Darkest Truth

by Catherine Kirwan

  Her voice was strong, and her gaze was intelligent. I wouldn’t have had a chance of deceiving the woman in her prime. But there had been a hint of the uncertainty that old age brings. That might be enough.

  ‘No, Sister. And I realise that I should have written or phoned first. But I was in the area and, honestly, I thought there’s no time like the present. Memories are so easily lost.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose. But you’re not a past pupil?’

  ‘No, Sister, I’m sorry, I’m making a hopeless job of explaining. I’m here about the film that was made here. I’m an amateur film historian, and I was lucky enough to see Jeremy Gill during his recent visit to Cork Film Festival. Afterwards, I had lunch with, not with Mr Gill, I wouldn’t have been so privileged. No. I had lunch with Tiernan McDevitt, the arts journalist. He worked on Mr Gill’s first film, I don’t know if you remember? No? Anyway, Tiernan told me about the filming, how it took place here. And I realised that I hadn’t known that at all. It’s such an important part of the Gill story and it’s almost completely unknown and I just thought it needed to be recorded. So here I am. Cheeky, I know. Sorry again for the short notice, Sister, and for being a terrible pest.’

  I waited.

  ‘I see,’ Sister Bernadette said. ‘It’s not known, you say? But isn’t it in the credits that it was filmed here? I thought – no, I definitely remember that it is.’

  ‘Well, of course, yes. There’s a thank-you to the convent in the credits. But the circumstances aren’t known – for example, that the park in the film is the convent’s own garden. And what it was like for the community. Any special memories, all that.’

  ‘I see,’ Sister Bernadette said again.

  After a pause, she continued.

  ‘What would you want to do?’

  ‘Talk, record an interview, take a few photos of the garden, the other locations, that kind of thing. As much, or as little, as you want. I’d put the information into the Film Festival archive, so that it would be preserved. And let you have a copy for your own archive, too.’

  Most of it was true, though my amateur film historian status had only been dreamt up in the car on the way up.

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ Sister Bernadette said. ‘It’s the kind of thing that might be forgotten, and so much has been forgotten, so much has changed, so much will change soon. The convent can’t continue, not like this, not for much longer.’

  She looked wistful, and I nodded in what I hoped was a sympathetic fashion.

  ‘Come into the parlour and Yvonne will bring us a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Sister,’ I said.

  Sister Bernadette remembered little about the filming, or how it had come about, though she said that Jeremy Gill’s mother had been a past pupil. She thought that, perhaps, the initial approach had come by way of Jeremy’s mother, and spoke at length about Gill’s kindness and generosity to her and all the sisters, both during filming and, in particular, afterwards. The weight given to ‘afterwards’ left me in no doubt that a substantial donation, perhaps more than one, had been made to the convent’s coffers. I listened closely to everything Sister Bernadette said. I took notes, in addition to my iPhone recording, and deliberately avoided all mention of Rhona Macbride until we got to the garden. The bench, the location for most of the film’s scenes between Gill and Rhona, was still there. I started by taking a few photos of Sister Bernadette on the bench from various angles, and then sat beside her.

  ‘It’s such a thrill to be here,’ I said. ‘I think you’re in Mr Gill’s spot and I’m in Rhona’s.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do believe you’re right.’

  She blushed, and laughed, but coyly, as if I had made a slightly risqué joke.

  ‘Was there much of an audition process for her role, do you remember?’

  ‘Oh my goodness, I don’t remember a great deal about the auditions. From what I do remember, I think Jeremy saw nearly every girl in the school. He was marvellous with all of them, but once he saw Rhona, he made up his mind that she was the one. I’m sure she’d remember more about it herself.’

  ‘Fabulous, it all sounds like such fun. But you know, you’re right. You’ve just made me realise that I should talk to her too. She’s a big part of the story.’

