No One Wants You Read online

  At one of these Sunday night dances I met a fellow called Michael.

  He asked me to dance, and I said yes. The dance ended and he asked me to stay for a fast dance. I accepted once again. The band played a medley of rock and roll Elvis-type songs. He whisked me up and down the floor. I was exhausted but impressed. He asked me to ‘stay with him’ for the remainder of the night, which I did. He was a superb dancer and he wore his hair in the Elvis style. I really thought that he was lovely.

  After the dance he took me home in his black Morris Minor car. He asked if he could meet me again, on the following Sunday night. He said that I was one of the best dancers that he had ever seen. He said that he would collect me before the dance, next time. I just nodded my head. I was too pleased to speak.

  On the following Sunday evening he called for me at Mrs Cooke’s house. This time he had a motorbike as transport. He told me how to hold on to him, as we were speeding along. I was scared silly trying to get my balance. As we went around corners, the motorbike would lean over, and I used to think that I would surely fall off and be killed. I eventually got used to the technique of ‘lean into the bend, will ya,’ and really enjoyed the thrill of speed.

  Michael used to ride that motorbike very fast. I think he wanted to try to scare me. The high speeds did frighten me at first, but then the thrill of the speed also excited me. I used to urge him on, ever faster, once I got used to it. He did not seem to get as much pleasure, once he realised that I was not as scared as he would have liked. He told me that I had a bit of a tomboy streak in me.

  After a Sunday night dance, we were sitting in the Morris Minor just down the road from Mrs Cooke’s house, kissing. We always kissed in the car after a dance, before I went home. That is all we ever did, just kissed.

  ‘Will you marry me, Celine?’ he asked, while retreating from my lips, after a long, lingering kiss.

  ‘Yes, Michael, I will,’ I said, without pausing for thought.

  ‘Great, I really want us to get married,’ he added.

  ‘Does this mean that we are now engaged?’ I asked gingerly.

  ‘Yes, it surely does,’ he assured me.

  ‘I’ll see you next Sunday so,’ he said, as he leaned across me to open the car door, so I could get out of the car.

  For the next two weeks I told all my friends that I had become engaged.

  ‘You’re up the pole, aren’t ya?’ some of my friends taunted me.

  Being well familiar with the language used, I assured them that it was not the case.

  ‘Well, you’re a fuckin’ eejit so,’ they said in reply.

  But I was officially engaged, as far as anyone was concerned, and that was final. A few of my friends did think that I should tell Sister Bernadette, as I was still technically her ‘case’.

  ‘It is none of her business,’ I replied.

  But a doubt was created in my mind and it niggled me for days.

  After a few days the guilt got the better of me, so I wrote her a letter, informing her of my momentous decision to get married. I described Michael as best I could. It was a short letter, as I did not know too much about him. She wrote back to me by return. She reminded me that she was the contact between my mother and grandmother, and my ‘auntie nuns’, as she referred to them. She invited myself and my fiancé, Michael, to lunch.

  That lunch was to be on May 27, 1967, in the convent, at Mount Trenchard, Foynes, County Limerick, where she was then based. I felt uncomfortable about the entire set-up. We drove there in the Morris Minor, and were treated to a pleasant but uncomfortable convent lunch. Afterwards, Sister Bernadette suggested that I should wait in the chapel, whilst she took Michael for a walk in the convent grounds. She said that she wanted to tell him about my family and background. I now felt extremely uncomfortable.

  That day was to be the end of our engagement.

  They came back from their walk after about an hour. They collected me at the chapel and after the usual pleasantries with Sister Bernadette, we left the convent. He drove about two miles outside the town and pulled the car into the side of the road. He had not looked me in the eye since we met in the chapel. He told me that he would have to break off our engagement.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. I already knew the reason.

  He said that he could not handle what Sister Bernadette had told him. He said that he came from a huge family of thirteen brothers and sisters. He said that he could not tell this large clan that he was engaged to a girl who was illegitimate. Being illegitimate was my terrible shame back then, and here was my greatest fear laid bare for all to see. He also said that when he married he wanted children. Sister Bernadette had told him that I would be unable to have children. She also told him the reason why. He also told me that he had an uncle – a priest, and an aunt – a nun.

