A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  We talked and cried and talked some more, before agreeing that she and I should meet up. Before she went, I warned her that her daughters may not feel the same way about her as her sons did.

  ‘I understand, John,’ she said, ‘and I have to accept that. I can’t blame them. But if I can just see you, and perhaps David, then I’ll be happy. Maybe in time things will be different.’

  David had even fewer memories of Mum than I had, and perhaps for that reason he agreed to come with me to meet her. To him, she was just a word, a name. Even so, he had suffered just as much as the rest of us for the fact of her absence and, like me, was looking for answers.

  We met at Euston in mid-January 1995. The UK was in the grip of one of its coldest winters in years. Outside, heavy snow was falling and the landscape was covered in a thick blanket of white. I watched silently out of the carriage window as the train gathered speed, scenery flashing by in a blur of white and grey. Opposite, David snored quietly and I was glad of the silence. I needed to prepare myself for what was to come.

  I watched as we sped by houses built along the line and thought of the families inside them. Many would be close-knit, happy and functional, with parents who could get along and – in this part of Britain, at least – would never be torn apart on the grounds of religious differences. Yet despite many things, not least the day-to-day madness of living in Northern Ireland, mine was a functional family. There was love, warmth and respect. But of the two people who’d brought this family into being, one was dead and the other had been missing for too long.

  Now it was time to confront the ghosts of my past.

  David slept on, oblivious to the blizzard of thoughts and emotions swirling around my mind. He was still a wee baby when Mum had left. It was hard to believe that a mother could simply abandon a child of just a few months old, but in the war zone that was Northern Ireland at the start of the 1970s, anything was possible. I didn’t understand her actions; neither did I condemn her. She was just doing what she thought was right for us and for her. Had she stayed, she might not have even lived to see us grow up. Had she survived and raised us instead of Dad, we’d most likely have been Republicans living close to the Falls Road. That was mind-boggling, given we’d had exactly the opposite upbringing.

  Too many questions, not enough answers. For years I’d tried to learn more about my mother but had been stonewalled by family who simply refused to discuss her. This too I understood. They’d raised me and my siblings, nurturing and caring for us, especially when Dad died. They’d tried to create stability in the midst of chaos. Difficult questions about a Catholic mother played no part in strengthening that stability. It would be best just to forget her, I was told, and let sleeping dogs lie. Nothing good would come of trying to find her. They didn’t understand that whatever she was or whatever she’d done, she was still my mum; she had brought me into the world and I missed her deeply. The nagging feeling of loss would never be healed unless my questions were answered.

  I pulled the folded piece of writing paper from my pocket and, for the thousandth time, read the words. ‘. . . My sister has always loved you all and has spent a lifetime searching for you.’

  Neither David nor I knew what to expect. What would she look like? Who would she look like? Would she even turn up? David yawned, stretched and stared out of the window. We’d just left Wigan and with only a few minutes to go before our final destination we started to gather our bags along with our thoughts.

  The metal-on-metal screech of the train’s brakes being applied signalled the end of the line for us. We made our way to the door and I watched as the train slowed by the platform. Just before it came to a halt I pulled down the window and reached for the door handle, opening it a crack as the train finally stopped.

  ‘This is it,’ I said, turning to David. ‘the moment we’ve been waiting for.’

  ‘I’m shaking like a bloody leaf,’ he replied. ‘D’you reckon this was a good idea, John?’

  ‘Too late now, mate,’ I said. ‘C’mon, let’s do it.’

  We stepped down from the train. The platform was completely deserted, except for a solitary figure waiting at the far end by the exit steps. Bags slung over our shoulders, we walked towards it. As we approached the steps there was no doubt in my mind. She was the spitting image of my sister, Jean. Short and blonde, with a glint of mischief in her eye. She hesitated, then half-walked, half-ran towards us.

  ‘John! David! My boys! Jesus, my boys are here!’

  We didn’t quite fall into her arms – there was far too much to discuss before that level of intimacy – but I could tell by her tears that she never believed this day would happen. And in truth, neither did I.

  ‘I’d have recognised you anywhere,’ she said, appraising my face. ‘You’re the spit of your daddy. I can see him standing here in front of me right now.’

  I smiled, wondering if she even knew my father had been dead for almost twenty years. But we would deal with all that later. For now, we would just drink in this one-in-a-million moment, born of so many troubles and tears. Fate had conspired to keep us apart during the worst of times. Now, reunited by the most incredible coincidence, we who had been separated by hatred and division for a quarter of a century would finally get to know each other once more.

  CHAPTER 19

  W

  e sat in a nondescript pub on the outskirts of Preston – me, David, Mum and her husband, Denis – and stared at each other in disbelief

  ‘Tell me this is not happening,’ said Mum. ‘Tell me it’s just a dream. Two grown men sitting here. My wee boys. I wanted this day to come for so long, but I never thought it would.’

  ‘Neither did we, Mum,’ David said. ‘It’s been so long. I don’t even remember you, to be honest.’

