Little Drifters: Part 4 of 4. Kathleen O’Shea

with them both. Each of them simply said: ‘Goodbye, Kathleen.’ And that was that. Fergal picked up my case and led me out of St Beatrice’s. From the moment we stepped outside the front door, I felt a surge of freedom welling up inside me. I didn’t even give the place a backward glance. No, I was leaving for England where nobody would tell me what to do. I was free again!

      But the long trip took its toll on my nerves. With every hour that passed I became more and more scared of what was going to meet me at the other end. What would they all look like? How would they treat me? On the boat I didn’t talk much. Fergal kept trying to start conversations but they all petered out into silence. I couldn’t speak at all. There was such a storm of emotion raging in me I couldn’t express a single thought. Some part of me felt inexplicably sad, though I couldn’t for the life of me work out why. I didn’t even ask him many questions – I would soon see the truth for myself.

      It was early morning when our train pulled into Paddington, and the shock of my new surroundings was truly overwhelming. We were in London, a city I’d only seen in postcards or on TV. The place was swarming with people, busy people, smart people, all dressed up and click-clacking about with places to go in a big hurry. The buildings were vast, tall enough to obscure the sky. I saw the cinema, a beautiful ornate building in the middle of the street. And the lights! Oh, the lights were magical. The noise of the people, the cars, the buses and the general din came at me from every angle. It was truly an assault on all my senses.

      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.