My Mother's Children: An Irish family secret and the scars it left behind.

by Annette Sills

  “My contract in Madrid’s finished,” he said, throwing them into the laundry basket. “I’m staying on in Tom O’Brien’s spare room until I can move into the flat in Salford. If it’s OK with you I’d like to come round now and again and see how you’re doing.”

  “Whatever.”

  I sank deeper into the refuge of my pillows. Rain started to patter on the windows. All my fight was gone and I hadn’t the energy to say no. The darkness was rolling over me again like a fog, weighing me down and sapping me of everything, even my anger towards Joe. I closed my eyes. I was so very very tired.

  Chapter 30

  The fog of my depression eventually began to lift. I distinctly remember the moment it first happened. It was a bright October afternoon down in The Meadows.

  Shortly after Joe’s visit I took sick leave from work and went to my GP. She put me on a waiting list for CBT counselling and prescribed me anti-depressants. I was hesitant to take them at first, a little afraid of the side effects. But I was lucky. I had the odd headache, a bit of diarrhoea but none of the self-harming thoughts or other terrible things I’d read about.

  Joe came by most days. He shopped, paid the bills and helped around the house. We didn’t talk much, communicating only about functional stuff and circling around each other as though separated by glass. But I appreciated a human presence. It cut through the loneliness of the long tortuous days.

  I was on my medicinal daily walk in the Meadows and sitting on a bench on the curve of a path opposite a stream. Mild sunshine sprinkled the woods and dotted the carpet of ivy at my feet. I was listening to Snow Patrol on my headphones when a middle-aged couple in pastel-coloured waterproofs appeared round the bend of the path. They were guiding a blonde girl of about three who was wearing a Peppa Pig raincoat. I guessed they were young grandparents from the adoring way they looked at the child, as if every step she took and observation she made was pure genius. A young runner in yellow Lycra suddenly appeared round the corner with a dog and as she flew past them, the ruby Cavalier barked and jumped up at the child. She screamed and hid behind her grandfather’s sturdy legs. The dog’s owner stopped and apologised. I watched as the three adults tried to coax the girl to stroke the dog who had been put on a lead. The girl wasn’t having any of it, continuing to peer at the dog curiously as the adults chatted. Then without warning she stepped out from behind her grandfather’s legs and stroked the dog’s carmine coat. Delighted with herself, she did it again. Then she ran on the spot and clapped her hands, giddy with excitement. Her face was bursting with pride and joy as all the adults applauded. It made me smile, I mean really smile, for the first time in months and I felt something shift inside me.

  When they’d gone I looked around the wood at the rich greens, honey-yellows and copper-reds of autumn. I was starting to focus and see colour again. It was like I’d been wearing the wrong pair of glasses without realising and then I’d put on my old ones again. Snow Patrol sang “You Could Be Happy” on my iPod and I walked home with a slight spring in my step.

  Later that evening I rang Mary. She’d recently been promoted at work and was now my new line manager. I was delighted. When I invited her out to dinner the following evening to celebrate, she accepted immediately.

  She’d been round the previous week and I’d told her everything over tea and cake and tears in my kitchen. She listened without judgement when I raged about Joe and Karen. She resisted the urge to give me advice and waved a dismissive hand in the air when I brought up the topic of work.

  “I’m your new boss,” she said, delving into a slice of the delicious homemade Victoria sponge she’d brought round. “Do as you’re told and stay at home until you’re well enough to come back.”

  When I told her about the search for my brother and the Mother and Baby Home scandals, I was surprised to learn she’d actually read quite a bit about the topic. She said she’d heard rumours about the illegal adoptions in the homes in Ireland years ago.

  I was nervous about going out in public to a restaurant. I’d ventured out only once in the evening since I’d started feeling unwell. I took off to the cinema in town one evening but had another panic attack on the tram and had to come home. That was before the pills, though. They were helping a lot with my confidence. I was now able to go out to the local shops and to The Meadows for my walk which I could never have done before. But to be on the safe side I arranged to meet Mary at a restaurant on Beech Road in Chorlton only few hundred yards from home.

