isn’t she Donna’s aunt?’ he replied.

Next, in a most casual way, couched as a throwaway remark or question, I pondered aloud, ‘I wonder do you know my father?’

As the last word left my lips, Paul said without hesitation, ‘Aw yeah, Tom! Tom O’Sullivan from Janesboro. Sure, of course I do. Sure there is no doubt about it, Celine, he’s your father!’

I nearly fell off the chair.

He said it with such certainty. I was devastated that he knew my parentage and was so confident in that knowledge. My mind was racing. How many other people knew? Was I the only person in this awful saga that did not know who my father was?

I was fuming inside. I thought, ‘No, this can not be. It must be the alcohol talking.’

Paul had drunk quite a large amount of wine during the meal and had consumed four or five stiff brandies afterwards.

Externally, I was as cool as a cucumber. I asked, ‘How am I ever going to contact him?’

He said, ‘Brothers are close. He has a brother called Paddy that he is very fond of. If you contact him, he is your best bet.’

I think he realised that he had committed a terrible sin, because he then added, ‘Now lads, don’t tell anyone that I gave you this information. This is TOP SECRET in the Clifford family. I’d be hung, drawn and quartered, if they ever found out that I told you. I’d have to take the boat.’

I had such trouble taking all this in. I could pursue it no further. I was unable to think straight.

Shortly afterwards Paul left to go home. As I watched him walk unevenly down the road, I thought, ‘It
must
be the alcohol that is talking, he could not know with such certainty.’ And yet I could not get what Paul had said out of my mind.

I was going to hunt down this lead, whatever the cost. I was going to control it myself. I was not going to let anyone else do any of the work for me. I would not be deterred from this. I was away on a crusade once again!

I knew that a work colleague was at home on holiday in Ireland at that time. By a torturous and circuitous route, I got the telephone number of her parents in Ireland. I spoke to her mother and asked her to get me a copy of the Irish rural phone book with Limerick phone numbers in it. I got her to promise that she would make sure that her daughter would bring me back a copy, without fail. I must have sounded desperate, because when my colleague returned from Ireland she delivered the phone book to my house, on her way home from the airport, by taxi.

As soon as I had the book, I phoned all the names of P. O’Sullivan in the Limerick area. I asked if they had a brother called Thomas, who lived in Janesboro. Eventually a man who lived in Corbally said in answer to my question, ‘Yes, I have a brother Thomas in Janesboro.’

I then said to him, ‘My name is Celine Roberts. My mother is Doreen Clifford. I have been told that Thomas O’Sullivan is my father. I want to make contact with him.’

The classic ‘pregnant silence’ ensued. There was not much dialogue between us. He said that he would, ‘see what he could do’. He sounded as if he did not believe my story. He sounded nervous and subdued. Above all, he sounded shocked.

I tried to emphasise, how important it was for me to meet my father. He replied, ‘The identity of a father may never be established.’

It had never occurred to me that such a possibility existed.

I gave him my address and telephone number in London. I tried to push him into contacting me if he spoke to my father, but he did not offer to call me. He did not offer anything. I thought that he was probably disturbed by my phone call.

While the entire phone call was a legitimate request from me, I had no idea what consternation I might have caused him. He was probably just about to have his dinner, while putting his feet up after a hard day’s work.

This phone call took place on the second of August. The month of September passed and Paddy O’Sullivan did not contact me. My mind was now buzzing every day.

I was getting close to meeting my father. I was so close now, that I was not about to give up easily. I would have access to my father, without going through my mother. I was going to circumvent my mother, who had always protected my father’s identity from me. Why did she protect his identity so assiduously?

I never mentioned my contact with Paddy O’Sullivan to anyone, in case I was persuaded not to explore the link any further. I did not want to be dissuaded from further exploration. Paul had given me the information in confidence. While it was a drunken confidence, I appreciated it so much that he had broken what was obviously a code of silence within my mother’s family, the Cliffords.

He was the first person who had given me any hope of ever meeting with my father. I did not want to betray that confidence.

I checked the post every day for a letter from Paddy O’Sullivan.

None came.

October came and I decided more direct and personal intervention was necessary. I would go to Ireland and see Paddy O’Sullivan myself.