  I knew that our engagement was now doomed.

  I could feel the pain of rejection once again. It was beginning to engulf my very being. Why was I being rejected for something that I was not responsible for? If I was good enough in every way, why was I being rejected because of my paternity?

  He drove me home.

  I never saw him again after that day.

  I told Father Bernard all about my troubles in the love and marriage stakes, as they unfolded between Michael and myself, with the aid and assistance of the spectre of Sister Bernadette.

  ‘I think it is time for you to begin your career in nursing, Celine,’ Father Bernard announced one day, as I was serving afternoon tea.

  I blushed heavily, as I was putting the tray down on the bedside table between them. I had never mentioned to Mrs Cooke, at any time, that I harboured any ambitions to be a nurse. In fact, I had never mentioned to anyone, except Father Bernard, that I yearned for a career in nursing. I had felt that it was so far out of my reach, and that I was not acceptable enough socially, to even contemplate nursing as a career. My self-esteem was so low, that I considered myself lucky to be employed as a housemaid.

  I realised as Father Bernard had made the announcement so loudly, especially for the benefit of Mrs Cooke’s hearing, that there was no going back. He had effectively given Mrs Cooke notice of my intention to leave her employment. She was not surprised by the fact that I wanted to be a nurse. She said that she and Father Bernard had discussed the matter. She said that they had plotted and planned between themselves, as to how they would be able to assist me best. I was still in full blush, and extremely embarrassed that somebody else knew about my lofty ambitions, but I was secretly thrilled and excited as well.

  Father Bernard said that they had investigated the possibility of my becoming a trainee nurse in an Irish hospital. He immediately dismissed the possibility. It was a non-runner. He never explained why. I just accepted the fact that it was not to be.

  So another avenue had to be found. He said that he had arranged for me to work as a children’s nurse. My pulse raced. I could hardly contain my excitement. He explained that it would be a good experience for me on my way to becoming a hospital nurse.

  Mrs Cooke asked, ‘Would you be interested, Celine?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ I replied. ‘When would I start? But what about my job here, will you be all right, Mrs Cooke?’ I asked with genuine concern.

  ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Cooke,’ interjected Father Bernard. ‘You just go away and become the best nurse that ever was.’

  ‘Even if the clergy do not care what happens to me,’ Mrs Cooke said, in mock begrudgery, as she stared at Father Bernard. ‘Thank you for your concern, Celine, but you must look out for what is best for yourself. Everything has been arranged,’ she continued, ‘I will take one month’s notice from you today, and next month you will begin work as a children’s nurse for our good friend Desmond Woods, in Belfast.’

  I mumbled a thank you to each of them and probably genuflected to both of them. I was so grateful to them, as well as being excited. As I floated out of the room, I am sure that my feet did not touch the ground. When I got to the kitchen, I danc
ed around, continually chanting, ‘I’m going to be a nurse, I’m going to be a nurse.’

  A yell ‘Celine’ from Mrs Cooke, from the front room, brought me back to reality.

  As I walked over to the bed, Father Bernard handed a ticket to me.

  Mrs Cooke said, ‘Celine, here is an invitation for the William Street Traders’ Exhibition at the Jetland Ballroom, tomorrow. A friend of mine, who has a stand there, gave it to me. I was to give it to Father Bernard but as he is unable to go, you may as well have it. You might enjoy yourself. There will be loads to see there.’

  ‘Thank you, I would love to go to the exhibition,’ I enthused, as I anticipated a day out, with loads of the latest products to see.

  I finished all my duties and chores as fast as I could the next day. One final check that Mrs Cooke was all set up and comfortable for the afternoon, and I was away to the exhibition.

  I knew my way around Limerick City quite well at this stage, and could navigate my way to the newly opened Jetland Ballroom, with my eyes closed, as I had been to so many dances there on Sunday nights. I hopped off the bus close to the ballroom and walked up to the entrance.

