The Girl from Ballymor

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘It’s incredible, when you put it like that.’ She was right. I realised it was only now that I truly understood it all. This wasn’t just a collection of cells, a bump, a bit of fat. It was a brand-new human being, made by me and Dan. Someone who would have his or her own personality, their own likes and dislikes, their own opinions, their own life.

  ‘And—’ she grinned ‘—you wait till your baby gets hiccups.’

  ‘Hiccups? In the womb?’

  ‘Oh yes. Usually right when you’re trying to get to sleep.’ She rolled her eyes, and the two of us dissolved into giggles.

  ‘What are you laughing at, Mummy?’ Sammy asked.

  ‘You, with hiccups,’ Sharon told him.

  ‘I haven’t got hiccups.’

  ‘You did have, about six years ago.’

  He frowned. ‘But I’m only five.’

  And that set us off again, but this time Sharon scooped him up onto her hip and held him tight as she laughed.

  So this was motherhood. I had a sudden, certain feeling that I was going to like being part of this club.

  We hugged again, and the family left. I looked around for Dan, and spotted him sitting with Declan, deep in conversation. They were talking seriously, occasionally shaking their heads or laughing a little. I wondered what they were discussing. I imagined it might have something to do with our future, Dan’s impending fatherhood, our marriage. Declan would be passing on words of comfort and wisdom to help Dan cope with the big changes ahead of us. I inched closer so I could earwig a little. Couldn’t quite catch everything they were saying but I definitely heard the words ‘Munster’, ‘European Championships’ and ‘Thomond Park’ and realised they were merely talking about rugby. I rolled my eyes. Typical men.

  ‘Maria!’ Declan got up when he noticed me standing there. ‘Your man’s a rugby fan. I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘Rugby! There was me thinking you were talking about something important. Like advising him on how to be the best possible dad!’

  ‘Ah now, Maria, the thing is, you’re both good people. And that means you’ll make good parents. No one has to be the best possible – everyone just needs to be good enough. Sure and it’s a scary prospect to have a little one’s wellbeing to think of, to put first for so many years, but you’ll manage. Take each day as it comes. If you do everything for your child with love in your heart, you won’t go far wrong.’

  There it was – the wonderful Declan wisdom. I could manage that. I could do everything for my child with love in my heart. Kitty had shown me how. I had love already in my heart for this tiny, wriggly bundle. And if that’s all I needed, I’d be fine as a mum. More than fine. I’d be a good mum. I smiled. ‘Thanks, Declan.’

  ‘No problem. Come on now, sit down with us. I’ll get us all another drink. J2O is it, for you?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He raised an eyebrow in Dan’s direction, who nodded agreement to another pint, and went to the bar. I sat down next to Dan.

  ‘Nice bloke, that priest.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘He’s a Munster supporter. But they won’t have a chance against Quins this season.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Are you OK, Maria?’ Dan gazed at me, worried by my short answers.

  I smiled, remembering the feel of the baby’s kick. ‘Yes, Dan. I’m perfectly OK. More than OK. Everything’s going to be just great.’

  He grinned, and leaned over to kiss me. We broke apart only when Declan returned with the drinks, coughing discreetly to warn us he was back.

  Declan stayed till the pub closed, unusually for him. By the time the national anthem was played, he and Dan were best mates, planning on meeting up at the Thomond Park rugby stadium in Limerick the next time Munster played Harlequins there. We swapped email addresses, and promised to keep in touch.

  As he left the pub, Declan gave me a hug. ‘Slán, Maria. Goodbye. And remember what I said. You’re a good person and I know you’ll be a good mother. And, thinking of that email you had from your own mother, maybe that’s her olive branch. Give her a chance, promise me?’

  ‘I will. Thanks for everything. You’ve helped me so much.’

  ‘Ah, I think it was the little fellow Sammy who helped you most, Maria.’

  Yes, him and Kitty, my own great-great-great-grandmother, reaching out to me across the centuries, showing me how to do this motherhood thing, the most important job I’d ever have.

