With Our Blessing

by Jo Spain

  ‘No, I didn’t. I hated her because she was evil.’

  Tom wasn’t as shocked as he suspected he should be. ‘To the girls in the laundry?’ he asked.

  Gladys looked at him over the needles. ‘No. She was an evil bitch to everyone.’ She resumed her knitting. ‘You’re fascinated by the laundry. People always are with tragic tales from the past, aren’t they? How come it was acceptable, and why did people just stand by and let it happen? It’s never how you think, though. Back then, the laundry was just a way of life.

  ‘People are very moralistic about history but very few of us analyse what we contribute to the horrors of the present. Look at the way poor refugees are treated in this country right now – set up in direct provision centres, their children denied basic rights. Look at the refugee children who go missing from the system, kids trafficked into all sorts of diabolical situations. Oh, I read the papers.

  ‘And then there are those small, inconsequential acts, when we sin by omission. How often do neighbours ignore the sounds of violent fighting in the house beside them, even when they know there are children in the home? How often do people walk past a homeless person like they’re not there? Humans aren’t saints. Not now, not then.’

  Tom closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his brow.

  She was right, of course.

  ‘You, though, Sister. You have a conscience. You weren’t happy with the laundry?’

  ‘No. The laundries weren’t meant to be holiday camps, mind. This country was austere and grey for most of my life. Poverty everywhere. We were supposed to take in the charity cases, the ones no one else wanted. If you want to provide charity, you need money. The state gave us some funding, but we had to source the rest. So we worked – and the girls had to work, too. Sewing, selling vegetables, laundering.

  ‘For some, it wasn’t sufficient to make enough to run the place. Certain individuals were greedy. And they worked the girls hard. They stopped working themselves. They turned an act of charity into an act of profit. They forgot what we were meant to be about and the vows we took.

  ‘Some sisters were brutalized by the regime and became as bad as the worst offenders. Other nuns came here and you knew, just to look at them, that they weren’t Christians to begin with. They sought power, and there was nothing more powerful than the Church for a long, long time.’

  Tom released the breath he had been holding.

  Sister Gladys leaned down and picked up a small pair of scissors from a basket on the floor. Sitting back up with a wheeze, she snipped the wool she had been using and picked up a different ball, knotting the new wool on to the old. She seemed to be knitting a long, multicoloured scarf.

  ‘Some people like to inflict pain. Sadists, I think they call them. Well, we had a couple of them here. Not all of us –’ she stopped knitting and looked him directly in the eye to impress her point – ‘not all, Inspector. But often, when behaviour is acceptable, people follow it like sheep. There are a couple of sisters here who did things in the laundry that I’m sure they’ve been praying for forgiveness for ever since, even if they won’t admit it.’

  She resumed knitting. ‘Others, however . . . well, they don’t think they’ve anything to ask forgiveness for. You tell me, though – is it right to beat a young woman to near unconsciousness for not starching a shirt properly? To make girls work six days a week from early morning to late at night – hard, backbreaking work? To give them barely enough food to live, let alone thrive? Is it right to stand back when you know that girls in your care are being interfered with, and do nothing?’

  A tear appeared in the corner of Sister Gladys’s left eye. It grew bigger and bigger until it spilled over the eyelid and rolled, slowly, down her cheek.

  She sniffed, placed the needles in her lap and pulled a scrunched-up tissue from inside her sleeve.

  ‘I don’t like remembering,’ she said, wiping her cheek and her chin, before dabbing her eye.

  Tom placed a comforting hand on her arm. ‘It can’t have been easy to have those feelings and witness others’ suffering. What did you do?’

  ‘I stayed. That was all I could do. When I wasn’t that long in the place, I wrote a letter to the Minister. I was trained as a teacher but none of those girls ever got an education. Do you know what the government did? Nothing, except report me. I got a dressing down I wasn’t going to forget in a hurry.

