No One Wants You

by Celine Roberts

  I was released into the care of a Mrs Wall from Dublin in the beginning. She was a Limerick woman who had moved to Dublin and I was to be her housemaid. The job only lasted three weeks and I was returned to the orphanage at the Mount because there was a job available to me, as a housemaid in a large farming house on the outskirts of Limerick City, if I successfully passed an interview. I was given the address of the house, with rather vague directions telling me how to get there. I was to present myself for interview at two o’clock in the afternoon of the following day. I had worked outside the high walls of the orphanage for the previous two years so I had some knowledge of how to navigate my way around the city. I had no money for a taxi, or even a bus. I had to walk. I asked a large number of people for directions and eventually found the address. The lady of the house met me at the door. She asked me to come in and take a seat. An old friend of hers was visiting her and she told me he was going to interview me, as well as herself. She reassured me that the interview was nothing elaborate. She said that they were just going to ask me a few simple questions. Her friend turned out to be a priest, Father Bernard O’Dea. He was a Benedictine priest from a local school nearby.

  Mrs Cooke asked me easy questions, like my name, my age, how long I was at the orphanage and what kind of work I did there. I answered all her questions as best I could. She seemed pleased enough with my answers. Then Father Bernard asked about my education. What class was I in at school? I told him that I had hardly ever been to school. He asked me if I could read and write. In a very low voice, I said that I could. He asked me to write my name on a piece of paper, which he handed to me, along with a pen. I wrote what I considered to be my name, Celine Clifford. I had always practised writing my name. I was not sure why I practised writing it so much. Maybe it was because I liked it, but later in life I felt that it reassured me that I actually was a person, in my own right.

  Then he asked me to write the sentence ‘the dog barked long and loudly’. I was able to spell ‘the’ and ‘dog’ but I was not able to spell the other words. I attempted the entire sentence, but I am sure the writing was illegible. He looked at it, and said, ‘Thank you, Celine.’

  He then nodded at Mrs Cooke.

  She said, ‘Let me show you the house and I’ll tell you what your duties would be as we go along.’

  When the tour was over, she announced that the pay was two pounds and ten shillings a week ‘all found’, with a half day off per week. She asked me, ‘Do you think that you would be able for it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered shakily. The nuns had warned me that if I was offered the job, I was to accept it, there and then.

  ‘Are the terms acceptable to you?’ asked Father Bernard.

  I nodded that they were.

  ‘Well then,’ said Mrs Cooke, ‘I am prepared to offer you the position, do you accept? Or, do you need time to think about it?’

  ‘No, no,’ I blurted, ‘I would be delighted to accept the position, Mrs Cooke.’

  ‘When can you start?’ she asked.

  ‘On Monday morning next, if that suits you,’ I recited.

  ‘Well, that is settled then,’ said Mrs Cooke. ‘Bring your belongings around on Sunday evening. You can move in then, and start on Monday morning.’

  As I got up to leave, Father Bernard stood up, came over to me, shook my hand and said, ‘I am delighted to have met you, Celine. I am sure we will meet quite often, as I visit Mrs Cooke regularly.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ I responded.

  I was not to know at that moment in time what a valuable and important role Father Bernard O’Dea would play in my life, for many years to come.

  I started working for Mrs Cooke on the following Monday as planned. The work was not too hard. Mrs Cooke was middle-aged and was somewhat unwell at the time. She couldn’t do any kind of manual work around the house. She tired easily and her doctor had recommended that she rest as much as she could.

  Her husband was dead. She lived with her two children who I used to get ready for school. When I had finished my daily duties, most of the remainder of my time was spent listening to her. She wanted, or needed, someone to talk to. I filled that role. It was busy yet enjoyable, just listening to her ramble on about old times. I grew to be a good listener. Father Bernard came to visit about once a week, except when he was away on his travels. He seemed to travel to many exotic parts of the world.

