by Nicola White
Roisín took her on a brief tour. Ali nodded at the two bedrooms, feigned amazement at the plumbed-in bathroom with its tiny pink bath. She said that it was a lot better than Davy’s house and Roisín laughed.
‘They’re no better than apes, those boys.’
‘I didn’t even know Davy had a house.’
‘Well – I’m not surprised he didn’t say…’
‘Why?’
‘He thought he was going to be setting up a little home, didn’t he, but nothing came of it, of course.’
‘A little home with who?’ she managed to keep her voice conversational.
‘You wouldn’t know her. Girl called Valerie. She only moved here a couple of years ago.’
‘Oh.’ Ali walked away to look at a picture of a football team over the decorative mantelpiece. He hadn’t told her anything about it, but it was serious enough that he built a house.
‘I’ll make us coffee. You go to Ali, Emer.’ Roisín handed her the baby and went to busy herself in the kitchen area.
Ali held the baby at arm’s length for a moment, unsure of herself. The baby looked unsure of her too. Her brow started to pucker, and Ali brought her into her chest for a cuddle. Emer capitulated, slipping one plump fist into the opening of Ali’s blouse to come to rest stickily against her collarbone, just above her heart. Then she laid her cheek on the curve of Ali’s shoulder, stuffing her thumb in her mouth and sucking on it reflectively. Ali walked away into the front area of the caravan where a wide window brought in the view of the lake.
The baby was limp in her arms, accepting. Ali hummed a made-up tune and stroked the baby’s hot back, her palm tickled by the intricate pattern of her little cardigan. The fingers under Ali’s shirt flexed and curled in time with the thumbsucking. Emer’s hair was pale and fine, growing here and there in curls on her shell pink scalp. With a jolt, Ali realised what it was she was holding – this was what was lost, this.
Her stomach gave an awful lurch. She wanted to sit down, but all her concentration was needed for holding on to the baby.
She must have made some kind of sound, because Roisín was hurrying towards her.
‘Are you okay?’
Ali nodded, but it felt like the child could turn liquid and slip through her arms. She looked down. Emer had rolled her gaze to look up at her. It was a look from a hundred years ago or a thousand miles off. Roisín was by her side now, the baby was being taken from her grip.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Roisín, ‘I didn’t think.’
Ali was going to protest that it was fine, fine, but no words would come out. She went to sit on the sofa, while Roisín put Emer into her playpen.
Roisín brought the coffee to her. Ali didn’t want to talk about what had just happened, so she asked her cousin normal, boring questions, about her job, about the wedding, about Colman. But Roisín was incapable of finishing a whole sentence without her eyes sliding over to Emer, her conversation fragmented with little bursts of baby talk directed at the lobster pot.
‘An odd woman came up to me after mass today,’ said Ali, ‘gave me a medal. Your Dad said it was Joan’s mother – Joan Dempsey’s.’
‘Oh yea? Seemed like they were all gawping at you.’
‘I didn’t see Joan there.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t,’ Roisín said, ‘She’s in the hospital – that mental place in Kinmore – Damascus House, you know, that big building on the road into town.’
‘That’s awful. I remember her really well. From the time we stayed you.’
Emer started to whinge, bored with her incarceration.
‘Yea, well, the less said the better,’ said Roisín. ‘My mother’s got a real thing against her, so don’t start reminiscing to her.’
Roisín got up and lifted Emer into her arms just as a woman passed outside the window.
‘Shite,’ said Roisín. A knock came on the glass door. She put the baby on her hip and went to open it.
‘Peggy!’ she said, like she was surprised.
At first glance, Ali had the impression that the woman who entered was middle-aged, but soon she realised it was just the heavy set of her body and her old-fashioned coat – a blue mac down past her knees, not right for the day. Her broad face was young, with full downturned lips and her thick auburn hair waved backwards from her face, as if she were standing in a breeze. Ali wouldn’t have recognised her if she passed her on a Dublin street, but now, with the prompt of a name and this place, she knew her, could see the trace of the girl she had been.