  ‘Ye-es, I suppose. Though she changed schools, you know. Not long after the film, just upped and left. I needn’t tell you, I was disappointed. A lot of media people came to take pictures for the papers and the news when dear Jeremy was nominated for the Oscar for the short film. They wanted to take a photograph of Rhona, too. And we had to tell them that she wasn’t here. Well, it didn’t look good. And that’s it, I suppose, that’s the way it goes. I could never understand it. I was dean of students at the time, out of active teaching since they brought in the compulsory retirement age, which is a terrible nonsense. But I had held on to that honorary role, and I knew Rhona Macbride very well. She had been an excellent pupil, but she changed all of a sudden, they often do at that age, was absent for a while and then the request for the transfer came in. She went from here, so convenient for her home on Wickstead Street on the other side of the Basin, to Stanhope Street School. Really, from every point of view, it seemed the wrong move. I said it to her mother at the time. But she was adamant that if Rhona wanted to move, she could. And I spoke to her father Tom too. But it was no use, no use whatsoever. Girls can be so wilful at times. That’s what I’ve learnt these fifty-seven years. Wilful and stubborn, and if they don’t get discipline at home as well as in school, if they’re allowed to do what they like …’

  I had stopped listening. As soon as I could, without being rude, I thanked Sister Bernadette, and left. I had a father’s name and a street address. It was enough to be getting on with.

  I had been in the convent more than two hours, an hour more than my parking permit allowed. As I crossed the road to my car I saw that I had been clamped.

  ‘Shit,’ I said, under my breath.

  The clamper van was still on the street, further along. I ran after it. There was no prospect of getting away with the fine – but I might persuade them to release me, provided I paid fast, over the phone. After a hurried conversation, more lies and a lot of pleading, the attendant agreed to come back. I ran ahead of him, called in my credit card details, and sat in the car while he unlocked the clamp.

  My phone pinged. It was a text message from Aifric Sheehan.

  Mentioned D to Eoghan MacG. He never knew her. Definite. You sure he did?

  I typed a reply to Aifric.

  Must have got it wrong. Thanks Aifric

  But the Carneys had been absolutely sure that Eoghan MacGiolla, though he hadn’t been teaching at her school at the time she was there, had known Deirdre from the area. I made a note: I’d have to arrange another chat with him when I got back to Cork.

  I looked again at the convent, at the rows and rows of windows, lighting rooms long vacant of people and purpose. I saw what looked like a grey figure watching the scene from a window on the first floor. Was it Sister Bernadette? I waved, but got no response.

  Maybe it was a trick of the light.

  23

  Eighty euros poorer, I drove in the direction of Phibsboro. Some friends and I had shared a house there, on Geraldine Street, when we’d been students at the Law Society. We used to go the Basin, a quiet green place with a pond and a few benches, to loll about after summer lectures. Only ten minutes’ walk from O’Connell Street, the park felt like a local secret.

  Seeing a space on the left side of Wickstead Street, the address Sister Bernadette had given me, I pulled in, making sure to text my parking fee before I did anything else. I wasn’t going to get clamped twice in one day. Then I got out of the car and started knocking on doors.

  I had no story concocted for my meeting with the Macbrides. If I started out on a lie, I could never regain their trust. But I had to be discreet: I couldn’t assume that Rhona had told her parents anything about what had happened with Gill, if anyth
ing had. I was keeping the question open as a formality, a sop to my legal training, even though, by now, I was sure that Jeremy Gill had attacked both Deirdre and Rhona. Sister Bernadette couldn’t understand Rhona’s change of behaviour and decision to move schools, but to me it made perfect sense. If Gill had sexually assaulted Rhona, it was only natural that she would have wanted to move away from the memories she had of him, and of the filming, at the school.

  Number 17 Wickstead Street was a two-storey Victorian red-brick, typical of the area, with steps up to a holly-green front door, and a well-tended front garden. The woman who lived three houses down had said she was ‘nearly sure’ that this was Macbrides’. But the door was answered by a child, a sturdy fair-haired boy of nine or ten.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Hiya,’ the boy said.

