The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (Original Edition)

by Sixsmith, Martin

  Dubuque, Iowa

  Loras went back to Dubuque. He had found the meeting with his sister upsetting. And he was tormented by the knowledge that he could do nothing to help her. Back in college he asked God for guidance and help, but no solution appeared.

  In early 1955 Loras travelled to Chicago for a conference with bishops from dioceses around the US. On the last day before the participants were due to return home, they gathered for breakfast in the restaurant of the Blackstone Hotel on Michigan Avenue. Bishop Lane was seated next to a monsignor from Washington DC who introduced himself as John O’Grady, secretary of the National Conference of Catholic Charities. Loras knew of O’Grady from his opposition a couple of years earlier to the McCarran–Walter Act, which aimed to restrict immigration quotas. They got chatting and, in the way of these things, swapped stories about their shared Irish heritage. Loras said he believed his own family had come from County Cork in the mid-nineteenth century, a story Monsignor O’Grady was able to trump with the revelation that he had himself been born in Ireland. He was, he said, from County Tipperary and had a sister who was still there, serving as a nun in a place called Roscrea.

  ELEVEN

  Dublin

  There was speculation about Archbishop McQuaid’s sudden change of mind, but Joe Coram just shrugged his shoulders and threw himself into drafting the Adoption Bill. He was named Department of External Affairs lead official for liaison with Health and Social Welfare Minister Jim Ryan and with Gerry Boland at the Justice Department. Joe’s belief that they were engaged on a mission to save Ireland’s children seemed to fire up those he worked with.

  At first the project went well, and Cecil Barrett was assiduous in attending the drafting sessions. But as the bill took shape disagreements arose, not just over the detailed wording of the legislation but over its broad principles too. Barrett and McQuaid became increasingly assertive in defending what they saw as the Church’s sine qua nons, the clauses demanded by God and, on His behalf, by the hierarchy. As the months went by and negotiations dragged on, Joe felt the long hours at the office putting a strain on his life with Maire. When she lamented his constant absence, he said, ‘But think what we can achieve with this – proper protection for our children, an end to the baby trade. Sure it must be worth it, mustn’t it?’

  Maire nodded, but her reply had none of the old laughter in it. ‘You’re always talking about “our children”, Joe. But what about our children? You and me. Will we never have them?’

  Once he knew the Church was cooperating, Eamon de Valera had given his backing to the Adoption Bill and set a deadline to get it passed in the Dáil. The time limit made the job of managing the archbishop particularly sensitive. In a memo to Frank Aiken, Joe warned that Barrett and McQuaid were putting pressure on officials in all three departments, and the Department of Justice now seemed to be ‘working day and night to bring their draft bill into line with the Bishops’ new position’.

  By the time the bill was published in December 1952, hopes of an early end to the transatlantic traffic in Irish babies had taken a battering. Conflicts and compromises had watered down its original intentions. To Joe Coram’s great disappointment, the final text seemed almost to condone the continued export of children from mother-and-baby homes: ‘Section 40, Subsection 1: No person shall remove out of the State a child under seven years of age who is an Irish citizen or cause or permit such removal . . . Subsection 2: This shall not apply to the removal of an illegitimate child by or with the approval of the mother.’ For his part, Archbishop McQuaid now did not see the legislation as a problem. When it came into force in 1953, he told the heads of the Catholic adoption agencies, including Mother Barbara at Sean Ross Abbey in Roscrea, that they need not worry about the Adoption Act because he had ‘been over every single clause in it’. A memo from the Justice Department acknowledged that large sections of text were ‘inserted in the Bill at the suggestion of the Episcopal Committee in a memorandum that was handed to the Minister for Justice by His Grace the Archbishop’.

  The years slipped imperceptibly by and in January 1955 Joe Coram found himself serving his third government – de Valera had been voted out in the middle of 1954, taking Aiken with him; John Costello was back at the helm, though with no ministerial post for the disgraced Noel Browne. Joe was reaching the stage in a civil servant’s career when he had seen a lot of things and, if he were honest, not much of it pleased him any more. He was becoming disillusioned with politics; he was starting to feel disillusioned with life. Maire no longer rushed to meet him at the front door; mealtimes were no longer the occasion for shared humour and understanding.