  A onetime police station, the Lead Station had bare brick walls and wine bottles stacked high on shelves. There was a cosmopolitan menu and an outside eating space in an enclosed yard decorated with fairy lights and plants. It probably hadn’t been used at all during the recent damp months. Apart from a couple of families with children and a young couple who looked like they might be on a date, the place was very quiet. On the way in I spotted one of Bryonie Phillips’s cronies sitting at the bar. I panicked. But he was engrossed in his phone and didn’t see me as I hurried past into the eating area.

  We sat at a table looking out into the outside yard. Mary was in great form. In a fuchsia shirt instead of her usual black or navy, she looked tanned and happy after spending half-term hiking around Sicily with her German partner Monika. We chatted for a while about our former boss Pete whose job Mary now had. Pete had left under a cloud after rumours of an affair with a Polish MA student. I knew Maja well and liked her. Much more than Pete, who was hairy and dismissive and quietly full of himself. Both were married. I reminded Mary how I’d told her earlier in the year that I had suspicions about an affair.

  “Remember I said something was going on?” I said, dunking a chunky chip into the bowl of hummus on my plate. “Shame I didn’t have the same intuition about my husband and my best mate.”

  “Shame indeed.” Mary narrowed her eyes. “So how are things between you and Joe?”

  “Much the same. Except he’s kinder now and I’m not as angry. As much as I try I can’t find fault with him at the moment.” I bit into a chip. “Apart from the bit about him shagging my bestie.”

  Mary said nothing, sprinkling salt and pepper over her plate and frowning down at her steak.

  “Do you still love him?”

  I sat back and sighed.

  “Love doesn’t actually seem that relevant right now, Mary. I’m letting him be around because I need him. All I know is it actually feels better to have his presence around now and again than be on my own dealing with depression, even after everything he’s done.”

  “Fair enough. Do you talk about what happened at all?”

  “Not really. I did mention marriage guidance the other day but he says he doesn’t want to be made to feel guiltier than he already is by talking to a large woman in Birkenstocks.”

  Mary looked under the table at her feet and I laughed. Then she hovered the bottle of Riesling in my direction.

  “Had my one glass for today,” I said, shaking my head and putting a hand over my glass. “I can’t take the downers that come with the hangovers any more.”

  “All the more for me then,” She grinned, filling her glass. “And what about counselling? You heard anything?”

  “According to my GP there’s a four-month waiting list.”

  “Christ. Is it that bad?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about going private? You have the money.”

  “It might sound a bit daft but I’m scared of spending it. I have to know what’s happening with Joe first and if we end up selling the house. Therapy’s not cheap.”

  “A good investment, though.”

  I put my knife and fork down, rubbed at my temples and sighed.

  “It’s not about the money, Mary. I’m putting it off because I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  I leant over and lowered my voice. “If I start digging I might discover that I’m like her. Like Tess.”

  “In what way?”

  “Manic depressive. Bipolar or
whatever it’s called these days.”

  Mary dabbed her lips with a napkin then frowned. “You’re a worrier and a bit oversensitive by times but I doubt you’re bipolar. I’m sure you’d know by now if you were.”

  “I’m feeling much better now but they say depression’s genetic. What if isn’t just one episode? What if it becomes permanent?”

  She reached over and picked up her glass.

  “Carmel, you’ve had a pretty tough time recently. Don’t you think your depression is a reaction to everything that’s happened to you? Remember when you said you thought something was triggered seeing the little girl with her dad at her old house that day?”

  I nodded. “Yes?”

  “Didn’t it ever occur to you that you’ve never dealt properly with your father’s death? That at the age of ten you were thrown into the role of looking after Tess and Mikey and you never properly grieved for him? Losing a parent at a young age is huge and it’s something that’s probably taken its toll on you over the years. Then recently a series of events happened that were out of your control. Mikey and Tess died suddenly, you were told you might have a heart condition, you discovered all that stuff about Tess and the baby then you found out about Joe and Karen. Who the hell wouldn’t get down after going through all that?”

