As I started to walk away, he said, ‘All the neighbours were so pleased, me included, as we thought she had been taken away for good – but no such luck. Within a few days she was back, making a bloody nuisance of herself again.’
I just wanted to get out of his house as quickly as possible. Even if I still had time, I wasn’t in any fit state to visit Bridget that day. Neil did eventually apologise for keeping me so long, but even as I walked out of the front door he was still making one last desperate attempt to make me listen. ‘Please see what you can do to help me get rid of this awful woman,’ he said. I hurriedly returned to my car, desperate to get away from such a complicated situation.
The next week, I really hoped that Neil wouldn’t be standing at the gate. I was also crossing my fingers that my mother would be at home. Thankfully he was nowhere to be seen, and my mother was actually in. Remembering how difficult it was to rouse them on my previous visit, I knocked the door hard. After a few minutes, Timmy in his by now familiar, disgruntled voice was shouting, ‘Will ya fecking wait a minute, for God’s sake!’
I’d already established that he wasn’t one for formalities. Again he appeared irritated by my visit, but I reminded myself that I’d come to visit Bridget, not him, and I ignored his rudeness. He stared at me in the same way as before, then acknowledged my nurse’s uniform. Timmy, grunting something along the lines of ‘she’s in the back kitchen,’ promptly lay back on his horrible grubby bed.
The house had a musty smell; a combination of dust and alcohol, and still looked like a bombsite. I prepared myself to meet my mother for the second time professionally. I still needed to remain detached from the circumstances, but I already loved her as my mother. I realised she was often difficult, that she would fly off the handle for no reason and was also very highly strung and impulsive. But she was so pathetic that you could almost excuse her bad behaviour. Once again, I tried to remind myself, it was Bridget, a patient I had come to see; not my mother.
I went through to the back kitchen where she stood against the dilapidated work surface, next to a very greasy, dirty gas cooker. She bent her head over the naked flame to light her cigarette, almost setting her hair alight in the process. Her fingers were copper-brown from years of heavy smoking, and her lipstick was smeared around her mouth. Her hair remained tangled but the swelling and bruising on her face had disappeared. For a moment I was shocked, as I could now distinguish her pale, emaciated face as she looked up at me. She was exhausted and weary after years of abusing her body.
I didn’t say a word. I just sat down carefully on a battered chair that had one leg missing. Looking around, I could see filth and rubbish everywhere, so I got up and helped to tidy the place a little, but was careful not to appear as if I was interfering. Then I sat back down and listened again to her life story.
This time I managed to ask a few questions, but was careful not to arouse suspicion by seeming too nosey. Bridget was delighted to have such a keen, sympathetic listener.
‘Who was Phyllis’s father?’ I asked with some trepidation, but Bridget seemed happy to tell me. She had met him in an Irish night club in Hurst Street, Birmingham. He was lovely, she said. She’d been going out with him for three weeks when he suggested a weekend away in a hotel.
She said she took a real fancy to him; he was a ‘real attractive man’. She didn’t go with men usually, not in those days, but he was special, and she loved him, she said. She hoped he would stay and that she’d keep him but, after the weekend, he disappeared – he didn’t want to see her again. According to my mother, that was how I was conceived. After she gave me away, her life changed. After that it was, she said, ‘more or less any old man, and she didn’t mind who’, but Phyllis’s father, well he’d been something special. She kept saying that.
Maybe that is why she talked about Phyllis the most. I remembered what she had told the orphanage, and although this version was slightly different, where she had met my father remained the same.
The description of events that she gave me seemed sincere and I’d like to believe that she had at least one loving encounter during her lifetime. Maybe I was conceived out of love after all, at least as far as Bridget was concerned. I’m sure that she had deliberately decided not to give the nuns all the details about my father, since it may well have just complicated things, especially if he was a married man, which she suspected was the case.
