Thank goodness, he then went inside. I turned once more to the shabby navy blue front door and peered through the letterbox. I could see straight into the front room as there was no hallway. In the corner was an unmade bed, topped by an old stained mattress and a torn, discoloured sheet that had seen much better days.
Could that be my mother’s bed, where she lay in the early hours in a drunken stupor? There was a pile of old newspapers stacked in one corner, and the bit of carpet you could see was filthy and threadbare. It was in a terrible state, and the smell took my breath away.
I continued rattling the rusty old letterbox and nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a shout from the back room.
‘The fecking door’s open, ya eejit, how many times do you need to be told?’
I wasn’t exactly expecting them to get the red carpet out but I was shocked by the rudeness of the man I assumed to be Timmy. At this point I really did feel like running away. He must have opened the door when I was talking to the neighbour. I pushed hard and for the first time in my life, walked into my mother’s home.
The feeling I had on that memorable day in November 1981 was one I will never forget. It was a mixture of terror, anticipation and excitement. I was now only minutes away from meeting my mother for the very first time and there was no going back.
I tried to introduce myself to Timmy but I was stammering and my heart was thumping following his outburst. I needed to stay calm. It was crucial that I didn’t expose my true identity. Timmy was not a man for formalities, so I was aware of the importance of acting in a professional manner while maintaining my role as Bridget’s district nurse.
It worked. My visit wasn’t even questioned. He wasn’t at all bothered about why I’d come, but I had rehearsed my lines for weeks and was determined at least to have the chance to explain the reason for my visit. He didn’t bat an eyelid when I said, ‘I’ve come to visit Bridget Ryan to see how she is.’
Timmy was standing in the small kitchen. This led through to the middle room, which had hardly any furniture apart from a clapped-out armchair. There were no pictures or ornaments to make it feel a bit more homely. An old gas fire fixed in the fireplace had been turned up to its highest setting, and the heat from it was quite overpowering. At least they were able to keep warm, and weren’t worried about their fuel bills.
In the corner was the door leading to the stairs. Timmy sat down on what I supposed was his armchair and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and let the ash fall to the floor where his scuffed trainers rubbed it into the threadbare carpet. It was obvious he was a heavy smoker by the rattle in his chest and the yellow nicotine stains on his fingers. There he sat, this scruffy old man in a dirty grey singlet covering his enormous beer belly, and shabby brown trousers coming apart at the seams.
‘She’s a damned nuisance and a disgrace to the Irish population,’ he bellowed. I wondered whether he had looked in the mirror at himself lately.
Trying to hurry things along, I asked, ‘Is the lady upstairs?’, which got him going again.
‘O God, she’s certainly no lady and never has been.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, well you’re certainly no gentleman! But I didn’t want to antagonise him.
Eventually Timmy shouted from the bottom of the stairs, ‘There’s a young lady to see you.’ Turning to check, and looking a little puzzled for the first time as to who I actually was, he continued, ‘I think she’s a nurse.’
I could hear a lot of banging from upstairs and I wasn’t sure whether a large, heavy object had fallen. There was certainly a lot of noise coming from the bedroom where my mother presumably was. I waited patiently, trying to appear calm but my heart was pounding even harder and I was sweating profusely.
As Bridget walked down the stairs, or rather banged down each step, with every thud I heard I knew that she was that bit closer to me. The moment I had anticipated for so long was now only seconds away. I couldn’t wait another minute, so I peered around the corner, trying to see if I could at least get a glimpse of her.
The light was poor and the stairs were steep, but I spotted her sitting on a step, as if exhausted. I stood back, and suddenly the door flung open with some considerable force and there she stood. My own mother was standing there in front of me.
It was as if she was someone else. Even though I had been told what to expect, for some reason I just couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe that this poor crumpled creature was indeed my mother.
‘Are you Bridget?’ I asked. Half of her face was swollen and badly bruised, and her left eye was black, perhaps from a recent fight or a fall. Her hair was grey and smelled of stale alcohol and tobacco. It was thickly matted at the back, as if it hadn’t been washed or combed for months. She was wearing a semi-transparent short nylon nightdress in what had once been a luminous colour, revealing mottled rings on her legs caused by sitting too close to the fire. Her finger nails were filthy as if she had been digging up potatoes and I could see she was also a heavy smoker as she had yellow nicotine stains on her fingers.
I stood staring at her for a short time, almost in disbelief. Years of abusing her body had clearly taken its toll. I felt sorry for her. It was clear that alcohol was now completely controlling her life and that she had lost all self-respect and self-control. I peered at her face, looking for some similarity, some sign of myself in this human wreck. Yes, I thought, there is some likeness there – the cheekbones perhaps, the tilt of the chin. This was my mother, and I was determined to recognise her.
I felt very emotional, but I pulled myself up sharply. I needed to remind myself that this was Bridget Ryan, my patient, not my mother. Thankfully Bridget didn’t even seem to notice.
By this time Timmy decided to go back into the front room where he actually slept on that dirty old mattress. He grunted something under his breath, which I’m sure was to do with Bridget irritating him.
