A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  Mum and Denis owned a canal barge, of all things, and when she invited Simone and I for a week’s holiday touring the Leeds–Liverpool Canal we jumped at the chance. We had a lot of fun chatting, drinking, eating and seeing the sights. Spending time with Mum made me realise that it’s never too late for anything: time can heal even the most turbulent events, such as those Mum had experienced when she left Belfast and her children behind.

  The best holidays of all were the ones we spent by the Toward Lighthouse, in Dunoon, Scotland. We were staying in a deserted cottage, right by the lighthouse. We were right beside miles and miles of secluded beach and we spent long hours walking around, collecting shells and crabbing. One year we went there for New Year’s Eve and although it was absolutely freezing, the beach looked beautiful blanketed in snow. One afternoon we took a walk along the beach and for some reason Denis and David decided they were going to strip off and go for a swim in the sea. ‘Utter madness,’ was my reaction when they asked me to join them. It was bitterly cold and the sea looked angry and dangerous. Anyway, I held their clothes and watched while they went for a quick dip. My balls were in my stomach just thinking about it.

  On summer’s days we would have a barbecue by the sea and play bowls at the front of the cottage. In the evenings, the drink would come out and we would spend hours playing Trivial Pursuit. Denis, who seemed to know everything about everything, always won. The games would be forgotten the more drink we had and when we were nicely in our cups Mum would put on her Irish tunes and we’d have a good old sing-song. I remember me and Denis singing the traditional Irish song ‘The Fields Of Athenry’ at the top of our voices and I came to know the words off by heart. Thank God my mates on the Shankill and in Glencairn couldn’t hear me.

  At the time, the late 1990s, Northern Ireland was very much back in the news. Years of secret meetings, and a realisation by all sides that no one was ever going to ‘win’ the Troubles, had brought about the Good Friday Agreement. I was still in touch with my mates – those in prison as well as those on the other side of the wall – and I kept a close eye on what was happening in my hometown. I’d go home three or four times a year and of course always for 12 July. The Twelfth was still my favourite time of year and a great celebration of my cultural heritage.

  While Simone was busy working in the dance world and travelling all over the place, I was plodding along in my new career. One day she told me she was pregnant and my whole world changed in an instant. We hadn’t planned for a baby, but the news filled us both with happiness and we started building our nest for the arrival of our little bundle of joy. In October 1999, Simone gave birth to a beautiful girl, who we named Autumn (after The Small Faces’ song ‘The Autumn Stone’ – once a Mod, always a Mod!). Her birth date was two days after my dad’s, which made her feel extra-special.

  Although I had always been good with kids and had been around for the births of my first three nieces, parenthood was a learning curve for both of us. As we were both working, Simone’s parents played a very active role in Autumn’s early years and she was always especially close to them. Roy, her grandfather, was keeping her entertained one day in Norbury Park when little Autumn was spotted by a talent agent. Her looks and personality earned her many subsequent child modelling contracts with organisations including George at Asda and Marks & Spencer, among other well-known brands.

  Three months after Autumn was born, Simone was booked in for a series of shows on Broadway, New York. As she was still breastfeeding, we decided I should string along too, and look after the baby while Simone was dancing. It was mid-February and across the city the snow was thick on the ground. I was absolutely freezing but I took a well-wrapped-up Autumn out sightseeing and discovered all the wonders of New York. Less than two years later I watched in horror with the rest of the world as the Twin Towers that I’d marvelled at collapsed during the 9/11 attacks. I was horrified and saddened. The lessons about terrorist conflict that had been so hard-learned in Northern Ireland seemed to have been completely forgotten, and tragically we were entering a new age of conflict and bloodshed. The attacks disturbed me greatly. Will we ever learn to put down the guns and live in peace? Anyone who lived through the Northern Ireland conflict would tell you that it’s the best way, but no one else seems to be listening. How sad for humanity.

  Mum, of course, was delighted by the birth of her ‘first’ grandchild. It wasn’t her first, of course – there were others in Belfast, but she’d never seen them. She doted on Autumn (and later our son, Jude) and so did Denis, who I’d come to love and respect as one of the kindest, most helpful and thoughtful of men. In early 2002, Mum told me the terrible news that he had cancer and again, I was angry with God for bringing trouble to this devout Catholic who never missed Mass. Ironically, although Mum was a Catholic she rarely, if ever, went to Mass, saying that her religious beliefs were ‘between me and Him upstairs’. Denis would roll his eyes but he’d never criticise her, preferring to get on with his own religious practice.

  Bravely, he fought the cancer but the battle couldn’t be won. We were devastated. Losing him was like losing another parent and it was dreadful for Mum because Denis was her rock. And yet, Denis’s death crystallised a thought that had already been playing around my mind: that as a family, we should move up to the north of England and be closer to Mum. At the time I was getting into trouble with gambling again. This time it was online stuff and I was in a mess. I was earning good money but it was disappearing into a black hole of my own making. Simone, Autumn and I were spending enough time going up and down the motorway from London anyway, and a move felt like something of a new start for us all.

