Finding Tipperary Mary

by Phyllis Whitsell

  I really wanted to meet her, but not in that way. It would have been more than I could cope with. All the staff would know why I was there, and the first meeting with my mother would have been so public. They’d all be looking at my reaction. It would have been so embarrassing and I wouldn’t even be able to speak to her. I wouldn’t be able to touch her or hug her, or say, ‘Hello, I’m Phyllis your daughter.’

  I thanked Bernadette for giving me so much of her time, as I knew she was running well over schedule. I told her I would give some thought to what she had suggested, but in reality I knew that was not the way I wanted to meet my mother for the first time. When I stood up, she gripped my hand and gave me a look I have never forgotten, not of pity, something deeper than that. I left the office without saying a word, but I was feeling overwhelmed by the whole experience.

  A few weeks went by before another meeting was arranged with John. He seemed intrigued about how things had gone with Bernadette and commented on how well he thought I was coping with everything. If only he knew how I was really feeling.

  He had an idea, ‘We could meet Bridget in her local pub; just make it casual and pretend we are a normal couple popping into the pub for a drink. The pub is on the corner near where your mother lives. She’s almost certain to be in there, and I’m sure we will be able to recognise her.’ He must have driven past her house as he seemed to know the area well.

  Trying to persuade me, he continued, ‘A few drinks might settle your nerves and it could really turn out to be a positive meeting.’ I still wasn’t convinced so I told him I really needed time to think about things and I would keep in touch.

  I didn’t keep my word and eventually lost contact with John as there was no more he could do to help me. He knew I was determined to meet my mother one day, but I felt it was best if I did it alone, without his involvement.

  It was now January and I was delighted to find out I was expecting my first baby in September that year. My own flesh and blood! Another human being who might even take after me. Meeting my mother would have to be postponed. I did not want to risk harming the baby or myself, as I knew meeting her would be a big shock.

  I gave birth to a healthy baby boy on 9 September 1981, and we called him Stuart. I felt very emotional after the birth, realising how difficult things must have been for my own mother. To think she had gone through the whole pregnancy, the labour pains and all that entails, only one day to have to give her baby away. But I had my baby, who needed love and attention. He was amazing and I loved him instantly. He was perfect in every way.

  While I was still at home with Stuart I started to think about what the first meeting with my mother might be like, and I had a recurring dream. I was pushing a baby (I assumed it was Stuart) in a big navy-blue pram, the old fashioned type with the big four wheels. When I arrived at the paper shop I always carefully put the brakes on, leaving my baby fast asleep outside, by himself. This is something I would never have done in reality.

  After buying a newspaper I calmly walked out of the shop and was horrified to see that the pram was missing. As I looked up the street I noticed a lady pushing the pram, she was wearing a candlewick dressing gown. I ran frantically towards her and she stood still, just staring as if she was in a trance. Nothing was said, and I would just grab the pram from the lady and walk quickly away.

  When I woke up I’d be worried for Stuart, but I would also feel the woman’s pain – she looked so troubled.

  When Stuart was nearly two months old I took him to the morning clinic to see my colleagues. They told me that one of my patients, Lilian, had died, and that her husband Frank was starting to turn up at the clinic and really needed someone to talk to. I decided to visit him with Stuart to cheer him up.

  Frank was drinking a lot that afternoon. He seemed so lonely and vulnerable, and I could see his health was deteriorating due to the alcohol. I started to think about how my mother would be lonely and vulnerable too. It made me realise I should see her sooner rather than later.

  I felt the time was right to finally meet my mother. But I had given it a great deal of thought and I was certain that I couldn’t just knock on the door and say, Hello, I’m Phyllis, your long-lost daughter. I was married and had a baby of my own to think about, and from what I had already been told – by Bernadette as well as Miss McFadden – she was not going to fit into a normal family life.

  I came up with a plan of action. I was a district nurse, and part of that role was visiting patients in their home. Seeing Frank had reminded me of the confidence I had when I was doing my job. I knew I was good at my job, and at caring for people.

  I realised I could meet my mother in disguise, as her nurse. As a professional I would have a reason to enter her house, because she was used to various agencies trying to help her. She wouldn’t question my visit and I would feel protected behind my nurse’s uniform. I knew meeting my mother would be a lot to cope with. This way I might get to know her without her realising who I actually was.

  I had the address John had given to me almost two years before and I prayed that she hadn’t moved. First step, I decided, was just to drive to her house and get a feel for the area.

  It was a pleasant autumn morning when I told Stephen that I was visiting a friend I hadn’t seen in ages. At that time the area was known as a red light district. It was something I had never experienced before: prostitutes standing on street corners in broad daylight waiting for their punters.

  Bernadette had said my mother got into trouble by fighting and stealing for money or booze, but now I wondered if she had ever been a prostitute. Was that the real reason why she had been running from the police? I stopped myself. I was determined not to judge her. I wanted to be able to help her, and not jump to the wrong conclusions before I had even had the chance to meet her. I checked my A to Z and set off.

