I enjoyed secondary school, even though I was often getting told off by the nuns for talking too much in class. The nuns were very strict. Their long cream habits, with their veils cut squarely around their faces, reminded me of my time spent at the orphanage. But there was nobody there as kind as my beloved Sister Theresa.
Carole was the complete opposite to me in her personality as well as the way she looked. She was very quiet and mainly kept herself to herself. From what I can remember she only seemed to have one main friend, who was the smallest in her class and seemed quite sweet – I somehow felt sorry for her. I am unsure what Carole actually told her about me; but she did not want to be a friend of mine.
At break times they would sit on their usual bench, not mixing with other classmates, so they were often seen as being quite aloof.
Carole was known as a ‘goody-goody’. I dread to think what I was known as, but I was certainly more talkative than Carole and, I suppose against all the odds, I found it much easier to make friends. Carole always gave me the feeling that she was ashamed to have me as her sister and would distance herself from me when we were at school – or at any other time, come to think of it. We were not close, and I wasn’t that pleased about having her as my sister, either.
I remember one afternoon we were having our photographs taken at school and the nuns had arranged for these to be taken with our siblings, which did not usually happen in secondary schools.
As it was Christmas time they thought it would be a special treat for our parents, although, as my adoptive mother had said, it was just an unnecessary expense at this already expensive time. The older girls at the school had to collect any younger sisters. I was so embarrassed when Carole walked into the classroom to collect me. Suddenly the whole class just gasped and once again one of the girls shouted out, ‘That can’t be your sister! They must have mixed up the babies in the hospital!’
This caused great laughter and the nun who was teaching that particular class very quickly clapped her hands together to tell the class to be quiet. When I went home from school that day I was upset at the comments that had been made and blurted out, ‘I don’t look like anyone and I don’t feel part of this family.’ If ever I got too upset like that, and as long as Carole was not involved, my adoptive mother would try in her own clumsy way to make things better.
A friend of hers from the church called at the house in the evening. I could hear them both whispering, and I suspected it was about me. Sure enough, my suspicions were confirmed when I was called to the front door. The woman gave me a sympathetic smile as if she knew my whole life story. Knowing what my adoptive mother was like, I’m sure she actually did. I remember her suddenly talking really loud as if she was trying to reinforce what she was saying. It was like something from a script, and so well-rehearsed.
Her friend looked at me and said, ‘Phyllis, you look so like your mum. You have her nose.’ I felt so embarrassed, but she went on relentlessly, adding, ‘... and you certainly have her eyes and her chin.’ By the time she was finished I was the complete double of my mother, which I knew was not the case. It was so obvious that my adoptive mother had told her everything about my adoption and how I was upset about not resembling any of the family, even though it was meant to be the best-kept family secret. It just made me feel worse as I knew I looked nothing like them.
I felt so patronised by her but had to pretend that I was reassured by her comments. Later on my adoptive mother appeared smug and reminded me of what the woman had said, ‘See you do look like me. Even the lady from the church had noticed, so it must be true.’
This just made me feel more frustrated. Did she really believe I was so gullible as to be reassured by what a complete stranger had said? On the positive side, as I got older I was secretly quite glad that I didn’t actually resemble any of my adoptive family. My mother always dealt with anything to do with my adoption by telling lies and even got other people to lie for her if she thought it would help convince me about something. But the irony of it all was I never was convinced; she just thought I was.
There was another instance that stands out. It was one sunny afternoon when we were playing rounders in the playground and wearing our summer T-shirts. One of the known bullies was looking at us both and shouted, ‘I think Phyllis has got her sister’s share in the bosom area as Carole is as flat as a pancake.’ This caused a group of the girls to giggle but for myself and Carole it caused great embarrassment.
My body was changing. Puberty was well and truly kicking in, and the one thing I did not want to happen, did. My body changed sooner than Carole’s, even though I was 18 months younger. My breasts were developing sooner than Carole’s, but for weeks it just wasn’t mentioned.
I was starting to feel very self-conscious, particularly when doing PE at school, and eventually I plucked up the courage to ask if I could have a bra. Mum sighed and said, ‘But I haven’t even bought Carole one yet, and I hope you realise they are very expensive to buy.’ Not exactly what you expect your mother’s reply to be.
Eventually she did buy me a bra but it certainly was not the best experience. I remember actually being told off for wearing a T-shirt. ‘It is far too clingy and you will make Carole feel self-conscious,’ she screamed. I felt like shouting back, ‘She isn’t wearing the T-shirt. I am.’
She did not consider that, as the well-developed one, I may be the one feeling a bit embarrassed. I knew that would just land me in even bigger trouble, so I kept the thought to myself. She was annoyed that I had bigger boobs than Carole, which just confirmed what I already knew: she resented having me as her daughter. How else could her bizarre outburst be explained?
Following that comment I usually wore big loose jumpers so that I would not be drawing attention to myself. ‘Showing off’ was how she described it.
