With Our Blessing

by Jo Spain

  ‘Who amongst you decided to save them?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Myself, Sister Bernadette and Sister Gladys. Only two of us could do the actual physical work. We began collating key facts. Names, their ages, how long they were here and when they left. We’ve covered from the year the laundry closed, in 1985, back to 1965. Kilcross became a laundry at the start of the last century, though there are no files from the early years. Progress has been slow enough, given the difficulty in accessing the rooms without Mother Attracta finding out, and having to cover for one another. We thought it best to start with the most recent years – those women are most likely to still be alive.’

  ‘So it was you who was going in and out of her office and getting Mother Attracta all wound up? Were you using her computer?’

  Sister Concepta shook her head adamantly. ‘No, Inspector. I really don’t think it was us she was suspicious of. We were at pains not to leave anything amiss, and we never went into her office.’

  ‘Then where did you compile your work?’

  ‘I have a small laptop. I keep it in my room. I didn’t even connect it to the internet because I was afraid Mother Attracta would see the computer’s name pop up on the server.’

  Tom shook his ahead, astonished. ‘What you did was very brave, Sister, and it’s going to save us a lot of time. Can you fetch your computer for us now?’

  As the nun turned to leave, Michael spoke.

  ‘Sir, I just found a Downes, 1973.’ He pulled out the file.

  Tom’s heart skipped a beat. Had they struck lucky?

  ‘Crap. This is Margaret Downes.’ Michael put the file down, disappointed.

  Tom allowed himself to breathe again.

  ‘It’s still important. If the name is Downes, we’ll have to go through it. But it’s a common enough name, so keep looking for a Liz. I’ll go check out this master file.’

  Tom waited for Sister Concepta in Mother Attracta’s office.

  She returned promptly, and they watched as the laptop booted up.

  ‘I asked Sister Bernadette this afternoon about the incident at Hallowe’en,’ Tom said. ‘She hadn’t informed us that she was the one Mother Attracta locked in the chapel. Do you think that odd?’

  Sister Concepta sighed. ‘No. She was probably embarrassed. They fought a lot when Sister Bernadette came here first, but Mother Attracta ground her down. She knew how to press a weak spot. It was a special skill of hers but Bernadette was never able to rise above it, so Attracta could always get to her. The woman thrived on discord, you see. Despite what she’s been through abroad, Bernadette was no match for Mother, and she felt humiliated because of it.’

  ‘Did Attracta find your weak spot, Sister?’

  A shadow crossed the nun’s face. ‘No. We had our clashes, but she couldn’t get under my skin. I can be very resolute when I have to be.’

  The screen of the old laptop flickered to life at last.

  ‘We didn’t record this data very professionally, Inspector, but it’s some sort of spreadsheet format. Scroll down for the names.’

  She clicked the file open, dragging the arrow over a number at the top of the sheet: 500.

  ‘Is this the total number of women who were here from 1965 to 1985?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. They say the average stay was seven months, but a lot of women stayed longer. Those who left but came back are counted as one entry. There’s a rumour that thirty thousand women went through the laundries in the last century. I don’t know if that’s true.’

  Tom stared at the three digits. It could be worse. It was a large number of women to get through, but it was manageable.

  ‘Forgive me for asking this, Sister, but how reliable is this data? Given that you had to undertake this work in difficult circumstances, might you and Sister Bernadette have missed a box or two?’

  She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Please don’t underestimate for a second the importance we attached to this task. We were methodical. We went from January to December in every year. There’s an average of four boxes per year. You can trust this information.’

  He hoped she was right. It occurred to him that if she or Sister Bernadette had wanted to remove all traces of a laundry inmate, they had been excellently placed to do so. But then he had to ask – why would two women dedicated to preserving the laundry’s history want to cover something up?

  ‘May I?’ he asked, indicating her seat.

  ‘Please.’

  She stood up and let him sit at the computer.

  Five hundred women, an average of forty to sixty each year.

  The departure dates for the first few names were all around the same time – the middle months of 1985. But their dates of entry to the laundry varied wildly. The first woman had entered in 1982, aged twenty. The second woman had entered in 1983, aged twenty-four. The third woman had entered in 1969, aged seventeen.

  Beside each of their names ‘living’ had been typed.

  ‘What does this mean?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Some women died while they were in the laundry.’

  ‘Died how?’

  ‘Old age, illness, accidents.’

  ‘You didn’t fill in that kind of detail, just “living” or “deceased”, am I correct?’

  ‘Yes. All the personal information is still in the original files.’

  ‘This woman who entered in 1969 . . . what’s that, sixteen years? Where would she have gone when the laundry closed?’

  ‘That was the problem, Inspector. A lot of the women became institutionalized. When they decided to close the laundry, places had to be found for the women. I remember what was in that woman’s file. It traumatized me because it was the first time I’d seen it. She was transferred to a psychiatric hospital.’

  Tom blanched.

  ‘The first time?’ he parroted. ‘There were more, then?’

  ‘Many.’

  ‘What of the other women who left?’

  ‘Out into the world. We’ve no way of knowing what happened to them, though I suppose you could easily track them. I suspect many left for England. Many of them wouldn’t have seen returning to their home places as an option. Of course, some entered religious life themselves.’

