The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (Original Edition)

by Sixsmith, Martin

  ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat?’ he muttered as he showed them into a small twin room.

  Over a lunch of beef and boiled potatoes, Mike asked the fellow where they would find Sean Ross Abbey.

  ‘Ah, the abbey,’ he growled. ‘That’s only a couple of miles up the road – past the petrol station, over the roundabout and then you’ll see a sign on a gatepost. But it’s no use going today. It’s a high holy day and the nuns’ll be busy with all the prayers and the spastics.’

  ‘What do you mean, the spastics?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Well, the disabled lot,’ the man said, scratching a stubbly chin. ‘The people the nuns look after.’

  ‘So it’s a home for disabled people, is it?’ Mike asked. ‘Don’t they have children there any more?’

  ‘Haven’t had them since 1970,’ the fellow said. ‘These last years it’s all been folk in wheelchairs and shaking from the palsy. But they keep themselves to themselves, the nuns do. You’ll not see them in town at all and they get all their provisions sent up to them. You wouldn’t know they were there if you didn’t know they were there.’

  THIRTEEN

  1977

  They found the place easily enough – a wooden sign in vaguely Celtic lettering confirmed this was indeed Sean Ross Abbey. In the fields around the gatehouse new low-rise institutional housing had sprung up with signposts pointing to Marian House, Lourdes House, Dara House, Edel House. A half-mile up the undulating drive they could see the convent at the top of the hill. The ruins of the ancient monastery rose against the skyline; the windows of the Georgian mansion glinted in the August sun, and to its right a line of square grey concrete buildings with small windows set high in their walls closed off the side of the front courtyard.

  Mike looked at Mary . ‘What do you think? Should we go knock?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘No, Mikey, you heard what the man said: I don’t think we should disturb them when they’re busy. Let’s come back tomorrow.’

  Mike did not argue. Like his sister, he was apprehensive at the thought of revisiting the place. He turned the car around and drove back into Roscrea, where they spent the afternoon visiting the remains of the town’s castle and the evening drinking Guinness in the bar of Grants Hotel.

  Next morning they woke early. When they arrived at the abbey the mist was still hanging over the fields and the place seemed deserted. They saw no one on the drive from the gatehouse up to the convent and when they rang and knocked at the door of the old house nothing stirred. The windows on either side were heavily curtained and too high to look into. Mary tugged at Mike’s sleeve.

  ‘Let’s go, Mikey,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go, shall we? I don’t like this place. Shall we just go back to the hotel?’

  Mike was nervous too, but he had come and was determined to see it through. He had important questions to ask and this was the only place they would ever be answered.

  ‘Come on, let’s go round back.’

  Their footsteps rang on the cobbles of the courtyard, echoing from the walls and sending Mary glancing nervously for signs of life. Like trespassers in a forbidden garden, they walked the length of the building and found a path that led behind it.

  ‘Do you really think we should, Mikey?’Mary asked breathlessly. ‘Don’t you think someone might see us?’

  Mike tightened his grip on her arm.

  ‘What are they going to do? Shoot us or something?’

  They reached the rear of the building and were standing on what had once been a lawn but was overgrown now with tangled weeds. In front of them was a single-storey structure whose French windows opened onto the concrete flags of what to Mike seemed a dimly familiar terrace. Mary hung back but Mike took her hand, led her up to the windows and looked inside. The long narrow nursery was derelict – a couple of broken cots lay by one of the doors, and the windows still bore the strips of adhesive tape that had sealed them shut in winter – but in Mike’s memory the place had sprung into radiant life: in a sudden rush of emotion he felt again the sunshine that had lit his first days on earth, saw again the long high ceilings and polished wooden floors that had been the boundaries of his childhood universe; he saw the two rows of cribs – tall and narrow, then wide and low – and the nuns in white habits who had walked among them, brushing the side of his cot with a soft rustle of cloth; he smelt the lilac floor polish, the long-boiled vegetables and the lingering perfume of incense. In his memory the place was bustling with people, as if the hundreds of babies now scattered to the corners of the earth had been sucked back to where they all began, as if the hundreds of mothers who had suffered and grieved here, the hundreds of nuns who had prayed and died and were buried in the churchyard, as if all the shades of the past had returned from their wanderings and gathered once again in the rooms they once inhabited. He saw them peering through the windows, drinking in the sunlight, a hundred pale faces at the windows, quizzical, lost, staring out at him, looking for answers. And somewhere in the background, in the darkened part of the nursery behind the hosts who jostled at the window, a young woman with jet-black hair and blue eyes, short and slight, little more than a girl, was walking slowly out of sight.