Suddenly Bridget stared in my direction and gave me a half-hearted smile. She looked straight into my face and asked, ‘What’s your name?’ I told her I was called Pat, which was the first name that came into my head. It was a strange feeling having to pretend that I had a different name. I suppose it really rubbed it in that I had to see myself in the third person. However, she instantly forgot my name was ‘Pat’ and from that day on she always referred to me as her nurse, which made things easier.
After Christmas I started to visit her once or twice a month. It would be mostly in the afternoons, as I knew she’d be awake and I’d have finished work for the day. I always felt a bit guilty that I was leaving my son with the childminder for an extra hour.
I’d bring a sandwich from the supermarket sometimes, but she’d just say ‘leave it there’ and I never knew if she’d eat it. I tried to take some clothes, but I had to be careful not to offend her. Sometimes she’d be out, and I’d have got all worked up to see her and then have to hurry away to avoid Neil.
When she was in I gave her support, but I was really just someone to talk to. It was lovely that there was banter between us, but sometimes she needed medical attention. She quite often had burns on her legs from the fire, so I’d tend to them, and her cuts and bruises from drinking, although she wasn’t keen on me making a fuss.
Once I brought a bowl through so I could try to clean and cut her fingernails. She flung it out of my hand and said, ‘Take that fecking bowl out.’
I said, ‘I just thought I’d give you a manicure.’ She looked at me like I was mad!
She’d ignore me when I tried to give her advice. ‘Why have you taken your dressings off?’ I’d ask her, and she’d blame Timmy or say, ‘They’re better now aren’t they?’
Timmy would ask, sounding jealous, ‘Why does she need a dressing?’ Although sometimes he’d just be snoring his head off.
When she was very drunk, it was difficult to be around her. I’d go if it was clear I’d outstayed my welcome. Every time I’d think I was two steps into helping her, building the relationship, she’d knock me right back.
Often I wanted to put my arm around her and tell her the truth. But I had a young baby and was married, we wanted another baby.
Normally I would be playing two parts. When I was at home I was Mum and Phyllis. At work I was the district nurse. With Bridget it was something else again, and I couldn’t tell anybody. I had no one to confide in.
One day I asked her why she never wanted to go back to Ireland. She fixed me with one of her stares for a few minutes without saying a word, and I regretted asking her the question. Her face was tormented, and she started whispering as if she was worried that Timmy might overhear. ‘My brother’s a wicked man. He threatened to kill me once, if ever I told anyone.’ Now I felt scared. What could be so bad that he’d threatened her in that way?
It was difficult for me to follow what she was saying then, as she kept losing her thread and peppering her comments with bizarre asides. ‘They’re after me all the time. For sex. They all want me. I often have one night stands. Any man will do. Drinking makes it easy. It doesn’t matter if they are married or single, but they are usually Irish. Even the Asian men seem to be after me now.’
I did not want to hear this from my own mother. What can her brother have done to her to make her this way? Why did she allow herself to be used by so many men? Was it because she was always in a haze of booze, or did she use the drink to drown it all out? Love just never came into it. I always knew that something led to her alcoholism and she drank largely to blot out whatever was gn
awing at her. Saying I’d be back to visit her within the next two weeks, I let myself out, with the sound of Timmy snoring in the background as I shut the front door behind me.
I continued to visit her regularly, and as the months went on I often took her new clothes, towels, sheets and food. She had long gone beyond pride about accepting charity and was always pleased when I took her new outfits which she needed badly.
Timmy remained surly, and less than pleased with my visits. He grumbled that I gave him no warning, no time to clean up the place. He was ashamed to have it seen like this. I couldn’t imagine him ever cleaning up, however much notice I gave, but I tried to make him feel that I was not criticising the way he and my mother lived. I often cleaned and tidied a little but, I hoped, not in a way that he would regard as a rebuke or act of disapproval.
It was autumn 1983, and when I called, Timmy told me that Bridget was back in prison again, for shoplifting. I thought to myself, at least she won’t be drinking, and will have a hot meal inside her.
