Abandoned Love

by Rosie Houghton

  They took the stairs down to the bar and Fidelma was waiting for them.

  “Hello Rosie. You look nice this evening.” She said blowing a kiss on both cheeks “How are you both?”

  “Nervous.” She replied.

  “I know, I’ve never had to do anything like this before. I mean how weird that we met in the Colombe D’Or that day and that you mentioned your mother’s name and that my mother knew her. If I could have called her at the restaurant I would have and put you out of your misery. Anyway you are here now.”

  “What will you have to drink?”

  “Two gin and tonics. I’ll get these.” Her husband replied.

  “The food here is really good, and the hotel seems really nice,” she said.

  “We’re having the christening here tomorrow. We wanted it in our home town. It should be quite a knees up.”

  “Who are we going to meet tonight?”

  “Well I have arranged for you to meet Humphrey and Pat who were great friends of your mother. They should have some photos and bits of memorabilia. They are well thought of in Macroom.”

  “I’m dying to meet them can we go now.”

  They left the bar and walked the short distance to a little fish restaurant. Rosie was nervous with anticipation, gingerly walking on her high heels over the cobbled pavement. When they got inside the restaurant was small and packed. They made their way to a table in the corner where a number of people were sat. All eyes were on Rosie. The restaurant was very noisy with people talking and laughing. Suddenly there was a hush. A woman with blonde hair and green eyes, the same as Rosie’s, approached her. It was like looking at a spitting image of herself, as if looking in a mirror twenty years on.

  “Hi I am your Aunty Orla.”

  Oh God she was her mother’s sister, the one that was meant to be living in Spain. She was here, right here in this room. They both burst in to tears and hugged each other. Everyone cried.

  “I thought you were in Spain.”

  “We were but we had to come back for a funeral.”

  They continued to stare at each other. Make up was streaming down their faces but they didn’t care. This was the best present Rosie could have ever hoped for.

  “This is my second husband Donald,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “And these are your mum’s friends Humphrey and Pat.”

  “Hi.”

  “I can’t believe how like Miriam she looks,” exclaimed Pat.

  “I can’t believe how like Orla she looks,” exclaimed her husband.

  Orla said there was so much she wanted to tell Rosie about her mother. She had, had so little time to put something together, but she had typed a resume in a little red folder with an original photograph of her as a Lucie Clayton model in the 1960’s together with some other photos that Rosie could keep. She sat and turned the pages. The photo was the most beautiful photo she could have seen. She reminded her of her husband’s mother. This would explain why her adoptive mother never got on with her husband’s mother. She reminded her of her eldest. She slowly began to read the contents of the folder.

  “Dear Rosie

  I am going to meet you tonight for the first time in 40 years, the last time I saw you, you were a little baby. Miriam had called you Michelle and sadly gave you up for adoption and you were renamed Rosie.

  A few years later, as far as I remember Miriam heard from your adoptive Mother, to say that your adoptive father had died. Miriam was very tempted to try and claim you back, but didn’t want to break your mother’s heart.

  When Miriam put you up for adoption, she was not the success she became later in life. She often talked about you over the years, but when she got ill from cancer she talked about you a lot, and wondered how you were doing. Sadly I had no way of getting in touch with you.

  I attach a brief story of Miriam and her family and some photos and articles that appeared when she established herself as a designer, manufacturer.

  I hope the attached help to fill in the blanks in some way.

  Orla

  Miriam was born on the 20th May 1942, and grew up in a terrace house in an area still affectionately called Jew Town. At the time a lot of the neighbours were Jewish, Goldwaters, Goldbergs, Levin, Cohen etc, etc. The Sullivan-Cody’s were a different family as well. Your grandmother a Catholic Corkonian, Bridget Barlow came from Blackrock in Cork. Your Grandfather a Londoner Charles John Sullivan-Cody from St Martins Lane, in the heart of London was brought up as a Baptist but later became a Catholic. He came to Ireland and was the publisher of a hotel magazine.

  There were five of us, Frederic, Matthew, Miriam, Orla and James. Tragically James died in a car accident aged 31, then your grandfather died aged 88, he was 25 years older than your grandmother. Miriam sadly died in February 1988 and your grandmother died in December 1988. Matthew died in 1999 and Frederic sadly passed away last year. I am the only remaining member of the family.

  Frederic had a son Mark

  Matthew has a daughter April

  Miriam one daughter Michelle (Rosie)

  Orla one daughter Charlotte

  James one daughter Orla and one son Charles

  Miriam from an early age was very artistic and went to study Art at Cork School of Art (Crawford Gallery)

  She went to London in the early 60’s and passed out as a model at the Lucie Clayton School of Modelling. She decided not to pursue that career, instead went for a Designing Course at St Martins Lane Art College.

  She also worked in London in Selfridges, went to work on a cruise ship etc, before finally returning to Ireland, where she started working in the rag trade. In the mid 1960’s Miriam went to Dublin and started firstly working in Brown Thomas and then private dress designing dress making. It was during this time she met whom I believe was your father Len Jackson. I’m sorry I know very little about him, except he had lived a lot in South Africa and came back to Ireland. Miriam was madly in love with him.

