The House Children

by Heidi Daniele

  On Christmas Day we attended noon mass and Father John came back with us for supper. After the meal, he returned to the church and Carolyn retreated to her room. I helped Miss O’Toole clean up and then she napped in her rocker. I sat in my room, thinking about Sadie and Mary and all the others living behind the Mercy Convent. I’d have given anything to be with them. I was sure the Hanleys were having a grand time, too.

  I went to bed early, trying to end the day as soon as possible. Instead of sleeping, I found myself reminiscing about Christmases at the industrial school. Sister Angela always did her best to turn the rec room into a wonderland. We were so grateful when Sister Constance gave us token gifts donated by the townspeople. Our meal prepared by Sister Virginia was thought to be a feast. We danced and sang as if there wasn’t a care in the world. Those girls and the nuns were my real family and I missed them. Feelings of loneliness grew inside of me and the tears welled in my eyes and then trickled down my cheeks.

  The New Year arrived and I felt the heavy weight of depression begin to settle on me. Without the McNamaras to visit, I’d become even more lonely. To pass the time, I’d wander over to Baggot Street. Sometimes I’d walk past the Mercy Convent several times, hoping to bump into Mary or Sadie.

  I was thrilled the day I saw two girls dressed in hospital uniforms appear from a side alleyway. I ran over toward them and called out to get their attention.

  They stopped and turned around. One of the girls was Ellen. When I hugged her tightly, I felt her pulling back.

  “Ellen, it’s so good ta see ya!”

  She smiled but didn’t say anything. I felt the two girls eyeing me. I knew it was my clothing they were looking at.

  “Did Sadie tell ya I saw her?” I asked.

  “She did.”

  “I’d love ta see Mary. Would ya mind running back inside and askin her ta come out?”

  “Mary’s gone,” said Ellen.

  “Gone?”

  “Some relation sent fer her and Theresa.”

  “They went ta America,” the other girl chimed in.

  “America!”

  “Yes, they left on a ship fer Boston last week.”

  I stood there speechless.

  “We better go,” said Ellen, “or we’ll be late. Bye, Peg.”

  I stood in front of the convent, unable to move. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream. I suddenly felt very weak and barely had the strength to walk.

  Miss O’Toole jumped from her chair when I entered the room.

  “Peg, is something wrong? You don’t look well.”

  I couldn’t find the words to explain my grief. She might think I was ungrateful if I said I felt stuck in Dublin. My feelings of envy toward the other house children living together couldn’t be explained. I would appear to be churlish if I told her I begrudged my friend’s opportunity to go to America and start a new life. I would be ashamed to express the pity I felt for myself. She took me to my room and helped me into bed. Miss O’Toole returned several times during the evening to check on me.

  The following morning, I couldn’t get up for mass. I slept most of the day. When I was awake, I stared up at the ceiling. Miss O’Toole brought me tea and biscuits. I had no appetite. On Monday, I didn’t have the strength to go into Kerrigan’s. I felt worse with each passing day.

  For two weeks I laid in bed, lonely, sad and depressed. Miss O’Toole nervously popped in and out of my room.

  Mother Bernard came to check on me the Saturday I didn’t show up to meet her. It was difficult for me to focus on her words as she spoke to me. I felt her cool hand touch my forehead. I tried to speak but instead of words, a river of tears flowed. She sat at my bedside and looked at me with concern.

  “Please, Peg, tell me what’s ailing you.”

  “I can’t stay here,” I replied in a low weak voice.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t belong here. I don’t fit in.”

  “Sure you do. You’ve earned this.”

  “It’s not that I’m ungrateful. It’s just I can’t be myself. I have ta lie about who I am and where I came from. I feel so ashamed telling ya how unhappy I am.”

  Mother Bernard didn’t respond, but her expression was one of compassion. She helped me out of bed, dressed me, and took me over to Saint Vincent’s Hospital. Mother Bernard stayed by my side while a doctor examined me. I was admitted and placed in the emergency ward.