‘You remember Peggy, Doctor Nolan’s daughter? This is my cousin Ali.’
‘Yeah, hiya,’ said Peggy, unsmiling.
Roisín’s behaviour with her was careful, kind. She coaxed the ugly coat from her and got her sitting on the sofa. Ali offered to make more coffee.
‘You haven’t seen the baby for a while, Peggy, hasn’t she grown?’
‘Uh huh.’
Ali prepared the coffee as slowly as she could, leaving the two of them to talk. By the time she brought the mugs over, Peggy was haltingly talking about a shopping trip to Limerick. Her eyes were on Emer though, as were Roisín’s. Conversation sputtered between them, then converged on the baby. Emer wriggled on the carpet and they sipped from their mugs and watched, calling out praise for every fat handclap or tumble. Ali could feel the energy draining from her.
She got to her feet and walked into the kitchen area, rinsed her mug under the tap.
‘Ro – I’ve got to get back up to town,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘If I had the car, I’d drive you,’ offered Roisín, taking the opportunity to get up and move about. ‘But this one needs her nap anyway. Peggy, would you mind walking Ali up to the town for me?’
Ali started to say there was no need, but Roisín gave her such a fierce look she shut up. She already had Peggy’s coat out of the slim cabinet that served as a cloakroom.
‘Oh Ali, I’ve got that thing for you. In the bedroom, I forgot.’
‘What thing?’
‘The thing I told you about.’ Her eyes were insistent.
When they got to the bedroom, Roisín hissed.
‘There is no thing, ya eejit. I needed to say something.’
‘What?’ Ali was sure they could be heard.
‘Since you’re here on your own, you should pal round with Peggy a bit. She’s lonely. You could cheer her up.’
‘I doubt it.’
Roisín pushed her towards the door. Peggy was already outside the little fence, staring back at the caravan. There was something unnervingly still about her, like a post or a stone.
Ali and Peggy walked up the field in silence until they reached the bridge.
‘I remember you,’ Peggy said, ‘you wouldn’t let me play with you.’
‘When?’
‘It was a Christmas. You had a cookery set – was it? – and you wouldn’t speak to anyone or let them join you.’
It was hard to tell whether Peggy was annoyed, or just teasing.
‘Sorry, I don’t remember that. I do remember the fancy coat you had on, though. Pale green, with a black velvet collar. You matched your big sister. I was jealous of those coats.’
Peggy stopped and smiled. ‘Brown velvet collars,’ she corrected, ‘and velvet buttons too.’ She looked down at her raincoat. ‘Wish I had it still. This thing’s horrible – my mother bought it for me.’
‘Take it off. It’s too hot for a coat.’
Peggy looked up at the blue sky for verification. ‘You’ll be thinking I’ve some kind of mad coat fixation.’ But she unbuttoned the white plastic buttons, removed the coat and draped it over her arm.
Ali could see the end of the boreen ahead. They would be back in town soon, she could make her excuses and get away.
‘Where’s your sister now?’ Ali said.
&nb
sp; ‘Dublin.’
‘Does she like it?’
‘Suppose so.’
Ali hardly remembered Peggy’s sister beyond the fancy coat. It made her wonder what her life would have been like if her mother had decided to stay on in Buleen. Would she have had the gumption to escape to Dublin, or turned out strange and morose like Peggy. She might even have gone mad like Joan.
‘Sorry,’ said Peggy suddenly. ‘I’m not myself these days.’
‘Could be the sun,’ said Ali lamely.
Peggy managed a smile, ‘Could be.’
‘What do you do yourself?’
‘Nothing much. I do reception at my Dad’s surgery some days and my mother is finding out about teacher training college for me.’
Ali couldn’t find anything to say about teacher training and they walked on in silence.
They reached the junction with the main road. Ali could see the shops of Buleen to the right, and a familiar figure leaning against the phone box.