During the mid-term school break, Harry’s trusty old Ford Escort was packed up again with our belongings, and all four of us headed once more for the ferry terminal at Fishguard. We made our usual stop at Harry’s parents’ home in Kilkenny. We only stayed there for one night, the Friday night. It was only a brief stay, as I was on a mission.

Next day we travelled on to Kit’s house at Buttevant. This was to be my ‘operations’ base. We arrived on Saturday and settled the kids in. On Sunday I set out my battle plan. I told Kit what I was going to do. I think in Kit’s own way, while she did not approve of my battle plan, she understood.

I decided to tell my minder, Sister Bernadette, what I was about to do. On Sunday I phoned her at her base in Mount Trenchard Convent in Foynes, County Limerick. When someone answered, they asked, ‘Who is looking for her?’

I answered: ‘Celine Roberts wants to speak to her.’

After a pause the woman’s voice said, ‘She is not here.’

I asked, ‘Where is she?’

The voice replied that she did not know. Then she hung up on me. I was disturbed by the nun’s attitude on the phone. Later that day, I phoned the convent looking for Sister Bernadette again.

They said, ‘She is sick.’

I said that I had travelled all the way from London, and wanted to visit her. They gave me the telephone number of a convent in Cobh, County Cork and hung up.

When I called the convent in Cobh, I asked to speak with Sister Bernadette. ‘There is no Sister Bernadette here,’ they informed me and hung up. I decided that there was something strange going on, although I did not know what.
I
felt that I was being given the run-around, so I decided not to continue trying to contact her.

I never spoke to her or tried to contact her further. I was never to hear from her again – ever.

For somebody who had such a large influence over such important information in my life, it was a strange way to end our communications.

On the Monday my battle plan was to go into action. I telephoned Paddy O’Sullivan and I told him that I was in Ireland and that I wanted to meet him. I do not think that he expected to hear from me again.

I felt his resistance to meeting me at first, but he eventually agreed to meet me in the bar of the Glenworth Hotel, in Limerick, the following evening at 8 pm.

I put down the phone. I was a nervous wreck. I was bathed in sweat. But I had more plans to put in to action. I rang Father Bernard, who had remained my friend and confidant throughout the years. He was at home at Glenstal Abbey, when I phoned. I told him my plan about meeting whom I considered to be my father’s brother, Paddy O’Sullivan, the next evening at the Glenworth Hotel. He said, ‘My dear Celine. Do you want me to go along with you to the meeting, as support?’

‘I would be very grateful for your support, if you could be there,’ I replied.

We agreed to meet in the bar of the Glenworth at 7 pm, so we would have time to chat before meeting Paddy O’Sullivan.

The arrangements were in place.

The people were in place.

I asked Kit and Tony if they would look after my children for as long as necessary. They readily agreed. The military support was in place.

The following day I went and had my hair done, as I wanted to look my best. I spent ages on my make-up. I tried
on
all the outfits that I had brought with me. I borrowed a valuable bracelet from Kit.

Time passed slowly that day.

Eventually, Harry and I set off for our meeting with Father Bernard. After thinking every day for three months about what I would say to Paddy at our meeting, I had no prepared list of questions. They were all in my head. But I would shoot from the hip. I would take no prisoners this time. I was focused and I knew what I wanted. It was within my grasp, and I did not want it to slip away.

Harry and I reached the bar first. There were a few people drinking, but we sat at a table that would be out of earshot of the bar area. It was almost an alcove. We had a soft drink each. There would be no alcohol. I had to keep a clear head.

Father Bernard turned up next. We greeted each other with our usual hug. He sat and chatted about Anthony and Ronan and other small talk. He said that he had never realised that I had wanted to meet my father so much. He thought that I was always afraid, because of the risk of damage to my father’s family. He asked me why I had now decided to ‘rock that particular boat’ as he could see that I was determined to see it through, whatever the consequences. He said, ‘No matter how much they tried to hide you and your identity, the truth will come out.’

At about 7.50 pm, a man and a woman entered the bar. They seemed a very elegant couple. They exchanged a few words between them and approached our table directly. I stood up, as I knew that it had to be Paddy O’Sullivan. My heart was thumping.

He came to me with his hand extended. We shook hands and he said, ‘You must be Celine Roberts. I am Paddy O’Sullivan and this is my wife, Mary.’