Dear Michael, you will already have guessed that this place to which I’d been sent was a Magdalene laundry, a place of so-called ‘atonement’ for one of the worst sins of all, the sin of being a ‘fallen woman’. Much has been written in recent years about such places and I hope most people today understand how wrong it was of the nuns to imprison women in such a way for years and years when they hadn’t even done anything wrong. These laundries were places where the nuns abused and exploited the so-called ‘penitents’ and profited greatly from the women’s labour.
When I arrived first, my blonde curly hair was cut and I was given the shapeless, sexless grey uniform and underwear that all the ‘penitents’ were forced to wear. Then I was made to sign my admission papers in the presence of a hard-faced, cold-voiced Reverend Mother. Because I was so near my time, I was put straight to bed in the infirmary and, three weeks later, I gave birth to a baby girl who was taken from me at the moment of birth and never returned. I heard her first cries but nothing else. ‘It’s better that way, so you don’t get attached to it,’ the civilian nurse told me briskly but it didn’t feel ‘better’ to me. I was given something to dry up my milk and, four weeks after the birth, I was put to work in the laundry, a fate that had been marked down for me since I had first passed through the doors of this place. They were only waiting to get the baby out of me and away from me so they could own me properly. I asked the nuns many times what had become of my baby, who I hadn’t even had a chance to name, and the answer was always the same. ‘She’s gone to a good home, better than you could ever give her, so be thankful.’ Thankful? I felt murderous for those awful first few months, then all the fight went out of me and the pain settled down into a dull ache that became my constant companion, every day and night for the rest of my life.
My family never came to see me. They never wrote to me either, although when I’d been in the place six months I received a letter addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting. My heart leapt. Were they coming to take me away from this terrible place now that the baby, the source of all the ‘trouble’, as they saw it, was gone? I opened the letter and saw only Danny’s face smiling up at me from a newspaper cutting. It was his obituary. He’d died in London, falling off a roof in a tragedy at his work, and his body had been brought home to Cork to be laid to rest. It was a fine obituary, all about Danny’s cheerful personality and the sports he’d loved and the teams he’d played for when he’d lived in Cork. He was leaving behind his parents, three brothers, two sisters and a dog called Rocket, or Rocky for short. There was no mention of his baby daughter or the woman (me) he’d once said he loved who’d given birth to his child on her own, with the father miles away across the Irish Sea. So far away he might as well have been on Mars. I felt like I didn’t exist, neither me nor my daughter. I cursed my mother for sending me something so coldly dreadful as that death notice without a word of comfort attached. There wasn’t even a note from her inside. What a spiteful woman she was, and how glad she must have been that Danny was dead. All hope died in me then. I had nothing to live for. My precious baby daughter was gone for ever, my beloved Danny too, and my family wanted nothing to do with me. The Reverend Mother told me that my parents had given her their permission to keep me there with the nuns after the baby was born. It’s a terrible thing to be told that your family don’t love you, don’t want you. I decided there and then that I didn’t care what happened to me after that.
I stayed in the laundry until it closed down in 1992. Thirty-five years of my life was given to that awful place. Even then, though, I didn’t want to leave. Quite honestly, I was afraid to. I had nothing and no one. Where would I live? What would I do? A social worker helped me to find a room in a halfway house and I did cleaning jobs or worked in launderettes in Dublin because it was all I knew. I spoke to no one, not until recently, about my experiences as a so-called ‘penitent’ behind those high convent walls. A chance meeting in a coffee shop with a very kind lady called Rosita, who’d been through the same experience, led to her putting me in touch with an agency that searches for long-lost relatives of people like me.
