When she got back to university, she needn’t have worried. They still kept seeing each other and the relationship got more serious. Then one day out of the blue they bumped in to each other outside lectures.
“I’m glad I bumped in to you, something’s wrong.” She said.
“What do you mean?” He asked.
“I think I might be pregnant.” She said. The words just hung in the frosty wintry air between them. He gave her a cuddle and stroked her hair. Then he spoke again.
“I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I thought you were on the pill?” he said, looking at her straight between the eyes.
“I was, I mean I used to, but stopped before I came to University. I didn’t think I would meet someone straight away, like you. But I simply can’t have an abortion. I’ve never told anyone this before, but I am adopted. My adoptive mother couldn’t have her own children because she was too old, so she adopted me. She would never agree to an abortion because she is totally against it. I’m really scared.”
Then she told him about what she knew about her real parents, about the story of her adoption, everything that her mother had said to her in her letter to her. She poured her heart out like she’d never poured it out before. She told him she was too frightened to admit to people that she was adopted. Then he asked.
“Why don’t you try and contact your real parents? I could help you.”
“Because it would kill my adoptive mother. I don’t know, she is old now and who knows? I know it sounds awful, but maybe, I just wait until she is gone and then I try and contact her?”
Having met her adoptive mother he was inclined to agree. They made an appointment to see the doctor on campus. She was a nice Chinese lady, who sympathized with their plight. Luckily she had had a false alarm. Despite the trauma of the day, she felt an immense relief at finally telling someone about her demise. She felt a huge weight lifted off her shoulders. It was bad enough being adopted, let alone, not admitting as such.
From then on they had a connection. They should have been studying but it was his last year at University whereas it was her first, so she could do the catching up with her studies later.
She didn’t have any accommodation at the time so they moved in together into a tiny box room on campus. They crammed their studies in when they had to. Then if the sun was shinning they would drive off to Margate and play in the arcades. They even joined the local Casino. They loved those times in the dark, playing the roulette tables, hearing the ball as it dropped and rolled around the wheel. They spent many days losing and winning. They knew it was dangerous, but the thrill of winning became an obsession.
About that time, she inherited some money from her uncle. She needed it as her grant money was running out. She had always wanted a nice car. Anything but a clapped out mini. She hadn’t passed her driving test. She persuaded the family lawyer to sell some shares and buy a car. She never drove the thing. It just sat outside their house, their box room. Like the stereo she had bought, it was something modern, something new, something to be proud of.
As the year drew to a close, She knew that they were going to be parted as it was his last year at university. He was looking for a job as an accountant in the City, so she knew they wouldn’t be far apart, but still, she was going to need to pass her driving licence, if she had any hope of seeing him again. Luckily she passed it that summer and sold her car to buy his old car, which was a more sensible purchase. The first time she drove it down the motorway was in October 1987, the day after the storm to see him.
She had been to one of the college bars the night before and went to bed about midnight. She slept like a log that night as she usually did and awoke the following morning desperate for some orange juice. She jumped in the car and made for the nearest garage. As she drove along she noticed a tree across the road and drove round it. She drove round another one and another one. By the time she got to the garage, she must have mounted the pavement seven times. She realized a catastrophe had happened, when she saw a tree smashed through four vehicles, the fourth one left unscathed. They couldn’t get any television so she went to a friend’s house to listen to what was going on. The M2 was closed and she wanted to know when it was going to open, so that she could drive to London.
“We are just receiving news that the entire country is paralysed as a result of the worst storms this century.” It said on Invicta Radio.
“Rosie, if the motorway opens, are you able to give me and Glen a lift to London?” one of her friends asked.
“I don’t know. You might find it a bit hairy. It will be the first time that I have driven down the motorway, but you can come if you want to.”
They waited for hours for the motorway to open to make the most difficult drive to London in her life. The winds were still 90 miles an hour and it was raining heavily. The guys who came with her had the music of Soul to Soul “Back to Life” on flat out. Every lorry she passed, she had to close her eyes as she thought they were going to topple over.
“Don’t worry Rosie,” they shouted. “You missed that one.”
She arrived in Pimlico a nervous wreck. The journey had taken them four hours, when it should have taken them an hour and a half. They met in the pub and quickly downed two pints.
“Where to now?”
“Let’s go to Stringfellows or the Hippodrome. I’ve got membership.”
They all rolled into a black cab and headed for the West End. The night club was heaving. There were large screens playing the latest music videos. They drank cocktails on the top floor, served by bunny ladies. Then they danced the night away on the dance floor. The lights, the music, all the epitome of the eighties. These were one of the many nights they enjoyed clubbing in London. There was a lot of money sloshing around at the time. Every cocktail bar was heaving with city boys eager to spend their bonuses.