  ‘Is this where Thomas Macbride lives?’

  ‘That’s my grandad. But he’s called Tommy, not Thomas. And he’s not here.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Is there anyone else home maybe?’

  ‘My granny.’

  ‘Could I talk to her, please?’

  He turned and roared into the house.

  ‘Granny!’

  ‘All right, all right, Shane,’ a voice said. ‘No need to tell the whole street.’

  A glamorous blonde woman of about sixty came to the door. Her hair was styled in soft curls. Either she had just had a blow-dry or she had a way with heated rollers. I had imagined another Ann Carney, someone spare, someone haunted. Not this.

  ‘Mrs Macbride?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. How can I be of assistance?’

  She had a confident, seen-it-all air, like a senior Aer Lingus stewardess. I had the feeling that, if I stood around long enough, Mrs Macbride might offer me a G&T.

  ‘Actually, it’s Rhona I’m looking for.’

  ‘You’re looking for Auntie Rhona? Not here,’ the boy said.

  ‘That’s right. Rhona doesn’t live here, hasn’t for years,’ Mrs Macbride said.

  ‘I know,’ I said, winging it. ‘But I really need to talk to her.’

  ‘Are you a friend of hers?’

  ‘Not a friend, exactly. Look, I don’t expect you to just give me her address or phone number. But maybe you could ring her for me and tell her I need to talk to her. That it’s very, very important, it’s vital, actually, that I do. This is my driver’s licence and here’s my business card. I can wait out here if you’d prefer. I’m parked just down the road.’

  I handed my card to Mrs Macbride. She took it and read it.

  ‘You’re a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to her about when she was at the Convent of the Blessed Eucharist. Just before she changed schools. I know it must seem unusual.’

  Mrs Macbride’s face changed, as if something was clicking into place.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said.

  She closed the door and went into the house. Moments later, she was back. She handed me a piece of paper.

  ‘Here’s Rhona’s address. I’m sure with the internet you’d have found her sooner or later anyway. It’s better if she doesn’t know you’re coming, she won’t answer the door if you give her warning in advance. And she definitely won’t answer if she knows I sent you. We – well, we don’t get on. We talk, but not much. I’d prefer if you didn’t tell her you were here. She’s at work now but she should be home some time after five. Don’t get your hopes up, she never talked to us. I can’t tell you more because I don’t know anything. Goodbye.’

  Without warning, she shut the door, leaving me alone on the step. I almost rang the bell again, but stopped myself. There was no need, I realised. I had got more information than I could ever have expected from Mrs Macbride, and from Sister Bernadette too.

  Winding my scarf more tightly, I walked quickly towards the car. Though she wouldn’t be home for another hour at least, I wanted to locate Rhona Macbride’s house before dark. The day was dark enough already. Cars had their lights on, and it had started raining again, a drenching downpour that might never stop. The wet and the heavy traffic made driving almost unbearable. And dangerous.

  I turned off Skreen Road and drove south in the shadow of the walls of the Phoenix Park and, further on, McKee Barracks. Rhona lived on Rossbeigh, a few turn-offs shy of the North Circular. I pulled in across the road from the small development. I conceded that you could just about see the tops of the trees from Park View Mews, but calling it a view was pushing it. More significantly, there was a locked gate and an intercom and a coded keypad. Maybe that was the reason Mrs Macbride had given out the address so easily: I wouldn’t be able to gain access to the front door unless Rhona agreed to press the buzzer.

  Before I did any more, I needed to go to the loo. I wanted to catch Rhona soon after she came in from work, before she settled in for the night or went out again. And if she did agree to see me, I didn’t want ‘where’s the bathroom?’ to be my first question. I pulled off and drove around until I saw a coffee shop. Then I ran in, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and left it on the counter with the assistant, saying I’d be back to pay in a moment.

  But sometimes you can move too fast. On the way out the door, I collided with a heavy-set man in a suit, pulling a copy of The Herald out of an inside pocket.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t see you. The glass, it’s all steamed up.’