I hope that you won’t mind me writing to you and casting a shadow over your life with my sad story, Michael. I promise you that that is not my intention. I would like for someone in what remains of my family to know what happened to me because I think it’s important. My parents cut me out of their lives when they heard about my baby. In order to do this, they must have told lies about me to my siblings and friends and to our neighbours. Someone can’t just disappear out of people’s lives like that without lies having to be told and excuses made. My mother, in particular, was a past master at twisting the truth to suit her own ends, so she was most likely the one who came up with the cover story. My personal guess is that they told everyone that I ran away to England with some young fella and simply never bothered to contact them again. They may even have pretended to some of my younger siblings at some point that I’d died or had never even existed. The little baby sister I cared for so much might have had some vague shadowy memories of someone in her baby days loving her to the moon and back, but she wouldn’t remember who it was. This cuts me like a knife wound, but it’s only one of the crosses I’ve had to bear.
Michael, I know that you have children yourself now, two sons and a daughter. Love them all, Michael, but especially your daughter. She is a very precious gift that you have been given and you must mind her well. If she ever comes to you in the same situation in which I found myself in 1957, I beg of you and your wife to be there for her and not to desert her. Thankfully, I know that times have changed and that to be expecting a baby outside of marriage nowadays is no longer regarded as the big sin it used to be, and women are no longer shunned or scorned because of it. Women can even make choices about this kind of thing now. I would thank God for this every day but God no longer exists for me. He ceased to exist the moment the convent doors banged shut behind me in that place. Ironically, though the convent was full of crosses and holy pictures and it was run by nuns, there was no God in that place, and he certainly wasn’t present in the laundry, where I slaved alongside other women like me for thirty-five years. Religion is no longer part of my life. How can it be, when God let such things happen to me, and others like me, behind those convent walls? I cross the road when I see a church now. I shudder when I see a nun or a priest because they remind me of what was taken from me. I was never able to find out what happened to my beautiful baby daughter. I only hope that she lived to see happier days than I ever saw myself. I think of her and of my baby sister – she’ll always be a baby to me – and of you and your family as I lie here. Everything I never had myself I wish for you all.’”
Aideen paused and took a soft breath before reading the final words.
‘“Yours with all best wishes, Margaret Bowen.’”
Aideen shuffled the papers back into the folder. Then she tactfully pushed the tissue box on her desk towards Donna who was crying openly. Mick was blinking and swallowing hard. “There are some notebooks and papers and a few wee photos that came with this letter,” Aideen said quietly.
“Thank you,” Mick said gruffly, his voice thick with what Donna recognised as unshed tears.
He reached out and took the folder from the solicitor’s outstretched hand along with the little packet of papers.
“And there’s no doubt, is there, that my mother was Margaret Bowen’s youngest sister – the baby sister she talks about in her letter?”
“No doubt whatsoever, Mr. McKenna,” the solicitor said gently.
Donna squeezed Mick’s hand tightly. Olive, Mick’s mother (they’d named Olivia after her), had died of breast cancer only the year before, a relatively young woman still in her sixties. As Donna knew as well as Mick did, Olive had never mentioned having an older sister called Margaret. Her sister Maureen was the eldest sister of the family as far as Mick and Donna had always been aware, and maybe Olive too for all they knew.
Mick held it together u
ntil they reached the car, then he broke down and sobbed as openly as Donna had, sitting in the driver’s seat with his head in his hands and the blue cardboard folder containing the letter and the little packet of papers on the back seat.
“Let it all out, love,” Donna said soothingly as she gently stroked his arm and shoulder.
When he’d composed himself, he blew his nose on a bunch of tissues Donna handed him, then, embarrassed, he started up the engine and drove them both back to Balally. Donna, knowing her husband very well, nearly as well as she knew herself, tactfully chose not to break the silence on the way home. There would be plenty of time to talk later, over a hot cup of tea.
When they reached the house, they were surprised to see their oldest child, James, standing waiting for them at the front door. He was supposed to be in college today, where he was studying computer science. It was Friday, so he was on a half-day but, still, he was supposed to be there, wasn’t he, and not here, waiting for them?
“Is everything okay, son?” Donna asked him anxiously, ushering him and a red-eyed Mick inside the house to the hall. “Is Olivia okay?”
“It’s not Olivia, Mum,” he said grimly. “It’s Adam.”