‘How’s your Uncle Davy?’ asked Peggy.
Ali looked up towards the phone box again. Davy had vanished.
‘He’s good,’ said Ali, ‘we came down yesterday in the train.’
‘I’m going this way,’ said Peggy, pointing at the road out of the village.
‘Okay. See you then, Peggy.’ She watched her walk away. Funny how people turned out. When you were a child, other kids were all of the same tribe. Then they grew up and became really hard to talk to.
She started up the main street. Just past the phone box, Davy jumped out at her from a laneway.
‘Boo!’
‘Are you really older than me?’ said Ali. He drooped an arm over her shoulder and carried on up the street with her.
‘What were you doing with Peggy Nolan?’
‘I met her down in Roisín’s.’
‘Roisín’s too soft. How’s about a little libation for the Sabbath?’ He drew out some crumpled notes and a cluster of change from his pocket.
‘Just one. I don’t want it to turn out like yesterday.’
Cathal, the man with the baby feet badge, was sitting on Melody’s windowsill with another guy, watching the world go by. The friend was tall, fierce-looking and fair as a Viking. Davy took his arm off her shoulder and walked ahead into the pub
‘Are you needing company, Ali?’ Cathal wheedled.
She flicked them the V sign.
‘Ooo-ooo,’ they chorused, the mocking note swooping after her as she stepped into the dark.
FOURTEEN
Detective Superintendent Francis Kavanagh was big in every direction. He looked like the kind of man who should be out in the open air, striding the hills of Kerry with a sheep across his shoulders or a maiden in his arms. Even his hair was vigorous; a sprinkling of grey giving vital sparks to his straw-coloured crop. Yet Swan had never known Kavanagh to take exercise or leave the confines of a building or car unnecessarily. And his rosy complexion was probably due more to a combination of bluster and drink than the wind coming in from the Blaskets.
When Swan walked into Kavanagh’s office on Monday morning he found his boss sitting behind the desk in a vest, revealing gouts of chest hair, shoulder freckles and the outline of nipples under thin ribbed cotton. It was all Swan could do not to raise his palms in front of his eyes.
‘Do you want to me to come back later?’
‘Get that prissy look off your puss, Swan. I spilled coffee down my shirt. Could happen to anyone. I asked Considine if she could wash it out, and the look she gave me would freeze a waterfall in spate. Your man Barrett steps in, thank god, says he knows a laundry and he’ll have it back by noon. I’ve a lunch at the Castle today, the Dutch Prime Minister… or is it Belgian?’
Kavanagh looked around his desk for the invitation card, distracted by the possibility of a diplomatic faux pas. The current Garda Commissioner wasn’t much of a man for canapés and glad-handing, so it fell to his deputies to represent the force on ambassadorial occasions. It was a task the fitted Kavanagh well, with his man-of-the-people bonhomie.
He waved a stiff card at Swan. ‘Belgian! – Brussels, mussels, pissing statues. Right. Let’s get on with it.’
‘Well, our enquiries are continuing on two fronts. We’re looking closely at the people on the spot – the religious community, their staff, former and current pupils –‘
‘The nuns – have you won their trust?’
‘It’s been slow enough. They’re very resistant to any suggestion that anyone in their community might be implicated. Problem is, they think they’re above the law, or answering to a different law, and I can’t have that.’
‘You can’t have that? Careful, Vincent, a little softness doesn’t go amiss – you don’t want to get into one of your intellectual struggles about what is Caesar’s and what is God’s, eh? Let’s just concentrate on finding the mother. Whatever way you can.’
There was a knock on the door and Barrett swooped in with a pale blue shirt on a hanger, draped in a gloss of polythene.
‘Good man,’ said Kavanagh, rising from his desk to grab the shirt. He tore off the plastic cover, threw the hanger in the corner and started to battle with the buttons. Barrett stood holding out the superintendent’s jacket by its shoulders, waiting to help him on with it like some shop assistant.
