No One Wants You

by Celine Roberts

  I could not contemplate being the cause of the disintegration of his entire family, especially of his two sisters who were nuns. I had been told about them a million times at the industrial school and that, as Mercy nuns in Cork, if they were embroiled in a scandal involving my father, the results would be cataclysmic for both them and possibly, the entire Catholic Church in Ireland. Subconsciously, I had decided that I was not going to take on those responsibilities. I had enough to deal with at that stage, just trying to survive every day. But then at the very moment that I was going to take my prospective husband’s hand in mine, at my wedding, I wanted to know what my father looked like! I could not believe it. I was just about to get married and all I had was a blank picture of my father in my mind and I wanted to know what he looked like.

  I did not realise it then, but it was to be a life-changing moment for me.

  After that tiny immeasurable pause, I was brought back to reality, by the reassuring touch of Father Bernard’s hand. He grasped my wrist and whispered, ‘Celine, I am so happy for you today.’

  He then turned to Harry and said, ‘Harry, I know that you will make a wonderful husband for Celine. I have known her for a long time. She is a special friend of mine.’

  There may have been an implicit threat to Harry in Father Bernard’s comments, but I think he could see that I looked like I was happy in my choice, and he was willing to respect that. Harry detected no obvious or even subtle threat, as they subsequently became very good friends.

  The remainder of the ceremony went really well. Everyone gave the correct responses when asked. Michael, the best man, produced the gold wedding ring from his inner jacket pocket on cue. Father Bernard pronounced us man and wife for better or worse, for richer or poorer, until death us do part.

  As we were officially married, I felt an emptiness. Whatever magic I had expected to feel just wasn’t there. I just hung on to the fact that I had to get married.

  We then accompanied Father Bernard and our best man and chief bridesmaid, into the sacristy, a little room just off from the main altar area, where we both signed the State Register of Marriage. Michael and Breege, who for a short space of time were transformed from best man and bridesmaid, into witnesses for the state, duly witnessed our signatures. Once the paperwork for the governing bureaucracy was completed, we returned to our positions at the altar rails. We kissed and walked back down the aisle, arm-in-arm, smiling and bowing to the attendant Roberts’ family to our left, while grinning at the exaggerated fawning of the fake ‘Clifford’ family on our right-hand side. I still couldn’t quite believe that this was really happening to me.

  Out into the bright February sunlight and a photographer awaited us. When we emerged, it was high jinks from everybody as we were showered with rice and confetti. In front of the church we were pushed to and fro by the photographer and ordered to smile on demand, as he clicked his camera shutter and wound on the roll of film to the next frame. In between shots, we chatted to everyone who wanted to extend their best wishes to us for our future married life together. It was all an exciting whirl to me.

  Then, ‘The bride and groom with their respective parents,’ ordered the photographer. ‘Granny’ and ‘uncle’ John obliged immediately on cue. They stepped forward and arranged themselves at Harry’s side, without a prompt. Harry never batted an eyelid. He participated in the parental charade, as if he, himself, had been at my parents’ wedding. The photographer completed the various permutations and combinations of all the possible groups that might have been offended, if they had not been included in a photograph.

  Then Harry and I sat in the back of the Ford, which was all decked out in various coloured ribbons, and away we went. We were at the head of a posse of cars, all blowing their horns and generally making quite a din, in Kilkenny City just after midday on a Wednesday. When I got out of the car at the hotel, I was mortified to find that our car had three or four old rusty tin cans, accompanied by three or four old worn-out leather boots, tied to the rear bumper. I always thought that the tradition of old boots and cans was beneath me. I must have had some little bit of pride in me, however small and difficult to locate at times.

  That ended the church portion of the wedding of Celine Clifford and Harry Roberts, whom were now known as Mr and Mrs Roberts.

  I was delighted – I now had a different name. Illegitimate Celine ‘O’Brien’ Clifford was gone for ever.

  The wedding party arrived at the hotel for the reception. Most people went straight to the bar for a drink. In mid-afternoon everyone was called to the dining room. There was still quite a lot of ceremony to be got through. As soon as everyone was seated, the wedding breakfast was served. Everyone had made an early start that morning and were glad to have an opportunity to eat something warm.

  As people ate, Michael was preparing his speech, and sorting out the various telegrams that had arrived from the members of the family that either could not attend, or were not invited. Those who were invited but could not attend generally lived in some far-flung region of the world, like the USA or Australia. Michael leaned over to Harry and I in the middle of his preparations. ‘Jaysus,’ he said, ‘all the telegrams are from the Roberts’ side of the family.’

  Overheard by ‘uncle’ John, and as if by magic, he produced a sheaf of telegram forms. ‘Here are the Clifford telegrams, I collected them at the desk earlier,’ he coughed, as he handed over an appreciably thick sheaf of papers.

  ‘Oh, oh great, great, I just wondered where they were. I knew that there had to be some from the other side. Thanks, thanks a lot,’ said Michael.

  As the sound level of people talking together rose, Michael took this as a signal to recommence his duties as best man. He stood up and tapped a glass with a spoon to gain everyone’s attention. This was the beginning of his speech, the part of his job that he liked least.

