Sins of the Mother
Read Sins of the Mother Online
Authors: Irene Kelly
Irene Kelly
with
Katy Weitz
A heartbreaking true story of a woman’s struggle to escape
her past and the price her family paid
PAN BOOKS
This book is dedicated to my wonderful partner, my four beautiful children, their partners and all my grandchildren – thank you for all your support. I am so sorry for
all the hurt and pain I caused you but please know that I love you all from the bottom of my heart; I am so proud of you all. I also dedicate this book to my beautiful friend who passed away. I
know you would be happy for me – I miss you so much.
Irene Kelly
LITTLE GIRL LOST
Little girl lost
Oh, where can she be?
Alone in the dark so no one can see.
No mammy to love her
no daddy to care,
as she sits alone
on the cold lonely stairs.
She hides behind a smile;
just a sweet simple child
full of innocence and grace
her dreams running wild.
She searches for love
but can no longer feel it,
they tell her it will come
but she no longer believes it.
They say first you must lose
then you will gain
but this little girl can’t see it.
It’s just pain after pain.
On a journey through hell
her life has no cost;
she has no name.
Just a little girl lost.
Irene Kelly
CONTENTS
1
Jennifer –
The Long Way Home,
Manchester, 2007
4
Irene –
The Bad Luck Girl,
Dublin, 1964
12
Irene –
Growing Up, Growing Strong
15
Irene and Matt –
A Connection
16
Irene and Matt –
Falling in Love
19
Matt –
The Fall Out,
Manchester, 2007
21
Jennifer –
Understanding,
Manchester, 2012
22
Irene –
The Promise,
January 2015
Prologue
IRENE
She is here. The little girl sits on the floor in the middle of the long dark corridor. I see her now but I can’t reach her. She is all alone. Seven years old, she is
crumpled like a rag doll on the cold tiled floor, thin white limbs outstretched under a tattered brown dress. Curtains of fine brown hair obscure her face. She is crying softly to herself. She
knows no one is coming to rescue her, to help make the pain go away. She is trapped forever in this hellhole.
Over and over again I return to this place, to this same scene. The little girl on the floor, her face hidden in her hands, the sound of her sobs echoing through the long, empty hallway. The
place smells of carbolic soap – it is cold here, always cold. Sometimes she looks up and then I can see her expression – it cuts me like a knife. Poor, tortured little soul, she is
terrified out of her mind. She is hungry, frightened and miserable. But she deserves nothing less, she is told, for she is a horrible little child and this is where she belongs. Nobody loves her,
they tell her. Nobody cares about her. Nobody is coming to get her.
But I care and I love her – only, I can never reach her. She cannot hear or see me – she is alone, totally alone.
Don’t give up!
I call to her.
I will come and rescue you. I promise.
I know she can’t hear my voice but I must try and make contact. Her terrible loneliness pierces my heart and the tears continue to fall – fat, silent tears that roll off her cheek
and make dark spots on the tiles. I can’t bear to listen to the sound of her despair any longer. I leave this place; leave the little girl on the floor. But I vow I will be back one day.
One day, I will return and I will find a way to free her.
1
JENNIFER
The Long Way Home
MANCHESTER
, 2007
‘Bye!’ I waved at my friends as they looked at me questioningly from the entrance to the grassy cut-through over the fields. I could see the confusion in their eyes
but I ignored it and kept walking. I knew what they were thinking – why wasn’t I walking home with them through the cut-through? If we used the pathway across the field, it was no more
than ten minutes from the school gate to my home in a small cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Manchester. I usually did the same walk with my friends each morning. But the afternoons were different. I
wasn’t always so keen to get home, and today I really wasn’t in a hurry. So I took the long route back up the busy main road, a route that added another twenty minutes to my
journey.
The noise of the cars whizzing past filled my ears – it was just gone 3.15 p.m. and I ambled slowly, really taking my time. Step, step, step. It was a warm September afternoon and I
measured out the paces as my schoolbag swung from my shoulder. Then I looked up to the small houses on the other side of the road. On this side there were the school playing fields where the boys
ran around, hockey sticks flailing. Their loud shouts and the referee’s frequent whistle carried over the flat fields. I felt a stab of jealousy-I wished I had an after-school club today.
Most days I managed to get myself into a club which meant I didn’t leave school until around 5 p.m. It was ironic – I didn’t even like sports all that much but now, at fifteen
years old, I was an enthusiastic member of the netball, rugby and cross-country running clubs. Anything to stay at school and away from my home as long as possible. So now I dawdled in the street,
stopping occasionally to change my heavy bag over to the other shoulder. Some kids I recognized from the year below emerged from the corner shop holding bags of crisps and fizzy drinks. It would
have been nice to go shopping occasionally, but without any pocket money there was no chance of that.
I kept walking, trying not to imagine what awaited me inside our small three-bedroom house. Since my older sister Anna had left home seven years before I had effectively been an only child, and
while my parents were kind people, my home life was, well, it was a little odd. I couldn’t tell you exactly what was wrong with my parents – the truth was, I didn’t really know
– all I knew was that they weren’t like other parents. They were both from Ireland originally but had moved over here to Manchester before I was born. So while most of my friends had
grandparents, aunts, uncles and extended families in the area, we had nobody. The funny thing was, my parents didn’t even
talk
about their families. There were no pictures on the
walls, no telephone calls and nobody talked to me about the past. Occasionally Dad would disappear to Dublin for a few days but when he returned he didn’t tell me anything and I knew better
than to ask. I was tired of being told things were ‘none of my business’ so I didn’t bother questioning him any more.
A long time ago, when I was seven and Mum and Dad were both working full time, they had sent me to Ireland on my own during the holidays to stay with random aunts and uncles I’d never met
or even spoken to before. This was a confusing time for me. Mum and Dad took me to the airport and I clung to them for dear life but they wanted me to visit my family and I think they thought it
would be nice for me to have a holiday. Once at the airport, they handed me over to the air stewardess at the gate who accompanied me on the flight, and at the other end I was met by one of my
aunts. This happened a few times over the next three years. I went to stay with my dad’s sister Marie a couple of times and also my mum’s youngest sister Emily, who had two children,
but I was very quiet and uncomfortable at first. Mum and Dad never spoke about their relatives at all. They seemed like kind people but they were virtual strangers and, without Mum or Dad there, I
was terrified. My despairing aunts would call my mother asking her why I wasn’t eating or speaking to anyone. The truth was – I didn’t have a clue who these people were.
This went on once or twice a year for a week at a time – but the gaps between each visit were so long that when I went out there again, I’d usually forgotten who everybody was.
I’d only start to come out of my shell towards the end of each trip, and it was a relief when Ryanair stopped offering flights to unaccompanied minors. But it annoyed me that I had all this
family in Ireland and I didn’t know anything about them. I was too shy to ask them myself. I couldn’t even say how many brothers or sisters my parents had each, let alone name them!
I checked my watch – 3.42 p.m. Dad might not even be awake. While my mum was usually a ball of nervous energy, Dad often slept in late and didn’t emerge from his room until teatime.
He’d never been an early riser but recently it had become ridiculous. I’d come in from school when he was just getting up and I’d leave in the morning while he was still in bed.
Some days we hardly spoke to each other at all.