  To night he had come home in a foul mood. Maire gave him the Evening Mail and Joe read the headline: FIFTY AMERICAN COUPLES BUY IRISH BABIES THROUGH INTERNATIONAL ADOPTION RING. The article quoted a ‘senior police source’ as saying that ‘upwards of 100 illegitimate children have recently passed through bogus and other nursing homes in this country and in no case was the birth recorded. At least half of them, we are convinced, are now in the United States . . . Americans are paying up to $2,000 to obtain children illegally in Dublin.’

  Joe looked at Maire and smiled bitterly.

  ‘Well, my dear, I don’t know why in God’s name they would want to go to all that bother when they can write to any mother superior, hand over a few punts and we’ll issue them with passports for as many kiddies as they want. We’ve had the act for two years now and it’s changed nothing.’

  The Department of External Affairs was still inundated with requests from Church mother-and-baby homes for passports to send Irish children to the USA. Joe told his officials to investigate each one of them and rigorously apply the rules of the Adoption Act. Rita Kenny, head of the Passport Office, shared his views and the two of them had hoped the clause demanding that mothers give their written consent would slow down the exodus. But it was clear from the figures that the sisters were having little trouble getting the girls to sign.

  Maire looked at her husband and saw the difference the years had wrought. He was no longer the naive enthusiast she had fallen for – she could see the disenchantment in his eyes. The absence of children sat heavy in their marriage. She felt Joe blamed her for not giving him the baby he wanted and thought that was terribly unfair and sad. But they had refrained from talking about it for so long – at first for fear of hurting the other, then from feelings of guilt and shame – that they had retreated into their own complex web of thoughts and suspicions. Each felt the other thought badly of them; each had built a tower of self-reproach that neither could now tear down.

  TWELVE

  June 1955;

  Roscrea

  For Philomena Lee the controversy over adoption legislation and the set-to between Ireland’s dual seats of power passed by unnoticed. She and her young son were the prizes in the battle between Church and state but no one bothered to tell Philomena anything had changed. By 1955 she had been in Sean Ross Abbey for three years, friendless and alone, unvisited by her family.

  Anthony had grown into a sturdy toddler with his mother’s blue eyes and jet-black hair. He had learned how to fend for himself in the melee of communal life and how to fight for food in the children’s refectory. He discovered early on that his most potent weapon was his smile. The nursing sisters would put their cheek close to his and say, ‘How about it, little man?’ and Anthony would respond with a beaming face and a warm, wet kiss that set them all laughing.

  He was devoted to little Mary McDonald. So constantly were the two of them together, so affectionate were they to each other that all who saw them were convinced they were brother and sister. When Mary hurt herself, Anthony would comfort her; when something worried her, she would turn to him for help. He sat next to her at mealtimes, shared his food with her and protected her from the bullies who terrorized the nurseries. Philomena and Margaret laughed to see them together and wept when they thought of what lay ahead.

  Anthony was a week short of his third birthday when
Mother Barbara decided the time had come to do something about him.

  It was the height of summer and temperatures in the laundry rooms were close to unbearable. Philomena was nearing the end of her shift, looking forward to dinner and the knitting hour, and amid the hubbub of the room she didn’t quite catch what the laundry supervisor was shouting.

  ‘I said Sister Hildegarde wants you! Are you deaf, girl?’

  Philomena blanched. She had seen Sister Hildegarde from a distance – austere, unapproachable, constantly preoccupied, always busy with papers and files. On occasions the girls would see her arriving and departing in a big black automobile. Everyone knew she dealt with the adoptions.

  Philomena dried her hands and ran to the dormitory. She knew she mustn’t keep the sister waiting, but she desperately wanted to speak to Margaret. She found her at work in the kitchens and grabbed her arm.

  ‘Margaret, they’ve come for me. What’ll I do? We said we wouldn’t give the babbies away, didn’t we? Will you back me up? Tell me what to do!’

  Margaret McDonald gave a cry and threw her arms round her friend.

