A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  Finally, the day came when I was told that Simone was back from Holland and would be taking up her old job again. I was disappointed, but took it on the chin and worked a normal day, watching the clock ticking round to 5 p.m. so I could get out of there and start partying. About an hour before I was due to finish a group of four dancers came in for a quick drink before their evening show. Among them was the most beautiful girl I’d ever set eyes on. She was mixed-race, with dark hair and eyes. She had a fantastic dancer’s body and a wicked laugh. I was totally, completely and utterly smitten.

  She came up to the bar and ordered a drink. For a moment I was dumbstruck, then I started slabbering, just rattling on about nothing. She looked puzzled for a minute, then asked me where I was from.

  ‘Hi there,’ I said, ‘I’m John, I’m from Belfast, I’m here part-time.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard about you. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. I’m taking over your job from tomorrow.’ She stretched out her hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m Simone.’

  Well, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather. Here was the woman who was about to put an end to all the fun I was having, and I’d completely fallen in love with her in an instant.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said, ‘Are you upset?’

  I realised I’d been staring at her, gobsmacked.

  ‘Ah no, no,’ I replied, slabbering again. ‘No, that’s grand, no hard feelings about the job, eh?’

  She smiled with her eyes. ‘As long as you’re OK about it,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, I think we’ll be working a few days together for the rest of the week, so maybe we’ll get to know each other a bit.’

  She smiled again and I could’ve died on the spot. I went out that night as planned but I couldn’t get this woman out of my mind. She ticked every single box and I couldn’t wait until work came around again so that we’d be able to spend a bit of time together. I’d always been pretty lucky with girls but I’d never been one for spending a lot of time charming them and chatting them up. I figured I’d have to put in a lot of work if I wanted to make a good impression on this one – and more than anything else, that’s what I wanted. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was the one for me.

  When I set eyes on her again the following day I knew I had to overcome my natural shyness and try and get to know this stunning girl better, so I took a deep breath and turned on all my Belfast charm and patter. Before long we were chatting like old friends. Gradually, I learnt more about her. Her mum was of Indian descent and her dad was white British. When she wasn’t travelling as a dancer she lived in Norbury, south London with her parents and brother. I was smitten, but I was too shy to ask her out. Luckily, she took the initiative and asked me if I wanted to take her for a drink. Needless to say, I grabbed the chance with both hands and within a few days we were going out.

  Unlike the other girls I’d dated in London, Simone was a keeper; any fool could see that. I was walking on cloud nine, and we spent almost every moment of our free time together. We visited the illegal after-hours drinking clubs in Soho and had many a crazy night just getting to know each other and falling head over heels in love. I knew I was a jammy so-and-so and to this day people say I’m punching above my weight. I just smile and say, ‘I know!’

  One of those nights in Soho stands out and is imprinted on my soul forever. We were in a bar, getting drunk and enjoying each other’s company and we had stepped outside to have a cigarette. It was pouring down with rain but I didn’t care: I was with the girl of my dreams and the world was all good. Then from somewhere The Pogues’ ‘Rainy Night in Soho’ came on and I knew at that moment that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this beautiful woman.

  I took shelter from a shower

  And I stepped into your arms

  On a rainy night in Soho

  The wind was whistling all its charms

  Within weeks we were living together and perhaps for the first time ever I started to think about the direction my life was taking. In the past, I’d let things happen to me and, good or bad, had just accepted that was what fate had decided. Also, my mum’s continued absence in my life seemed to prevent me from being completely happy. Now I realised that while I’d been incredibly lucky to meet the love of my life, from now on I had to make my own luck. If I wanted to keep Simone I needed to settle down, stop my drugs-and-partying lifestyle, work hard and hopefully have a family one day. This was the first time I had ever felt that way and I knew that my ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, as I called her, wanted the same. For once, fate and the stars had aligned in my favour and been good to me.

