I was consumed with anger, but I concealed my feelings and smiled. I continued the conversation as if I had not made any family connection and pretended that everything was ‘rosy in the garden’. Angry as I was, at the specific reference to my grandmother Clifford, I was quite pleased to be entertaining what I regarded as ‘my biological family’.
It became a regular occurrence for my Aunt Rosaleen, Terence and Niamh, to come to dinner at my home at least every other week. Then one evening Terence and Niamh turned up unannounced and I happened to be looking at some photographs when they arrived. I asked them in and they joined me going through the photographs. Terence saw the photograph of my mother, Ronan and me.
He said, ‘I did not know that you knew Auntie Doreen.’
‘Yes, I do,’ I said.
‘Is Auntie Doreen more closely related to you than me?’ he asked.
‘I think you should ask your Mum that particular question,’ I replied.
The questions and answers were left hanging in mid-air. There was no further probing for the remainder of the evening. At this time his mother was in Ireland on a visit. When she returned to London he asked her, was he, Terence, Celine’s cousin, or was Rosaleen, Celine’s cousin. He said that he was confused as to the actual relationship. He was obviously trying to place me in his extended family. But he must have come to the conclusion that there was something strange about my ‘cousin’ status.
His mother replied, ‘Why do you ask?’
He responded, ‘Is Celine more closely related to Auntie Doreen than to you?’
She confessed the truth to him. She told him that I was indeed Doreen’s firstborn, illegitimate daughter.
Niamh later told me that she cried all night when Terence told her the story. She said to me, ‘They were such a cruel family.’
This was the first statement of public knowledge by that family that I actually existed. Really, apart from my mother, her mother, my mother’s sister Rosaleen and my ‘auntie nuns’, nobody else in my biological family realised that I existed, as far as I knew. But the news of my existence travelled no farther. Terence and Niamh must have been sworn to secrecy. But I did not mind, a chink had appeared in their armour. The strategy of annoy nobody and bide my time was working.
I would find a way in the end.
* * * *
Donna, Rosaleen’s daughter, and her husband, Paul Bell, who lived in Dublin, came to London to visit her mother in the summer of 1983. Paul and Donna had their two children with them. They all came to my house for dinner, with Rosaleen one Saturday evening. After dinner the kids were tired, and Donna took them home to put them to bed. Rosaleen went home with them. Paul stayed on talking to Harry and I.
I asked Paul if he knew my mother.
‘Ah yeah, Doreen. Sure, of course I do, isn’t she Donna’s aunt?’ he replied.
Next, in a most casual way, couched as a throwaway remark or question, I pondered aloud, ‘I wonder do you know my father?’
As the last word left my lips, Paul said without hesitation, ‘Aw yeah, Tom! Tom O’Sullivan from Janesboro. Sure, of course I do. Sure there is no doubt about it, Celine, he’s your father!’
I nearly fell off the chair.
He said it with such certainty. I was devastated that he knew my parentage and was so confident in that knowledge. My mind was racing. How many other people knew? Was I the only person in this awful saga that did not know who my father was?
I was fuming inside. I thought, ‘No, this can not be. It must be the alcohol talking.’
Paul had drunk quite a large amount of wine during the meal and had consumed four or five stiff brandies afterwards.
Externally, I was as cool as a cucumber. I asked, ‘How am I ever going to contact him?’
He said, ‘Brothers are close. He has a brother called Paddy that he is very fond of. If you contact him, he is your best bet.’
I think he realised that he had committed a terrible sin, because he then added, ‘Now lads, don’t tell anyone that I gave you this information. This is TOP SECRET in the Clifford family. I’d be hung, drawn and quartered, if they ever found out that I told you. I’d have to take the boat.’
I had such trouble taking all this in. I could pursue it no further. I was unable to think straight.
Shortly afterwards Paul left to go home. As I watched him walk unevenly down the road, I thought, ‘It must be the alcohol that is talking, he could not know with such certainty.’ And yet I could not get what Paul had said out of my mind.
