In the Rosary Garden

by Nicola White

  ‘She’s young. She won’t be doing it again.’

  ‘You make sure of it. What was this about her finding a baby before?’

  ‘We checked it out, something of a sad coincidence. A stillbirth at a relative’s house.’

  Kavanagh grimaced, dismissed them with a salute and headed down the corridor alone.

  ‘Have a good lunch, sir.’ Barrett called after him.

  Barrett was getting on his nerves. And for all her brightness, Considine was getting nowhere with her social work contacts. Ach, that wasn’t fair. They just needed a break. It would come.

  If they could find a realistic suspect, the forensics could probably do the rest. Otherwise they were going to be reduced to sampling every blue carpet in south Dublin or seeking permission to do physical check-ups on likely women. Starting with the two unfortunate families in Dodder Vale, then the girls of the gardening club and the younger nuns. But they couldn’t go round palpating women without solid reason. He could just imagine what Mary O’Shea would do with that.

  ‘Boss?’

  Barrett interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘I forgot to say your wife rang. She been called away to her aunt’s.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ Why did she have to go and do that? She could have just left a note at home, didn’t need to talk to anyone here about anything.

  ‘I hope everything’s alright,’ said Barrett

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘With her aunt, boss, I hope it’s not serious with her aunt.’

  FIFTEEN

  She had come to look, that was all, just to see the place where Joan was. The mental hospital, that’s what they used to call it. Or the nuthouse. A long grey building at the top of a grass bank. The window bars were painted white, blending in tastefully with the multi-paned windows behind. She imagined Joan appearing at one, dishevelled in a nightdress, white fingers raking at the pane. It gave her the creeps.

  The big gates to the grounds were open, and as she watched, a couple walked out through them, chatting in an ordinary way, not hurrying or throwing fearful glances over their shoulders. The driveway climbed steeply up the bank and ran level along the front of the building. Maybe it would be okay to take a closer look, now that she had come all this way.

  The front of Damascus House was flat, except for a glass entrance porch with a niche above it where a statue of Mary opened her arms to all comers. Ali walked slowly forward.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  A woman pushed past her from behind, carrying a cone of yellow flowers, clacking her way inside on stubby heels. So they allowed visitors. She’d just check if there was a notice saying what the hours were. Mary O’Shea would never be this timid. Mary O’Shea would have phoned, demanded information, be sitting on Joan’s bed by now.

  She didn’t want much, just for Joan to tell her a bit about the baby, to explain how it came to be under that bed. Then the thing would be done. She brushed her hands over her hair, pulled her ponytail tighter.

  There were no details about visiting hours inside the porch. Beyond a second set of glass doors, a man sat behind a reception desk. He looked up and beckoned her.

  The inevitable smell of chemical pine threaded through blousy heat. The man at the desk was busy with some paperwork. When she got close, she realised it was only a newspaper.

  ‘Can you help me?’ said Ali.

  ‘Only if you can help me,’ he replied, sucking on the end of his biro. ‘Five letters, second one O, last one S – weaver appears mistily.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He pushed the paper towards her and pointed at the last blank squares on his crossword puzzle. Ali shook her head.

  ‘You should get into it. Keeps the old brain together…’ His eyes drifted up toward the ceiling. ‘Looms!’ He scribbled the letters in, quick heavy strokes. ‘Got ya!’

  He flung the paper aside and gave her his full attention.

  ‘I was wondering, is it possible for me to visit Joan Dempsey sometime?’ said Ali.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘An old friend. I don’t live round here.’

  He leaned forward over the desk and pointed. ‘She’s on the open ward. Down the corridor, up the end stairs, turn right and she should be somewhere around the west wing.’

  ‘Does she have a room number or something?’

  ‘Well, she won’t be in it. She busies herself about the place. A busy bee.’

  He looked down at the empty desk in front of him.

  ‘Don’t know what I’m going to do now,’ he said pleasantly.

