No One Wants You

by Celine Roberts

  At an early age, I was told by my foster-mother, that she was paid £300 to keep my identity secret. In 1949, £300 was a huge sum of money and would have purchased a large amount of secrecy. The reason for such secrecy, I was later told, was that my father had two sisters who were nuns. As my existence could cause serious scandal to this very important family, and particularly to the two nuns and the Catholic Church, my fate was sealed.

  One of my earliest memories is being told, ‘No one wants you.’ It seemed that this piece of information preceded almost every conversation that I had with both my foster-parents until I was 13 years of age.

  I got the message early on. I believed that it must be true; I thought whatever adults said was the truth. I considered it normal that nobody wanted me, but I could never understand why.

  I always felt afraid.

  My foster-mother ruled the household. Physically, she was of medium height and looked like a man. She was very overweight and had a double chin that seemed to rest on her chest and wobbled like a jelly as she spoke. She even walked like a man.

  One of my earliest memories is of hiding when I heard her coming. I could always anticipate her arrival, as I would hear her before I saw her. On her good days she always whistled or hummed a lively tune; on her bad days she was completely silent. When she was walking, her heel hit the ground first and the large flat sole of her foot followed on remarkably quickly. To me it always sounded like a sharp slap. She always walked quickly, with urgent short steps, as if she was in a rush to tell someone some important news. When I heard the distinctive whistling or humming and ‘slap slap’ sound of a pair of shoes, at any distance, a chill would run through my body.

  She was not an intelligent woman, but she made her living by being cunning. One time when neighbours of ours, an old brother and sister, died, I was sent to the house to steal the pillows from their beds. I was scared to go but I was more afraid of what would happen if I didn’t come back with the pillows. When I came back and handed them over, my foster-mother ripped them open. She thought there might be some money hidden in them but there wasn’t, so she slapped me in the face.

  Rationality is supposed to be what distinguishes human beings from the animals of the world, but my foster-mother could not be described as in any way rational. I don’t think she had any brain cells. She could not think and could only react to situations. But because she was a stupid person she thought she was intelligent.

  She was also a bully and she could always detect other people’s vulnerability. She bullied all of us at home, but even when she met a stranger she knew immediately whether they could be bullied or not. If they were confident and assertive, she was very polite to their face and was over-helpful in every way. I think these people thought she was a bit of a ‘lick-arse’ but they put up with her because she could be useful.

  With no education, she was virtually illiterate. I never saw her read a book or paper. The only thing she knew how to do was count money. She never bowed to anything or anyone though, except someone whom she deemed to have ‘book learning’. If she thought somebody was educated, she avoided them. She did not engage with the local teachers or bankers, as she considered them to have ‘the better of her’. The local parish priest was also a challenge to her but, while he was educated, he was half afraid of her. She was a big woman and had an awful loud voice that she was not afraid to use. She had an obsession about physical size. Her husband was small and the parish priest was also no giant. She could not understand, and this was a complete and utter blank with her, how any man who was smaller than her, could be more intelligent. This was the cause of many rows in the house. If she was trying to explain her version of an event or when she wanted something done, if my foster-father asked a question or suggested something different, he usually got a punch on his head. This would be quickly followed by a dismissive verbal lashing, ‘Ahhh, for Jaysus’ sake, Bie, you’re only a little ludramawn, how would you understand anything?’

  She never called anyone by their name. Everyone was called ‘Boy’, whatever their sex, but being originally from Cork and using the vernacular, mixed with a Limerick lilt, it sounded like ‘Bie’ (rhymes with pie) or in the plural ‘Bize’ (rhymes with size).

  ‘Come here, Bie.’

  ‘I’ll tell you now, Bie, you do what I say or you’ll be trun’ out.’

  ‘’Tis only a load a bollix, Bie.’

  ‘’Tis tenne paz seven, Bie, you shoulda been up ages ago.’

  She had one advantage as far as the parish priest was concerned. She was at the centre of the local sex scene. She knew everything and anything of a sexual nature that happened in the area. The personalities involved gravitated towards her. When I was very young I remember standing in the back room staring at my foster-mother’s bed, which looked like it was moving. She just said that ‘foxes had got into the bed’. The parish priest used her to find out information about certain individuals. It was a control thing. As long as he knew who was involved, he was prepared to allow her to continue about her business.

  She also knew where the priest was vulnerable. If she was talking to someone, and the priest approached, she would say in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘Backs to the wall, Bize, the Mallow bus is comin’.’ It was her way of letting him know that she had discovered that he was homosexual.

  Someone once asked her what she meant and she explained, ‘All dem educated bize in Mallow, is queers, you know.’

  As far as she could figure it, anyone male and educated and who also embraced the Church, acted as if they were homosexual, because they always had ‘certain airs and graces about dem’.

  I was to find out that she was also ruthless and evil.

  My foster-father was a grumpy, small man. He worked for local farmers, on a casual basis, as a farm labourer. He was totally dominated by his wife and was also illiterate. He had no status in life other than that which he was allowed by his wife. As I got older I began to think that it might be why he got drunk as often as possible.

