The Quiet Truth: a haunting domestic drama full of suspense

by Sharon Thompson

  ‘What kind of talk is that? You’re only a few years older. Don’t be a mean cow. I’m a fine man.’

  She giggled. Beautiful Ella always made me smile. Even in the darkest of nights and days, she was a lighthouse.

  ‘The baby?’ I asked, touching her rounded belly. ‘When you say you don’t want it, what do you mean?’

  ‘I lose them. They eventually bleed out of me. I cannot love it until it becomes a child. Otherwise I’d go mad. I used to think that he hurt them with some of the battering he does at me. I believe the babies know that they have no safe home and leave.’

  She wasn’t sad in saying that. It came out matter-of-fact. Losing babies had become normal and perhaps it was. Women suffered terribly in those days and it wasn’t talked about. It seems wrong that a good woman must endure pain in silence over and over and have to become numb to it all.

  ‘It’s mine. It’ll grow strong – like me. Isn’t that right?’ I said at the growing tummy mound. She held me close and agreed.

  Did I really want a baby to come? I was not long eighteen. I had no idea of the work or responsibility. The baby was our love and I was sure it cemented us together somehow. If it was mine I’d have one up on the bastard husband who hurt Ella. The baby gave us a bigger reason to escape. That meant I wanted it more than anything. I never understood then that the baby was a real person. To me, it was a ray of hope, an intangible prospect – a future with Ella.

  Rhonda reaches for her recorder, the movement of her in my eyeline stirs the past into the present. It is late and she looks as tired as I feel. ‘It’s still recording,’ she tells me and looks at her watch. ‘Charlie, you must be exhausted altogether now?’

  ‘I am. It’s tiring remembering.’

  ‘Before we go to sleep, Charlie, can I ask you something? Is this baby that you’re talking about… is this child the one that started all of the trouble?’

  10

  Rhonda Irwin

  I’m not sleeping. The drifting into oblivion doesn’t happen despite the tiredness. Without sleep I’m more snarky than usual.

  ‘He got Ella pregnant,’ I tell Joe as he comes from his morning shower. Joe still looks good. There’s no extra pregnancy weight on him. The towel drops and he wipes the excess moisture from his groin while thinking about what I’ve said. ‘Did you hear me? One of her babies was Charlie’s?’

  ‘I’m still trying to wake up, don’t shout.’

  ‘When else do I get a chance to tell you things? I’m not shouting.’

  ‘Don’t lose your temper with me about it. You should have known. As soon as he mentioned them being lovers it makes sense that he knew about the babies.’

  ‘He looked sick yesterday. He says that he’s fine, that he may be dying – but he’s fine. I feel guilty all the time having him here. I’m exploiting a sick man.’

  Joe sits on the end of the bed. I still find him attractive. More than that actually, I want him to find me irresistible despite my bedhead and old nightdress.

  ‘He said to me the other day that he wants it to be between you both for now. I don’t think you should tell me anymore. It might not help things.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he want you to know?’ My voice is high-pitched.

  ‘Said my opinion matters to him.’ Joe swipes the towel across his hair.

  ‘And mine doesn’t?’ I sit up in the bed. ‘He doesn’t care what I think?’

  ‘He’s a man’s man. Spent much of his life with the cowboys,’ Joe rationalises – another slight towards me as if it was nothing. ‘He said that he’s not used to worrying about women’s opinions because they usually love him. I told him that you don’t like anyone lately. He disagreed and said that he thinks you’re kinder than many would be with him.’

  ‘I’m not a softie.’

  ‘I know that.’ Joe smiles and pulls on his underwear. ‘In fairness, you’re good with Charlie. It’s nice to see.’

  ‘Are you saying that I’m not nice with you?’

  ‘Don’t twist this, Ronnie. We’re talking about what’s happening. Don’t fight. I’m too tired to start this first thing.’

  I have to agree and nod. ‘I didn’t sleep much. I’m going to contact some people today. Make enquiries. Do some research. I’ve many questions and he refuses to let me ask them.’

  ‘Charlie is used to getting his own way.’