  At first we moved into a large apartment in the Angel, north London, above a pawn shop. We shared the house with people from around the world. It was a cool place to live and we had some good times. Once we had a party and it was a crazy affair. We had a DJ and I was so wasted that at the end of the night I got my coat and said my goodbyes to everyone. I’d forgotten I was in my own house.

  Shortly after we met, Simone started working with a dance company called Union Dance, which was funded partly by the Arts Council. This was her dream job as she had trained at the Ballet Rambert in contemporary and ballet and Union Dance got to perform throughout the UK and all over the world. It seemed that the stars were aligned for her too, because just before meeting me she had gone to a fortune-teller. She’d been told that her life was going to change and a ‘Knight of Cups’ (a card from the tarot pack) would enter her life and things would be wonderful. She always said I was her Knight of Cups . . .

  The world Simone lived, moved and worked in was far removed from anything I had ever experienced. Before I knew it, I was going to dance performances and learned to appreciate and enjoy most forms of the art. I always got a buzz while watching Simone perform and hearing others around me compliment her and the dance troupe.

  We decided to move to south London and while we looked for our own place we went to live with Simone’s mum and dad in Norbury. Obviously, I’d been nervous about meeting her parents for the first time and my natural shyness was threatening to call the whole day off, but I sank a few beers and, fortified, I stepped into their world. I had nothing to worry about; they were so kind and nice to me that I felt welcome from the very start.

  Simone’s mum’s Indian heritage fascinated me and I was mesmerised as she told me stories of her childhood in British Guiana and her mother’s upbringing in Kashmir, India. I loved hearing her tales, including those about her grandfather, who was a witch doctor. Even better for me was that she made the best curries I have ever tasted in my life, even making her own naan bread and raita. I was in heaven.

  Royston, Simone’s dad, was a beautiful, gentle soul and like me he had lost his father at ten years of age, which gave us a special connection. He was laid-back and so easy-going and he and I would often go down the pub where we’d sit for hours, chatting and playing the slot machines. He was a delight to be around. Also, this part of London was very multicultural, and I loved the diversity and feel of the place. I embraced all those around me, as I got to know and love Simone’s mum’s extended family.

  After so much chaos and so many troubles in my life, finally I was looking forward to a honeymoon period that I hoped would last for the rest of my life. While my demons still stalked me and overwhelmed me from time to time, the difficult past that had shaped me in so many different ways seemed to be receding into the distance.

  Then, one afternoon, I got a call at work from my sister Margaret. She sounded tearful, and immediately my hackles went up. As I’ve said, when one of us gets hurt we all feel the pain.

  ‘No, John,’ she said, ‘it’s nothing bad. It’s just . . . ’

  ‘Just what? Come on, Mags, tell me for God’s sake!’

  ‘I’m in shock, John. I really am. I’ve been passed a letter. It’s addressed to you and I need to read it to you over the phone. Are you sitting down? Please sit down now, John. You’re not going to believe this . . .’

 
CHAPTER 18

  A

  n hour or so after Margaret had hung up, I was still unable to stand. She was right. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. The wind had been totally knocked out of my sails. Of all the news I thought I’d receive – the death of a sibling, a friend or a loved one killed by a bomb or a bullet, an acquaintance sent to prison for some terrorist crime – this was the news I least expected.

  But it was what I’d been waiting for all my life. And it had come about by the most incredible coincidence. If I thought I was dealt a lucky hand when I met Simone, this information seemed to have been gifted to me on a golden plate from on high.

  It appeared that an old schoolmate from Glencairn, Martin Burns, had been on holiday in Florida. One evening he’d met a couple in a bar. The man was American but his wife was originally from Belfast. As Northern Irish people invariably do, they got talking and it transpired she came from the Falls Road. Martin said he was from Glencairn. No matter. Everyone was on holiday, having a good time and sectarian differences didn’t matter.

