One day, my little sister Theresa had volunteered to babysit for me and didn’t turn up, which was very unusual. I knew something was wrong, and I got it out of her that Martin, now sixteen, had tried to gas himself in the kitchen at 4 White’s Villas.
I dashed to the hospital, to learn that this had been no cry for help: he had been very lucky to survive. Ma arrived soon afterwards, marching manically up the corridor searching for news.
‘Oh look at the nosy cow,’ she crowed. ‘She would have to get her big nose in, wouldn’t she!’
‘You don’t know if your son is dead or alive, but you can always take a moment to attack me,’ I scowled back. ‘You need to look after him better.’ After this, I invited Martin to my flat often, but it wasn’t much of an escape for him, as I had my own problems. My husband and I weren’t getting on, and we split up when our son was a young boy.
Sadly, for reasons I can’t discuss, I missed out on many years of my son’s childhood. I tried everything in my power not to lose a single day with him, but all I can say is that fate was unbelievably cruel to me. The pain of not seeing my son was unbearable, and I felt it every day. For a long time it hurt me just to breathe.
When we ended the marriage, I found myself homeless too, because in Ireland there was then no State housing for women who left their husbands and the family home. Friends helped me out, and I even moved to England for a while, just so I could stay in a homeless hostel and receive benefits. It didn’t work out, and one night I was forced to return to 4 White’s Villas. I simply had nowhere else to go.
Michael and Theresa were fifteen-years-old by then, and both were bright and beautiful people. I loved spending time with them again, but something made me shudder when I saw how they slipped silently out of the room when my daddy walked in. He seemed to make their brightness fade, as if he cast a black shadow over them. It was unnerving.
I couldn’t bring myself to sleep upstairs in the house that first night. I told myself it was because the beds were filthy, just like they always were, and because that stinking toilet bucket was still on the floor, after all those years. The truth was I didn’t want to relive my childhood. How could I even begin to cope if I allowed myself to remember so many terrible things?
I slept downstairs and, the next morning, before anyone else was awake, I slipped out and caught a ferry back to England. I found myself digs in Worksop, where I’d stayed before and had friends, but I wasn’t living. I was barely functioning.
After a while, I moved to a block of flats, and there I met Tony. I was desperate for love, and I welcomed his attention whenever he called in for a chat and a cup of tea. He kissed me one day, and a flicker of life sparked inside me.
I put my arms round him and enjoyed his hugs.
Tony made me feel human and lovable for the first time in many years. When we started sleeping together a few months later, he would hold me all night long, while I cried on his shoulder for my son.
We’d been together several months when I realized I was pregnant. I’d been on the Pill for years now, and I was horrified when the doctor confirmed my suspicions. My relationship with Tony was far from perfect. I started behaving unreasonably, resenting him for making me pregnant, and our relationship quickly started to unravel. By the time I gave birth, in the summer of 1987, Tony and I had separated. All I wanted to do was focus on my new baby boy. This time, I vowed that nothing would go wrong. I ached to be a mother to this child, and was determined nothing would ruin things.
I fell in love with Christopher the moment he was born. He was beautiful, and I hugged him to my chest and started to cry. He reminded me of another little baby, but I couldn’t remember which one. I lay there for hours, trying to work it out, but it didn’t come to me. Perhaps I wouldn’t let it.
Christopher was a month old when I bumped into Simon in the street while I was out shopping for nappies. I’d known him for a while through my friends in Worksop, and when he saw me alone with the new baby he offered to come round and help me out.
I’d moved into a council house, which my friends had decorated while I was in hospital, and for the first time in my life I had a home I felt proud of. I was besotted with Christopher, and when I saw Simon lift him tenderly out of his cot, something in me stirred. He looked like a daddy - a proper daddy. Christopher gurgled, and Simon and I exchanged smiling glances.
We spent many more happy hours together after that. Simon never shouted or swore. He didn’t criticize me or bully me or run me down. Instead, he paid me compliments, made me laugh, he held me tight and listened. Before long, I
