No One Wants You

by Celine Roberts

  My mother made a lunge at him as if to snatch the camera. He stuffed the camera and his hands into the pockets of his long gaberdine overcoat. He turned on his heel and swaggered towards the front door. I thought he looked like James Cagney in a movie scene.

  When the photograph was developed, it showed me sitting beside my mother, while she was holding Ronan on her lap. I think she looks decidedly unhappy to be caught in such a situation, with what were, after all, her daughter and her grandson. She isn’t even looking up. Any other mother would be proud to be in a photograph like that.

  My mother eventually calmed down and she even sat down beside me.

  ‘Does my father know of my existence yet?’ I asked her snappily. ‘I believe that if he saw me, he would accept me.’

  ‘No, he has never been told. If it came out now, it would break up his family,’ she said firmly.

  I said, ‘I would not want that to happen. I would not want to be responsible for that.’ Bearing in mind how frail I felt, I then added, ‘I pray that somehow I would be able to see him, before I die.’

  At that point my mother began to talk to Sister Bernadette about her parental home in Clarina, County Limerick. I was being ignored, as if I was not there. She said someone had removed an Adam’s fireplace from the house without anyone’s permission. When I heard about the Adam’s fireplace, I believed that she must have grown up in a mansion of a house and that her family must have been extremely wealthy. It compounded my belief that I could never be good enough to be a part of such an illustrious family.

  I was just a ‘nobody’, somebody with ‘bad blood’, just an illegitimate bastard, just an ‘ill-gotten person that nobody wanted’. I felt that my mother was part of an aristocratic class of people and I would never be good enough to even ‘darken their door’. I had worked in enough mansions, as a skivvy, to know the style and value of an Adam’s fireplace.

  My mother continued to ignore my family and me. She was talking to the nun about the weather and her own health. Without engaging me in any more conversation, my mother then stood up and haughtily announced to everyone and no one in particular, that she had to leave. She bent down to me and kissed the air between us and said, ‘I hope you feel better, keep in touch with Sister Bernadette.’ With that, she rose to her full height, stuck her chin in the air and without looking back at us, strode out the front doors of the hotel, with Sister Bernadette following, as if in attendance.

  Sister Bernadette came running back to us to tell us not to follow my mother. She told me that my mother was worried about my following her, and causing trouble.

  I was just too numb. It had never crossed my mind to follow her. I had been unable to ask her most of the questions that I had prepared and I had received no answers. My mother had walked out of my life once again. I wondered if I would ever see her again. This was the fourth time that she had left me. But it was the first time that she had walked out on her grandchildren.

  Harry’s head appeared around the door, in that comic fashion of his, looking first one way, then the other. With an impish smile he enquired ‘Is “Der Führer” gone?!’

  As this was the first time that Harry had met my mother, I asked him, ‘What did you think of her?’

  He politely answered, ‘She is very nice.’ And then under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear, ‘Let’s get out of here, before she comes back.’

  Then Anthony asked, ‘Who was that lady, Mum?’

  ‘She is Auntie Kathleen,’ I lied.

  I’d said the first name that came into my head. We left the hotel and went to a cake shop to buy cakes. I remember going to the cake shop, but I was in such a state of mental anguish, I can’t remember buying or eating the pastries at all.

  The next day we returned to London.

  FOURTEEN

  The Hunt Begins

  AFTER WE RETURNED to London I was still not feeling myself and we decided to go on a family holiday. I thought it might be just what we needed. Before we were married, Harry had wanted me to go and live in Canada. I did not want to go so far away, as I had unfinished business on this side of the Atlantic Ocean but I thought it might be the very place for a holiday. Seamus, Harry’s brother, and his wife Colette, lived in Ontario, in Canada, and were always inviting us to go there for a visit. We decided to borrow some money from the bank to fund a four-week stay in Canada in August. We flew with Freddie Laker Airways, one of the first low-cost airlines, to Toronto. We got health insurance for the two boys, but not for Harry or me. This was to turn out to be a very stupid decision. Even without the benefit of hindsight, I should have realised how stupid it was. Maybe it demonstrates how badly my thought processes were performing. I must have thought that the premium was too expensive, or that nothing serious could happen to the adults. With my medical history, it was a very naive decision on my part.

  Two days after arriving in Canada, at Harry’s brother’s house, I developed a rash all over my body.

  Harry’s sister who also lived in Canada, in Calgary, came to visit us. She came up with the theory that the rash was due to the cream in the beef Stroganoff that we ate on the plane. ‘With the reputation for cutting costs that Freddie Laker has, he could have put anything in that sauce, you know,’ she said.

  I first went to the local pharmacy to get some antihistamine pills. I thought that I might be able to treat it myself. They did not work.

  The next day Seamus took me to their local doctor. He was unsure what the cause might be and told me to go to the local hospital. They ran some blood tests. The test results revealed that my haemoglobin was low. That meant that I was iron deficient. The rash was caused by serum poisoning because I had been taking Tamoxifen for my breast cancer for the previous two years. Toxins from the drugs were building up in my bloodstream. They told me that I would need blood transfusions and that each unit would cost £300. They put me on iron, plus folic acid tablets. They also recommended a D and C to stop uterine haemorrhage. As I had no medical insurance, the cost of all this surgery in Canada was taking on astronomical proportions. We decided to go home after two weeks.