  When he got drunk, it gave him false courage and he would try to beat anyone who was less powerful than him. In that part of the country, it was common to have a bellows to get the fire burning. This bellows had a strap, which my foster-father used to beat me with when he was drunk. Once he had sated his drunken anger, he would usually go to bed and fall asleep.

  From as far back as I can remember, I was always afraid in that house. At first it was the little things. Like when the community nurse called, to bring vitamin pills for me, I was told to say that I slept in a room of my own. I felt uncomfortable telling lies to the nurse, as I never had a bed of my own, never mind a room. My foster-parents slept in the bedroom at one end of the kitchen.

  From the first day, my bed or sleeping space was a tea chest. The tea chest was positioned in the corner of the tiny lean-to room at the rear of the house. Made from a lightweight balsa wood, it measured about two feet wide by about two and a half feet deep. In front of the tea chest was a one-foot high log. As I grew and was able to move and run, I could hit that log with one foot, spring up over the edge of the box in a somersault and land on the soft turf mould at the bottom.

  When in my tea chest, I was generally left alone. I was considered to be asleep. Even if I were not, I would pretend to be asleep.

  Out of sight was out of mind.

  Our family had a little dog, called Spot. He was a type of Jack Russell terrier. He was lovely. I shared my tea chest with Spot. Spot and I became great friends. I don’t know if I slept in Spot’s bed, or he in mine.

  We seemed to share the same fate in that household. If he offended somebody, or was in somebody’s way, he got kicked or hit with a stick or whatever was handy at the time. If I did something bold, or was in somebody’s way, I suffered the same punishment.

  Most mornings I would wake up, cuddled close to Spot in what was our box. Most times, if I was told to go to bed, I headed to the box, climbed in with my ‘Blankie’, lay down and went to sleep
. It was the most normal thing to do. If I wasn’t in the chest, I was left wherever I fell asleep.

  Food always seemed to be in short supply and I was always hungry. Breakfast was always the same, porridge. If my foster-mother was drunk on the previous night, there was no breakfast on the following day. If she was sober, a bowl of cold porridge was your lot for the day, as the fire had likely burned itself out during the night. I ate the porridge every morning that it was available. But the type of porridge changed often. Sometimes it was an inedible yellow mixture, which even Spot would not eat. If neither me, nor the dog, ate what we were given, we were both put outside as a punishment.

  I had the same status in the hierarchy of that household as Spot.

  Occasionally Spot and I spent a long, wet or freezing cold day or dark night outside, at the mercy of whatever the elements decided to throw at us. If we were thrown out after dark, we spent the night in a small rickety shed, about 20 yards from the house. It was home to about ten hens. This shed also had some hay and straw stored in it. When Spot and I snuggled down in the hay, we were warm and dry. The hens slept high up on horizontal wooden poles and never objected to our presence. They probably thought we were their security guards.

  One morning a neighbour saw us emerging from the chicken coop. I could see he was mystified. Before he got a chance to say anything, my foster-mother jokingly informed him, ‘We keep herself and the dog in there at night, to protect the hens from the foxes.’

  I was not yet four years of age.

  I remember washing the stone floor and making sure that the fire was on. I was terrified if the kettle wouldn’t boil. I knew it was my fault. If the hens didn’t lay their eggs I didn’t know what to do. One day, when I was about six, I broke an egg. I didn’t dare tell them. I knew I had to get another one. I ran across the fields and stole one from the neighbours. I was so afraid they’d catch me as I ran back, but they didn’t.

  Dinner was only ever a bit of boiled bacon, cabbage and potatoes, and somehow I learned how to cook them. I don’t remember how. I’d be sent to get a quarter pound of bacon and maybe four sausages in the shop. I might get the rind to eat. There was one shop in town where she used to leave money and I’d have to go in and get the food.

  The house had no running water, no electricity, and of course, sanitary conditions were terrible. I was never taught how to wash myself. I was filthy but my foster-mother wasn’t interested in cleanliness – except on Sundays. A basin, filled with heated water, appeared as if by miracle, on a Sunday morning. My foster-mother bathed her face, and some other parts of her body in it. My foster-father then used the same water to shave with, for the only time in a week.

  Sometimes, perhaps once a month, my foster-mother caught me by the hair, saying something like, ‘Come here, ya dirty little cunt, till I give ya a scrub.’ My face was plunged into the already well-used water, and scrubbed. That was the full extent of my personal hygiene, while a member of the O’Brien family.

  Then after that Sunday morning ritual, we all walked the two miles to the local Catholic Church, to attend mass. Whatever happened during the week, it was obligatory to attend mass on a Sunday morning, come hail, rain or shine. The Catholic Church decreed that it was compulsory to go to mass on a Sunday; otherwise it would be a mortal sin. If someone died, while in a state of ‘mortal sin’, their soul went straight to hell.

  My religious education was taken care of every Sunday and the rest of my education began at the age of four. This is when I started school. On my first day I wore a red jumper, a tartan skirt and brown boots. They were second-hand and given to us by a charitable organisation called the St Vincent de Paul Charitable Trust.

  From the first day, I loved school. The first thing that I noticed was the great number of children, together in one place. I had no contact with other children before my first day in school. I had seen other children at mass on Sunday or on the occasional visit to the nearest town, but I had never met children of my own age.