  ‘I nearly left. I took my vows seriously but I thought, “This isn’t for me.” Already, though, some of the girls clung to me. I was one of the few who showed them kindness. So I couldn’t leave, do you understand? I had to stay.’ More fat tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Tom found the sight pitiful.

  The loud, abrasive, slightly mad Sister Gladys was easier to take than this old lady, crying silently inside and out. How tough her life must have been – so clever and compassionate, and yet she’d been helpless to stop what was happening around her. By the time the laundry closed, she would have been completely institutionalized and unable to leave.

  Sister Gladys sniffed and wiped her eyes roughly. ‘I wanted to stay in the end, Inspector. I . . . I saw some girls go through something, and I swore to God I would help them afterwards. As much as I could.’

  ‘What did you see, Sister?’

  Tom could hear his heart thudding.

  ‘You know we had an orphanage at the back of this building?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was run well. I will say that for the sisters who worked in it. None of the children in their care ever came to harm. You see the stories now of babies being allowed to die from neglect in those homes, children buried in mass unmarked graves, the government using the kids for vaccine trials . . .’ The nun shuddered. ‘But we also had a hospital wing for pregnant mothers. That wasn’t usual, as you probably know. Mother and baby homes were generally separate from Magdalene Laundries. But we ended up taking some girls in, and then some of our own girls ended up pregnant.

  ‘Their babies were forcibly taken from them. They were single mothers. They had no rights. The adoption law enacted in the fifties should have made it harder for the infants to be taken from the girls. But it didn’t. The sister in charge of the pregnant girls ensured the adoption papers were signed. That sister was Mother Attracta.’

  She started knitting furiously again.

  He waited a minute.

  ‘Sister?’

  She kept clicking the needles. Eventually, she put them down, irritably.

  ‘What did it do to the girls?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think it did to them? I sat with some of them and tried to bring them solace. But you cannot comfort a woman who has had her baby taken from her against her will. I saw girls go mad from the grief. I saw babies ripped from their mothers before they even knew if they’d given birth to a girl or a boy. They weren’t even allowed to hold them.

  ‘And the worst was that there were sisters who thought they were doing the girls a favour. Inspector, most of society agreed. Single women with children? Not unless they were widowed. No one wanted to see young girls parading around the streets with babies in perambulators and no rings on their fingers. A lot of these girls were working class. There was an elitism there that believed the children were better off with a certain type of family.’

  Her voice broke. ‘Babies were stolen from their mothers with our blessing. The politicians can try to pin all this on the religious orders but it was with their blessing, too. And then those babies were sold.’

  ‘Sold?’

  ‘That’s what I said. You think money didn’t change hands when adoptions were arranged? The best were the American couples. It wasn’t that lucrative for this convent; we weren’t a full-blown mother and baby home. For those institutions, there was a rare old trade going in babies. Three thousand pounds would have been the norm in the sixties for buying a nice little Catholic Irish baby. That was a lot of money, back then.

  ‘They never even checked what happened to those little
angels when they went abroad. Never checked if the parents were suitable. I’ve heard such horror stories!

  ‘But even here in this laundry a few pounds could grease the wheels and get you ahead of others on the adoption list. Well-to-do people always managed to get the youngest babies, the healthiest babies – and yes, even the babies the girls didn’t want to give up.’

  Tom physically flinched. How much deeper and darker, he wondered, could the history of this place get?

  The nun picked up her cup and spat hard into it, then dropped her head and wiped her eyes again. Tom felt the venom in the act.

  ‘You say you suspected the girls were interfered with?’ he asked, after a minute had passed. ‘By whom?’

  She stared him straight in the eye. ‘By the man who’s answering for it in hell this very day. Not that anybody in charge believed the girls. I did, though. When I found out, I did all I could to make sure he wasn’t allowed to bring any more girls up to that house for special “lessons”.’

  Tom nodded. She’d confirmed what the detectives suspected.

  They sat there in silence for a few minutes.

  After a while, the side door to the kitchen opened and Sister Concepta came in.