  ‘What does he want from all of this?’ I ask myself as much as Joe. ‘What is it all about?’

  Joe shrugs. ‘Maybe he wants to help Ella in some way. If he still loves her. He might want to show another side to the story. Share something to make things better.’

  ‘I doubt there’s much that could help that one. And, after sixty years, what difference would it make now?’

  As Joe ties a large knot in his tie, and fixes his collar, I recall when we met. I’d neatened his tie. ‘Would you want to help me after that long?’ I say. He’s pulling on his jacket and doesn’t fully hear me.

  ‘What did ya say?’ he asks, straightening his shirt and making sure it’s tucked in, as he buckles his belt. ‘And, I think you’re enjoying this, even though you don’t want to admit it. You’re getting as much from this as he is and no, you’re not using him. He’s helping you.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It’s given you a focus. You’re speaking and thinking about writing again.’ Those lovely eyes of Joe’s need me to agree. He has spent a long time worried. I’m not sure whether that’s been for his own selfish reasons or out of love for us. ‘Do you still like him?’ Joe asks. ‘He thinks he’s a real ladies’ man. Charlie is sure that you like him.’

  ‘Is he now?’

  ‘Yup. Told me that you find him fascinating and that you find me boring.’

  I’m out of the bed with a jolt.

  ‘He’s probably astute enough,’ Joe says, finding his shoes and dragging one on. He sits on the end of the bed to settle a foot into the other shoe and ties both laces. ‘He knows you’re finding motherhood tough. And before you kill me – we both are finding being parents very difficult. When you live with us it is bound to be obvious. What with us being forced together and whatnot, it’s not as easy as we both thought. Charlie sees that. Don’t look at me like that. Most people are the same. They just don’t talk about it.’

  ‘I don’t find you boring,’ I say, feeling unattractive beside Joe’s fully-clothed frame. ‘I only find our life tedious. God, you’re right, it’s too early for these conversations.’

  ‘Faye will be up soon and you’re going to have a full-on day. I know that I escape every day.’ Joe curls me into those arms, and I’m grateful. He smells familiar and safe. For once he is really seeing me and our situation. There’s the traditional rub of my arse and the nuzzle into my neck. ‘I gotta go,’ Joe mutters, leaving my arms. He whispers while opening the door, ‘Don’t be like Ella O’Brien and kill anyone while I’m away.’

  It closes with a click. I slump onto the bed. He was trying to be funny. It wasn’t. I take it that he sees me as a deranged, irrational woman. Faye’s morning whimper starts from the other room and I pull a pillow over my head.

  11

  Charlie Quinn

  The morning brings me back to Rhonda’s sofa, watching Faye at play. There’s an aroma of coffee and the nice sights of their family life. I have confided in this stranger when her man has gone to work or left us alone. No doubt they both are worried. They may have been having night-time whisperings about the can of worms they’ve opened.

  ‘The media frenzy about Ella O’Brien made me stay awake last night,’ Rhonda says, a hint of worry in her voice. ‘Does Ella know that you are in Ireland, Charlie? Does she know that you are still alive? Have you made contact with her at all?’

  I shrug and wipe a tear from the wrinkle in my cheek.

  ‘Should I help you reach her?’

  The emotion chokes me and, stumbling to rise, I fail to reach the kitchen sink. Vomit spews and startles us all. The projectile mess is
upsetting and foul-smelling. Rhonda links me back to a soft spot on a chair and produces a basin and plops down a cup of tea with directions of use and platitudes of, ‘Don’t worry now. Let’s get you right. Did you take your medications?’

  ‘Sorry,’ is all I manage as she mops and cleans. The waft of bleach doesn’t help my heaving stomach.

  ‘A mother is well-used to vomit, Charlie. All is fine now. Are you all right?’

  Nodding, I lie to her. ‘I’ve never been okay, you know. Never. I’ve always been a bad brute.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  Despite the weakness I know I need to tell all of it. Every bad step, each awful choice – regardless of what Rhonda thinks. Like a Catholic at confessional, I’m here for a purpose. I always envied their offloading of a lifetime of sin and anguish. It seems unfair to burden her. Rhonda is a journalist though and might be able to place it somewhere for her own gain. Don’t papers pay for people’s souls to be read?