  CHAPTER 28

  Michael

  The first thing Michael did when he got back to O’Sullivan’s, after the disappointing and inconclusive visit to Kildoolin, was to take his artist’s materials out of his trunk. The light was not perfect in his small room at the pub, but it would do for his purposes. He took out a small canvas and his pencils, and made a quick sketch – of a woman with long, flowing hair, sitting on the doorstep of a pretty thatched cottage, looking out across heather-clad moors towards a sliver of distant silver sea. He rummaged in his trunk for paints, brushes, a palette, jars of turpentine, caring not about the mess he made as he tossed clothes and books aside in his haste to find what he needed. He painted fast and furiously, filling in a glorious blue sky, purple heather, a whitewashed cottage, a gown of deepest green and hair of fiery auburn. Last, he painted a brooch, a delicate Celtic knot in gold, pinned on the woman’s breast.

  It was not the first time he had painted Kitty. In New York he had imagined her boating on the lake in Central Park, reclining on a chaise longue in a fashionable Manhattan apartment, and strolling past the shops on Fifth Avenue carrying a lacy parasol. He had painted all these scenes, and used them as both examples of his work and as a reminder of her when he needed comfort. He’d included the brooch in all these pictures – the brooch, the lucky talisman, he’d thought, that had paid his passage to America. The worthless brooch that had lain for years amongst the rubble in the ruined cottage, and would remain there for ever.

  Painting, as usual, helped to calm him, helped him make sense of his conflicting emotions and runaway thoughts. By the time he stopped painting he had accepted, more or less, that he would quite possibly never know what had become of his mother. But he would continue to search for her. There were workhouse and soup-kitchen records. Perhaps she had died nearer some other parish in the neighbourhood and been buried there – he would check records in them all. Perhaps she had gone to Cork in search of work.

  He formulated a plan. He would settle in Ireland, at least for a while, but would move from town to town starting here in the south-west. He would solicit commissions from the gentry, and between paintings he would continue the search to discover what had happened to her. If she had died, he wanted to be able to pay his respects at her last resting place. He owed her that much at least.

  But before he left Ballymor, he would commission a gravestone to commemorate his brothers and sisters. The only question he had, was whether he should include Kitty’s name on it or not. He decided, in the end, to leave it off. It would feel too final adding her name, when he had not yet done all he could to search for her.

  *

  The next few weeks, then months, passed in a whirlwind of activity for Michael. He seemed to be always on the move – following up leads that might lead to portrait commissions, or that might lead to his finding Kitty. When the word got around that a wealthy man was looking for a relative, all sorts of people came forward claiming that they could tell him (for a small remuneration) of a woman living alone in a distant cottage; of a girl in a workhouse who’d lost her memory; of someone who’d gone to Dublin but had the flaming red hair Michael was looking for. He followed up all these – even the least hopeful-sounding ones. He checked records at every workhouse in Cork and Kerry, in every town where a soup kitchen had opened, in as many churches as he could reach. All was in vain – he could find no clue what had happened to her.

  ‘Some of those who died while employed on the public works,’ a council clerk in the town of Skibbereen told him, ‘were left
where they fell, in the ditches beside the road, covered with the very rocks they’d been helping to break.’ He looked at Michael with an expression of deep sympathy. Michael remembered with sadness the man on the road-building scheme, who’d died in just this way, whom he and Kitty had covered with stones. ‘Our records are incomplete,’ the clerk went on. ‘So many people were buried with haste in mass graves. If that was the fate of your mother then we shall never know.’

  Eventually, with a heavy heart, Michael returned to Ballymor and had Kitty’s name added to the family memorial stone. It felt like an act of finality – an acceptance that he would never know the truth about what happened to her. He could only hope that she had not suffered too much in her final days.

  During all this time, he managed to find plenty of commissions and began to make a name for himself as a portrait artist amongst the Irish aristocracy. He took an apartment and studio in Dublin to use as a base when painting, and travelled around the country in search of Kitty from there. Every now and then, he found a vista so beautiful he felt the need to paint Kitty again, with the view as the background. Maybe she had never travelled beyond the county of Cork, but in his paintings she travelled throughout the country, experiencing the best that Ireland had to offer.

