Jessica spread the old photographs over the kitchen table. She was lucky to find dates on some, and others had a town name or other location written in the faded blues hues of a fountain pen. Although it wasn’t surprising, Jessica was a bit disappointed that the majority of the photos were taken when Bridget was on a holiday at the lake and very few showed anyone in Belfast. Having a photograph of a special place or event made sense. The normal day-to-day drudgery of home was to be escaped, not memorialized as a keepsake.
The images were of young boys and shy girls in the back of a wooden wagon stacked high with hay and pulled by donkeys. Others showed men with rolled up sleeves and broad-brimmed hats, smiling with a fiddle on their laps under a shady tree. Each showed Jessica a simple way of life still glimpsed during her rides around Raphoe. Stern faced women, forcing unaccustomed smiles, wore long dresses and equally long aprons. They stood with babies in their arms or freshly scrubbed toddlers at their knees. Children’s toes dug into the ground or fingers dallied in their mouths. Occasionally, a tall man dressed in the cassock and white collar of a priest would be in the middle of a smiling and reverent group of adults—mostly men—too honored a guest to be subjected to unruly children. Other pictures showed the happy and pious faces of women, pinched round by the wimples of their habits, and what looked to Jessica like large beaded rosaries hanging from their waists. Sometimes Jessica could pick out the faces of a young Bridget or Margaret and the joy they felt in such company was evident.
Jessica lingered longest over series of photographs taken at a lakeshore. Bridget was in most of the photos and looked to be in her mid-teens to late twenties. Unlike other women who dressed in shin-length skirts or long dresses, Bridget wore trousers and loose-fitting shirts like many of the men, reminiscent of a young Katherine Hepburn, with the same spark of independence and incredible beauty. In a few pictures, Bridget’s attention was off to the side of the camera, smiling and angling her glance to look up a tiny bit from under her lashes. In others, her head was tossed back, her smile broad, caught in the midst of a hearty laugh. Bridget’s face and smile were as familiar as Jessica’s own, but the personality behind them was a stranger. Jessica had never known her mother to be happy, vibrant, or carefree.
The men, barely of an age that one could call them such, stood shoulder to shoulder with arms crossed over their chests or hands thrust on their hips in postures intended to look casual, but came off as stiff and posed beside the young women they so desperately wanted to impress. Some wore suspenders, and others vests as they sweltered on a summer’s day. The flushed cheeks of the men and sheen on the women’s faces told of nods to formality over comfort. Tweed caps donned at jaunty angles conveyed the right sense of roguish confidence and swagger.
A picture of three people grabbed her attention; all of them looked to be in their mid-twenties. One man, head turned upward as he laughed, was more familiar to her than she wanted to admit. She could almost hear Gus’ laughter, and the corners of her mouth tugged at the memory. Bridget stood between Gus and another very handsome young man. Each wore a straw hat and wide grins, with arms flung across one another’s shoulders. The joy they felt in that moment softened the edge of the pain that tore through her. It was true. Bridget and Gus knew one another. Here. In Ireland. She didn’t feel victorious in her discovery. She felt insignificant. Two of the people in the photograph had tossed her away. Jessica fought against her feelings of abandonment by digging through the photos with greater intensity.
Organizing the photos took more time than she expected, stopping and looking at the inscriptions to see if any of the names or places matched those she had read about in Bridget’s journals. She carefully identified the names of Mary, Meggie, Ma, Patrick, and Danny with journal entries containing the same names. Putting faces to names seemed to push breath into Bridget’s memories, and the paper almost warmed to life under Jessica’s fingers. No photo had the name she was hoping to find. Jessica wanted proof that Bridget’s beloved was Gus. It was a rude joke that the only reference to Bridget’s important Gean Cánach was on a photo of maybe fifteen men. A simple “GC” hand printed on the back. The men stood in front of a huge piece of ancient farm equipment with hands on hips and legs propped up on it like big game hunters showing off the spoils of their hunt. Jessica searched for any familiar face from other photos and did her best to eliminate those she thought could not be him. Still ten men could have been Gus, faces obscured by hats or shadows.
