Dying to be Free

From Enforced Secrecy to Near Death to True Transformation

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Contents

Early Years

I met my father for the first time when I was fourteen. It was Autumn, a time of year I've always looked forward to: the darkening evenings and crisp mornings heralding the exciting run-up to Christmas.

Between September 1989 and July 1996 I lived at a boarding school in the countryside during the week, having gained a scholarship there when I was eleven, going home to South East London most weekends. It was the school who organised a counsellor to come with me to meet my father, James Carson, for the first time. It was suggested to me by school staff that I shouldn't broadcast the news of my heritage, but to be circumspect in revealing my father's job to any of my friends, a task I agonised about, wanting to share the information so my friends and I could talk about it but unsure of what might happen if I did. In the end I decided to just confide in my best friend.

During the days before the first meeting, my wider group of friends (who knew I was going to meet my father for the first time but understood him to be a lecturer not a priest) and I eagerly discussed probable outcomes of the meeting. They offered various opinions such as,

"He'll probably cry when he sees you."

"It will be like it is on television, where the two relatives who've never met before run towards each other, crying."

"He'll really love you and wish he'd got to know you sooner."

Buoyed up by the fantasy we'd created and daydreaming about various positive outcomes, I eagerly looked forward to the meeting and was very glad when the day arrived. The counsellor chosen by the school wasn't qualified, but was the husband of a teacher who had an interest in psychology. Looking back, it might have been better if he had been a 'she', as I had trouble trusting men, perhaps due to the absence of my father. Nevertheless, the nuns at the school were very kind to me and did their best, and I know the choice of counsellor was made with kindness. Psychologist Dr Linda Nielsen writes, "The quality of a daughter's relationship with her father is always affecting her relationships with men – either in good ways or in bad ways ... When a woman doesn't trust men, can't maintain an ongoing relationship, doesn't know how to communicate, or is co- dependent, this is probably because her relationship with her father lacked trust and/or communication." This was definitely true of me at that point.

I'll come back to the first meeting with my father soon but first I think it's worth looking more deeply at the events which led up to it. At the age of two I had no idea that most people at least knew or knew of their father. I was perfectly happy with my mother and, as children do, just accepted that everything was how it should be. When I was about three I must have become aware that there were such things as fathers, as I remember asking my mum if one of her male friends was my father. My mother never had another serious relationship after my father left her so there was never a man living with us as I grew up.

As I grew older and became more inquisitive, noticing that everyone else I knew spent time with their fathers even if their parents were divorced, I asked more questions and was told my father was a university lecturer who lived in London. The drive to find out who he really was ballooned at this point until I felt I simply must know, as not knowing was too painful. Professor Patricia Casey says of priests' children who don't know the identity of their father, "It seems the big issue is the secret of it. Even if they are misled they might have a sense that something is not quite right." During a weekend home from school at the age of twelve I must have been particularly persistent and curious as it was then that my mum told me he was a Catholic priest. I went back to school feeling very confused, feeling this was not quite right but not knowing why. I was in no doubt that this was a secret I should keep largely to myself.

My mother, Emma, was born in 1943, the fourth of five children, and grew up in a traditional Catholic household in Surrey. Her mother was a headmistress and her father an accountant; I think it would be fair to say that she and her brother and sisters all recall their childhood differently, some have happy memories, others not so much. The Catholic Church played a huge part in her upbringing, and she and her siblings all became involved with it throughout their lives to varying degrees.

My mother met my father in the common room of a London university where they were both studying, she for a theology degree and James in a seminary with the view to becoming a priest. They were in a relationship for around two years, during which time my father told my mother he was considering not becoming a priest. Opinions about whether their relationship was ethical or moral will obviously vary greatly. My father was not a priest at the time although he was in training – two of my mother's flatmates were also in relationships with men destined for the priesthood, but both these men left the seminary, married their girlfriends, had children and remain married to this day. Was my mother wrong for getting together with my father? Was my father wrong for getting into a relationship with my mother? I don't think there are any definitive answers to these questions as different conclusions can be drawn depending on which belief system you judge them by, for example perhaps devout Catholics would feel differently about it than non-Catholics. Anita Moorjani made an interesting point when she said, "anything that is 'true' has to be universal – in that, it has to apply to everyone, and not leave anyone out. Any religion that only applies to some and not others is not 'true'. Truth applies to all."

