by Nicola White
Monsignor Kelly walked them back through the maze of empty corridors, trying to interest TP Murphy in the history of the building. Swan’s mind was on the list of girls. Just because their teachers thought them a bit wild didn’t make them child murderers. Even if this Eileen Vaughan had been politely disappeared, that just proved the point. Most of these girls would be well taken care of if they slipped up – a trip down the country for a few months or a shorter trip to England in some cases. Swan knew infanticide mainly happened in conditions of ignorance or secrecy. It wasn’t the bolshy, confident girls you wanted. It was the quiet, mousy ones with only a vague grasp of the mechanics, or the ones being abused at home, or by a neighbour or friend of the family. Friend of the family. That’s how they always referred to some old bastard with his eye on the kids.
Thing was, this time felt different. The other cases he knew were plain tragic, drenched with desperation. But this one: three days of food and care, love perhaps, before someone changed their mind. Maybe the mother was being watched by her own mother, say, and had to wait for her chance to do away with her child. Or was it the reverse – the mother had been content with the child, then someone else had discovered its existence?
Outside, Monsignor Kelly stepped into a shining black Mercedes and drove off with a roar.
‘Great car,’ said TP Murphy as it swept out the gate.
‘Off to another crime against the faith,’ said Swan, ‘Do you ever get the feeling there’s more than one police force in this town?’
‘If it wasn’t for the whole celibacy stuff, I’d join theirs.’
‘I can’t quite see that,’ said Swan.
‘You’d pass,’ said TP, ‘you’ve a whiff of the incense about you, and we’ve never seen this wife you claim to have.’
Swan glanced back and caught sight of a pale old nun watching their departure from a first floor window.
A maroon Ford was pulled up beside their brown one. DS Barrett was propped against it, reading a paper in a slightly studied way. At the opposite end of the car, Detective Garda Gina Considine stood with her arms crossed, scanning the convent windows.
Barrett folded the paper back on itself and held it up in front of his chest like a sign. ‘You should look at this.’
Swan took the paper and TP pressed in beside him to share the reading. The pictures registered first; a portrait of Alison Hogan looking like she’d lost her puppy, a landscape shot of the gate to the Rosary Garden, its metal scrolls thinned with rust in a way that looked suddenly sinister. And at the top of the page the incongruously smiling face of Mary O’Shea rested on a thick stripe of black, below it the headline: Suffer the Little Children: the Tragedy of The Rosary Baby.
Shit.
Less than forty-eight hours since the find and she was interviewing key witnesses. How had they got hold of that daft girl? He skimmed the article: Under the petrified gaze of a stone pieta – eerie bower – tiny corpse – privileged walls. It was mostly a colour piece, a lot of breast beating about the truths behind respectable surfaces – nothing substantial. Swan’s glance froze on one sentence. According to witnesses the baby did not die of exposure, but suffered a violent death at the hands of a person or persons unknown.’
Ali Hogan was quoted extensively, saying although she was shocked by the find, she couldn’t find it in herself to condemn. ‘This can be a cruel country for girls in trouble.’ The article went on to say that even in a school like this, girls were not immune to mistakes and that St. Brigid’s had experienced one schoolgirl pregnancy last year. Shit and damn.
This was what the monsignor meant about leaks. Summer was slow news time and this was probably only the start. Give me a nice bank shoot-out any day, thought Swan, where nobody feels they have to talk through the symbolism of it all.
The article took up a whole half page. Superintendent Kavanagh was bound to see it and he would have to endure a session in the great man’s office, laced through with anecdotes about the glens of his youth.
Swan shook the paper, folded it clumsily and thrust it back at Barrett.
‘Why am I only seeing this now?’
‘It’s the second edition, boss. Wasn’t in the first.’
‘And what are you doing here, Considine?’
‘Dinner time. No-one’s answering my calls. Thought I’d take the chance to have a look at St. Brigid’s. If that’s okay.’
‘She was very insistent,’ said Barrett.
‘Good you’re here. I need you to go down to Clare – check out this baby Ali Hogan’s supposed to have found twelve years ago.’
‘I could phone the local guards.’
‘No. Do it face to face. Find out what happened – if anything happened at all. Be sure, but don’t waste time.’
‘Yeah,’ said Barrett.
‘Have you not got back anything more from forensics?’
‘We’ve a blood type on the baby, but no post mortem yet.’
‘Jesus. Give me the type.’
Barrett pulled a notepad from his pocket and looked at the last page.
‘Blood type A, boss.’
Common as brown hair or blue eyes. He’d hoped for something a little more exotic.
Swan took the list the monsignor gave him from his breast pocket and scanned it quickly. Sure enough, the name Alison Hogan appeared in the list under the heading ‘Sixth Year’. Risk taking, attention seeking.
‘Back to the phones, both of you. None of this is good. You and I should swing by and pay the Hogan girl a visit, Murphy. Screw the lid on.’
EIGHT
A dying note of pipe and fiddle whined from the big monitor hanging in the corner of the greenroom. The screen showed a close-up of Gay Byrne applauding. Pointing off-camera, he said, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the legendary Chieftains!’
