Thomas Lynch - Catch Me Before I Fall

Contents

Rosie Childs was born Clare Malone, a black child in an all-white family, living in an all-white area of Liverpool in the 1950s. She was immediately different, and living proof of her mothers infidelity.

Neglected, ignored and beaten by her alcoholic stepfather, Clare struggled to live a normal childhood. When she and her brothers and sisters were finally taken into foster care, she was treated as a trouble maker and shunned for the colour of her skin.

As she grew up, Clare tried to leave her past behind her. But a breakdown followed by spells in a series of dehumanising psychiatric institutions left her plumbing the depths of despair. Finally, with support, Clare was able to unlock the deeply buried and shocking childhood secrets which would allow her to begin living again.

Over the course of her life, Clare often reinvented herself, each time changing her name for a new beginning. Now, as Rosie Childs, she is a confident and positive survivor who has defied the odds to create her own destiny.

Catch Me Before I Fall is the heartbreaking, courageous and inspirational story of one womans determination to survive.

Crisis, where Rosie and Diane met, is the national charity for single homeless people and works year-round across the UK helping people fulfil their potential and transform their lives. Crisis helps rebuild the lives of homeless people by helping those trapped in the cycle of homelessness and raising awareness of their plight. The charity estimates that there are around 380,000 hidden homeless people in Britain, living in hostels, temporary bed and breakfast accommodation and squats, or sleeping on the floors of friends and family. Rosie is donating money made from this book to a special project with Crisis - Crisis Skylight - a centre where homeless people take part in free practical and creative workshops giving them the opportunity to build skills, confidence and self esteem.

I AM FIFTY-TWO years old and have changed my name seven times so far. I have never been able to understand why most people keep the same name from birth until death. My names change when my life changes. Perhaps those whose names dont change have lives that dont change either.

For a while I tried to keep my names separate independent life spans with beginnings, middles and ends but that doesnt work any more. They used to chase each other around in a blur, a perpetual process of fast forward, rewind and a few pauses in the present, but now theyre still. All my names have caught up with each other.

I was born Clare Malone, the name my mother gave me. I was ten years old and living at Park Hall, a childrens home in Liverpool run by an order of nuns, when I found out my mother had given me a dishonest name.

I was at Mass with my five brothers and sisters and was standing at the back of the chapel where the fumes of religion seemed more diluted. Sister Maria tapped me sharply on the shoulder. She bent down, her habit bristling, and whispered disapprovingly in my ear that my mother had arrived unexpectedly (as she always did). Sister Maria gave me a grudging nod to leave the service and I ran into the high, dark hallway. My heart always lifted when my mother turned up, although I knew hers remained steady in her chest.

She was slender and pale with elegant bones; her genes seemed to have avoided me entirely.

Mum, I whispered, hoping that the other nuns wouldnt catch me dodging God. Should we go and sit in the visitors room?

It was always impossible to gauge what my mothers reaction to anything would be but she didnt seem interested in sending me back to Mass. She was never a hugger and I knew that if I tried to fling my short, brown body against her in pursuit of a cuddle she would recoil. She took a step back and moved her eyes up and down me.

Hello, Clare. How are you keeping? You seem well enough here. A bit less skinny by the looks of things. My mother was born in Chorley and had been brought up in Preston. She moved to Liverpool before I was born and she spoke in flat Lancashire vowels rather than the accentuated ews and euws of Liverpool.

We went to the room with the maroon sofas and faded stripy curtains, which the children were never allowed into without the protective shield of a visiting adult. She turned her head away from me to stare out of the window. Yer sisters and brothers keepin all right, Clare?

Were all fine, Mum, I replied.

She draped herself over the radiator and drummed her roughened fingers against the windowsill. Her perfect limbs made her look expensive, although she rarely had any money at all. She wore a violently red blouse and black skirt, and her white-blonde hair was coiled elaborately into the nape of her neck. My mother never noticed housework. I doubted she had ever scrubbed a floor or scoured a sink the way we had to at Park Hall. Yet her hands belonged to someone who had led a harsh life and her bitten nails were as downtrodden as a scullery maids.

The sky was a hopeless shade of grey. It looked as if it would retch sheets of metallic water forever. My mother had been on her way to the Queens Head pub a few roads away when the downpour started. She didnt own an umbrella and impulsively decided to shelter at Park Hall.

Ill turn up with rain tipping out of me hair and me lipstick smudged to bits, she said, grumpily. And then what will Mick think? He likes to see me turned out like a proper lady.

Her life was populated by men called Peter or Mick or Sam, who soaked up her time and her soul. I was never able to claim her the way I saw my friends at school lay claim to their mothers.

She lit a cigarette and inhaled with relief.

I knew that I had my mother to myself for as long as the rain fell and Mass lasted. It was probably the first time it had ever happened. As the two of us sat quietly I sensed I might never get another opportunity to ask the question I had always wanted to ask. My oldest brother, Damian, often sneered to me, You dont belong in our family, youre not like the rest of us. Look at that dark skin of yours. It doesnt look normal like ours.

My five brothers and sisters all had creamy pink skin like my mothers and our father Sams, while mine was a tough, dark brown. The difference was indisputable. Damian was usually right about things and I wondered often why I looked so different from the rest of the family. My mother had never said anything directly to me but I sensed she felt ashamed of me the dark blot on the white landscape of her children. The imprint of that shame remains carved into me.

I trembled, then blurted, Mum, Damian told me Im not from our family. I know I dont look like the rest of you. Am I from somewhere else? Are you really my mum and is Sam really my dad?

Sam had been her husband before and after I was born, but had disappeared without trace one day when I was four years old. Malone was his surname.

At first I thought my mother was going to slap me. An angry vertical furrow appeared between her eyebrows and her mouth twitched downwards. Then the anger cleared. She turned towards me and her pale blue eyes filled with tears. At that moment she acknowledged what the alcohol usually pushed away that everything worthwhile in her life had been lost to her. It made her generous with me.

Of course Im your mother, Clare. How else would you have got into our family? She tried to sound cross but was becoming dreamy. Sam isnt your father, though. Your father was a proper gentleman, second in command to the captain of a Chilean ship. I met him when his ship docked in Liverpool. Jorges Sherriema his name was. He was such a handsome man.