  A man at the door said to me, ‘Sorry, young wan, what do you want here?’

  ‘I have been invited,’ I said cockily, and promptly showed him my invitation.

  ‘Oh, in that case, you must be very important,’ he said, as he bowed and opened the door for me to enter.

  The ballroom had a totally different atmosphere on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, than it did with 2500 young people crammed together in it, at a Sunday night dance. It did not seem to be the same place at all. There were very few young people at the exhibition. For one small moment, however, I felt important and carefree, as I walked up and down, perusing the display of goods for sale, on the rows of stands, lined up together, from one end of the hall to the other.

  My enjoyment was short-lived.

  I was not there for five minutes, when I found myself standing not ten paces away from someone that I recognised. I saw a tall, elegant lady standing, slightly bent over, while examining a piece of decorative cut glass, at one of the stands. I recognised her immediately from our previous meeting at the convent. It was my mother.

  I was frozen to the spot. I did not know what to do. Any little feeling of cockiness or confidence that I’d had about me, deserted me.

  Should I turn on my heel and slink away without being seen? Should I sprint away through the crowd, out the front door, and away down the Ennis Road, in either direction, just to get away from her? But I did neither.

  A tightening in my chest and an overwhelming desire for contact with my mother kept me rooted to the spot. My feelings towards my mother came at me in waves.

  I wanted to touch her.

  I wanted to talk to her.

  I wanted to be hugged by her.

  I wanted to tell her that I loved her.

  I wanted her to tell me that she loved me.

  All these emotions flowed over me.

  She had not noticed me yet. This meeting was opportunistic.

  There was no planning this time.

  There was no time to fantasise about what might happen.

  I walked over to her and I put my hand on her gloved forearm, as if to distract her. She was pinned between the wooden counter and me. She could not escape. Before I could say anything, she turned around to meet the person whose touch indicated that someone wished to speak with her. She was smiling. As soon as she saw me, her arm snapped back and her smile became a pair of pursed lips. There was not a grain of humanity evident in their taut, anaemic denial.

  ‘Are you Doreen Clifford?’ I asked quickly, as she prepared to depart.

  She folded her arms as best she could. She drew herself up to her full height. Her chin jutted out as she looked directly away from me, up at the high ceiling of the ballroom.

  ‘No, never was!’ she hissed and pushed me away from her. I stumbled back a step or two. I was shocked beyond belief. I ran to the ladies’ toilet and crashed in through the door. The familiar ladies’ toilet that I had visited so many times, during Sunday night dances, was now empty. I entered a cubicle, locked the door and cried. From my orphanage experiences, I had learned that if I had sunk so low that crying was necessary, it was also important that I should be able to compose myself, equally quickly. I put my experience to work, and tidied myself up. I left the ladies’ toilet, confused yet composed.

  I sat in the main hall on one of the many seats and stared through the passing people, my mind entirely blank, incapable of any rational thought. After a short time had passed, I decided to go to the bar to get a glass of lemonade. There were about twenty people in the bar area. Some of them were sitting down at tables, but most were standing in small groups. Most of the drinkers were men, but about five were women. Two women drinking together at a table included the woman who was responsible for my trip to the ladies’ toilet.

  I went to the bar and ordered a glass of lemonade. I took my glass and positioned myself where I could see the two women at their table. I looked at my mother, but she never allowed her eyes to meet mine. Yet she brazened it out. I think that she was confident that she had persuaded me, her own daughter, that she was not my mother. How could a mother do such a thing to her daughter? How could she think that she had been successful in persuading me that she was not my own mother?

  I was in no doubt that it was my mother, but as she denied it, I still needed absolute proof.

  As I was watching the two ladies, my mother’s companion approached the bar to order a drink. I walked over to where she stood at the bar, ordering the drinks.

  ‘Is your friend’s name, Doreen Clifford?’ I asked politely.