  ‘Really?’ He was taken aback that anyone held in a laundry would choose to become a nun. Perhaps it was a form of Stockholm syndrome.

  ‘Are any of the nuns here . . .?’ he tailed off.

  ‘No. There used to be one. She entered the laundry in the forties and became a sister in the fifties. She’s dead now. You’re surprised, but it’s not unusual for someone who has spent years in a religious institution, be it a laundry or an orphanage, to become religious themselves. Exposure to God’s teachings doesn’t always turn a person off religion.’

  ‘I’m just not sure it was God the laundry girls were being exposed to,’ Tom replied.

  He scrolled down the columns until he reached 1974. He skimmed the names of that and the preceding year. He only saw one Downes – the Maggie Downes whose file Michael had found. He’d have to check with Ciaran to make sure he hadn’t got the name of the caller wrong. There was no Liz Downes, which could mean one of three things: Liz had been lying or not using her real name; Ciaran’s officer had got the name wrong; Sister Concepta’s master record was incomplete. Or, Tom considered, Liz hadn’t been an inmate at all, but knew someone who had.

  ‘Can we connect your computer to the internet and email this file?’

  ‘I think so. The computer’s a couple of years old but I’m pretty sure it’s suitable for internet access.’

  Sister Concepta sat back down in the seat vacated by Tom. Within minutes she’d hooked up the computer and opened a Google search engine.

  ‘I have an old email address,’ she said. ‘Will I email from that or from yours?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll put mine in,’ he replied, and took the chair again.

  As he pressed send, he dialled Ian.

  ‘Ian, are you still in the station?’

 
‘No. I sent the team home before the storm got too bad. I can go back in if you need me to.’

  ‘Don’t do that. I’m sending you a file with a list of names. I was expecting the rest of the team down tomorrow, but this is work you can do better there. I need you to get background on the names – find out where they are now, family details, et cetera.’

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘Five hundred, but we already know some of them have passed away, and their deaths are marked on the list.’

  ‘No problem. Send it on.’

  Tom hung up and turned to Sister Concepta.

  ‘Right, I think it’s time to call it a night. If we keep going like this, someone is going to fall down with exhaustion. And it just might be me.’

  ‘Let me get some supper sorted for you all. I’ll leave my laptop here for you,’ the nun said. ‘There’s no need to hide it now.’

  Chapter 42

  Michael and Laura had been joined by Willie. All of them looked up, bleary-eyed, when Tom opened the door to the records room.

  ‘Let’s call it a night, lads. Go get some air, a wash – whatever you need – and grab a bite to eat.’

  ‘We haven’t found another Downes,’ Michael said, getting up from his cross-legged position.

  ‘Nor did I on the master record,’ Tom said. ‘Have you got Margaret Downes’s file to hand?’

  ‘It’s right here,’ Michael said, handing it over.

  ‘I’ll call Ciaran and double-check that the caller was Liz Downes.’

  Tom stayed behind as the others left. He had to dial Ciaran’s number twice before he got through. He opened the first page of the file, which he’d rested on a box, while he waited for the other officer to pick up.

  ‘Ciaran?’

  ‘Tom? Can you hear—’

  ‘Just about, Ciaran. Are you finished?’

  ‘Oh, I can hear you now. The lads finished their rounds of the village before it got too bad, but the ones sent in from neighbouring stations will have to stay in the B&B. They can’t get home. Miley Duignan, the owner, thinks all his birthdays have come at once.’

  ‘Anything come up on the doors?’

  ‘No witnesses to anyone going into or leaving the priest’s house – though one allegation from someone . . . Hello? It was just . . . and Michael leaving . . . put us on your suspect list.’

  ‘Ciaran, you keep breaking up. What about the woman renting the house next door? Any more information on her?’

  ‘Well, here’s the funny thing. Nobody has met her properly. We know her name, Catherine Farrell, but I . . . no record . . . no . . . doesn’t exist.’

  ‘What? Ciaran, you’re gone again.’

  ‘I said—’

  The dial tone sounded loudly in Tom’s ear. He looked at the phone. He didn’t have a single signal bar.

  ‘God damn it!’ he exclaimed.

  He was staring at the file in front of him. On the first page was written: Margaret Catherine Downes.

  Was it just a coincidence that the woman next door to the priest was called Catherine?

  He scanned the pages of the file. Margaret had been given the house name ‘Maggie’, which seemed unusual. From what Tom had learned, the girls were normally given different names altogether. A vague memory surfaced . . . weren’t the girls in the Magdalene Laundries called ‘Maggies’? Did the nuns think they were being clever, giving her that anonymous name?

  Maggie had entered the convent in 1973, aged seventeen. There was very little personal information, but a handwritten note stated that she had been moved to the hospital wing of the orphanage in mid-1975 to give birth. Tom frowned. If she had been in the laundry since 1973, how had she become pregnant in 1974? He flicked to the back of the file but there was no final entry indicating when Maggie had left the laundry. That was strange.

  He squinted at one of the staples on the last page. Was that a tiny piece of paper on its edge? Had the last page been removed?