  For the first six months or so we lived with Mum while we found our feet and established ourselves in the small town just outside Preston where we still live. As ever, such a big change came with its challenges, but we settled into our new life well, particularly Simone, who used her dance and fitness experience to train as a yoga teacher and become very successful at it. She gave birth to Jude and we also got married in Lancashire. Of course, we spent a huge amount of time with Mum and although the years we were apart could never be re-lived, at least now there was a great relationship and a sense of a wrong righted.

  When we first moved up north, I got a really well-paid sales job, earning more than a grand a week, and this enabled us to get a lovely wee terrace house. It was Mum who pushed for us to get married and we had a luxury wedding. For the first time ever I got to meet all Mum’s sisters in one place and I really enjoyed this. Mum was proud to show her sons off to her sisters and was proud of the way we’d turned out – and that we hadn’t been too fanatical in our Loyalism.

  Around 2007, the year Jude was born, I had two more serious fractures to my right femur and knee within a three-month period and the pain was indescribable. This meant I spent a considerable time in hospital. I hated it and couldn’t wait to get out and back to Simone and the children. These breaks set me back years with my leg, causing me no end of pain and misery and to this day I must be very careful as my right leg is very weak and the smallest wee knock could cause another break.

  Despite our increasing physical and emotional closeness, Mum never really explained in detail the circumstances of her leaving. She’d talk a bit about her life in London, and how she’d met Denis and moved up to Lancashire to work in a factory. She said she’d had a nervous breakdown and, of course, that she’d attempted to get us back, but if I ever probed further Mum would simply close down. She found the whole thing far too painful to talk about and no matter how I tried, the events of 1969–70 had been placed into a box marked ‘Never to be opened’.

  Mum was very stubborn and after our first meetings she refused to discuss the circumstances of her leaving Dad and us. At the time I just had to accept this and put into the back of my mind, where it festered for years, until one night after a few beers I demanded to know why she’d left us and never tried harder to find us. She got very upset and told me that we had dealt with tha
t when we had first met and she had nothing more to say about it all.

  This was hard to swallow. I felt I was owed an explanation and, to be fair, I did get a partial one. But I think – as we four siblings all do – that there is more to the story than meets the eye. She was told, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t welcome back and couldn’t have anything to do with us. Even in the pressure-cooker environment of Belfast during the Troubles, this was a major decree and, obviously fearful, she took it seriously. What else might have happened between Sally and John that caused such a violent and permanent rift? We simply don’t know for sure, and over time I learned not to ask. Mum’s reaction was too upsetting. After everything that had happened, I didn’t want to lose her again.

  CHAPTER 20

  T

  he years went by. We settled into life in the north-west of England and found it to our liking. The kids missed their grandparents in London but were lucky to have another grandparent – albeit one I never expected them to have – close by and keen to play a big part in their lives.

  As I got to know her, I discovered that Mum was a practical joker and had a wicked sense of humour. She never let the facts get in the way of a good story and she could tell a great tale that hooked you from the beginning. Her laughter was infectious.

  She’d been this way from childhood, it seemed. She said of herself that she was ‘a cheeky wee so-and-so’ and often pulled pranks and tricks on her sisters. Once when they were out in Bangor, an Orangeman offered to give them a lift back to Belfast. They piled into the car and enjoyed the free ride home. Just as she was getting out of the car, Mum turned to the driver and said, ‘Thanks for the lift, mister. By the way, I’m a Fenian from the Falls!’ Then she ran off at full speed!

  Mum and I had a few minor fall outs over the years but nothing too serious and she was always there when I needed her. She was very headstrong and set in her ways. Once she had made a decision there was no going back and she could be infuriating sometimes with her stubbornness. Neither was she your typical little grannie sitting at home, baking and knitting. Every evening she’d have a few whiskies and watch the telly, particularly Coronation Street. Whenever I hear the famous theme tune now, a kind of sadness washes over me for the wasted years I never got to spend with Mum and all the things we missed out on.

  What surprised me most was how well she got on with the kids. She had an enormous amount of love and affection for them, which they gave back to her in spades. To Denis’s family she was known as ‘Aunt Sally’ and they worshipped the ground she walked on, as did Autumn and Jude. When I saw her interacting with children, I thought of how difficult the decision must’ve been to abandon her own kids, and how she must have been racked with guilt ever after. She seemed to overcompensate where children were concerned, and if they were around would focus on them to the exclusion of almost everything and everyone else.

  She was a joy to watch as she wound them up, played jokes on them, told tall stories and took part in silly games. She was a natural around children and when I saw her so involved it only reinforced what I’d not had. She never talked down to them and would have them captivated as she told them she used to know a leprechaun back in Ireland. She’d have them believing she knew where the pot of gold was and they would go into the garden and try to help her find it. She’d often hide gold chocolate coins in the garden and the kids were delighted when they discovered the treasure.