  “And Joe’s parents dying.”

  “Christ, I forgot that.” Mary gulped from her glass again. “I’m slitting my wrists here. Look, Carmel, you’ve suffered loss after loss. Circumstances have made you depressed. It doesn’t mean you’re bipolar. You’ve just unravelled, that’s all.”

  I sat back. Unravelled. I thought about that time I found Tess’s knitting between the sofa cushions in the old house, how it came apart in my hands, stitch after stitch, loosening and unhooking, the shape of it finally disappearing. Was Mary right? Is that what had happened to me?

  I gestured at the passing waitress and asked for coffee.

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got a way with words,” I said to Mary then. “Someone should give you a promotion.”

  Chapter 31

  Julia’s letter arrived on an unseasonably warm Friday evening in November. Like everything else that year the weather was topsy-turvy. Summer had been winter and now winter was turning into summer.

  I’d just got in from work. I’d been back for three weeks. I still had my bad days but Mary had given me an easy timetable and overall I was glad to be keeping busy.

  Joe was round and had offered to cook a curry. Amy Winehouse crooned on the music system, chicken korma bubbled on the hob and I was setting the table. To any onlooker we looked like a normal couple enjoying a Friday evening together.

  He was holding a brown envelope in his hand.

  “I forgot. This was on the mat when I came in,” he said. “Irish postmark. Looks interesting.”

  He searched my face. He was looking for some kind of clue about what had happened between us the previous day but I looked away. The memory made me uncomfortable.

  I’d been sitting on the bed drying myself after a shower and listening to Paul Weller being interviewed on BBC Radio 6. Joe still used his key and I hadn’t heard him come in when I was showering. He’d moved into the flat at Salford Quays. We’d been getting on well recently and he’d started coming over more regularly.

  I jumped as he walked in the bedroom door and gathered my towel around me. Light filtered through the gap in the curtains over him and he looked good in a work shirt and chinos.

  “Sorry. I needed to get a few things from the cupboard,” he said, turning to leave when he saw my state of undress.” I’ll come back when you’re done.”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  Averting his eyes, he walked over to drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe opposite the bed. He knelt down inches from my feet. He had his back to me and I could smell his apple-scented aftershave. As he yanked the bottom drawer open, a ripple of muscle spread along his right shoulder-blade. Without thinking, I reached out and ran a fingertip lightly down his back. He went completely still then turned round. I undid the towel and fell back on the bed. Soon he was kneeling in front of me, his hands on my thighs, his eyes travelling over my body like he was seeing it for the first time.

  “You sure?” he asked.

  I nodded and opened my legs. He bent down, his tongue searching and teasing. I helped him undress quickly and pulled him on top of me. He entered me gently at first, moving slowly then pausing. He looked into my eyes and told me he was sorry. The moment he said it I saw them both fucking on our sofa, her long legs wrapped around him as he cried out her name. I felt sick inside. Yet I didn’t ask him to stop. I went through the motions instead. Thankfully he came quickly. He apologised for that too and asked if we could talk afterwards. But I escaped into the bathroom and made an excuse about going out.

  I cried on the tram on the way into work the next morning, wondering if that would be our last time.

  Joe handed me the envelope. When I saw Julia’s neat handwriting, I made an excuse and ran upstairs with it. I felt so bad. In the past few months Julia had left a number of answer-phone messages. In one of them she’d said she had something for me. I’d been meaning to call her back but she and Mattie had gone on a cruise. She’d sent postcards from Venice and Dubrovnik but she hadn’t taken her mobile so I couldn’t get hold of her.

  I took the envelope into the bedroom. I stopped and stared down at Joe’s clothes by the side of the bed. I threw them in the laundry basket then I straightened the duvet, sat down and opened the envelope. Inside was a photocopied newspaper cutting and a letter from Julia.

  My dear Carmel,

  We’re back now after the cruise. We had great craic and met lots of interesting people. I ate too much though and now I can’t do up my trousers!

