No One Wants You (12 page)

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 danced 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.

My transfer from Limerick to Belfast had gone smoothly.

I was so lucky with my new employers, Desmond and Anne Woods. They were very kind to me. We had a very good working relationship. I had my duties to attend to and I did my work to the best of my ability. I really enjoyed looking after their children. It made me realise something very important – I loved kids. It made me realise that I really wanted to have kids of my own.

Time passed quickly. I experienced all sorts of new freedoms. I began to learn what it meant to have a social life. I went out for meals in a Chinese restaurant. I was able to bring friends back to the house and cook them dinner for the first time.

I also had my first proper birthday celebration. The first birthday card that I ever received in my life was for my 21st birthday. It may seem a long time to wait, to receive a birthday card, but it had just never happened to me. Early on, I had realised that birthday cards were sent by people to convey good wishes to their friends, to mark or remember that special day when they became part of the human race. I was not surprised that I had never got one.

By this stage I was 20 and still working in Belfast. I was living in Herberton Park, off the Malone Road. On the evenings when I did not have to work, I got involved with a charitable organisation called the Legion of Mary. When I had first arrived in Belfast, I did not know anyone. Through the Legion of Mary I met quite a few people, many of whom remain close friends to this day.

The year was 1968 and was a carefree time in my life. That year it seemed like all my friends in the Legion were having birthdays during the summer. I had been to three or four different 21st birthday parties and enjoyed each one, every time.