At the end of the evening they would grab a Chinese or a kebab and walk along the Piccadilly, through Green Park to his apartment in Pimlico. It was only tiny, but it was his. On Monday morning he would have to go to work and she would have to go back to university.
By Christmas 1987, her “Husband to be” had to move back to the Midlands to start a business with his father. In retrospect he should have finished his training in London, but his father was a persuasive figure and had been successful before in what he did. She was now fighting for his son’s attention. She could remember when he was called back for his 21st birthday. His birthday was so close to Christmas, she couldn’t be with him. That hurt and the fact that they were going to enjoy a big family Christmas. Christmas was always a lonely affair at her mother’s. He had been promised so much for his 21st, that he ran back to his family. Those promises as it turned out were broken as was the idyllic family life that she was so envious of.
MIRIAM 1988
IRELAND
Cherish every moment
Life is too short
Don’t waste a minute
Enjoy each day
And everyone in it
Tomorrow will come
It could be your last
Make the most of today
Life passes too fast
Annonymous
IT WAS THE “After Show” party. They had had the best night of their lives, showcasing the latest designs her label had seen on television. The music was pounding, the models had been strutting their lean bodies on the catwalks. Miriam was so proud of the team that evening. They had been instrumental in pulling everything together. The atmosphere was electric.
“Miriam the designs were fabulous!”
“When’s your next collection?”
She was bathing in the warmth of their praise that evening. As the models started to undress and pack behind stage, she edged towards her sister, Orla, who was barking out instructions to the girls to tidy away the props and get everything sorted for the next launch.
“Well done sis, we did it”
“No, you did it Miriam, the designs were fantastic!”
>
David popped open a bottle of Champagne and they held out their glasses, as he poured the sweet fizzy liquid into their glasses.
“Well done girls,” he exclaimed. “I knew you could do it.”
David ushered them over to the sofas which were covered in magazines and flowers, a testament to their latest success. The music started to blare from the speakers with music from Simply Red “Money’s too tight to mention”
“So.” David said “Money isn’t too tight to mention now!”
“No.” Miriam responded, frightened to acknowledge her own success, but what a success it had been. Some of the reviews in the latest magazines had likened her designs to John Rocha. The order book was relentless for the latest collection. Soon they would need to expand.
They allowed David to waft off in the direction of his gay companions who had supported them throughout their campaign. They felt like family to them now.
“We don’t want to spoil his fun.” Miriam said.
Her sister slowly nursed her flute of champagne and then asked her directly.
“Sis, if I didn’t know you better, I would think you are hiding something.”
For whatever reason, Miriam momentarily lost grip of her champagne flute and it smashed to the floor. A few people looked round slightly perplexed, but she couldn’t return their gaze. She didn’t want to ruin the rave reviews they were going to get the following morning. Her eyes started to well up with tears.
“Sis, whatever is the matter! You can tell me you know.”
“Not here.”
“Well how about I take you outside?”
They edged outside of the venue, specifically hired for them by David, a large Warehouse in Dublin.
“Not through there sis, the Press will find us.”
So Orla found a small emergency exit, out towards the River Liffey and they sat down on a wall overlooking the Dublin City lights reflecting on the water.
“I found a lump, on my breast today.”
“What do you mean?”
“A huge one, there is no mistaking it. It is pressing against my chest all the time and is excruciatingly painful. Here touch this.”
She guided her sister’s hand to her breast.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Not yet, but after our family history, I don’t hold out much hope, do you?”
“Sis, stop this, they have amazing cures nowadays. You’re only 43. Here have a cigarette, not that I should be offering you one.”
Miriam gladly took it and Orla lit it for her. She could hear the bass of the music behind them, whilst the fog descended on the river. Every intake of the cigarette she took would produce willows of smoke into the night air.
“You know, I’ve known for some time sis.”
“Why didn’t you get it checked out?”
“Because I thought it would go away, not get bigger.”
“Why do you feel the need to keep everything so bastard secret! I thought you’d learnt your lesson on that one Miriam.”
“Maybe that’s it. Maybe that is why I have the cancer, as punishment?”
“You don’t know it’s cancer yet sis. Let’s get it checked out first.”
The following day Miriam went to see an Oncologist in Dublin. They took various CT and PET scans, wheeled her in and out for various blood tests and took her blood pressure. Every test was more invasive, every test closer to the inevitable diagnosis. Finally she got to see Doctor Farmer.
“Miriam, I’m afraid I haven’t got any good news. You have an aggressive cancer in your left breast, which I fear has spread to your lymph system. Had you come to us sooner, I might have been able to treat you, but the fact it has spread to your lymph system means, even if I start chemotherapy on your breasts your immune system is ultimately going to let you down.”
“What are you saying doctor?”
“I’m saying that you are going to be in a lot of pain for some time, with no sight of recovery.”
“You mean there’s no cure?”