  ‘May I ask what you are looking for?’

  The woman’s voice startled them, shrill in the quiet of the garden. A nun in a black habit and old-fashioned wimple was staring at them with her hands clasped before her. Mary gave a shriek; Mike shook himself.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sister. We knocked at the door but no one answered. I hope we haven’t disturbed you.’

  The nun smiled coldly. She was young but her face was hard.

  ‘You have not. Do you have business at the abbey?’

  Mike hesitated. ‘Yes. Well, yes. We have something we want to ask you . . .’

  The sister smiled her opaque smile.

  ‘Then you had better follow me.’

  Back they went to the big house, up the steps to the front door, into the entrance hall, where the grand staircase was hung with old-fashioned prints of the Virgin displaying her bleeding heart at the pain of losing her son. Two elderly nuns were chatting in a corner.

  The young nun called out to them, ‘Sister Bridget, Sister Rosamond, be off now!’ She ushered Mike and Mary into the high-ceilinged Georgian parlour, bowed slightly and asked them to be seated. ‘I think we had all better introduce ourselves. I am Sister Catherine. And you are . . . ?’

  ‘My name is Michael Hess, and this is my sister Mary. We were both born here, or at least I was born here and Mary was born in Dublin, but her mom came here with her when she was very little and then—’

  Mike realized he was speaking way too fast and needed to slow down. He took a couple of breaths.

  ‘So the purpose of our visit is actually to ask, to ask if you will help us with something – if you will help us find our mothers. Is that possible? Can you give us any help . . . any information?’

  Disconcertingly the nun made no reply but sat and looked at them in silence as Mike stammered on. When he came to a halt, she rose to her feet.

  ‘I shall need to fetch Mother Barbara. Would you be kind enough to wait here a moment?’

  When they were alone, Mike grabbed his sister’s hand.

  ‘I’ve been in this room, Mary. I know I have. I was here with two men and a woman, and the woman was not a nun. I was very little, but I’m sure – I’m sure the woman was my mother!’

  Mary frowned.

  ‘I don’t like this place, Mike. And I don’t like that sister – she gives me the creeps. Did you see the way she ordered those two old nuns to clear off? I think she wanted to keep us away from them.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Mike whispered. ‘I wonder why they don’t want the old nuns speaking to us? Maybe they remember things about us . . .’

  Sister Catherine swept back in, accompanied by another nun who introduced herself as the abbey’s mother superior.

  ‘Welcome to Sean Ross Abbey,’ Mother Barbara said in
a tone that suggested she had been dragged away from more important business. ‘I understand you were born here, and it is of course natural that you wish to see the place. You are welcome to look around the grounds, but I must ask that you do not disturb the tranquillity of our sisters by asking questions. I am at your service for any information you require.’

  Mike thanked her. ‘That is very kind, but actually . . . it’s a little more than just seeing the place, Reverend Mother. We would like your help, if possible, in finding out something about our mothers, in finding out – in fact – what has happened to them and where they are now.’

  Mother Barbara turned her head slightly and looked at him from the corner of her eye.

  ‘Well, that, I’m afraid, is the one thing we cannot help you with.’ Her voice was categorical. ‘We are not at liberty to divulge details about our girls: it simply would not be fair to violate their privacy. The rules are particularly strict.’