  The woman then asked Martin whether he knew many people in and around the Shankill. When he said he did, she asked him if he’d ever come across the Chambers family.

  ‘There’d be four wee children,’ she said. ‘Well, not so wee now. In their twenties or thirties, I’d say.’

  Martin was surprised. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I know them right enough, if it’s the same ones. John Chambers is my mate. He has two sisters and a brother. Their daddy died years ago. Dunno what happened to their mammy. Disappeared or somethin’.’

  The woman fell silent for a moment, then tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.

  ‘John Chambers,’ she said. ‘That’d be the daddy’s name too, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Martin said, ‘sounds like the same lot. You know them, then? Small world, eh?’

  The woman introduced herself as Philomena, mentioning that her maiden name was McBride. Then she told Martin that she must be our auntie.

  ‘My sister is your friend John’s mother,’ she said. ‘She’s been trying to get in touch with her children for twenty years or more, but somehow it’s never happened. I can’t believe I’ve met you. Are you still in touch with John?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Aye, so I am, but he’s over in England now anyway.’

  ‘Then may I give you a letter to take home to Belfast and pass on to his family?’

  Shocked, Martin agreed to the request. Philomena wrote the letter and passed it to Martin the following day. He brought the letter home and handed it to Margaret. This is what it said:

  Dear John,

  I hope this letter finds you well and apologies if I have the wrong person.

  You obviously don’t know me but my name is Philomena McBride and although I now live in Boston USA I am originally from the Falls Road. A few days ago I met a Belfast couple in the local bar and naturally we got talking. When I heard they were from the Shankill Road I felt goose pimples run up and down my spine. You see, my sister, Sally McBride, married a guy from the Shankill Road, John Chambers, in the early sixties and they had four children together.

  At the time the Troubles were at their height and as you probably know it was unusual for Catholics and Protestants to marry, as this was frowned upon by both communities.

  The strain of coming from a mixed marriage was too much for them and they eventually separated and all the children stayed with their father in Belfast and my sister came to England to start a new life. The break-up was very hostile and my sister was denied access to the children and lost contact with them and has not seen or heard from any of them for twenty-five years. In fact, all contact with members of my sister’s family was denied and we have been trying to find the children ever since.

  I asked Martin if he knew the Chambers family I was amazed when Martin told me he went to school with you and he knew your brother and sisters. John, I think you are my sister’s son (that makes me your aunt) and I am including my telephone number and address and would be over the moon if you would contact me. I will understand if you don’t wish to speak to me but my sister has always loved you all and has spent a lifetime searching for you. Even to know that you were all well and happy would mean the world to her.

  Love, Philomena McBride.

  At the bottom of the letter was a United States phone number, which Margaret advised me to write down. As the oldest sister, she was naturally concerned for my welfare. She knew I’d been searching for our mother for so many years, and in vain. She understood how much this long-lost connection meant to me, even though I’d not really known my mother at all. She acknowledged the hurt that the separation had caused us all, in so many different ways.

  ‘John,’ she said, ‘I know you’ll be thrilled by this. And I know you’ll want to find Sally now. But please go carefully. It might not be what you hope it will be. That letter says she tried to find us, but was blocked. Now I wouldn’t know any of that for sure. All I know is that if I’d been separated from my kids, I’d have moved heaven and earth to find them again.’

  I nodded. I knew what Margaret was saying. She and Jean had the stronger memories of our mother, and her disappearance hurt them both very badly. They felt a tremendous amount of anger that four children could be left in this way, and even though they understood how dangerous it might have been for Sally McBride had she stayed married to a Protestant, they still couldn’t ever imagine abandoning their kids.

  I respected my sisters’ point of view. But I had to know the truth. I had to meet the woman who’d walked away from us all those years ago, and I needed to know what she looked like, how she spoke, who she resembled – and why she left us. There was no way I could let this rest now, not after such an incredible twist of fate. The universe had called – now I had to answer that call.

