What is the date you began writing this memoir and the date when you completed the memoir? Research began over 30 years ago, though at the time no thought of writing! Start and completion 2014 – 2021. I began writing books in 2012, my parents had both passed away by then, and I realised how much knowledge, as well as the many memories, that died with them. I set about writing my first two books, (also memoirs) to ensure that my children and grand-children would still have those memories if something happened to me. I was having a lot of trouble with my heart health, at the time. Following the first two books which were through a publisher, I decided to do my own thing as I felt the publishers did not seem to be very proactive with promotion. My husband was a copywriter and has helped me with editing. Amazon offers a great deal to Indie authors and I had an ex-colleague who brought everything together for me. I really enjoyed this experience and it made the book, even more, mine!
Where did you do most of your writing for this memoir? And please describe in detail. I had lost my job, due to prolonged illness, and physically, I could not do very much! So, I sat in the armchair in the sitting room, near the patio doors. From there I could see the sea and the cliffs, as I had seen from my childhood bedroom window.
We, my husband and I live in a converted barn on the farm where I was brought up, with my two sisters. I could also watch my ducks, large Silver Appleyards, the old-fashioned farm ducks, so comical in how they behave and respond to noise. The chickens were also there, and our lovely garden birds feeding on our bird table, Chaffinches, Gold and Green Finches. Since 2019 I can now see my beautiful horse Wallace, and his companion Barney. I have always loved the outdoors and this position gave me the opportunity to feel the nature, weather, seasons and colour, without having to be out in it. And my dog Bertie would sit by my feet whilst I would be thinking, writing, researching on ancestry or talking to my ‘new’ family. I immersed myself in writing, this was something that I could do! Health wise I am fit and well and have been for the last 5 years, I still work in the same position. It inspires me, and reminds me of how lucky I am to be able to lead a full and very active life again now.
What were your writing habits while writing this memoir- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? At the start I would be surrounded by the box file of documents and photographs that I had collected over the 20 plus, years of research. Sometimes I would find a note written on the back of an old envelope, and occasionally on the back of a packet that I had in the car when I was travelling, they reminded me of how unprepared I had been at the time. I could never have imagined how this story would unroll. I would also have my notepads opened at various points and my laptop close to hand. I would write on and off all day, sometimes in note form as reminders and sometimes straight on to the laptop; except when I had visitors of course, my children and grand-children. As my health improved, having had my pace-maker fitted, I would arrange more visits to travel up to Merseyside to see family, to add to what I already knew. To try and make sense of who I was, biologically. My husband would ply me with cups of tea. I would write blocks of different information, and rarely went back to edit, until I felt I was really moving on through my story. I would become quite emotional at times when writing, and have to take a break and really think things through before continuing, a cup of tea always helped. I felt like I poured my heart into my writing and it was a very cathartic experience. It gave me closure.
Out of all the specific memories you write about in this memoir, which ONE MEMORY was the most emotional for you to write about? And can you share that specific excerpt with us here. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer, and please provide page numbers or Chapter number as references.
This is a difficult choice to make, though I think that it would have to be when I finally found my mother, only to be told she had died 4 years previously (2014) the year I began to write this memoir. At the time that I received that envelope, as described below, I had given up on finding my mother. When I received the information, I felt I had let her down, I had failed in my quest. I felt completely empty.
Chapter 7 But for the price of a stamp. (pages 89 to 92).
Sometimes we can read so much that we miss the blindingly obvious! On my adoption papers that I was given twenty years ago, I had two addresses believed to be temporary work addresses for my mother. As so many years, forty-three to be precise, had already passed, I did not write to these addresses. I assumed that no one would remember the kind nurse who had perhaps looked after a parent or other relative. Also, the social worker who sent the information through said that they were temporary work addresses and that no one would know of my mother now. A few weeks ago, when going through all the paperwork again with Elaine, she said ‘have you written to these addresses’, ‘no’, I said explaining why I had not done so. Well, what have you got to lose she says and so I wrote to both addresses, and to the two foster parents who had looked after me for some time prior to my adoption placement. Having put the letters in the post I walked away and forgot all about it, as I had not expected any response. It had been a stressful week and following certain circumstances. I had taken my youngest son John to Newlyn, near Penzance to collect a new, second-hand car on Thursday 13th September. When I arrived home, there was some post on the chair and I looked at it, thinking, I wonder what that is. I opened the envelope, a large white A4 and written across the top in bold red pen. Photo–Do-Not-Bend. I took out a photograph of a young women, a nurse, and thought, what is this all about. I looked at the writing on the mask and it said a name I did not recognise. The photograph was beautiful, an official photograph of a lady in her nurse’s uniform proudly displaying her Nursing Prize Medal. There was a letter. As I began to read the enclosed correspondence, I realised that the woman in the photograph was my mother. I read the letter with tears running down my face, struggling to read the print through the tears and sobs that threatened to remove the ink. John walked in and put his arms around me, not knowing what was happening. It took a while to be able to explain what the letter was about, in fact I just showed him the photograph, and said ‘that is my mother, she is dead’. The letter was in response to one of the three letters that Elaine had suggested I should write. The address, in Stockport was the family home of my mother’s first cousin and where my mother had spent much of her time, both before and following the death of her own mother and her grandparents. The cousins had been bought up like sisters and were awfully close. My mother