Like One of the Family

by Nesta Tuomey

  Terry looked down at his sleeping sister. No one had prepared him for the butchered hair. He was horrified, remembering the feel of it, like silk to his touch. He felt a lump in his throat.

  ‘Bloody shits,’ he railed in helpless rage. He should have killed Denis when he had the chance, he thought. Kicked the loathsome bag of tripe until he spilled his guts. One less load of garbage in the world.

  Ruthie moaned piteously in her sleep. At the sound, Terry’s mouth wobbled out of control. He turned his head sharply and felt his throat constrict again with tears.

  The house was quiet. Jane had gone into her bedroom and quietly closed the door, careful not to waken Ruthie, and the older girls were upstairs preparing for bed. Terry sat in the kitchen, too full of anguished reflections to be able to sleep. He threw another sod on the fire and sank back on the settee. He was so deep in thought he hardly heard the soft tapping on the outer door and it was a minute or two before he reacted.

  When Terry drew back the bolts and opened the door he found Garda Deveney on the step outside.

  ‘Goodnight, Terry. I hope I’m not calling too late.’ Bill stepped into the tiny hallway and when Terry turned back inside to call Jane, said at once, ‘No, don’t disturb your mother. I’ve only dropped in for a moment.’

  He followed Terry into the living room and kept his topcoat on while he explained his reason for calling at the advanced hour.

  ‘I thought your mother would be anxious to know. You can tell her in the morning, but the young one in the chip shop is prepared to sign a statement as to the identity of the two lads who attacked your sister. We picked them up a short while ago and took them to the station for questioning. They’ll be charged and will go before the district court in another week or two.’ Bill paused and cast a quick look towards the bedroom door then carefully drew something out of his pocket.

  Terry shivered as he recognised the shining hank of Ruthie’s hair.

  ‘Wait until you get home before telling your mother,’ Bill advised. ‘She’s been through enough as it is and ‘twill only upset her to hear about it tonight. Of course, we’ll have to hold on to it as evidence in the event of a trial.’

  ‘But where was it?’ Terry stammered. ‘I mean, how did you get it?’

  ‘We took it off the daft one.’ Disgust thickened the Garda’s tone. ‘He was wearing it in his belt like some Apache trophy, the poor sick bastard.’

  Terry clenched his fists, swamped by feelings of rage and helplessness. He looked closely at the hair and burned afresh when he saw the piece of rusty wire binding it. His expression was grim as he searched about and found a bag. He placed his sister’s hair in it and wordlessly handed it back to Deveney. Then Terry went to stare out of the window, struggling with his emotions.

  Bill seemed to understand what he was going through and waited another moment before he said, ‘Those are the same young lads you used knock about with if I’m not mistaken?’

  Terry nodded and his face reddened as he was reminded of the nightly racket that they used all of them make, returning from the disco.

  ‘You seem a nice young chap,’ Bill went on, ‘Now what would you be mixing with the likes of them for?’ When Terry remained silent he said, ‘Would you listen to a word of advice. Keep clear of the drink. It’s all very well in its way, but too much of it leads to all kinds of excesses.’ His tone became gentler when he saw Terry’s discomfited expression. ‘Good lad now, good lad. Sure don’t we all get led the wrong way at some time or other in our lives.’

  He walked towards the door and Terry followed him, his thoughts painful. Bill stepped outside, then glanced back at Terry and said, ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re feeling. It’s only when it comes to our own doorstep that we recognise how primitive we are deep down. There’s a lot of evil in the world and a lot of good too. Our job is to do what we can about combatting the one and keeping faith with the other.’ When Terry kept silent he said, ‘You’re a fine strong young chap. Have you ever thought of joining the Force?’

  ‘I’ve thought about applying to the army,’ Terry admitted. ‘But I’m not really sure what I want to do.’

  ‘Ah, there’s plenty of time yet. You have more schooling to get through?’

  Terry nodded. ‘Another year.’