“What about Adam?” Donna’s legs suddenly felt weak.
“Mark’s texted me,” James said.
Mark was Adam’s college pal, living in Ranelagh, with whom Adam had been staying since Tuesday after college.
“He was looking for Adam,” James went on, a hint of panic in his voice. “Apparently, Adam left Mark’s gaff on Wednesday morning and no one’s seen him since.”
Donna clung to Mick for support as her legs went from under her.
STOP 6: WINDY ARBOUR
Maroon, Vicky and Graeme
Maroon boarded the Luas at St. Stephen’s Green, having bought a return ticket to Windy Arbour, a place she’d only ever known as a stop on the way to Dundrum Shopping Centre and had never been to. From the size of the place, she didn’t think she was missing out on too much.
As the tram trundled up to the stop known as Charlemont, stopping for a minute to disgorge and pick up more fares, she saw the Garda frogmen dragging the canal for that young college student who had gone missing the week before, that Adam Somebody. He was on the front of that morning’s paper – it was a lovely photo, he was certainly a handsome lad – and she’d heard a brief report on the local radio’s news bulletin that morning as well. A couple of auld ones at the Luas stop at St. Stephen’s Green had been discussing the story animatedly while waiting for their tram. It reminded them vividly, they’d been saying, of that other lovely-looking young fella who’d gone missing in 2010 in the Victoria Street area on the night of the taxi drivers’ strike. The auld ones blamed the taxi drivers for going on strike. If that poor young lad had been able to get a taxi home that night, he might have been alive today, God rest him. Anyway, both auld ones were equally certain that this new young man Adam Somebody’s disappearance was down to suicide. It was all the pressures on young people nowadays, they maintained, which made them snap and decide that they just couldn’t cope with life any more.
Maroon shuddered and averted her eyes from the grisly sight of the frogmen. The whole thing was horrible. It made her think of Andrew. You had to keep a careful eye on boys. You just never knew what was going on behind the impassive, monosyllabic façade they insisted on constantly maintaining and, with some lads, it was like pulling teeth to get a civil word out of them, never mind a straight answer to a straight bloody question.
Maroon took out her make-up compact and checked her face. In her fake leopard-print coat, her skin-tight leggings and metallic-blue high heels, she’d been attracting looks from men since she’d left her flat. There was one sitting across from her now on the train who was eyeing her up covertly while pretending to scroll down on his phone. Every now and then, he’d look up from his scrolling and try to catch her eye but she’d just blank him. Today, at any rate, he had no chance, although he was good-looking enough with his long dark coat and dark slicked-back hair. Today, Maroon had work to do and was all business. Satisfied that she looked all right, she clicked her compact shut and put it away in her handbag. She uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs for comfort, drawing a broad grin from her admirer in the opposite seat. Oh, fuck off, loser, she thought. Just because you’ve seen Basic Instinct doesn’t mean you can ogle me like I’m Sharon fucking Stone. He got off at Beechwood with a backwards leer in her direction, leaving Maroon to gather her thoughts before her own destination. She was surprised that he hadn’t tried to press his phone number on her before he’d left. Guys were always doing that to her. Sometimes she phoned them, mostly she didn’t. It all depended on what impression they’d made on her. She decided just as the tram was pulling into Windy Arbour that she wouldn’t have called that guy. She knew his type of old: sleazy, demanding, kinky, disrespectful of women, wanting the stuff his wife or girlfriend wouldn’t do for him, and then he’d drop you the second he’d had his way with you. Almost certainly married or otherwise attached and would give you a fake name and number if you pushed him for a contact detail. His fake name would invariably be Steve, Dave, Mark, or Jack, because Irish guys had very little imagination. A name containing two syllables was seemingly beyond their capabilities. To hell with him, anyway.
“Please move down the tram,” said the automated female voice over the PA system. Everyone usually ignored her baffling instruction. Like, which way was down anyway? And why did it matter? Anyway, showtime, Maroon told herself when she got off the tram at Windy Arbour.
