Sins of the Mother (31 page)

The Promise
JANUARY
2015

It was on my most recent trip to Ireland that I decided to confront the last ghosts from my past. It had been a blustery grey day and, for some reason, I couldn’t stop
thinking about all the children who had left their innocence and childhood at the gates of that orphanage. After the Ryan Report came out, the world was shocked at the sheer scale of the abuse in
the orphanages. It was like the Catholic Church had created a whole generation of lost children and now, whenever I returned to Dublin, I felt like reaching out and touching strangers to ask them:
Was it you too? Did they do these things to you?
I examined the faces of the people who passed me in the street, searching for signs that they had known the same pain as me. The odds were
on my side – there were so many of us.

I sat in a steamy, crowded cafe, both hands wrapped round a mug of tea, lost in my thoughts and memories. Philip and I had spent the morning shopping but when the bitter January chill turned my
toes numb, I announced it was time for a tea break. The chattering around me faded into the distance as my mind returned once again to the orphanage. All of a sudden, I snapped back to reality.

‘Can we go to St Grace’s?’ I asked Philip. ‘I want to see what it looks like now.’

He gave me an uncertain ‘okay’ but I assured him that I felt strong enough for the visit.

‘The damage is done,’ I told him. ‘There’s nothing more those people can do to hurt me. It’s over. I just need to see it, that’s all.’

Philip drove me to the place I had been desperate to escape from as a child and, as we passed familiar landmarks, visions flashed up in my mind: here was a little girl running down the road,
holding her brother and sister’s hands, looking back over her shoulder, praying that they weren’t being followed. Now I saw a girl in a pretty white communion dress, arm outstretched to
grasp the hand of a father she had only just met. We were nearly at the gates when I saw another girl with a young couple, crying and begging not to be taken back inside. Already, I felt a lump in
my throat, but I was determined to see this through. You see, a very long time ago I had made a promise to that little girl. I promised that I would find a way to free her.

As we turned off the road to go through the large iron gates, an unexpected sadness swept through my body. The car rolled slowly up the driveway but now, instead of lawns on either side, there
were blocks of modern houses, all fresh red bricks and lacquered black doors. I wondered what happened to the horse. The large grey building at the end was still there and I braced myself as we
drove up towards it. As we got closer, I half expected to see a black-and-white habit glide out of the front door to greet us but I knew that St Grace’s had been closed now for many years.
The scandals had been too much – hundreds of survivors from this place had come forward to give evidence against the nuns and staff. So many lost souls, so many ruined childhoods.

I got out of the car slowly and my eyes swept up and down the building – it seemed exactly as it was all those years ago except now the windows were boarded up, and I was dismayed to see
large padlocks on the front door. I walked towards it but Philip touched my arm.

‘You can’t go in, Mum,’ he said softly. ‘Look! It’s padlocked.’

‘But . . . but I have to go in. There’s something I have to do.’

Philip shook his head. ‘It’s not possible.’

‘Check it, Philip! Please, for me, just check the lock and see if it can be opened.’

He frowned and let out a sigh but he went to the door and checked the padlock, just as I asked. Then he went through the metal chain link by link with his hands to see if there were any breaks
and even tugged at the front doors to see if they would give a little. But nothing – I could see it was useless. The door was firmly locked and suddenly I was overcome with frustration.

‘Damn it!’ I said through gritted teeth.

They’re building houses here, Mum,’ Philip called, pointing to a large glossy billboard advertising a new housing estate for the site. The hand-drawn picture showed an idyllic set of
large houses with happy cartoon people coming and going. He wandered further away, towards the back of the building.

‘The back of it is gone completely,’ he called again. ‘It’s all been pulled down.’

So St Grace’s was gone – in reality, I was just looking at a facade, a crumbling memory of a place that no longer existed. I closed my eyes then, let my chin sink down, and I gave in
to the tears. Hugging myself, my shoulders shaking, I let all the sadness flow out of me. Philip was quickly at my side, putting his arms round me, and we stayed like that for a while.

