Her role in the orphanage had been like that of a social worker, as back in those days things were very much kept within the locked doors of the orphanage. The most important criteria would be to find what they called ‘a good Catholic family’. Prospective parents would need to be married for at least nine months, just to make sure to the outside world that everything appeared respectable. If they were Catholic and married they must be good! Obviously this was not always the case.
I didn’t warm to Miss McFadden in the slightest. She had a really authoritarian manner, showed little compassion, and seemed determined to prevent me from meeting my mother. She ensured that she remained in total control for the entire meeting, and even commented how well I had been brought up. How she came to that conclusion I’m a little unsure, as she hadn’t even asked me one question about my life after I left the orphanage.
This was not the time to have told her that, as a child, things were not always good, and I didn’t dare question her decisions. Instead, I listened attentively to what she had decided to tell me. I didn’t have any recollection of her when I was at the orphanage, I’m pleased to say. She told me that ‘most of her time was spent in the offices sorting out the adoptions.’ She appeared to have little time for the children, which was probably for the best. She hadn’t married and made it quite clear she had never wanted children of her own.
At this point we had a break for a much-needed cup of tea, although I could have done with something much stronger, under the circumstances. Next she showed me around the orphanage, which I found extremely emotional. Part of it had been closed off, but inside the home it still resembled a church, a place to worship instead of somewhere you could call home. It had a strong smell of old wood, but it had been kept nice and clean. There was a large crucifix in the main entrance hall. In my head, I could hear the sounds of us children singing grace before our meals, usually out of time and with no real thought of what we were actually praying about. I’m sure we were just hoping to be allowed to sit down and eat.
I was aware of the importance of not upsetting Miss McFadden, so intermittently I gave her a false smile, trying my best not to antagonise her. It felt like I had come for an interview to get a job, for which I feared I may not have even been shortlisted by the look on her face. I reminded myself the main reason why I was here in the first place, not that it was something I was ever likely to forget.
It was 1979 and there were now fewer children to be adopted as, thankfully, the stigma of having a child out of wedlock had almost disappeared. I was led upstairs into the nursery, still having to patiently await any information about my mother. It was as if she was trying to rub salt into my wounds, showing me how little and fragile I must have been when my mother first left me. As we walked into the nursery the babies were all fast asleep in their cots.
She looked at them and said, ‘I really find it hard to comprehend how any mother could ever leave their baby here.’ That was the last thing I needed to hear. By now I had tears running down my face, which was something I was desperately trying to avoid. She almost seemed pleased that I was upset, maybe secretly hoping I might then show some anger towards my mother for leaving me at the orphanage in the first place. That was something I was determined not to show, at least not in front of someone who was so judgemental. But I felt upset at the thought of having to be left as a baby, and couldn’t begin to imagine how my mother must have felt leaving me in the nursery all those years ago.
I asked her, ‘Was this the actual nursery where I would have stayed?’ and she replied in an almost dismissive manner, ‘Yes, this is where all the baby girls stayed until they were twelve months old.’ Desperate for answers I continued, ‘Would my mother have come into this nursery?’ With a sarcastic frown she replied, ‘Yes, on the rare occasions she could be bothered to visit.’ It was obvious that she had little time for my mother and was doing everything in her power to persuade me to be of the same opinion.
This was the place my mother had had to part with me. I tried not to dwell on that too much as I was already feeling very emotional about the whole experience. There were six cots in the nursery and the only thing to identify the babies was a tag at the end of their cots with their surname written on in capital letters. This was a very moving encounter; it was the last bit of the babies’ true identity they had left. I asked, ‘Will the babies be told their original surname?’
She replied abruptly, ‘Of course not. They will have a new surname when they are adopted and that is the only name they will need to know.’ By this time I sensed she had detached herself from the whole situation and appeared to show little, if any, emotion. I started to feel very angry inside and wanted to shout, That is something they might want to know, the last bit of their true identity, and they have a right to know. But my mouth went dry and no words came out, so my thoughts remained unsaid.
When I was standing in the nursery I was drawn to a baby in the corner. The tag said ‘Kelly’ and it was pink, so I knew then that the baby was a little girl. She was lovely. I so wanted to pick her up and give her a cuddle. She had a mop of ginger hair and spots over her face, maybe a milk rash which a lot of babies get. Who knows, Kelly may even have children of her own by now. I do hope she had a happy childhood.
My emotions were all over the place and I asked Miss McFadden if I could hold the baby. ‘No,’ she shouted, ‘visitors are not allowed to pick up the babies. They will be placed for adoption by the time they are six weeks old.’ She was so dismissive. It was as if the babies were on a conveyor belt, waiting to be picked by a respectable Catholic married couple looking for a child to adopt. I was caught up with the moment and asked, ‘Can I adopt baby Kelly?’ Instead of reassuring me that the little baby girl would be going to a loving home, I was told abruptly, ‘Just because you have been adopted doesn’t give you the right to adopt. Surely you want your own children? A baby that will resemble you.’ She had taken what I said literally, instead of understanding that I was just getting a little bit carried away with what I was experiencing.
