walked across the room towards me. I thought, at last she is going to hug me.
I found it hard to stop crying. My breathing was very irregular and I could not speak a word.
My eyes were trying to say what I felt. ‘If she could hear what I was saying through my eyes, she would respond as any mother in this situation would,’ I thought.
If my mother had thrown her arms around me and said, ‘I love you,’ I would have forgiven her everything, there and then. I would have forgiven her for the 17 years of sexual abuse, pain, torture, starvation and deprivation that I had suffered through.
She stopped in front of me, more than an arm’s length away from me. As she began to speak, I think I realised subconsciously that the physical distance between us represented an emotional chasm.
‘I think that you should change your name by deed poll, to a completely different name, so that nobody will find out who you are. I do not want anybody to realise that I am related to you,’ my mother said to me. ‘I think that it would be better, for all concerned, if you could go and work in America . Nobody would know who you are there. I will never admit that you are my daughter. Here are some presents for you. These are rosary beads and white scapulars. Both of those came from a grand-aunt of yours. She is a nun in America. Oh, I nearly forgot, here is some Roses’ hand cream from your Aunt Rosaleen,’ whom she pointed to across the room, as if in introduction. In her own friendly, yet distant, way, Aunt Rosaleen waved daintily at me.
‘We will be going now, and I wish you well in the future,’ my mother said to me, in final farewell.
She turned away from me.
‘Come, Rosaleen,’ she commanded. ‘Thank you so much, Sister Bernadette,’ she said to the nun, as all three disappeared out of the parlour.
I heard no more conversation.
She was gone! And she had not shed even one tear. She had not even touched me. Sister Bernadette came back into the room. I later found out that my grandmother had gone to school in Laurel Hill, Limerick, with Sister Bernadette.
‘Will you be all right?’ she enquired, as she held the parlour door open for me.
It was obvious that it was time for me to leave. The heavy outside door was already open. She led my slouched shoulders and my heavy heart through it, out into the bright sunlight.
‘Well, goodbye, Celine. If you need me for anything that you think is important, please write to me. You have my address,’ said Sister Bernadette.
With my mother’s speech ringing in my ears, I walked back to Mrs Cooke’s house. At least I must have walked back to the house. I do not remember. I was so traumatised, that the remainder of that afternoon, even now, is a complete blank.
I was up bright and early for my work, the following morning.
SIX
Daring to Dream
FOR THE NEXT six months I remained with Mrs Cooke, working as a housemaid. She had a bad heart and she became progressively weaker. She was unable to do even the slightest physical exercise, without having to rest for a long period afterwards. As her condition worsened, she was unable to climb the stairs so she decided to live downstairs.
She had her bed moved down to the large sitting room. Her doctor and Father Bernard O’Dea seemed to be the only visitors that she received. To her doctor, she was a patient who required his medical services, and their relationship was business-like. But Father Bernard was a special friend. She was well able to socialise with him. She called him Bernard and he called her Peggy. They seemed to have a close friendly relationship.
My duties as a housemaid became less and less formal. Most of my time revolved around Mrs Cooke’s daily needs. I had to cook her light meals, when she felt hungry. I had to prop her up in bed when she slumped down off her pillows. I had to help her go to the bathroom, when she needed it. I had to give her a bed bath, as she was unable to wash herself. But most of the time I was
I found it hard to stop crying. My breathing was very irregular and I could not speak a word.
My eyes were trying to say what I felt. ‘If she could hear what I was saying through my eyes, she would respond as any mother in this situation would,’ I thought.
If my mother had thrown her arms around me and said, ‘I love you,’ I would have forgiven her everything, there and then. I would have forgiven her for the 17 years of sexual abuse, pain, torture, starvation and deprivation that I had suffered through.
She stopped in front of me, more than an arm’s length away from me. As she began to speak, I think I realised subconsciously that the physical distance between us represented an emotional chasm.
‘I think that you should change your name by deed poll, to a completely different name, so that nobody will find out who you are. I do not want anybody to realise that I am related to you,’ my mother said to me. ‘I think that it would be better, for all concerned, if you could go and work in America . Nobody would know who you are there. I will never admit that you are my daughter. Here are some presents for you. These are rosary beads and white scapulars. Both of those came from a grand-aunt of yours. She is a nun in America. Oh, I nearly forgot, here is some Roses’ hand cream from your Aunt Rosaleen,’ whom she pointed to across the room, as if in introduction. In her own friendly, yet distant, way, Aunt Rosaleen waved daintily at me.
‘We will be going now, and I wish you well in the future,’ my mother said to me, in final farewell.
She turned away from me.
‘Come, Rosaleen,’ she commanded. ‘Thank you so much, Sister Bernadette,’ she said to the nun, as all three disappeared out of the parlour.
I heard no more conversation.
She was gone! And she had not shed even one tear. She had not even touched me. Sister Bernadette came back into the room. I later found out that my grandmother had gone to school in Laurel Hill, Limerick, with Sister Bernadette.
‘Will you be all right?’ she enquired, as she held the parlour door open for me.
It was obvious that it was time for me to leave. The heavy outside door was already open. She led my slouched shoulders and my heavy heart through it, out into the bright sunlight.
‘Well, goodbye, Celine. If you need me for anything that you think is important, please write to me. You have my address,’ said Sister Bernadette.
With my mother’s speech ringing in my ears, I walked back to Mrs Cooke’s house. At least I must have walked back to the house. I do not remember. I was so traumatised, that the remainder of that afternoon, even now, is a complete blank.
I was up bright and early for my work, the following morning.
SIX
Daring to Dream
FOR THE NEXT six months I remained with Mrs Cooke, working as a housemaid. She had a bad heart and she became progressively weaker. She was unable to do even the slightest physical exercise, without having to rest for a long period afterwards. As her condition worsened, she was unable to climb the stairs so she decided to live downstairs.
She had her bed moved down to the large sitting room. Her doctor and Father Bernard O’Dea seemed to be the only visitors that she received. To her doctor, she was a patient who required his medical services, and their relationship was business-like. But Father Bernard was a special friend. She was well able to socialise with him. She called him Bernard and he called her Peggy. They seemed to have a close friendly relationship.
My duties as a housemaid became less and less formal. Most of my time revolved around Mrs Cooke’s daily needs. I had to cook her light meals, when she felt hungry. I had to prop her up in bed when she slumped down off her pillows. I had to help her go to the bathroom, when she needed it. I had to give her a bed bath, as she was unable to wash herself. But most of the time I was
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