  For a day or two I couldn’t bring myself to ring the number. I stared and stared at it. Simone understood what I was going through. By now I’d explained the whole dynamic of the family situation and she’d been as shocked as I was when she’d heard about the letter.

  ‘Just take your time, babe,’ she advised. ‘This is really big news for you and you shouldn’t rush anything.’

  That was true, I knew. That said, I’ve never been the world’s most patient man. I like it when things are happening. A couple of days later I worked out the time difference between London and Boston, then rang the number when I imagined Philomena might be in.

  She cried when I told her who was calling. I cried when I heard the voice of Philomena McBride, my aunt and the sister of my mother. I’d never been as close as this to my ‘other’ family, the one I knew next to nothing about. Philomena gave me some details which confirmed that, yes, we were related.

  ‘Is she still alive?’ I asked. ‘Sally. My mum. Is she alive or dead?’

  ‘She’s alive, John,’ she said. ‘She’s OK. She’s living in England, somewhere up north. I can find her address for you.’

  ‘And her phone number?’

  ‘And her phone number, yes. If you want to speak to her. She’s been looking for you for a long time, you know. I’ve told her about meeting Martin and the letter, and she wants to know that you’re all OK.’

  ‘We are,’ I said.

  Well, OKish. It hadn’t always been easy, far from it, but we’d survived. There would be time for all that later on.

  ‘And she wants to know if you’d be willing to meet her?’

  In response I let out a huge sigh, both of relief and fear. Relief that I would eventually come face-to-face with the woman who gave birth to me, but also fear that for the second time, I would be rejected. I started to cry, and found that I couldn’t stop. Philomena was crying too. The whole thing was racing along on a rip tide of emotion. I hardly knew what to think, only that I couldn’t stop now. Whatever happened next, for my own peace of mind I had to meet this woman.

  ‘I think the best is that I get Sally to call you, John,’ she said. ‘Then you both have time to prepar
e. If you give me your number, I’ll set something up. How does that sound?’

  I agreed, and within a few days a date and a time was set. At the appointed hour I sat by the phone, willing it to ring and wondering if it ever would. When it did, right on time, I nearly jumped off my chair.

  ‘Hello?’ I said

  ‘Hello? John?’

  ‘Is that . . . you?’

  ‘It is. It’s me. Sally. Your mum.’

  ‘Mum.’ A word I always prayed and hoped I’d hear from the lips of the woman who gave birth to me, but never expected I would. Now she was just a breath away.

  ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m talking to you . . .’

  ‘I know. I feel the same way. Sweet Jesus, I never dreamed this would happen.’

  She still had her Belfast accent, though softened by her time in England – just as mine was now. I asked her where she was, and how she was.

  ‘I’m fine, John,’ she said, ‘just fine. I have a life up here in Lancashire now. I have a nice fella that I’ve met, and my job’s good. But oh my God, have I missed you four. How are youse all?’

  I filled her in with some basic details but I was wary of saying too much. Years of living under the shadow of the Troubles had taught me that. Also, I didn’t want everyone else’s lives exposed so fully just yet. Margaret, Jean and David were all struggling to absorb this momentous news; they would have their own ways of dealing with it. I just wanted to know that she was safe and well, and to tell her that we, her children, were OK too.

  We laughed and we cried. We talked for what seemed ages. Occasionally I heard the sound of coins being slotted into a box. There’s a sound you never hear now.

  ‘Are you at a payphone? Don’t you have a phone at home?’

  ‘I do,’ she said, ‘but . . . it’s probably just easier this way for the minute.’

  Then I realised – she didn’t really know who she was talking to. Yes, I was John Chambers, her son, but aside from that she knew nothing about me. For all she knew, I could be some mad sectarian killer bent on revenge for the fact that his mother had abandoned him as a wee boy. By ringing from a callbox she too was being cautious. Whatever had happened to send her away from Belfast, it still must have scared her witless twenty-five years after the event.