I stayed away from Bridget for over a year. But even though she was far removed from the longed-for mother I had hoped to find, the little girl in me still had this aching need to be with my birth mother. I felt extremely anxious about how she was continuing to cope at home.
By November 1985 I had got over the post-natal depression and was starting to see things a bit clearer. I was getting on better with Stephen, too. I felt in control again, emotionally stronger, and decided I wanted to see my mother on my terms. I really hoped that she hadn’t forgotten me, the nurse who had cared for her.
As I knocked hard on the front door, which was still in the same state of disrepair, I thought back to my previous visits and how difficult it was to make them hear. This time it was obvious that there was nobody in the house, not even Timmy shouting in his usual stroppy manner. Maybe it was one of the days when he visited the local supermarket to buy his groceries, cigarettes and cans of beer.
I sat in the car for a while, checking my diary, seeing how many other patients I needed to visit that afternoon, and I tried to keep myself distracted and to stay calm. As always when visiting my mother I had to prepare myself emotionally, so that if she wasn’t in I wouldn’t be disappointed.
I was shocked to hear a lot of shouting. There seemed to be a brawl in the street behind where I’d parked. I quickly decided it would be better if I didn’t get involved – it certainly wasn’t the type of area you wanted to hang around for any length of time, especially as a woman on your own – and I tried to drive away.
As I pulled out, I looked in my rear mirror and the awful realisation hit me. It was my mother doing all the shouting. She was screeching as loudly as she could in her distinctive Tipperary accent. Timmy had told me she’d accost people in the street for no reason, and pick fights with complete strangers. She often carried an old red handbag that looked as if it had very little in it, but she would use it to hit people who so much as glanced in her direction.
On this particular afternoon it was someone who just happened to be walking past and was probably trying their best not to make any eye contact with her, but she had assumed that they were making fun of her. Suddenly Bridget started banging the car window, shouting, ‘Where are you going?’ It was a strange feeling, as if she’d recognised me. I was shocked, because I hadn’t seen her for a long time, although I was wearing my nurse’s uniform. Maybe she was like that with everyone she met? Perhaps she normally went up to complete strangers and asked them for a lift?
I’d like to think that she did actually recognise me. It made me feel closer to her. She was so vulnerable and in a strange way I felt more attached to her because of it. I opened the car window and in her usual bossy, abrupt way she shouted at the top of her voice, ‘Come on with yez, give me a lift into town.’
‘Would you like me to wait for you to get ready?’ I asked, trying to be subtle, but she just looked bewildered.
‘Auk, what’s the matter with yez? I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Just give us a lift into town, for God sake, and hurry up as I’m late as it is!’
I’m not actually sure what she was going to be late for, but I’m sure that alcohol would have been playing some part. She was often abrupt in her manner, even insulting, but in a strange way I never felt offended by her insults. It made me feel as if we were able to be ourselves around each other, just like any other mother and daughter.
I suppose I tolerated her more because of who she was to me. I accepted her behaviour better than other people. She never tried to make a good impression; the complete opposite of my adoptive mother, who spent all her life worrying about what other people might think. My birth mother had gone beyond caring whether people liked her or not. She didn’t give a damn. Bridget would act the same with whoever she met.
Her behaviour was the effect of years of alcohol abuse. She’d lost all her inhibitions and was never embarrassed by her own, often inappropriate, behaviour. Most people would walk on the other side of the street just to avoid any confrontation with her. She was often stared at as if she was some kind of freak, but she had long since lost any concept of right or wrong. I was saddened by her hopelessness.
So, that afternoon I gave her a lift into town. She was so excited; it was as if we were going out for the day. I don’t expect she’d been in a car for a long time. I also felt excited, if only for a very short time; it just seemed so natural.
To think I was actually giving my own mother a lift! At this point I was so close to telling her who I really was. In my head I was saying, Come on then, Mum. Let’s take you back to my house for a cup of tea and an iced bun, and you can see your grandchildren.
I quickly came back to reality as I caught the odour from her clothes. She smelt as though she’d been sleeping rough for days and hadn’t had her clothes washed in weeks. Her hands and face were filthy.
It was such a difficult time for me, but I knew I had to be strong for the sake of my own children. They needed me and no matter what, they were my main responsibility. I couldn’t allow myself to become involved again, especially with her dysfunctional life. I tried to tell myself that I was just giving one of the patients a lift to the hospital for an outpatient appointment.
We soon arrived in the city centre, as it was only a short journey. I asked her if she had any money to get back home, knowing what her reply would be. She started patting her empty pockets to emphasise how broke she was. ‘I’ve got no money, not a penny,’ she said.
I gave her five pounds, knowing that it would probably be spent on alcohol and not on her journey home. I didn’t want to give her any more money as when she was drunk she could so easily be mugged by the sort of people she hung around with.
As she clambered out of the car I noticed a small wet patch on the back of what had probably once been cream trousers. I thought I could smell urine, but I was trying my best not to inhale too deeply as the smell was horrible.