  All thoughts of tiredness and hunger left him. He headed back to Mother Attracta’s office and dialled Ciaran from the landline. The sergeant answered, but he had barely said hello when the connection was broken.

  Tom groaned and picked up his mobile again. The snow was wreaking havoc with the reception, but one bar had returned.

  He typed a text hastily.

  Are you positive the woman who rang two years ago was called Liz? Could the officer have been mistaken?

  He pressed send and prayed the signal would hold. When the little whoosh sound indicated the text had been sent successfully he nearly whooped. He stared at the screen, willing Ciaran to respond.

  A response popped up seconds later.

  Absolutely. Excellent memory. Adamant about the name.

  ‘Shit!’ Tom banged his expensive smartphone a little too hard on the desk.

  Ciaran had said that the woman who had rung the station had been hysterical, and the sergeant seemed to think that she had been one of the women raped in the laundry in the early seventies. Margaret’s surname and circumstances seemed to fit the criteria. Liz could still be a relative – but could it be the case that Margaret was actually Liz? But why use her real surname if she was hoping to stay anonymous?

  He was heading out the door when he thought of two potential answers. What if the trauma of her life as ‘Maggie’ in the convent had made her change her first name? The second possibility was more daunting. What if Downes was her married name and Liz her first name? Then they needed to find a Liz in the convent in 1974, with a different surname.

  He turned to the laptop. It had gone into sleep mode and he needed a password to open it. He would get something to eat and retrieve the password from Sister Concepta while he was at it.

  *

  Michael had been looking forward to talking to his wife, but as he dialled her number he suddenly felt nervous.

  He felt his heart leap when she answered.

  ‘Michael. Are you okay down there? The weather is awful.’

  ‘I’m fine, Anne. We could be cut off at any time. The reception here is atrocious. We’re snowed in but the investigation is picking up pace.’

  ‘It’s . . . they’re saying . . . news.’

  As her voice faded in and out, Michael felt panic rise. He’d waited all day to make this call.

  ‘Anne, the line might go – what was the news you had to tell me?’

  ‘What? I can’t hear you. Can you . . .? Weather . . . I didn’t leave the house today . . . afraid I’d fall on the ice.’

  He sighed. ‘Anne, what’s your news?’

  ‘. . . didn’t want to . . . on the phone . . . can wait.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ he exclaimed, almost laughing. All bloody day and now he could barely hear her.

  ‘Anne, listen, I want to tell you something. I love you. I’m sorry everything has been so hard.’

  ‘. . . you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you, too. I’m pregnant—’

  The line went dead.

  Michael sat, dumbstruck. His palms began to sweat, and the phone fell from his hand.

  Did she just say she was pregnant?

  He racked his brain. Yes, they’d had sex, just once, shortly after she’d lost the baby. A brief, emotional encounter. They’d both cried and she’d moved as far as possible from him in the bed afterwards, as if they’d done something dirty and wrong.

  But the doctors had told them, and they knew from bitter experience, that it was almost impossible to conceive straight after a miscarriage.

  The phone rang, startling him out of his reverie. He fumbled for it on the floor.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Anne said.

  ‘Yes, yes, I heard you. Did you say you were . . .?’

  He could barely breathe.

  ‘Twelve weeks,’ she bellowed, as if by shouting she could surmount the space between them. ‘I took the test last night. Michael?’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he responded, shaking with emotion. ‘Are you a
ll right?’

  ‘Yes. Are you happy?’

  ‘I . . .’ He almost wished the reception would go again.

  He didn’t know what to say. Was he happy? He was bloody terrified, that’s what he was. He couldn’t bear the thought of going through it again. They had suffered too much to hope that this time would be any different.

  ‘Michael, it’s okay. I know what you’re thinking. This is a gift. It will work this time. I feel it. I never felt like this on the others.’

  He choked back the ball in his throat.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, before the phone went dead.

  I love you too, he thought. But I can’t endure this again.

  Twelve weeks. If they lost this one, he would get a vasectomy. He wouldn’t even tell her. He’d just do it. Her capacity for optimism was clearly greater than his.

  He fell back on the bed and looked at the ceiling. Then he started thinking of all the girls who’d looked at ceilings in this building in years past, the laundry girls, those who had been forced to give up their babies. Wasn’t he in an enviable position by comparison? Wasn’t it better to have a shot at being happy?

  He put his arm across his eyes and cried, quietly, tears of anguish etching their way down his cheeks and along the curve of his neck on to his fresh shirt collar.

  *

  The lodgings in the B&B were far warmer and cosier than Ray’s room in the convent. Several guards from the next village had also sought refuge, and Jack had also decided to play it safe rather than risk the roads to his family home.

  Of all of them, Ray was the most content. He was still stuck in the middle of nowhere, but at least now he had a room with a television and a kettle.

  The cherry on top was that Ellie had agreed to have a drink with him in the bar that evening. True, everyone else would be having a drink there too, but that was just detail.

  He splashed hot water on his face in the en suite and made his way downstairs. The owner of the B&B – a small, elfish-looking man – was on the phone and writing in a large guest ledger.