Again I realised that I needed to detach myself from any emotions. I wanted to find out about my mother, and had to be strong and stay focused on what I had come to do, so I allowed her to remain in control. The fact that she had not considered my feelings about being adopted was something I needed to forget. She still had vital information which she hadn’t given me, and the last thing I wanted to do was annoy her in any way, because she had the power to withhold it. She appeared as if she was becoming a little impatient with my questions.
She suddenly said, ‘Let’s go back downstairs to my office.’ She ushered me in saying, ‘Come along now, sit down, the chair’s not going to bite you.’ And off she went to find my adoption file. It felt as if she had been gone for ages but it was probably only a few minutes. I started to feel annoyed – surely my file should have been ready, as she’d been expecting me? She was determined to stay in control and I had to remind myself that she was good enough to take the time to see me in the first place, albeit on her terms. I knew what I was about to hear wasn’t going to be good, but I yearned to know everything, warts and all.
I could never have prepared myself for what she told me about my mother. She started to explain that my mother first contacted Father Hudson’s Homes through a social worker based in Coventry, as she was finding it hard to cope. She said, ‘Your mother decided to leave you at the orphanage when you were just eight months old. She honestly believed that she would be able to come back to collect you when her life got back on track, which obviously never happened.’
When my mother took me into the orphanage in January 1957 it was extremely cold; she was finding it hard to look after a baby by herself, and worried about paying her heating bill. Apparently I was a really bonny baby; in fact a little bit on the fat side.
‘I’d say your mother had tried to do her best to look after you by herself. All your clothes were brought in clean and in good condition,’ said Miss McFadden. For a short ti
me she actually seemed quite sympathetic towards her. I felt quite touched by how my mother had cared for me for the first eight months of my life, and how she had struggled to look after me by herself.
Miss McFadden swiftly started explaining how my mother would write for a pass, which is what the orphanage had to ask the mothers to do if they wanted to visit their babies. She said, ‘Your mother would often ask for the pass and then just not turn up, presumably drunk from the previous night. It’s a blessing you were so young and weren’t able to understand, otherwise you would have been so disappointed.’ I could tell by her voice that it irritated her.
Although in theory I agreed with what she was saying, I was determined not to dwell on anything negative at that point. I wanted to hear the whole story first before I came to any conclusions.
I asked about my father. Had my mother known him for long? In what I can only recall as a rather matter-of-fact reply to such a sensitive question she said with a disapproving expression on her face, ‘Well …’ She paused for a few moments before taking a slow deep breath and putting her hand under her chin.
‘Regarding your father, I can’t tell you very much because, not surprisingly, your mother didn’t tell us very much. She told us she met him in a night club in Hurst Street in Birmingham. Your mother didn’t know his name, but told us that she would recognise him again if she saw him.’ Looking puzzled she continued, ‘Although that would be highly unlikely, according to your mother.’ With that information it seemed pretty obvious that I wasn’t conceived out of love.
I told myself there may be more I could find out about my father. Perhaps my mother had lied to the nuns about him because she needed to leave me at the orphanage, and if she had told them she had any contact with him it would just have complicated things.
I also realised she was withholding vital information that, in her opinion, was better I didn’t hear. She was being very secretive and I felt extremely frustrated. There was my file across the table, which I felt I had a right to read. I longed to see the file for myself. At one point I leant over to try and get just a glimpse of what had been written about me, I was so desperate for every minute detail. She just looked across the table with a very grim face, peering over her glasses and slammed my file shut. She didn’t have to say a word.
So I knew the questions to ask without causing her to become irritated any further. I tried to convince her that I didn’t approve of the lifestyle my mother was leading. I sensed that if she thought that I was going to be influenced or sympathetic towards my mother she wouldn’t have told me as much, maybe wrongly thinking that I would meet up with her and be led astray by her dysfunctional lifestyle. I knew that would never happen – by now I was a mature person in my own right, and certainly would never have wanted to live the life that my mother was living.
Neither was I there to judge her. I was very level-headed, had given tracing my mother a lot of thought and I had prepared myself for any eventualities. She seemed a little more at ease about giving me the information on my file and suddenly started to tell me the hard facts. Maybe she realised how determined I was to find out as much as I could.
‘Your mother was a bit of a one and liked the good life,’ she said. Sadly a good life was something she never had, I thought. ‘She never seemed to learn from her mistakes.’
I told myself that I was not going to be influenced by her prejudices; this was my mother not hers, my own flesh and blood. My mother was vulnerable and it sounded to me as if she needed a friend or, more importantly, she needed her daughter. I was desperately hoping that it was not too late to be able to help her. I was however strongly advised not to contact her. ‘I don’t think it will help you to go and find her. She has ruined her own life and she will only try to do the same with yours,’ said Miss McFadden.
I had to make a promise that I would not try to contact her before she would tell me more. I reassured her of this, crossing my fingers under the table, knowing it was a promise I would certainly not be able to keep. I was sure under the circumstances I’d be forgiven for telling a little white lie.