  ‘Tell them no, Phil! Tell them you won’t give him up. You stand firm and I’ll do the same. Sure they can’t make us give them away, can they?’

  Neither girl knew the answer to the question – no one had told them anything about the adoption laws or their rights – and they sensed the hollowness of their bravado, but at the same time their words gave them strength.

  ‘I’ll do it then. I’ll tell them they can’t have him. And then you’ll do the same. And if they won’t let us keep our babbies, we’ll take them and run away . . . We’ll run away, won’t we, Margaret?’

  Philomena hadn’t been in the mother superior’s study since the week after she gave birth and the rush of memories from that humiliating encounter made her flush with shame. Sister Hildegarde had instructed her to stand and wait until she fetched Mother Barbara, and in the quiet of the study her heart was racing.

  When the two nuns came in they were accompanied by a man Philomena had not seen before – tall, bald-headed, with a black moustache and wearing a black three-piece suit. Sister Hildegarde introduced him as Mr Houlihan from Birr, but he did not offer to shake Philomena’s hand. The room was swimming before her eyes. She felt her courage draining away. If she did not say something now, the game would be up.

  ‘I know what this is all about,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I know what you want and I don’t agree. I want to keep my baby. I won’t let you take him from me.’

  Mother Barbara looked at her with an expression of disgust; Sister Hildegarde told her to be quiet. The proceedings had an air of inevitability about them, an ineluctable process that was grinding towards its dreadful conclusion. Philomena fell silent – she had spent her life doing what the nuns told her to do and a lifetime of submission is not easy to overcome.

  Sister Hildegarde told her to take a seat, told her Mr Houlihan had some important information for her. The man in the dark suit and white shirt with tobacco stains at the cuffs began reading from a sheet of paper that he held up to the light of the window. Philomena tried to concentrate. The reading went on for a long time, but she understood little. The man’s voice was low and monotonous. He seemed bored with what he was reading, as if he had read it a great many times before. Philomena heard the words, ‘according to the provisions of the act’; she heard him mention oaths and signing. And she very clearly heard him say, ‘You must therefore never seek to know what becomes of your child . . . or in any way try to find or contact him.’

  Philomena made to object, but her voice was weak and shook with fear.

  ‘Please, Sister. Please, Reverend Mother, you don’t understand. I love my baby; I’m his mammy and I’m the only one who knows how to look after him. Don’t take him away from me. He would be so sad without me . . .’

  Sister Hildegarde took control of the situation. She was used to this sort of nonsense. ‘Don’t be silly, girl,’ she said. ‘Just get on with it. Your signature goes here by this cross. You’ve no choice in the matter, anyway. Sign the paper and you’ll be able to leave.’

  Philomena was young and frightened; she felt her determination flag under the weight of old habits.

  I, Philomena Lee of Limerick, Ireland, aged 22 years make oath and say: –

  That I am the mother of Anthony Lee who was born to me out of wedlock at Sean Ross Abbey, Roscrea, Co. Tipperary, Ireland, on 5th July 1952.

  That I hereby relinquish full claim forever to my said child Anthony Lee and surrender the said child to Sister Barbara, Superioress of Sean Ross Abbey, Roscrea, Co. Tipperary, Ireland.

  The purpose of this relinquishment is to enable Sister Barbara to make my child available for adoption to any person she considers fit and proper, inside or outside the state.

  That I further undertake never to attempt to see, interfere with or make any claim to the said child at any future time.

  Signed: Philomena Lee

  Philomena Lee

  Subscribed and sworn to by the said Philomena Lee as her free act and deed this 27th day of June 1955.

  Signed: Desmond A. Houlihan

  Notary Public during the pleasure of The Chief Justice for Ireland, Birr, Co. Offaly, Ireland.

  5 July 1955

  There were no toys and no treats for Anthony Lee’s third birthday. Sister Annunciata had left Roscrea earlier in the year, transferred to the order’s headquarters at Homerton in the East End of London, where her love and energy were now serving England’s homeless. Without Annunciata’s support and tormented by the document she had signed, Philomena was at her wits’ end. On the morning of Anthony’s birthday she stared at the bare table by his bed and the single hand-drawn birthday card she and Margaret had made between them, and she burst into tears. She cried the whole morning in the laundry and she cried at lunchtime in the nursery.