I think my mother and father's individual motives for getting into the relationship probably come closest to right and wrong choices. Their reactions after it was discovered that my mother was pregnant with me probably point to their different intentions; my mother seemed genuinely in love with my father and was hurt by his reaction, whereas he immediately distanced himself from her, indicating, perhaps, that the situation was alright with him (a last hurrah?) as long as it was problem free.

It was not problem free, however, if my conception and birth are to be considered problematic. When my mother confided to my father that she was pregnant, he was less than overjoyed. Aghast, appalled and horrified would be a more accurate description. He was from a very Catholic family himself, and I have come to understand that he was the favoured child of three. His upbringing was middle class and I think it would be accurate to say that his mother had great aspirations for him. A Catholic mother of Irish heritage would no doubt have been very proud of her only son entering the priesthood, an occupation that Wikipedia categorizes as upper-middle class. James announcing that he'd impregnated a fellow student would no doubt have dented the proceedings somewhat. Did he genuinely believe he was destined to serve God? And if so, why was his behaviour towards my mother so opposite to that of a celibate priest? The answers to these questions can only be guessed at.

In 1977, when my mother was about three months pregnant, James asked her to attend a meeting with himself and his mentor, a senior priest, Father Frank Harding. I have recently been given documents that provide two conflicting accounts of this meeting. Father Frank Harding wrote the following account to a cardinal in June 1996.

Dear Cardinal,

Thank you for your letter. It may be useful for me to write this very brief, incomplete note.

In ... 1977 I was asked to help with James' and Emma's consideration of the way ahead, once it was clear Emma was pregnant. Discussions went on over several weeks. Both of them came individually to see me, and they came together for a joint meeting.

I and many others have never taken the fact of pregnancy in itself a good necessity-making reason for people to get married; and it was evident that marriage between Emma and James wasn't in prospect. So for James there seemed basically two possibilities: getting a job and being a normal separated father; or proceeding to diaconal ordination (fixed for June 1977) and priesthood.

I, when asked, put the view to each of them individually that priesthood could be viable, but only if there was an agreed framework of lives apart, the father's anonymity etc. Emma indicated to me readiness for the latter path. At the joint meeting Emma expressed encouragement to James to continue to the diaconal ordination and to priesthood, assuring him that she would uphold the framework described. Any communication would be through myself. Given all this, James came to regard his proceeding to ordination as right.

God bless, Father Harding

The suggestion that my mother happily encouraged my father on towards priesthood is refuted in the following letter, written by her to the Cardinal in May 1998.

Dear Cardinal,

Thank you for your letter. My own position will hopefully be clarified through the following points:

In your letter you say I had a relationship with a priest in 1977. James ... was not a priest or even a deacon then. He was on a shortened course for mature candidates. His behaviour in his relationship with me was not priestly at any time.

With reference to another of your points, I agree that with hindsight the decisions taken were wrong. At the time I felt them to be wrong. Never at any time did I think James should go forward into the priesthood given the circumstances and his nature.

Please take the following points very seriously:

In 1977, James never discussed with me on my own what we should do. All his discussions seemed to be with Father Harding. I never knew what was said in these.

I knew I was pregnant from March 1977. From April until after his exams in June, I agreed that he could study and we would wait until after that to discuss what should be done. He refused to discuss it with me when the time came.

I was unaware, at that time, of the extent of his friendship with Father Harding. He insisted that I come to "have a short chat" with Father Harding. I did not want to do this. I thought we should be sorting it out ourselves but I went as he was so insistent.

The chat turned out to be a meeting to which James came to fully prepared with several sheets of A4 paper containing his choices, totally undiscussed with me.

I had no idea that this was the meeting where a final and conclusive decision was to be made. In no way was I ready for that. I had been in a state of shock and bewilderment since finding out I was pregnant. I could not understand why James would not discuss the situation with me.

He started the meeting by saying, "Of course marriage is out of the question," (his words). This had never previously been discussed.

The only choice I wanted was that we should wait until after the baby was born until any decision was made. This was rejected immediately without discussion as he said he had a date for his ordination.

James was looking for black and white answers in a situation that had none and in which rushed decisions could not be made.

I was not being listened to, and it suddenly became obvious to me that since April he had been desperately extricating himself out of any responsibility. By this point I was too hurt to listen any more.