  Mike didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but the peremptory tone of Mother Barbara’s rebuff shook him. He heard himself stammering a pathetic protest: ‘But – but – Reverend Mother, you are our only hope. We’ll never find our mothers if you don’t help us.’

  A look of distaste came over Mother Barbara’s face.

  ‘I do not wish to be insensitive, but is it not the case that we found mothers and fathers for you many years ago? I assume from your accents that you were adopted in America, and I assume you have parents there, do you not? Is it not unfair to them to come here looking for someone who gave you up many years ago and whom you have not seen since?’

  Mike and Mary looked at each other. They had discussed the issue of their adoptive parents at great length and they were indeed concerned that searching for their birth mothers might be hurtful to Marge.

  Mike sensed Mary was on the point of letting the matter drop and cut in quickly: ‘Yes, Reverend Mother. You did find us new parents and we are grateful to you. But I find it hard to believe we are barred from finding our birth mothers. I assume the convent has kept records of all the babies who passed through here and that they would include both our names at birth and the new names we were given by our adoptive parents. So why would you not agree, at the very least, to pass on a letter from a child to his mother? Her identity would be protected and her privacy would not be violated.’

  Mike was beginning to sound like a lawyer and slightly regretted the tone he heard himself adopting. Mother Barbara did not like being lectured.

  ‘I am afraid that is certainly not something we could do. Imagine the distress such a letter might cause, not to mention the scope for mistaken identities or even impostors. Without wishing to cast aspersions, how could I even be sure you are who you say you are? I believe you said your name was Michael Hess, but I have no recollection of any baby by that name.’

  Mike felt the argument was slipping away from him. He decided to try another tack: ‘We’ve always been told our mothers abandoned us at birth, but I have strong memories of my own mother being here with me at some stage. Could that be the case, Reverend Mother? Did she stay here and look after me?’

  Mother Barbara was losing patience.

  ‘It is possible some of them were here for a while,’ she said sharply. ‘I cannot be expected to remember every case that has been through our doors. We had hundreds of mothers and babies.’

  Mike sensed the nuns were getting ready to bring the proceedings to a close: he would have to hurry to get his remaining questions in.

  ‘Of course, Reverend Mother, I understand. But I do believe you were personally involved in arranging our adoptions; I think I’ve seen your signature on some of the documents. My sister’s name at birth was Mary McDonald and mine was Anthony Lee. My mother’s name was Philomena Lee.’

  Mother Barbara seemed to start at the mention of Philomena’s name. Mike noticed it and felt sure something had registered with her, so he was all the more surprised by her reply.

  ‘No, Mr Hess, I am sorry to disappoint you, that name means nothing to me. I have no recollection of being involved with your case, or with that of your sister.’

  But Mike was suspicious now, his intuition telling him to push the point.

  ‘Because, Reverend Mother, I have reason to believe my birth mother has been looking for me and that she may have contacted you or even visited you here as part of her search.’

  It was a lawyer’s bluff and it did not work. Mother Barbara had regained her composure and simply rose to her feet as a signal that the interview was over.

  As they turned and pulled away from the house, Mike pointed wordlessly to a white maypole standing on a patch of bright green grass in front of a tall alabaster statue of an angel.

  FOURTEEN

  1977

  When he came back from Ireland, Mike was preoccupied and uncommunicative. When Mark asked him what he had found out, he just mumbled, ‘Not much,’ and lapsed into silence. After a week, he apologized for his sullenness.

  ‘It’s just so disappointing. I really thought we were going to get somewhere, but it was like a stone wall. I’m positive they’re covering something up. But the bummer is I’ve been researching the legal position and under Irish law the nuns are correct: neither adopted children nor their birth mothers have any legal right to obtain information that might lead them to each other. It’s so unfair, and I can’t see any way around it.’