The applause engulfed him like a flurry before he soothed it down with an elegant swoop of his hands and moved on to announce the next item on the programme.
The door of the greenroom opened and the six members of The Chieftains walked in, passing close enough to nod to Ali as they headed to the drinks table, some with instruments still in hand. It was weird, like a photograph in a book suddenly coming to life. Ali clutched the wet neck of her beer bottle and tried to still her nerves.
She would be enjoying it all if she didn’t have to go out that door and be in front of the cameras herself. Mary O’Shea was on the other side of the room chatting happily to a small curly-haired woman from the North who Ali had often seen on The Late Late. In a corner beyond them, a middle-aged man sat on his own, looking very serious as he flipped through a wedge of papers. He looked familiar too.
The Late Late Show. It would be like walking naked down Grafton Street with a neon arrow over her head. Up on the screen, Gay was talking to two men who had rowed around Ireland in a currach. They’d been here just five minutes before, a pair of burly lads debating whether to keep their Aran jumpers on in the stifling heat. Comfort won the argument, and now their pullovers lay discarded on a greenroom sofa like a couple of empty sheep.
Mary had phoned Ali at home that morning – her newspaper article had gotten a huge response, she said.
‘They want both of us, Ali. On The Late Late. And you’re not to worry, its not about the case – they want to talk about girls and sex education, so I told them you’d be good for that – a real girl, for god’s sake. It’s a great opportunity.’
Ali had let herself imagine it. A sea of blurry faces, all turned to her. Being scared was no reason not to do it, though. She had been mortified when she had read Mary’s article, all those quotes that made her sound firm and opinionated. But Mary was right. Girls her age never did get the chance to speak out. A light would shine on her and she would be tested.
Her mother was mad with pride, and slipped her money for a taxi to the studios. She had already bought three copies of the newspa
per with Mary’s article in it.
‘It’s a lovely photograph,’ she said, ‘despite the circumstances.’
Davy had mastered a wicked impersonation of the newspaper photo and would tilt his head to one side and jut out his lower lip each time Ali passed him in the house. Meanwhile, Fitz was mysteriously unavailable whenever she phoned, and Ali worried that she was angry with her for the reference to Eileen lurking in Mary’s column.
Detective Swan had called round with another man on Wednesday afternoon, angry with her too. The men sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee, like they were on a social call between crimes, but then Detective Swan started in on how personally disappointed he was. At least her mother had had the grace to take a bit of the blame, passing the buck onto Sean O’Loan, making out that the press had squeezed details out of them against their will. Ali promised there would be no more talk of what she had seen.
Yet here she was, waiting to go on television.
At the RTE studios a skinny-hipped girl collected her from reception and rushed her up two flights of stairs. The girl had big earphones hanging around her neck as if she had recently been unplugged from some important broadcasting machine.
‘There –’ the girl opened a door on a crowded office. Mary O’Shea was sitting on a desk in the middle, swinging her crossed legs for an audience of two young men in shirtsleeves.
‘Ali!’ she cried when she spotted her, thrusting both arms out as if a hug was expected. The men turned to look at her, appraising. Ali threaded her way towards them through a maze of desks.
‘Look at you! Look at your dress – so sweet.’
‘Maybe I should have worn something more– ‘
‘No, no, sweet is fine. Sweet is more than fine. We don’t want them thinking you’re a hard-nosed old bag like me.’ And Mary threw back her head and laughed at the thought. The men joined in.
‘I’m worried what to say.’
‘Just nerves. By Tuesday you’ll be a pro.’
‘Tuesday?’
‘My radio show. Remember? We’ll see how things go tonight, and work up a few topics together beforehand – that thing you said the other day about girls not knowing their sexual desires – that could be dynamite.’
The two men looked at Ali with renewed interest. Mary put an arm around her and was saying how fine everything was going to be, when there was a shift in the atmosphere.
A slight figure in a blue suit had entered the room, causing all around to change their behaviour, the loud ones fell silent, the diligent ones lifted their heads from their typewriters and called out for attention.
It was Gay. Gaybo. Mr. Byrne. He managed to looked both mild and of consequence and his charisma was unsullied by a ruff of tissues sticking out from his collar to protect it from the fall of peachy powder that covered his face. He had a certain grace, like a dancing master.
Gay made even Mary look like an ordinary Joe. His radio show was bigger, and his TV show was required viewing, as obligatory for most people as mass. The Late Late Show had always been there, as long as Ali could remember. You never knew beforehand who would be on – politicians, movie stars, farmers, ventriloquists – and there might just be something remarkable.
Gay waved over in their direction.
‘He never talks to guests before the show,’ Mary whispered.
Ali watched him on the greenroom monitor, swiveling behind his desk and chatting to the currach men, taking polite questions from a beaming audience, laughing often. It would be okay. The beer in her mouth tasted of nothing at all, but something like vinegar was swilling around her stomach.
The girl with the snake hips appeared beside her.
‘You’re next.’
She gathered up Mary O’Shea and the quiet man from the corner and herded the three of them downstairs to stand together in the darkness at the edge of the bright studio.