  “Peg, you’re in good hands here,” said Mother Bernard. “The doctor will run some tests. You need to regain your strength. I will check up on you.”

  “Thank you, Mother Bernard. You’ve always been so kind to me.”

  I was prodded and poked for several days. I heard the word “consumption” frequently muttered by the nurses. They tested me for TB and polio. All my results turned out to be inconclusive. I overheard a nurse tell the doctor, “We need the bed, but that nun insists we keep her here.” The following day I was diagnosed with a nervous collapse. The doctor prescribed a supervised recuperation. Mother Bernard arranged for me to be transferred to the Linden Convalescent Home in Blackrock, a Dublin suburb.

  The Linden Home was run by the Sisters of Charity. I was placed in the women’s ward. Most of the patients were recovering from TB. The nuns made hearty meals and brought us to daily mass in their chapel. They tried to encourage us to take walks on the grounds. I had very little appetite and no strength. I spent most of the time in bed, dreading my inevitable return to Dublin.

  I thought I was dreaming when I woke up. There was Norah Hanley sitting at my bedside, Dan standing behind her. She was upset, her eyes red, her face pale.

  “How’d ya know I was here?” I asked.

  “Mother Bernard contacted me.”

  Norah helped me sit up in the bed and she tried to feed me.

  “Ya’ve gotta eat, Peg, or else ya won’t get out of here.”

  “I don’t want ta go back ta Dublin.”

  “Ya’ve got a good position there.”

  “I can’t stay in Dublin,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I can’t stay in Ireland!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothin here fer me, not even you!”

  Norah pulled back. My words jolted her.

  “Peg, don’t ya think yer overreacting!”

  I glared at her. It took all my strength to speak.

  “You’ve no idea what it’s like fer me. You’ve got yer life in Galway. I’ve got ta hide who I am and where I’m from. I can’t be myself without being judged.”

  Norah reached to rub my arm. She wanted to comfort me, but I pulled back.

  “Mother, can’t ya see! I live in constant fear of being found out. Of being judged as an illegitimate!”

  Norah looked around nervously.

  I lowered my voice and continued. “Even in Galway, no one knows who I am. No one knows I’m yer daughter. Do ya have any idea what that feels like fer me?”

  Norah began to cry. Dan placed his hands on her shoulders to comfort her. It took a few moments before she could speak.

  “Peg, I did the best I could. I tried ta stay in yer life. Ya’ve no idea the shame I have over this.”

  “Yer shame is behind ya. Anywhere I go in Ireland, my shame follows me. I am illegitimate. I am a house child. People look down at that.”

  “I wish things were different.”

  “But they aren’t!”

  “Peg, I can’t change the past. There is nothing I can do.”

  “There is something you can do. Help me get to America where they don’t even know or care about these things. I can start a new life there.”

  Norah didn’t respond. She looked up at Dan, but he said nothing.

  “Mother, if ya really care about me, if ya love me, help me leave Ireland.”

  I reached for her hand and held it tightly, with all the strength I had.

  “Please, Mother, let me go,” I begged.

  Norah looked up to Dan again. This time he nodded his h
ead and said, “Norah, she’s right. Ya’ve gotta let her go.”

  Norah slowly turned back toward me until her eyes met mine. She took hold of my hand and said, “I’ll write ta Hannah.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  T hree weeks passed and I was still lying in bed at the Linden Home. My health was improving, but my spirit remained low. I’d no visitors since Norah and Dan were here. She’d promised to contact Hannah, but I was beginning to doubt her.

  It was just before noon when the nurse handed me an envelope. It was from Norah. I tried not to get my hopes up as I removed the letter.

  February 13,1953

  Dear Peg,

  It was devastating for me to see you so frail. I hope you’ve been eating to regain your strength. As promised, I wrote to Hannah. She gladly agrees to do the paperwork for sponsoring your immigration into the US. It appears the process is lengthy; there is much to be done on this end as well. I have enclosed the list she sent.