  Ali walked down the wide corridor, her sandals chirping on the vinyl floor. There were doors on either side, all identical, with small windows of meshed glass beside each handle. One door was open and as she passed she caught sight of someone lying on a bed, an arm flung over her eyes, body covered with a flowery duvet.

  As she climbed the stairs, her doubts multiplied. It was very likely that Joan wouldn’t know her, or wouldn’t welcome her if she did. A woman in a white overall banged through the fire doors at the top of the stairs, her head tilted to one side to see past an armload of sheets. She passed Ali without acknowledgement. Ali went through the doors and found herself looking down another corridor. On either side were large wards where people sat on beds or circulated slowly in dressing gowns. It looked like an ordinary hospital. She wanted to ask someone where to go, but the only official person she could see was a woman mopping the corridor ahead.

  The woman was facing away from her, and as Ali approached she noticed she was wearing ordinary clothes, pale tight jeans and a baggy jumper. She was humming a song, something just beyond naming, but familiar.

  Maybe it was the tune, or something in the way she moved, or just the way her curly hair piled together in defiance of gravity, but before she was within ten feet of her, Ali experienced a rush of recognition, as if her heart had pumped out a blast of hot water. She stood still and watched Joan move the mop to create shining figures of eight across the sea-green linoleum.

  ‘Joan?’

  The mop turned first, skimming round in a semi circle, Joan turning neatly behind it as if executing some kind of dance step.

  ‘It’s you!’ Joan smiled and fine lines radiated from the sides of her eyes and bracketed her thin mouth. Otherwise she seemed not much changed. Smaller, certainly. Just tiny. Ali was more than a head taller than her now.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d know me.’

  ‘Didn’t I see you the other night?’

  ‘You haven’t seen me in years…’

  ‘You were with that man – Gay Byrne.’ Joan’s smile faded and her eyes grew wide. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something bad happened to you. I forgot.’

  ‘You saw me on the telly – is that it?’

  ‘The telly. Yes.’

  ‘I’m visiting Buleen, so I thought I’d come and see you. Is that all right?’

  ‘I suppose I can finish this later.’

  Joan put the bucket and mop away in a cupboard, and led Ali to a large room full of vinyl armchairs and smoke, occupied by half a dozen people. A woman was lying on the floor. Sleeping, Ali presumed, since no one seemed concerned about her. Two men in shirtsleeves were hunched over a card game. Joan proudly showed Ali a big television that was set into a cabinet on the wall.

  ‘That’s what I saw you on.’

  ‘I’m still amazed you knew me. It’s been so many years.’

  ‘She’s on the telly!’ Joan announced to the room at large. Heads turned to them and quickly away. The woman on the floor slept on.

  ‘Do you have a job here, Joan?’

  ‘I like to help out.’

  ‘But you stay here all the time, do you? As a…�
�� Ali searched for the right word. Patient or inmate seemed too direct.

  ‘Oh yes, full time.’ Then, in a low voice, looking round as if worried the others would hear, ‘They take care of me.’

  ‘Should I tell someone that I’m here with you?’

  Joan shrugged. ‘What’s Gay like? Is he very short?’

  ‘He’s normal-sized, I guess, and just like himself.’

  ‘He looks short on the telly. Have you got cigarettes?’

  Ali reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out her packet of Silk Cut.

  ‘I don’t think I have a light.’

  ‘I can get you a light,’ said a voice behind her. She looked around to see that a young man with a straight fringe had crept up on them. Weaver appears mistily, she thought. Other faces had perked up hopefully around the room. More impressive to have cigarettes than to be on the telly. She gave the boy a cigarette, then one to Joan and took another for herself. The boy walked over to the card game.

  ‘Tony, can I have a light?’

  Tony took a lighter from his jeans pocket, and as he did so, Ali noticed the bunch of keys hooked to his belt. He winked at her as he put it back.

