The distant, warning thud-thud-thud of the big Lambeg drum that marks the start of Northern Ireland’s summer marching season still sends a thrill of anticipation up my spine. I recall a sea of red, white and blue; massed crowds turning out on Belfast’s Shankill Road to celebrate their birthright, and the guttural roar of triumph when the marching bands strike up with The Sash, the unofficial national anthem of Protestant Ulster.

The Shankill – and its Catholic equivalent, the Falls Road – are tight-knit communities. For better or for worse, everyone knows everyone. Which is why the story of a letter I received from America some years ago might seem incredible to many, but not to me. Even at a distance of 4,000 miles, connections between Belfast’s residents and their local knowledge are strong.

When I was a child, I was often at the head of a marching band, one trained and run by my father, John Chambers, and based on the loyalist Glencairn estate. Myself and various wee cousins and friends were chosen to hold the “strings” that kept the banners taut in the breeze. The pride I felt at being given such an honour is indescribable, and as I marched past a huge section of crowd I thought they were cheering just for me.

And yet deep within the Chambers family there was a secret. A secret they had no wish to carry and could never share with anyone. At the heart of it lay guilt, shame and denial because my father, for all his loyalism and marching bands, had married a Catholic. A Taig. A Fenian. A Papist. My mother.

At the time of my birth, in July 1966, my parent’s marriage was just about able to hold together in Belfast, a city whose tribal difficulties were never far from the surface but, for now, hadn’t yet exploded into all-out civil war. My mother, Marie, came from a hardcore republican Catholic family from the Falls Road. Even in the mid-1960s such “mixed marriages” were very much frowned upon and, although they tried their hardest to make it work, the sectarian divide that would ultimately tear the city apart in the coming decades had already rendered it doomed.

John and Marie had four children: me, Jane, Theresa and Francis. The latter two were given Catholic names in a bid to bridge the religious gap; later on, and for reasons of safety as well as shame, they would be rechristened Alison and James.

Dad was a good-looking guy; he sported an Elvis quiff and smart clothes, despite money being constantly tight. He was a committed Christian, working in a variety of manual jobs: gardener, barman, painter. From the moment they started dating, both families were hostile to John and Marie’s relationship. There were threats made, and attacks on my mum’s family. While he loved us, Dad’s father couldn’t accept that we had a Catholic mother. My parents’ difficulties were compounded by my diagnosis of a bone disease at 18 months, which meant frequent and long periods in hospital.

My parents began to visit me separately. Then, when I was three, Mum turned up to the hospital in a taxi with her sisters and my siblings. I was told we were going on holiday: in fact, my mother was fleeing to a new life in London.

It wasn’t to last. Within days, my father turned up at the flat she had rented in Stockwell, south London, with his brothers in tow. Force of numbers outmatched that of emotion, and we were taken back to Belfast.

In 1970, I was discharged from hospital and came home for good. But not to the old house in a more “neutral” part of Belfast. My father had moved the whole family to Glencairn, off the infamous Shankill Road. In later years, the estate would become notorious as a dumping ground for the victims of loyalist murder squads – in particular the Shankill Butchers, who carved up randomly selected Catholics – but for now, cut into the mountainside and surrounded by forest, the estate was a paradise.

I loved it, and those who lived there. We were all close to my dad and felt protected by him, along with the grandparents and various uncles and aunties who lived close by.

John Chambers, aged about eight.

Their protection, however, came at a price – we were forbidden to talk about our mother ever again. As far as we were concerned, she was dead. In fact, we came to believe she had died in a car crash. No more needed to be said.Glencairn was not a place to talk about any Catholic connections you might have. Not that we were even told she was Catholic, of course.

My father was a member of the Ulster Defence Association, the largest loyalist paramilitary force in Northern Ireland. However, like many, he had nothing to do with the military side and, in fact, deplored violence. He ran the local UDA club and was also responsible for setting up the Glencairn Girls’ Accordion Band. As with all marching bands in Northern Ireland, its members weren’t in it just for the love of the music. The marching band plays an important part in the heritage of the Protestant people of the province and Glencairn Girls was the pride of the estate, winning many competitions.

At the age of eight I was a happy child, secure in the knowledge that I had a loving family around me. Occasionally, I’d wonder about my mum, but this questioning was gradually replaced by a growing hatred of the Catholic population who, by the mid-1970s, were being blamed for stoking the fires of sectarian tension and, via the IRA, bringing a campaign of murder and terror to Belfast and beyond. In every area of my life I was reminded that I was a Protestant and a loyalist, and I was very proud of that. By now, I hated “the Irish” and anything to do with them.

The violence across Northern Ireland increased dramatically. No doubt about it, this was a country at war. As young teenagers, we saw punishment beatings, tar-and-featherings, dumped bodies in side streets.

My father died of lung cancer at the age of 39, and we kids were farmed out to relatives across the estate. There were whispers and muted conversations, sideways glances and secrets shared. Stories of a mother who was not dead, but very much alive and living elsewhere. Rumours of a religion alien to us.

