Finding Tipperary Mary
Page 4
I expect my imagination was getting the better of me. I had just started to feel as if I actually did belong to this family and then suddenly it was all going to be taken away from me. All my memories just came flooding back. I wished I could ask Sister Theresa to help me do my packing, like she did the day I left the orphanage. I was now with a family who did not seem to want me to be there anymore. If they hadn’t had me, their lives would have been so much easier. That is how I was made to feel.
The one thing I needed most was the special handkerchief that Sister Theresa had given me, that I had so carelessly lost in the playground on my first day at school. I needed to have something to give me comfort and to wipe away my tears, which by now were running down my face. I had no idea where I was going or how long I would be away, or if I was ever coming back. I was just waiting to be told, sitting on the edge of my bed sobbing my heart out.
Eventually I heard Dad shouting from the bottom of the stairs, ‘Phyllis, your tea is ready,’ as if it were just an ordinary evening.
I was not in the least bit hungry, but I quickly wiped away my tears, as I knew I would be told off for being selfish and making a fuss.
It was still noticeable that I had been crying as my eyes were red. Dad said, ‘You must be strong for your mother as she is already upset, and the last thing she needs is you crying in your soup.’ His words seemed so cruel as all I wanted to do was to give Mum a hug to make her pain go away; and it may also have helped my own pain go away.
Kevin and Anthony had already left the house and were having their tea with Mr and Mrs Brewin. Carole actually seemed delighted, as they were flying to Ireland the next day. It was as if they were going on their holidays. Carole was jumping for joy and shouting, ‘I have never been in an aeroplane before, we are going to fly high up into the sky.’ Apart from when she started school, I had never seen her so excited about anything. I felt she was trying to make me jealous, and she seemed to have forgotten the reason why she was going to Ireland in the first place.
It was as if it was a big adventure instead of going to visit her sick grandmother. Even at such a young age I felt it was being disrespectful to our grandmother, but she never seemed to get told off about anything.
There seemed to be a lot of whispering going on in the house and I was not included. Suddenly I felt really angry and could stand it no longer. If I was going to be sent back to the orphanage I needed to know, so I screamed, ‘What is happening to me and where will I be going?’ To my amazement I was not reprimanded for screaming out with such anger in my voice.
When I got very upset, my mother seemed to change her attitude towards me and would often take me into another room for a chat, and this is what she did now. She told me that I would be staying with my Auntie Mary, whom I hardly knew.
On one occasion I actually overheard Mum saying to my father, ‘I’d better tell her she is special; if not it might cause all sorts of trouble.’
I would be taken into a separate room and she would sit me on her knee, which was a rarity in itself. I would always be extremely embarrassed by the whole thing. Even at such a young age I did not feel my mother was being genuine.
She would always say the same thing. ‘We chose you from all the other children at the orphanage because you are special,’ but I just wanted to be their daughter, not special. I always felt that was something my mother was advised to say by the nuns when I was first adopted if I became upset. Maybe they thought, if a child feels insecure, by telling them that they are special everything should be just fine.
After having our ‘special chats’ my mum would always seem to have a self-satisfied and irritating look on her face, as if she had done a great job of making me feel part of the family. If anything, it made me feel even more detached from them all.
Maybe it made her feel less guilty about the way she treated me when she gave me her talks. I don’t think she actually believed she was doing anything wrong. She gave the impression that she honestly thought she was the perfect adoptive mother. But at that time all I needed was to feel the same as the rest of the family.
Auntie Mary was my mother’s sister in-law; she was married to Uncle Peter, my mother’s older brother. They lived on the other side of Birmingham and had four children of their own.
Their house was next door to a primary school, as Uncle Peter was the school caretaker and Auntie Mary was the school cleaner. Kevin was their eldest son and was about 15. He was not in the least bit friendly. He always had his head in a book and just did not seem to want any distractions. Alan was the next cousin. He was 13 and much more into climbing trees and getting into mischief. Kate was the only girl, and just two months younger than Anthony, my brother, so she must have been 11, and by then at secondary school with friends of her own age and not having too much time for her adopted five-year-old cousin.
Then there was Robert, who was a year younger than me. I can only describe him as a male version of Carole, as he spent most of his time trying to get me into trouble, and the rest of the time wishing I wasn’t there in the first place. Fortunately this changed in later years and we became quite close.
I remember my mother saying that Auntie Mary had Robert ‘in the change’. Obviously at such a young age I had no idea what she actually meant by the change, but I assumed it was something that prevented someone from having any more children of their own. Mum said, ‘I suppose it was better to adopt a child than have had one in the change like Auntie Mary did. That would just have been terrible.’ I am sure my auntie did not think that; she seemed more than happy to have Robert around.
Even now, when I recall those long six weeks that I stayed there, I remember the pain of loneliness deep in my stomach and the awful feeling of rejection. I was taken early in the morning to my aunt’s house by Dad, and I wasn’t even allowed to give my mum a farewell hug. Dad told me, ‘You said your goodbyes yesterday so let’s not make a big fuss today. We need to hurry up as I have got to get back to take your mum and Carole to the airport.’ I picked up my suitcase and off we went to my auntie’s house. I was a very sad little girl that morning and could tell nobody.