  I was living in North London at the time with my daughter Charlotte who was only a baby when Miriam came over as she was expecting you. You were born in either July or August I can’t remember. Miriam sadly had to give you up for adoption, as she had no future with your father, and she thought it would be best.

  It was after this that she started on her dress designing and things went on from there.

  Your Mother was a beautiful woman. She was very talented and gifted and if she had lived she would have been the top Irish designer, ahead of John Rocha and everyone.

  She was a very popular woman with her huge circle of friends in Cork. She was a fantastic sister. She had a wicked sense of humour, she was very good to her parents Mum and Dad, she was a great Aunty to my daughter Charlotte, she helped rear her. She was very witty, could be very caustic also, took no prisoners, told it as it was. She always gave out advice and sorted us all out.

  I think she always regretted giving you up for adoption, as when the stigma had lifted about being a single parent, she was in a position to have given you a good home. I can only hope for Miriam’s sake that your adoptive Mother was a good kind and caring woman.”

  Once Rosie had read this she started to flick through the newspaper articles and photographs in the folder.

  “Ireland was a very different place in those days. You just couldn’t have a child out of wedlock.” Said Orla.

  There were more photos of her mother and her famous fashion creations. There were pictures of her mother in the 60s and pictures of her with Sir Freddie Laker and her sister on a yacht in Majorca. There were pictures of them holidaying in Spain, where Rosie’s husband and she had been, all those years ago in Sotogrande, probably all at the same time. How she ached to have known her. She was obviously a very successful and popular woman. If only she had known she might have become a fashion designer or model herself. She had so nearly followed that route but did not have the confidence to take it any further.

  “Why didn’t she ever marry or have more children?” Rosie aske
d.

  “She wasn’t that interested in men after Leonard to be honest. She could take or leave them. She had her gay friends at the Royal ballet in Dublin whom she designed for. One of her closest friends David died last week. I am afraid I will have to go to the funeral when the christening is on in Dublin. He only found out about your existence a week ago. It is such a tragedy he has died.”

  They ordered their food, but we could not eat anything. There was so much to discuss. So much to catch up on. Humphrey and Pat said her mum was very much the life and soul of the party, that Rosie reminded them so much of her.

  “You even smoke like her,” said Pat.

  Orla asked if Rosie had been happy. She said that she had had a fortunate, but difficult upbringing. She had always wanted to get in touch but didn’t want to hurt her adoptive mother. They all chatted in to the early hours. It was like they had always known each other. It was like Rosie had come home.

  They left the restaurant and all piled into Humphry and Pat’s large Georgian townhouse in the centre of Macroom. The kitchen had a bar area and they all sat round it. More bottles of wine were opened.

  “This was where you mother used to spend many evenings with our friends.” Said Humphrey.

  They laughed and they sang. Rosie had never been in such pleasurable company. Pat got out more photos of her mother, more poignant ones showing her mother with cancer, when she lost the use of her left hand. These were her mother’s true friends. The only thing dividing them was her English accent.

  “Now I can see where your love of drinking came from.” Said her husband.

  They went back to the hotel in the early hours of the morning agreeing to all meet up the next day.

  “Welcome home Rosie, welcome home.”

  The next day Rosie woke up and climbed out of bed. She immediately reached for the red folder which was on the coffee table and climbed onto the window seat to smoke a cigarette through the window and read again the contents. It was time to tell the children what was going on. They were going to see Aunty Orla today as a family and it would be impossible for them not to see the family resemblance.

  They went downstairs and each ordered a full Irish Breakfast, consisting of black and white pudding which they had never had before.

  “We are going to see someone today, who we met last night and who means a lot to your mummy. You see grandma is not mummy’s real mummy, as mummy was adopted as a baby by her. Mummy’s real mummy is dead but her sister is alive and she is going to meet us at the hotel this morning and then she is going to drive us to her house. Then we will hopefully grab a bite to eat at the local pub. Mummy has a folder upstairs with photos of her real mummy. She was a very beautiful lady.”

  Rosie didn’t know if her younger children really understood what was going on. Over the forthcoming weeks they were to ask many searching questions. They were about to discover their new family and the Irish roots that her children would inherit. Orla was quite sure that her father was Irish which made her one hundred per cent Irish.

  Orla greeted them later on at the hotel. She drove them through some beautiful craggy countryside towards the west coast of Ireland.

  “I’m near the village of Ballyvourney which is famous for newly weds passing through.”

  They turned off the main road and followed a windy road up a hill through the woods towards her house, which was a large Georgian house perched on the top of the bank with views stretching for miles over the undulating countryside. The house had a small turning circle to park your cars in the front.

  “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Rosie said “It reminds me of my husband’s parents house when they were married.”

  Orla led them in to the kitchen and made them all a cup of tea.