I was going to hunt down this lead, whatever the cost. I was going to control it myself. I was not going to let anyone else do any of the work for me. I would not be deterred from this. I was away on a crusade once again!
I knew that a work colleague was at home on holiday in Ireland at that time. By a torturous and circuitous route, I got the telephone number of her parents in Ireland. I spoke to her mother and asked her to get me a copy of the Irish rural phone book with Limerick phone numbers in it. I got her to promise that she would make sure that her daughter would bring me back a copy, without fail. I must have sounded desperate, because when my colleague returned from Ireland she delivered the phone book to my house, on her way home from the airport, by taxi.
As soon as I had the book, I phoned all the names of P. O’Sullivan in the Limerick area. I asked if they had a brother called Thomas, who lived in Janesboro. Eventually a man who lived in Corbally said in answer to my question, ‘Yes, I have a brother Thomas in Janesboro.’
I then said to him, ‘My name is Celine Roberts. My mother is Doreen Clifford. I have been told that Thomas O’Sullivan is my father. I want to make contact with him.’
The classic ‘pregnant silence’ ensued. There was not much dialogue between us. He said that he would, ‘see what he could do’. He sounded as if he did not believe my story. He sounded nervous and subdued. Above all, he sounded shocked.
I tried to emphasise, how important it was for me to meet my father. He replied, ‘The identity of a father may never be established.’
It had never occurred to me that such a possibility existed.
I gave him my address and telephone number in London. I tried to push him into contacting me if he spoke to my father, but he did not offer to call me. He did not offer anything. I thought that he was probably disturbed by my phone call.
While the entire phone call was a legitimate request from me, I had no idea what consternation I might have caused him. He was probably just about to have his dinner, while putting his feet up after a hard day’s work.
This phone call took place on the second of August. The month of September passed and Paddy O’Sullivan did not contact me. My mind was now buzzing every day.
I was getting close to meeting my father. I was so close now, that I was not about to give up easily. I would have access to my father, without going through my mother. I was going to circumvent my mother, who had always protected my father’s identity from me. Why did she protect his identity so assiduously?
I never mentioned my contact with Paddy O’Sullivan to anyone, in case I was persuaded not to explore the link any further. I did not want to be dissuaded from further exploration. Paul had given me the information in confidence. While it was a drunken confidence, I appreciated it so much that he had broken what was obviously a code of silence within my mother’s family, the Cliffords.
He was the first person who had given me any hope of ever meeting with my father. I did not want to betray that confidence.
I checked the post every day for a letter from Paddy O’Sullivan.
None came.
October came and I decided more direct and personal intervention was necessary. I would go to Ireland and see Paddy O’Sullivan myself.
During the mid-term school break, Harry’s trusty old Ford Escort was packed up again with our belongings, and all four of us headed once more for the ferry terminal at Fishguard. We made our usual stop at Harry’s parents’ home in Kilkenny. We only stayed there
for one night, the Friday night. It was only a brief stay, as I was on a mission.
Next day we travelled on to Kit’s house at Buttevant. This was to be my ‘operations’ base. We arrived on Saturday and settled the kids in. On Sunday I set out my battle plan. I told Kit what I was going to do. I think in Kit’s own way, while she did not approve of my battle plan, she understood.
I decided to tell my minder, Sister Bernadette, what I was about to do. On Sunday I phoned her at her base in Mount Trenchard Convent in Foynes, County Limerick. When someone answered, they asked, ‘Who is looking for her?’
I answered: ‘Celine Roberts wants to speak to her.’
After a pause the woman’s voice said, ‘She is not here.’
I asked, ‘Where is she?’
The voice replied that she did not know. Then she hung up on me. I was disturbed by the nun’s attitude on the phone. Later that day, I phoned the convent looking for Sister Bernadette again.
They said, ‘She is sick.’
I said that I had travelled all the way from London, and wanted to visit her. They gave me the telephone number of a convent in Cobh, County Cork and hung up.
