The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (Original Edition)

by Sixsmith, Martin

  The following morning Joe Coram settled down to write the policy briefing Aiken had demanded from him. He was conscious of the issues at stake and the sensitivities of those involved: the government had allowed the Catholic Church free rein in handling the nation’s illegitimate children, partly because it was ill equipped to deal with the problem itself and partly because Eamon de Valera depended heavily on the support of the archbishop of Dublin, John Charles McQuaid. But Joe still had some of his youthful idealism and his briefing was a chance to get the minister to do something about a national scandal.

  ‘There is a market for children in the USA,’ Joe wrote:

  And among certain Americans Ireland enjoys quite a reputation as a place where one can get children for adoption without much difficulty.

  We have seen over the past few years the emergence of a veritable trade in babies heading west over the Atlantic. There is nothing to stop anyone coming into this country and taking away children for adoption.

  The situation in large part stems from the stance of the Roman Catholic Hierarchy. As you know, the Government has been trying to enact an Adoption Bill to introduce state control over adoption policy. But its efforts have foundered on the opposition of the Hierarchy, who regard the Church’s mother-and-baby homes as a convenient way to make the problem – and the woman – disappear.

  The Church’s financial stake is substantial. The nuns receive payment from the adopting parents, particularly those from the USA, and few checks are made on the suitability of the homes they are sent to. The Jane Russell case is the tip of a rather large iceberg.

  One check that is always made by the Church authorities is on the religious standing of the adopting family. These are the relevant passages from Archbishop McQuaid’s directive:

  ‘The following are the conditions required by His Grace the Archbishop before he allows the adoption of a Catholic child by an American or other foreign family:

  1. The prospective adopting parents must have a written recommendation from the Director of Catholic Charities in the diocese in which they live . . . and from the Priest of their parish.

  2. The prospective adopting parents must submit medical certificates stating . . . that they are not deliberately shirking natural parenthood.

  3. The prospective adopting parents must swear an affidavit to rear the adopted child as a Catholic, and to educate the adopted child during the whole of its schooling in Catholic schools.’

  You will note there is no check on the adopters’ suitability to have the child; the only criterion is religious fidelity. And yet the DoEA has accepted the McQuaid rules as ‘very satisfactory’ and we issue passports to each and every child the Archbishop tells us to. The DoEA has no control; we lack the most basic information, and the Government has been unwilling to confront the Hierarchy on the matter.

  We are now seeing a rampant trade in the buying and selling of Irish babies and although we have kept it relatively secret so far, it would be hard to defend were the full extent of it to be made public.

  SIX

  Roscrea

  Young Anthony Lee suffered no lasting damage from the mauling he had taken at the hands of Sister Annunciata. The swollen purple bruises on his head were the only souvenirs of his savage birth. The doctor who called three days later laughed and called him ‘a sugar-bun loaf baby’. Anthony was left with a strikingly high forehead – a legacy of the forceps, but a portent too of the ferocious intelligence that would mark him out in life and ultimately help decide his destiny.

  His first acquaintance with life was not unhappy. As his mother sweated under the burdens of guilt and steaming laundry, Anthony was surrounded by a universe unexpectedly tender in its treatment of him.

  Even in the convent of Sean Ross Abbey, where the sisters communed with a demanding deity and fallen women laboured to expiate their sins, where frustration, regret and cruelty abounded in equal measures, Anthony luxuriated in tenderness and feminine affection. The sunshine of the nursery and the convent garden lit his world; the long high ceilings of the children’s dormitory provided its reassuring boundaries. Two rows of cribs – tall and narrow for the newborns, wider and sturdier for the older ones – ran the length of his universe. Nuns in white habits walked among them, brushing the side of his cot with the soft rustle of cloth impregnated with incense.

  One wall of the children’s nursery was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the convent grounds, so light poured in from early morning. In the exceptionally bright days of July and August 1952 the French windows were opened and the baby cribs wheeled onto the concrete flags of the terrace, sunlight and fresh air the best protection against TB and rickets. Later, when winter came, the windows would be sealed with adhesive tape and the odour of mild disinfectant would permeate the room. The smells of long-boiled vegetables drifted in from the communal cookhouse that prepared food for nuns and sinners alike.

  The girls were never permitted to leave the abbey and were allowed into the convent grounds only when pressed into gardening duties. Pregnant or otherwise, they scrubbed the floors of the abbey, washed windows and dusted and polished daily. Those who worked on stringing rosaries were given a minimum of sixty decades to complete every day. The taut wire of the beads wore a groove in their fingers that would stay with them for life.

  After the initial lying-in period, babies were taken away to the children’s nursery. But from shared flesh and nine months’ intimacy there stems a mother–child intuition, and whenever Anthony cried in the night nursery, Philomena, on the other side of the convent, woke.