  For my first real job, I could not have had a better start. Mrs Cooke was extremely kind to me, and I looked forward to Father Bernard’s weekly visits, as they both included me in their conversations. This alone made me feel acceptable. I would have liked an increase in my weekly wage, but this was not forthcoming. I was afraid to ask for it, so my disposable income remained low.

  While still working for Mrs Cooke, I wrote to Sister Bernadette, with Father Bernard’s help, requesting a meeting with my mother. Instead of posting the letter myself, Father Bernard said that he would post it on his way home. Thinking about it now, I think that he contacted Sister Bernadette directly, either by telephone or in person. I think that his intervention was responsible for what happened next.

  In July 1965 I received a letter from Sister Bernadette informing me that she had arranged for me to visit the convent at the Mount, where I would meet my mother. The letter said that she would contact me to arrange a date that would be mutually suitable to both my mother and I. My world was turned upside-down once again, as I thought about meeting my mother for the first time.

  I was not contacted to see what date might be suitable for me to meet my mother, but I received another letter from Sister Bernadette one week later. She told me to present myself at the Mount Convent at three o’clock, on Tuesday afternoon of the following week. The letter politely informed me that my mother would be present, accompanied by her sister.

  My every waking thought for the next two weeks was concentrated on the meeting. I fantasised about every aspect of the meeting.

  We would fall into each other’s arms.

  We would hug each other for a long time.

  She would call me her long-lost daughter.

  She would say that at long last we have been reunited.

  She would tell me that I was coming home with her that very day.

  She would tell me how much she missed me.

  She would tell me that she had been searching for me for years.

  She would cry her heart out and plead with me to forgive her.

  She would promise me that she would make up for lost time with me.

  She would explain to me, ‘Why?’

  It was five minutes to three o’clock on that fateful Tuesday. The scene was set. The players were in place. At age 17, I was ready to meet my mother for the first time. It was a beautiful sunny summer afternoon.

  I rang the doorbell at the side of the big heavy wooden front door of the convent. I had agonised over my clothes for days. Eventually I chose a turquoise blue suit. Underneath it was a floral blouse. A pair of blue shoes complemented the clothes, to complete the outfit. I thought it was in good taste, and felt comfortable in it. My hair was long, blonde and curly.

  I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted to be acceptable in every way.

  A young nun that I did not recognise opened the door. At her shoulder was Sister Bernadette, who greeted me. She directed me into the wood panelled parlour. I recognised the sweet smell of the lavender floor polish. Sister Bernadette directed me to sit on a seat, by the wall opposite the door. ‘Your mother has not arrived yet, but will be here in a few minutes,’ she reassured me.

  Within two minutes the front doorbell rang again. My pulse began to race. I could hear the young nun walk across the hall floor. I began to feel really nervous. As the front door opened, I heard two or more women’s voices. The palms of my hands were sweating. Sister Bernadette must have recognised the voices because she left the room to greet the visitors. My floral blouse was wringing wet.

  The door opened, and Sister Bernadette ush
ered two women into the room. The first lady was tall and blonde. She wore a navy dress and jacket. Her face was quite expressionless and her head was tilted back slightly, to give her an air of haughtiness. I thought that she was such a posh, elegant lady. I knew immediately that this was my mother. The lady with her wore a yellow dress and a brown cardigan. She looked dowdy by comparison with her sister. Sister Bernadette ushered the two ladies to the opposite side of the large room, directly across from me.

  I stood up, in preparation for the long walk across the room to hug my mother. ‘Celine, I would like you to meet your mother,’ said Sister Bernadette, and without pausing continued, ‘Doreen, I would like you to meet your daughter, Celine.’ At this, I broke down in tears and hung my head.

  None of us moved.

  I wanted to move but I was rooted to the spot. I had trained myself over the years not to initiate physical contact. But to my shock, my mother did not move towards me.

  She just said, in a distant cold voice, ‘Hello, Celine.’