After sorting them into probable dates and places, doing her best to cross-reference them to the journals Jessica had already read, she carefully indexed them by placing each photograph into the pages she thought referenced them. Occasionally she would shake her shoulders at the unexpected chill on the early summer evening, but that was the only distraction from her task. She was about to put the remaining photos back into the tin, when one last photograph fluttered to the floor.
The picture showed Margaret standing in a barren field, with a look of desperation that was timeless in its misery. She appeared to be about fifteen years old, and her face was a study of grief hidden with great effort. Margaret looked directly at the camera, lower lip bitten by even teeth, eyes still moist from recent tears. Beside her were two huge leather suitcases held together by thick straps that buckled at each end. She wore clothes that looked crisp and new, even if they were a bit too large for her. The photo was not dated or marked with a place but had the worn look of something frequently handled, if not kissed, the time and place of its taking forever seared into memory of its viewer.
The pure desolation that leapt off the photo filled Jessica with sadness. She pressed it to her cheek to see if some filament of memory that perhaps still clung to the image could seep into her. What Jessica did not know the picture was taken a few miles from where she sat at the cottage’s kitchen table. Days before the fifteen-year-old Margaret departed to the United States, Bridget had met Gus at the Beltany stone circle and gave her precious sister over to his care. It took all of the Heinchon girls’ strength not to fall into a heap of despair, each trying to be brave and excited by this adventure but nearly withering at the pain of good-bye. Bridget kissed then blew a soft stream of breath at the nape of Margaret’s neck, long a secret symbol of their bond. When Gus finally pulled the women apart, the sisters trailed an arm behind them, keeping contact as long as they could until their fingertips parted.
Jessica looked at the unread journals with renewed interest, but the emotional toll of her long day caught up with her. Rubbing the back of her neck against a persistent chill, she rested her head on her crossed arms and instantly fell asleep.
NOVEMBER 1959
SAINT PETER’S CATHEDRAL
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND
BRIDGET SAT IN a wooden pew and allowed herself to grieve, her soft sobs lost in the cavernous enclave. Two small white caskets rested upon catafalques before an ornate altar. Bunches of flowers, held together by bows of recycled ribbons and a wad of dampened cloth around their stems, showed signs of wilt in spite of their care. She was determined to drain herself of sorrow before the funeral so she could be strong for her friend. Her sorrow was for the young lives gone, and for her failures.
“You mustn’t be sad for them, Bridgie.” Father Storm gave a sad smile and sat down quietly beside her.
Bridget hastily wiped away her tears and searched for a hanky. She accepted the neatly folded and monogrammed rectangle produced from under a cassock.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was alone,” she said as she blew her nose. She straightened herself up and looked at the thick gray hair and eyes surrounded by black framed glasses. “And don’t give me any of that ‘you’re never alone here’ and ‘they’ve gone to a better place’ drivel.”
“They were beyond earthly help. It’s always the most difficult on those left behind when the ones who go before us are so young. We cannot fight the Lord’s ways but find a way to accept His wisdom and continue to live and work in His name.”
; “No. No! This did not have to be. These children were starving and were living with two other families in a basement flat. They were too weak from the failures of this world, Father. We failed them. Their mother prayed for the Lord to provide, and they died hungry and cold.”
“We cannot doubt His way.”
“She came to you for help.”
“We have to help many and gave her what we could.”
Bridget tried to check her building anger and spoke, trying to vent her frustration. “I know that, Father. It’s just that it was so little. I tried everything I could think of. I tried community groups but was told she lived in the wrong neighborhood. I went to her neighborhood and was told her children went to the wrong schools. I went to her school but found out it was forced to close by the state. I went to the state, but was told that no family of a criminal convicted for crimes against the state would get aid from them.”