had been born in Colwyn Bay, North Wales, and at the age of three when her own mother became poorly with MS (Multiple Sclerosis), she and her parents moved to her grand-parent’s house. My mother’s 1st cousin, Edna’s parents married and lived in Stockport, Edna was born nine years after my mother. There were a couple of smaller photographs in a separate envelope and these were of Edna, her mother, and my mother Margaret. Edna’s mother was also called Margaret and was a sister to my grandmother who had been called Catherine, Kitty for short. I was delighted to know that I had been named after my grandmother and I had always known that my mother had named me, mum always told me so. To find out why I was named Catherine, was so very special. It seemed that my mother must have met my father when she was nursing at the Chester Royal Infirmary between 1952 and 1955. On the back of the official photograph, it had been dated 6th June 1955. My mother was expecting me when that picture was taken, and she was looking healthy and happy. Having completed her additional training to gain her SRN (State Registered Nurse) qualification my mother told the family that she had decided to have a change from hospital nursing and was going to work for an agency, BNA British Nursing Association and was off to the South West to work. At this stage no one knew that she was already carrying her child, me. The letter went on to say that, it was with great sorrow to my mother that she could not keep me, not because of the situation of being an unmarried mother, more the logistics and practicalities, as at that time other family members were unwell and older, also a lack of space. This bore out what I had always been told that my mother had desperately wanted to keep me. As a mother, I find it hard to even think about what she must have felt, the hurt and desperation must have been unbearable. I can only imagine how hard it must have been for her, and specifically at that time, when there was such a stigma attached to being unmarried and expecting a child. The pain of having to go to St. Olaves for me to be born, a home for ‘fallen girls’; so far away from home, and to spend those three precious weeks with me and then to have to say goodbye. This letter was a bittersweet revelation, I was so happy and yet so sad. Once again, I had found and lost in the same moment. The envelope also contained the funeral ‘order of service’ for my mother. I was feeling deeply sorry for myself; I was cross that I had not written to those addresses all those years ago. I was cross that I had been visiting Exeter every week for five years when I was working through my Masters at the University and my mother was living there. I was just very, very cross. If I could have kicked myself, I probably would have!
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Can you describe the emotional process of writing about this ONE MEMORY? After the arrival of the envelope, the realisation that finally I had found my mother, and yet, lost her in the same moment, took some time to accept. I went through the stages of grief, whilst trying to get my head around the information. Anger came first, and was aimed directly at me. I had had my mothers address, or family’s address since I was 7 years old. I never did as I was told, so why had I not written? The bargaining stage was trying to make sense of why I had not just written, and why were those addresses dismissed by the person who was helping me come to terms with this whole thing. Not being someone who suffers depression I think I missed that stage, though I admit to feeling very sad, and writing initially made that worse, except, that through writing one learns to accept the truth. Denial would usually be the first stage in grief and loss, and I think that is perhaps what hit me, hard in the face, the day the envelope arrived. I wrote as I felt and for me that is what I needed, and as I thought about editing some parts out, I decided that I wanted my readers to feel that emotional rage. Life is full of ups and downs, and this was simply a part of what I needed, wanted to know, and to do, to help others. I knew there would be sorrow as well as joy through this process. It still affects me now, and yet I know, there is nothing I can do to change the facts. If people are going to delve deep into their past, they need to be prepared for the dark times as well as the light and joy.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? No deletions, though I realise now, that I carried a sense of guilt with me for some time. I had the means to find my mother before she died. I did not use it. She had lived for most of my lifetime in Exeter, just one-and-a-half-hour drive away from where I live. She had returned to the city where I was born, had she hoped to find me one day?
Cathy Mayes lives and works in Cornwall, where she lectured at a local college, in Child Care and Education for ten years before returning to work in Children’s Services. Cathy has always loved horses, riding and teaching others to develop their own skills. Now retired she is an author, her third non fiction book being ‘Out of the Quill Box, Came Secrets of a Family I had Never Known’.
Cathy likes to write non-fiction books and says there is so much around us that is fun and interesting to write about, and to share with others. People say never work with children and animals, Cathy has done both and loved every minute of it, the fun, laughter and relationships are so full of amazing stories to share. Cathy loves reading a variety of genre and recently has immersed herself in the ‘Yorkshire Shepherdess’ Amanda Owen’s books, for all the reason that she herself loves non-fiction and working with children and animals!
Cathy’s first two books, also non-fictions, ‘White Horses and Sunbeams’ the first about family and being brought up in Cornwall. A story of four generations who have lived in, worked, and enjoyed the diversity that this beautiful county has to offer.
The second, published earlier this year, ‘Matt and Pandora’ is about one of my grandsons, his passion for horse riding and how he builds a beautiful, trusting relationship with his very first pony, Pandora.
The third book, ‘Out of The Quill Box’ is about my personal journey, searching for my past, and my birth parents. Sometimes I felt like a square peg in a round hole, not whole, searching for something, and not knowing what.
I have been on a peregrination of discovery that has taken me across the UK, and to South Africa in search of my history. I have grown in knowledge and confidence through my travels and my truth.
I needed to write my story, for my children, my grandchildren, for myself. My family are the best of me, they are part of me and of my past.
Everyone has their own, individual story. Most people know their past, their ancestry, their nature, and nurture. To track back through generations, takes ingenuity, determination, bravery, bags of support and hours of time. Your story is who you are. My story, is who I am.
I have more stories to write.