‘I wanted to go inside . . .’ I started then stopped as the tears overtook me again.

‘I know, I know, Mum,’ he whispered. Now the wind was stronger and it blew an icy chill through me. The tears stung my cheeks.

‘Oh God, it’s freezing,’ I said as I finally pulled myself away and attempted to dry my face. I looked around and, for the first time, I saw there were a few people standing in
the doorways and front gardens of the houses. Even from a distance I could see their eyes were full of sympathy and understanding.

‘I can’t have been the first,’ I whispered to Philip. ‘They must have had lots of visits like this.’

‘Who would want to live here?’ he said. ‘Do you not think it would be too sad to live in these grounds?’

‘People need houses,’ I rebuked him gently. ‘And it’s better they do something positive with this place, something that will help people. I’d hate to think of it
standing here, abandoned forever, like some bloody monument to misery.’

‘I suppose so.’ Philip smiled at me now. The old mum was back. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Are you ready to go home now?’

It has been a long and difficult journey back to health since my last and worst breakdown, the time when I had to go into respite care. Luckily, I have had fantastic support
from an assortment of doctors, nurses, therapists, psychiatrists and counsellors, people who have helped me every step of the way. All my life I tried to lock away the memories of what happened to
me in St Grace’s, to push them down so that I wouldn’t have to face them. But once I gave my evidence, I had no control over them any more. I couldn’t lock them away. My head was
chaos, a complete mess, and I couldn’t focus on anything. Voices and visions were with me all the time and fighting them simply didn’t work any more.

I’d be walking down the street when I’d hear my mother’s voice in my ear,
Things aren’t going to be good for very long, we’re coming to get you.

‘Go away!’ I’d reply out loud, as if talking to a real person. ‘Just let me do my shopping in peace. I don’t want to listen to you.’

We’re going to bring you down. You’re a horrible, evil person . . .

‘I don’t want to hear it! You’re not real!’

I AM REAL!

The more I argued, the louder her voice got so I got louder too. It came to a point where I was having full-blown rows with myself in the street.

But with all the counselling I’ve been given better tools for coping with the voices when they come back, which they still do when I’m having an off day. Now, instead of arguing with
them or trying to deny their reality, I listen to them and then I dismiss them. I’m not running away and hiding any more, I’m choosing to face my fears and tackle them head on.
It’s not always easy but it’s working a lot better than anything else I have tried. I’ve also learned how to meditate and visualize things in a calm, positive way.

I still write – poetry works like a pressure valve for me, it releases these intense emotions in little bursts, taking the stress out of my head and giving me some breathing space. I used
to write in the dark with my music – it was my way of drowning out the voices – but today I write any time of the day or night.

Every Monday, I have two hours of counselling. I see my GP once a month, my psychiatrist once every four months and I have access to a twenty-four-hour crisis line. It is a great comfort that I
can use this service any time and someone will come and see me. It all helps to make me feel safe and supported and to carry on with my life. I’m one of the lucky ones, I know that. I
survived when so many others didn’t.

Best of all, I have Matt. For the last twenty-five years he has been my rock, never leaving me, never denying what I told him. Each time I fell apart, he held me in his arms until I calmed down.
His strength pulled me through. There were times I felt tremendous guilt because I knew that he struggled to keep his head above water, he was lost in my pain, not knowing what to do or who to turn
to for help. But just holding and comforting me was all I needed from him at that time. He couldn’t solve my problems – all he could do was help me through them. And he did.

I have Jennifer’s support too, which is something I never imagined. Most of her life I tried to hide the truth from her, but I see now that the hiding itself became a source of pain to
her. She was lonely and confused and she had no idea why I struggled so much. I just wish there had been another way but I didn’t know how to cope myself. I had spent so long hiding behind
closed doors, I didn’t know how to open them. It took a complete crisis for us to learn how to trust each other. Now, when I’m having a bad day, she sits down next to me and we talk. I
can see she wants to help and it means so much that she wants to be there for me. I feel blessed to have her.