  The houses I visited as a district nurse were often in need of a lick of paint and a little scruffy, to say the least. The patients were usually old and frail, and unable to maintain their own properties as they once had. But nothing could have prepared me for the state of my mother’s house.

  The net curtains looked almost black, probably due to years of heavy smoking. They were only half covering the downstairs windows and I was certain that was how it had been for a very long time. The upstairs window appeared to have a dark grey blanket covering it, maybe an attempt to block out the outside world.

  The house was so neglected it actually looked as if nobody could possibly be living there. I could only imagine what state the inside of the house must have been in. Did she really live in these awful conditions? Maybe the house was derelict and nobody was living there?

  I felt like turning the car around and going back home to my own baby, but I knew that would be something I’d live to regret. I had come this far and I just had to see it through.

  I stared at the house for about 20 minutes. My mother was probably still in bed as Bernadette had said she never got up early as she was usually hung-over from the previous night. I suddenly thought to myself, what if she comes out of the house and recognises me as her daughter? I pulled myself together. I was now a 25-year-old mother myself and the probability of her knowing me would be extremely slim.

  I started to feel a little uneasy, sitting in the car by myself. I was not wearing my nurse’s uniform for me to hide behind. I felt vulnerable, especially as there were prostitutes actually standing on the corner. Already a few men had passed my car and stared into the window as they passed. I felt I was drawing attention to myself and I could feel my heart racing.

  I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself down and drove away quickly, swerving to avoid an oncoming car which I narrowly missed. To have had a collision outside my mother’s house was something I definitely didn’t want to happen. I realised then I would have to save all my strength for the following week and concentrate on what I had to face. The next time I was to drive down my mother’s road I would be visiting as her district nurse.


  I didn’t tell anyone that I had driven to my mother’s home. A part of me wanted to run away and never go back to that run-down derelict house. How could anyone live in such terrible conditions? I checked the address. Perhaps I had got it wrong. Had it all been a dreadful mistake? But Bridget did live in that house and there was no going back. I had come this far, and had waited a long time to meet my own flesh and blood.

  Bernadette had said that Bridget was always talking about her children and was full of regrets. I hoped I would be able to give her some reassurance, and hopefully make her happier when she saw how I had turned out.

  It was important that she understood I wasn’t there to judge her as a person or criticise. I knew that within my nurse’s role I would be protected and I would feel less vulnerable in whatever situation I was about to find. It would be another week before I was to meet her and it seemed like an eternity.

  I concentrated on looking after my own baby. It was important that I stayed in control, since this little individual was depending on me. He gave me the strength to remain focused on what was important and not to become too affected by what I was to face.

  The day dawned. I had some time free before I started back at work part time, and I was finally going to meet my own mother.

  All my life I had yearned to have a blood relative, another person who might have something in common with me. Now, within two months, I would have two relatives with whom I might share some inherited traits. I don’t think most people can understand what it means not to have one single person in the world connected to you by blood.

  It was a windy Monday morning early in November 1981, and only days away from my mother’s birthday. She must have been 53 when I met her, which is younger than I am today. I got dressed in my uniform as if I was off to work as usual, but I felt as if I was role-playing, pretending to be something I wasn’t.

  The timing wasn’t great, but I suppose there never would have been a right time. I’d just gone back to work part time after having my son, and I was feeling emotional about having to leave him with his child-minder. I also kept thinking of what my birth mother must have gone through: the labour pains, followed by the agony of having to give me up. I had bonded with Stuart so well and it was difficult to leave him, even for four hours. Yet my mother had kept me until I was eight months old before she decided to take me to the orphanage. I couldn’t imagine what she must have gone through. Life must have been so hard for her.

  I had thought it was best if I didn’t go entirely by myself, and Stephen had agreed to accompany me to the address. I got Stuart ready and gave him his feed. He was a good baby, and usually slept for several hours, so I was keeping my fingers crossed that today would be no different. I put him in his carrycot, strapped into the car. As a baby he obviously had no idea that his mother was about to meet his grandmother for the very first time, and didn’t know how she was feeling!

  Stephen tried to make light conversation as he was driving us. I suppose it was his attempt to keep me occupied so that I would not dwell too much on what was about to happen. But I wasn’t really listening to a word he was saying. I only had one thing on my mind – I was about to meet my mother for the very first time.

  When we arrived at the house I had seen the week before I froze. My throat was dry and no words would come out of my mouth. Eventually I heard my husband say, ‘I think that must be your mother’s house.’ He was staring at me, awaiting some kind of reaction. I felt my stomach heave. It was as if I was about to jump out of an aeroplane instead of simply stepping out of a car.

  There was no turning back, and I knew I needed at least to appear as if I could deal with the situation. I straightened my uniform, checking the fob watch and pens I kept in my top pocket. Briefly touching the badge that I always wore with pride on the lapel of my blazer, I gripped my nurse’s bag and diary very tightly and concentrated on detaching myself from the situation. I’d never had to visit a patient quite like Bridget before.