  ‘No,’ she responded, with slow curiosity. ‘No, no it’s not.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘thanks anyway,’ as if I had made a mistaken identification.

  ‘Are you related?’ she enquired vaguely, but slightly intrigued. ‘There is a resemblance.’

  ‘Ah no, I just thought that she might be a cousin,’ I replied.

  I looked over at my half-finished glass of lemonade, and decided to leave the bar. As I headed for the bar door, I passed within two feet of the lady whom I was positive was my mother. As I neared her table, I stared at her. Our eyes met. This time she did not break her gaze away from me as I passed. I smiled at her, as I thought that I detected a smile forming on her lips. As I got closer, her eyes stared at mine, but it was not a friendly smile on her lips. It was a sneer of triumph.

  She had won.

  When I left the bar, I raced the remaining distance to the front door. I broke down in uncontrolled crying when I got outside the ballroom. Once again I spent an afternoon walking, all the way across the city, back to Mrs Cooke’s house, sobbing. I was in a state of uncontrolled grief because of my mother’s rejection. What had an 18-year-old girl, done to deserve this sort of treatment? I was at a loss to know.

  It was to be another 16 years before I would meet her again.

  Four weeks after this encounter, I finally left Limerick.

  SEVEN

  New Horizons

  WHEN FATHER BERNARD had told me that my position as children’s nurse was to be in Belfast, I had to get my first lesson in geography. I had no idea where Belfast was. I had vaguely heard of it, but had no idea where it was situated. Father Bernard came to the rescue with his atlas. He was a well-travelled man and was constantly away on foreign travel. Even then he had visited each of the five continents. By the time I was due to leave for Belfast, I knew well where it was.

  I had nothing but bad memories of Limerick. I had no family ties and I was looking forward to leaving it well behind me.

  When the day for my departure for Belfast did arrive, there was no great fanfare. Everything I possessed fitted into two cardboard shoeboxes. Apart from the clothes that I was wearing, I had two other changes of clothes. I was wearing one pair of shoes and I had one other pair. I rolled everything that I had up tightly
and crammed it into either of the two shoeboxes. Each box was tied individually with string, and then, both boxes were tied together.

  Father Bernard helped me to sort out my money. I had six pounds and 14 shillings as savings. Father Bernard said that he would pay for my train ticket to Kingsbridge Station in Dublin. I would have to pay for a cab to take me from Kingsbridge Station to Amiens Street Station, where I would have to purchase a ticket to Belfast. The cab fare and the ticket to Belfast had to come out of my own six pounds and 14 shillings.

  I learned a valuable lesson from all this financial planning. It made me realise that I would have to be financially independent, if I wanted to do anything or go any place or even to survive on my own. I realised with a shock that if I did not have my own money, I would have had to remain in Limerick, for ever. But, he told me, in order for me to pay for my cab from Grand Central Station in Belfast to the Malone Road, I would need a different currency. Because of this currency difference, Father Bernard presented me with four pound notes and two ten shilling notes in sterling, specially ordered from the Ulster Bank.

  With the equivalent of 11 pounds and 14 shillings in my purse, I set off for Belfast at seven o’clock one summer’s morning. I hugged Mrs Cooke goodbye, as soon as Father Bernard came to collect me. He took me to Limerick train station and bought me my ticket to Dublin. Before he waved goodbye, he said, ‘Our friendship is only beginning, and I want you to write to me as often as you wish.’

  I sat in the carriage and slowly chug-chugged my way to Dublin on a steam train. As the smoke from the engine, smelling of coal, wafted in the open windows every time the train descended down even the slightest incline, or rounded a bend, I did not mind. I kept thinking, ‘At last, I am free, I am starting a new life.’

  I arrived at Kingsbridge Station in Dublin and got a cab to take me to Amiens Street, where I bought my ticket to Belfast. I got my train to Grand Central Station in Belfast. From the station a cab took me to Herberton Park, Malone Road, where I was to be employed as children’s nurse to the three children of Desmond Woods and his wife, Anne.