He went on reading from his notes. All the choices were his. He had no right then and has no right now to say that any part of the decision was mine. Such a decision only he could make and through his neglectful and cowardly actions through the previous months he had in practice already made it.

How dare he then try to foist on to me the responsibility for making his decision for him about how he was going to respond to his baby? I had already made my decision about my own response.

The outcome of this meeting seems to have decided how my life path went, for a while at least, until I was old enough to assert my own ideas.

Father Frank Harding, now deceased, provoked very different reactions at different times in his life. He has been described as charismatic and electrifying and at one time was hugely popular; however, was accused of sexually abusing young men in 1995. I have no idea whether he was actually guilty or not as there wasn't enough evidence to prove the abuse, but what has become obvious, after reading the letters he sent to my mother, is that he definitely possessed a gift for spinning webs of secrecy.

Following the 1977 meeting, my mother felt coerced and bullied. I think she struggled with the concept of standing up for herself against such a powerful institution. She has told me that during the meeting, Father Harding suggested she went to stay by the sea until the baby arrived, then give it up for adoption. She said no, luckily for me. After the meeting, she wasn't allowed to meet my father properly again – bar one meeting when I was three – for over thirteen years and any communication between the two of them had to go through Father Harding, as stated in his letter. My mother moved in with two friends in North London, who later became my godparents and who we lived with when I was very young. She then had the task of trying to come to terms with the betrayal of a man she loved.

When I was two we moved to a Housing Association flat in South East London. We lived there until I was eight and I remember this as being a very happy time; we were in a large block of flats and I made friends with several of the children who also lived there. It was fun running from my flat to theirs and then playing together in the estate's playground. My memories in that flat form a beautiful patchwork of birthdays, Christmas times, hugs, hamsters, cousins, visits to grandparents, a black and white television, our balcony filled with flowers, a hippy-style rug and a mainly peaceful atmosphere. Occasionally an air of sadness would permeate our flat; I don't know whether it was just me who felt it, or whether my mother felt down at times and I picked up on it. We hardly had any money, my father had not initially sent any until it was pointed out that legal advice would be sought, and worrying about whether money will stretch to the end of the month is exhausting. However, my childhood was very happy and infused with love at all times, from my mother but also from my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins on her side.

I must have started to question my father's whereabouts a bit around the age of seven, because a good friend of my mother's, a priest, wrote the following letter to Father Harding on her behalf.

Dear Frank,

I had a good long talk with Emma last Saturday, which we both found very clarifying and helpful. In our previous rather brief opportunity for a chat, either she had not made herself very clear or I had misunderstood her. So I would like to set out the position again, afresh.

Now that Hannah has started to ask questions, Emma has to foresee what may happen in the future and prepare her own mind and that of others involved. It may not prove necessary to tell Hannah, but Emma thinks it very likely that it will, a child demands at least a name, and can be given a made-up one; a young adult will demand a particular, real person to relate to mentally – whether to accept, or reject, or any other attitude.

Emma knows she gave an undertaking not to make public who Hannah's father is but, understandably, she feels she gave the undertaking under very considerable pressure, and judges that, while doing her best to bring no harm to anyone else, she must put Hannah's needs first – real needs of identity and self-acceptance, not just curiosity.

She does not consider that to give Hannah the information in some ten years' time, should that prove necessary, would be to make the matter public. There is no reason to suppose Hannah will be less trustworthy than she (Emma) is supposed to be.

In view of this Emma would like to know two things:

Whether, should the need arise in two or three years' time, J would be willing to see her (Emma) and discuss the matter.

Whether at a later date, and should the need arise, he would be willing to see Hannah, so that the latter would have a definite person in her mind and not some fantasy person.

All good wishes ...

I think many facts can be gleaned from this letter. It's clear how impossible it was for my mother to communicate with my father about simple concepts such as can our daughter be told your real name. It is also clear that although she agreed to maintain the web of secrecy to the degree that she was considering not telling me my father's name, she'd felt under pressure to agree to the plan in the first place. Having to ask permission at all shows what a hold my father and the Church had over her, and how fearful she must have been to carry on the secrecy against her better judgement. It's impressive to see that even in the difficult position she was in, my mum continued to fight to establish some sort of connection between myself and my father, an extremely courageous thing to do under the circumstances.