He complained that he was feeling very tired and ‘was never allowed to get any sleep in this damn place’. That didn’t surprise me, as I’m sure he had used what little energy he had in complaining about Bridget and how he couldn’t possibly live with her for a minute longer.
Bridget still had her strong Tipperary accent, despite having lived in England for over 28 years. She was delighted to have a nurse visit her. She needed people to talk to: people who were prepared to listen. She led me into a room with clothes all over the floor and dirty plates left from the previous day. There was rubbish piled in carrier bags, and the curtains were still firmly drawn.
As she launched into her life story, I hardly said a word, not a word. I just stared. She really liked to talk; maybe she did that all the time to anyone who was prepared to listen. I certainly was a good listener for her that day.
I wonder if it was some kind of strange telepathy because, within moments of our meeting, Bridget began talking about a girl she had given away once, called Phyllis.
‘Ah, she was a lovely baby, a lovely child. I miss her, even now I miss her.’ She told me about other children, but didn’t want to dwell on them and it all seemed rather muddled.
The one she kept coming back to was me. I thought maybe it was because she had looked after me for eight months and perhaps the others had been taken away from her much sooner. She rambled on about how much she wanted to find Phyllis again; how the orphanage had refused to tell her where her daughter was. She even told me about the letter she had written in 1973. She remembered the name of the orphanage and she remembered my birthday, which meant so much to me.
She didn’t ask me any questions, not even why I had come to visit her. I expect she was just so glad to have someone to talk to – a sympathetic listener. She didn’t even ask my Christian name – I realised I hadn’t prepared myself with an alternative, so that was lucky.
Strangely enough, I don’t remember the very first words she said to me, but I do remember how talkative she was. Her Irish accent fascinated me, but at times I found it difficult to understand. She
talked so fast and was jumping from one subject to another within seconds. She seemed happy to have a visitor, which made me feel sad. It was obvious that she was very lonely.
Bernadette had told me a lot about Bridget and seemed to know more about her than anyone, so at least I had been able to prepare myself. She had warned me that she rambled, and it could sometimes be difficult to understand what she was trying to say. I now knew what she meant.
Bridget was certainly very loud, and she suddenly shouted at me. ‘What are you staring at me for?’ This really unsettled me. It was obvious that she often drew attention to herself by the way she looked, and her booming voice was something that you could never ignore. This had caused her to become paranoid, and she always believed that people were staring at her, judging her by the way she looked and spoke.
I was actually thinking that I had seen her somewhere before, but I felt confused and overwhelmed. I dismissed the thought as I felt it was just going to make things more complicated.
It was some years later when I realised that my mother had actually been that drunken Irish woman from Tipperary who had been brought into A & E in 1975 after being involved in a fight.
Now, I quickly smiled and leant across to stroke her arm. A part of me longed to say, ‘I’m here. I am Phyllis, your missing daughter.’ I could only imagine the joy I would have given my mother. But a more sensible voice kept warning me that this was not the time. Maybe there would never be a right time, but it certainly wasn’t then.
She soon calmed down and continued to tell her story, interspersed with muddled and bizarre asides. She turned suddenly to me and began asking questions. Was I married? Did I have any children? Oh, if only she knew, I thought to myself, and several times I could hardly resist telling her. It seemed so cruel not to, yet I knew I had to restrain myself. My husband and son were waiting outside in the car.
I so wanted to stay longer but I had said that the first visit would be quite short, and I was aware that I must have been running well over my time. I promised I would call again soon, hopefully in two weeks’ time. Bridget smiled and said how much she liked me and she would look forward to seeing me again.
I would love to have kissed her but it might have seemed odd. As I was leaving, she stroked my hair and attempted to remove it from my eyes, the type of thing a mother might do. She seemed affectionate towards me. Maybe it was because I took the time to listen to her, but we somehow seemed to make a connection.
Coming away from the house I thought about her, I had liked her at once. She really seemed glad to be able to have someone to talk to. If only she had realised that it was her own daughter. I was glad that I seemed to be so important to her, even after all this time. For better or worse, at last I had finally met my mother.
8
Caring for My Mother
I had now met my birth mother, and needed some time to reflect on what I’d found.
Had I introduced myself as her long-lost daughter I’m sure she would have thrown her arms around me. I knew she wasn’t a sensible, rational person. I could easily imagine her turning up on my doorstep day and night – highly intoxicated and singing at the top of her voice – the way she did outside her own house. Once that door was open I knew I’d never get her out of my life. More than that, if I had to try I knew it would hurt her too much. I could already tell she’d be so glad to have found one of her children.
On the other side of the coin, I really didn’t want to turn my back on her just because she wasn’t the mother I had been hoping for. I had liked her instantly. I wanted her to be able to confide in me as she seemed tortured by the events of the past, and was full of regrets about all her children. I suppose I saw myself as her advocate. I was the one person who cared enough about her and wanted to try and help as much as possible.