  Not surprisingly, the one thing Mum and I did not agree on was politics. It never came between us, but she was a natural Nationalist and was never hesitant in expressing her views, which could occasionally spill over into out-and-out Republicanism. Although she was married to an Englishman she was always bitching about the British, the Loyalists and the Prods while sticking up for the Nationalist community in Belfast. This amused and appalled me in equal measure and although I tried hard to see her point of view, a political reconciliation wasn’t really on the cards. She told me that when she and Denis visited Belfast they often spent time in the Nationalist pubs and clubs along the Falls Road. Despite being a Catholic, Denis’s English accent was quickly noticed and he told me he stood out like a very sore thumb. Although he enjoyed visiting the city, I think he was never sorry to say farewell to West Belfast. All that said, Mum was as appalled and angered as anyone over IRA and Loyalist killings and she was a big supporter of the peace process. She’d had enough of a taste of the Troubles herself to know there could be no going back to the days of tribalism and terror.

  Mum and Denis had been heavy smokers for most of their lives, but had managed to quit for a number of years. That was until Denis contracted terminal cancer. He didn’t see the point in stopping and so he and Mum took it up again. Denis’s death didn’t deter Mum from the fags but I could see that, over time, they were having an effect on her. She’d had bouts of serious illness, during which I’d urge her to go to the doctors.

  ‘Away with you, John,’ she’d say, a fierce look in her eye. ‘I don’t trust those people. Dragging you in and testing you for this, that and the other. I’m fine, so stop fussing. And anyways, I don’t want them doctors sticking things in me.’

  ‘But you’re not well, Mum.’

  ‘I am well. Don’t you tell me how I feel!’

  ‘You’re not well. It’s obvious. You’re coughing your lungs up and you can hardly breathe. Go and get yourself checked out. How do you know what’s wrong with you if you don’t go?’

  ‘I’ve told ye – there’s nothing wrong with me. So shut yer bake – maybe you should stop smoking too.’

  Well, she had a point there but even so, she was looking ever frailer with each week that passed. During Christmas 2017, she took a flight to my brother’s place in Ireland and became very ill in the airport. She had to be wheeled on to the plane (there was no talk of giving up and going home) and when she arrived back in Lancashire after the break I insisted she went to the doctor’s. She was in chronic pain and had stopped eating. A series of tests were run and less than forty-eight hours later she was contacted by the hospital – could she come in please, there was something she needed to know.

  It was cancer, of course; lung cancer. She took it as well as she could, which was with courage and resilience. Maybe she knew that after all the trauma she’d endured, she wouldn’t live much beyond seventy years old.

  I was in pieces. I was devastated and angry. All these years without her, and now she was being taken away again, this time permanently. I didn’t want her to die, and I didn’t want her to suffer. I was all for more treatment but I didn’t want her pumped so full of drugs that she didn’t know who she was, or who any of us were. There were several moments when she seemed at the point of death but somehow rallied. Belfast people are tough.

  Even so, there came a point where the end was in sight. In June 2018, I was in the local hospital’s cancer care unit with her as she underwent yet another round of tests. The news wasn’t good – the cancer had spread from her lungs to her breast and most worryingly to her spine. The prognosis was six months at the most.

  When I heard the news, I went into meltdown. Excusing myself, I went to the toilets, sat down, put my head in my hands and cried like a baby, sobbing uncontrollably. My heart was broken all over again and I didn’t know if I would be strong enough to deal with watching Mum die in front of me, after everything we’d been through.

  After the initial shock, I pulled myself together and made it my duty to comfort Mum as much as possible. I grasped at anything positive, talking to her about the various treatments available, and told her that she shouldn’t give up and that we were going to fight this together. In my grief and sorrow I was clutching at anything and I attended the next few hospital appointments with her, asking the doctors what could be done to help her.

  At one of these appointments I rattled on, wondering if we could put the cancer into remission or cure it altogether. In reply, a doctor discussed different treatments and how long extra she might have if she took these table
ts or that round of chemotherapy. She sat in bed, the doctor and I on each side, and listened silently as we talked through the options. Then she raised her hand.

  ‘Stop,’ she said, in the voice I’d come to recognise as her ‘serious’ tone. ‘I’ve heard enough. John, I don’t want any treatment. I’ve told ye that until I’m blue in the face. I just want to die. That’s all.’

  This broke me all over again as she was so stubborn and once she’d made her mind up about something, that was final, even when talking about treatment to prolong her life. She wanted to go home and die in her favourite chair, surrounded by those she loved.

  Surprisingly, Margaret took the news very hard, though I knew she would feel some sorrow at her passing. Throughout the years I’d always kept Mags up to date with our life up north and with Mum and she was always interested to hear about her, but never felt the need to meet her. There were times I could see she was in conflict about this and in the beginning I thought that Mags might be able to forgive and forget the past and make contact with Mum. But this was not to be, and I trusted and respect both my sisters’ choice in this matter.

  To their credit, they have never judged or criticised David and me for wanting to get to know Mum again and this is testimony to their true love for us. They’ve put their own feelings aside in order to stand by us no matter what our choice was, even with something so monumental as meeting our estranged mother. Other families could have gone to war, but we four have been through so much together that nothing could ever come between us and that stands to this day. I know for a fact that my sisters would fight to the death to care for and protect us and that is a very special connection.