  Though I desperately wanted to, I was unable to mutter even a single syllable. The silence in the room was palpable. Sister Bernadette initiated conversation with my mother’s sister. Instead of coming across the room to me which I desperately wanted her to do, my mother turned towards them and joined their conversation. I was still sobbing uncontrollably, but my mother ignored me completely.

  My mother, her sister and the nun were having a conversation about people in my family. I heard names mentioned but I did not know who they were talking about. I thought the names of the children were lovely.

  There was another lull in the conversation. My aunt gave a brown paper bag to my mother. My mother then walked across the room towards me. I thought, at last she is going to hug me.

  I found it hard to stop crying. My breathing was very irregular and I could not speak a word.

  My eyes were trying to say what I felt. ‘If she could hear what I was saying through my eyes, she would respond as any mother in this situation would,’ I thought.

  If my mother had thrown her arms around me and said, ‘I love you,’ I would have forgiven her everything, there and then. I would have forgiven her for the 17 years of sexual abuse, pain, torture, starvation and deprivation that I had suffered through.

  She stopped in front of me, more than an arm’s length away from me. As she began to speak, I think I realised subconsciously that the physical distance between us represented an emotional chasm.

  ‘I think that you should change your name by deed poll, to a completely different name, so that nobody will find out who you are. I do not want anybody to realise that I am related to you,’ my mother said to me. ‘I think that it would be better, for all concerned, if you could go and work in America. Nobody would know who you are there. I will never admit that you are my daughter. Here are some presents for you. These are rosary beads and white scapulars. Both of those came from a grand-aunt of yours. She is a nun in America. Oh, I nearly forgot, here is some Roses’ hand cream from your Aunt Rosaleen,’ whom she pointed to across the room, as if in introduction. In her own friendly, yet distant, way, Aunt Rosaleen waved daintily at me.

  ‘We will be going now, and I wish you well in the future,’ my mother said to me, in final farewell.

  She turned away from me.

  ‘Come, Rosaleen,’ she commanded. ‘Thank you so much, Sister Bernadette,’ she said to the nun, as all three disappeared out of the parlour.

  I heard no more conversation.

  She was gone! And she had not shed even one tear. She had not even touched me. Sister Bernadette came back into the room. I later found out that my grandmother had gone to school in Laurel Hill, Limerick, with Sister Bernadette.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ she enquired, as she held the parlour door open for me.

  It was obvious that it was time for me to leave. The heavy outside door was already open. She led my slouched shoulders and my heavy heart through it, out into the bright sunlight.

  ‘Well, goodbye, Celine. If you need me for anything that you think is important, please write to me. You have my address,’ said Sister Bernadette.

  With my mother’s speech ringing in my ears, I walked back to Mrs Cooke’s house. At least I must have walked back to the house. I do not remember. I was so traumatised, that the remainder of that afternoon, even now, is a complete blank.

  I was up bright and early for my work, the following morning.

  SIX

  Daring to Dream

  FOR THE NEXT six months I remained with Mrs Cooke, working as a housemaid. She had a bad heart and she became progressively weaker. She was unable to do even the slightest physical exercise, without having to rest for a long period afterwards. As her condition worsened, she was unable to climb the stairs so she decided to live downstairs.

  She had her bed moved down to the large sitting room. Her doctor and Father Bernard O’Dea seemed to be the only visitors that she received. To her doctor, she was a patient who required his medical services, and their relationship was business-like. But Father Bernard was a special friend. She was well able to socialise with him. She called him Bernard and he called her Peggy. They seemed to have a close friendly relationship.

  My duties as a housemaid became less and less formal. Most of my time revolved around Mrs Cooke’s daily needs. I had to cook her light meals, when she felt hungry. I had to prop her up in bed when she slumped down off her pillows. I had to help her go to the bathroom, when she needed it. I had to give her a bed bath, as she was unable to wash herself. But most of the time I was required to sit and talk to her, or to sit and listen to her.

