Best of Times, Worst of Times: John Rogers
August 19, 2007
Best of Times, Worst of Times: John Rogers
The Irish-born writer, 60, only found out who his mother was when he was taken by his foster mother to visit her in a Catholic workhouse, one of Ireland’s infamous Magdalene laundries. She had been told she would never get out. Here he recalls her ordeal and how she never gave up on seeing her only son again
I first met my mother when I was 14. It was one of the most traumatic days of my life. I was standing in a room with religious paintings on every wall. On a large mantelpiece were statues of St Martin and St Anthony, while above hung a lifesize crucifix of Our Lord. Beside me was my foster mother, Mrs O’Brien, and in front of me was a nun in a white veil and black habit. As I wondered what kind of place this was, a young woman came in, gaunt and pale, with dark hair. The nun said this was my mother, Bridie, and she rushed over to hug me. Her affection was so overwhelming I could not speak, but the happiness on her face is something I’ll never forget. She had waited 13 years for this moment. She gently took my hand and led me into the grounds at the back, which were enclosed by high stone walls. As we walked around, all these women were waving at us from the windows. At the end of the path was a grotto of Our Lady. There we turned around and went back inside. She told me she loved me and kissed me goodbye.
I did not know where I was that day but, as I later found out, it was a church institution in Galway run by the Sisters of Mercy, a Magdalene laundry. Everyone knew it — their vans went all over the county picking up and delivering hotel linens, suits, priests’ vestments. I was then in the care of the O’Briens, who I’d been fostered out to when I was about five. I’d often ask about my real mother, but was told I was too young to understand.
Ireland back then was ruled by the church and riddled with stigmas. One huge stigma was being an unmarried mother. You were the dregs of society, a “fallen woman”. My mother was a fallen woman. At 16 she was raped by a boy who worked on the estate where she’d got her first job as a maid. She didn’t realise she was pregnant until she was seven months gone, and then she was sacked. Facing destitution, she was given the address of St Mary’s, a home in Galway for unmarried pregnant women run by Bon Secours nuns. In reality it was a workhouse, and once she gave birth to me she was pressurised to give me up for adoption. Most mothers succumbed, but she refused.
After 13 months at St Mary’s, a Sister Imelda told her they’d found her a lovely job in Galway and that they’d look after her baby until she got on her feet. It was a lie. She was driven to the Magdalene laundry, where she was given a calico gown, a cap, a bar of soap and a towel and put to work, washing and ironing for 10 hours a day. Her dormitory of 50 women was one of three. She got food, no pay. She wasn’t allowed out, or to see or contact anyone. The women were all unmarried mothers and orphans, young, old, alone or abandoned. Unless a family member took you away, you were there for life. My mother had no one. She’d been picked up on the streets of Dublin, aged two, and sent to St Joseph’s, a children’s workhouse in Galway, where she stayed until she was 16. When she gave birth to me, she says, it was the first time in her life she’d had someone. At Magdalene, it was the hope that she’d see me again that kept her going. For 10 years she pleaded to be allowed to find out where I was. The nuns told her to forget about me. They said she’d never leave. Anyone who tried to escape had their head shaved and their food confiscated. She’d never encountered such cruel nuns, and yet one sister in the end became her saviour. Her name was Sister Philomena and, risking her own expulsion, she found out the name and address of the O’Briens.
From that day on, my mother began to find ways of secretly sending us letters. She heard nothing for months, but the next year she was handed a package. It contained a letter from Mrs O’Brien and a letter from me. I can’t imagine how emotional that must have been for her.
It was 1955. I was about eight and my mother 27. From then on, the letters continued and I wrote back every time. The O’Briens were good people, they loved me like their own son, but they knew she was my mother and eventually agreed to her wish for us to visit her. The first time we went, we were turned away. The second time, they let us in, and that was the day I first saw her.
Now she was determined to get out. On the first Sunday before September 8 — Our Lady’s birthday — when everyone was in the chapel praying, my mother and two friends took their chance. On a part of the high wall hidden by trees, they formed a human chain and climbed up. No one saw them and they hitched a lift with a lorry driver to Williamstown, the home of my foster parents. Fearing they might be caught, they knew they had to get as far away as possible. But my mother was desperate to see me first.
She did, and that same night, with the help of Mr O’Brien, she left for England.
My mother was free and eventually we were reunited. Sadly, she died seven years ago, but I will for ever be humbled by what she went through and how she never for one minute gave up on me. And it is this that eventually compelled me to sit down and piece together her story. This was my way of paying tribute to her.
For the Love of My Mother, by John Rodgers, is published by Headline Review