Dad gave me a peck on the cheek and off he went, shouting as he was walking down the path, ‘Be a good girl for your Auntie Mary while Mummy and Carole are away in Ireland.’ That was the last thing I wanted to hear. My aunt was standing on the doorstep, stern-faced, with Robert by her side. It reminded me of when I first met my mother with her cross face and Carole by her side. I immediately felt once more like an outsider.
I really can’t remember too much about my time there. I sometimes think I erased it all from my memory as it was an experience I wanted to forget. I was trying to come to terms with the fact that I had recently been adopted and now I had to stay with an aunt and uncle and their four children, who certainly did not want me there. I am sure that would be too much for any five year old.
I do remember that Dad visited every Saturday afternoon for a couple of hours, and I was constantly being reminded of this, always in a negative way. If I so much as disagreed with anything that was said, my aunt would tell me that I had been disobedient and that my father would be informed of my bad behaviour when he next visited. I would inevitably be punished in some way, usually by being sent to bed. I was made to feel as if I was a naughty child because I had come from an orphanage and was bound to have some behaviour problems.
Meal times were something I came to dread and so I didn’t mind being sent to bed. I always had my meals on my own, as if to emphasise the fact that I was not part of their family.
As a small child I hated fried eggs, especially the yolk, but at my aunt’s home egg and chips seemed to be on the menu practically every night. I was made to sit at the table until my plate was clean, which often took the whole evening. My aunt would tell me that I should be grateful for the food that is put in front of me and I should think of all the starving children in the world. I would have been more than happy to have shared my fried egg and chips with them. S
he made me feel like the little girl from the orphanage who was lucky to be given any food at all and did not deserve to be treated any better.
My aunt would say, ‘You’re not at the orphanage now, so stop feeling so sorry for yourself. I know you have a mind of your own just like your mother.’ I never asked if she meant my birth mother or my adoptive mother. I didn’t dare. It could have been either of them, as they both had minds of their own, but I’m inclined to think that my adoptive mother would have spoken to my aunt and told her that my birth mother had a strong character, and that is why she was so strict and treated me the way she did, just in case I too got out of control.
I often cried myself to sleep, wishing I was back at the orphanage with Brendan and Sister Theresa to look after me. I did, however, look forward to Saturday afternoons when my dad visited. I suppose I somehow hoped his visits would give me some comfort and reassurance. Auntie Mary would always tell him that I had been a good little girl and I was no trouble. This made me feel so puzzled, Why is she only nice to me on Saturday afternoons? It was so false, but I never told him how I was feeling as he always seemed preoccupied. I would just give him a little smile to make him think that everything was fine.
When Dad did visit I don’t recall him speaking about my adoptive mother. It was as if he didn’t want to talk about her, so inevitably I would mention her. One visit I asked, ‘Is Mummy missing me?’
He paused for a while and then went on to say in an almost dismissive way, ‘Well, she has other things on her mind right now, as her own mother is dying.’ His words seemed insensitive and cruel, but it got worse.
‘Well, at least she has Carole for company, so no, I don’t expect she is missing you at the moment.’ It was as if he had taken on the role of the dominant parent while she was away but I also realise it was probably an anxious time for him, too. Maybe he just hadn’t given too much thought to his adopted daughter’s insecurities.
A few weeks went by and my grandmother died. I remember Uncle Peter being very upset as he had been unable to stay in Ireland because of work commitments, but he did manage to get a flight back the following day — in Ireland, funerals are usually the next day.
Robert, who was four, seemed older in the way he acted. Maybe he was just annoyed that I was still around; he really hated me staying at his house. He said, ‘My grandmother has died and my daddy will be going to her funeral.’
‘My mummy is in Ireland and she will be going to our grandmother’s funeral, too,’ I replied.
Then he shouted at me angrily, ‘Don’t be silly, that’s not your grandmother. You are adopted so how can you call her your grandmother?’
He was only a small child himself and I suppose it was just the sort of thing children say when they are upset or want to be mean to each other. But at the time it really affected me, and I remember crying about what he had said and my aunt asking me in her usual abrupt manner what I was crying about. I didn’t tell her. I knew it would be pointless.
On the last day at my aunt’s house I overheard her talking to Mrs Evans, a woman I didn’t know who had called at the house. My aunt hadn’t realised that I was reaching to get my coat, thinking it would be better if I went into the garden to get out of the way. In the hallway there stood a circular stand so laden with coats that it seemed to defy gravity and I was well concealed.
She stood there with her arms folded under her large bosom. She had a habit of taking hankies from her multi-coloured print overall and dabbing her face, usually saying something along the lines of ‘it’s my age, you know’. She was not letting Mrs Evans get a word in edgeways, and in the middle of the non-stop flow of words I suddenly heard her say, ‘I mean, if I would have wanted to adopt a child I could have gone to the orphanage myself. I already have four children of my own. Doesn’t her mother think I have enough to be doing?’
