Marianne drew the envelope out of her bag, explaining she had to send the original papers to England, but she needed to take copies just in case anything went awry.
They stood at the photocopier together. Marianne handed Miss MacReady her adoption certificate.
“Ah, if you are adopted, we need your birth certificate as well,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“I know,” smiled Marianne, “I’ve brought it.” She handed it over.
Miss MacReady unfolded the documents. She glanced at the Birth Certificate and then went back to the Certificate of Adoption. She looked at the fading photograph which had been attached to the piece of paper for over thirty years. She put her glasses on and looked at it again. She held it at arm’s length, brought it up to her nose, and then put it very slowly down on the copier. Pointing to the photograph, her voice a whisper, she asked,
“Who’s this?”
“Well, me of course,” Marianne replied, laughing, “I’ve changed a bit, I grant you.” The room went quiet. She could hear the clock ticking out in the shop front of the Post Office. She turned and watched as the colour drained from Miss MacReady’s face. Marianne heard her take a deep breath as the older woman grabbed the birth certificate, rushed to her desk and flicked on the lamp. She held the birth certificate beneath the light, hands shaking.
“What?” Marianne followed her.
Miss MacReady held her hand up for silence. She took a key from a chain around her neck and unlocked the desk drawer. Drawing it open, she took out a slender lacquered casket, placed it on the desktop and lifted the lid slowly. With trembling fingers, she withdrew a small envelope, brown with age. She opened it and placed the Certificate of Adoption with the photograph attached, beside it. She took a piece of paper from the envelope. It was a photograph, an identical photograph to the one attached to the paperwork. She placed them side by side.
Marianne could hear a loud rushing in her ears. She tried to ignore it.
“They look so similar, they could be twins,” she offered. Miss MacReady was holding onto the edge of the desk, she had turned very grey. She took another piece of paper out of the casket, unfolded it and laid it on the desk beside the Birth Certificate. It was a copy of the same Birth Certificate, except this copy had not been tampered with. The ink had not been smudged with water. It read: Mother’s name; Kathleen Marianne MacReady. Father’s name: Brian Joseph Maguire.
Marianne felt a jolt, the whooshing sound was even louder. She thought she heard Miss MacReady say something. She thought she heard her say,
“They told me you died. They told me a lie. I always knew it was a lie.”
Marianne tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry her lips were stuck together. She was trying to stand upright but her knees had turned to jelly.
The women just stared at each other. Miss MacReady could see Marianne’s eyes were those of her beloved Brian; Marianne looked Miss MacReady up and down slowly, they had the same legs, feet, mouth. This was insane.
“Thank you, thank you,” Miss MacReady exclaimed, lifting her arms to the sky. “Thank you, whoever you are?” she called at the top of her voice as she rushed to embrace Marianne. Marianne just stood there, heart pounding, as the older woman, face wet with tears, hugged her.
“No, no you’re wrong. I was born in Galway... I was born in...”
“The same hospital Oonagh was treated in, that’s the nearest hospital to here, that’s where half the island was born. Afterwards, I always thought it was funny there are no illegitimate children on the island. The most natural thing in the world never happened here.”
“But…”
Miss MacReady passed Marianne her glass. She gulped it down, taking deep breaths, slowing her heartbeat. Miss MacReady poured them fresh drinks. She had started to weep quietly. She lifted Monty onto Marianne’s lap and Marianne cuddled him for warmth, his bright brown eyes searching hers.
“If it’s true, why?” she asked, finally finding her voice, “Why were you in that position in the first place?”
“We weren’t married. He wanted to marry me, but they were Protestants, his father wouldn’t hear of it, said I ruined his life. I had the baby, you, in the hospital in Galway and was sent to the convent in Wicklow to recuperate before I came home, but it was while I was there I fell seriously ill. They took my baby away until I recovered and, though I begged and pleaded to have my baby back, they finally told me she had died.” She wiped her eyes at the memory. “They were all very sympathetic and looked after me until I was well again and the Abbess found me a position with the Post Office in Dublin, but I hated it. I couldn’t shake the idea that my baby was not dead. She didn’t feel dead. I thought I was going mad.”
Marianne touched Miss MacReady’s hand. It sounded like so many of the terrifying tales she had heard when she was uncovering the ‘Babies for sale scam’ story for the newspaper. It was too real not to be true. She nodded Miss MacReady to go on.
