by Irene Kelly
All the way through, I sat with my hand over my mouth, unable to take it all in: the broken arms as a baby, the abuse with the nappy pins, the suicide attempt at seven . . . it was too much. My head swam and my heart broke. I had no idea how much time had passed when Mum stopped speaking. She was just in the middle of describing her breakdown after the Redress Board, telling Cynthia about hearing her mother’s voice coming out of my father, when suddenly I was aware of an oppressive silence hanging heavily in the air. I wanted to move but I was hyper aware of disturbing the awful stillness.
Then Cynthia spoke: ‘And how long after that episode did you hear the voices for?’
All this time, she had been scribbling furiously in her notebook so she didn’t see my mother’s face when she asked that question.
Mum’s eyes filled with tears and she swallowed hard.
‘How long?’ Mum repeated, her gaze fixed somewhere far away.
‘Yes, how long?’
After another pause, Mum answered, ‘I still hear them sometimes. Not as much as before. Not all the time and they don’t come from Matt any more. But they’re there. They never really went away.’
Cynthia put her pen down and looked up at Mum, who had pulled out a hanky and was dabbing at the underside of her eyes. She still hears voices? I couldn’t believe it.
Cynthia turned to me then and, in a soft voice, she said, ‘This must be very hard for you.’
‘I didn’t know until now,’ I whispered and then I broke down sobbing. The things my mum had been through in her life were terrible, so shocking. All of a sudden I was consumed with guilt. How could I have been such a horrible daughter? She didn’t deserve the way I had treated her! She didn’t deserve any of it. I wanted to say something but I didn’t feel it was my place. This was a psychiatric assessment, I was only really there as an observer. Why? Why hadn’t she told me any of this before now?
Cynthia asked a few more questions about my mother’s current situation and she explained that she was still taking antidepressants and seeing a counsellor regularly. She also had monthly appointments with her GP.
When it came time to leave, I felt as if I was walking out of that office a different person. Just a couple of hours before, I had known nothing about my mother. I almost held her in contempt for being unable to function in the normal world. Now I was reeling from the revelations about her life, and full of remorse for how I had treated her all these years.
We left in silence, but the moment we got out of the building I turned to her and, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I gave her a hug. I needed to touch her, to make her know that I loved her. And again, the tears sprung to my eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
‘No, it’s my fault,’ she replied in a low, trembling voice. ‘I should have told you earlier. It was just very hard to say.’
‘No, Mum,’ I insisted. ‘I’m sorry for the way that I treated you. I’ve been a horrible daughter.’
And then I started to sob.
Now it was Mum’s turn to comfort me – she pulled me away from her so that we were face to face. She looked me in the eyes and gripped my shoulders firmly.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ she said. ‘You’re just a normal teenage girl. Every daughter has arguments with her mum. None of this was anything to do with you. I would have told you sooner, I just didn’t know how.’
From that day on, things changed between Mum and me. For the first time, I understood what had made her the person that she was and I started to gain a new respect for her. She had survived the worst that life could throw at anyone and yet she had broken the cycle of abuse to bring us up in the right way. The resentment I’d held against my parents for not giving me the childhood I craved melted away. I had been so desperate to get away from them and felt so aggrieved at all their strict rules, I had no idea they had fought so hard to give me the childhood they had been denied!
Two months later, when my relationship with Arnie crumbled to pieces, I called my parents, begging them to take me home.
‘I can’t do it any more,’ I told Mum on the phone. ‘I can’t get out of bed.’
For the first time in years I felt like a child again, and my parents swung into action and rescued me. Mum and Dad packed up all my stuff and moved me back home. When I really needed them, they were there for me. They always had been, I guess, I just didn’t know it.
In the first couple of weeks Mum made a big effort, cooking nice home-made stew for me and talking to me about my work at college. Dad did his best but I don’t think he realized just how independent I had become. One night, after a particularly fierce row over which channel to watch, Dad snapped, ‘This is my house and if you don’t like what we’re watching you know where you can go. To your room!’
I stormed upstairs, angry with myself for being back in this position again. Angry at him for so many reasons! Mum came up half an hour later and knocked tentatively on the door before sitting down on the end of my bed.
‘Don’t be angry with your father . . .’ she started.
But I was already ranting. ‘You know if he had got off his arse to go to work he could have prepared for my future and saved some money so that I didn’t have to go to work all the time. I mean, he wants me in education but then he doesn’t make it easy for me! I’ve had to do everything myself. EVERYTHING! It’s not like he’s got any other children! I’m it!’
‘Your father is doing his best,’ Mum sighed. ‘But you know, you already have so much more than he had as a child. You’re a lucky girl. I wish you could see that.’