Finally, I extracted the truth. Yes, my mum was alive and living in England and, yes, she was a Roman Catholic. The joy I felt at the news that she existed was blotted out by disgust. How could Dad have even considered marrying a Taig? And how would I ever get over the shame of having Catholic blood in my veins? I tried to put it behind me, but my dirty secret was never far from the surface, no matter how hard I tried to bury it.

We were shifted from relative to relative. I was admitted to hospital for my ongoing medical problems (where I mixed with – and grudgingly came to like – Catholic boys and girls) and discharged back to Glencairn. I became a glue-sniffer and a joyrider, and got mixed up with loyalist paramilitaries, though I had no real fight in me and never took part in any “operations”.

John as a baby.

Ironically, I also joined the flourishing Mod movement, and mixed happily with both Catholic and Protestant Mods across Northern Ireland and even in Dublin. Youth cults often go beyond “accepted” boundaries and I began to realise that the Catholic Mods I was hanging out with were no different from me.

When I was 18, I understood that if I stayed in Northern Ireland I’d either end up unemployed, in prison or dead. One afternoon I boarded a ferry to Liverpool, hitchhiked to London, and never looked back. I put the past behind me, balancing various day jobs with nights of unbridled hedonism. If I was trying to blot out the years of misery, fear and danger, I was doing very well.

Still, the question of my mother, her whereabouts and her religious beliefs, nagged at me. I wanted to know her, to talk to her, to understand, but had no idea where to start. In Belfast, I’d gone to the trouble of meeting with a Catholic priest (in secret) to see if he could help. He said he could, but I bottled out of further meetings. I couldn’t run the risk of being seen with a representative of “the enemy”.

When I was 27, an old schoolfriend of mine went on holiday to Florida. There, he met a couple in a bar. The wife was originally from the Falls Road. As my friend was a Protestant, and from the Shankill, she asked him if he might know the Chambers family.

“Yes, of course,” he said, explaining that we’d been at school together.

“Well,” she said. “Believe it or not I’m John’s aunt. My sister is his mother. She’s been trying to get in touch with her children for many years, but she’s constantly blocked by the family. If I write a letter to John, would you give it to him for me?”

Shocked, my friend agreed. This is what the letter said:

“I hope this letter finds you well and apologies if I have the wrong person.

“You obviously don’t know me but my name is Philomena Meek and although I now live in Boston USA I am originally from the Falls Road. A few days ago I met a Belfast couple and we got talking. When I heard they were from the Shankill I felt goose pimples run up my spine. You see, my sister, Marie, married a guy from the Shankill Road, John Chambers, in the late 60s and they had four children together.

“The strain of coming from a mixed marriage was too much for them. The breakup was very hostile and my sister was denied access to the children and lost contact with them for 25 years. In fact, all contact with members of my sister’s family was denied and we have been trying to find the children ever since.

“When I asked the couple if they knew the Chambers family I was amazed when he told me he went to school with you and he knew your brother and sisters. John, I think you are my sister’s son and I am including my telephone number and address and would be over the moon if you would contact me.

I will understand if you don’t wish to speak to me but my sister has always loved you all and has spent a lifetime searching for you. Even to know that you were all well and happy would mean the world to her.

Love, Philomena Meek.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe that this incredible coincidence had finally led me to my mother. The letter put me in touch with her and we spoke first on the phone, talking and talking, trying to catch up on 25 years of separation. Then my brother and I travelled to Preston, Lancashire, to meet her.

She was waiting for us at the station and looked nothing like I’d imagined She was the spitting image of my sister Jane.

“My God,” she said when she saw me, “I’d have known you anywhere. You look exactly like your dad.”

John in his mod days.

We talked for hours, days and weeks. We laughed and cried. With my mum back in my life everything seemed to change. I settled down, and met my wife-to-be, got married and had children. We moved to Lancashire to be near Mum, so that I could rebuild a relationship fractured by bitterness, mistrust and mutual hatred. A terrible wound had begun to heal. I feel sad that so much of our childhood was unhappy, but I don’t blame anyone or feel bitter. That was then; the future is now.

The people of Northern Ireland, Protestant and Catholic, have seen what happens when those on opposing sides come together, learn about each other and try to put the past behind them. It isn’t always harmonious and, almost 20 years after the Good Friday Agreement, there is still a long road ahead. We only ever wanted to live in peace and prosperity, but the paramilitaries and the politicians made sure this didn’t happen. Now it has, and it means that we can all have this ambition, even those of us who were once sworn enemies.

Through my mother, I learned that there are always two sides to every story. Times have moved on and today things are much better for the youngsters in Belfast, and across Northern Ireland. I’m hoping we can build a lasting peace and learn to respect and acknowledge each other without ever resorting to division and violence again.

As told to Tom Henry

John Chambers blogs at belfastchildis.wordpress.com