  Mother Bernard suggests you stay with us after your discharge from the Linden Home.

  Miss O’Toole has taken in a new boarder and is forwarding your belongings to me.

  I know this is what you want and I will do my best to help you. I hope your expectations are not unrealistic.

  Love, Mother

  Immigration Requirements:

  Passport

  Sponsorship Documents

  Statement of criminal record from police department

  Statement of marital status from Parish Priest

  Health clearance from US Embassy Physician

  Going to America had been a dream for me. I felt stunned that it was actually about to happen. The combination of excitement and fear of the unknown overwhelmed me. I started to cry and a nurse came over to check on me. It took some time for me to settle down as I digested the news. After regaining my composure, I reread the letter. This time, I took note of Norah’s last line, which made me feel somewhat apprehensive. It angered me. Her words caused me to doubt my own desires. I lay in bed reflecting on my intentions. I wanted to live where I wouldn’t have to be fearful of being judged. Americans wouldn’t judge me. Would they?

  Despite the underlying feelings Norah invoked within me, my recovery rate rapidly accelerated.

  I arrived in Galway during the first week of March. I was thrilled to see Ryan and Rachel and felt welcomed by them. During the day I helped Norah around the house, and after supper I’d sit with the children and review their school lessons. The first week passed with ease and great comfort. I felt like a normal part of their household, until Sunday evening. Dan had returned from the pub a little late for supper. We were already seated at the table.

  “How’s yer papers comin along?” he asked me.

  I’d been busy settling in and helping Norah. I hadn’t done anything.

  “Papers take time,” Norah interjected.

  “Have ya heard from Hannah?” Dan asked.

  “We’re waiting,” said Norah. “It’s a process.”

  Dan turned to me.

  “Have ya got yer passport?”

  “No, not yet,” I responded nervously.

  “Well, ya can get the application at the post office,” he advised me. “It wouldn’t hurt ta get started on yer end.”

  “Thank you, I’ll do that tomorrow.”

  I wasn’t sure if Dan was being helpful or eager for me to leave.

  I returned from the post office the following morning ready to fill out my papers. Norah poured a cup of tea and sat down across from me.

  “Don’t mind Dan,” she said. “He can be edgy after he’s had a bit of the drink in em. He only means ta help.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, wanting to change the subject. I continued to review the instructions.

  “It says here that I need ta enclose my birth certificate with the application,” I said. “Can I have it?”

  There was an awkward silence. I put down my pen and looked at Norah. She stood up and appeared to be flustered.

  “Can I have it, please?” I asked again.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t have it.”

  “Well, what am I goin ta do?”

  “I’ll get it,” she said. “I’ll go see the nuns at the Tuam Home.”

  “I’ll go with ya.”

  “No, no. There’s no need fer ya ta see that place,” she said adamantly. “I’ll need ya ta stay here. I’ll go in the morning.”

  Norah was clearly agitated the rest of the day. She was uncomfortably quiet that evening.

  Norah left the house right after Dan the following morning. It wasn’t until late afternoon that she returned.

  “Here’s your cert,” she said, handing me an official-looking paper folded in three. Then she rushed about to get supper ready.

  I was anxious to see what the document revealed as I unfolded it. It showed my given name, sex, and the date and place of birth. It was stamped with a raised seal. No parents’ names were listed. I felt my heart sink. The document validated my feelings. I didn’t belong to anyone.

  After mass on Sunday, Dan spoke to Father Kelly, who arranged for me to see him the following day.

  “Father Kelly will take care of ya,” Dan told me with confidence.

  When I went to the rectory on Monday afternoon he wasn’t there.

  “But he left somethin fer ya,” said the woman who answered the door.

  She gave me a letter of marital status signed by Father Kelly.

  Later in the week, Dan brought home a statement from the local garda. It confirmed I wasn’t a criminal. I appreciated Dan’s help, but questioned his motive.