Maybe if I had been a different type of person I could have walked away and not got involved, but that was never going to happen. She looked at me and said, ‘You seem to be taking things well.’ If only she really knew how my stomach was churning inside, but I knew that was something I needed to hide from her. It was important that I stayed composed as I wanted as much information as she was prepared to give me. She continually glanced over to study my facial expression and I vaguely remember giving her a half-hearted smile in an attempt to stay in her good books.
She told me how my mother had found it hard to get her life back on track following the birth of her first child, a baby boy called Keiran, whom she had left in an orphanage back in Ireland. This was the first time I knew about my half-brother and, true to form, Miss McFadden allowed me no time to reflect on such a life-changing event. She continued to tell me how my mother was unable to lead a ‘normal life’ because of her alcohol addiction. It totally ruled her life and was the only thing she really cared about. This was very painful to hear, but it only made me more determined to do my very best to find her and give her all the love she needed.
I felt Miss McFadden did not want me to think about the fact that my mother looked after me by herself for the first eight months of my life. I tried to ask a little bit more about what happened then, but I could hear the annoyance in her voice as she said, quite cruelly, ‘Your mother did honestly believe that one day she would just be able to come and collect you. Well, that was when she could be bothered.’
Then I heard an astonishing thing. She told me about a letter my mother had written to the Mother Superior in June 1973. I was so excited and shouted, ‘Had she put her address on the letter?’
She paused to put on her glasses. I could hardly contain myself while I waited for her reply. ‘Yes, she lived in Heath Street, Winson Green, Birmingham.’
It was an address I knew well. When I was a cadet nurse, in that same year, I must have walked past her house most mornings chatting to my friend Patsy. I suddenly had what I now think was a panic attack. I was sure I must have met my mother before. My head was all over the place and I could hear my heart beating. I took some deep breaths to try to compose myself.
Miss McFadden realised that something was wrong and asked if I was all right. ‘Yes,’ I replied quickly, although I was anything but. I feared I would have to pay a visit to the confession box if I kept telling all these white lies. I was given a glass of cold water and she opened the window so that I could get some fresh air. At this point she was actually being quite kind, so maybe she did have a heart after all.
But that was not to last. I asked if I could read the letter for myself but she snapped, ‘No, it is confidential.’
I felt so annoyed. Then why tell me about it? I thought. At least let me see the letter for myself. This was the one link I had with my mother and I wasn’t allowed to read it or even glance at it. Why was I prevented from seeing something that was so personal to me?
I smiled at her, hoping she might change her mind. I said I would love to see my mother’s handwriting, to which she replied sarcastically, ‘I can tell you it is very scruffy. I think she wrote it in the pub and spilt her drink over it. Her spelling is not too good either.’ I couldn’t believe how insensitive she was.
By this point I was feeling sick with anger but I knew I had to remain calm. She went on to tell me she thought it was clear that my mother contacted the orphanage only when she realised I was old enough to be a wage-earner, that she wanted ‘some money for her booze’.
I’m now convinced that the only reason Miss McFadden had agreed to meet me was in the hope that she would dissuade me from continuing with my search. ‘Your mother always believed that she would be able to have you back when her own life did eventually become more stable, but this never happened,’ she said. As my mother had not signed the final adoption papers she thought I was stil
l at the orphanage.
This angered Miss McFadden and she shouted, ‘Did your mother honestly believe that she could just leave you in limbo at the orphanage until she was good and ready to come and collect you, to deprive you of a loving family and allow you to spend all your childhood in this orphanage? I am sorry to have to say, but it was very selfish of her. Why should she be allowed to play with a child’s life like that?’
It was the first time she had shown any real compassion about anything. I did understand what she was upset about and this time she had a valid point, but I was doing my best not to feel any anger towards my mother. I had not even met her yet.
She went on to explain to me that my mother had ignored all correspondence with the orphanage and had been summoned to appear in court so that I could be legally adopted. She failed to turn up on two occasions. Maybe she just could not be bothered, or perhaps it was just too painful. I like to think it was the latter.
Either way, my mother didn’t give her written consent for me to be legally adopted, so in her mind I was still waiting to be collected. But it was a hell of a wait. I’m sure my mother had been in denial and just didn’t want to get involved with the formalities of the adoption process as it made it too final. Eventually it was taken out of her hands and on the third court hearing the judge overruled the decision. So I was legally adopted and my birth mother was not even aware that it had actually happened.
The orphanage had replied to my mother’s 1973 letter, informing her that I had been adopted and they had not heard anything about me for the last 13 years. They told her that as far as adoption goes, no news is good news. I am sure now that my mother got drunk the day she received the letter from the orphanage. It was how she dealt with most of her problems, but it also created so many of them too.
Miss McFadden told me that my mother had often been in trouble with the police, and they were trying to arrange for her to go back to Ireland because of all the problems that she had caused in England. I’m uncertain what the nuns knew about my mother’s life when she lived in Ireland, but they knew she was running away from something or someone as she decided to change her surname to Ryan.
Finding Tipperary Mary Page 9