‘It doesn’t feel like it sometimes.’ I looked away, my eyes now filling with tears. ‘I mean, sometimes it feels like he doesn’t even want me around.’
‘You know why he didn’t come to help you move in with Arnie?’
‘Because he couldn’t be bothered?’ I said bitterly.
‘No,’ Mum reproached me gently. ‘Because he was too upset that you were leaving.’
‘Really?’
Mum nodded and touched a hand to my shoulder. ‘You know he can’t say these things. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them.’
After that, I tried to be a bit more considerate around my father. It helped that I didn’t have the pressure of trying to pay the bills, I had more time to relax and give my degree my full attention. I was also grateful for the opportunity to get closer to Mum again. Now that I knew what she had been through, I had a new appreciation and respect for her. So instead of walking away when I caught her crying, I’d give her a hug and make her a cup of tea. I’d remind her that she was a strong woman and she always had me to talk to. I would always be there for her.
Now, when we were alone together, I asked her questions and encouraged her to talk about her life. I started to understand the roots of the strict regime that she had instilled in our household and to see where all her anger came from. One thing I knew for a fact, it wasn’t from me. She loved me and I knew it now. It was just that she was tormented by the painful memories of her past. One day she told me she was trying to write a book about her experiences and I thought that was a fantastic idea so I encouraged her to keep going.
Meanwhile, I was finding ways to reconnect with my dad too. I don’t know why but with every year that had passed we had grown further and further apart. When I was a little girl we had been inseparable, always painting, gardening or doing woodwork together, but as I got older, he closed himself off from me until we could no longer communicate properly. I wanted to get back to how things were. So one day, when he said he was going to the garden centre to buy some seeds, I offered to go with him.
‘Ah now, you don’t really want to come, do you?’ he said dismissively.
‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘I could give you a lift if you like?’
Dad had given up his car many years before when they could no longer afford the running costs. Now he paused to consider my proposal. Finally he nodded. ‘Sure. Why not?’
We didn’t talk much on the way down but once we were there, it was like my dad came alive. He started chatting animatedly about planting, soils and seeds, and the words just seemed to tumble out of him.
We walked up and down the rows of different compost bags and he stopped at each one to explain the type of compost we would need for our soil and the vegetables he was growing. I listened carefully and asked questions, and for the first time in years it felt like we were having a normal, natural conversation. I don’t think he had any idea how happy it made me.
On the way back, I worked up the courage to ask a question which I knew would make him uncomfortable.
‘Dad, I didn’t get to meet Grandpa – what was he like?’
‘What? My father?’ Dad was visibly shocked. I never asked questions like this usually. But I’d decided I’d had enough of secrets and hiding.
‘Yes, your father. My grandfather.’
Silence. I was grateful at that moment to be driving so I had something to distract me from the intense quietness in the car.
‘Well, you did meet him actually,’ he said eventually. ‘I introduced you to him when you were just a baby but he wasn’t really into babies all that much. Do you know what your grandfather was?’
‘Was he a bank robber, Daddy?’
A slight pause and, a second later, I caught my dad’s eye. We both burst out laughing – it felt so surreal, so silly to say those words, and yet we both knew that it was the absolute truth. Over the years I had picked up various bits and pieces from my siblings and my aunts about my dad’s side of the family. He thought he’d been so smart in hiding it from me but I knew they were all criminals. I just didn’t know anything from Dad directly.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘He was a robber, but you don’t really want to know about all of this, do you?’
‘Yes, I do!’ I insisted. ‘I really want to know. It’s my family too.’
Gradually, Dad started to open up. It wasn’t easy – he had been trained to keep his mouth shut from when he was just a little boy. They all had to abide by the ‘code’, it was drummed into them – and as a result Dad became secretive. Even though he had lived a straight and clean life for over fifteen years, he still found it hard to talk about his life before coming to England. Instinctively, he kept that part of himself hidden.
‘I don’t know why you want to know these things,’ he’d bluster whenever I brought it up. ‘It’s all ancient history. What’s the point of raking it up?’
‘Because I’m curious! I’m allowed to be curious, you know.’
‘Well, curiosity killed the cat.’
‘We don’t have a cat.’
‘Don’t be a smart mouth!’
The one thing I could never get him to talk about was the heroin. Since Dad took methadone, I knew he must have been an addict at one time but I could sense he was deeply ashamed of this and the subject made him uncomfortable. One day I asked him how long he had been clean and he visibly bristled. Then he said to me, ‘Look, Jen, I wasn’t proud of meself when I was doing it. It’s in the past now and that’s where I want it to stay. You’re my daughter and the way I’ve lived my life, well, I’ve tried to lead by example.