  Hannah’s paperwork and my passport arrived during the first week of April. I contacted the American Embassy in Dublin and scheduled an appointment for Friday.

  “That’s grand!” said Dan, who gave me money for the train fare.

  I held tightly onto my envelope of papers during the long ride from Galway to Dublin. I entered the impressive round building in Merrion Square just in time for my noon appointment. The woman at the front desk reviewed my forms and sent me in to see their doctor. “You’re as healthy as a horse!” he declared. Then his nurse stamped my paperwork and said, “I wish I was going with you!”

  I left the embassy with time to spare. I took a walk and found myself on Baggot Street, standing in front of the Mercy Convent. Two girls in their skivvy garb emerged from behind the building. I smiled and said hello, although I didn’t know them. They looked at me curiously. I watched them walk down the street, chatting and laughing, with their arms linked. A well-dressed woman crossed over to the other side of the street as the girls approached her. Her reaction toward them was common, and it fueled my resentment for this Irish society.

  I lingered a bit longer, hoping to see Sadie or Ellen, or one of the other girls from Saint Thomas. I wanted to tell them I was leaving Ireland. I wanted to say goodbye.

  The night before my departure was bittersweet.

  Dan brought home a bunch of bananas and set them on the table.

  “Fer old times sake,” he said.

  During supper Ryan talked about the tragedy of the Titanic, and Dan told him to “pipe down.”

  My eyes filled with tears when Rachel said she felt sad that I was leaving. I wondered if she’d ever know we were sisters.

  Norah remained very quiet.

  In the morning Norah came into the bedroom as I packed my bag.

  “I’ve got somethin fer ya,” she said and handed me a small box.

  Inside was a gold ring.

  “It’s a Claddagh ring,” she said. “Somethin ta remember me by.”

  I removed it from the box and admired the intricate design—two hands holding a heart, and above the heart, a small crown.

  “It means love, loyalty, and friendship,” said Norah.

  Then she took the ring from my hand and pointed to an inscription inside the band.

  “LOVE, MOTHER”

  “Thank you, Mam,” I said as she handed it back to me
.

  We sat quietly for a moment.

  “Who is he? My pa, who is he?” I asked her.

  Norah closed her eyes and smiled. Her face brightened up, as if she were remembering a special moment in time.

  “His name is Martin Davin, and he was the most handsome, charmin fella in Moycullen,” she said. “And yer the spittin’ image of em.”

  “Is he still in Moycullen?”

  “No, Peg. When I told him I was pregnant, he ran off. I think he went ta London, but I can’t be sure.”

  Norah’s smile faded and she took my hand in hers.

  “Peg, I had no choice. They sent me away ta the Tuam Home.”

  “Who sent ya? I don’t understand.”

  “My folks and Father Cosgrove. I had no say.”

  “Why the Tuam Home?”

  She turned her head away from me and looked down as she answered the question.

  “Twas an old workhouse, much like a prison. There was nearly a hundred of us locked up in there. We were treated terribly. The nuns worked us hard, even when we were in labor. They wanted us ta pay fer our sin.”

  She paused for a moment and then looked at me.

  “Thank God ya survived that place. Many of them babies were stillborn or died while they were infants.”

  Tears flowed from Norah and I tightened my hold on her hand as she continued.

  “I nursed ya fer a whole year. On yer first birthday, they sent me out and wouldn’t let me take ya. Twas the worst day of my life.”

  She pulled her hand from mine to wipe her cheeks.

  “I tried ta visit ya, but the nuns wouldn’t let me see ya. Then I got the letter that ya were boarded with the Clearys in Lissawullen. I cycled out ta find ya. They were odd people, but they’d let me visit with ya. But when I found ya locked in the barn, I went mad. I took ya back home with me.”

  “I remember that day,” I said calmly.

  “Peg, I wanted ta keep ya,” she said desperately. “My family couldn’t bear the shame. They wouldn’t allow it.”