  ‘Reverend Father, ladies and gentlemen, I am not used to public speaking, so I decided to start off with a joke. My mother told me not to tell this joke because there is some bad language in it and she would be embarrassed. So here goes, prepare to be embarrassed, mother.’

  Everyone chuckled.

  ‘Because there are so many Irish people here today who work in England, this joke is especially for you. Two Irishmen, Paddy and Micky decided to go and work in England, because there was no work to be had in Ireland, and the streets of London were paved with gold. After a few weeks in London, they could find no work. They spent their time wandering the streets. One day, while looking in an upmarket shoe-shop window, Paddy said, “Jaysus, Micky, look! Crocodile shoes £375! Imagine paying that much for a pair of shoes! The English must be awful eejits, altogether. We would make a fortune if we could sell crocodile shoes. Crocodiles live in Africa, let’s go to Africa.” “Naw, you go ahead Paddy, I’ll stay in London and take my chances,” said Micky. “Right” said Paddy “I’ll go on my own and make my fortune. I’ll be back in twelve months time. I’ll be rollin’ in money!” Three years passed and Paddy had not returned, so Micky decided to go to Africa and find Paddy. When he reached Africa, he started to ask people if they knew where Paddy the Irishman lived. “Aw yeah, he lives about 30 miles upriver, in the jungle. Just follow the bad smell and you’ll find him,” he was told. About 25 miles upriver, Micky began to see thousands and thousands of rotting crocodile carcasses piled at least ten feet high on the riverbank. The stench of the dead crocodiles was unbearable. Five miles on he found Paddy. He was out, standing in the middle of the river, sleeves rolled up, with his eyes staring fixedly at the flowing water. Micky waded out to him and asked, “How are ya Paddy? How’re ya doin? Did you make your fortune yet?” “Ah no,” said Paddy, “I’m fed up, if the next fuckin’ crocodile comin’ down the river is not wearing shoes, I’m goin’ home!” ’

  The indigenous Irish laughed at the joke, but the London Irish were not able to laugh at themselves in those days and so their laughter was polite. But Michael visibly relaxed. When he was finished, he asked Father Berna
rd to ‘say a few words’ as it were, and sat down.

  Father Bernard stood up and delivered the usual inoffensive speech, delivered at such occasions by the priest who conducts the wedding service. It was as if he hardly knew me. He wished Mr and Mrs Roberts the best of luck for a long and happy marriage, and then sat down. Michael then proceeded to read out all the telegrams from people who wanted to wish the happily married couple the very best of luck on their wedding day.

  When the attending Roberts family recognised a telegram from a member of their family, a loud cheer went up, as if to say, ‘That’s our side and we’re proud of them, even if they are not here today.’

  When the Roberts family did not recognise the sender of a telegram, ‘uncle’ John raised his arm and roared in support. He became cheerleader. As my friends had not got a clue, they followed John’s lead in vocal support. As soon as John lifted his arm, it became a signal to my gang to cheer and applaud loudly, as if they were musicians following the leader of an orchestra.

  I had many best wishes from relatives like Auntie Penelope in New Zealand, Great Aunt Maud in Gibraltar, Cousin Theodore, twice removed, from Rhodesia and Cousin Jeremy who lived in Malta. I did not recognise any of the names. It seemed that I had many relatives who lived abroad and could not be contacted in a hurry. There were more Clifford telegrams than Roberts telegrams.

  I reached over and asked John, where he had got the telegrams. ‘Your bridesmaid, Breege, along with my good self and the help of a certain amount of whiskey, wrote them out at the kitchen table this morning. I got the empty forms from a friend of mine who works in the post office,’ said John, with a note of undying support in his voice. All I could do was laugh.

  I know, to this day, that ‘uncle’ John would, if it were humanly possible, support me in anything that I wanted to do. I will never forget his kindness to me. I even overheard my ‘granny’ explaining to Harold Roberts, whom she was seated beside, that the Clifford family had wanderlust in its members and that she thought that I was no exception. I do not know, to this day, how she explained away the sad death of both my parents to Harry’s parents. Her explanation was obviously acceptable to them. I did overhear her say to them at one stage that I never spoke about their deaths, as I became extremely upset and was unable to cope with the tragedy.

  I was always able to tell people that my parents were dead when I wanted to hide my past. As time went by and the number of times that I told my tale of woe increased, the nature of their untimely demise changed to suit my particular mood or circumstance, at the time. My parents had died in a car crash, or train or aeroplane accidents. Robbers, the police or crazed gunmen had shot them, in error of course. They had drowned! They had died in a fire!

  Their deaths had also occurred in many different locations over the years and the circumstances were always tragic. I became good at playing the victim and accepted any sympathy that would have been available to me at the time. However, I did not want too much sympathy.

  I always had to balance the amount of sympathy available, with the amount of further investigation into my past it might lead to. Generally I said that they were dead, and that I did not want to speak about the accident, as it was too painful for me. My walls of defence would not tolerate too much pressure. If I really did not want any conversation about their fate, I delivered, ‘they committed suicide together’ and that usually stopped the conversation as dead as my parents.