  ‘Inspector, your detectives are going through the records room, but I’m not entirely sure what they’re looking for. Can I talk to you?’

  ‘One moment, Sister Concepta.’

  Tom waited until the nun had stepped outside before turning back to Sister Gladys.

  ‘Why did you suggest cleaning up the hall and ringing Father Seamus when it was discovered Mother Attracta was missing? Why not phone the police?’

  The nun puckered her cheeks in amusement. ‘Do you think I was trying to cover my tracks, Inspector?’

  ‘No,’ he smiled. ‘I’m curious, though. You know, cleaning a crime scene could be considered an offence?’

  ‘Only if you knew it was a crime scene. Well, let’s speak hypothetically. Imagine I suspected something had happened but I just didn’t care. That I was sure whoever took Attracta had a very good reason, and I wasn’t going to be complicit in their discovery. Maybe I’d just clean up, tell the old git up the road and get on with things. Would you arrest me for that?’

  Tom nearly fell off his seat. He stared at the little old lady and shook his head. When he’d recovered, he stood up.

  ‘Hypothetically, there would be some charge there,’ he said. ‘But I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment. Sister, aren’t you afraid that if someone wanted to punish Attracta for something she did in the laundry, they might be willing to lash out at any of you?’

  The nun’s eyes brimmed again. ‘Maybe some of us deserve it.’

  Tom was speechless. He struggled to find something to say that could alleviate the nun’s pain. Then it came to him.

  ‘There’s something I need you to do, which could help someone whose family suffered because of this laundry.’

  The nun’s eyes widened.

  ‘Do you remember Peggy Deasy? She was here from the mid-sixties. She hanged herself.’

  ‘Yes, I remember her, of course I do. That was a dreadful tragedy.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘You know her family?’

  ‘That young detective I have with me, Laura Brennan; Peggy was her aunt.’

  Sister Gladys placed a hand to her breast, and gasped.

  ‘Is there any chance you could talk to her about Peggy? I don’t mean the bad stuff. Did the girl have any good times? Can you tell Laura anything to make her feel better?’

  The old woman scratched a mole on her chin, her eyes half closed. Then she opened them, and nodded eagerly.

  ‘She was a beautiful girl, Peggy. Even with her head shorn and all the weight she lost. When her hair grew back there was another sister here, Sister Clarence – she’s dead now – who used to brush it for her and plait it. Peggy never said anything, but I think she enjoyed it. We did our best. There are little things like that.’

  ‘Tell her, Sister.’

  *

  The inspector’s phone rang, as he went to join Sister Concepta in the hall.

  It was Ray.

  ‘Sir, I’m having real difficulty getting back to the convent. Ciaran just got here and says he nearly came off the road in parts. There’s a B&B in the village, the one Ellie is staying in. Should I stay there tonight?’

  ‘Sounds like you found a silver lining, Ray. This reception is terrible . . . are you still in the priest’s house?’

  ‘Yes, but we’re finished for this evening. We’re bracing ourselves for the walk across the village.’

  Tom wished him luck and hung up. He signalled to a patient Sister Concepta that he had one more call to make.

  He got through to Emmet’s mobile on the first ring.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you, Tom Reynolds. I’m in some bloody godforsaken hole outside Roscrea in the dingiest B&B you’ve ever come across. My car is being slowly buried in snow outside. The landlady – and believe me when I tell you she could be rocking in a chair in the attic of the Bates Motel – has offered me a snifter of poitín and a midnight visit to her room. She’s offered me everything except a damn sandwich. A few snowflakes, and the country comes to a standstill . . .’

  Tom let Emmet rant on for a bit longer.

  ‘You won’t be down tonight, then?’ he asked.

  He had to hold the phone away from his ear as Emmet let rip anew. A minute or two later, the head of the Technical Bureau ran out of expletives.

  ‘No, I bloody well won’t be down tonight, Tom. If they get the salt and the snowploughs out, I’ll be down in the morning. Do you think you can keep the body count down to single digits until then?’

