by Irene Kelly
Irene Kelly
with Katy Weitz
SINS OF THE MOTHER
A heartbreaking true story of a woman’s struggle to escape
her past and the price her family paid
PAN BOOKS
This book is dedicated to my wonderful partner, my four beautiful children, their partners and all my grandchildren – thank you for all your support. I am so sorry for all the hurt and pain I caused you but please know that I love you all from the bottom of my heart; I am so proud of you all. I also dedicate this book to my beautiful friend who passed away. I know you would be happy for me – I miss you so much.
Irene Kelly
LITTLE GIRL LOST
Little girl lost
Oh, where can she be?
Alone in the dark so no one can see.
No mammy to love her
no daddy to care,
as she sits alone
on the cold lonely stairs.
She hides behind a smile;
just a sweet simple child
full of innocence and grace
her dreams running wild.
She searches for love
but can no longer feel it,
they tell her it will come
but she no longer believes it.
They say first you must lose
then you will gain
but this little girl can’t see it.
It’s just pain after pain.
On a journey through hell
her life has no cost;
she has no name.
Just a little girl lost.
Irene Kelly
CONTENTS
Prologue – Irene
1 Jennifer – The Long Way Home, Manchester, 2007
2 Jennifer – The Call
3 Jennifer – The Redress Board
4 Irene – The Bad Luck Girl, Dublin, 1964
5 Irene – Rags and Bones
6 Irene – St Grace’s
7 Irene – Ripped in Two
8 Irene – A Way Out
9 Irene – Dad
10 Irene – A Failed Fostering
11 Irene – The Orphanages
12 Irene – Growing Up, Growing Strong
13 Irene – The Demon Arrives
14 Irene – Married Life
15 Irene and Matt – A Connection
16 Irene and Matt – Falling in Love
17 Irene and Matt – Escape
18 Irene – Reckoning
19 Matt – The Fall Out, Manchester, 2007
20 Matt – The Faceless Woman
21 Jennifer – Understanding, Manchester, 2012
22 Irene – The Promise, January 2015
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
INFORMATION AND ADVICE
Prologue
IRENE
She is here. The little girl sits on the floor in the middle of the long dark corridor. I see her now but I can’t reach her. She is all alone. Seven years old, she is crumpled like a rag doll on the cold tiled floor, thin white limbs outstretched under a tattered brown dress. Curtains of fine brown hair obscure her face. She is crying softly to herself. She knows no one is coming to rescue her, to help make the pain go away. She is trapped forever in this hellhole.
Over and over again I return to this place, to this same scene. The little girl on the floor, her face hidden in her hands, the sound of her sobs echoing through the long, empty hallway. The place smells of carbolic soap – it is cold here, always cold. Sometimes she looks up and then I can see her expression – it cuts me like a knife. Poor, tortured little soul, she is terrified out of her mind. She is hungry, frightened and miserable. But she deserves nothing less, she is told, for she is a horrible little child and this is where she belongs. Nobody loves her, they tell her. Nobody cares about her. Nobody is coming to get her.
But I care and I love her – only, I can never reach her. She cannot hear or see me – she is alone, totally alone.
Don’t give up! I call to her. I will come and rescue you. I promise.
I know she can’t hear my voice but I must try and make contact. Her terrible loneliness pierces my heart and the tears continue to fall – fat, silent tears that roll off her cheek and make dark spots on the tiles. I can’t bear to listen to the sound of her despair any longer. I leave this place; leave the little girl on the floor. But I vow I will be back one day.
One day, I will return and I will find a way to free her.
1
JENNIFER
The Long Way Home
MANCHESTER, 2007
‘Bye!’ I waved at my friends as they looked at me questioningly from the entrance to the grassy cut-through over the fields. I could see the confusion in their eyes but I ignored it and kept walking. I knew what they were thinking – why wasn’t I walking home with them through the cut-through? If we used the pathway across the field, it was no more than ten minutes from the school gate to my home in a small cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Manchester. I usually did the same walk with my friends each morning. But the afternoons were different. I wasn’t always so keen to get home, and today I really wasn’t in a hurry. So I took the long route back up the busy main road, a route that added another twenty minutes to my journey.
The noise of the cars whizzing past filled my ears – it was just gone 3.15 p.m. and I ambled slowly, really taking my time. Step, step, step. It was a warm September afternoon and I measured out the paces as my schoolbag swung from my shoulder. Then I looked up to the small houses on the other side of the road. On this side there were the school playing fields where the boys ran around, hockey sticks flailing. Their loud shouts and the referee’s frequent whistle carried over the flat fields. I felt a stab of jealousy-I wished I had an after-school club today. Most days I managed to get myself into a club which meant I didn’t leave school until around 5 p.m. It was ironic – I didn’t even like sports all that much but now, at fifteen years old, I was an enthusiastic member of the netball, rugby and cross-country running clubs. Anything to stay at school and away from my home as long as possible. So now I dawdled in the street, stopping occasionally to change my heavy bag over to the other shoulder. Some kids I recognized from the year below emerged from the corner shop holding bags of crisps and fizzy drinks. It would have been nice to go shopping occasionally, but without any pocket money there was no chance of that.