  Canada was a lovely country, but I felt so bad during my stay, I could not enjoy any of it.

  Freddie Laker brought us home. He was still serving beef Stroganoff on the return trip. I declined to eat any, but Harry ate my portion as well as his own. He did not suffer any ill effects.

  As soon as I got home I checked into St George’s Hospital in Tooting once again, for my D and C. The rash got better as soon as I began taking the iron tablets. My D and C was clear. I soon recovered well and returned to work to repay the bank loan. It proved to be an expensive holiday! But we put it behind us. That September it was Ronan’s first birthday and I decided to have a birthday party for him.

  Anthony and all his friends, with their mums, came to the house one afternoon. The mums had wine and the children had the usual soft drinks and party food. I had bought party hats for the kids, in anticipation.

  One of the mums was a neighbour, Pauline. She invited me to a Pippa Dee party in her house later that week. These parties were common at the time. While at the party you could purchase ladies’ clothing from a reasonably priced range, brought there by a Pippa Dee representative. Whoever held the party would invite all of her friends, who could then buy some clothing, if they liked what they saw.

  I turned up at the party early as I was on night duty at the hospital. I said that I could only stay for a few minutes. There were about ten people there at that time. Some of them I knew, some of them I did not know. Even though it was a small gathering, I did not interact with any of them, other than exchanging small pleasantries with those standing close to me, and my hostess, Pauline. I just really wanted to get away to work, as my time was extremely limited.

  As I had a look through the clothes, my gaze was drawn to an older woman who was standing across the small room from me. I thought to myself, ‘I know that woman from somewhere.’

  Our eyes met and I felt that
she showed some signs of recognition towards me. We gravitated towards one another.

  She initiated the conversation with, ‘Are you Irish?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘What part do you come from?’ she enquired.

  ‘Limerick.’

  ‘How many children do you have?’

  ‘I have two boys, Anthony aged seven and Ronan aged one and a half. I have also lost two babies.’

  The representative who was selling the clothing then interrupted and asked the woman to pay for her purchases. She began to fumble in her handbag and took out a cheque book and began to write a cheque. Over the years I had become good at reading what someone else was writing. I developed the technique, as I had spent many years being called in front of people and not knowing the reason why. Usually if I could read the piece of paper I might have some idea why I was being called to account.

  In this case I noticed that the name printed on her cheque book was Rosaleen O’Regan. That confirmed to me my initial suspicion of who she was. While I was not familiar with the surname of O’Regan, her facial looks and her Christian name, Rosaleen, meant that she had to be my maternal aunt. She was my mother’s only sister.

  As Harry was dropping me to work, he was waiting outside in the car. I did not say my goodbyes to anyone; I just left the house immediately. I was in shock and I splurted out to Harry, ‘You will never guess, in a month of Sundays, who is inside at Pauline’s party.’

  ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Calm down, what happened? Who is in there?’

  ‘It is my mother’s sister, Rosaleen.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he queried.

  ‘I am positive,’ I said. ‘I remember her from a meeting with my mother. It was about 20 years ago but I am positive that it is her.’

  I didn’t know what else to do, so Harry drove me to work. As I worked through the night, I kept remembering that day, 18 years before, in the Mount Orphanage, when Rosaleen accompanied her sister Doreen, as I met my mother for the first time. I was convinced that it was the same person. As soon as I got home from work the following morning, I phoned Pauline, to know if she had Rosaleen O’Regan’s address. Pauline asked me why I wanted it.

  ‘She is a relative that I have not seen for many years, and I would like to contact her,’ I replied.

  For a very short moment I was quite shocked with myself. I realised that everything that I had said was the truth. As far as my birth family were concerned, the truth and I were strangers. But for once I had spoken the truth about them.

  It felt very good.

  Pauline did not have the address but she said that the woman was a friend of Yvonne Loftus and she gave me Yvonne’s phone number. I rang her immediately and she, in turn, gave me Rosaleen’s address and phone number, without any probing or questioning.

  Rosaleen’s address was very close to where I lived. Walk to the bottom of our street, go under the railway bridge, walk 20 yards along a narrow alleyway and you are in the middle of her road. It was less than five minutes’ walk. I was incredulous that my mother’s sister was living two streets away from me.

  After receiving this information, I was walking around in circles, in my sitting room. I went to bed to try to get some sleep, but it was impossible, as my head was buzzing. I just couldn’t sleep.

  For the next 48 hours, my mind never rested. I decided that I was going to meet her. I knew where she was living, so she could not escape. I was thinking of all sorts of scenarios, about what would happen when we met. All the old fears raised their ugly heads once again. Would she speak to me, when she realised who I was? Would she accept me unconditionally?

  I felt that there was no hope of that.

  I tried to anticipate the conditions under which I might be acceptable to her. Would she accept my family, Harry, Anthony and Ronan, unconditionally? Harry could decide for himself whether he wanted to be accepted by her. But I decided that I would not tolerate any conditions attached to my children’s acceptability. My children were better than anybody, even my mother’s family.