  Over by the window, a girl her own age with a bad complexion was staring at her. Ali waved the packet of cigarettes in her direction and the girl approached with all the brash confidence of a woodland creature. They lit their cigarettes one by one from the boy’s fag, drawing in deeply to make the glow catch across. The timid girl pressed the lit cigarette to her own so hard that the tip of the lit one became unhinged. The boy grabbed it from her, cursing.

  ‘Watch it, Peter,’ said Tony, never lifting his eyes from the cards. The boy shuffled off to sulk in a corner, holding the cigarette pointed to the ceiling. The timid girl sat in the chair beside Ali, a little smile on her face. Ali smiled back awkwardly. The lounge felt like a cross between a youth club and an old folk’s home. There was a pool table on one side of the room, but no sign of any cues or balls. Instead, the surface was covered with boxes of jigsaws and piles of scuffed magazines.

  Joan leaned across and poked the girl’s knee.

  ‘Go on with you.’

  The girl moved away, and Joan leaned closer to Ali.

  ‘You’ve gotten very tall. Have you heels on?’

  Ali showed her the flat soles of her sandals. ‘My dad was tall.’

  Joan bit her lip and put her hand to her chest.

  ‘Your poor Daddy. God, I remember you coming to Caherbawn with your Mammy and the tears still wet on your cheeks.’ She looked as though she would cry herself.

  ‘You weren’t too happy either, were you, Joan?’

  Joan shot a look around, settling on the card players.

  ‘I have to be careful. They rely on me to be cheerful.’

  Joan picked up an ashtray and motioned to the window with a jog of her head, and they strolled over with exaggerated nonchalance. The view outside was of a brutish tarmac yard stretching away from the back of the hospital. Cars were parked along its far edge where it butted up to a field dotted with black cattle.

  ‘Do you remember me finding something that Christmas day?’ ventured Ali.

  Joan shook her head, looked out at the hot cars.Ali moved an inch closer, ‘You know there was a baby. It wasn’t alive. It was in a box, up in the back bedroom. And I wondered… was it yours?’

  ‘You found a baby in Dublin. I’ve never even been to Dublin.’ Joan wouldn’t look at her. As she lifted her cigarette to her mouth Ali noticed a tremor in her hand.

  ‘Not that baby. I’m talking about before.’

  ‘Boxes. Bedrooms. I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘You were expecting, weren’t you?’

  There was a tiny flicker from Joan, a tightening of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘T’was a miscarriage.’ She hissed the word out.

  Ali looked out the window. What she had seen couldn’t be a miscarriage, could it? A miscarriage would be unformed, would look like something from that abortion film that the nuns had shown them with the bin full of discarded foetuses; ­a red galaxy swirling with the soft outlines of frog legs and newt palms among nameless clots of matter. Girls had fled the assembly hall, retching as they went.

  Joan flicked rhythmically at the cigarette butt with her fingernail. Ash flakes sprinkled the windowsill.

  ‘The baby was wrapped in a towel,’ Ali persisted. ‘It was a small baby, but it looked perfect.’

  On the word perfect, Joan froze. She addressed the windowpane.

  ‘Not a miscarriage, the other thing. When it doesn’t live. Your aunt said that there would be other babies. But she was wrong, I tried and no others came. I gave myself to men I didn’t even like. A stone birth – I mean still birth – that’s what they call it.’ Joan’s voice was getting unsteady. ‘Sometimes I think God must hate me. He just hates me.’

  She crossed her arms and put her chin against one shoulder.

  Ali wished she hadn’t mentioned the baby. She didn’t know how to do this, not without upset. A whole world of upset. She had a nerve coming here, bothering Joan. If the people who ran this place knew why she was here they would keep her in, her and her dead babies. And Tony would wink at her as he tucked her up in her narrow bed, keys jingling at his hip.

  ‘I’m sorry. Nobody ever explained it to me. I’m just trying to make sense of it.’

  ‘You said it was perfect. Was it really?’

  Ali nodded, put an arm round Joan’s waist.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What did your aunt tell you?’