The irony is that Jennifer saved both our lives before she was even born. I am in no doubt whatsoever that, if I hadn’t fallen pregnant with her, I would never have survived another ten
years in Ireland. Nor Matt for that matter. That’s why I had a big party when I reached fifty. It was a miracle to me that I lived so long! I’m so proud of Jen and I know that she has
found her soulmate. If she is quiet and introverted sometimes, I have only myself to blame. It is probably a habit she has picked up from Matt and me. I just hope that she finds a way of dealing
with her problems, even if she doesn’t want to talk to her mum about them.

Despite the difficult time they had growing up, my other children have turned out to be such well-balanced, decent people, and I’m proud of them all. All three of them are excellent
parents and their lives revolve around their kids. My grandchildren are amazing young things – very happy, always smiling and laughing. It’s just the way it should be.

For a long time, I felt that the injustice of what happened to all us survivors was insurmountable. That I would never get over what they did to us or how they protected the perpetrators from
facing up to their crimes. Today, I still get angry about what happened, but I refuse to let it define me. In this way, I’ve started the important process of healing. Writing this book has
been part of that process, because as a child I was denied a voice. It wasn’t just the nuns, it was everyone – our families, doctors, teachers, the Garda, the whole of Irish society.
Nobody would hear a word against them, nobody dare question them. They held all the power while vulnerable children like myself were helpless to defend ourselves.

But they can’t hurt me any more – I refuse to let them. And in writing this book, I am defying their order to stay silent. Because, as a society, we can’t afford to forget the
wrongs that were done in the name of Christianity, we can’t let one part of society become so powerful again that they are free to do whatever they like. But more than that, I wrote this book
as a testimony to those children who were abused and didn’t make it. I still hear them today – at night, when it’s very quiet, I can hear the sound of babies crying. The babies
from the nursery, the ones I couldn’t help.

I am sitting cross-legged on the floor in my bedroom and I am breathing in the way I’ve been taught. In through the nose and out through the mouth, focusing on inhaling
and exhaling slowly and steadily. I close my eyes and turn my mind to the way the air flows into and out of my body. I tune in to myself, listening to my own breathing until it is the only sound I
can hear. I let my mind go blank and still.

There is darkness, a cold hollow darkness. I wait for the pictures to form themselves around me, and then, out of the inky blackness, the shape of the corridor begins to grow around my body.
Hard stone floor, tall ceilings, and walls that accelerate away from me. At the very end, I see the girl on the floor, just where I left her, crying.

The corridor seems longer and darker than ever before but today I won’t leave her. I start to walk towards her now – at first my limbs feel heavy and slow, as if I am a giant in a
storybook, cumbersome and huge, striding forward in slow motion. It takes every ounce of strength to lift each leaden foot and place it in front of the other, but I won’t give up. I have come
back to get her, just as I promised.

The darkness is like a fierce wind that pushes against me, resisting me, refusing to let me past, but I push back and gradually the distance between the girl and me shortens. Now I am closer, I
can see the worn buckles on her shoes, the knots in her hair and the rips in her dress. Still, she hides her face and cries. The wind against me eases, and with every step I feel myself growing in
strength and confidence. My feet are lighter now, my step firmer, and I move more quickly until I am stood right there next to her and she turns her tear-stained face up to me.

‘Here, come with me.’
I reach out and take her hand.
‘This time we can go.’

We start walking back down the corridor towards the door . . .

I say
, ‘It’s time to meet your children and your grandchildren, the people you created . . .’

She is beside me and we are getting closer to the door which radiates light . . .

‘Because this is you now. This is the woman you are today. You’re standing tall. You’ve come through this and no one is going to hurt you again. I love you.’

Together we walk through the open door into the sunlight, and a bright burst of whiteness blinds my vision. I look down again and the girl is gone. She is free.