Bridget’s words echoed then faded into silence. They remained seated, and the shifting light cast the interior in a golden glow. The richness of the colors, carvings, and art did not soothe her pain. Lost in her thoughts, she chuffed at a memory. “So, did you hear what Mary’s husband’s crime was? He carried the Northern Ireland flag in a march, and the idiots at Stormont saw fit to throw him into jail for three years. This was a good, churchgoing, God-fearing, hardworking man, who carried a flag. That was his state-censured act.”
“He had been in jail before that, too. Let’s not forget his past.”
“You’re starting to sound like them idiots in Stormont! You’re forgetting the assumption you’re considered rehabilitated and are no longer a threat once you serve your time. So, are you implying that his past transgressions forever taint him? Whatever happened to absolution? Redemption?” The stricken look on the priest’s face told her she was dangerously close to blasphemy. Even that was a line that the fiery Bridget Heinchon would not taunt.
A soft cry from the back of the church caught their attention. Mary was seated in a long wooden pew, hunched over her damp hanky as if trying to make herself even smaller in the huge space.
Bridget walked up the aisle, genuflecting and blessing herself out of habit when she crossed in front of the crucifix. She sat down as gently as she could, fearing that any sudden movement would fracture her friend into jagged pieces.
“I can’t feel the pain any less. These were my children, too.”
Mary looked at Bridget with red, swollen eyes. “Aye, Bridgie, they were that. Maeve and Geroid loved you as their own ma, no doubt there.” She accepted Bridget’s arm around her and placed her head on her friend’s shoulder. “They’re in a better place now.”
Bridget bit down on her inner cheek and gave her friend an extra hug. She glanced up and saw Father Storm looking at her with an expression that said, “Let the woman have her peace.” She nodded, and he exited through the vestibule.
Mary’s sobs began to strengthen as another wave of grief washed over her. Bridget tried to console her friend as best she could, but Mary would not be stilled. The more her friend sobbed, the more Bridget put aside her own grief to help her friend carry her burden.
The force of Mary’s sobs caught her words and drove them from her lips. Guttural wails formed from a source larger than the tiny woman making them. Bridget listened to her friend mourn the loss of her children in the timeless and transcendent sounds of pure grief. She determined to give Mary as much time as she needed to empty herself of the pain.
The strength behind the sobs subsided as fatigue began to numb her. The words that she was fighting to utter finally began to take shape. Bridget listened as a torrent of words rushed out.
“My baby. My baby. Sweet Jesus in heaven. Why? She was so good... so... so good. You had to take her? She was but a wee little mite. So good. No more mark on her soul than our sweet mother in Heaven. Why did she have to suffer so?” Mary looked at Bridget with haunted eyes and grabbed at her coat sleeve. “She was sufferin’ with fever and never a complaint out of her. I was out of my mind with worry for her. You saw her. You saw how weak she was. You were trying to be strong for the both of us. May He bless your soul for the help you tried to give. You saw how sick she was. You felt her body shake with chills even as she raged with fever. You saw her!”
Mary rocked back and forth in her pain, unable to clear her head of memories. “You left us that night to find us more help. You didn’t see her turn blue. You didn’t see her ribs heave with the effort to breathe. You didn’t hear her cry.”
“No. I didn’t hear her. It is a mother’s hardship to be at her child’s side in sickness.”
“I prayed the hardest I have ever prayed. I... I began to question if it was me who had to suffer. That it was His will that I break into pieces for something I’ve done... that I didn’t receive forgiveness for. The signs were always around me. M-my miscarriages. The babies I wanted, but died inside of me. As I prayed, I asked Him to tell me what I had done so I could be forgiven by Him,” she said as she clutched Bridget’s sleeve even tighter. “Bridgie... Bridgie... you know that I have tried to be a good wife.”
“Aye. You have been a loving and devoted wife even with your husband’s troubles.”
“And... and I have been a good friend to you, haven’t I?
“You have been the best friend.”
“I stayed by your side even when others stayed away.”
“You... you’re... a wonderful woman and mother.”
“So... why... what did I do to make my child suffer?”