  ‘Well, have a think about the Force. There’s a strong need for young men like yourself. But the army is a good life too. Plenty of discipline and plenty of action. You’ll never be bored anyway.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘Ah, you mightn’t believe it, but we see plenty of action ourselves, even down here in a quiet little spot like Dualeen.’

  Terry murmured in polite agreement.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off and let you to bed. I’m on the first shift in the morning.’

  ‘Sorry about all that noise,’ Terry said awkwardly, but Bill laughed and brushed aside his apology.

  ‘There were times, I’ll admit, when I could have clapped you in the cells, but sure wasn’t I a rumbustious young divil meself once.’ Lifting his hand in a friendly salute he went back to his side of the fence.

  Terry closed the door, feeling curiously comforted by the other man’s warmth and understanding. Then he grinned ruefully as he was reminded how only a few short weeks earlier he had been comparing the man to a maniac.

  Terry switched off the lights and placed the guard before the fire. Deveney wasn’t a bad sort, he thought, feeling cheered. He might be right about the Force but given a choice he thought he would prefer to become a pilot. As he went up to bed he was reminded of what Bill had said about the Gardaí charging Denis and Barney, and felt suddenly more hopeful, than he had all evening.

  The following evening Jane relaxed after the journey from the country, glad to have the long drive behind her and the week’s shopping unpacked and put away in the fridge and freezer. She sipped her tea and turned the pages of The Irish Times and thought that in another few minutes she would go up and say goodnight to Ruthie.

  She sighed. Ruthie was still deeply shocked from her ordeal but was thankfully beginning to come out of the daze she had been in since Garda Deveney had found her the evening before. It was too early to say yet what the long term effect on her would be and Jane was uneasily prepared for the reaction, when it came, to be a violent one. She had decided it would be best not to leave the little girl for any length on her own. Sheena was with her now. Ruthie’s sense of security had been badly shaken by this second fright in the space of a few days and it would take a long time to build up her confidence again. Jane reminded herself that it could have been a lot worse, and gave fervent thanks that the child had been rescued in time. Now she distracted herself by reading an account of the Ulster Unionists’ protest against the Anglo-Irish Agreement and was moving on to another section of the paper as Terry came into the kitchen.

  ‘Mum,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Jane looked up, surprised at his tone.

  Terry sat down at the table across from her and solemnly related all that Garda Deveney had said the previous night, how Denis and Barney would be charged and go before the district court. Then Terry went on awkwardly, for fear of distressing her, to describe how Bill had taken Ruthie’s hair from his pocket and shown it to him.

  ‘God! Mum, it was held together with a piece of rusty wire,’ Terry exploded, unable to contain his anger. ‘Her lovely hair!’

  Jane’s face registered her shock. ‘But where did Bill get it?’ Even as she spoke she knew. He got it from them.

  ‘I got a bag and wrapped it up. I knew that’s what you’d want,’ Terry said, remembering his wish at the time that it had been tissue paper.

  ‘For God’s sake, why didn’t you tell me before now?’ Jane demanded.

  ‘Bill told me not to,’ Terry said simply. ‘That it would only upset you.’

  Jane was touched by Bill’s consideration. He was a decent man. That decides it, she was thinking. Now she would do everything in her power to see t
hat those barbarians were convicted.

  Terry observed her for a moment, his own expression troubled, then he slipped from the room.

  Much later that evening the telephone rang. Jane was preparing to go up to bed and when Terry called softly from the landing so as not to waken Ruthie, she went into her surgery to take it.

  It was Bill Deveney and his voice sounded tired. ‘We’ve suffered a bit of a setback, Doctor,’ he said heavily. ‘I’m sorry to say but the young one from the chip shop has withdrawn her statement.’

  Jane’s spirits, already low, descended even further.

  ‘Tis obvious she’s got the wind up,’ the Garda went on, ‘and as luck would have it she’s our only witness. The two boyos are denying they had anything to do with the attack. They’ve concocted a story to explain how they came into possession of the little girl’s hair. The daft one isn’t reliable - he’ll say anything the other one tells him – but he’s the one that was holding the hair when we picked them up. The main thing is the other fellah has produced an alibi for himself that may just stand up under cross-examination.’