I noticed some teenage boys sitting on a wall, close to where I had dropped her off. They kept staring at her, and then started laughing and pointing at her. They were teasing her and calling her names. I was desperately trying not to listen to what they were shouting, but a group of teenage boys was not going to bother Bridget in the slightest. I watched her swearing and shouting back at them, swinging her handbag in their direction.
She was obviously no threat to them, and they ran in the opposite direction. A couple of them ran back towards my car and made gestures to me, as if to imply that she was a mad woman.
Maybe they thought I was her nurse and not making a very good job of looking after her. I felt really angry because of how they were mocking her; it seemed so cruel. I wanted to shout at them, Leave her alone, that’s my mother you’re laughing at! But how could I? It was upsetting and I felt guilty. I wanted to protect her. Why had I left her at the roadside to be mocked in this way?
Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to give her a lift into town. I suppose I was just trying to do something normal with her, but maybe she would never have been the type of mother to do anything like go into town with you. It was around four years since I had found her, and it was all getting horribly out of control. Would I ever be able to tell her who I really was? I needed more time to think about things, but unfortunately that luxury was something I didn’t have. My mother’s mental state was deteriorating rapidly. If I was ever going to tell her who I really was, I knew it had to be soon.
When I started visiting again, some days she greeted me like a long lost friend and sometimes she’d tell me to bugger off. Her life seemed to be getting increasingly chaotic.
I didn’t tell Stephen much about the meetings, and he didn’t want to know. It was like she was my secret. I’d always felt protected when I made the decision to care for my mother anonymously as her nurse. I knew I could hide behind that role, wearing my uniform.
When I dropped in, Timmy was often cooking his breakfast. One day, he put it down while he went to make his tea and she grabbed it, sat down and star
ted to eat.
He went absolutely ballistic. ‘This is what I have to put up with! She’s so selfish and she only thinks of herself.’
‘Would you like me to cook you one, then?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he grunted, ‘I’m not hungry now.’
‘Oh well, Bridget looks like she could do with a meal more than you,’ I replied, looking from his beer belly to her skin and bones.
‘You keep out of it,’ said Timmy.
They often acted like an old married couple, and I was the child trying to keep the peace. It sometimes felt there was a special bond between the three of us.
I decided to visit my mother one afternoon when I had a little more time. It was a Monday, and Stephen was looking after Stuart and Hannah, so when I finished my official visits I called Stephen to say that work had asked me to stay on for a few hours as we had a very poorly patient.
I loved my mother now, and hoped she’d be in so I could spend more time with her. Fortunately, she looked happy to see me when I knocked on the door, she was very pleased as Timmy had gone for the whole afternoon and she was lonely, so it all seemed to be going to plan.
She said quite pleasantly for me to move the rubbish off the chair so I could sit down next to her, and she handed me a mug of tea with hardly a half-inch of rim intact. It was the first and last cup of tea my mother ever made me. I’d brought some snacks for us to nibble on, so I drank my by now cold cup of tea and Bridget drank from a can of lager.
I tried to make light conversation but she soon started chatting away, as she so often did, not really letting me get a word in edgeways. I never minded as I was desperate to find out as much information as I could. She was drinking excessively and for a while she fell asleep, so I rushed upstairs to change her bed linen as I brought some new sheets with me.
When she woke up she started on some cans of Breakers, which was Timmy’s strong lager which he tried to keep hidden from her. She became more lucid and informative in her conversation, although she rarely finished her sentences. It’s as if she had to have a drink first before she could tell me anything from her past. It wasn’t so much what she was actually saying, it was the fact that she felt she could talk to me so openly. We were real friends that day. As she became very sleepy again I promised I would come back and see her soon.
I watched her as she closed her eyes, which were grey and sunken in her head. I moved the can from under her cheek and left it by her side. I wished I could tell her who I was. It almost seemed cruel not to, for both of us. As I walked away she extended her hand in a last effort for me to stay but I had to leave. Stephen was expecting me.
It was a cold winter’s day towards the end of 1988 when Timmy answered the door, as usual he was in a grumpy mood. He complained he wasn’t feeling well and said, ‘It’s my bleeding chest,’ as he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
I had brought some clothes for Bridget in a carrier bag, which included a thick dressing gown as she always seemed cold despite the fact that the fire was full on. I was worried to ask where she was in case she was back in prison, and Timmy just continued to complain about one thing and another. He shouted, ‘Where’s my cream mac? It’s always hanging on the back of the door and I can’t bleeding go out without it.’
Not having any idea where his mac could possibly be, I asked about Bridget. ‘Ah,’ he shouted, ‘she’s upstairs, the lazy bitch, she’s gone to bed as she said she was cold.’
I hurried upstairs and there was Bridget lying on top of the bed, using Timmy’s dirty cream mac as a blanket. She was fast asleep and I hadn’t the heart to disturb her, so I went downstairs to make Timmy a cup of tea in an attempt to try to cheer him up.
What I saw as I opened the door really made me laugh. There was Timmy sitting in the lounge in his usual chair, with a fluffy pink dressing gown on. It really did look comical! Even now when I think of it I have to smile.
