Kathleen O’Shea - Little Drifters - Part 4 of 4

By now Fergal was more excited than me, eager to be reunited with his family. He flagged down a big black taxi – a massive car that I’d only ever seen before in pictures.

‘Not long now,’ he grinned as we climbed in and gave the driver our address. ‘Our house is just ten minutes from here.’

I tugged at my long brown coat, suddenly self-conscious at my plain clothes. My nerves had now reached a critical point. I shook as we pulled alongside a small house with a black front door on a quiet street.

Stay calm , I told myself over and over. Just stay calm .

But it was near impossible. I knew that today I would meet my mother. What will I say to her? What do I call her? Will she like me? All these thoughts raced through my mind and I felt my head buzzing with confusion and fear. I was trying my hardest, but how could I possibly stay calm?

Bridget opened the door before we’d even walked up the small path to the house. She looked different from how I remembered her; older, like a fully grown woman.

‘Kathleen!’ she sang, opening her arms wide. She must have heard the cab pulling up. I hugged her shyly, awkwardly. She was my sister, my family, yes, but also a complete stranger. She welcomed me into her home and took my coat before leading me through the hallway to a small, perfectly neat and clean living room. Bridget always was a clean freak, I thought, noting the spotless carpet, the plumped-up cushions on the sofas and freshly polished cabinets.

Fergal gave her a big hug too and then, in a moment, a small girl appeared at my elbow, her shy, anxious smile matching my own.

‘This is Annie,’ Bridget said proudly. ‘My daughter.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said formally. But Annie, who was five and cute as anything, didn’t stand on ceremony. She threw her arms around my waist and buried her head into my hip. Then she looked up, curious.

‘Are you my aunt?’ she asked inquisitively, her nose wrinkling at the tip. ‘You don’t look old enough to be my aunt. Are you from Ireland too?’

It was funny, she had an English accent and I couldn’t quite believe that she was Bridget’s own daughter. A child cried from somewhere upstairs. Bridget bustled out, reappearing a few minutes later with a bewildered little boy with dark hair sticking straight up on his head who had clearly been asleep just moments before. He was clutching a well-chewed blue toy elephant and leaning into his mother’s shoulder.

‘My son, Alfie,’ said Bridget. ‘He’s only just two.’

It was still very early, just gone eight in the morning, and Bridget offered us both tea and toast. Fergal tucked in, famished. We’d only had one meal since leaving St Beatrice’s – a soggy ham sandwich on the boat. But I refused the toast, I couldn’t eat a thing. Bridget showed me round her home – it had two bedrooms upstairs and I would be sharing with Annie. There was a living room divided by a pair of sliding doors and a kitchen leading to a small garden in the back.

Just as it was coming up to nine o’clock, the phone rang.

Bridget went to answer it.

‘Yes, they’re back,’ she spoke. I knew in that second it was my mother on the other end of the line.

‘You’re at the school now? Then you’re coming over? Okay, no problem.’

Bridget put the phone down and turned to me. ‘Your mother’s on her way over.’

I felt sick. I didn’t say anything. My heart was beating at a million miles a minute.

‘She has another family now,’ Bridget went on, putting me in the picture. ‘She met another fella and they’ve had two kids.’

I could barely take it in for the roaring in my ears. The time just seemed to fly by so quickly that the next thing I knew there was a knock on the door.

Oh my God! I felt light-headed. Maybe I was going to faint? My stomach dropped to my toes and I started to tremble.

In a second Bridget had opened it and I heard greetings at the door, my mother’s voice! I expected then to see the same woman I remembered from five years before walk in. But she didn’t. Another woman did.

This woman had my mother’s slim body and the same long blonde hair but there was something different about the face. She looked harder than my mother. She was pushing a child in a buggy who looked to be about a year old. I sat, rooted to the spot, unable to move.

‘Oh hello, Kathleen,’ my mother said, very casually, as if I’d only popped out for half an hour. ‘Did you have a nice journey over?’

‘It was fine,’ I managed to mumble. There were no big hugs, no kisses, no warm words or greeting, love or remorse. Nothing. It was as if I was a pleasant but completely irrelevant stranger.

Mammy plonked herself down on an armchair in the other corner of the room, next to Bridget, and began chatting away to her.

I was sat, hunched up on one corner of the sofa where there was clearly room for another.

Was that it? Nothing more? I’d waited all these years to see her, cried over her so many times, and that was all she had to say to me!

In that moment, in that very instant, my feelings for my mother evaporated. It was as if I had never loved her.

While she chattered away to Bridget, I surveyed her – the faded blue jeans, red chunky knit jumper and black pumps. She wore no make-up and looked far older than I remembered but I could see that people would think she was still slim and pretty.

During a lull in their conversation my mother turned to me.

‘Was the crossing all right?’ she asked coldly. ‘Was it rough?’

‘It was okay,’ I told her. God, this was awful. Awful!

I knew then that the mother I had lost all those years ago was dead, and this was a new one. One who didn’t seem to care for me or her children back in Ireland. They’re still there! They’re still your kids! I wanted to shout. Six more of your children locked up in dreadful institutions, being beaten, bullied and abused. In my mind I pulled up an image of each of my brothers and sisters in turn: Brian, Colin, Tara, Libby, Lucy, Riley. Your kids, Mammy! But I didn’t say it and she didn’t ask me anything about them. And I knew too that if I hadn’t been there, sitting right in front of her, she wouldn’t have given me a second thought either. I knew that now. I looked at her bored-looking child sucking mindlessly on a dummy in its buggy. Mammy had another family now. We didn’t matter.

Mammy stayed about an hour and a half that first day, not saying much to me at all, only occasionally looking in my direction. When she left she just waved me goodbye like she didn’t care if she ever saw me again. No kisses, no cuddles; we were strangers. I wanted her out as soon as possible. My feelings for her had been destroyed and all that was left was the bitter aftertaste of those long wasted years, wanting her back. When she’d gone I knew Bridget sensed something was wrong but she didn’t know what to say.

So I spoke: ‘That’s my mother then.’

‘Yeah, that’s your mother.’

And we just left it at that.

I played with Annie for a while in the garden and then Bridget told me something that made my heart leap with joy.

‘Tara’s on her way down,’ she told me. Until this moment I hadn’t even known Tara was in the country. I was so excited and happy at that moment. My sister! My beloved sister! It had been four years since I’d seen Tara and now I was giddy at the thought of being reunited.

When she walked in the house I could hardly believe this tiny, slim girl with long, long hair down to her hips was my sister. She was beautiful! We kissed and cuddled like mad. She had a baby too!

‘I’ve got so much to tell you,’ Tara babbled. ‘Oh Kathleen, I’ve missed you like crazy.’

Now I was the happiest person in the world. Tara lived a few streets away in temporary accommodation, a hotel, she told me. The baby was still just a few months old but you could never tell Tara was a mother – she was such a young girl herself and thin beyond belief. I had so many questions for her; we had so much to catch up on, but now was not the time. That day all my older brothers and sisters came to see, and each of them had kids, so the whole time we were surrounded by children. Liam and Aidan seemed happy to see me, so did Claire, who I hadn’t seen in ten years. She told me she had been in Dublin until she was 19 and then came to London to be with Bridget. She now worked in a hospice and had a boyfriend in London. It was lovely to catch up with everyone but all I wanted was to be alone with Tara. As she left that day she clasped my hands in hers and urged me: ‘Come to stay with me. Please come.’