  ‘So can anything at all be done to them now?’ Jane asked, her own tone as leaden as her thoughts.

  ‘All is not lost yet, not by a long chalk,’ Bill assured her, ‘Ah, no, no. We still have the evidence and there’s the child’s own testimony.

  Jane sighed, feeling she had come full circle. How could she put Ruthie through that ordeal?

  ‘So what’s the next step?’ she asked in resignation.

  ‘We’ll submit the details to the Director for Public Prosecution and he’ll have the final ruling on whether we’ll proceed with the case or not.’

  Jane took a deep breath. ‘Tell me honestly, Bill. What are our chances of getting a conviction?’

  Bill took his time replying. ‘With the young one’s statement we’d have been home and dry. But as it is we’d need to break the alibi and have your child go on the stand to give evidence of the assault. All other things being equal, we might be able to make it stick.’

  Jane decided she could not let Ruthie be subjected to the stress of such an interrogation, not after all she had been through, but when she said so to Bill it seemed they no longer had that option.

  ‘I’m afraid it will have to go now to the DPP whether we like it or not.’

  Jane felt as though the nightmare was going on and on. She listened to the rest of what Bill had to say in silence. He was obviously aware of her distress for he said gruffly that he would be in touch with her again when they received the DPP’s findings. And with a last promise to do all in his power to hurry things along, he bid her goodnight and rang off.

  Jane replaced the receiver and leant back in her chair. All her earlier desire for vengeance had quite left her. The price to Ruthie was too high. She felt all played out. They are best left to the Lord, she thought brokenly, and let us get on with our lives.

  The weeks passed slowly and all the time Jane was conscious of the impending decision hovering over them like a storm cloud. How would it all turn out? Some times Jane felt it might be best if the case went to court. Horrendous though the experience might be, it would not last for ever, and once it was over they could, at least, start looking forward to better times. Such were her thoughts in her more positive moments during the day. At other times, usually towards evening when she was tired and depressed or Ruthie had been more than usually difficult that day, she quaked at the very thought of all that was involved and desperately prayed it would not happen.

  By the end of October Jane had got to the stage when she felt any decision would be a relief. The waiting and still not knowing was the worst part. Just when Jane was deciding she would go down to Waterford and find out for herself, Bill Deveney rang her at the clinic one morning with the long-awaited news. The DPP had declared that there was insufficient evidence to bring an action and recommended that they drop the case. Jane felt weak with relief. Thank God! It was better this way, she thought.

  ‘I’m fierce sorry, Doctor,’ Bill said, sounding every bit of it. ‘Tis terrible to think of that pair getting off scott-free. If it’s any consolation to you we’ll be keeping a close watch on them from now on. Their sort always go on breaking laws until they get put away.’ Jane could not find it in herself to be really sorry. The memory of her own attendance in court for the inquest into Eddie’s and Hugh’s deaths and all the hassle involved made her want to steer clear now of any involvement in legal matters. But most important of all was Ruthie’s well-being. Court proceedings would have been an intolerable burden to place on the child, not to mention the effect on the rest of the family. In the circumstances, the DPP’s decision could only be regarded as fortuitous.

  Several mornings later, not long after the children had left for school, the postman rang the doorbell and delivered a small package. Jane took it from him and glanced at the postmark. Yes, it was the one she had been expecting.

  She got a scissors and snipped the string then carefully withdrew the contents. The soft mass of Ruthie’s golden hair lay on the table before her and Jane caught her breath at the forgotten beauty of it. She sank down feeling suddenly weak, remembering how often in the past she had washed and dried it, given it the recommended one hundred strokes.

