One Sunday morning I felt unwell and didn’t go to Mass. Later on in the afternoon I was feeling much better, full of beans and playing with my skipping rope. I was promptly marched off to evening Mass for telling such terrible fibs, even though it actually wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t felt well in the morning. But she wasn’t in any mood to listen to my explanation.
I felt so angry. How can anyone be so hypocritical? She was annoyed with me for telling lies, yet she told me so many about my adoption. I felt like shouting, You’re always telling lies. I know my mother is really alive and I know she never married my father.
Not that it made the slightest difference to me whether I was conceived in or out of wedlock. It was just the fact that it was all right for her to lie, but if she suspected me of doing the same I was humiliated and marched off to the confession box. It just didn’t seem fair.
When we went to church on Sundays, during the Mass you would pray for the souls of people who had gone before us. I would always say a little prayer for my mother, hoping that one day I would be able to meet her. This helped me cope.
Sometimes we visited Coventry Cathedral on Sunday afternoons, as in those days all the shops were closed and Sundays were very quiet. It made me feel sad that I was visiting my birthplace, but that was all I knew. It did, however, make me feel closer to my birth mother.
I remember asking if I could light a candle for the ‘sick people’, as I wanted to try to make them feel better. Dad smiled and gave me some coins to put in the collection box. By this time I was starting to think how much I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up, which was something Dad encouraged.
I lit the candle and prayed for my birth mother, asking God to take care of her. It was as if I had made some kind of connection with her. Even at such a young age, I found it difficult to understand, but I always feared that she was in danger and needed my prayers.
It was the only thing at the time that I could do for her. I feared that she might be coming to some harm and that she was not happy, but I was helpless and had nobody to talk to about my feelings. The only thing at that time was to pray that her guardian angel would take care of her and keep her from harm. Saying a prayer gave me some comfort, as at least I had told God. I am sure my prayers were answered as she was protected from harm on so many occasions. She was often in very dangerous situations – drunk and lying in gutters, almost choking on her own vomit – but somehow she survived against all the odds.
When things are not going too well with their new families, some adoptive children imagine their birth mother to be perfect. In my heart I always knew this wasn’t the case for me, and I am sure these feelings somehow sowed a seed in me of wanting to help people. This decision, which I never wavered from (and is the job I still do today), certainly helped me to deal with what I had to face when I did eventually meet my birth mother. It also helped shape the person I became.
Perhaps my adoptive mother was trying to protect me from finding out about my birth mother, hoping that I would just accept the fact that she had died, but adopted children deserve to be told the truth about themselves. It is a fundamental human right to be given information about your origins, whether good or bad. Children are much more resilient than we give them credit for, and it is far better to be told the truth so that eventually they can come to terms with it.
It is worse being told nothing. You feel detached from your adoptive parents as in any close relationship trust plays a major part. It somehow makes you feel incomplete as a person.
When I was 11 and leaving primary school I was happy that I would no longer be with Pauline, the girl who had often bullied me about being adopted. Thankfully she was going to a different secondary school. I was determined to put her threats behind me. She wouldn’t be able to hurt me anymore, and I decided that I wasn’t going to tell another soul.
It was now July 1967 and I was looking forward to the summer holidays, which were to include some of the happiest childhood memories I can remember. We were going to Cornwall, and staying in a caravan close to the sea.
I was so looking forward to it, as previously we had always gone to Ireland on holiday, usually just visiting relatives, so this was going to be something totally different. Dad had just passed his driving test and had managed to save enough money to buy a car. Kevin, now aged 20, had also thrown away his L plates the previous year and had a car, so it was all very exciting.
Kevin had a girlfriend called Sheila who was allowed to come on holiday with us. My adoptive mother always encouraged Kevin to have girlfriends. He was a boy, and her natural child at that, so he wouldn’t bring shame on the family. Or so she thought.
Mum seemed to feel sorry for Sheila and would always try to make a fuss of her. She made a point of telling me how most of Sheila’s childhood had been spent in a children’s home, although sometimes she did stay with foster parents and her older brother. Her birth mother had left when she was five, and that was something, my mum said, she had never really recovered from.
While trying to impress Kevin’s girlfriend, Mum intermittently whispered to me how fortunate I was to have been adopted by them. ‘Otherwise you would have been in the children’s home until you were 17, just like Sheila.’ She was right of course, and I am grateful for that – although it was something that she never allowed me to forget.
But for now I was on holiday and having a good time. I spent many hours building sandcastles with the bucket and spade that had been left in the caravan by the previous occupants. I was lost in my imaginary world and enjoying every minute of it. I was so happy; I felt like any other little girl on the beach spending time with her family on holiday. To the outside world that was exactly what it looked like, but deep down I knew we were far from being an ordinary family. I tried hard not to dwell on something that was not going to change.
One evening I was feeling unwell and wanting to go back to the caravan so I could have a sleep. Mum shouted, ‘No. Kevin and Sheila are there and need some privacy.’ We walked for what seemed like ages and I was not allowed to go back into the caravan until it was dark. I was just told to stop moaning as ‘you don’t come on holiday to sit in the caravan all night’.