  Sister Annunciata was Philomena’s comfort. They sang together in the choir. They poured the emotions they were forbidden to express into the sacred music. The joy of singing brought the two women close. In snatched quiet moments together, Philomena whispered her hopes for a future with John McInerney, the man she yearned to tell about the wonder of their child. She told Sister Annunciata how much she loved her son and Annunciata hugged her like a sister. In the evening, when the girls were allowed to be with their babies, Annunciata sat with her and played with Anthony. She loved the way she could make him laugh – a gurgling chortle that seemed out of all proportion to his tiny frame – by nuzzling her nose into the pink softness of his tummy. Philomena would lift him up in the air and kiss him on the cheek until he squealed with delight. When he fell asleep, they would take turns putting him into the cot and tucking the blanket round his shoulders. Then they sat and whispered about the day’s events and the other girls in the convent. One evening Philomena told Annunciata she had something to ask her, something that had been worrying her for a while.

  ‘You know, Sister, the girl from Sligo – the fat one with the red hair – do you know what she told me? Well, she said we all must stay here in the abbey and none of us ever gets to keep our babies. Now that’s nonsense isn’t it, Sister? How can anyone ever take a baby from its mammy? And Anthony so beautiful and all, isn’t he?’

  Annunciata looked down and was silent: she had no idea how Philomena could be so naive.

  Philomena tried to lighten the moment. ‘He is beautiful, isn’t he, Sister? And you love him too, sure you do.’

  But Annunciata was not responding and Philomena felt a panic in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Sister, please tell me it’s not true . . .’

  SEVEN

  Drumcondra

  Joe Coram and Frank Aiken were still debating as the black Humber Hawk pulled out of the courtyard of Iveagh House and onto St Stephen’s Green. The audience in Drumcondra had been granted somewhat unwillingly, Joe felt, but he was pleased Frank had insisted. Joe knew his boss was caught between Scylla and Charybdis on this one, and he was subtly trying to steer him onto his own preferred set of rocks.

  ‘Our problem is we’ve let the Church do what they like for too long, Frank. The nuns think those babies are their own property and the poor girls have been so browbeaten into believing they are sinners that they do whatever the nuns say. Half the time, the m
other superior packs the child off without even telling the mother. No consultation, no consent, no goodbyes. At least the Adoption Act would stop kids being sent abroad without the mother’s written agreement. Not much, but it’d be a start.’

  From his corner of the back seat, Frank Aiken said nothing. The car drove slowly along O’Connell Street and north towards Croke Park.

  Joe continued to stoke his boss’s anger: ‘The state’s complicit, Frank. We’ve just presumed the availability and suitability of the mother-and-baby homes as a means of solving the problem. But those homes operate outside our regulation. Public funds keep the system functioning, but the Church alone has authority over it and access to its revenues.’

  Joe could see Aiken was nodding and decided to risk an argument he had previously considered too inflammatory.

  ‘And to be frank, it has always suited us not to upset the hierarchy. It’s cowardice at the root of the thing. If the politicians were to take on McQuaid, who knows what he would tell the priests to put in their sermons? If every priest from Cork to Donegal started preaching against the government, what would that do to its chances of re-election? De Valera knows it well enough – that’s why he’s thick as thieves with them. Whatever you say to McQuaid tonight, the system suits too many people. Every child sent to America is a donation more for the Church and a problem less for the state. Everyone’s got a stake in keeping things the way they are.’

  They were already in Drumcondra and pulling up the tree-lined drive to the archbishop’s palace when Aiken finally grunted, ‘So everyone’s happy except us, is that it? Everyone wins except the poor old Department of External Affairs? And we get pilloried for issuing bloody passports? Well, we’ll see about that.’

  At five to seven – a full twenty-five minutes after the meeting was scheduled to begin – a stocky priest in a smartly pressed soutane opened the door to the antechamber.

  ‘The archbishop will see you now, gentlemen. Follow me, please.’ Father Cecil Barrett, head of the Catholic Social Welfare Bureau and McQuaid’s adviser on family policy, ushered them into the archbishop’s study and motioned them to approach the silhouetted figure sitting behind a large mahogany desk in the corner of the dimly lit room. John Charles McQuaid looked up from the document he was studying and proffered his ring on the fourth finger of a languidly drooping left hand. Frank Aiken stepped forward and kissed it. Much to his own surprise, Joe Coram did likewise.

  McQuaid in the flesh was slight of frame and remarkably diffident. When he rose to join them at the round baize-covered table, his visitors saw the stoop of his shoulders and the sallow skin of his emaciated cheeks. His fifty-seven years seemed to weigh on him. He had been archbishop for twelve years now and had consolidated his stranglehold on power by a skilful courting of the country’s politicians. Eamon de Valera had fallen under his spell to the extent that McQuaid had been invited to vet the Irish constitution before it was made public: the ‘special position of the Catholic Church in the Irish State’, no divorce and no abortion, and the Church’s ‘special responsibility’ for schools and hospitals were all provisions that came from McQuaid’s pen.

  In return, the hierarchy had supported de Valera through thick and thin. Frank Aiken knew there was nothing to be gained from attacking the archbishop.