  Ignoring my apology, he muscled past me, brushing the rain off his jacket. He marched straight to a table, sat and opened his paper with a snap. By now, I was the aggrieved one. Didn’t people say Dubliners were friendly, that Corkonians were supposed to be standoffish? I shrugged and left. Then I did a U-turn and headed back towards Rhona’s place. She should definitely be home by now, according to what her mother had said.

  I rang the buzzer.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’

  I started at the voice from the intercom.

  ‘My name is Finn Fitzpatrick. I’m a solicitor. I’ve come up from Cork today. If it’s all right, I’d like to talk to you.’

  Silence.

  ‘How did you get my address?’

  ‘Please can I talk to you, Ms Macbride? It’s about …’

  ‘I know what it’s about. And I don’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘I understand, Ms Macbride, Rhona, if I can call you that. But maybe it’s time.’

  More silence. Then, at last, a buzzing noise.

  I pushed open the gate and hurried in before Rhona could change her mind. A door opened on the right side of the car park and a lone figure stepped into the rectangle of light. An outdoor lamp flashed on automatically as I approached.

  ‘I need to see ID,’ Rhona Macbride said.

  She pushed the door almost closed and I handed my driver’s licence and card through the gap. The door slammed shut. The sensor light clicked off and I was in darkness. I moved and it flicked back on. Then the door opened again.

  ‘You can come in,’ Rhona Macbride said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She nodded towards the rear of the house. I went down the narrow hallway and came into a white-painted kitchen with white cupboards and a mid-century-style round white table and four white chairs. I waited until Rhona came into the room, then sat at the table. She handed me my driver’s licence, but put the card into a white fruit bowl on the counter. She sat down in the chair furthest away from me and sighed. Eventually, she spoke.

  ‘I’ve been expecting this for ever. Not you. Someone. Doesn’t make it easy.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t say anything, you know. You can sit here all night and I won’t talk.’

  ‘Okay. I understand. But is it all right if I ask why you let me in?’

  She got up and leant against the counter. For the first time, I could see her properly. Dressed in leggings and a slim-fitting grey tunic, with thick black socks on her feet, she looked like a ballet dancer. Her hair, tied up in a high ponytail, was long and thick and naturally blonde. Rhona Macbride h
ad been pretty onscreen as a schoolgirl. She had grown up to be beautiful.

  ‘I saw your name in the paper at work today,’ Rhona said. ‘Some Twitter thing in Cork at the Film Festival. A row between you and Jeremy Gill. I thought that if you went from that hassle to coming up here you’d be hard to get rid of so I thought I’d better see you and explain, face to face, that I am never going to talk. Get that? Never.’

  ‘I missed that article,’ I said. ‘Where is it that you work, by the way? Is it far?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but seeing as you found me here I suppose you’d find that out too. I work in the Department of Defence.’

  ‘Near enough, so. On Infirmary Road?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ve sued your department once or twice. Soldiers’ personal injuries claims. I remember one of my clients went for medical examination in St Bricin’s Military Hospital.’

  ‘That’s not my area.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I work in … Don’t think you can soften me up with this chit-chat.’

  ‘I didn’t think I could.’

  ‘It’s still no. I am not going to talk to you. And I’d like you to leave. Now.’

  ‘You’re not the only one, Rhona. Gill hurt you, I know he did, or I think he did, at least. But there was another girl, from Cork. Gill met her in 1998, when he was visiting the Film Festival. I represent her parents. She died, in January, earlier this year. It was suicide.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘She was raped, had a nervous breakdown and never recovered. She alluded to Gill in her suicide note. Said that the academy mightn’t like him so much if they knew what he was really like.’

  I paused.

  ‘I went to your old school today, spoke to Sister Bernadette. She told me about you, about how Gill chose you for the film role, how you changed schools afterwards. That was when I knew for sure. Her description of you. It was like listening to Deirdre’s parents.’