  In time, a commission took him to London, and once there he found a massive new market for his work. He gave up the lease on the Dublin apartment, and took up one in London, overlooking Regent’s Park. The neatly mown lawns, manicured shrubs and ornamental trees were a world away from Kildoolin’s wild golden gorse and purple heather.

  Some months after moving to London he found himself painting the portrait of the younger daughter of an aristocratic but relatively poor family. Her name was Clarissa Byatt, her hair was as black as his own, her skin was clear as moonlight, and her mouth smiled in a teasing way as he painted her. He was grateful that his occupation gave him an excuse to gaze upon her sweet face for hours on end, and by the time the portrait was complete he had both fallen in love and decided he should have a new wife. Enough time had passed since poor Eleanor’s demise. He asked her father for her hand at the same time as delivering the completed portrait, making it clear he expected no dowry and easily had the funds required to keep a wife.

  There was some discussion about whether Clarissa, as a member of the Church of England, should convert to Catholicism or whether Michael should convert to the C of E, but in the end they found an Anglican vicar who was happy to marry them whatever their denomination. Michael got the necessary dispensations from the Catholic bishop to marry a non-Catholic in a non-Catholic church, and they were wed in a quiet ceremony in St Margaret’s church beside Westminster Abbey. Kitty would have approved of her new daughter-in-law, he thought, although she would have been overwhelmed by the grandeur of the church and its enormous neighbour, and perhaps disappointed that the wedding was not taking place in the parish church of Ballymor, where she had married Patrick McCarthy.

  The marriage was a happy one, and in time produced five children, all of whom reached adulthood strong and healthy. As he watched his children grow and blossom, every now and again Michael would allow himself a few minutes to consider how much Kitty would have loved her grandchildren. She lived on, he supposed, in them, and especially in one – their third child and eldest daughter, who had a pale complexion and bright red hair, and who, at Michael’s suggestion, they had named Kitty.

  CHAPTER 29

  Maria

  We had a pleasant and easy drive across Ireland to Dublin, around the M50 and into the airport. It was good to have Dan’s company on this return leg. We talked non-stop about the events of the last couple of days, going over everything from the moment I’d met the frantic Sharon in the mist to the burial of Kitty’s remains. It helped to assimilate it all. I knew I’d be reliving the moment I’d come across little Sammy in the ruined cottage for the rest of my life. And, I suspected, reliving the moment he’d crawled onto my lap for a cuddle and fallen asleep in my arms. I think something had clicked inside me right then, something that had made me finally begin to understand and accept what motherhood would mean, and to appreciate the joys it could bring.

  We were at the airport in good time, had a snack lunch and boarded the plane. I was sad to be leaving Ireland. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I whispered, as the plane took off, circled, and I had a final glimpse of the island known as Ireland’s Eye as we flew over the Irish Sea.

  ‘What’s that you said?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Just hoping we’ll come back to Ireland soon,’ I replied. As I spoke, the baby kicked inside me, as though in agreement. ‘Give me your hand,’ I said to Dan, and I placed it on my tummy.

  He stared at me, and twisted in his seat so he could hold his hand there more comfortably. The baby moved again. ‘There. Did you feel that?’

  He grinned. ‘Amazing! Makes it all seem so real, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly does.’ I was touched to see there were tears in his eyes, as he held still, hoping to feel our child move again. I had never seen him cry before, but these were good tears, tears of wonder, joy and hope for our future.

  ‘Maria, I was wondering,’ he said, softly, ‘whether you’ve given any more thought to that question I asked you, before you went away? You know . . .’

  ‘Whether I want to marry you?’ I said, smiling.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  I didn’t reply immediately, because at that moment the pilot made an announcement to say we’d now reached our cruising altitude of fourteen thousand feet on this short flight, the weather was good in London and we could expect to arrive at Heathrow on time. He advised passengers to sit back and enjoy the flight.

  I waited till he’d finished, then turned towards Dan. ‘Dan Widefield, of course I would be delighted to marry you.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thank you! I feel like I’m on top of the world!’