  ‘I thank you for receiving us, Your Grace,’ he began. ‘I know you are a busy man, but I believe we may have a shared interest in reviewing the recent unfortunate publicity regarding certain aspects of this country’s adoption policy which is potentially detrimental to the standing of both Church and government . . .’

  McQuaid raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I can see, Minister, that the affair is detrimental to your department. I am not sure the standing of the Holy Church is any way diminished by the fact that the DoEA is criticized for its lack of . . . circumspection.’

  Frank Aiken shifted on his seat and glanced at Joe Coram.

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace. We have, as you say, been chastised. I am pleased to report that measures have been taken. Nonetheless, the fact that the Church is responsible for—’

  McQuaid interrupted.

  ‘Minister, if you will allow me. I believe the measures I have taken will go a long way towards resolving the problem you speak of. As soon as those unfortunate reports appeared I spoke privately to the Taoiseach and, following our conversation, the management of Shan -non Airport and the chairman of the Pan Am airline were instructed to close down on any publicity regarding the transport of children to America. I am pleased to say that Father Barrett has received written confirmation that they will respect our request. I trust you agree this is a satisfactory outcome?’

  Aiken grunted and was about to concur, but Joe Coram nudged his ankle.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Aiken said, ‘that is welcome news. Preventing unhelpful press speculation is an important goal. But my department has concerns touching more than just, shall we say, the presentational aspects. As you know, this government has been negotiating to introduce legislation governing the way the adoption system itself is run. My department believes the case of the child Tommy Kavanagh highlights an inherent difficulty in the way children are placed – by the Church authorities – with adoptive parents abroad.’

  McQuaid looked at him steadily and asked in an even, friendly tone, ‘I do not suppose, Minister, that you are proposing changes to the Church’s authority over adoption policy? It does not seem to me that the state, with its own lack of facilities for tackling the orphan problem, is in any position to take the responsibility on itself . . .’

  Aiken seemed uncertain how to proceed. Joe Coram passed him a handwritten note. Frank scanned it and coughed.

  ‘Your Grace. The scale of the orphan problem in our country is large and the efforts of the Catholic Church to cope with it are appreciated. Nonetheless, we believe in the second half of the twentieth century there may be some scope for dealing with this as a social rather than, shall we say, a moral issue. It seems to us there may no longer be such a pressing need for women who conceive out of we d -lock to be cloistered away, and that some element of social support, a welfare programme backed by the state, may allow many of them to keep their child and bring it up in the community. Such a scheme has been introduced in England . . .’

  The Archbishop smiled at his visitors as a parent may smile at an errant child.

  ‘Minister, you underestimate both the size and the nature of the problem. Illegitimacy is in its very essence a moral issue, and the Church would fail in its duty to God if it allowed this to be overlooked. I take it you have read Father Barrett’s book on the subject, which was published last month? Father Barrett . . .’ The Archbishop motioned for his adviser to step forward. ‘Do please present these gentlemen with a copy of your work.’

  Cecil Barrett bowed his head slightly and handed Frank Aiken a slim volume with the words ‘Adoption: the parent, the child, the home’ in blue letters on a pink cover.

  ‘If I may perhaps indicate the relevant passages . . .’ Barrett leaned over and opened the book. ‘You will see there is compelling evidence that women who allow themselves to produce such children are in the vast majority of cases grave sinners with severe moral problems. There is scientific data showing that the offspring of fallen women are fated to become rebels and to suffer from complexes analogous to those of certain invalids. This is scientific evidence. Such offspring are destined for suffering and often for failure. No material or social assistance, such as you propose, would be of any use to such people unless and until the rents in the mother’s spiritual fabric have been repaired. Sinful mothers are unfit to have custody of their own children. Therefore it would be cruelty to both to leave them together.’

  Frank Aiken was not a man who enjoyed being lectured. His response now was brisk.

  ‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your exposition of the hierarchy’s position. I would like to explain why I am reluctant to accept it. For a start, there is the financial side of the thing.’

&n
bsp; Aiken shuffled through a bundle of papers and pulled out Joe’s briefing.

  ‘Your Grace. Here we are. Our figures show there are currently more than 4,000 children in Catholic mother-and-baby homes. When women go to the sisters, they sign away their baby and three years of their life. Are we agreed on that? After the baby is born, they stay there and work for the nuns – laundry work, labouring in the fields, commercial glasshouses, cooking and catering, producing rosary beads – and the Church keeps the profits.’

  Aiken scanned the faces of the clerics.

  ‘And that is in addition to what the state pays you for every single inmate. A sum which currently stands, I believe, at one pound per mother and two shillings and sixpence per child per week. Quite a nice source of income for the Church. Now, the only way a woman can avoid the three years of labour is if her family pay a hundred pounds directly to the mother superior, in which case I believe she can get out a week after the baby is born. But in either event the key provision is that she cannot keep her baby. Am I correct?’