For once Timmy seemed glad to see me. He said his back ached badly, so I saw to him and listened to his grumbles. I took the opportunity to ask him a little more about my mother, but once I thought I saw him looking at me oddly. For a moment I feared he had recognised the resemblance and any minute he would accuse me of being who I really was, her own child. I was convinced that I looked so much like my mother that anyone could spot it.
But he didn’t. He told me, ‘She used to help around the house, doing the washing and the shopping. Bridget was useful at first when I agreed to take her in. She even sometimes cooked meals, but things have gone from bad to worse. She was only meant to stay for a short time, but now I can’t get rid of her. She’s been barred from all the local pubs because of her aggressive behaviour. She threatens the other customers and intimidates them. At least when she did go to the pub I’d have a few hours’ peace without her bothering me.’
By now he was really feeling sorry for himself. ‘She’s well known at the local supermarket as “Tipperary Mary”, one of the Irish alkies from up the road.’ He appeared baffled by who else they may have been talking about – who these other ‘Irish alkies’ were, which made me smile as he was Irish and spent most of his waking hours drinking. He always seemed to see himself as superior to Bridget.
I had sometimes seen Bridget walking along the road with her tartan shopping trolley on wheels, full of cans of lager and cider, which she’d just picked up from the supermarket. I never saw any sign of food in her trolley, just alcohol. Timmy told me it was now causing problems as the regular customers didn’t like being in the shop with her. She was often unsteady, her words were slurred and she would shout obscenities at them. ‘No one wants anything more to do with her.’
I’d heard enough for one day. My mother was in prison and a disruptive alcoholic. I retrieved my coat, resisted brushing it down and headed for the front door, raising my hand to say goodbye. ‘I will come and see Bridget when she’s out of prison,’ I called, almost as an afterthought. For the first time he threw me a quizzical smile and almost appeared sad that I was leaving.
Timmy had said that Bridget had been sentenced to six weeks in prison, so I didn’t visit for another eight weeks. It was almost two years since I’d first visited her as a district nurse, yet she still had no idea that I was her daughter. This was to be the most upsetting visit yet.
As I approached the house, Timmy had already opened the door, stepping to one side to encourage me to enter. He was shouting, ‘That bloody bitch. That dirty cat! She messed herself again. I’ve had enough. Enough of her and her filth!’
But he was glad to see me. I went upstairs and found her lying on the bed in her own faeces, drunk, disgusting and wild. Her flesh was bruised and sore from falling over; her hair dishevelled. It was fortunate that I was a nurse, already well used to scenes of this kind. How else would I have coped?
I ran a bath with warm water, and somehow managed to help her in. While I was washing her, I noticed brown marks running down her legs, probably more diarrhoea. I gently sponged her skin until she was clean. I helped her put her right leg over the side of the bath, and she edged it gingerly on to the floor. Then the other leg.
Bridget stood motionless, dripping, her upper lip trembling with the cold as there was no heating in the bathroom. I wrapped an old grey towel around her shivering body, desperate to show her some kindness.
By pushing and pulling her I managed to guide her from the bathroom to her bedroom, where she fell back on to the stripped bed, naked, rolling over, sprawling, hideously out of control. It was the first time I had seen her in such a state of undress. I preserved her dignity by helping her to put on some reasonably clean clothes, tidied her up as best I could.
I couldn’t have just left her in such a state. Again, she had scorched her legs from sitting too close to the fire, so I treated the burns and applied dressings to prevent them from becoming infected, and then we went down to the kitchen.
She began to ramble as she so often did, mainly about sex. She repeated what she’d said so many times – all the men down the road were after her, sex mad, couldn’t get enough of her, and so on.
Timmy suddenly came into the room really angry, and kept saying he’d had enough. He wanted to move out of the house and to escape from her.
‘Don’t you know of a home to put her in?’ he kept asking me.