  I left you a few messages on the answer phone before we went away but didn’t hear back from you. Is everything alright between us? I’ve been thinking about your last visit. I do hope you have forgiven me for not telling you about Tess’s baby. I felt I had no choice but to respect your mother’s wishes. I hope you understand.

  I don’t know if you remember me mentioning a woman called Nancy Corley on your visit? Her family were neighbours of Tess’s parents in the village. Nancy used to nurse with me in the General in Castlebar. She is retired now and lives here in Westport. Anyways, not long after your visit, I bumped into her in Tesco and we got talking. I asked her if she knew what had become of Tess’s brother. She knew he’d gone to London years ago and she said she’d seen an article about him in the Mayo News a few years back.

  When I got home Gerry and I went online and looked for the article but we couldn’t find anything. So the next day he went into the Mayo News offices in Westport. They were very helpful and gave him a copy from the archives. That’s what I was ringing to tell you about it.

  I hope you don’t mind me sending it on to you.

  Give me a call some time and let me know how you are getting on.

  All my love to Joe.

  Julia

  xx

  I felt terrible. It never occurred to me that Julia might think I was angry with her for not telling me Tess’s secret. I resolved to ring her that evening.

  I picked up the Mayo News cutting. I’d often seen copies of the paper in Julia’s house. It was a local paper, filled with news from every nook and cranny in the West, from farmer’s fairs to burglaries, obituaries, visits from local dignitaries and community sporting events.

  My eyes were immediately drawn to the photograph next to the article. I gasped. A man in a tux and long white silk scarf was standing in front of a theatre billboard. Though probably in his late sixties or early seventies, the likeness was remarkable: the large grey-blue eyes, the square jaw under the snowy-white goatee, the stocky build. He even had the same unruly thatch of hair. He looked just like Mikey if he’d lived for another thirty years. It was uncanny and unsettling. For a mad moment I imagined my brother had come back and my heart leapt with joy. His death was
all a mistake, a bad dream. Then I came to my senses and read the short article underneath the photo.

  Mayo Man Snaps Up Top London Theatre Prize

  Timothy Dempsey, a native of County Mayo, has been named Best Director in the Off West End Theatre awards. His adaptation of Sean O’Casey’s The Plough and the Stars played at the Southwark Playhouse earlier this year. The Guardian described it as ‘Harrowingly brilliant’ and The Times said it was ‘One of the finest pieces of theatre you’ll see in London this year”.

  Dempsey, who left Mayo for London in 1965, told the Mayo News he was ‘humbled and delighted’ at his win.

  Demspey has worked as a lecturer, playwright and theatre director for over fifty years and lives in Battersea with his partner. He has one son.

  Timothy Dempsey. In all my Google searches for Tess’s brother I’d looked for Tadhg Dempsey. Tadhg must be the Irish for Timothy. I picked up my iPad from the top of the bedside table and checked. Turned out it wasn’t a proper translation, but a lot of people thought it was. I didn’t know any of that. Maybe I wasn’t as Irish as I thought. So Tess had lied when she told Mikey and me that her brother had ended up living on the streets in Kilburn. Had she done it so we would never try and trace him? So she’d never have to face him again after what he’d done all those years ago?

  I looked at the photograph again. My uncle looked shy and retiring and seemed to shrink from the camera like a hermit crab. He seemed nothing like the cruel brother I’d imagined who’d handed over his pregnant fifteen-year-old sister to the nuns to placate his parents and his rich Protestant friends. I took in the elegant tux and the highbrow theatre setting and sighed. Tess’s life trajectory after she came out of the home was one of poverty, mental-health problems and loneliness. Yet his seemed to have been full of wealth, glamour and fame. I resented that. Yet part of me felt emotional. Here was my uncle, the only living breathing member of Tess’s side of the family, someone I’d never met. Despite what he’d done in the past I couldn’t help feeling an excitement and a connection. He obviously loved literature and the arts like I did and he looked so much like Mikey it hurt.