  Mrs Cooke and I got on very well together. While her body was lethargic and unable to sustain itself physically, her mind was bright and as active as ever. She used to have The Irish Independent newspaper delivered every morning and read it from cover to cover, over the course of the day.

  One day she called me over to the bed.

  ‘Celine,’ she said. ‘Would you be so kind as to read the newspaper to me aloud today, as my arms do not have the strength to hold the paper aloft?’

  ‘I will try my best,’ I stuttered. ‘I cannot read very well.’

  ‘Of course you can, everyone can read these days,’ she insisted.

  I took the newspaper, and looked at the front page.

  ‘What would you like me to read for you?’ I asked sheepishly, as I tried to find some familiar words, as well as the shortest possible ones.

  ‘Start on the front page, read any article you like,’ she said in anticipation.

  After about five minutes of my reading to her, she said crossly, ‘Stop child. You really cannot read. I cannot believe it. How can you expect to get on in life if you cannot read?’ she asked me, incredulously. ‘We will have to remedy this, my girl.’

  Father Bernard called that particular afternoon to see Mrs Cooke. As soon as he was settled, sitting at Mrs Cooke’s bedside, with a cup of tea, and a piece of porter cake, Mrs Cooke raised the topic of my illiteracy.

  ‘This lovely young girl is only able to communicate verbally, Bernard. She is unable to read or write,’ she scolded. ‘You being a man of letters, Bernard, will you help her? I need somebody to read my newspaper to me in the mornings.’

  ‘I would be delighted to assist,’ he said.

  ‘I want you to promise me that you will ensure that she will be able to read and write perfectly, even if I am not here to supervise her progress. Will you promise me that?’ she exhorted.

  ‘When you put it to me so strongly, it does not look like I have much of a choice,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I would be delighted to help and if I make you a promise, I will adhere to it.’

  ‘Would you like me to help you, Celine?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes, I would like that very much, Father Bernard,’ I replied earnestly, and I meant it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can start today. You can write me a letter telling me all about yourself. We will proceed from there. A letter
will give me some idea of how much you already know. Here is my address.’

  My first attempt must have been somewhat less than satisfactory, as it took me the best part of two weeks to write two pages. I must have used ten envelopes just trying to write his address correctly. But I loved it. I was determined to be able to read and write perfectly.

  After he received my first epistle, he brought my letter back to me on his next visit to Mrs Cooke. He had corrected all my misspellings. There were so many, but all his comments were positive and encouraging. I wrote him a letter as often as I could, sometimes two or three per week, telling him different aspects of my life but keeping many things about my past hidden.

  He never complained. He continued to correct my misspellings and always commented positively. He encouraged me to read more, and gradually both my reading and my writing began to improve noticeably.

  I began to visit Father Bernard at his home, which was only a short walk away at Glenstal Abbey, on my half-day off each week. We used to have tea and biscuits at the Abbey, and he would talk to me about life in general. On one of my visits to him, I told him that I wanted to be a nurse. I expected him to laugh and say that it would be impossible without examinations. But he did not ridicule me. Instead, he said that he would write me a reference, and he gave me some advice on what to expect, if I set out on my journey towards a career in nursing.

  In between times, while I was learning to read and write, and dreaming about a career as a registered nurse, I used to go to dances with some of my friends from the orphanage. Many of them were also working as housemaids in various wealthy houses around the city of Limerick. We used to meet, usually at a dance in the Jetland Ballroom, on a Sunday night. We had great times, laughing and giggling about the sometimes funny characteristics of our respective employers.

  These shared experiences were also great when it came to knowing how to deal with the unwanted advances of the husbands of employers. Alcohol was usually the reason behind their indiscretions. The talks were also useful for sharing shortcuts and making life easier for us poor skivvies. We were generally regarded as the lowest form of life by our employers, and were exploited in any and every way possible.