I kept walking, trying not to imagine what awaited me inside our small three-bedroom house. Since my older sister Anna had left home seven years before I had effectively been an only child, and while my parents were kind people, my home life was, well, it was a little odd. I couldn’t tell you exactly what was wrong with my parents – the truth was, I didn’t really know – all I knew was that they weren’t like other parents. They were both from Ireland originally but had moved over here to Manchester before I was born. So while most of my friends had grandparents, aunts, uncles and extended families in the area, we had nobody. The funny thing was, my parents didn’t even talk about their families. There were no pictures on the walls, no telephone calls and nobody talked to me about the past. Occasionally Dad would disappear to Dublin for a few days but when he returned he didn’t tell me anything and I knew better than to ask. I was tired of being told things were ‘none of my business’ so I didn’t bother questioning him any more.
A long time ago, when I was seven and Mum and Dad were both working full time, they had sent me to Ireland on my own during the holidays to stay with random aunts and uncles I’d never met or even spoken to before. This was a confusing time for me. Mum and Dad took me to the airport and I clung to them for dear life but they wanted me to visit my family and I think they thought it would be nice for me to have a holiday. Once at the airport, they handed me over to the air stewardess
at the gate who accompanied me on the flight, and at the other end I was met by one of my aunts. This happened a few times over the next three years. I went to stay with my dad’s sister Marie a couple of times and also my mum’s youngest sister Emily, who had two children, but I was very quiet and uncomfortable at first. Mum and Dad never spoke about their relatives at all. They seemed like kind people but they were virtual strangers and, without Mum or Dad there, I was terrified. My despairing aunts would call my mother asking her why I wasn’t eating or speaking to anyone. The truth was – I didn’t have a clue who these people were.
This went on once or twice a year for a week at a time – but the gaps between each visit were so long that when I went out there again, I’d usually forgotten who everybody was. I’d only start to come out of my shell towards the end of each trip, and it was a relief when Ryanair stopped offering flights to unaccompanied minors. But it annoyed me that I had all this family in Ireland and I didn’t know anything about them. I was too shy to ask them myself. I couldn’t even say how many brothers or sisters my parents had each, let alone name them!
I checked my watch – 3.42 p.m. Dad might not even be awake. While my mum was usually a ball of nervous energy, Dad often slept in late and didn’t emerge from his room until teatime. He’d never been an early riser but recently it had become ridiculous. I’d come in from school when he was just getting up and I’d leave in the morning while he was still in bed. Some days we hardly spoke to each other at all.
There was a time, many years ago, when we had been really close. I was a real Daddy’s girl, following him around like a shadow. My mum had been married before and my two older brothers Justin and Philip, and older sister Anna, were from her previous relationship. They were all in their twenties now and lived in Ireland. I was my parents’ only child together and there was a big age gap between me and the others so they hadn’t played with me when I was little. But since I was Dad’s only child, he doted on me. He was a practical man, a painter and decorator by trade, and he used to let me help out with all his jobs around the house. I never left his side and I loved it. He was a really good artist and he taught me how to draw. I’d help him with his painting, woodwork, gardening – you name it, we did it together. But as I got older something changed suddenly. It felt like he didn’t want me around.
These days if he said he was going to do some woodwork in his shed and I asked to help him, he’d tell me no. ‘You stay here,’ he’d say. ‘I won’t be long.’
We barely spoke any more, except to argue. Dad refused to let me grow up. I was fifteen years old and, still, I wasn’t allowed to go into town with my friends on my own, let alone to the cinema or, God forbid, parties. So instead, I signed myself up to all the after-school clubs, just to get me out of the house. I’d even had to fight him to let me walk to school on my own once I started senior school. And boys? Forget it! Lucas, a lad who lived across the street, was a friend of mine and one day he asked me out. I was dying to say yes because I liked him too, but I knew my dad would never allow it. He didn’t even let my male friends come in the house – they had to wait on the doorstep. It was crazy – he didn’t trust anyone.
He didn’t even trust Mum or me. Dad had a habit of hiding all his stuff. He had a lot of secret compartments in the house and all his possessions were kept out of sight. So if, say, I wanted to borrow a book or his computer I’d have to ask and he would get it out of a hidden drawer that I didn’t even know was there. All his stuff was secreted around the house in funny little hidden places. Did he think we were going to steal them?