I was often upset by her cruel words, usually overhearing what she was saying when I listened outside the door. Needless to say I eventually stopped doing this as I never liked what I heard and became almost paranoid about myself, particularly where my body image was concerned. It had long been obvious that Carole was the favourite, but my teenage years were even harder to deal with. I used to think to myself, Why did they adopt me?
Inevitably, I also started my periods a few months before Carole. I had been really dreading them anyway – the first period is when a daughter needs her mother’s support, and not to be made to feel like some freak. I remember not wanting to tell Mum as I was so worried about what her reaction might be.
I wondered how to bring up the subject and then thought of a good plan. We had two poodles, so it was always a big thing when they were ‘in season’. They were not allowed to be taken for a walk in case a dog came sniffing around.
Having the poodles neutered was against the Catholic religion and for years I always thought this was really silly. We don’t take them to church so why do they have to follow the faith? It always seemed so cruel that we were not allowed to take the dogs for a walk, as they were desperate to get out of the house and do what comes naturally. I’m sure it sent them crazy.
Having dogs was how I explained about my periods. It’s rather amusing that the poodles being in season was something that was so often mentioned but girls starting their periods was ignored. I picked a moment when my mother seemed to be in a good mood, which I always had to do if I needed to broach a sensitive subject.
The main worry was that I had started my periods before Carole and I knew that would not please her. I just blurted it out. ‘Mum I think I’m in season,’ which was a funny way of putting it.
She smiled, and I suppose it did break the ice. ‘Does that mean I will have to stay in the house the same as the dogs?’ I asked. I remember my mother’s reply, as she said it in a kind of jokey way, but certainly with a serious side to it, ‘Yes, you will need to keep away from the boys now as the last thing we want to happen is for you to get pregnant. You don’t want to have to give your baby up for adoption.’
That
remark still takes my breath away. I really could not get over how insensitive she was. But my mum just looked worried, as if she was thinking to herself, Well this is when the problems start. For me, the result was that I was scared stiff of ever being left alone with a boy but totally unsure of what might actually happen if I was!
I attended an all girls’ convent school, and was never allowed to go out with any of my friends at the weekend, so keeping away from the boys was not that difficult. Even a trip to the cinema for a few hours was out of the question. I really felt hurt that she had no trust in me as her daughter. A few days after I told her about my periods, true to character she seemed put out, saying, ‘I can’t believe I am going to have the expense of buying you sanitary towels before Carole.’
She went on to attempt (rather comically) to explain about the birds and the bees. She said that, ‘Boys might get the wrong idea. If you hold their hand they will think you are ready to have sex with them. Boys cannot control their feelings, so the girl must be strong and stay in control, and not give them the least bit of encouragement. Even a smile can give them the wrong idea.’
I really thought that women had no pleasure when having sex, and was very confused about the whole situation of ever having a boyfriend. I am glad to say that eventually I did realise what my mother had told me was nonsense, and thankfully I found the majority of boys to be far from how she perceived them.
Mum had some strange ideas about sex. Partly because of her faith, and partly because she was convinced that I was going to be as sexually active as my birth mother. Of course, she was unable to say this since she had already told me that my birth mother had died from TB and had supposedly been married to my father. Everything seemed respectable, so how could she mention anything to the contrary?
She was so strict with me as a teenager and I always knew there was something else that she was trying to hide from me. My birth mother was more than just an unmarried mother. I knew asking her any questions was going to be a complete waste of energy so I would have to be patient. But I was determined that one day I would find out the truth.
In the meantime I had to pretend to believe everything I had been told. My mother and father were married and had both died. Sometimes I was tempted to complicate matters and ask where my parents were buried, and demand to be taken to their graves. But, again, this would have been a pointless exercise as I would have been given some silly excuse and would have to pretend to believe it.
When I was 14 years old I had one of my favourite holidays ever, and that was because I went on holiday with my dad all by myself. We were going to Blackpool for a whole week and stayed in a bed and breakfast. Carole and Mum had gone the week before – staying in the same guest house. Mum never liked putting the poodles in kennels so she decided we should take separate holidays, which was fine by me.
It was lovely to spend a whole week just with Dad. The weather wasn’t too good, we had a few rainy and windy days, but that didn’t dampen our holiday spirits.
After breakfast we would spend a couple of hours on the beach. I was acting younger than my years, I really was like a little girl on holiday with her daddy. I never got told off about anything, he was always happy to be with me and I really did enjoy spending time with him. I was shown so much love.
We had an afternoon at the fun fair and I even persuaded Dad to go on the Big Dipper, though he looked terrified when he got off. We laughed about it all afternoon with the help of the laughing clown – you put the money in the machine and just stand watching the clown laughing till eventually you couldn’t stop laughing yourself. We went in the haunted house where there were cobwebs blowing in Dad’s face which made him jump out of his skin, then he saw me jump when I saw myself as a little fat figure in the funny mirrors.
We laughed so much on that holiday we had a stitch in our side. On the way home we sat on the wall tucking into fish and chips only for the seagulls to fly down and steal most of my fish.