  I decided not to call her by telephone, as she could easily hang up on me. I decided not to make it easy for her, but to turn up on her doorstep and introduce ourselves. I discussed my attack strategy with Harry. He agreed to support any battle actions that might ensue, which helped me to carry it through. Privately, I hoped that there would not be any casualties.

  On the following Monday evening, Harry, Ronan and myself dropped Anthony to a cub scout session at St Bart’s Church Hall. He would be there for at least two hours. We then drove to Runnymede Crescent, Streatham Vale, and presented ourselves on the doorstep.

  I was as nervous as a kitten, but I did not show it. With Ronan in my arms, I rang the doorbell.

  The woman from the party opened the door. She said to me, ‘Hello, I recognise that smile, should I know you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am Doreen’s daughter, Celine.’

  ‘Come in,’ she said politely. ‘This must be my grandnephew.’

  I was a bit surprised she was so calm about it, but I just went along with it and said, ‘Yes, his name is Ronan, and this is my husband, Harry.’

  She led us into a small front room, where her son, Terence, was sitting, with his leg in plaster, watching TV.

  ‘This is Terence, my son,’ she said to me. ‘This is Celine and Harry, your cousins.’

  To me, she added, ‘I have one other son, Clifford, and a daughter, Donna, who is married and living in Ireland.’

  Terence asked me, ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Just around the corner,’ I replied.

  To which he said, ‘I did not know that we had cousins in the parish.’

  His mother then said to him, with what I thought was nervous laughter, ‘You know us, we have cousins everywhere.’

  My aunt then directed me alone upstairs, as if to show me the house. As soon as we were out of earshot I asked her, ‘How is my mother?’

  ‘She is fine,’ she answered. ‘I did not realise that you lived so near.’

  I’m sure of all the places that my aunt did not want to find herself living was in a council house, within 500 yards of where her sister’s illegitimate daughter was living. There were ten million people living in London, how could she get it so wrong? It was truly ironic.

  ‘What will I tell my neighbours?’ I said, as always anxious to please, because they knew her as a friend. I was trying to accommodate this superior being. I did not want to contaminate her, by being known to her friends as an illegitimate relative.

  Then she said, ‘I do not mind who knows that you are my niece.’

  I was really delighted by that statement. It gave me a sort of sense of partial legitimacy and acceptance. She put the kettle on and made a cup of tea for everyone. Shortly afterwards, we left to collect Anthony from the cub scouts. We had agreed that Rosaleen would come over to me, at my house, the following afternoon at two o’clock.

  The next day she arrived on her bicycle, on time. As I opened the door to her, I felt immediately from her demeanour that a change had taken place. I felt coldness, towards me.

  I beckoned her to come in. As soon as the door was closed behind her, she said, ‘I think that we should tell the neighbours that we are cousins’ children.’ In other words she no longer wanted to accept me as her niece.

  It was agreed that I was to call her Rosaleen only, from then on. I felt so inferior that I would have agreed to anything, just to maintain any kind of link with my mother’s family.

  She left shortly afterwards and the entire meeting did not last five minutes. I felt sad and hurt by this meeting.

  Her whole attitude towards me had changed from the previous night. Here I was consigned to ‘status sub-human’ once again. I wasn’t going to give up that easily.

  Ever the one to get my way, by subterfuge or subtle means, before she left I invited her, along with her son Terence and his girlfriend Niamh, to dinner on the following Sunday evening. Even if my mother and her
family were once more trying to reject me, I was not going to let an opportunity like this pass me by.

  They had all the information, I had none. I had no idea where all this might lead, but it might lead to somewhere better than where I was, information wise. I had no fears. Instead of forming battle plans, I was now going on a charm offensive.

  She accepted the invitation and they came to dinner on the Sunday evening. No direct references were made to my parental family. I was just dying to ask a load of questions but I bit my tongue and bided my time. I had decided not to antagonise her in any way.

  The relationship with my aunt was in its infancy and I would nourish it and see it grow over the long-term. She had all the information and I wanted it. If she did not give me the relevant data voluntarily, I would have to get it somehow, if not from her then from someone close to her. I would have to be patient, subtle and a little devious, if necessary. If I got lucky, then that would be a bonus.

  One significant aspect reared its head over dinner that evening. I asked Terence how he had met his girlfriend, Niamh. They were both in their mid-twenties at the time. He said, ‘I met her at the Regional Hospital in Limerick. She was a nurse there. She was looking after my grandmother while she was ill, just before she died.’

  Two things were obvious from that. Firstly, Niamh was a nurse. I would be able to strike a bond with her. Secondly, Terence was speaking about his maternal grandmother. I remember thinking at the time, ‘He is speaking in very loving terms about a person who is also MY grandmother. But she is the grandmother who was primarily responsible for my life. She is the one responsible for consigning me to the scrap-heap of life as a five-month baby.’

  This grandmother, whom he so fondly visited while she was dying in hospital, was the same wicked woman who would have gladly seen me dead, if she could have arranged it. There were so many low times in my life when I would have preferred it if she had been able to arrange my death, either before I was born or shortly afterwards.