  Anthony tried to comfort her. He ran into the field and came back with a bunch of daisies and dandelions. ‘Don’t cry, Mammy,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all right. Don’t cry, Mammy . . . please don’t cry . . .’

  Everyone said Anthony was a good boy, but there was something worrying about his goodness. He seemed always vigilant, always looking for signs of unhappiness in others and always rushing to comfort them. It was as if he felt that by doing so he was staving off some relentless looming disaster.

  That evening Sister Hildegarde appeared at the knitting hour and told Margaret she too must come to see Mother Barbara. She cried and protested, but she too signed.

  THIRTEEN

  Dubuque

  Bishop Loras hesitated before dialling the number. He was aware how sensitive this was, but he had thought the matter through and decided it was an opportunity too good to miss.

  ‘Ferguson 521-4135.’

  Loras smiled when he heard his sister’s voice.

  ‘Hi, Marge. It’s the bishop.’

  ‘Oh hi, Loras. I was just thinking of you . . .’

  As Loras read out Monsignor O’Grady’s letter, he struggled to gauge Marge’s reaction.

  ‘“The abbey has a mother-and-baby home attached to it,”’ he read, ‘“and this has in the past been a good source of children for adoption in the US.”’

  Loras paused, but the line remained silent so he went on with O’Grady’s proposal: ‘“Following our conversation I took the liberty of writing my sister in Roscrea and she has now replied as follows.

  All our children are born out of wedlock of respectable parents and no child is given for adoption unless the background is excellent. We currently have several girls available, including one lovely child with a particularly good background. Her mother was a very superior type of girl from Dublin. She was a shopkeeper and lived at home with her people. The family are very respectable: they sent her and the child to us after she gave birth. It is because of the child’s excellent background that we are anxious to get a good home for her. She is a very gentle, loveable girl, perfectly healthy, with aubur
n hair and dark eyes, and reflects the gentleness and culture of her mother.”’

  Loras paused again and waited for Marjorie to speak.

  When she did not, he asked softly, ‘Marge, are you there?’

  He heard her swallow.‘Yes, Loras, I’m here . . .’

  O’Grady’s letter spelt out the mechanics of the thing and said his sister in Roscrea was recommending an early decision ‘as this is an opportunity that may not present itself again’. It also broached the question of money: ‘There would of course be expenses involved and, although not strictly necessary, we do advise that prospective parents travel to meet their future child in Ireland before completing the transaction. While neither the NCCC nor Sean Ross Abbey charge any fees, it is customary for the adopting party to make a donation to the Sisters of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary, the size of which may be determined in consultation with the Superioress of the Order.’

  FOURTEEN

  Evening, Saturday 6 August 1955; New York

  Marjorie Hess was worried about flying and she was worried about arriving. She was missing Doc and the boys, and she was anxious about the task that lay in wait at her destination. To make matters worse, the weather had been atrocious and the short flight from St Louis was delayed two hours. By the time she landed at La Guardia, the last bus had gone and Marge had had to take a cab to the hotel. New York was a dangerous place, Doc had said, and the cab drivers were crooks. Doc didn’t like spending money, so the eight-dollar fare made her feel guilty.

  In the dingy hotel room Marge wondered why she had agreed to the whole idea. Loras and Mamma weren’t due until tomorrow, so tonight she was on her own. To raise her spirits, she called room service and ordered coffee and cake. She unpacked her nightdress and freshened up. An Italian waiter knocked and brought her order. She looked through the grimy window at the crowds still on the street when everyone in St Louis would long be in bed. She couldn’t sleep. She took out the brown leather travel diary she’d bought specially for her journey; it was a milestone trip and she wanted a record of it, but she couldn’t think what to say. So she inscribed her name and address in a careful, studied hand – ‘Mrs M. Hess, 810 Moundale, Ferguson 21, Mo.’ – then, with her brand new Parker Jotter ballpoint, she began: