Sins of the Mother (19 page)

But after the court case was over, I was desperate to make a fresh start and put all the horrors of the last year behind me. So on 15 June 1978, six weeks after the end of the court case, I
married Paul. And I suppose I knew before we even exchanged our vows that something wasn’t right. In my gut I knew I didn’t love him.

It was so quick. Paul came from a very close family – he had four brothers and four sisters. He was in the middle out of that lot. His father was a big drinker but he was lovely, very
charming; his mother didn’t like me though. I think she felt we were rushing into things; it was understandable, we’d only been going out a short while and I didn’t get to know
her properly first.

On my wedding day I got up as usual and cooked breakfast, then I tidied the house up. I felt very calm, very matter-of-fact. My friend Andrew, who worked at the fish market,
brought up some fish that I fried for lunch with some potatoes and vegetables, just like it was a normal day. Then at around 1 p.m. Debbie arrived. By now we were both working in a sewing factory
making leather coats for men. We chatted for a while and then she glanced at her watch.

‘Irene, aren’t you getting ready?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No, what’s the rush? The wedding’s not till two.’

‘It’s one-thirty now. Don’t you think you ought to put your dress on?’

The truth was, I didn’t want to go ahead with it. Something inside me was holding me back and I was afraid.

‘Debbie,’ I whispered. ‘Do us a favour and get us a bottle of vodka.’

‘I thought you weren’t drinking today. You said . . .’

‘Look, never mind what I said. Just go on and don’t tell anybody.’

Later, as I stood in the church facing my groom, wearing the white dress and veil I’d borrowed from a neighbour, I couldn’t help giggling. It all seemed so unlikely
– me, standing here, getting married to this fellow I’d barely known for five minutes!

‘Shush!’ Paul hissed as the priest rebuked me with his eyes. ‘This is serious!’

‘I know,’ I whispered, trying to compose myself. ‘I know. I know. Sorry. Carry on . . .’

They thought it was a fit of nervous laughter, but the truth was, I was drunk. Not falling around drunk, just drunk enough to say my vows and get through the service. A second later, I’d
forgotten what I’d said but it didn’t matter, we were married and that was that. We had a small reception in the pub at the end of the street and then at 9 p.m. we left to go to my
brother Peter’s house for the weekend for our honeymoon. It was in a council estate in Dublin – since we had no money, it was the only place we could get away. My brother and his family
had rented a caravan in Galway for the weekend.

The following day I woke up with a sore head.
Well, that’s it,
I told myself.
You’re married so now you don’t have to live in your mother’s house any longer.
You’re a respectable married lady and things will get better from now on.

14

IRENE

Married Life

‘Hello, you in there,’ I cooed lovingly at my stomach, stroking the smooth curve of my belly. ‘How are you getting along?’

It was December, just six months after our wedding, and I lay in bed, talking softly to the little baby growing inside me. I had fallen pregnant straight away and though I had always feared
having children of my own, terrified that one day somebody would take them away from me, now that I was pregnant I felt wonderful. For the first time in my life, it felt like everything was going
well.

At nineteen years old I was living in a small flat in Dublin city centre with my new husband, who adored me, and we were expecting our first child together, though you’d never know it from
looking at me. Even six months gone I was still skinny as a rake. Just the gentle swell around my hips suggested I was expecting a baby. It was a nice home with a large living room where we’d
put up pink flowered wallpaper and painted the woodwork white. There was a small tiled kitchen, one bedroom and a tiny bathroom. In fact, it was the nicest place I’d ever lived.

Each morning, I laid out Paul’s work clothes on the bed and made him a hearty supper every evening on his return. I no longer had to put up with my mother’s vitriol, her melodramatic
suicide bids or her bad temper – my home was a peaceful place, a sanctuary for us both. Paul was kind and loving to me, he gave me plenty of money for housekeeping and we were even managing
to put some aside for a rainy day. I felt safe and secure.

‘I can’t wait to meet you,’ I grinned as I patted my small bump. ‘I can’t wait to hold you in my arms.’

Oof!
I winced as I felt an unexpected thump from inside. ‘Thanks for that! Next time try kicking a bit lower down. I think you got me lungs there!’

Marriage suited me fine. I felt happy and free with Paul – I didn’t know if it was love, but I was definitely content and that was good enough for now. I wasn’t in any hurry
and I figured my love for him would come in time.

Everything was going fine with the pregnancy until mid-January – and then I started to feel unwell. I had no energy and I felt sick all the time. I prayed that everything
would be okay but then, on 22 January 1979, I went into labour two-and-a-half months early and was rushed into hospital. I didn’t know what was happening – it was all too quick. My baby
was born within hours but all I caught was a brief glimpse of a tiny little body all curled up, before he was whisked away.

‘A little boy!’ the midwife called out, then she ran out the door with him.

‘My son!’ I wept. ‘Where are you taking him?’

‘He has to go in an incubator,’ one of the nurses tried to reassure me. ‘He’s very small and very sick, Irene.’

I didn’t get to see him properly until later that day when they wheeled me into the ward. But the moment I laid eyes on him I fell head over heels in love. I adored everything about him,
from the miniature nails on his toes to the tufts of soft fluffy brown hair on his head. And yet he seemed so frail, so near to death. His little body was curled up, his skin was transparent and
paper thin and he weighed just three pounds. For the first time I felt true love and I thought my heart might explode with the terrifying possibility that I could lose him before even holding him
in my arms.

‘They’ve called the priest.’ Paul stared into the incubator, his face set in a grim mask. I couldn’t tell what he was feeling other than fear and dread. I felt it too
– a terrible gnawing dread that ate away at the pit of my stomach.

‘He’s called Justin,’ I told my husband resolutely. ‘I want his name to be Justin.’

That night the priest came to perform the last rites. I cried the whole way through – I wanted so much to hold my baby, to cuddle him and show him how much he was loved. Lying there, with
all those wires going into him, he looked so helpless and fragile. His skin was translucent, showing up every vein in his body and even the palpitations of his tiny heart.

The doctors were honest, though their words cut me to the bone. They didn’t expect our son to last the night, so I kept vigil by Justin’s incubator, willing him to pull through.
Please don’t die, please don’t die
, I called to him in my heart. Meanwhile it was all I could do to keep the demon at bay. I heard his voice now, the insidious whisper in my
ear:
You don’t deserve this child. You don’t deserve happiness. He’ll die because you’re a bad person, an ugly, worthless piece of shit . . .
Inside me, the battle
raged from midnight till the first light of dawn. The night nurses who came to check on Justin just saw a devoted mother, crying at her child’s bedside. They didn’t see the storm that
raged within.

Amazingly, Justin pulled through that first night and the next night and the one after that. I sat by his bedside the whole time, watching him grow stronger and stronger, and
the desire to hold him intensified with every hour. My arms ached to hold him. I talked to him every day, telling him how much I loved him and how desperate I was to take him home with me. By the
third week I was convinced he was going to make it:
You’re strong
, I told him.
You’re a little fighter. You’re going to come through this and you’re going to be
a fine, healthy young man.

Finally, I was allowed to hold him. I was shaking with excitement when the nurses tenderly placed him in my arms. But the moment his skin touched mine a peacefulness settled on my soul. I looked
down at his crumpled face and breathed in his milky innocence, and then I cried. For the first time in my life they weren’t tears of sadness, but of joy – I knew at that moment that I
loved this child more than life itself.
I’ll never let anyone take you away,
I promised my son right then and there.
I’ll never let anyone hurt you.

When they let me take Justin home, I was overjoyed. Motherhood came naturally to me. I adored Justin so much I never wanted to put him down. Though Justin wasn’t an easy
baby – he cried from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to sleep – I didn’t mind one bit. I was sleep deprived and exhausted all the time but I could never get angry with
him. If he cried, I knew it was for a reason so I picked him up and cuddled him. Paul went to work every day as usual and I spent my time with Justin. I loved having him all to myself. Occasionally
I took him to my mother’s but more out of duty than anything else. After the first few visits I realized she would never love my son the way I wanted her to and I got sick of watching her
bored indifference towards my child.

Before long, I fell pregnant again. But I was weak and my body had not fully recovered yet. I was still painfully thin and my hair had fallen out in places, leaving me with bald patches. Three
months into the pregnancy I became ill with bronchitis and pneumonia. The doctor wanted to admit me to hospital but I couldn’t bear to leave Justin so I struggled on at home and, on 15 August
1980, Philip was born. Philip went to full term but he was still only four pounds and I didn’t manage to bring him home to meet his older brother until he was two weeks old. Now I was at home
with the two boys to look after, still exhausted and weak, but feeling very contented and fulfilled. I had two beautiful sons and a loving husband.

Three weeks later, everything changed.

Paul had gone out with his friend at around midday one Saturday, saying he would be back for his dinner. I didn’t mind – I was quite happy for him to go out and
enjoy himself. But by 6 p.m. there was no sign of him. It was unusual that Paul wasn’t home when he said he’d be home, but not too worrying. After all, the casserole I’d made for
supper could just be heated up when he came back. But with every hour that passed, I began to get an uneasy sense of foreboding. At 10.30 p.m. I gave Philip his last feed for the night and settled
him in his cot, then I sat by the window and fretted. Paul was never usually out so late. As 11.30 p.m. approached, I put a light under the casserole to warm it through. Then at midnight the door
banged open and Paul stumbled inside. He was so drunk he could barely stand.

‘Give me my dinner, woman!’ he shouted when he saw me rising out of the armchair by the fire. He had never spoken to me like that before but I didn’t argue, I just served the
casserole into a bowl and put it down on the table in front of him. He stared at the dish with disgust – then picked up the bowl and threw it in the fireplace.

‘What the fuck do you call that?’ he yelled.

I just stood there, dumbstruck.
Who is this man?
It seemed like my husband had walked out that day and a completely different person had walked back in.

‘I’m not eating that crap. I’m sick of you. What are you standing there like that for?’

And with that, his fist came flying through the air and caught me just below my left eye. Then he hit me again, on my forehead. I reeled, staggering backwards into the wooden kitchen dresser.
There I stayed, too shocked to move.

Paul calmly walked out of the kitchen and into the bedroom where he immediately fell fast asleep. I remained at the dresser for a while, my chest heaving, my hand at my face, wondering what had
just happened. And why? I simply couldn’t understand it. Thank God our sons had been asleep! Half an hour later there came a knock on the door – Paul’s friend stood in the
doorway, pie-eyed, arms circling the waists of two giggling teenage girls.

‘Is Paul around?’ he slurred, smirking at me.

‘No, he’s asleep,’ I answered coldly then slammed the door shut.
What the hell is going on?
I wanted to weep but I was too shocked. And then I caught sight of my face
in the mirror – one eye was all swollen and black and there was a big lump on my forehead. I returned to the armchair by the fire and sat there, wondering what on earth I should do. Just
twelve months earlier I might have had the strength to leave him on the spot but right at this moment, five weeks after giving birth and still weak from the pneumonia, I couldn’t face it. I
felt ashamed and humiliated.

The next morning Paul got up, dressed and left the house without saying a word to me. Meanwhile, Justin wasn’t well; he had woken up full of cold. So I got up, I cooked,
cleaned and took care of my babies. They were my priority now and nothing else mattered. When Agatha called on us, she asked what had happened and I couldn’t lie.