I froze on the spot. This confirmed what I already knew to be true. I wanted to run away, maybe even go back to the orphanage, as I felt scared, unloved and certainly unwanted. I was convinced that my adoptive parents regretted ever going to the orphanage in the first place, let alone adopting me.
The next day I was taken back to my adoptive family. It felt like I was going to a new place and I had to start all over again. My mother was grieving for her own mother but at the time I was just too young to understand. When she seemed sad I would feel rejected and just go to my bedroom and cry myself to sleep.
I never did tell anyone how upset I felt at my aunt’s house. They didn’t ask me any questions and I had learnt very quickly to keep things to myself. I knew then that I had to grow up fast, and being too sensitive about things wasn’t going to help me. I decided to try my best to be a good girl so I wouldn’t get into trouble and just maybe they would learn to love me as their own daughter.
3
Growing Up
Back with my family, I tried to put the fact that I had been adopted to the back of my mind. I was desperate just to feel that I belonged, and that they were happy to have me as their daughter and sister. I just wanted to be a normal little girl and to be treated the same as the other children. Not special in any way.
But my adoptive mother always made me feel that she didn’t want me to be part of the family. She certainly did not consider how an adopted child might be affected by the insensitive comments she so often made.
One of her most tactless habits was to talk constantly about the times when she was expecting her children.
She would go into great detail about her pregnancies: how long she was in labour, what the midwife was like and how much the babies weighed. Even what the weather was like on the day they were born. She would mention how long she had breast-fed them and the fact that her milk was too watery and it did not have enough nutrients. I mean, does a six-year-old girl really need to have such detail? I obviously felt excluded from these conversations and jealous that I would never be given such information about my birth or first days and months.
When children are given this kind of knowledge by their birth parents they just absorb it, and may even become bored by it, but as an adopted child it can be quite painful to be denied it. You desperately want to be told about every minute detail so you can form your own identity and feel more secure as a young child growing up. Thankfully, with the Freedom of Information Act now in place, adopted children are given these details about themselves.
My adoptive mother would often talk about another couple who had also wanted to give me a home. They had no children of their own and lived in Coventry. On one occasion, when she was annoyed by something that I had done, she shouted at me and said, ‘Maybe things would have been better if you had been adopted by the other couple. Then they would have spoilt you, which is what you expect from me.’
But I never wanted to be spoilt. I just wanted to be loved and not to feel rejected by them. I felt like shouting back, Yes, maybe they would have spoilt me like you spoil Carole, but I would have only been in more trouble so I always kept that thought to myself.
She went on to tell me (maybe she was feeling slightly guilty by her first comment) that the nuns always felt I would be better placed within a family with brothers and sisters, since I was a chatterbox and obviously needed company.
However, having a sister like Carole, who seemed to spend most of her time trying to get me into trouble and the rest of her time just not wanting me to be there anyway, was not the kind of company I actually needed. I often felt upset and lonely. I daydreamed about ‘the lady from Coventry’, thinking that it might actually be my birth mother.
The one thing I did know from an early age was that I had been born in Coventry. This was on my small birth certificate, the only document I was ever allowed to see about myself.
This record didn’t tell me much. It had been re-registered in 1960, following my adoption, with my surname registered as theirs. Phyllis Price – it felt like the previous four years of my life had never existed. I only had my own memories of what my life was like pre-ado
ption.
I had been told that my birth father had died from TB when I was six months old, and my birth mother six months later from the same illness. However, I guessed she probably still lived in Coventry. In my heart I knew she was alive.
One evening, when she seemed to be in a good mood, I felt the time was right to ask why I had been placed for adoption. I was then about ten and, I suppose, becoming more curious about why my birth mother had given me up.
I took a deep breath and went on to ask whether the main reason I had been adopted was because my mother had a baby before she was married. This was something I had in mind since, as I went to a Catholic school, the main part of our sex education was that you must get married before you have a child. We were told it was a mortal sin to conceive out of wedlock.
She was very firm in her reply. ‘Of course your mother was married. She was not that type of woman,’ whatever that was supposed to mean.
I went on to ask whether it was unusual for both my mother and father to have died so young and within six months of each other. By now her patience was running out. She shouted, ‘What is it with all the questions? I’ve told you before that your mother and father are dead, so let that be an end to it!’
I left the room and listened at the door, and sure enough she started talking about me. She said, ‘One day that child will get really hurt. I think we have done the right thing by saying her parents have both died as the last thing we want is for her to turn out like her own mother.’
I had such mixed emotions, it was hard for me to take it all in. But the one thing I do remember thinking to myself was, I can’t be hurt any more than how my adoptive mother has already hurt me. It made me even more determined to discover the truth one day. I realised it was not the right time to ask any more questions of my adoptive parents. Maybe there would never be a right time.