“I used to go to the bar in that Dublin hotel every Monday night, hoping he would come and fetch me, take me home, but he never did. Some knight in shining armour!
“Anyway, I was determined to come back to Innishmahon with a career, and I did, and as postmistress, I had a position in society, such as it was. Brian was still here, practising as a GP. He never married and though I tried to get him to talk about it, he never spoke to me again. I think he knew. I think he knew his own child had been ‘sold’ into the adoption system. I think the Doctors’ Maguire had always been part of the baby trade that still happens the world over. It’s desperate. It’s worse than murder.” The older woman was trembling, her makeup streaked with tears as she clasped Marianne’s hand in hers.
Marianne put her arms around Miss MacReady, holding her close as she wept. Nothing that had ever happened to her, could compare with her own mother being told her baby had died soon after birth. Gathering herself, Miss MacReady went to her desk and fetched the Death Certificate for her baby girl. Marianne gasped and then nodded as she read it, checking for the signs of forgery she had become aware of whilst investigating the ‘Baby Scam’.
“You’re right, it looks just like all the others.”
“Then you are my baby. You’ve come home,” She looked into Marianne’s eyes.
“Do you really think so? It’s all a bit of a coincidence isn’t it?”
“Not really. The Coltranes came here often enough, they would have known the Maguires. They might even have known about you; who you were. They were childless. The Maguires probably wanted a decent home for one of their own, even though she could not be acknowledged as such, an illegitimate baby girl and from a Catholic mother at that.”
Marianne nodded and then shook her head.
“But we’re talking about the 1970s for God’s sake. This sounds almost Dickensian.”
“We may have all the trappings of the twenty-first century, but old bigotries run deep.” Miss MacReady took Marianne’s hand.
“Did you never wonder, never want to find out about your own mother?”
Marianne shrugged. “I figured she had her reasons for giving me away. What was the point of seeking her out, the reasons wouldn’t have changed.”
“But times change, and circumstances, too.”
“What chance would I have had with that birth certificate anyway, deliberately tampered with so I could never find out.” Marianne was surprised at the anger in her voice.
“So you’ve carried that with you all your life, given away by your birth mother, no reason, no explanation, no way of finding out who she was?”
“It was fine, it suited me. I had enough to deal with, being adopted, and being an only child. I didn’t have a proper family. I didn’t need one.” Marianne went to pour another drink.
“I think not having any family around you is worse when you can’t have your own,” Miss MacReady said. “No-one to turn to, no-one to talk it through with, no-one who understood what it felt like not to have your own child.”
“It
was okay,” Marianne said. “I kept busy, I managed.”
“Yes you did, and if you are my daughter, and I’m damn sure you are, well I couldn’t be more proud.” Miss MacReady started to cry again. Marianne knelt beside her and hugged her tightly.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Marianne kept repeating, her head full of questions yet her heart beginning to flutter with joy.
“It is now.” Miss MacReady smiled into her face, the brightest, most beautiful smile Marianne had ever seen her wear. “You have been sent back to me and I to you. Whoever is taking care of us up there, she’s doing a great job.”
“It’s a he,” said Marianne. “His name’s George. Oh, and he probably has a bit of help from a terrifying new sidekick called Oonagh.” And they laughed together, a very similar sounding laugh when you listened closely.
The following week was one of the most fantastic Marianne had ever experienced. Not only was she delighting in getting used to the revelation that her birth mother was, in fact, the wonderfully eccentric Kathleen MacReady, and Innishmahon was in so many ways, her true spiritual home. She also had notice that the purchase of the Ophiuchus had been agreed and the official papers were being delivered by special courier. There was a distinct possibility the house would be up and running as a respite resort for young carers in time for the new season; coinciding nicely with the opening of the new bridge.
It was a glorious late October morning, almost a year to the day since the ‘Bridge Too Far’ Festival. There was going to be a small reunion of stalwart supporters over the weekend and the Finnigan Twins were booked for the session that evening in Maguire’s.
Deciding to take their constitutional before she became bogged down in arrangements at the pub, Marianne took Monty and Bridget, now too heavy for her carry sling, up to Ophiuchus to inspect the Planning Notice attached to the gatepost, and then down to meet the ferry and take delivery of the official documents being delivered that very day.