  I motion a hand towards the recorder and she nods that we are ready for the work ahead. Faye’s eyes don’t follow me anymore. Thankfully, she is lost in the innocent world of teddies and teacups.

  ‘I came back here and I’m not totally sure why,’ I admit.

  ‘You love Ella,’ Rhonda says.

  I nod, wondering how much clever Rhonda is piecing together correctly.

  ‘One of Ella’s babies was yours, Charlie? I was trying to work out the timescales…’

  Closing out the present, I see Ella on the mattress with the swell of my baby inside her. I can touch that smooth, soft skin and smile into those beaming eyes. It was my baby and I rubbed her tummy and talked to what belonged to me inside.

  The baby kept the churning of my innards calm and the presence of Ella in my room took all pain away. Ella glowed and was finally enjoying the pregnancy. She talked about feeling happy and content. We made plans and gathered money together into a large jar.

  In my ignorance I didn’t even think to ask how long we had before the baby would come. I suppose I knew vaguely it would be a few more months of just the two of us. Ella grew larger. Her beauty intensified and our lovemaking was ecstasy. I was lost, living in a haze, childlike in my expectations and understanding of what was happening.

  It was a Friday when the gossip reached Daly’s. I’m not sure who said it first or how I heard the words.

  ‘Ella O’Brien has been carted off in broad daylight. The poor baby born early again and she’s accused of killing it. Might she have murdered the others too?’

  Jock’s expression was shocked as he filled the order for sausages. I can still see him swing them, cut them and package them, his eyes never leaving mine.

  ‘You were missing earlier. What do you know about this? You need away, boy. Today, you need gone!’ Jock hauled me into the cold store. ‘Listen to me now. Nothing good will come of you being here when the shit flies into the air. You hear me?’

  The shaking he did brought me around somewhat.

  ‘Sounds like the baby is gone and she’s in bother. That husband and his family will make her hang. Monied bastards won’t lie down under this. If there’s even a whiff of what you two have been at, there’ll be hell to pay. Someone is bound to know. They’ll crucify you too.’

  ‘She didn’t murder our baby,’ I whispered. ‘This one is mine and she was happy and it was strong. I felt it move and…’

  Jock’s grip was firm and his voice was tired and afraid. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding then. She’ll not look any better with a snivelling boy mentioning feeling his baby inside her. There’s always been talk about Ella being a bad egg. We all know that. She’ll not come off any better with an eighteen-year-old lover telling all and sundry that this is his baby! Don’t you see you have to go now, Charlie? You gotta escape for her sake and yours. One of you in trouble is more than enough.’

  The brandy and the cold air in the store brought me around some more and Jock’s words did have a ring of truth in them. We’d talked about the family surrounding her on both sides. One as controlling as the other was dangerous. Her in-laws were lawyers; educated, religious zealots, almost as bad as my own father. We had a similarity in the trapped natures of our existences. Our dreams of escaping were matched over and over in the whispers in the dark.

  ‘I can’t leave her,’ I muttered. On that sad day, in my heart of hearts, I was more scared than in love. Even a rebel like me sensed that I was no match for the realities caving in. ‘Where is she?’ I asked and Jock went to the public house to see what the news was. I served customers, waiting for them to mention my Ella. I was afraid to ask about the gossip in case I started to cry or gave myself away.

  Jock’s news was terrible. ‘Arrested for infanticide. That means killing children to you and me. Three counts of it and the husband ranting and raving that she’s evil. There’s no talk of you. Before she lets something slip or that husband finds out, you must get yourself off on a boat. I’ll arrange it.’

  ‘Where?’ I asked, meaning where Ella was but Jock’s tale went into the blood found in their own home and the state Ella was found in alone with another dead infant. The details were sordid, horrid and graphic, the usual Irish garishness not lost in the sadness of it all.