“Not yet.”
“Will I have to go into a hospice?”
“No I don’t see a need for that, but you will need heavy duty medication and I’m afraid your left arm will start failing you.”
“But I need my arms for fashion designing.”
“Miriam, this is not a time to carry on working. I suspect the stress of your job has probably brought on this cancer more aggressively. You need to slow down.”
Outside her sister was waiting. She handed her a warm cup of tea with lots of sugar in it.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Not good sis. I’m dying of cancer.”
And with that they hugged each other for a very long time.
“What now?”
“You need to rest.”
“Will I ever find Rosie?”
“I don’t know, but let us hope to God she finds you.”
Cancer is like a weed, it grows faster than the flowers. Miriam could pretty much face things head on, running, but this disease was defeating her. All the chemo in the world wasn’t going to help her on this one. She had achieved so much in a short space of time, and now it was being taken away from her. It was just a shame that she couldn’t impart some of that success to Rosie. She had tried contacting Marjorie at the last known address, but she had moved. She couldn’t blame her. The last thing she wanted, was Miriam harassing her, yet part of her thought that she might establish contact some time, but she never did.
She had hoped that by becoming relatively famous, that her daughter would have noticed her somehow and tried to make contact herself. Maybe she blamed her for giving her up? Who wouldn’t? And now she had cancer. Was this her punishment? Was this where she had gone wrong in life, giving up her baby for adoption?
No amount of explanations could stop the avalanche that was descending on her now. All she could hope for, were that the memories she left behind would be enough for her daughter to cling on to if she ever found her. Realities fade but memories are eternal for those they leave behind. Her love for Rosie never faltered, she would just never have time to find out in her lifetime.
She went to see Father Amon at the local St Paul’s Church in Macroom. It was time to make her confession. The church was serenely quiet when she entered. The wooden pews were lined side by side before the altar. She made her way to the confessional box in the far left corner. Sunlight was streaming through the stained glassed windows, illuminating the gold cross on the altar. She slowly pulled back the red velvet curtain and sat in the cubicle.
“Yes my child?” the Father said
She clung on to her rosary and fiddled nervously with the beads.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
“What is it my child?”
“Years ago, when I was 23 years of age, I had a relationship with a man out of wedlock. I believed it was true love, and although I know it was against the will of the Catholic Church, I bore his child.”
“Go on”
“I couldn’t go through with an abortion, so forgive me Father, I gave my baby away. Ever since, I’ve found it impossible to live with this lie, with myself and my family. And now I have found out I am dying of cancer and all I can think of is that God is punishing me in some way.”
“God works in mysterious ways, my child, but he does not condemn us to death. He commits all those who believe, into eternal life. That is why Jesus was condemned for us.”
“I feel like the devil incarnate, for giving away a life.”
“My child, whatever the Catholic Church may have thought of at the time, you did not give away a life, you gave a child a life, to a family, that would have made her, I’m sure, very happy. You did not abort this child as you could have. Out of love for her, you gave her life and love.”
“But however much I love her, I’m dying now and know that I’ll never be able to see her.”
“A lot can be achieved through the power of prayer. Let us join in the pra
yer of forgiveness.”
And with that they said the Lord’s Prayer.
Our Father, who art in Heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
Now as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us
And lead us not in to temptation
But deliver us from evil
For thine is the kingdom the power and the glory
Forever and ever
Amen
“I can’t say that God can save you from cancer, but he can restore your soul Miriam. Your belief will be stronger than your being.”
As she left the Church, she tugged her coat around her and walked amongst the grave stones. She didn’t want to be buried here amongst the dead. She wanted to be scattered in the ocean in to the Sea of Life. The Catholic Church, had been her enemy, when Rosie was born, forcing her to keep secrets, that she should never have kept. Now she needed the Catholic Church more than ever. She was truly scared now. What was death like? And would she be reunited with her loved ones in the after life? At least she knew she was dying, that life wasn’t suddenly being taken away from her. All she knew was life was fragile, it could be taken away in a heart beat.
Cork Examiner February 1988
“Death of Top Fashion Designer”
“One of the Country’s top fashion designers, Miss Sullivan-Cody of 3a Woods Place, York Street Cork, has died after a long illness.
A daughter of Mrs Bridget Sullivan-Cody and the late Charles Sullivan-Cody, she graduated from St Martin’s Academy of Fashion Design in London, and returned to her native Cork where she opened her own couture business. Miss Sullivan-Cody’s designs of evening, cocktail and daywear soon became nationally known and her splendid work was to be found in the Nation’s top boutiques. Her evening gowns were featured in the Late Late Show’s fashion spectacular. Miss Sullivan-Cody whose father was a former editor of the hoteliers magazine Mine Host, is survived by her mother, her sister Orla and brothers Frederic and Matthew.
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