  ‘I didn’t ask her.’

  Ali had never sung songs with Una, never run her hands through Una’s hair. She couldn’t even remember speaking to her aunt when there weren’t other people present.

  Joan turned away from the window, smoothed out her cheeks with her palms.

  ‘You used to drag that black kitten about – remember?’ said Joan, ‘Carried it all over the place with you like a dolly, never mind the fleas on it. You had bites all over your arms.’

  Ali smiled. Remembering it now. ‘You put calamine lotion on me.’ Chalky streaks of it, crackling when it dried.

  So odd to think of this tiny woman taking care of her, the substantial presence of her then compared to now. She had been queen of the kitchen, the heart of the house for Ali, but Joan had owned nothing but her labour.

  A woman wheeled in a trolley of blue cups and handed strong, sugary tea to everyone, Ali included. She and Joan sat in chairs near the window. The boy called Peter turned on the television with the sound down, and everyone looked at the screen for a while, supping their tea. Onscreen, a man in yellow dungarees was talking to a red haired puppet. The card players took a break from their game. It was sort of cosy.

  ‘I went to visit but your aunt shooed me off. They won’t give me my job back.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Joan.’

  ‘Well she used to be very good to me. And then she wasn’t.’

  ‘When you were pregnant?’

  Joan frowned and checked that no-one had heard. The card players were talking. The sleeper on the floor slept on, a cup of cooling tea by her head.

  ‘You and your Mammy as bad as the rest.’

  ‘What did we do?’

  ‘You passed me on the road, me and my brother, like we were too dirty to pick up, like we were tinkers.’

  As Joan said it, Ali had a vague memory of being in her mother’s new car, starting the trip back up to Dublin, and Joan on the grass verge of the road, holding a yellow-haired boy close in to her body as their car drove past them.

  ‘Did you leave Caherbawn the same day as us?’

  ‘Thrown out, more like.’

  Joan was as cross as if it was yesterday, screwing the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray, mashing
it.

  ‘You know, there really isn’t much of a job to do anymore. There’s hardly anyone to cook for,’ said Ali.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Roisín, the twins and Davy are gone. They have their own homes. There don’t seem to be any farmhands, either. It’s only my aunt and uncle there now. And Brendan.’

  The anger drained from Joan’s expression. She looked confused and her mouth writhed, trying to form some word. Ali got out of her chair and stooped down in front of Joan, catching her small hands together in her own, trying to soothe her. She looked over at Tony, but he didn’t seem to notice Joan’s distress. Only the shy girl looked over, scratching her cheek rhythmically.

  ‘You were very good to me,’ Ali said, searching out eye contact. ‘I remember that. You were kind.’

  Joan looked at her, uncertain.

  ‘You sang me the farting song that Auntie Una banned. You let me plait your hair, and you made me show you my Irish dancing up on the kitchen table and clapped out the beat for me. Do you remember?’ Joan nodded, a suggestion of a smile on her face now. ‘I didn’t come to trouble you, Joan, I’m sorry if I have.’

  ‘I can’t believe where the time goes,’ said Joan, ‘I lose track.’

  ‘Why are you here, Joan?’

  Joan looked around the room, and back at Ali. ‘I needed to feel safe,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t mean to stay so long.’

  ‘Things can change.’

  ‘Would you do something for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ali. ‘I’d be happy to.’

  ‘Take me out.’

  ‘I don’t know if… I wouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘I go out all the time. We could go on a jaunt – just for an afternoon.’

  ‘Okay. If they let me.’

  Joan’s smile was broad now, and she brushed Ali’s hands away from her.

  ‘We’ll have a picnic.’

  ‘Let me ask at the desk if that will be okay, first, Joan.’

  ‘It will, it will.’

  ‘I’ll think of somewhere nice. If it’s allowed.’

  Tony was on the reception desk when she came down, and he said that it would be fine for Ali to take Joan out on Thursday. For however long she wanted. It all seemed rather casual.