The fact that I was a nurse and had experience of dealing with people like her was a distinct advantage. People are often frightened by alcoholics or down-and-outs when they act strangely. They can have differing degrees of mental health problems, but I had always warmed to their vulnerability. I’ve never been afraid, and find their innocence touching. They are often unable to make decisions for themselves, and need help. I was glad I had found my mother. I decided I would continue to visit her as her ‘district nurse’, and hoped I would be able to give her the help she desperately needed.
But first we needed to get to know each other, and hopefully in time she would learn to trust me. I wanted to be her nurse, her friend, and maybe even one day her daughter. I never regretted tracing her, even for a moment.
I knew I should visit Bridget again soon; there needed to be some continuity of my role as her district nurse. I picked a Friday afternoon about ten days later – I thought that at least she should be out of bed at that time of day.
What I hadn’t prepared myself for was, again, the next door neighbour. I parked my car a few doors away, and as I started walking to Bridget’s front door I saw him standing outside his house with his arms folded, looking extremely annoyed. He was determined that I was going to listen to what he had to say.
He invited me in by unfolding his arms and placing his hand on my shoulder, so as to divert me to his own front door. I told him I was in a rush and had a lot of other patients to visit, but he reassured me that he wouldn’t keep me long and insisted that I went into his house. He introduced himself as Neil and offered me a cup of tea. I declined, since I was on my lunch break from work and really didn’t have much time. I sat down on a chair in his front room, fearing that if I didn’t I might collapse as I was so worried about the situation I had got myself into.
I was there under false pretences and realised my true identity might be exposed. I was also terrified of what he was about to tell me about my mother. Thankfully, he didn’t ask me any questions, not even my name or where I was from; he seemed more intent on telling me about the problems he had living next door to this ‘horrible Irish drunken woman’.
He appeared extremely anxious. Once again he told me how awful his life was living next door to such a ‘bitch’, and he became more verbally aggressive. I had no choice but to listen to what he wanted to tell me as he had so much pent-up anger inside him which he needed to release.
‘This should never be allowed to happen,’ he said. ‘A mad woman living amongst normal people, I mean, would you want to live next door to such a horrible person?’ He gave me no chance to reply before the next stream of words poured out.
He talked about her singing and shouting in the street again. ‘Many of the neighbours often open their bedroom windows and start shouting and swearing at her. She never seems to care. In fact she just starts shouting even louder and swearing back at them. She is totally unreasonable. Usually she ends up lying in the gutter, crying loudly, having no consideration or respect for anyone, least of all for herself.’
Then he spoke in a much quieter tone, even for a few moments appearing slightly sympathetic. ‘I think something really bad must have happened to her, and that is why she turned to drink.’
There was so much he wanted to tell me but I really didn’t want to hear such terrible things about my own mother. I got up from the chair, but he didn’t even notice and just continued, almost in a whisper, as if he thought she could hear what he was telling me through the walls.
‘I think all her children were put into care years ago. The woman a few doors away, she has not long had a baby girl. Well, her husband was so angry a few weeks ago that he shouted at her – Bridget – to shut up, telling her she was a selfish woman who was going to wake up their baby.
‘We just couldn’t believe her reaction. She was really drunk as usual and shouting at the top of her voice. Then she started screaming and was crying hysterically that she had babies once, but they were all taken away from her.’
He told me how she’d fallen to the ground and was sobbing uncontrollably, screeching as loudly as she could, ‘Why did they take my babies away?’ She was lying in the alley. He even walked to
the window and moved the net curtain to show me the exact spot. I couldn’t bear to look at where my own mother had lain in a drunken stupor, crying for her lost children. It was more than I could have coped with, as by now I was feeling sick and wanted to run out of the house. I just couldn’t bear to hear any more, and I knew he must never find out that I was indeed one of those children that had been put into care.
But still he was determined to tell me more. ‘One of the neighbours must have called the police. We went out to check if she was OK as she suddenly went quiet and seemed lifeless. Nobody wanted to touch her or get involved as she was so dirty. She smelt, had vomit all over her, and was often quite violent. She would kick out if you as much as stood next to her. She was crazy and acted like a wild animal. By the time the police arrived she was ranting and raving and then started swearing at them to “fecking leave me alone”.’
Neil apologised for the language, then said, ‘I don’t know why they didn’t just leave her to choke on her own vomit.’ It was obvious he hated what she was and desperately wanted her out of the area, but it was difficult for me to have to listen to him. I had some degree of sympathy with what he was going through. I didn’t want her turning up at my door disturbing my baby boy, after all, but I wasn’t the right person to give him the help he needed, and I was petrified that he might find out my true identity.
But there was no stopping him. ‘The police arrested her for being drunk and disorderly although that’s an understatement to say the least. She is an utter disgrace to the human race and thank God her kids were put into care,’ he said. If only he knew, I thought to myself.
Still he turned the knife. ‘When she was eventually carted off in a police van everybody was cheering and clapping. It was better than any episode of Coronation Street.’ He then started sniggering as if he was telling me a joke, but I certainly wasn’t amused. I mustered some degree of confidence and professionalism, saying, ‘I really need to leave now.’
Finding Tipperary Mary Page 12