‘You want to know what your grandfather was like? He did an awful lot of talking – saying a lot of stuff and then doing the opposite. As your father, I didn’t always say the right thing but I tried to do the right thing. And that’s the most important part of being a parent to me. After that, well, nobody does everything right! So you can ask me all these things but I’m not always going to tell you. I was there for you, that’s all you need to know.’
True to form, on my graduation day my parents turned up but Dad never said a word to me. I knew deep down he was proud that I got a 2:1 but it hurt that he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘well done’. And when I should have been bursting with pride and happiness, I felt a bitter twisting in my guts.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mum asked.
‘Nothing,’ I huffed.
‘No, go on, what is it? You shouldn’t be upset today, not today.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Mum! It’s just that after all these years of being a good daughter, doing what I was told and not being able to go out, I did it! I got my education, I can get a good job now. You got what you wanted as parents, didn’t you? So where’s the “well done”?’
‘You know I’m proud of you,’ she replied, a little wounded.
‘I know you are,’ I said pointedly, staring at Dad who was stood separately from the crowds. Mum nodded and went over to speak to him. It seemed she dragged him back, reluctantly, a few minutes later. We stood around in expectant silence for a while, then Mum sighed and rolled her eyes.
‘Well?’ she asked him impatiently. ‘Are you not going to say well done to her?’
Dad caught my eye briefly and grunted something that sounded like: ‘El un.’ And then he walked away. Mum grinned at me triumphantly, as if she had just performed a minor miracle. I shrugged. I suppose it was good enough. At least he tried.
Now I’ve moved in with my boyfriend Lucas and we’re saving up to get married. From the word go, it had felt very natural and easy – as if we were always meant to be together. He has a daughter who he is so loving and gentle with that I can see he’s a brilliant dad, which makes me really excited about having children together one day. His daughter is a very special little girl and, luckily, we get on really well when she stays at the weekends. I can honestly say I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
Even Dad gets on with Lucas, something I never expected. I reminded Dad that he stopped me going out with him when I was fourteen, but he only saw this as an example of his excellent parenting skills. ‘You see!’ he said. ‘If I’d let you go out with him at that age you wouldn’t have gone to university, you would have got distracted, maybe had a child together, struggled, split up and moved on. You were far too young back then. No, I was quite right, Jen. Look at you both now – so happy together. I think you should thank me for doing you a big favour!’
‘Urgh! Dad – you’re impossible!’ I laughed, throwing a cushion at his head.
‘It’s true!’
‘Yeah, whatever . . .’
But I can see that in some ways my dad was right. I got my education because he was strict with me – other friends didn’t do so well. Helen, whose parents were both addicts, dropped out of school when she fell pregnant. Today she’s got four kids from three different fathers and struggles to get by on her benefits. At twenty-two she’s never had a job and I wonder if she ever will. I don’t judge her for the choices she’s made – in some ways, I wonder if they were her choices at all. She didn’t have the benefit of what I had. She created a large family so that she would never be lonely. I understand that.
I have a great job now as a laboratory research assistant and I hope to do well in my profession so that I can build a strong career. But I also want kids – I dream one day of owning a beautiful house filled with noisy, boisterous children. In short, I want what I didn’t have and, like my dad said, thanks to his strict rules I can have it. Lucas and I have even talked about moving to Ireland one day; though he is not from Ireland himself, and has never been before, he has an Irish father so he’s part-Irish. I know that it would break my heart to leave my parents but I would love for my kids to grow up with their cousins. My great hope is that one day Mum and Dad decide to move back too, though I know it will take a lot to convince them.
It’s ironic that they came over to England to give me a better life and now I yearn to return to Ireland, but I can’t help it. That’s where all my family lives and because they are there it is where I feel most at home. Dad doesn’t want to go back, though – most of his family are recovering addicts and criminals still, and every year he gets a phone call from one of his brothers telling him another member of their family has died. He escaped that life and the idea of returning frightens him. But would it be the same after all this time?
Today my mother is coping a lot better. Although she still takes medication, has house visits from social workers and attends a psychiatric hospital, I see her happy days more. Watching her go through a life of silence and pain inspired me to qualify in mental health and social work so that I could help others struggling with their mental well-being.
I can’t even begin to describe how much I love and appreciate my mum and dad. They suffered a lot in their lives and my mum, in particular, had a brutal childhood. I am so proud of how she broke the cycle of abuse and neglect to show me the love every child deserves. I don’t idolize celebrities or models, she is my idol, my rock. I see how she suffered and survived and for this I am so proud of her. I could wish my mother hadn’t gone through this pain, but none of us can change the past. Besides, Mum’s struggles have made her the wonderful, sensitive, kind and loving person she is today.