I became afraid now that, if he went to the authorities, he would discover that I wasn’t visiting the house officially at all. I would be in deep trouble. Worse, they might guess why I had been visiting her and who I was. If he knew who I was, he would dump her on me without a moment’s hesitation. It would be a matter of: ‘You’re her daughter, she’s your responsibility, you take her in. You’ve got a nice house; it’s your duty.’
Perhaps I could have managed her if I was on my own, but I was married and had a child to think of. As much as I wanted to in one way, I couldn’t do that to them. I couldn’t bring her into our lives without causing chaos, and that wouldn’t be fair. She was a law unto herself. I knew that really she needed to go into a nursing home where she would be looked after, but I also knew she’d never accept that. She was only in her fifties, and functional when not drunk. If I knew that she was safely in a home then I could tell her who I really was. I desperately wanted to tell her before she died, because I knew it would make her happy.
By now, I knew she was fond of me, and I’m sure she’d have been thrilled if she knew I was Phyllis. I wanted her to know that she did the right thing leaving me at the orphanage when I was eight months old. I could reassure her that, even if it had been painful at the time, it had been the right thing for me, and that might have made her feel better about it. I wouldn’t tell her that my adoptive family life hadn’t been the best experience, or that I wasn’t close to my adoptive mother. I didn’t need to say that. I knew that clearly I had been much better off with them than I would have been with her.
I called to see Bridget the following week to make sure that she was OK. Unsurprisingly, she’d removed the dressings from her legs. She never complied with anything I asked her to do – she was the definition of a difficult patient! But I was surprised to find that the burns to her legs had healed well. Luckily they’d only been superficial.
However, the previous visit had had a huge impact. I was now eight weeks pregnant, and I had realised that I was neither emotionally nor physically able to cope with my mother’s unpredictable behaviour. I had to stay away and focus on Stuart and my pregnancy. I knew I wouldn’t be visiting her for some time.
My daughter Hannah was born on 17 July 1984. Life was extremely hectic, working full time, looking after two small children, and suffering from the repercussions of meeting my mother had all taken their toll.
Perhaps I had post-natal depression. I’d have the odd glass of Christmas sherry from the cupboard in the afternoon. And a couple of times – when the children had gone to bed and Stephen was at work – I had quite
a few glasses.
The reasons for my behaviour are difficult to explain. I felt confused and worried about my mother’s welfare, but there was little I could do to help her.
To make matters worse, I rarely saw my adoptive mother. We just weren’t close. Carole’s children were a similar age to mine, so of course Carole’s got more attention. I don’t think my children noticed, but I did. Stephen’s parents were brilliant grandparents, but they didn’t know about my adoption.
Inevitably my confusion started affecting my marriage. We didn’t have many friends and Stephen was often working nights. We just didn’t talk to each other, the romance had gone.
On one occasion when I’d had a row with Stephen, it was about ten o’clock at night and the children were fast asleep in bed. I was angry and upset, and wanted to get away from the hostile atmosphere so I went for a drive in the car, not having any idea where I was going.
I found myself outside Bridget’s house. I parked the car a few doors away and sobbed uncontrollably in the middle of the night. Although affected by the disagreement with my husband, I was even more upset that I had a mother who didn’t even know I was her daughter. A mother I would never be able to talk to about my problems, as she had far too many of her own.
This was the reality check I needed. I thought to myself, For god’s sake, this is nonsense. I’m not acting like a mother. I’m acting more like my mother. I knew I needed to bring myself to my senses. I wasn’t going to change my mother’s way of life, and this isn’t what I wanted for my own children. I realised there was a thin dividing line between it all going horribly wrong and putting my life back in order.
I decided I could only give Bridget so much of me. The most important thing was my two little children. Meeting my mother mustn’t affect their childhood. I made the decision to stay away from her for a while to concentrate on being a mother myself. I had to put her to the back of my mind.
Finding Tipperary Mary Page 13