A man approached her immediately.
“Um, are you Miss, erm, Maroon?” he said politely. “I saw your photo on the website.”
Maroon nodded. “Then you’re Graeme Groves?” She offered him her hand. Her long fake nails were metallic-blue, like her shoes. She wore rings on three fingers of her right hand, and four on her left. (She’d never put much faith in the maxim that less was more. Going the whole hog was much more her style.) None of them were made with real stones. The man took the proffered hand and pumped it vigorously while nodding confirmation. At least his handshake was dry and firm. Guys with limp, sweaty palms often had other limp, sweaty things that turned Maroon’s stomach.
“Do you mind a short walk?” he asked her then, eyeing her high heels dubiously. “I didn’t bring the car because it’s literally just a short walk, like I told your boss on the phone.” He spoke in a strangely formal, inflectionless kind of way that vaguely rang bells with her.
“A short walk is fine,” Maroon said, faintly amused by his earnest manner. She fell into step beside him.
He was very tall, almost unusually tall for an Irish guy, but he seemed to be matching his steps to suit hers, which she appreciated because it wasn’t as easy to walk in four-inch heels as she made it look. Her heels and toes were already pinching quite a bit, but she was well used to it. It was all part of the job.
“And you’re definitely not a serial killer, anyway?” she said, more to make conversation than anything else. She stifled a yawn while waiting for his answer.
The man shook his head. “Oh no,” he said in all seriousness. “Your boss asked me the exact same question on the phone but I told her no, definitely not. I wouldn’t have the time for that kind of thing. And even if I were that way inclined, which I’m most certainly not, I’d be much too afraid of the Guards coming after me. This one time,” he went on, looking straight ahead as he talked, “I found out that a shop assistant had given me an extra tenner in change. I felt like a criminal, like I should be on the Guards’ Ten Most Wanted List or something. I had such a bad panic attack that I ended up in A & E for the night. No, the whole serial killer business wouldn’t be for me. You can take my word for it, one million per cent.”
“That sounds, erm, stressful,” she ventured, not really knowing what to say to this bizarre anecdote. “The whole A & E thing, I mean.”
“You’d better believe it was. I thought every siren outside on t
he street was the Guards coming to get me. Of course, the next day I tried to give the money back but Hassan from the Londis wouldn’t take it. He said he didn’t know anything about it, and that he wouldn’t be able to account for it when he was doing the till at the end of the day, which was fair enough. I wouldn’t have wanted him to get into trouble on my account. He told me to give it to a homeless person if I really didn’t want to hold on to it myself.”
“And did you? Give it to a homeless person?”
“Well, yes. There’s a man who sits outside the shop every day begging. He said if I added another tenner to it, he’d be able to buy himself a half-decent bottle of whiskey.”
“The nerve! I hope you told him where to go.”
“Oh no. I didn’t need to. He knew fine well where to go himself, seeing as the off-licence is just straight down the back of the shop, between the deli and Household Cleaning. He was off like a light when I gave him that second tenner. Left his blind-stick behind him and everything.”
Maroon looked up at his profile curiously. Was he joking or what, she wondered, but there wasn’t the trace of a smile on his earnest face. He really was an incredibly good-looking guy, and even though he was dressed down in a sweatshirt and jeans, you could tell that they were freshly laundered and had been meticulously pressed. Not all men took such care over their appearance. At least he’d be clean, she thought idly as she kept pace with him down a long, tree-lined avenue.
Near the end of it he paused and said: “Well, um, here we are. I hope it’s okay for you.”
Maroon murmured something non-committal as he took her elbow and escorted her up the front path of a big house with a well-kept garden, strewn with fallen leaves in glorious colours of red, gold, orange and burnished brown. There were bushes with bright red berries on them and even a birdhouse in which a lone bird – a thrush, maybe? – was pecking energetically at something that looked to Maroon like a muesli power bar on a string.
Thirteen Stops Page 11