My Mother's Children: An Irish family secret and the scars it left behind. by Annette Sills (epub e reader .TXT) 📗

“Sure we can,” she said.

“So how come you were working in the home? I thought only nuns worked in those places.”

“They were desperate for the extra help. I was sixteen when I was sent to work there. Our local priest, Father McGrath, knocked on the door of our house and asked my parents if I’d like to train as a nursery nurse in a maternity home near Galway. I was told I’d be looking after sick babies. My parents saw it as a great opportunity and an honour to be asked. I jumped at the chance. The alternative was the boat to Holyhead or the plane to America and I was awful shy and didn’t want to emigrate.”

I soon realised that Kathleen was a great talker and as sharp as a tack. I was so relieved I didn’t have to prise information from her and poke and prod her memory, but I did have to keep her focussed on Tess’s story. She had a tendency to digress.

“When I arrived I was shocked to see so many sick babies, all lined up in cots in the nursery. It didn’t take me long to realise they weren’t sick at all. I soon discovered it was a home for unmarried mothers. I was scandalised.”

“Really?”

“We were very innocent about sex and that kind of thing in those days. I never knew such babies or places existed.” She sucked on her cigarette with thin puckered lips. “It was awful hard. You’d get attached to the babies and then the next thing you knew they were gone.”

“And the women?” I asked tentatively, “Were they treated very badly?”

“Do you want the truth, Carmel?”

I nodded.

“No better than cattle. Your mother and those other poor creatures were put to work doing laundry and cleaning the minute they arrived. No matter how far gone in their confinement. When the babies were born the mothers nursed them until they left but they were only allowed to spend a limited amount of time with them before the adoptive families came to take them away. The poorer mothers had to stay on to pay for their keep. But if the girls’ families had any money, they could pay money for an early release.”

“And Tess?”

“Your father paid up.”

I sighed.

“The nuns told me not to talk to any of the mothers. They said they were fallen women and I was to keep away from them. Like they were infectious or something. It was the silence I found hardest of all. We were all Irishwomen. We love to talk so it was a form of torture. I worked from seven in the morning until eight at night scrubbing floors and offices as well as looking after the babies. But at least I was paid. Those poor girls got nothing but beatings and abuse.”

I pushed an ashtray towards her to catch the mountain of ash about to fall from the end of her cigarette.

“They never did it in front of me, mind. I’d see the bruises the next morning when we arrived at work.”

“So you didn’t live in?”

She shook her head. “I lodged with an elderly couple in the village. Mr and Mrs Kennedy. Pair of auld bastards. They only let me out to go to work at the home and to Mass. It was only afterwards I copped on why. The nuns didn’t want me to mix with people in the village in case I told them what went on behind that big stone wall.”

We both turned at the sound of laughter as two girls of about six or seven ran through the patio area in salmon-pink bridesmaids’ dresses. The bar inside was filling with wedding guests. I watched as the smaller girl tripped over and the older one helped her up and gave her a hug.

I turned back to Kathleen.

“And the older kids?” I asked. “Did you have anything to do with them at all?”

She shook her head. “They were in a separate wing altogether. The nuns kept me well away. But I remember seeing them going to the school in the village in hobnailed boots.”

“And the babies? How were they treated?”

She erupted in a coughing fit. When she’d finished she cleared her throat. It sounded like the thrum of an old engine starting up.

“Sorry about that,” she said, sipping her coffee. “Where was I? The babies. We were told to feed and bathe and clothe the babies but there was no time for anything else. If they cried or were sick it was reported but it might be a while until they were seen to because there were so many of them. It was like conveyor belt. There was no time to hold or play with them and if one of them didn’t take their bottle you were told to carry on feeding and bathing the next one. It all sounds so terrible now. But I just did as I was told. I was awful scared of making a mistake and harming one of them. The nuns would stand around watching. Not doing any work, mind, just watching. They weren’t all bad though. Some of the younger ones took pity on the mothers and let them sneak in and hold their babies once in a while. But I was terrified. You never questioned a nun those days. All I wanted was to please my parents so I went along with it.”

“You were only a young girl too, Kathleen. I understand.” I leant forwards and lowered my voice. “And Tess? How was she was treated in there?”

She swallowed.

“There were good nuns. Sister Martha was the nicest. She was a gentle soul who was kind to the girls. But there was one, Sister Pauline, who had it in for your mother good and proper. Tess was such a beautiful girl. She giggled a lot and reached out and touched you when she was talking to you. She couldn’t help it, it was just the way she was, but the nuns saw her