When I called the convent in Cobh, I asked to speak with Sister Bernadette. ‘There is no Sister Bernadette here,’ they informed me and hung up. I decided that there was something strange going on, although I did not know what. I felt that I was being given the run-around, so I decided not to continue trying to contact her.
I never spoke to her or tried to contact her further. I was never to hear from her again – ever.
For somebody who had such a large influence over such important information in my life, it was a strange way to end our communications.
On the Monday my battle plan was to go into action. I telephoned Paddy O’Sullivan and I told him that I was in Ireland and that I wanted to meet him. I do not think that he expected to hear from me again.
I felt his resistance to meeting me at first, but he eventually agreed to meet me in the bar of the Glenworth Hotel, in Limerick, the following evening at 8 pm.
I put down the phone. I was a nervous wreck. I was bathed in sweat. But I had more plans to put in to action. I rang Father Bernard, who had remained my friend and confidant throughout the years. He was at home at Glenstal Abbey, when I phoned. I told him my plan about meeting whom I considered to be my father’s brother, Paddy O’Sullivan, the next evening at the Glenworth Hotel. He said, ‘My dear Celine. Do you want me to go along with you to the meeting, as support?’
‘I would be very grateful for your support, if you could be there,’ I replied.
We agreed to meet in the bar of the Glenworth at 7 pm, so we would have time to chat before meeting Paddy O’Sullivan.
The arrangements were in place.
The people were in place.
I asked Kit and Tony if they would look after my children for as long as necessary. They readily agreed. The military support was in place.
The following day I went and had my hair done, as I wanted to look my best. I spent ages on my make-up. I tried on all the outfits that I had brought with me. I borrowed a valuable bracelet from Kit.
Time passed slowly that day.
Eventually, Harry and I set off for our meeting with Father Bernard. After thinking every day for three months about what I would say to Paddy at our meeting, I had no prepared list of questions. They were all in my head. But I would shoot from the hip. I would take no prisoners this time. I was focused and I knew what I wanted. It was within my grasp, and I did not want it to slip away.
Harry and I reached the bar first. There were a few people drinking, but we sat at a table that would be out of earshot of the bar area. It was almost an alcove. We had a soft drink each. There would be no alcohol. I had to keep a clear head.
Father Bernard turned up next. We greeted each other with our usual hug. He sat and chatted about Anthony and Ronan and other small talk. He said that he had never realised that I had wanted to meet my father so much. He thought that I was always afraid, because of the risk of damage to my father’s family. He asked me why I had now decided to ‘rock that particular boat’ as he could see that I was determined to see it through, whatever the consequences. He said, ‘No matter how much they tried to hide you and your identity, the truth will come out.’
At about 7.50 pm, a man and a woman entered the bar. They seemed a very elegant couple. They exchanged a few words between them and approached our table directly. I stood up, as I knew that it had to be Paddy O’Sullivan. My heart was thumping.
He came to me with his hand extended. We shook hands and he said, ‘You must be Celine Roberts. I am Paddy O’Sullivan and this is my wife, Mary.’
‘Yes, I am. This is Harry, my husband and this is Father Bernard O’Dea, a good friend of mine. He has agreed to be here, because he has known me for a very long time.’
I asked Paddy O’Sullivan if he had any objection to Father Bernard’s presence. He said, ‘No, none whatsoever.’
We all sat down around the table. Harry recognised his pre-arranged cue, and asked everyone what he or she would like to drink. Paddy had a soft drink, Father Bernard had a gin and tonic, and Mary had a whiskey and water. I wasted no time and asked Paddy directly, ‘Have you spoken to my father?’
To which he replied, ‘No!’
I was taken aback. That could mean anything.
But before I got a chance to talk about it any further, he followed on with, ‘There is no money to be had here, girl.’
Harry came back with the drinks and at this point Father Bernard interjected and said in a voice which did not betray his anger, ‘If Celine was after money, she could have done a lot of things, a long time ago.’