Swan continued with his report.
‘We checked out the pupil who left the school earlier this year. Eileen Vaughan.’
‘She’s back with her parents in Terenure,’ offered Barrett.
‘Want to tell the chief what you found?’
Barrett beamed for an instant, then the super turned towards him and lifted the jacket from his hands, giving him a suspicious look. With a flick of his hand he directed Barrett back to the public side of his desk. Barrett took his place standing beside Swan and recited, in a flattened voice,
‘The girl was delivered of an infant six weeks ago in a refuge in Arklow…’ He stopped to dig out his notebook.
‘You’re not in court, Barrett, just talk,’ said Swan.
Barrett kept flipping through pages, so Swan took up the tale, sensing that Kavanagh’s growing agitation wasn’t just to do with buttoning his cuffs.
‘We talked with the mother and girl yesterday. The baby went to adoptive parents, we checked it out with the agency that handled it.’
Swan had given his Sunday morning to visiting the girl at her home. The smell of frying lingered in their kitchen, making his stomach mourn for his usual Sunday morning ritual of scrambled eggs, black pudding and an onion roll from the Bretzel. The mother had refused to let them speak to Eileen alone, and kept chipping in her opinions. The girl herself seemed monosyllabic with misery, a baggy grey sweatshirt pulled over her still-heavy stomach, her lank hair curtaining a face that wore a look of protracted shock.
‘And the baby?’
‘Yes. The agency gave us the details of the adoptive family and Barrett went for a visit yesterday.’
‘He’s been keeping you busy.’
Barrett shrugged modestly.
‘No problem, chief. Big house out in Sutton. The husband is a banker, the wife was too. They’re all thrilled to bits. I’d say the little chap is very lucky.’
‘So what’s your second line?’ Kavanagh addressed Swan.
‘Pardon?’
‘You said you had a second line of enquiry – come on.’
‘It’s very possible that the mother would go to her doctor for some medical attention afterwards. TP Murphy’s leading a small team talking to all doctor’s surgeries in the area, all Dublin hospitals too.’
Kavanagh was buttoning his jacket now. Looking around for his cap. Swan quickly told him they had identified a couple of families known to the social work department, one where a daughter already had an illegitimate daughter living in the home, the other where th
ere had been two suicide attempts in the family in the past six months. Neither admitted to a baby having been in their midst.
‘Murphy can tell you more. I thought he would be here.’
‘Ah yes. Meant to say – I’ve sent Murphy to assist with the Dundalk shooting, there’s a lot of pressure on that one and the usual cross-border shenanigans.’
Swan’s first feeling was one of relief. He never could hit it off with TP and now he could co-ordinate things as he liked. But if they didn’t find the woman, if things didn’t work out, it would be entirely his responsibility.
He carried on as confidently as he could.
‘Forensics have identified two types of fibre found on the baby’s body. There are carpet fibres, blue, woollen twist, good quality, and there are also white polyester fibres which Dr. Flynn has identified as a type used in a looped stretch cloth, consistent with coming from a babygro or other towelling item. She’s working on finding matches to specific manufacturers, but in the meantime, it does point to the baby being kept in a domestic situation for some of the time that it lived.’
‘So what’s your theory?’
‘Something different from the usual panicked cover-up. Girl delivers baby at home, possibly with help. Things go normally for a day or two, baby fed and clothed, then either a change of heart, or its existence is discovered by someone hostile to the child.’
‘You think it’s not the mother.’
‘Most likely it is, but the extent of the violence isn’t typical.’
A knock at the door announced that the Superintendent’s car was ready. He ushered them out alongside him.
‘So you’ll have something for me soon?’ The boss liked to demand unfounded reassurance.
‘We’re still waiting on more technical reports, if there’s anything you can do to hurry them– ’
‘All right, but I don’t want to see another witness on national television, Vincent, especially not that same witness again. What is she at?’