  In the days that followed, Mark watched Mike’s dejection turn, as it always did, to hopelessness and self-loathing. Now all the setbacks and rebuffs seemed to him the result of his own inadequacy: the orphan’s rootless insecurity, his sense of not belonging, left him feeling adrift, helplessly tossed by life’s tempests. These were the moments in which his desire to belong became paramount, when any chance to be part of the established order was sought like a refuge in a storm. NIMLO was part of the establishment – it offered the prospect of acceptance and security – and Mike signed the contract.

  Susan Kavanagh was delighted. Now that Mike was a qualified lawyer and full-time attorney for the firm, he got to pick an assistant to work with him. Naturally he picked Susan and they resumed their old partnership. The legendary Charles Crane, the old white shoe Washington lawyer who had founded NIMLO forty years earlier, had finally shown up again – and now that he was back he seemed to think his position as president gave him the right to commandeer paralegals to do his private research. Mike stood his ground and refused to let Susan be diverted from her proper work – Susan was grateful, but Mike sensed he was in the boss’s bad books.

  If Charles Crane was angry with Mike, it was nothing compared to the way he treated his own son Bill. From their glass cubicles at either end of the NIMLO office, the two of them seemed engaged in a constant war of attrition. Susan told Mike that Bill Crane was adopted and that Charles had always treated him atrociously. Bill was endlessly trying to live up to his father’s unrealistic expectations.

  ‘The problem with Bill Crane,’ she said, ‘is that he’s a man of modest talents who can never be good enough for his father. Charles was one of Washington’s top legal honchos and he obviously hoped Bill would be the same. I feel sorry for the guy, but the office is no place for family warfare.’

  Mike took Susan for a drink after work. Sitting in the bar of the Four Seasons in Georgetown, he told her about his history of adoption and his own problems with his adoptive father. ‘You know, if I’d known Bill was adopted I’d have understood his behaviour a whole lot better,’ he said, nursing his drink. ‘I know exactly what it’s like to feel you’re never going to be good enough. It’s an unhealthy feeling – a terrible feeling.’

  Over a series of cocktails, they talked about their common backgrounds and Irish Catholic inheritance in a conversation that began as intimate and searching but ended up very jovial. By the time they stood up to go home they were in high spirits, but at the cloakroom Susan became serious.

  ‘Listen, Mike. I know we laugh about him, but I think you gotta watch your back wit
h Bill Crane. He’s not a bad guy – he’s doing his best to cope with the job and with his father – but he gets jealous of the other attorneys. I’ve seen him really mad at guys he thinks are shining too bright or impressing old Charles too much. I’m not saying it’s going to happen to you, but you need to know that Bill can be pretty ruthless in the way he treats people.’

  Mike smiled.

  ‘You know what? If he fired me, he’d probably be doing me a favour – I know for a fact I could earn a stack more working for a private law firm.’

  Susan looked at him with exaggerated puppy-dog eyes.

  ‘But you’d never dream of jumping ship and leaving me, right, Mikey?’

  Mike put his arm around her shoulder as they emerged onto the M Street sidewalk.

  ‘You know, Susan, sometimes I think you’re the only thing that keeps me at that place. When I look back, the only reason I joined is because I was so depressed I was ready to grab anyone who would have me. It’s amazing how willing I am to sell out my principles for the flattery of someone who says they want me!’

  Susan laughed but she sensed it was not entirely a joke.

  A week later, Charles Crane sent word that Mr Hess should attend him in his office. Mike was expecting a dressing-down but the old man’s welcome was effusive.

  ‘Mr Hess. Delighted to see you. Do have a cigar.’ Mike smiled and shook his head, trying to repress a shudder at the memory of Doc’s habit.

  ‘No? You don’t mind if I do? Sit down and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.’

  Crane had the easy air of an insider, a man whose life has been lived in the cosy corridors of the establishment. His feet on the desk, his pungent cigar, his elegant suit with its unbuttoned vest and gold watch chain exuded power and confidence.