I remember how Enda and I were out at something in Athlone — I must have been about 19 or 20 years old — and we both knew, without saying it, that we would be together for the rest of our lives. He asked me something like, ‘We’ll stay together won’t we?’ and I replied, ‘Oh yeah, yeah.’ And he then said, ‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’ I told him that I did, and I asked, ‘Forever?’ and he said ‘Yes’. I don’t think he actually said the words, ‘will you marry me?’ and there was certainly no going down onto one knee or anything like that.
In those days, there was no such thing as living in sin — absolutely not. Now, you went pretty near to the edge from time to time, but you didn’t take the final step. We are talking about 1950s Ireland, where the worst thing that could happen to a young, unmarried woman was to get pregnant. That really was the very worst thing — worse than failing exams or falling out with your parents or people throwing stones at you! I had sufficient awareness of the facts of life to know that it was very easy to tip into, and while we had a very sexual relationship, we always stopped short. It was constant self-denial, which was very frustrating. But you knew you had to wait until you had been to the church and had the ring firmly on your finger.
Meanwhile I was nearing the end of my time at UCD. In my final year, I studied Old and Middle English texts, such as Beowulf and Chaucer and so on, which were of great interest to me because of my background in Latin. I also loved Wordsworth. There were only 12 in my English class, among them the late Gus Martin, who would later become renowned as author and editor of some key educational texts, including the seminal Soundings poetry anthology for Leaving Cert.
I got an Honours BA, which was regarded as a good degree. When I was preparing for my final exams, a delegation from Newfoundland came over: it was like a hiring fair, and they were looking for people to teach over there. I went for an interview, and lo and behold, I was offered a job as a teacher in Newfoundland. I came home and told my parents that I was going to teach in another country. ‘Well, you certainly are not!’ said my father. Years later, I remember telling that story on RTÉ Radio 1 and afterwards getting a letter from a fella — a real Fine Gaeler, I assume — which simply said, ‘Pity you didn’t go to Newfoundland’!
Anyway, I didn’t take the opportunity. My sister, who was four years older than me and had trained in hotel management, had recently married and was no longer running the Hodson Bay for my father as previously. He told me he had a job for me now and that I could take over from Anne. So I stayed at home and worked in the hotel for a good salary, also helping out my brother Paddy in the haulage business he had just set up. I had Enda in Athlone too of course, and that was all I wanted in my life. And I was delighted to be in my home town again.
Chapter 2
CARPE DIEM
I was 22 and Enda was 24 when we got married. Enda did the traditional thing and spoke to my father. My father was in Dublin on business and Enda and I went there and got the ring and then we met him for lunch in a place called The Bailey, which was a classy pub-cum-hotel. Enda told him, ‘I want to marry Mary’, and luckily my father agreed to it. Naturally, we got married in my local parish church and had the reception in the Hodson Bay Hotel. We went for two weeks’ honeymoon to the Channel Islands, which was an unusual choice in those days. We had a lovely time, and the first morning we opened our door to happen upon another couple from Athlone who were staying only two doors down from us! I still remember that. We hired a car and went everywhere there was to go and did everything there was to do.
When we came home, we lived for a month in the Hodson Bay Hotel, as we were in the process of building the house which was to become our family home, and in which I still live to this day. My father had a couple of sites on the same road and he gave us one as a present, which was fine. We needed a county council loan to build the house, as I wasn’t working at that time, and Enda was earning £10 a week with a wholesaler, Michael Hanley, in Athlone, working as a seller from the vans. He would take orders from the shopkeepers and then deliver to them when all was ready. We borrowed £2,200 from the council, to be paid off at £2 2s a week, which sounds quaint now no doubt, but was a huge amount of money in those days and in fact the maximum you could borrow at the time.
Once we got married, Enda and I wanted a family. My two brothers and sister had each married in their turn and within the year they all had had their first child, with child number two arriving the following year. So I thought it was only a question of getting married and you would have children as a matter of course. However, it isn’t always the case, and it didn’t work out like that for me. It wasn’t because we weren’t trying — we had a very active sexual life — but it just didn’t happen. We used to wonder why, and every month I would think I would get pregnant, but I didn’t. I didn’t start to worry for about two years. We had a great social life and were very much enjoying ourselves. I remember how on Sundays, we would fly out of the house at 10 a.m. and not come back until midnight — we would drive to different towns and eat in hotels, and we thought we were wonderful and had a great life. And we did have a fantastic married life from the very start. I look back on our early years now with great joy. We had no responsibilities whatsoever: imagine — 22 and 24, and no responsibilities at all!
When we were about three years married and there was still no sign of a baby, I decided it was about time to do something about it. I went to my local GP, Dr Jim Keane, and he made an appointment for me to see a man called Éamon De Valera, who was the most eminent gynaecologist in Ireland. I can still remember the day I went to Dublin to see him. I was really quite modern: I went up on the train and then got a taxi. I can vividly remember sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by other women. I went in and told the great man my tale: that I was married and that we had satisfactory sexual relations. He asked me how often. How often? How often not!
Dr de Valera was a lovely man. He did all the examinations, including an internal and told me I would become pregnant soon; that he had no doubt about it. That must have been a standard line of his, but it gave me such great courage and hope. I remember thinking to myself, to his mind no doubt, a healthy 25-year-old girl and 27-year-old fella were sure to get pregnant. But they’re not, and you read about fertility problems more and more now — but it was not publicly discussed then. We are talking about 1960s Ireland so needless to say, we had to keep this to ourselves: it was our secret. Enda had to go and give a semen sample in the Mater, where Dr de Valera had a clinic. Looking back now, I think, wasn’t Enda marvellous to do it? Most guys wouldn’t have done such a thing, especially in those days. I remember how, when Enda got a letter saying that his semen was 100 per cent mobile, he exclaimed, ‘Yippee!’ and was most pleased with himself.
Dr de Valera had given us a thermometer so that we could take my temperature, and when it came to mid-month and my temperature rose, we knew we were supposed to make love then. Making love to order never suited us, however, and Enda used to say ‘Oh God!’ when I would announce to him in the middle of the day that we had to go to bed. It wasn’t as nice because it wasn’t spontaneous. Within six months, however, I found out that I was pregnant and I was very happy. So that ended that trauma in our lives for the time being — but I always think how well we managed it together.
At the start of my pregnancy, we went back to Dr de Valera and followed up on all the advice. I thought my bump would never get bigger: I couldn’t wait for it all to happen, and wanted to be bigger and bigger and bigger. I had my son Feargal in Dublin’s Hatch Street Maternity Home. Dr de Valera was my gynaecologist for the birth: it was the August Bank Holiday Monday and I can still remember him coming in, wearing his tennis shorts. Feargal was born on 3 August 1964. I had a very easy birth — I went in at 3 p.m. and I had him at 5 p.m. — but I do recall screaming during labour and the nurse saying to me, ‘Oh please, you are going to upset the whole nursing home!’ There were no such things as injections or the like: you just had your baby — not like n
ow. On the other hand, I was kept in for ten days after the birth, as if I was sick, while now you are lucky to be allowed to stay two nights at the most!
Feargal was a lovely child, but very cross and crying all the time. I breastfed for a short while — maybe two weeks or so. I did my best, but it just didn’t work out. When I first came home with my beautiful baby, I thought I had it made. I felt I had fulfilled myself. Most women feel the same, I think, because I believe that as a woman, you are programmed to have children — in my opinion that is the way your hormones operate and your body cycles move.
Looking back now, it is clear that I suffered from postnatal depression, but didn’t know what it was, as nobody talked about such things in those days. I remember sitting in the living room with Feargal on my knee and the tears coursing down my face, and Enda coming home and saying, ‘This can’t be right, that you are crying — we have a lovely baby and a nice home’, and so on. Reading about postnatal depression now, it is obvious I had all the typical symptoms. I had longed for a child and I now had a beautiful son — give me an Irish mother who doesn’t want a son — I had everything I wanted, a loving husband, a lovely home, a delightful baby, and I was crying about it! I just felt that I would never get on top of it, of minding him. Gone were our lovely Sundays, and now I had to mind this little baby, who was crying morning, noon and night. I didn’t feel the wealth of love I should have felt for him. But I got out of it very well, fortunately. Enda spoke to Dr Keane, who came to visit me. He referred me to a psychiatrist in Dublin: a nice, helpful man, who said that I had postnatal depression, and that I was a classic case. He gave me medication, which I took and I met him two further times, after which he told me that I had fully recovered. In all, it must have lasted for about four months and thankfully, I have never had any episodes of depression since.
I thought that once you had one child, they would just keep coming: that it was a matter of having babies to order. Particularly since my two brothers and my sister continued to have more children: they were all very fertile. But it didn’t happen with me, and about two years after Feargal was born, I said to Enda, ‘Isn’t it funny there’s no sign of another baby?’
When Feargal was three, we arranged for me to go back to Dr de Valera. I was still a young woman — I was only 30, for God’s sake. The doctor did more examinations and then said that it could be that I might not have any more babies. I think he was a wily old fox and that, from the internal examinations and other tests, he knew more than he was letting on to me. He told me I might not be a very fertile woman and he asked me if we had thought of adoption. Afterwards I went back home to Enda and told him all this, saying that I would like us to adopt. Enda felt the same, so I went back to Dr de Valera and he began to set things in motion for us. It was all to be arranged through the St Patrick’s Adoption Society in Dublin. We told our respective parents and families and were happy to go along with all the initial formalities. My brother Brian’s wife, Ann Lenihan, was particularly supportive during this whole process and came along with me on many of the exploratory visits. She was and has remained a true woman friend to me.
Not very long afterwards — or so it seemed anyway — Dr de Valera contacted me to say that he had a client who was single and pregnant and that the background would suit us well. And then, on 4 September 1968, he rang me and told me that we had a baby son. I was delighted, because I had already been rearing a son and reckoned I would know what to expect. We went to Dr de Valera’s clinic on the appointed day to collect our new son. Feargal, who was four at the time, came with us. There was a nurse there also, as Aengus was just five days old. I think it was because he was so tiny — almost newborn — that I thought of him as my son from the very beginning. He was a beautiful baby — he has remained a very good-looking man — with a head of dark hair and gorgeous, swarthy skin. I just loved him from the minute I held him; so did Enda. As far as Feargal was concerned, we did all the right things without realising we were doing the right things, because he held the new baby as well the first time he met him.
The three of us took Aengus home and Enda’s sister came over and there was lots of fussing over him. That evening we put the cot up in the corner and put Aengus in the cot. He was such a good child. Aengus didn’t cry much as a baby (although he became more spirited as time went by!): it was almost as though he was just happy he had found his mother.
Adopting Aengus was a momentous thing to do. It was unusual enough to adopt in those days when you already had a child: most people who adopted didn’t have children. I realise that I may have made the process sound less complicated here than it was at the time — there were undoubtedly procedures and bureaucracy to be negotiated — but it was nonetheless far simpler then than it is today. Of course Aengus knows all about it: we told him in stages as he was growing up. When he was a young child, I got a book from Barnados, How to Talk about Adoption to your Child. I told Aengus that I had been sick and not able to have another baby in my tummy, but that another mammy who was not sick had the baby for me. They say you should start to introduce a child to the idea early and explain more when they start to ask more questions.
As time went by, however, we never emphasised the issue and it never really came into our lives very much again. Years later, in the early 1980s when Aengus was in his late teens, it came out that you could trace your mother and that you had a right to do so and to make contact and meet, as long as your biological mother was willing. Aengus was in his first year in college, I remember, and he had a very bad bout of glandular fever and was ill for almost 12 months. All he could do was mooch around; he had no energy for anything else. At this time, I remember telling him that he could look for his biological mother if he wanted to — that we would not take it amiss and would understand completely if this is what he wished to do.
I did not even allude to the matter again until some years later, on the eve of Aengus’ wedding to his lovely wife, Lisa. We were in my apartment in Dublin and I said to him, ‘I am sure you have told Lisa about your adoption?’ He replied, ‘Of course, Ma, she knows all that.’ I then asked him if he had ever looked for his birth mother, and he said at once, ‘No Ma, I didn’t. I thought about it, but who could have been as good to me as you and Enda were?!’ And I thought, what a lovely thing to say to me.
I was always very close to my Dad — I suppose it was our shared interest in politics and English literature that was part of the strong bond between us. One evening, when Feargal was about two years old, my father called into our house with a copy of The Irish Times. Pointing out an ad for Maynooth College, he asked me, ‘Do you see this?’ It seemed that the college was opening its doors to external students — up until then, only student priests had been able to study there. The first such course they were offering was the Higher Diploma in Education, which could be completed within one year, and they were inviting applications from mature students who had a BA, B. COMM. or B. SC. AG. ‘Would you be interested in doing an H. DIP.?’ was my father’s next question.
I think he felt guilty that he had truncated my continuing academic career by asking me to work in the hotel. Aside from the teaching possibility in Newfoundland, I had originally wanted to do Law after I got my BA: at that time, once you had graduated, you could do an LLB in one year. ‘But who would mind Feargal?’ I asked him. He offered then and there to cover the costs of taking on someone to look after Feargal, and to put petrol in my car every week for the drive to Maynooth. That night, I talked it over with Enda and he said that I should do it if I wanted to. Enda was a very modern thinker, fortunately for me. I put an ad in the local paper, saying, ‘Person going to Maynooth to do H. Dip. invites others to make a carload’. Three people replied and the four of us went up to Maynooth four nights a week, each of us taking our car in turn. On the journey back each time, we would have our own study seminars, comparing notes and swapping tips. Feargal was just beginning to talk and I can remember him saying, ‘My mammy going to school’. Fortunately, I had been
able to find a very good girl to mind him. I very much enjoyed doing the Diploma in Maynooth College. Years later, they would present me with a ‘Maynooth Made Me’ Award. We were so fortunate in our professor there, Brother O’Sullivan — a brilliant lecturer. Once I had completed my Diploma, I started to teach for a few hours in a local school. I had never really wanted to teach when I was growing up but once I started, I loved it. I would never have gone into public life if I hadn’t done teaching.
When we adopted Aengus, I had to stay at home for a year, as you were not allowed to have any outside work during that time, so that you could give your full attention to the child. After my year out with Aengus, I went back to teaching, this time at St Peter’s Convent. I stayed there for a year and then St Peter’s closed and it was transferred to Summerhill, about two miles from Athlone. This was the time of Donogh O’Malley and the opening up of secondary education, and they were looking for teachers everywhere. When I started at St Peter’s, they were so short-staffed that they were offering to pay for a housekeeper to look after my children, but of course I preferred to pay for my own childcare. As the kids got older and started going to primary school, I began teaching full-time. By this time, Latin wasn’t a compulsory part of the curriculum any longer, and therefore I taught English and History. I relished teaching, particularly the constant interaction with young people, the privilege of being part of their growing-up years and the fun of the staff room.
My father died in 1970. He had served as a TD for Longford–Westmeath from 1965. After my father’s death, I was asked to put forward my name as a candidate, but at the time, I declined. Later in my political career, some people would say that I walked into a seat because of my family connections, but that is incorrect. I did not ‘walk into’ my father’s seat. As I have explained, since very early in my childhood, politics had been part of my life, and this continued to be the case throughout my teenage years and into my twenties and thirties. As a young schoolgirl, I was a dedicated member of the local Macra Fáil, as the youth branch of Fianna Fáil was then known: literally ‘the young men’ of Fianna Fáil. (This would later be given the more politically correct name of ‘Ógra Fianna Fáil’, i.e., ‘young people of Fianna Fáil’). I remember helping out after school and in the holidays, in the company of other young devotees, sticking labels or stamps onto envelopes for posting. Politics had always been part of the family discourse and ambience, and at the time of my father’s death, I was the Fianna Fáil Secretary, the Comhairle Ceantair, for my district. I was very much involved in politics and keen to become even more involved. If my father’s death acted as a catalyst as regards my political career, it was in the sense that it made me even more aware of my desire to be deeply engaged in this area of life and the community. My family and I were Fianna Fáil: I neither knew nor dreamt of any other kind of politics.
Just Mary Page 3