  After the meal and the speeches were over, it was time for some music and dancing.

  Michael concluded his best man duties with the traditional Irish compliment of, ‘And I’d like to thank the hotel for a lovely, lovely meal.’ All the drinkers adjourned back to the bar, while the hotel staff cleared the tables to the sides of the room. The band that we had booked appeared and set up their instruments in one corner. As they tuned up their instruments, people began to return to the room.

  While all this moving was going on, Harry and I, as the new Mr and Mrs Roberts, became the subject of many congratulations and pats on the backs. Time was flying by and everybody wanted to talk to us.

  Then the band asked for the bride and groom to lead off the dancing for the afternoon. I was hoping for a romantic song for my special day, but they played a country and western song and we danced to ‘Pretty little girl from Omagh, in the county of Tyrone.’

  We had the floor to ourselves for a short time, and then everyone joined in. I asked the singer later if they could have played a more relevant song for the first dance. ‘Shure, we always start with that song, Mam, it gets us warmed up,’ was the explanation I received.

  Hours of dancing and singing went by.

  At some time, Father Bernard, excused himself and left fairly early. Dancing at weddings was not really his forte. Before he left, he caught my wrist and said that if I ever needed him, I was to find him, because he would be there to help me.

  Harry then suggested that it was time to change out of my dress, as we had to leave. I got Breege to help me. We had a room at the hotel where all the paraphernalia attached to the bride and her wedding was stored. Off came the wedding dress, into the ‘going away outfit’ and I was ready. The girls packed up all the bits and pieces that we were finished with, or did not require. Everything had to come with us, as we were finished in Kilkenny. We were heading to Dublin for our honeymoon.

  As all my friends were going back to London the following day, they were coming to Dublin as well. They packed everything into the car before I made my final appearance at the wedding reception with Harry. As soon as we appeared at the door of the ballroom everyone rushed over to us. They thought we were leaving without throwing the bouquet.

  I walked to the centre of the room, checked that all the girls were collected together, turned my back to them, and launched the bouquet into the air, over my head in their direction and ran for the door. My memory of that room is of about 15 women, squabbling and fighting over my bouquet.

  The two of us ran down the corridor of the hotel, pursued by the vigilant members of the wedding party, and those that were waiting for us to leave. We were drowned in confetti as we went outside. We all got into the cars and away to Dublin with the gang of us.

  We were booked to stay at the North Star Hotel in Amiens Street. Before we went to the hotel, we went for a meal at the Rainbow Café in O’Connell Street. It was early, about 8 pm. Then we all headed for the North Star to check in. We checked in and signed the register as Mr and Mrs Roberts. Harry and I, and the girls, went to our respective rooms.

  Harry suggested that we go to bed and I agreed.

  I got undressed in the bathroom and put on a nightdress that I had bought specially. Harry was already in bed when I emerged. I lifted the bedcovers and slipped into bed beside him. It was the first time that I was ever in bed with Harry.

  I had thought that the act of physical love within a marriage might be something I could enjoy, but I was wrong. My naivety, perhaps, was to some degree my own fault. Once the sexual abuse stopped and I was committed to the industrial school in Limerick, I completely turned off my mind, regarding any sexual thoughts. I put a mental seal on my body, preventing any sexual pleasure. All through my teenage years, my past had made me lose my sexuality. I spurned any sexual conversation. I avoided occasions where I might become sexually active.

  I realised that the physical side of our marriage was going to be difficult for me, and I resigned myself to my sexual fate, there and then.

  ‘Would you like to go dancing now?’ Harry then asked, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do, on one’s wedding night.

  I got out of bed, had a bath and got dressed in my going away outfit once again. We went to the girls’ rooms and asked them if they would like to come to a dance with us. They enthusiastically agreed and so we all went to a dance in the Irene Ballroom, on my wedding night. We danced all night and when the dance was over we all walked back to the hotel together.

  On the way back, I overheard Breege say to on
e of the others, about Harry and me and our marriage, ‘She won’t last long with him. Imagine a fella who wants to go to a dance on his wedding night.’

  Although we parted as friends the following day, I have never spoken to or seen Breege since our wedding day. Her remark has remained with me down through the years.

  When we got back to our hotel, we agreed to meet the girls in the dining room for breakfast the next morning. Harry and I went to our room. I went to the bathroom, undressed and got into my nightdress. I came out to find that Harry was already asleep.

  I got into bed, drew the covers over me and silently cried myself to sleep. I cried not for myself, or Harry, or my marriage, or any of the things that had happened that day. I cried myself to sleep on my wedding night, beside my sleeping husband, wanting only one thing – I wanted to know what my father looked like.

  TEN

  A Miracle

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, we all returned to London. The honeymoon was over.

  Harry had lived in a small flat in Stockwell before we were married, so we had decided to rent that together. We moved in as soon as we got back.

  I found it extremely difficult to cope with the sexual demands of our relationship, and sadly, over the 33 years of our marriage, this aspect did not improve. I learned to cope better, by being able to switch off any feeling in the lower half of my body. The mind is an extremely powerful tool. I am always amazed by its capability to recognise danger and its ability to control the physical functions, in order to protect the body.