Finding Tipperary Mary

by Phyllis Whitsell

  Knowing her changed name was an important piece of information, as it eventually led me to her. Without that vital piece of the jigsaw I would never have been able to trace my mother. It was unclear why she was wanted by the police, but by the way Miss McFadden explained it to me, I thought she had probably been a prostitute.

  We stopped for a short break and I was taken around the grounds. It brought back such a lot of memories from my childhood. We would spend many sunny afternoons in the garden playing with the nursery nurses, making them pretend cups of tea.

  I remembered the wooden balconies around the buildings and the beds being wheeled outside to enable some of the children to enjoy the sunny afternoons while lying down. When I was so young I didn’t understand why they stayed in bed all the time. To me they were just being lazy. Even at such a young age I knew not to ask too many questions. The nursery nurses did not usually know the answer and the nuns would just reply, ‘You do not need to know that.’

  Miss McFadden answered my question all those years later. ‘That was the sick bay and the children were often wheeled out in their sick beds as fresh air was thought to be the best medicine.’ I felt quite guilty thinking that those poor children were just being lazy and all the time they were ill. At least now I had my question answered, although I’d like to think I’m better at looking after sick people as an adult, especially as I’m a nurse.

  We went back into the office and I was aware of the time I had taken, but there was more to be told and I listened attentively. Miss McFadden continued telling me stories about my mother. She supposed that Bridget had tried her best to look after me by herself. ‘But she often did not act in a very responsible way. She was lonely, with her nights spent staying in looking after you as a baby.’ The nuns worried that on some occasions I had been left by myself as a young baby, though thankfully, I was not harmed in any way. It seemed that my mother was missing her social life and as Miss McFadden continued in her blunt way, ‘She was not the brightest and never seemed to use her common sense.’ Eventually my mother came to her senses and asked for help, whatever her reasons, and for that I’m extremely grateful.

  Miss McFadden checked her watch and appeared a little concerned about the length of time the meeting had taken, but then continued. ‘After leaving you at the orphanage your mother very quickly went back to her old ways. She did visit you at first, most Sundays, but she’d often complain that she couldn’t afford her travel expenses.’

  This apparently annoyed the nuns as she always seemed to find the money to buy alcohol, on which by then she was very dependent. Sometimes when she visited the orphanage she would appear drunk, slurring her words and being very incoherent.

  On these visits she would apparently start to lay down the law about the type of adoptive parents she wanted for her daughter. I had to smile about some of the things I was told. Failing that I think I would have been in floods of tears.

  At this point I remember Miss McFadden taking a deep breath, and in her assertive manner and high pitched voice shouting, ‘Well I do have the rest of the day to get through.’ It’s a phrase I will never forget as I remember thinking at the time, It’s just a polite way of saying, ‘I need you to leave now’.

  I had received a lot of information, but the day was difficult and very sad. At times I really felt that I was intruding on someone else’s life, when in fact it was my life and I had a right to know what actually did happen. Now, as a nurse I often have to care for older people with mental health problems, and one of the things you are taught during your training is not to be judgemental, but to treat people as individuals. So why should that not apply to my own mother? Yes, she had made mistakes, and a few more than most people, but that just made me more determined to try to make contact so that I could care for her.

  I was told early in 2010, when I was finally allowed to see my adoption file, that May McFadden had died in a nursing home in 2002 after suffering from dementia for several years. Many people have an impact on our lives, and she would certainly be at the top of my list. I respected her integrity and I am sure in her own strange way she had my best interests at heart. Without her help on that memorable morning in November 1979, I would never have met my birth mother and, though it led me to stormy waters, for that alone I will always be grateful.

  7

  Meeting My Mother

  Christmas came and went, and the only thing that seemed important to me at that time was when I would next have a meeting with John. This eventually took place in February 1980. I told John that I had been warned by Miss McFadden to leave well alone, and to get on with the rest of my life. Luckily for me, John was not of the same opinion. In fact he was almost as curious as I was. He said, ‘We’ve come this far. We can’t just give up on it now.’

  I gave him the two vital pieces of information I had: the name she was using – Bridget Ryan – and her last known address in Winson Green. John reassured me that he would contact me in the week with any information he had.

  A few days later he telephoned and said he had only just had some news, but wanted to call me before the weekend. It was a Friday afternoon I will never forget. I could tell by his voice and the way he was hesitating that it was not going to be good news. I tried to prepare myself for what he was about to tell me, but I felt physically sick. I had picked up the phone in the bedroom, and now I sat down on the bed as I was shaking and dreaded to hear whatever was coming.

  He had contacted the General Hospital in Birmingham, as he felt they may have known Bridget. Sure enough he was right. They knew her well.

  ‘Two years ago your mother was admitted into hospital in a bad state, with a fractured femur. She was a well-known alcoholic in the area and had been very ill indeed. She had been in and out of the A & E department on many occasions, but she hadn’t been seen since.’

  Then came the bombshell.