  It may sound strange, but from my first visit I always referred to my mother as Bridget. It was a way of protecting myself from who she really was. I took a deep breath and reminded myself of the task in hand. I was visiting Bridget Mary Ryan, a new patient on my list: DOB, 11.11.1928: Chronic Alcoholic, self-neglect and with social problems.

  District nurses are often faced with problems when visiting patients. You are a visitor in their home when they are at their most vulnerable, and they need to be able to put their trust in you. With the right approach we can usually give them the reassurance they need and put them at ease. You often have to remain emotionally detached to enable you to do your job in a professional way. If you allow yourself to dwell on things too much it will start to affect you and you won’t perform as well. My training was going to be well and truly tested. I had waited a long time for this day.

  Stephen shouted, ‘Good luck.’ I smiled back anxiously. I knew that it was my inner strength I needed to draw upon and that luck was not going to play a part. Conscious that my time was limited, I took a deep breath and hurried across the road to her front door.

  The house looked even worse on closer inspection. As I pushed the front gate it fell from my hand and scraped along the floor. The hinge was rusty and useless. The hedge was overgrown and almost covered a dilapidated wall surrounding the small front garden. To the right there were some old rubbish bags. The spilled contents were wet and decaying and, from the smell which stung my nostrils, they must have been there for months. As I turned, I noticed some old beer and cider cans on the ground.

  I looked around, feeling really nervous about ringing the doorbell. Once I had plucked up the courage to press it I was met by a deafening silence. I shouldn’t have been surprised that it wasn’t working I suppose as, peering more closely, it looked like it hadn’t made a sound for many years.

  I tried knocking hard on the front door but still there was no reply. Now I felt really sick. Had I prepared myself for nothing? Would I never be able to meet my mother? I decided to try the house next door. They were terraced houses and the neighbour’s front door was at arm’s length, so I only had to lean across to press the bell. Bingo. It rang immediately.

  An Asian man answered the door. I smiled politely at him, though feeling even more nervous than before. I tried to appear calm as I didn’t want to arouse any suspicion about the real reason I was visiting his neighbour.

  From somewhere I found my voice. ‘Do you know Bridget Ryan, the woman next door?’ I asked. He paused for a moment, just staring at me. Then looked me up and down, clearly clocking my nurse’s uniform.

  ‘Too bloody right I do. She’s a crazy mad woman, a drunken Irish woman who should be ashamed of herself. She’s a dirty bitch. I don’t know why they don’t just lock her up for good and throw away the key.’

  I tried to calm him down, which helped me get into my role as the district nurse visiting her alcoholic patient. He clearly had a lot of pent-up anger. I realised that as soon as he saw someone he considered to be an authority figure – me on this occasion – he just had to let it out. There were tears in his eyes as he continued with his rant, but I was relieved to see he seemed to be getting a little calmer. Sadly, he was just gathering strength for the next outburst.

  ‘I mean, it’s just not fair, I have a young child to think about. She’s a slag and should not be living next door to families. My wife’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’

  By now I was feeling out of my depth and losing control of the situation. And I hadn’t even met my mother. My anxiety must have shown, as he then changed his attitude completely. He apologised for his rant, put his hand on my shoulder, and spoke in a much calmer voice. He was clearly at the end of his tether.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, for shouting. I know it’s not your fault but can you please do something to help? Please.’

  I felt upset and guilty that I was powerless to help him, but also horribly aware that I was wasting valuable time. To lighten the mood, he said, ‘You can
take her home with you if you like, and then you will know what we have to put up with.’ I had heard enough and needed to get away. If he had known the real reason for my visit I dread to think what his reaction would have been.

  It had all been a terrible shock and I was close to tears. I considered my options. I was still determined to face my mother. Drunk or sober, I had to meet her. I was her nurse, not her daughter. I just had to keep telling myself that.

  I thanked him for his time and he shook his head saying, ‘You will need to knock on the door hard as they don’t get up until the afternoon in that house. They are usually hung-over.’

  Unfortunately he continued. ‘The man she lives with also drinks heavily, but he is no real trouble. He stays in the house getting drunk. You only see him going out a couple of times a week, usually to the local supermarket to buy his booze. That’s all you really see of him. He keeps himself to himself and minds his own business. Not like her.’

  It was obvious he was desperate to give me all the details he could, and I had no choice but to listen. ‘Timmy has also had enough of her. I’ve often heard them arguing with each other, until the early hours of the morning sometimes. It’s a wonder one of them hasn’t been murdered.’

  That was the last thing I needed to hear. The only person who really seemed to have any time for Bridget was Bernadette, her probation officer. I glanced next door but there didn’t seem to be any movement. I was surprised that they hadn’t heard the neighbour shouting. I think a brass band could have been playing in the street and still they would have remained dead to the world. I suppose it was like the middle of the night for them, even though by now it was about 11 a.m. Waking two drunks before they were ready wasn’t going to be an easy task.

  ‘It’s about time she got disturbed. It’s like waking the dead in that bleeding place,’ the neighbour said. Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and gasped, as a thought struck him. ‘Oh, I hope he hasn’t murdered her in there. Come to think of it, I did hear a lot of shouting last night.’