  Safe from interruption with everyone out of the house, Jane shampooed the hair, handling it with great care. When it was dry she removed the barbarous piece of wire and tied the golden mane in a piece of white ribbon, one Ruthie had worn on her First Communion Day. Jane was overwhelmed by a memory of her little daughter’s face rosy with excitement beneath the snowy veil, and she painfully caught her breath as the words of the Communion hymn came back to her now with unbearable sweetness. Céad mile fáilte romhat a Iosa, One hundred thousand welcomes, Lord Jesus!

  The poignant refrain echoed in Jane’s mind and her eyes were full of tears as she laid Ruthie’s hair in tissue paper and locked it away in a drawer. Some day she would show it to her, she thought. And some day perhaps Ruthie might even wear it as a hairpiece. Jane wondered if that day would ever come.

  As the months passed Claire was saddened to find on her visits to the McArdle’s house that Ruthie was making so little progress after the trauma of the summer. The sunniness which had been the mark of the little girl’s temperament had vanished since her return from the limbo she had occupied in the days after the attack, and now she was broody, inclined to sudden fits of temper, followed by weeping. She had never been a whingey child but this now became her normal conversational tone.

  For a time Ruthie was hostile towards Claire and refused to listen to her stories or accept help with her homework like she had once delighted in doing. Sometimes she met her at the door with cries of, ‘Go away, Claire. This isn’t your house. We don’t want you here,’ and when Jane gently remonstrated with her, burst into noisy tears, crying, ‘You’re all so mean to me. I wish I could die.’

  Claire was disconcerted by the change she saw in her and found it difficult to respond to this demanding, nervy little girl. It was as if Ruthie was saying, you let it happen to me, now see how you like what I’ve become. It was almost too much to bear Claire thought. She had been looking after Ruthie and she had let her down.

  But after the initial defiant outburst Ruthie clung to Claire more fiercely than she had ever done, as though afraid that Claire might reject her. Where before Ruthie naturally accepted affection as her due, now she grimly exacted it in the manner of a wife whose husband has once deceived her, and is constantly seeking reassurance that he loves her. Claire found this naked appeal as distressing as her short-lived animosity.

  Sometimes Claire surprised a wary, placating expression in Jane’s eyes as she watched them together, as if she were afraid that Claire’s patience might snap and then there would only be herself to love and help the little girl.

  One afternoon Jane broke down before Claire and confessed her earlier fear that if the case had gone to court the strain would have proved too much for Ruthie
. From all Jane said it was clear that she had suffered intensely over the weeks of waiting for the DPP’s decision. Claire realised that for Jane to confide in her like she was doing must mean that she was still very close to the edge. She realised too that, whatever about her own difficulties with Ruthie, it was much harder for Jane, forced to watch her youngest child change from an adorable innocent to this irritable, restless spirit. She resolved to visit oftener and try and help to lift some of the burden from her. When she did, more often than not Claire returned to her studies with an aching head and depressed spirits. It did not help that in her own house the atmosphere was equally fraught.

  On the first day of the autumn term Claire had got a shock when she came into the classroom to find there was a new teacher on the rostrum. She had stared at her mother, unable to believe her eyes. Annette smiled coolly back, the situation well in hand. As she told Claire later it was all part of work for her Masters, which she intended sitting the following year. Austin had been the one initially to encourage her, Annette said, but it was only that summer she had made up her mind about the course.

  Claire did not quite believe her mother’s excuse. She suspected her of not telling her, in case she objected. Sheena was at first disbelieving and then amused. ‘I can’t imagine Mum pulling a stunt like that,’ she exclaimed. ‘She discusses everything with us first.’

  Claire had seen the evidence of this for herself. Maybe it was because she had no husband to advise her. But then, strictly speaking neither had Annette.

  ‘Must be kind of nice having your mother teaching you,’ Terry said, overhearing. ‘She can’t punish you if you don’t do your homework.’

  ‘I always do my homework,’ Claire said seriously. Actually, Annette expected work to be handed up on time and marked it according to its merit. Out of school, she taught Claire to analyse her own work and encouraged her to question herself.

  ‘Always do my homework,’ Terry echoed in horror. ‘Oh my, what a pain!’