Bridget’s mental state was declining fast, and I knew that I could no longer put off the inevitable. It was a Friday afternoon and I was still calling in to care for my mother and pretending I was there purely on a professional basis. She always addressed me as ‘nurse’. We sometimes talked about Phyllis, and I even got used to talking about myself in the third person.
When I knocked on the door Bridget answered, which took me by surprise. I asked, ‘Where’s Timmy?’ She replied rather raucously, ‘He’s gone into hospital with a bad chest. He’s been under the doctor for ages, but the last time he went they took him into the hospital.’
She gave me the impression she thought he was being inconsiderate by going into hospital. I asked how long he had been there. Now irritated by my interest, her voice rose to a higher pitch as she said resentfully, ‘I don’t know how long he’s been in, so why are you asking me?’
I was standing in the lounge. The door to the staircase was ajar. The cream mac that always hung on a hook was there as usual.
Trying to make light conversation, I said, ‘Well, at least Timmy won’t need his mac while he’s in hospital. It’s really hot in there.’ It was obvious that it was in need of a good wash. It was dirty round the collar, and smelt of cigarettes and greasy food from the fry-ups he often made for himself. Bridget then mumbled something on the lines of, ‘Ah, he looks a right old eejit when he wears it. He thinks he’s the fecking major in it.’ Even though I was feeling apprehensive, I had to smile at her remark.
It was the first time I’d been alone in the house with Bridget for ages, so I seized the opportunity to tell her who I really was. I sat on the same battered chair and peered at my mother’s face in the same way as when I’d first met her.
‘What would you think if you met Phyllis?’ I leant forward to grasp her hand. There was nothing to lose. I decided to come clean and see what reaction I got. I swallowed hard.
‘I’m Phyllis, the daughter you gave away all those years ago. Do you remember – you left me at Father Hudson’s Homes? I didn’t tell you before because I felt it wasn’t the right time.’
She stared for a long time and I was relieved that I’d finally told her the truth. But there was no reaction. Not even a glimmer of recognition. I repeated it. She didn’t reply but continued to stare.
After a short time she started rambling, as she so often did, talking about trivial things that didn’t make any sense. I felt like screaming, but I knew I needed to stay composed.
I was working with patients who had dementia (I still do). I thought, ‘My God, I’ve left it too late.’ I knew there never would be a right moment now. I’d lost my mother and found her, but she’d never know.
Even though Bridget was far removed from the longed-for mother figure I’d always hoped to discover, I still hoped to make a connection with her. It was all the more poignant that she was physically in reach, if not mentally or emotionally. I had cared for my mother from 1981 to 1989 but, as I left her house that afternoon, I kept asking myself, Why did I leave it so long to tell her?
9
The Nursing Home
It was a long time before I saw my mother again. I was devastated that I had left it too long to tell her that I was her daughter, but I was also going through an entirely separate emotional turmoil. I was pregnant when I told my mother who I was, but I lost the child at the end of 1989. I lost another baby in 1990 when I was almost three months pregnant. So I was so happy when, on 22 September 1991, I gave birth to a healthy boy, called Tom.
In those early days of caring for him, I kept thinking about the special bond a mother has with her child, and I decided I had to call again at my mother’s house. I no longer needed to hide behind my disguise as her nurse. The last time I’d visited her I’d told her I was Phyllis, her daughter, but sadly I’d left it too late. She didn’t have the mental capacity to take it in, or understand it, so she would never know me as her daughter.
By now it was February 1992 and my two older children were at school. Tom was with his child-minder, so I had the whole day to myself. As I approached Bridg
et’s house I felt as apprehensive as the first time. There was no sign of life, so I stepped back and looked through the window. All was unusually still and quiet. Not the slightest flicker of curtain from next door.
A pile of refuse bags in the corner by the wall in the front garden was bursting open, spilling stale food. This was blending with an overflowing drain to produce a supply of food for more than the local birdlife. I hammered on the door, but it was obvious that the house had been empty for some time.
I had little time to reflect on my findings as a woman’s voice reverberated from over the road. ‘Nobody’s lived there for ages. The last occupants left it in a terrible state.’
A middle-aged woman walked slowly across the road, with her arms folded.
‘Do you know what happened to the woman who lived here?’ I asked.
‘Ah, do you mean that mad Irish woman who was always drunk?’
‘Yes,’ I said, as she raised her hand to her mouth and clicked her tongue.
‘I think …’ she paused, as if confirming to herself that she was giving me the right information. ‘Yes, I’m almost certain they put her in a nursing home. I know she was in hospital for a long time. She couldn’t manage by herself.’
She then went on to give me directions to the local social services office.
‘I’m sure they should be able to help you,’ she shouted, as I was heading towards the car. Keeping my fingers crossed that she wouldn’t ask me any questions, I thanked her for everything and hurried away.
The social services office was only a short drive. I was pleased to find a car parking space at the back, but I thought to myself, Parking the car is the least of your worries! I realised that I couldn’t pose as my mother’s nurse any longer, and that I didn’t have my uniform to hide behind. I took a deep breath and walked through the swing doors.
Finding Tipperary Mary Page 14