Who am I?

‘"Have you any name other than Anna’'s mum?’" someone asked me recently.

I found myself having to think hard "‘Do I"?’

As Anna is only thirty while I'’m seventy-three, I obviously had many previous roles. Is any of them the real me?

My birth bestowed on me not just the title Willie H’'s daughter, but also membership of a tiny minority group, the Anglo-Irish. Later on this posed a crisis of identity for me. I would ask myself: ‘Am I Irish? Am I English? Can I choose which to be? Am I neither one nor the other?’

The time came when I grew angry at being my father'’s daughter. It reached a peak the day he threw my mother out of the house. She left with my youngest sister. She didn'’t have any money to take her far. I can still see her face, pale, terrified, bewildered, as she stood, looking back at us. Was she pleading with us? Was she apologising to us? I don'’t know, because I was in deep shock. I longed to go with her but couldn'’t. I had no say in the matter. I remember our father trying to persuade us we'’d be better without her. I replied emphatically: "‘No. We wouldn'’t".’

I was crying out inside me: ‘"I wish she’'d take us all away with her –forever. I hate him.’" I knew it was a hopeless wish. My mother had no status, no power, no means of support. She’'d gone with nothing but the clothes she was wearing. Society would condemn her and take his side.

Afterwards, I heard she'’d slept on a stone floor in a nearby cottage where three old folk lived. I can'’t remember how long she was away for, but I guess their rector or family intervened. I don'’t recall her coming back. The house had been so miserable without her. My world was turned upside down, inside out. If parents but knew how their behaviour affects their children! The scars remain for ever. Ours wasn'’t a happy home.

At the age of twelve I went away to boarding-school, courtesy of my Uncle Dick. All through secondary school and college I was known as Professor’ H’'s niece. I was happy to be away from home. When my school and college friends grew excited at the approach of holidays, I had to pretend that I, too, was looking forward to going home. In reality, I already felt alienated from my childhood environment.

Being my uncle'’s niece bestowed on me a certain unmerited fame but it also imposed its own restrictions. More and more I longed to be responsible for the direction my life was to take. I wanted to choose my own career, my own friends, the man I wanted to marry, what I believed in. At that stage this was impossible. Everything I did was closely monitored and my life was being planned for me. I was pushed into a career I hated - –teaching. A new name-tag materialised – little Johnny’'s / whoever'’s teacher.

At last I broke free to some extent and, as a result, I became a kind of outcast in the circles I'd moved in up to then. At thirty-one I married and earned the appellation, Mike’'s wife. The name-tags were accumulating. So were the contradictions in my life. Mike and I grew up on opposite sides of the religious divide in Ireland. Did I belong on either side?

Twelve years after our marriage came what was for me to be the most coveted of all my titles, Anne Marie’'s Mum. One day, when Anne Marie was eight years old, she came out of school with a mixture of anger, disgust and indignation on her face.

‘"Mum, do you know what that teacher said to me?" she asked, in a tone of utter disdain. 'What did she say?'’ "Anne Marie, is that little, fat, grey-haired woman, who waits at the gate every day, your mother?’"

Oh, ye gods! SHORT! FAT! GREY-HAIRED! ALWAYS WAITING FOR HER DAUGHTER!

What a flattering profile but obviously not how my lovely daughter saw me! I'’ve told this story to many people. One of those to whom I related the tale remarked that teachers aren'’t the most diplomatic of people. This could be true. Mike and I fall into the category of older parents. When Anne Marie was nine, we moved her to a new school. On the Open Day for new pupils and their parents Mike arrived late. As he entered, the Headmaster announced: '‘Here comes Grandad'.’

Diplomacy in all its glory! I love telling this story. To the Headmaster I was Anne Marie’'s Mum and, although Mike is over three years younger than I am, he was being referred to as Grandad!

In her final year at primary school Anne Marie became Annie. Her new teacher said: ‘"If you think I’'m going to get my tongue around a name like Anne Marie, you’'re mistaken". From now on you will answer to the name Annie.’

We all liked the new name, so I became Annie’'s Mum.

After University Annie spent two years in Nepal, where her name changed once again, this time to Anna. Now I am Anna'’s Mum. To me this is the most glamorous of all my titles. Last November I spent five days in London, helping Anna at a big conference. To my surprise, during the final ceremony, the Chairman asked if Anna'’s Mum would stand up. There I was, at the back of a large lecture theatre with hundreds of people turning to look at me! What did they see? A little, fat, grey-haired woman whom they may have noticed already, doing cloakroom duty, or standing in for the door porter, or serving drinks, or fetching reports from the Archives. They would have recognised me as a member of Anna'’s squad of helpers by the red, fleecy Patagonia jacket I was wearing.

Anna introduces me to all her friends as: ‘This is my Mum. She. . .’

Recently, I read an e-mail she’'d sent to a young man, saying, '‘My Mum may be joining us for lunch. She’'s cool.'’ Now there’'s a name-tag I didn'’t know I was entitled to. Cool? ! !

Is there a real me, then, apart from being an appendage to someone else? I have always thought of myself as an independently-minded, strong character who isn'’t noted for conforming, someone impossible to sway. I suppose most of us don'’t have an independent existence, apart from our relationships with other people. Those who are known by their own names tend to be unique for some outstanding achievement of theirs. I could never aspire to that, so I guess I shall go on being Mike'’s wife, Anna'’s Mum, Jeff’'s bridge partner, the Cannock Amnesty International representative, or whatever. Inside, however, I shall remain myself. After each fall I shall get up and try again. Through misfortune I shall keep on smiling. I shall persevere in trying to eliminate those parts of me I don'’t like and develop how I aspire to be. I can'’t alter my height and battling with my weight has long been a lost cause. It'’s too late in the day to try to hide the grey hairs any longer and I don’'t really want to cease being known as Anna'’s Mum. I guess I'’ll just go on being seen by others as: ‘That little, fat, grey-haired woman always waiting on Anna.’ That, it seems, is WHO I AM.