  ‘I can’t promise anything, but I fervently hope so. The way things are going, I’ll be sleeping with one eye open tonight.’

  Chapter 41

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Tom apologized to Sister Concepta for keeping her waiting. ‘This weather is playing havoc with the investigation.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be causing any difficulties for the killer,’ she replied, tartly.

  ‘Hmm. Willie Callaghan spoke to you about the people you visited this afternoon, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve told him there are several villagers who can vouch for my whereabouts when Father Seamus was murdered in his house – which, I believe, your officers were watching at the time.’

  It didn’t take a mind-reader to tell that Sister Concepta was not happy.

  Tom sighed. ‘I know you are really putting yourselves out for us here. I can see that you, in particular, are trying to keep the routine going for everyone, despite all that’s happened. I think you know, though, that we are just trying to do our job as thoroughly as possible.’

  She looked slightly mollified.

  ‘What are you doing in the records rooms?’ she asked.

  ‘Checking every avenue. Actually, we could do with your help. More of my team are due down but probably won’t arrive until tomorrow. I need to find out about former residents of the laundry, Sister. How many there were, their names and where they are now.’

  He continued speaking, even though she looked on the verge of collapsing with disbelief.

  ‘I’m particularly keen to find a woman we believe was here in the mid-seventies. In the absence of computerized files, I think we’re going to need all the help you can give us.’

  ‘Are you serious? You think the person who killed Mother Attracta could have been a woman from the laundry? That was all so long ago. I don’t understand why you keep dragging it up.’

  ‘There might be someone who isn’t happy to let it lie in the past, Sister.’

  The nun looked unconvinced.

  ‘I really think you’re clutching at straws, Inspector,’ she said. ‘But if you insist on pursuing this, I will help in any way I can. We’re meant to be gathering for prayers, but I’m sure the Good Lord can spare me this once.’

  They made their way to the first of the records rooms, where t
he team had started sifting through files already. Even though the room itself was relatively small, Tom felt his whole body grow weak as he stared at the piles of boxes.

  ‘Is there not some kind of master index, even on paper?’

  The nun chewed her lip.

  ‘Sister?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘I’m so used to keeping it secret.’

  ‘Keeping what secret?’ Tom asked.

  His senses prickled. What was she hiding?

  ‘What we’ve been doing.’

  Sister Concepta blew out her cheeks.

  ‘I suppose there’s not much point in keeping it to ourselves any longer. Especially if it can speed things up and end this madness . . . It shouldn’t exist, but it does,’ the nun continued. ‘There’s a master file that contains a partial index of the records.’

  It was a little bit anticlimactic. This might be a huge secret for Sister Concepta, for whatever reason, but Tom was just relieved to know there was some sort of key to help sort through the stacks of files that lay before them.

  ‘Why shouldn’t it exist?’ he asked.

  ‘Because nobody sanctioned myself and Sister Bernadette to start it.’

  ‘Ah!’ Tom exclaimed, as the penny dropped. ‘You and Sister Bernadette were compiling the laundry’s records behind Mother Attracta’s back.’

  Sister Concepta nodded.

  ‘I thought you were quite circumspect in your opinions about the laundry when you gave us our tour yesterday,’ Tom said. ‘Are those your real views?’

  The nun blushed. ‘I think there are two sides. Some women quite obviously suffered in the laundries, and their suffering has been dismissed. That doesn’t mean the laundries didn’t perform a necessary social function, or that everyone in them had only bad experiences. When the industrial schools’ history came out, I knew the laundries would be next. I had seen some of these files. Pure curiosity, I’m afraid. Nosiness, Attracta would call it. I knew after reading them that their stories couldn’t stay hidden.

  ‘A few of us talked about it several years ago and decided we needed to do something to save these records. We were . . . afraid, I suppose, that Attracta would decide to get rid of them. The Vatican has instructed us not to, but I had heard Mother Attracta tell relatives of laundry girls that the files no longer existed.’