‘… and we’ll be back with you after the break.’ Gay’s voice came from beyond a tangle of cameras and equipment.
Chatter rose from the audience while Ali’s group was guided forward over cables into a lit arena. They were directed to a curved line of chairs facing a seating bank full of people. Microphones pointed at them from the low table in front. A hundred lights pressed down, baking the mascara that the make-up girl had pasted on Ali’s lashes to a tight crust.
Someone called for hush and Gay walked towards the audience. Ali looked across to Mary for reassurance, and Mary smiled briefly at her before reapplying her eyes to Gay, who had started to speak.
‘… we’re not going to go over old ground here, so you can put your badges and banners away. What we have here is a human story, a sad story, a story about some things that maybe don’t change, even after all the talk. Tonight we have with us a young woman, Alison Hogan, from Ranelagh here in Dublin. You might know from the papers that Alison was the person who found the child now known as the Rosary Baby. Despite this ordeal, she has gone on to make a public plea for better sex education in schools and for the abolition of illegitimacy as a legal category.’
Ali frowned at his back, not recognising the girl he was describing. He was making it sound like she had held a press conference or something.
‘And we’re delighted to welcome back journalist and women’s rights campaigner Mary O’Shea, who has been collaborating with Ali. We also have with us an expert on sex education in schools and author of the bestselling pamphlets Life Talks for Boys and Life Talks for Girls, Doctor Donald Beasley…’
The audience were clapping politely now, but Ali wasn’t looking at them. She had turned to stare at the man who had been in the greenroom and was now sitting just on the other side of Mary.
How could she not have recognised him? The knitted brow and slightly prissy expression. Doctor Beasley was the man who had spent a day with the second year girls of St. Brigid’s explaining the romance of the sperm and the egg. His detailing of private parts and monthly cycles had impressed them at the time because they had never heard anyone speak in that way. She remembered the manic embarrassment of that day and coming away from the hall quietly, carrying strange knowledge like a weight.
Before she had time to collect herself, Gay was upon her.
‘Alison, we’re not here tonight to talk about the Rosary Baby case. The Gardaí are still looking for the mother, and its all hush hush for now.’
Ali nodded, not chancing a word.
‘I was just wondering, though, how have you coped with coming across something like that? A thing no one, let alone a young girl, should see?’
Ali turned her face so that he was the only one in her vision. She would pretend that this was a normal conversation.
She opened her mouth and spoke, realising within a sentence that she had to make a choice between thinking and talking. She started with something her mother had said about not being able to understand why someone couldn’t have handed the child over alive, and let her mouth flow from there, listening in to what she was saying after she had said it. She railed against the hiddenness of things, she raised the issue of contraception. Gay was running out of sympathetic nods, was starting to look a little alarmed. She found the end of a thought and pulled up to a halt. The last thing she said was, ‘… we don’t seem to want these babies that we go on about loving so much.’
Her heart was hammering but maybe it hadn’t been so bad after all. She had spoken for her generation.
The audience were muttering, shifting in their seats.
‘Ah now,’ said Gay, ‘Surely this case is not the normal run of things.’
‘I think it happens all the time.’ Her words were defiant, but she spoke quietly, not wanting an argument, not wanting anything now but to go home.
‘We’ll come back to that,’ said Gay.
A few hands poked up rigid among the heads and shoulders in front of her – bids put in with Gay for future no
tice. He didn’t pay them any attention, but turned to the other guests.
‘Donald, Alison here seems dissatisfied with the way she was taught the facts of life. Now you’re the man that devises those classes – do you think there’s a need for a new approach?’
‘Hello, Alison,’ said Dr. Beasley with a creeping smile, as if he remembered her well.
‘We only aim to supplement the parents’ own teachings, you understand, Gay. The home is still the foundation of sexual morals.’ He spoke on about the merits, the responsible science, of his own system. Mary jumped in to question whether it wouldn’t be better for a woman to be teaching these things to girls. Ali half-listened, but was also trying to replay her own impassioned speech and see if she had said anything stupid. Her eyes ran over the faces in the audience, some sneaking their eyes diagonally upwards to check the monitors and see if their reactions were being broadcast home.
Mary was getting worked up, plying her outstretched hands as if she was shaking an invisible football. She was angry with Beasley about something, then she turned and pointed to Ali, saying something about St. Brigid’s. Ali strained to pay proper attention, but her mind kept skating around, thoughts like beads on glass.
‘That’s hardly my fault.’ Beasley said.
Gay swiveled to look straight at Ali.
‘Do you blame the doctor, Ali?’
‘For what?’
‘For what you told me,’ Mary interrupted, ‘about the girl in your school that got pregnant and went missing…’
‘Missing?’ asked Gay. There was a silence without air, a vacuumed-out pause waiting for her.
‘Not missing,’ Ali managed to say. ‘She left our year, that’s all.’
Mary rode away with it. ‘You see, it happens again and again – whisked away – a whole culture of secrecy.’
The audience was simmering, desperate to add their bit. Hands strained towards Gay, patting the air. He finally turned, scanned the rows.