  ‘She’s off with the authorities, God knows where and I for one am not sorry to see her go.’ Jock thought Ella guilty too. No amount of pleading would change that. I saw it in his face, the cut of his shoulders and the stance of him in the doorway. ‘Time you knew that her beauty is a mask for something awful. She bewitched you. It’s time now to strike out from here and forget all of this bad business. You must go before anyone suspects and hauls you in as an accomplice and a cuckolding blaggard. That bitch knew what she was doing all along, seducing you and then doing away with the precious little thing because it looks nothing like she wanted.’

  He went on to describe the baby. A girl with a shock of red hair and pale skin, and adding for dramatic effect that the last child of Ella’s found dead had been dark-skinned.

  ‘The poor creature almost as dark as your boot when found in Ella’s arms in the back alley of the public house.’

  That was explained away by her doctoring husband as “the unusual colour from the difficult birthing situation and lack of air”. According to Jock everyone surmised that Ella had taken up with the black labouring man who passed through that summer. This was all new information to me and it filtered in slowly and hurt like hell.

  ‘Your hair isn’t red,’ Jock shouted, startling me out of the images of Ella with the nice, muscled, black man who’d greeted everyone when passing in the street. ‘She wasn’t true to you either. Are you listening?’

  My mother’s hair had tinges of red through it and I failed to speak of it to Jock. He bundled me and my trembling up and almost carried me to the lodging house to pack.

  ‘I’m sending you to that cousin of mine in Canada. He’ll get you started and get you on your feet. You need gone from here as soon as possible.’

  I don’t want to look at Rhonda or see her disgust. Instead, I reach for the cold teacup, stick my nose inside it and squeeze my eyelids together, blocking out the swirling images. Some of them I can tell her now, others I must leave alone.

  There were not many protests about leaving.

  If I could ask Jock (who is long gone now) to set my mind at ease I would. I want to know what I said and did then. I remember very little of the decisions. I doubt I was gallant or courageous. There was only the sense of abandonment, fear and the total disappointment. I believed for that period of time that Ella was somehow to blame for it all. That suited the coward, Charlie Quinn.

  But, in my heart, too, I loved her enough to know it wasn’t her fault. The survivalist instinct that I’ve always harboured took over. I can see myself running in those steel-capped boots up the gangway to the largest ship I’d ever seen.

  I chance a look at Rhonda now as blackness invades the daylight. ‘If you were Ella O’Brien, would you want to see me?’ I ask her.
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  12

  Charlie Quinn

  In the morning I cannot move from this soft, new-fangled mattress. The room is a small one for guests and the stuffiness and closeted air is all that gets my feet to the floor. I need out.

  I’ve slept too long and much of the morning is gone. I refuse breakfast and take coffee. Watching Rhonda make us what she calls ‘some brunchtime soup’, I cannot help wondering what she’s thinking. What must she make of the storm surrounding Ella now? As a mother she’ll have thoughts I won’t have. Times change. The thinking around children out of wedlock is slightly different in 1990. The twists and turns of publicity will flavour Rhonda’s understanding of Ella’s journey too. What a mess!

  There’s a new interest in the minds of criminals – a fashion for psychology and analysing, judging and making decisions about what must have happened. Those accused of murdering their own children are still outside this scope. They are taboo. People take sides on conspiracies. Everyone is sure about what must have happened. They don’t know the secrets. Until people speak out, we never really know the truth – end of story.

  When Ella was arrested, Ireland went into a state of shock. We all did. The whole world at one time or another seems to have an opinion on what happened to Ella’s babies. The father’s role was uninteresting or not spoken about. The only intriguing element is that of the mother’s state of mind or morals. A mother killing her own child is something off the scale of reason. There’s nothing worse.

  To this day I scream inside about the suffering Ella endured. She must have coped with many things for years before and after this incident. And my Ella is not considered as a real person. As a woman is not truly thought of, unless it is to condemn her.

  ‘What do you believe about it all?’ I ask Rhonda’s back. Her shoulders tense immediately on the question and I hear her sigh into a silence.