Dad just laughed and said, ‘I suppose you want some of my fish now.’ With a giggle I nodded my head. To make up for losing my fish Dad bought me a T-shirt with my name printed on it, and the rest of the holiday we always sat inside to eat our fish and chips. That is a holiday I will never forget. I really was Daddy’s little girl! I love you, Dad.
Mum tried to put me off being a nurse as she hated anything to do with illness, but Dad encouraged me.
I was in my last year at school and often studying in the bedroom, busy revising for my exams. I knew I had to work hard as I wanted to become a nurse. One evening I was in bed, almost falling asleep over my books, when I heard a crackling noise. At first I thought it was Anthony messing about by actually walking up the stairs with a sparkler in his hand! Then I could smell smoke, to my horror I could see the smoke coming from under the door. I ran out of the bedroom, and as I ran past the flames that were coming from the airing cupboard my long hair set alight. I ran down the stairs in sheer fright, shouting, ‘FIRE!’ I grabbed a towel from the downstairs toilet, which I wrapped around my head, while Dad phoned the fire service and shouted for everyone to get out.
Standing in the front garden, Mum told my dad to get some valuables out of the house, so poor Dad ran back into the house and came out with the Yellow Pages from the phone table. Mum was not impressed!
The firemen arrived in no time and soon set about putting the fire out. I was shivering as I only had a short nylon nightie on. One of the firemen kindly wrapped his heavy jacket around me and Mum said, ‘My other daughter would have thought to put on her coat. But this one, well she doesn’t think, she’s too busy flirting with you lot.’
I was speechless, but the fireman just gave me a friendly wink and said, ‘Don’t worry, love, as long as you’re OK.’
Things continued to become more difficult as I got older. Relatives and friends would often say in a jokey way, ‘You don’t look like your sister, you’re better looking.’ This was the last thing my adoptive mother wanted to hear. It made me feel very uncomfortable and made Carole even more resentful.
My brother Anthony was getting married and his fiancé picked two bridesmaids both with blonde hair – one of them was me. For the first time, at the age of 16, I was picked to do something without Carole being asked first. It was very strange, I had never felt anything but second best before. It was amazing, but mostly I was anxious it would have some repercussions with Carole and my mum. I also wondered why you should have to look a certain way to be accepted. Sadly that’s just how things are sometimes.
When I was 17 our cousin James from America, who was about ten years older than me, came to stay with us for a few weeks. I remember him being very kind to me but he did not seem to take much notice of Carole. He always seemed to look at me the way a boy does when he finds a girl attractive. He told me he found it difficult to talk to girls as he was shy, but he found it easy to chat to me and he enjoyed my company.
Carole, James and I were all going out to a local disco. It was the first time I had ever been allowed to do anything like that and I remember being very excited. Carole had lipstick on, so I asked if I could wear some too. Not surprisingly I was told, ‘You can’t, as lipstick takes the colour out of your lips.’ I remember thinking, has Carole not got any colour in her lips?
When we arrived at the disco, Carole met a friend from school and James asked me to dance. He was dancing very close to me, which made me feel uncomfortable, and he whispered in my ear in his American accent, ‘Do you know you are one very attractive young lady and I so wish you were not my cousin.’ Then he thought for a while and said, ‘You know you are too pretty to be a Price, but come to think of it you’re not a real Price.’
I suppose I should have been flattered that he found me attractive, but I felt confused and upset. It highlighted the fact that once again I did not feel part of this family. I kept my distance from him for the rest of his visit, as the last thing I wanted was for Mum to know about his comments. I was sure she would have been convinced t
hat I had given him some type of encouragement.
I was rarely allowed to wash my hair and as a teenager it was often very greasy. I would be told some silly old wives’ tales like, ‘You can’t wash your hair, as it will wash away all your own natural oils.’ I suppose it was a bit like the lipstick.
It was only as I got older that it dawned on me, the last thing my adoptive mother wanted was for me to look more attractive than Carole. I suppose that if I didn’t wash my hair or wear lipstick, she hoped that would be the case. Actually, Carole had lovely brown curly hair, and if only she had stopped being aloof and chatted to people I’m sure she’d have been thought attractive.
At the time I can’t help thinking about the fairy tale of Cinderella. Not for one minute am I saying Carole is an ‘ugly sister’, but in this story the mother and her natural daughters were jealous of Cinderella and kept her in rags, simply because they perceived her as being prettier. Daft as it sounds, I really related to this story. I often had to wear hand-me-downs, but Carole would be bought new clothes.
Carole left school and went on a short hand typing course, coming home for her lunch and after work every day. She started going out to the pubs in town with a friend from work. Mum encouraged me to join them, which I did a couple of times, but if I as much as gave a boy a peck on the cheek it would be reported back to Mum, so I thought it was easier to just let Carole go out with her own friends.
When I left school, a friend and I went into a clothes shop up the road to ask about a job, and we got it there and then. I worked there for six weeks before I went to college, and then on Saturdays. Finally I had a little bit of money, and as well as giving my parents some rent I was able to buy myself some new outfits.
Finding Tipperary Mary Page 6