Can you believe that when we actually got back into the caravan my mother whispered, ‘Isn’t it nice to see Kevin giving Sheila a cuddle on the sofa, as I’m sure she didn’t have much love at the children’s home?’ I so felt like shouting, I really would like to have a cuddle from my mum as I don’t feel well.
I just went to bed and kept my thoughts to myself because the last thing I wanted was one of her ‘special chats’. The one thing I certainly did not feel that night was ‘special’. 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 a cuddle.
The holiday came to an end and I started secondary school and made some new friends. I knew I would not be telling them about my adoption. I had learnt my lesson from my previous experiences, and did not want to spend the rest of my time at school in fear of anyone finding out. I had to keep that secret to myself.
One Saturday afternoon, early in September 1967, it was still quite warm so I was playing in the garden. I would play for hours, totally lost in my imaginary world – my favourite game involved my dolls and my clapped-out bicycle. I called it the Dolls’ and Teds’ Bus Stop Game. We had a big garden and I would leave little markings as the stops on the route, with the dolls and teddies in the basket on the back of the bike. I had an old handbag over my shoulder with tickets from a post office game I had from Father Christmas years before. I would pick up and drop off my dolls and teddies at different bus stops. I don’t expect children would be too impressed with my game today, but for me as a child then it was great fun. At least it kept me out of trouble.
I was totally absorbed in my made-up game when I suddenly heard Dad shouting at the top of his voice. I noticed Kevin and Sheila were there, but it was rare fo
r him to be shouting if we had a visitor. I put my bicycle down on the lawn and ran inside to see what all the commotion was about. Mum immediately shouted at me, ‘This has nothing to do with you. Go back into the garden.’
I had painful pangs of jealousy, knowing Carole was allowed to stay in the house and I’d been ordered out. I went back in the garden and carried on playing my favourite game, but not really concentrating on it as I was hurting so much. I knew it must be something serious as there was a lot of shouting, and usually if we had a visitor Mum would put on a show and act as if everything was just fine.
By now it was getting late and I was starting to feel cold, shivering as I hadn’t got a cardigan on. I was unsure what to do, as I knew I would be shouted at if I attempted to go back into the house. Eventually Anthony came out into the garden and almost seemed excited about the rumpus. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened,’ and, not giving me even a second to guess, continued, ‘Sheila is pregnant and Mum and Dad are going crazy.’ I said, ‘But it’ll be nice to have a baby in the family.’ And Anthony replied, ‘Yes, but they’re not married, and Mum is worried about what the neighbours will think.’ I suddenly didn’t feel quite so cold.
Within a month the wedding had been arranged. I said to Mum, ‘What’s all the rush about? Why can’t they wait until the baby is born?’ Yet again I was shouted at for speaking my mind, which so often got me into all sorts of trouble.
‘Absolutely not, ‘she said, ‘it’s only really bad girls who have a baby before they are married and that sort of girl should be ashamed of themselves.’ Of course she immediately blamed Sheila, and contradicted everything that she had said while we were on holiday in July. She talked quite openly about how the baby was conceived and started to get annoyed with the fact that they had been given too much time by themselves when we were on holiday. I couldn’t help thinking about the time when I felt so ill and wasn’t allowed to go back to the caravan as Kevin and Sheila needed time by themselves. I was certainly not going to remind her of that!
I knew my birth mother was single when I was conceived. I don’t know why I was so sure. Maybe it was the fact that it was always emphasised that she was married that made me so convinced that she wasn’t. When my adoptive mother was telling lies she would often repeat her statements several times as if to emphasise the fact that she was telling the ‘truth’. She would look across at my adoptive father and give him one of her stern looks as if to dare him to disagree, as ‘this is what Phyllis must believe’.
Now, she said that Sheila tricked Kevin into getting her pregnant. She must have led him on, and then he just couldn’t control himself. It was as if Kevin had played no part in what had happened. The fact that Kevin was just 20 and Sheila was only 17 was not the issue. The only thing that she seemed concerned about was ‘what will the neighbours think?’
The wedding went ahead in October 1967 and Sheila was due to give birth in April 1968.
Two months before the baby arrived Kevin and Sheila had a small collision with another car. Thankfully, nobody was hurt, but Mum said it was a Godsend. She was able to seize the opportunity to tell yet more lies. Mum decided to tell everyone that the collision had caused the baby to arrive two months early, and then hopefully nobody would realise that Sheila had been pregnant before they got married.
The problem with telling lies is you need to have a good memory and some knowledge about what you are actually lying about. Mum had neither of these. She often got the facts all wrong and would go into great detail about everything, trying to make herself be believed. She told the next door neighbour how the baby was born with no nails, and had no eyebrows or eyelashes. Our neighbour at the time did have a confused look on her face, and it was only years later when I was at college doing my pre-nursing course that I realised why. I had done a project on childcare and learnt all about how a baby develops in the womb. In the last two months the foetus just needs to grow, and if it does arrive early it would be underweight but fully developed. So Mum’s lies, intended to cover up something that she felt would bring shame on the family, only exposed her further.