  This was painful to hear, but truthful. Tears welled up in Mum’s eyes. Denis leaned across and held her hand. Her pain was obvious for all to see. I didn’t want to push anything too hard, yet I had so many questions I wanted to ask. I’d already filled in some of the gaps – Dad dying, our upbringing with other people, my escapades as a Mod and getting mixed up with the paramilitaries. I could tell she was shocked at that last part, and wary too. I told her that my involvement had ended years ago and that I’d never done anything while a member, but how did she know what I was saying was true? After all, she knew nothing about us.

  ‘We missed you, Mum,’ I said. ‘All of us. We needed you. We were in a mess without you. We thought you were dead, you know.’

  ‘I was, in a way,’ she said. ‘I had to leave. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me – to all of us – if I’d stayed. It was the hardest choice I ever had to make. I tried to contact you, but . . . I couldn’t. I was warned away.’

  I could believe it – many couples in mixed marriages faced threats and violence from the paramilitaries on both sides and mixed couples had been killed in the maelstrom of sectarian violence.

  She started to cry. Gently I put my hand in hers and squeezed it. In a strange way, I felt like the parent now, the one who needed to give comfort and reassurance.

  Slowly, she started to tell us a story. She was one of seven – six sisters and a brother – and her mother Jane died tragically young while giving birth. Mum and her siblings were brought up by their father, my granddad Christy McBride, who I never got to meet. There were also two other sons but they died of TB when they were only a few years old. Ironically, my great-granddad on Mum’s side was a Protestant who came over from Scotland and settled in Sandy Row.

  Then there was the start of the Troubles, the fear and violence growing daily, and the danger of being in a mixed marriage in a vicious sectarian conflict. At first, she and Dad lived in Ardoyne, which was mixed back then, but Dad didn’t feel safe there and they moved down to Little Distillery Street so they could be near my grandparents and Mum’s family, who lived on opposite sides of the sectarian-divided street. There, amid all the rioting and violence, Mum had a nervous breakdown. She had no idea what m
ight lie ahead for her in Belfast, only that she could stay no longer.

  ‘I left with only the coat on my back,’ she said, ‘but I took a few things of yours, just as keepsakes. Photographs, toys, some wee bits of clothing . . .’

  ‘You took some of our baby clothes?’ I said.

  ‘Aye, wee jumpers, shoes, that kind of thing. I still have them. I’ll show you next time you come up. You will come up again, won’t you?’

  I reassured her that I would. She desperately wanted to make this work and keep us close now that we had been reunited again. She wanted us to know she hadn’t been a bad mother. I had some sympathy with Margaret and Jean’s view that under no circumstances would you leave your kids. Equally, I could see that Mum did what she thought was best for all of us, herself included, in the extraordinarily violent atmosphere that was Belfast in the late 1960s.

  ‘I knew your father had died, you know,’ she said. ‘My family told me. I came over . . .’

  ‘To see us?’

  ‘To see you, and to maybe get you back. I couldn’t see you. I wasn’t allowed. But I asked social services about having you back. They contacted your dad’s family and the answer was “no”. That the family would be looking after youse all now.’

  Apparently, a Catholic social worker visited Grannie and Granddad up in Glencairn and went back to tell Mum and her sisters to forget about us as we were living in a Loyalist shithole and there was no hope for us. At some stage there was another attempt to get us back, but after a few meetings it was decided that we were better off with Grannie and family in Glencairn and thus we were left where we were.

  ‘At least you tried,’ I said, trying to comfort her.

  ‘I did,’ she replied sadly. ‘But I got nowhere.’

  ‘How strange,’ I thought, ‘that I was thinking about Mum so much after Dad died and there she was, probably less than a couple of miles away from us, trying to get us back.’

  Mum said that after that she tried to put everything behind her. She lost contact with her family in Belfast and had already moved up north, where she met Denis. He was English, a committed Catholic, and a lovely man. His religion didn’t matter to me. Although I’d only just met him, I could tell he was the right man for Mum and I hoped I would establish a good relationship with him over time. He was one of those rare folk who everyone loved – no one had a bad word to say about him. From the start he treated me and David like a member of his own family, which considering we were two Loyalists who had turned up out of the blue was testimony to his character. His kindness and generosity of spirit filled us with joy and we loved being around him, although no one would or could ever take the place of our dad.

  I was also curious to know if Mum had ever had any other children and this thought both troubled and intrigued me. I’m not sure how I would have felt if she had; no doubt jealousy and anger may have come into it. She hadn’t looked after us and the thought that she might have had other children and brought them up would have left a bitter taste in my mouth.

  She assured me that she had never considered having any other children.

  ‘I have four children, John,’ she said. ‘That’s enough for me.’

  Straight away, I noticed Mum was sketchy about the details of her disappearance. It was as if she’d tried so hard to bury the painful memories that she never wanted them excavated again, not even for her own children. Belfast people are open people in many respects but very closed in others, and I sensed there were things she wasn’t telling me – and might never explain.

  In a way, that was fine. I understood that her life, and the decision she’d made, had been very hard. If she had secrets she wanted to keep close to her chest, there wasn’t much I could do about it. I saw no reason to push her. She was evidently pleased to have me back in her life. Could I ask for more? Not at this stage. And did I really want to know more? In truth, my mind screamed for answers to the questions that might explain why she had abandoned us. But I had spent so much of my life missing her that I pushed these thoughts away and made a decision to accept things for what they were and to enjoy every moment of getting to know my mum again and let the past stay in the past. Sometimes this was very hard; after all, I’m only human.