I said, ‘No, I am not here for money. I am here because I want to find my father and establish my identity. I know nothing of my background. I only know what I have been told, and that is very little.’
Paddy then said, ‘There is a big family involved. There are nine children; a lot of them are married with children of their own. There are a lot of people who could get hurt.’
Father Bernard said, ‘Celine has had a lot of hurt also.’
Paddy then said that he would talk to a priest, a Father Houlihan, who was a friend of Doreen’s. He said that he was a hundred per cent sure that his brother Tom was totally unaware of my existence. He said that what he really wanted was for Father Houlihan to get Doreen, my mother, to tell his brother Tom about their daughter.
That sounded fine to me. It was then agreed between us that Paddy would set about arranging a meeting between my mother and the priest. He qualified it by saying that he could not promise anything. Paddy then started to ask questions about me.
‘Where do you live? Do you come to Ireland often?’
I replied that I came ‘home’ once or twice a year.
‘Where is home in Ireland?’ he asked.
I said, ‘Mostly we stay at Buttevant, or Castleconnell with friends or Kilkenny with Harry’s parents.’
He asked if I worked. I told him that I was a nurse and had two children. While the conversation had not become friendly, the atmosphere was not as frosty as at the beginning.
He then asked, ‘Where did you grow up?’
‘In Kilmallock,’ I replied.
‘Did you know the Browns of Kilmallock? They had a shop.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘They are cousins of mine.’
‘Do you know the Powers?’
‘Yes, I do. I worked for them when I was 14.’
‘Did you know Maurice Power’s business partner, Pat O’Sullivan? He is my first cousin.’
‘Yes, I worked for his brother Jimmy, as a housemaid, when I was 16. It was for a short time.’
My mind was in a whirr. The conversation revealed that I had, in fact, spent much of my early days close to my father’s family. I had even worked for them and I did not realise it.
The meeting with Paddy O’Sullivan and his wife came to an end. Paddy asked
if I knew what Tom did for a living. I replied, ‘I was told that he was a lawyer.’
‘No, he is not a lawyer.’
‘I do not care if he is a road sweeper, as long as he is my father,’ I countered.
As they rose to go, Mary said, ‘You are the spitting image of Doreen, there is no doubt that you are her daughter.’
The atmosphere had become somewhat light-hearted. Paddy offered, ‘Well, your father looks a bit like myself.’
To which I responded, with a smile, ‘If he looks like you, he must be okay, you are not too bad-looking yourself.’
With that, my genuine Uncle Paddy shook hands with me, gave me his business card and then they left.
I felt elated. I had an uncle. This was my first contact with my father’s family.
I came away from that meeting with a feeling of a degree of acceptance, however tiny. I felt that the mere fact that they had agreed to speak to me at all, meant that I was not totally the scum of the earth.
We left the hotel and walked Father Bernard back to his car. We collected our own car and drove back to Buttevant. Talk in the car with Harry was kept to pleasantries and small chit-chat. The intricate details of my meeting were not discussed, but I went over every minute detail in my head.
I was pleased that everything had gone better than I had expected. I felt content for the first time in months.
Except for one niggling little aspect.
When Mary had said that I was the spitting image of Doreen, I felt that she spoke of Doreen as if she had known her quite well. I was surprised that my father and mother would have kept in touch.
The following Wednesday, Kit asked me if I would like to go and see the ‘family mansion’ in Clarina, County Limerick, where my mother had been brought up as a child. Tony and herself had discovered it on a drive one Sunday. I said that I would love to see it, and that I would like to meet Clifford, Rosaleen’s other son, who was living there.
‘Oh great,’ said Kit. ‘You will be able to have a tour of the estate grounds and the mansion. We had better leave early, as it might take quite a long time to take the entire tour of the house and grounds.’
I thought Kit sounded a bit strange when she said this, but I was too excited to think much of it. The four of us, plus Kit as navigator, headed off with Harry as driver, for the Grand Estate of the Clifford Dynasty, at Ballybrown, Clarina, County Limerick.
No One Wants You Page 18