  ‘Those who saw her in the hospital thought it unlikely that she could survive another two years in her condition,’ he said, and then paused, floundering a little. He knew that he was about to tell me the one thing I was dreading to hear.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I think you had better assume that she is dead. Maybe I could help you to find out where she is buried?’

  I suppose it was all I could have hoped for under the circumstances. I felt numb, but I heard myself uttering a few pleasantries, mainly thanking him for his time in trying to help trace her. I think it was my attempt to be discreet, and to avoid exposing my true feelings. I did not want to take out my anger on the one person who had at least tried to help me trace my mother. I burst into tears as I put down the phone.

  It was such an anti-climax. Why was I crying for someone I didn’t even know? But this was my mother, my own flesh and blood. I would never now have the chance to meet her. It just seemed so cruel. There were so many unanswered questions spinning around in my head: had she died alone and full of regrets? Had she died a terrible alcoholic death, choking on her own vomit, lying in a gutter somewhere, with nobody to care for her?

  But there was nobody to answer any of them. I would never be able to tell her that she did the right thing when she gave me up for adoption. I wanted to tell her that I was now a nurse, and perhaps I could have been able to look after her and given her some love, which she had been denied all her life. Maybe I could have taken some of her pain and guilt away. I already knew a great deal about her, but what did she look like? I would never be able to find out. Why had I left it so long before I tried to trace her? If only I had tried sooner it could have been so different.

  I came downstairs and found Stephen in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal. He asked, ‘Why are you crying?’ When I told him what the social worker had told me he replied, ‘I am sure it is for the best, as I think she would have caused us so many problems. She would have been such an embarrassment.’ He reminded me what Miss McFadden had said at our meeting, ‘Just get on with your life.’

  He appeared quite dismissive and very unsupportive,
and said how he was so glad that he hadn’t told his own mother or father about my adoption. Yet again my adoption was being surrounded by secrecy and shame. I felt so angry at his reaction. He didn’t have any understanding of how I was actually feeling.

  ‘Why are you still crying? At least it’s an end to it now,’ he said, continuing to rub salt into the wounds. ‘It’s not as if you actually knew her, anyway.’

  Realising that I was going to have very little sympathy, I went to bed early that night. Listening to the rain falling against the window pane I eventually cried myself to sleep.

  In the morning the rain had almost stopped. I still felt extremely upset by the news I had received the day before. I woke with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was as if I was going through some kind of grieving process, but I hadn’t even met the person I was mourning. It was one of the weirdest feelings I have ever had.

  I got myself ready and went out, not really having any idea where I was actually going. Then I remembered that John had mentioned how he could help me find my mother’s grave. I decided to drive to the cemetery nearest to where my mother had lived. I felt alone in the world, but it was something I just needed to do. I started crying for what might have been as I walked around the graveyard, not really knowing what I could possibly find.

  Then I realised that she wouldn’t even have had a headstone, as she had no family to buy one. Seeing the headstones with ‘beloved mother’ just made me cry even more. I had to stop torturing myself. What really pulled at my heart more than anything was that I would never be able to say, Hello, Mum. I’m Phyllis, your daughter. But I knew walking around a cemetery was not the answer. I had to accept what I had been told by John and he was right: we had reached the end of the road.

  A few months went by, and I was adjusting to the fact that it was likely my birth mother had died. I was doing my best to get back to some type of normality, and I am pleased to say I didn’t feel the need to make another trip to the cemetery.

  I was therefore astonished when one afternoon I had a phone call from John. As usual we exchanged pleasantries, and he apologised for not having been in touch sooner. He went on to explain how heavy his workload had been, because a colleague had been off sick. I had some degree of sympathy for his hectic schedule but my curiosity was getting the better of me.

  He must have recognised my slight irritation, or maybe the urgency in my voice, as he quickly changed the subject and asked if I was sitting down. He had something to tell me. I reassured him that I was prepared for whatever it was.

  ‘Well,’ he said, with a deep sigh, ‘prepare yourself for a shock. Against all odds, your birth mother Bridget Ryan is still very much alive.’

  I was speechless. John gave me a few moments to take in what he had just told me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I told him that I had assumed my mother must have died as he’d suggested. He explained how he had decided to make one last attempt to try and see if my mother was still alive. Before he would give me her address I had to promise him that I would not try to go there on my own. Knowing how impatient I had been with the previous address in Coventry, he was not taking any chances.

  My mother was living in Runcorn Road, Balsall Heath. John said that as she had changed her name to Ryan while hiding from the police, he thought she must have had a criminal record. ‘Your mother is well known to the probation service in Balsall Heath and is currently on probation for causing criminal damage while being drunk and disorderly,’ he told me.

  It was strange hearing such a terrible thing about my own mother, and to think that only ten minutes before I had thought she was dead. It sounded like she was not just alive, she was causing mayhem! John continued to explain how he had already phoned Bridget’s probation officer and had spoken to her for some time. ‘She is called Bernadette, and is Irish herself. She seems to like your mother, and gets on well with her. Bridget visits her every Wednesday.’

  Bernadette was only too happy to arrange a meeting and John said he thought she was eager to meet me, ‘I expect she is curious to see if you resemble your mother in any way.’