  Despite the many difficulties encountered as a result of her leaving and my dad’s death, we had grown up with a warm and close family on Glencairn. Yes, those days were wild and chaotic, but the love of my grandparents, aunties, uncles and cousins was never in doubt. I’d had a deprived childhood, but it was certainly not short of love. The miserable time spent with Alistair and Betty aside, I’d felt secure and happy. Nothing could or would change that.

  The connection between Mum and me was instant. We wanted to meet again. I told her about the incredible, beautiful woman I’d met, and how we planned to spend the rest of our lives together. Mum was pleased that I seemed to be settling down and we parted with a promise that we would be part of each other’s lives for as long as they lasted. We kissed, embraced and said our goodbyes. David and I returned to London in a hazy daze – life would never be the same again for any of us but at least we’d found what we’d been looking for.

  After that first meeting we went up as much as possible, spending almost every holiday and long weekend with Mum and Denis. That first year she invited David and I up to spend Christmas with her and it was the most wonderful time in many a long year. She made a special effort and on Christmas Eve all Denis’s family came around for the party that Mum and he held each year.

  I missed Dad and I thought of him, as I always do at Christmas and on other special occasions, and there was a part of me that was jealous thinking of Mum having so many Christmases with Denis’s family while we were ‘orphans’ in Belfast. The ghosts of my past were still close, whispering in my ear.

  Nevertheless, that Christmas Mum bought David and I sackfuls of presents. Mine included a typewriter because she knew I was interested in writing. The day was wonderful, and my soul was extraordinarily happy. I felt like a child again and was pleased my brother was there to share the experience with me. Denis, being a good Catholic, asked that Mum, David and I attend Midnight Mass with him and I thought, ‘Why not, if it keeps him happy?’ If my mates from Glencairn had seen me in a Catholic church they’d have been astounded, but I’d come a long way from the entrenched prejudices of my childhood. Never again would I judge a man by his religion or culture, provided the god they worshipped and the political system they followed was peaceful and respectful to all others.

  Although I had long moved on from my childhood Christian days, God still meant something to me and to this day I find churches and religious services soothing to my soul. I love choir music and hymns, although I can’t hear ‘Amazing Grace’, the hymn played at Dad’s funeral, without getting a lump in my throat.

  Mum’s reappearance triggered conflicting emotions in me. I was overjoyed and delighted to find the piece of the jigsaw that had eluded me for so long, yet the act of discovering her reawakened very painful emotions from childhood that I’d only addressed by suppressing them with whatever was available – drink, drugs, mayhem and chaos. Now I was heading towards my thirties and I’d met the girl of my dreams. I knew I should be settling down and thinking about a different kind of life, but demons continued to haunt me, and I made yet another half-arsed suicide attempt – this time with pills. Quite a lot of this was down to difficulties with gambling – I am the classic addictive personality – and after one big loss I felt I’d let myself and everyone else down. Simone was away at the time, dancing in Turkey, and I felt alone and helpless without her. So in a drunken fit of madness I necked some pills and ended up with a stay in a mental hospital.

  This was a very brief visit but it was enough to make me realise that I had a lot going for me in life, and I’d be a fool if I let the darker, destructive side of my personality have its way. When Simone came home she made me join Gamblers Anonymous and I went along and sat in the ‘Chair of Truth’. Thankfully, with their help
I eventually beat the gambling addiction and apart from the Grand National I never bet these days.

  I also agreed to take a course of anti-depressants combined with counselling, and I can only thank the NHS for the help and support they gave me – and continue to give me. I still have my off days when I feel nothing is right with the world and I wonder whether being prone to depression is hard-wired into my psyche. I’m something of a prisoner of my past, physically (with my bad leg) and mentally too. That said, very few of us are dealt a perfect hand in life and making the best of whatever you get, even if it’s difficult at times, is probably the best and only way to deal with it. I work at it, reminding myself every day that I have so much to be grateful for.

  I realised that I needed to stop moonlighting in and out of bar and sales work and settle down to something regular. I joined a market research company in Victoria and after a few weeks’ training I was promoted to a supervisory role. This involved the training of new staff on the ins and outs of market research and supervising the various shifts. I enjoyed the work but the pay wasn’t great, so I ended up working for a print advertising company in Croydon that worked on a range of magazines, including Football Monthly and Dream UK, one of the country’s biggest-selling dance music magazines – right up my street.

  I took great satisfaction in learning to be an ad exec, cutting deals with some of the biggest advertising agencies in London for the various titles I worked on. I was flying again and punching way above my education level as usual. Simone’s career as a dancer was taking her across the world and we’d settled into a blissful existence where we had the time and money to really enjoy ourselves. My contact with Mum was regular and we visited Lancashire when we could. On one of the early visits Mum brought out the baby and toddler clothes that she had kept for all the years she had been without us. Seeing those, along with the few snaps she had of us as children, was very emotional indeed.