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

It was approaching lunch time. The café was filling with academics from the university nearby and arty types in black and horn-rimmed glasses with copies of the Guardian under their arms. We ordered a club sandwich each though I wasn’t particularly hungry.

When the waitress had gone Dan sat back and folded his arms.

“In some ways I count myself lucky, Carmel. Yes, I was trafficked but at least I ended up with my birth father and my uncle. I think about all those poor sods who were never told the truth about their adoption. Imagine waking up when you’re sixty and finding out that the parents whose names are on your birth certificate are not your birth parents like you thought but complete strangers. How fucking awful is that? Their lives must seem like one big lie.”

“I’m sure many loved their adopted parents and didn’t feel cheated but, yes, you’re right. For many it’s identity theft, plain and simple.” I sighed and finished the last of my coffee. “So are you going to look for redress or anything from the Irish authorities? There are organisations in the Irish community here in Manchester that can help with that kind of thing, you know.”

“I’m not sure. It might implicate Tim and I don’t want that. At the end of the day he was a good father.”

Dan looked down and circled his finger on the rim of his coffee cup. “I’ve come across so many online survivors groups in my research. I can’t believe how many of us there are out there. Tens of thousands all around the world. Victims of the Mother and Baby homes, the Magdalene Laundries, the industrial schools. So many fled Ireland.”

I nodded. “Shame put them on a boat. If you ask me the diaspora is full of brave adventurous types who wanted a liberated life away from the oppression of church and family. But there are also a lot of walking wounded among them, people who are shadows of the people they might have been. And the ones you found are the brave ones who’ve spoken out. So many took their secrets to their graves.”

Our sandwiches arrived. I picked at mine. I thought about what Karen said that day at the library, about not building up my sibling in my mind so he or she didn’t disappoint, like her dad had disappointed her. I’d done everything she said not to. My expectations about Dan had been way too high and now I was coming down, disappointed by his lack of warmth. We chatted awkwardly for a while longer then I remembered the gift bag by my feet.

I picked it up and put it on the table. “I almost forgot. This is for you.”

He lifted a fuchsia scarf from the bag.

“She wore it a lot,” I said. “Pink was her favourite colour.”

“Thank you.” He turned it over in his hands like it was made of precious glass then he put it back in the bag. He took out the photo. It was taken at Josie O’Grady’s wedding in ’96, the week after the Manchester bomb. Tess was wearing the suit we’d bought at Marks and Spencer’s and she had a small plaster on her forehead where she’d been injured. Mikey was sixteen, filling out a grey double-breasted jacket and holding up a pint of Guinness.

Dan stared at it without speaking. “She was very beautiful, wasn’t she? And I assume that’s Mikey? God, he looks like Tim.”

“Doesn’t he? You’d have liked him. Everyone did. He was a lovable rogue. Tess adored him. I think she saw him as your replacement.”

Dan continued to look at the picture. “He died so young.”

I put a hand on his arm. “I’m sure you and Archie will be fine. You’re both being monitored. Mikey didn’t know he had HMC. And your little girl? Has she been tested?”

“She’s got the all-clear.”

He moved his arm away and I sat back.

“Thank God.”

“Tess didn’t look much older than that when I met her that time.”

I frowned and leant forwards. “Sorry?”

“When I met her at another fundraiser at the Lowry Hotel. I told you that night at the Irish Club. Don’t you remember?”

I felt myself redden. “I’m sorry. I was very drunk. I can’t remember much about that night at all.”

“You were with her. It was at the Lowry Hotel. We were queuing to get tickets in the foyer. I was standing in front of you and Tess. You were chatting to someone else and when I heard Tess’s accent I turned round and asked her where she was from. We spoke very briefly about Mayo. I’ve gone over and over those few minutes a million times in the past few months.”

I sat back, my hands flopping by my sides. “My God, you met her.”

“I thought you knew.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. His voice was shaky and I could see he was close to tears. Slipping the photo into his pocket and grabbing his coat and scarf, he said he needed to go outside for a smoke.

When he’d gone I sat still, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. I dug hard into my memory for the encounter at the Lowry but I couldn’t remember a thing. I closed my eyes and I imagined it instead. A few accidental minutes of banter after a lifetime of longing. How cruel life could be, tripping us up with such bittersweet moments.

Sometime later I was making my way to the bathroom through the glass corridor that connected the café to the gallery. I was still thinking about their meeting. I stopped halfway and looked out when I spotted Dan below. He was sitting on a bench in the garden. Enclosed by a cloud-shaped hedge, it had been created as a place of healing and the herbs and plants were tended by vulnerable people from local communities. In the summer it was crowded with peonies and poppies. An installation of coloured neon lights