She was a compulsive liar. Mum would lie about anything just to ensure we appeared as a ‘respectable’ family. What I think she failed to realise was that the neighbours were just ordinary people going about their own lives and not at all interested in what our family were actually doing. I often thought to myself, Why can’t she just enjoy the birth of her first grandchild? But Mum never seemed to see things for how they were, and she would always have to complicate everything.
4
My Teenage Years
Although I was only a child I often felt much wiser than my adoptive mother. This would land me in all sorts of trouble, often questioning what she had said, which was something the rest of the family never did – usually to keep the peace! It is difficult to have a conversation with someone who always thinks they are right in whatever they say.
I was now allowed to go home by myself. Mrs Brewin, our next door neighbour, had no children of her own and seemed to enjoy having a chat with me when I came home from school. I think she had a soft spot for me and may have felt a little upset about how I was sometimes treated.
She was an elderly lady now, and just seemed to want someone to talk to. She was a little confused, but she never forgot the time I would be getting home from school. Weather permitting, she would be in her front garden doing some weeding, hoping for a little chat. She often gave me sweets, which I would quickly hide in my pocket. It always seemed to anger Mum if anyone ever gave me too much attention. More often than not Mrs Brewin would ask me if I’d had a nice day at school and had I learnt anything interesting. It was so nice to have someone who was actually curious about what I was doing.
Even then I loved talking to older people. Their stories of the war years fascinated me. Our chats seemed to brighten up her day, and I did feel really sorry for her as she seemed so lonely. Most of her day was spent indoors looking after her frail husband, who had suffered from a stroke that affected his speech and needed full-time nursing care.
I often heard her say, ‘My Charlie’s not going into an old people’s home,’ which is what they called care homes in those days. The district nurses visited twice a day and I thought to myself how I would love to do their job when I was older, nursing sick people in their own homes and maybe preventing them from having to go into hospital.
Whenever I was speaking to Mrs Brewin my mum would try and get my attention by calling me from the window. Her stern expression gave me butterflies in my stomach.
Sometimes I would defy her and spend even more time talking, knowing full well that I would be in greater trouble when I did eventually go inside. Making an old lady’s day a little brighter seemed to be more important to me at the time. Inevitably when I did go back into the house my adoptive mother would be furious and start shouting, ‘Why are you telling her all our family secrets? She only talks to you because she knows you will tell her all our business. She doesn’t talk to Carole as she knows she is more sensible and loyal to the family and wouldn’t give our secrets away.’
She was so cruel at times; I remember feeling confused and sad. What was so bad about being friendly and kind to a lonely old lady who didn’t even ask any questions about the ‘family secrets’, whatever they may have been on that particular day? What annoyed me the most was that Carole just could not be bothered with older people, and would totally ignore Mrs Brewin whenever she said ‘hello’, which was so unfriendly. I felt I needed to overcompensate for her rudeness.
I was growing up and I suppose I had quite a strong personality. Sometimes I just needed to express myself as an individual. I was always being compared with Carole, and never favourably. No matter what I did, it was wrong.
I recall one evening being late home from school. On the way home an old lady had been getting off the bus when she slipped and hurt her ankle. The poor thing had two heavy bags of shopping, and her apples started rolling down the bus. S
he was really struggling and nobody seemed bothered to try to help her. The other children just laughed and called her names. I felt so angry; how could they be so cruel to such a helpless old lady? I quickly picked up some of the escaping apples and jumped off the bus.
It wasn’t my stop, but I didn’t care. I was worried about how she was going to manage on her own. She seemed upset and in a lot of pain, and for a moment I forgot that I would be in trouble for being late home from school. Unsurprisingly, Carole had stayed on the bus, and was shouting at me to get back on. I shouted back to her, ‘Tell Mum I am helping the lady with her heavy bags, as she has hurt herself.’
I carried the lady’s bags as we walked slowly to her house. Although my arms were aching it was worth it to see the smile on her face as we reached her front door. She was so grateful for my help and didn’t appear to be in as much pain from her ankle. I remember her saying, ‘What a lovely girl you are for helping me. Your mother must be so proud of you’.
I just smiled politely and kept my thoughts to myself, knowing full well that my mother was anything but proud of me. I cried on the way home, partly because I was scared about being told off for being late home from school. I knew Carole would have conveniently forgotten to mention what had happened. But I also felt upset because of what the old lady had said about my mother being proud of me.
Sure enough, I was told off and sent to bed early that night. I was not even given the chance to explain what I had been doing. I am not sure to this day what Carole’s explanation was of why I was so late home from school that evening, but she always made sure that she was seen in the best light. My mother shouted at me, ‘Why can’t you be a good girl like your sister and mind your own business? Then you would manage to get home on time like her.’
There were so many occasions when I was told off for something that I hadn’t even done. I was always seen as the naughty one. I’m sure sometimes I was, but Carole was certainly no angel. I can’t recall her ever being told off about anything in the whole of our childhood. She was the one who was made to feel ‘special’, not me.
Finding Tipperary Mary Page 5