  ‘We are!’ I laughed. ‘Well, at fourteen thousand feet at least. Only half the height of Everest, but high enough.’

  He leaned over and hugged me, kissing my face until I gently pushed him away as people were staring. This was our private moment. We were engaged, at last, and I had never felt more happy. As if in approval, the baby wriggled again and I once more grabbed Dan’s hand so that he could share. ‘It feels like we’re a proper family now,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I don’t have the ring on me – I left in such a hurry.’

  ‘I know. With only a toothbrush and socks. And you are wearing three-day old underpants.’ That made us both chuckle, eliciting further odd looks from fellow passengers.

  It was a joyful journey. I spent the last part of it reading the rest of the biography of Michael McCarthy. I was becoming rather fond of my ancestor, who’d unwittingly been instrumental in bringing Dan and me back together. My trip to Ireland was supposed to help me forget my fears of the future; but instead it had forced me to face up to them, and realise that the future was good. Different, yes, and full of challenges, but something to look forward to, together with Dan, always.

  The moment we arrived back home Dan rushed to his bedside drawer and brought out the ring he’d chosen for me. I slipped it onto my finger where it fitted perfectly, and felt blissfully complete.

  *

  It was while I was still unpacking that afternoon, plugging my laptop back in its usual place in the dining room, that I remembered I had never replied to Jackie’s email, with all its soul-searching revelations. I hadn’t even thanked her for the sizable cheque she’d sent yet. ‘She must think I’m ignoring her,’ I said to Dan. ‘But I am still not sure whether I should reply by email, phone, or go to see her.’

  ‘I think a face-to-face meeting would be best,’ Dan replied. ‘She’s opened her heart to you. This could be the beginning of a new chapter in your relationship.’ He looked at me tenderly. ‘Give her a chance, Maria,’ he said, echoing Declan’s parting words.

  ‘I will,’ I promised him, and as I continued unpacking I tried imagining phoning h
er, inviting her out for coffee and a cake somewhere quiet where I could thank her for the money and where we could discuss her past, and what it might mean for our future relationship. I also needed to talk about how I’d behaved when Dad died and she’d needed me. Our distance since I’d been an adult was at least partially my fault. It would be a difficult meeting, but after her email it was up to me to make the next move.

  I was just putting a pile of washing into the machine when the doorbell rang. Dan answered it, and I heard him usher someone into the sitting room. He came through to the kitchen where I was just switching on the washing machine. ‘Maria, it’s your mum. She’s in the sitting room. Go on in to see her. I’ll bring some tea and biscuits shortly.’

  ‘Oh my God. Right. Thanks. Here we go, then.’ For some reason I felt the need to pat my hair and smooth down my clothes. Ridiculous. This was my mother. I went through and found her perched at one end of the sofa, looking as nervous and uncomfortable as I felt. There was a small repetitive movement in her jaw, as though she was chewing the inside of her mouth. She did not stand when I entered, so there was no awkward dance wondering whether to air-kiss her or not.

  ‘Hi, Jackie,’ I said, and sat at the other end of the sofa. There was a wall of cushions between us. ‘Thanks so much for the cheque. That was very generous; we really appreciate it.’

  She dismissed my words with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. ‘Don’t mention it. It’s what people do, as I understand it.’

  There was an awkward silence for a moment. The elephant in the room shifted uncomfortably. I cleared my throat. ‘Thanks too, for your email. I’m sorry I haven’t replied yet but . . .’

  She looked away, staring at a photo of Dan and me that stood on the mantelpiece. ‘I imagine you weren’t quite sure how to respond.’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  I was about to tell her about the dramas in Ireland, that had taken my time and energy, but she turned back to me and continued speaking. ‘It’s all right – I wasn’t expecting you to reply immediately. I just felt you should know all that stuff about me, now that you’re going to be a mum yourself. I see you’re getting quite a little bump there now.’ She nodded at my midriff, and I found myself instinctively putting a protective hand over my bump. ‘Have you felt it move yet?’