At least my dad was predictable – sullen, strict, secretive and uncommunicative, yes, but predictable. With Mum, I never really knew where I stood or what mood she would be in from one day to the next. She had always suffered with her ‘moods’ – that was something I had grown up with. We all knew there were times that Mum would ‘go under’ – then she’d take herself off to her room and lock herself away for a few days at a time, not coming out to eat or wash herself. It usually went away after a little while and then she was back to her normal, energetic self. But recently the moods had worsened and become more frequent.
Right now, she was in the middle of one of her ‘bad episodes’ and hadn’t left the house in about a week. She hadn’t even changed out of her pyjamas the last few days and her greasy, unwashed hair lay lank against her face, while her eyes were always puffy from crying. The rare times she did leave her bedroom to go to the toilet her face was a mask of misery. I didn’t know what made her like this or why she got so upset.
She often put her music on loud to drown out the sound of her sobbing but it didn’t really work. I could always tell. And then there was the banging. I knew, I just knew that she was banging her head against the wall. But I couldn’t do anything. The door was always locked. From the youngest age, these moods frightened me.
‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ I’d call out to her through the door, tears stinging my own eyes. ‘Can I help? Please open the door and let me in.’
But she never did. ‘Mum, please!’
‘Leave your mother alone,’ Dad would chide gently from downstairs. ‘She’s having a bad day. Leave her alone now. She’ll be fine tomorrow.’
Dad never seemed upset when Mum was like this – he was just stern with me, worried I might upset her further. It was confusing. I mean, I knew this wasn’t normal, even if I didn’t know what was wrong.
In the last few months, it had taken Mum longer and longer to return to her normal self again. I used to think it was my fault – that I had made her miserable somehow, though I didn’t know how. I just wanted to make things right. But now, at fifteen years old, it didn’t upset me any more; if anything it just made me resentful.
Why can’t you be like a normal mum? I seethed silently in my head as she trudged round upstairs like a zombie. Night after night I came home to a dark, empty house. No kisses or cuddles for me, no ‘here’s your dinner, darling’ or ‘how was your day, sweetheart?’ Nope – just silence. We were like planets orbiting around each other, never coming close enough to touch.
There had been one fun holiday, I remember, many years before when we had gone up to stay in a little cottage in Scotland for a week. I was about nine at the time and we went on walks on the beach every day and played in the sea. That had been lovely, and Mum and Dad had both been in good moods – there were no arguments the whole time. But apart from that, I didn’t have any happy memories of my mum as a young child.
Further up the road now, a bunch of small kids swerved around me on their bikes, laughing and shouting to one another, weaving dangerously close to the cars. My heart lurched suddenly and then I felt a wave of anger. What are these kids even doing out on their own without adult supervision? Where are their parents? I would never have been allowed to play out like this as a child. That’s partly why I was such a success at school. I was predicted good grades for my GCSEs and my parents had high hopes for my education. Well, I didn’t have anything else to do so I had thrown myself into my schoolwork.
The only other time I got to leave the house was for my job at the weekend. I was a chef’s assistant in the kitchen of a homeless hostel every Saturday and Sunday, from 8 a.m. till 4 p.m. It paid £12 a day, which was just enough money to help pay for my bus pass and any extra bits I needed for school. Though as a family we’d never really had any money, it riled me sometimes that Mum and Dad didn’t even have enough to get me the basics like books or shoes. Since we were on benefits, I’d long since given up asking them for money but I just couldn’t work out why Mum or Dad couldn’t get a job.
‘Not right now,’ Mum would shake her head when I asked her if she could get a small job to help us out.
‘What about Dad?’ I asked her then. ‘Dad could get a job.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Mum replied slowly. And that was it – no explanation, no discussion. If only they told me things occasionally, perhaps I could understand! But they treated me like a stranger.
It was all down to money, they said, but over time I began to question whether it was just that they didn’t like to go out. It’s not like they took me to the free places either, like the park, the library or the museums. Nope, that’s wrong again. Once. Dad had taken me to the park once in my whole life. Generally, they were quite content to just stay at home. It was infuriating and mind-numbingly dull.
The only friend my dad approved of was called Rosie and she lived in the house opposite – occasionally I was allowed to play at hers but apart from that, most weekends were spent in my room going slowly, silently mad. So getting out every Saturday and Sunday was a novelty. On top of that, I was learning how to cook. This was useful since Mum had long since given up cooking.
There had been a time, many years before, when Mum made meals from scratch like stews, pies and soup. Her Irish stew in fact was amazing. But those days were long gone. Gradually, as my mum stopped cooking, my older sister took over in the kitchen and I would come back from school to her freshly made shepherd’s pies or delicious curries so I didn’t really notice at first that Mum didn’t cook. But when Anna left home for good at nineteen Mum resorted to shoving frozen chips and burgers in the oven. Dad only ever ate toast and bowls of cereal and Mum, well, she barely ate at all. She was thin as a rake and I almost never saw food pass her lips. She had short blonde hair and her face was very drawn so she always looked older than her years.