  “There’s a picture I’d like you to see on the wall.”

  Rosie walked towards the picture. It was a beautiful watercolour of Paris in the winter. It was signed by Miriam.

  Donald proceeded to show all the children the rabbit warrens in the garden. Orla showed them the work she had done to the house.

  “This was the house that Donald grew up in. We moved back here a few years ago. It needed a massive amount of work doing to it. It’s on the market now, because Donald wants us to live in Spain. I don’t suppose you want to buy it?”

  They spent a long time at the house. Rosie was a little worried they were going to miss lunch. In France you need to get to a restaurant by 2 o’clock if you want any chance of being served food. This was Ireland though, where she forgot food is served all day as in England. They eventually made their way down to the pub and grabbed a table outside. They’d banned smoking in the pubs in Ireland so the only place they could smoke was outside. The rest of the gang joined them and more wine and food was ordered. The sun was shinning that day, and whilst they were there many wedding parties came and went.

  After a long day they retired back to the bar at the Castle. Some of the guests were starting to arrive for the christening the next day.

  “I won’t be able to see you tomorrow because I have to go to a funeral.” Said Orla. “But I want to see you and the children before you go, so shall I meet you at the airport in Cork at midday before you get your flight?”

  “That’s fine by us. We’ll see you then.”

  The first drink they ordered was a gin and tonic. They didn’t realize that in Ireland it was customary for everyone to buy everyone a round of drinks. Before they knew it her husband and Rosie had eight gin and tonics and pints on the table.

  “I can’t drink this many gin and tonics. Normally I switch to wine after the first drink.” If they thought the first night was a long one the second was even longer. They sat up talking with their new found friends until 5 o’clock in the morning. Everyone started singing their known Irish songs.

  The following day fell from one alcoholic blur to another. The service was to be held at the local Catholic Church in Macroom. About a hundred people attended. Outside many people commented on what a fascinating story Rosie’s was and how glad they were that they could make it. It seemed touching that the weekend should culminate in a christening, the religious celebration of a birth. Fidelma’s mother came over to Rosie and said.

  “I am glad that I was of some help. I am so sorry to hear that your mother died. We were just so lucky that we could get hold of Orla.”

  The service was beautifully done. They weren’t quite sure where to sit at first as they weren’t really family and didn’t want to impose. By the time they got to the reception they were feeling a bit awkward, because clearly Fidelma and Nick were caught up with their friends and the only other people they knew were Humphrey and Pat. They needn’t have worried. Everyone was extremely welcoming. The children got on with all the other children. They met people who were in to property development or art or both. They talked about Rosie’s extraordinary story and their meeting at the Colombe D’or. They talked about Ireland and the places to go and see when they were next over.

  “What’s the secret to Irish gravy?” Rosie asked.

  “They put too much fat in it.”

  They stayed up that evening until 5 o’ clock in the morning.

  “I don’t think my liver can take much more of this,” said her husband.” Perhaps we should check out tomorrow and go somewhere else. We can always come back again in the next few weeks. What do you say?”

  “That sounds a great idea. I spoke to someone about my passion for cooking and they mentioned that Kinsale which is half an hour from here is the food capital of Ireland. Perhaps we can find a hotel there to stay in. We’re still meeting Orla to say goodbye the following day.”

  The next day they checked out of the Castle in Macroom and drove down the coast to Kinsale. It was a beautiful sunny day again and as they turned the corner for the port they saw the village sign for Kinsale “Twinned with Juan les Pins France”

  “How extraordinary.” Rosie exclaimed. “Of all the places to be twinned
with. That’s the place we went to when your father died.”

  They checked into a hotel on the seafront and took a look round the village. It had an old feel to it with little brightly coloured houses squashed together round the port with lots of fishing boats. There were little pubs and boats dotted around the place. The seagulls flew and cried in the skies. It was a Sunday so the place was very busy with people walking round with ice creams or fish and chips. Her husband noticed that all the Irish girls they saw had a certain look about them that reminded him of Rosie when she was younger, brownish blondish hair with green eyes. Just behind a small fairground they found a lovely fish restaurant. There was a small queue, but from looking at the menu and the food they could see why there was a queue and decided to wait.

  Eventually they got a table outside and they ordered “moules marinieres” for the children and lobsters for themselves. That afternoon they took a short drive over the estuary to a pub on the other side and discovered a beautiful beach round the corner. That day they were to receive a phone call from the agent in London to say that the tenants wanted to buy the London house. They had seen what they thought to be the beginnings of a property crash in Ireland as there had been too many new builds, and thought nothing of it. Little did they know that a world crash was about to happen. They rejected an offer which with hindsight they should have taken. Later that evening they dined in the hotel restaurant and went for a well earned early night.

  The following day the children wanted to go swimming in the hotel swimming pool, before making their way back to the airport.

  “We don’t want to do that. We’ve got a pool at home in France which you can use anytime you want. A pool is a pool at the end of the day.” Rosie said.

  “Why don’t we do a bit more exploring.”