  I was shy in the beginning and I also felt different. Almost all of the other children had a uniform. About five children and myself did not wear a uniform. I once asked my foster-mother for a uniform to wear like all the other children. She replied that she was being paid nothing to keep me, so how could I expect her to feed me and clothe me, as well.

  School brought unexpected pleasures. Every lunch-time a nun called Sister Claude would take the six of us children who did not wear uniforms to the back kitchen of the convent, and give us hot cocoa, along with bread and butter, or bread and jam. I was so glad to get any food that I did not care about standing out. I gulped down the warm cocoa, and ate as much bread as I could, as fast as I could. I had never tasted jam before I went to school, so if there was jam on the menu, it was a special treat for me. I used to think I’d love to be like some of the children who brought their bottles of cocoa from home and left them at the fireplace to keep warm. I never had one.

  While I became friendly with the girls who did not wear school uniforms, I was made to feel different by the other girls. It did not take me long to realise the difference. All or most of the other children had something which I did not have – they had parents. All the other children had a mother and a father.

  I somehow thought that I had parents too, until some of the other children began to tease me about not having a mother and father. They used to call me a ‘dirty bastard’.

  I had heard the word ‘bastard’ being used by my foster-parents and their friends about me, but I did not know what it really meant. I just thought that it was not a good thing to be a bastard. The other children soon explained the word to me. At once I resolved that I would somehow, someday, become a ‘non-bastard’.

  Of course, as I didn’t wash myself, I didn’t smell nice. I was often ridiculed at school by the children who called me all kinds of names, but then one day we were in the middle of a class when the teacher, who was a nun, just stopped talking. She came down to where I was sitting at my desk, caught me by my ear, and pulled me roughly towards the front of the class. Then, in front of all my classmates, she showed them how dirty I was. I was terrified but I didn’t dare say anything. I remember just looking at the floor and feeling so ashamed. When she had finished I was in tears. She ordered me out of the classroom and the school. I was told not to come back until I had learned how to wash myself. To me this meant that even the nun thought I was a ‘dirty bastard’ so it had to be true. When I finally got home I repeated the nun’s message to my foster-mother, who promptly caught me by the hair and threw me out the front door. Accompanied by a stream of foul language, I was made to understand that if I wanted to I could wash myself in the filthy pond at the side of the house.

  To this very day, I am extremely diligent, about my personal hygiene. I wash my hands so many times a day that people remark that I must have a guilt complex. I always deny it, but still think to myself, ‘If they only knew.’

  Some evenings, when I got back from school, my foster-mother would send me to a neighbouring farm, called ‘the Farmers’, for milk. To get to the dairy, I had to go through the vegetable patch where they grew cabbages, potatoes, onions and other vegetables for their own use. My foster-mother used to tell me to steal some cabbage from their garden on the way home. I grew to dread having to go for the milk. Sometimes the cabbages were very well secured to the ground by their roots and I couldn’t pull them up. All I could do was pull bits off the leaves. The bits were probably no larger than the palm of my hand, which wasn’t very big. When I returned home with these, my foster-mother would scream at me and follow it by a slap of her hand across my face.

  Depending on the time of year, when I was able to pull up a few heads of cabbage, the owners or people that worked for them would often catch me stealing. I was called ‘a dirty little thief’ or worse. I feel they used to watch me and wait until I had pulled at a vegetable, and then shout at me. My memories are of hearing a loud angry shout of ‘Get out, ya little thief.’ Immediately, I was
off and running. I remember sprinting through endless drills of potatoes, whose long green stalks had pretty white flowers on top. I can still remember the distinctive smell of the tubers. But there was no time to enjoy the potato blossoms; I was running for my life. I was running, terrified of getting a severe beating. I was only about the same height as the potato stalks and as I ran, I could feel my little heart thumping so hard, that it was about to explode out through my chest.

  They always caught up with me. They used to grab me by the arm and follow up with a severe whack of a hurley stick on my bottom. They enjoyed dishing out the punishment and used to laugh out loud at me, as I ran scampering or limping up the lane in pain and distress.

  By this time in my life I was immune to physical pain.

  My foster-father was older and mellower than his wife. He sometimes seemed kinder to me than she was. He certainly was not as aggressive or violent towards me, when he was sober. He ignored many of my perceived indiscretions. If my foster-mother had known about them she would have punished me, without misgiving.

  In the summer of 1955, when I was just 6 years old, my foster-father was taken ill. It was considered serious enough that he had to go to hospital. I did not know what particular illness he was suffering from, but I was instructed by my foster-mother to pray for his healthy recovery.

  One evening, a few days later, we all had to kneel down in the kitchen, and say the rosary together for him. We had never before recited the rosary as a family. My foster-father died the following day. We never recited the rosary afterwards.

  I felt sad because of his death, but there was such drinking and carousing at his wake, I was confused. There was such merriment for two days and nobody else seemed to feel sorry, I remained in a state of confusion. When he was taken to the church, and later to the cemetery for burial, the mood of everyone concerned became sombre and sad, when in public view.