“It wasn’t your fault. These things happen.” Bridget could hear the hollowness of her words and hated their impotence but couldn’t offer other words of comfort.
“She... she... Maeve... she... d-died in my arms. S-s-she stopped struggling, and for a moment I thought I saw a bloom of color on her cheeks. L-like our Mother’s rose, just for a moment and then she... she just let go. She. Let. Go. Just like that. She let go... let go.” Mary’s sobs threatened to renew and Bridget stroked her hands to calm her. “She was at peace then. She looked so rested and peaceful.” Mary continued to rock back and forth as she stared off at an unseen point beyond the altar. “And that was it.”
Mary’s barely whispered statement faded into the dark corners of the vast cathedral. The two caskets waited patiently for the venting and reliving of both of Mary’s children’s death. The pain from the loss of a child is so great that it travels through one person and into another like a static shock, slightly lessened, but no less sharp, and the pain inside Bridget was acute. The loss of one child was unimaginable, but the loss of two incomprehensible. Bridget continued to stroke and hold her friend, trying to take from her what pain she could. She waited patiently for the pouring forth of the remaining grief and let the minutes pass. Mary seemed lost in her grief and too far away, but Bridget sensed that an equal pouring of her sorrow had to spill forth. Gently, she prodded her friend.
“Geroid loved his sister dearly. Maeve was lucky to have a brother like him.”
Bridget had braced herself for a renewed wail of grief, but what she received sent shivers over her skin. Mary stopped rocking and gave a throaty laugh.
“I gave him his last wish. I... I was a good mother to him to the very end. I gave him his last wish.”
Mary’s faint voice and flat stare made Bridget flinch. “Of course. Of course. You were a good mother. You were there for him, too. You held him in the end, too,” she said, trying to find words that didn’t fade into platitudes.
Mary started to breathe rapidly, almost panting, and her torrent of words started up again, stuttering and fading as she talked. “He... he... he w-w-was holding h-his sister’s hand. J-just patting her, tellin’ her she’ll be alright, that her mama’s th-th-there. He said th-that morning will be comin’ s-soon and the d-daylight will warm her. He h-had been feelin’ better. Color was in his cheeks again. H-h-he was tellin’ her how tomorrow was goin’ to be better. Th-that there would be s-s-sweets for her. He was tellin’ her how everythi
ng was going to be shiny and bright.” She turned her head to Bridget like a drunken sailor and stared at her. “He was lyin’ to her. I couldn’t stand it. He was lying to her, telling her everything was going to be dandy when I knew the truth, that I couldn’t help Maeve breathe, and I couldn’t make the night go away and I couldn’t make tomorrow better.
“I knew we were still going to be sharing our flat and be hungry and cold and that their pappy was still going to be in jail and that we were still going to be hated for being Catholic and for bein’ Irish and proud of it. I was still going to fail at giving my children food or a roof over their heads because no one wants a filthy papist cleaning their house. He w-was just there, pattin’ her hand. Tellin’ her he’d always be with her, that he would be the strong one for her. That’s why he was gettin’ better, so he could be there to help her. H-he was lookin’ at me... askin’ me that we’d always be family. H-he was tellin’ me that he’d never leave the family, like his father done, and that he’d always be there for Maeve, that I was never to worry about her. And that’s when it dawned on me, that he was right, that he was the right person to always be there for her, and that he had no other worries in his life than to be there for her forever and that he made his wish, the wish that he would always be with her forever. S-so you’re r-r-right. I... I... I held him. I... I held him tighter than I had e-ever h-held him. I... I... I held his face to my chest until he s-stopped his struggle. I... I held him until the v-very end.” Mary’s breathing began to slow. “I held him until the end and gave him his last wish. I was a good mother to him. You know that I was.”
Bridget’s mouth had gone dry and she sat motionless beside her friend. Mary, exhausted with grief and heavy with truth, rested her head once again on Bridget’s shoulder, not realizing that what was once filled with warmth had now grown cold.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 13