  I replied, ‘Well I hope I’m a little better behaved than her!’ I thanked him for his perseverance and told him that I would keep him informed of any further developments.

  It was reassuring to hear for the first time that somebody seemed to like my mother. The whole thing was surreal and I needed a few days to absorb the information.

  I was feeling apprehensive about meeting Bernadette, so when I telephoned her and she told me that she would not be able to see me for a further month, I was secretly relieved. It did feel strange talking to somebody who knew my mother so well. She was very friendly and appeared down to earth.

  I kept myself busy and tried to put to the back of my mind that soon I would be meeting someone who had actually met my mother. The meeting was arranged for July 1980.

  It was a beautiful sunny day when I met Bernadette. I was worried about the meeting, conscious that I would be under close scrutiny, but she soon put me at ease. In fact she greeted me with a hug, and I felt like her long-lost friend. Her office was small and cramped, with documents all over the desk – how she ever found anything I will never know – but she assured me that she knew where every single piece of paper was.

  We enjoyed a cold drink together, which I appreciated as it was very stuffy. To make things worse she chain-smoked. She asked if I minded but I could hardly complain as she was kind enough to see me. It was obvious from the pile on her desk she had a huge workload.

  We chatted for what seemed ages. She joked how I was a chatterbox like my mother, although she did most of the talking.

  I asked if my mother usually sat on the same chair I was sitting on. I suppose it seemed like rather an odd question but I just felt I needed to know. She laughed but realised the importance of the meeting and the effect it was having on me. In mid-conversation she inhaled deeply on her cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke that filled the small room. ‘Yes, the very chair. We haven’t got room for another one!’

  There was a pause for a while as she stared at me. She apologised and said she hoped she was not making me feel uncomfortable, and then suddenly blurted out, ‘I can’t believe you’re Bridget’s daughter!’

  I asked if she thought we resembled each other. She thought hard, putting her hand to her mouth while she continued to concentrate, mainly looking at my face.

  ‘Come to think of it you do look a bit like her. You have the same cheekbones.’

  For the first time in my life I actually looked like another person. It was a feeling I’d never had before. I believe she did answer my question honestly and she wasn’t saying it just to make me feel better.

  Bernadette told me as much as she knew about my mother, and I felt comforted by the fact that she really did seem to have a soft spot for her. She said, ‘Your mother’s a real character. In fact I’d even say she’s a bit eccentric. She speaks very loud, almost shouting at times, and everyone in the office can usually hear her. She has a strong, distinctive, Tipperary accent, which is where she originally comes from.

  ‘She’s known as Tipperary Mary, as she was using her middle name, Mary, to avoid the police. She doesn’t stand any nonsense from anyone, but unfortunately that is what usually gets her into trouble. She comes to see me most Wednesday afternoons. She’s always late and looks like she’s just rolled out of bed. I’m afraid she has neglected herself and does look a lot older than she actually is. I try not to book other clients in after Bridget as she thinks she’s there for the whole afternoon anyway.

  ‘She enjoys having a chat and a cup of tea, and usually scrounges a few fags off me. She rambles a lot and sometimes it is hard to concentrate on what she’s trying to tell me. Something certainly must have happened to her when she was much younger and living in Ireland, but it seems as if it is far too painful for her to talk about it.

  ‘She goes from one subject to another and never wants to talk about why she
keeps re-offending. Bridget seems to forget that is the main reason why she is meant to be visiting me!’ Bernadette laughed, ‘She shouts, “Off with yez, I haven’t come to talk about all that now.”’

  Her mood changed as she said, ‘It’s so difficult to work with someone who is not prepared to change their ways, and Bridget certainly has no intention of doing that. Not for anybody. She breaks all the rules and somehow gets away with it, but she’s a likeable person and I just wish I could do more to help her.’

  I asked Bernadette if she ever talked about her children. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘non-stop. In fact that’s what she talks about the most. It’s so sad, she has so many regrets. We often carry regrets connected with our circumstances and I believe that is the main reason why Bridget turned to drink in the first place.’

  Bernadette continued to explain that when Bridget had a drink she became violent and usually started fighting. ‘She is often paranoid and thinks people are talking about her. She sometimes talks about Timothy, the man she lodges with. He’s from Dublin and according to her he lies in bed most of the day. She says he’s “a lazy idiot and a bully”. It appears that Bridget has never been respected by any man in her life.’

  It was a lot for me to take in. At times I almost forgot that it was actually my own mother we were talking about. Maybe it was an attempt on my part to protect myself from getting too hurt. In a strange way I was rather envious of Bernadette. She knew so much about my own mother, yet to me she was a complete stranger. But for now I was reassured by her sincerity and genuine concern for my mother’s welfare.

  Bernadette suggested that I could come to the probation office the following Wednesday, as Bridget would be making her usual visit. She joked, ‘Don’t worry, you haven’t got to sit on her lap! You can stand in the reception area and you will be able see her as she comes through the door.’ I thought for a few minutes, but quickly declined her offer.