The wind was the softest kiss as they climbed the slope to the grandiose gates of the fine Georgian house. Bridget was in her pushchair with Monty helping to haul the contraption along, like a husky. The sun was already warm; it was one of those rare October days masquerading as July.
The ferry sounded its arrival, sliding into the harbour on a slipstream of sparkling water. Marianne nodded to herself as she read the Planning Application for the alterations to the house and, turning towards the sea, shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched the ferry passengers make their way along the gangplank. Monty followed her gaze, then spotting something he recognised, pricked his ears, tugged free of his lead and started back down the track.
Marianne called him but he paid no heed. She quickly lifted Bridget out of the buggy onto her hip, frightened it would topple over if she attempted to follow her four-legged chum.
“What has he seen?” she asked the child, shielding her eyes again. And then she spotted the subject of Monty’s distraction. A man, tall and slim, with dark hair, wearing a battered leather jacket, was standing on the quayside. He had seen her and was waving something at her, an envelope or document of some sort. He was starting to move towards her.
The little white dog had almost reached him but he stopped and turning back to the boat, signalled a purser to lift a bulky piece of cargo carefully off the gangplank. It was a child’s pushchair and there was a child strapped into it. A child in blue. A little boy.
She hoisted Bridget higher, clamping the little girl tightly to her hip so she could lift her other arm high above her head, giving the watching figure a huge wave of welcome.
He waved back, manically, with both arms, jumping up and down as if he were keep fit training. The purser who had lifted the pushchair was busy piling suitcases and luggage beside the cluster of man, child and dog on the quayside. It looked as if his whole life had arrived with him.
Bridget stretched out her arms towards them. Marianne made a sound as if she had been stabbed. Ears rushing with noise, she could feel her heart beating; the excitement building as she started to stride from the house down the track, holding the little girl close in her embrace, moving faster and faster.
The man kept jumping up and down like a lunatic, pointing at the child in the pushchair and back towards her and Bridget. As she drew nearer, she could hear him shouting,
“Look, look, we’re here. We’re all here.”
Monty was running in circles, wagging his tail and yapping wildly. She started to laugh, as she pulled up the collar of her jacket.
Because despite the sun, the breeze had whipped up, coming from behind her; pushing her down the hill towards the sea, towards where Monty now stood with the little boy in the pushchair and Ryan and all his baggage. Strange, she thought, smiling, the wind has changed.
THE END
Can’t bear to leave the island? If you would like to stay on Innishmahon and find out what happens to Marianne, Ryan and all the other wonderful characters, A Change of Heart, the sequel to The Hollow Heart, will be available in 2013. Here’s a taster...
They were in the largest cellar room, at the very end of the long corridor which ran from the bottom of the stairs the length of the house. There were windows high in the walls, small ones but plenty of them. Painted cream or white instead of gloomy mustard brown, it would transform the place she thought, placing her clipboard on a chest.
“Great breakout area, don’t you think? Perfect for a pool table, some sofas, a bit of music.” He said. She had her head buried in one of the many wooden chests fixed along the walls. He strode to the far end of the room, pushing back a screen on squeaky wheels.
“Hey, what’s this?”
She looked up. Half a dozen steps led up to a pair of narrow doors. The doors were paned with glass but the glass had been blacked out. He tried them.
“Stuck, or locked, or both.” He took a crowbar from the tool bag, easing it into the gap, it made a loud crack and as he pushed the doors open, moths and beetles scrabbled for cover. He brushed cobwebs away. The doors led onto a patch of overgrown gravel, then a lower lawn, a grassy slice of beach and then the shore.
“Come and see,” he called to her, amazed the house, so high above the village, secretly slid down to the water once you were inside. He looked up. “Hey, I’ve found a balcony, a tiny little Juliet balcony.” He pulled at the strands of ivy, trailing down. “Romantic.”
“There hasn’t been much romance here in a long time,” she said, beating dust off the drapes at the door with her clipboard.
“Come out here,” he demanded, taking her hand, pulling her outside to stand on the gravel beside him looking down at the secret beach.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “It’s like a little smuggler’s cove.”
The sun was sliding towards the horizon, the sky cloudless and bleached blue. They stood side by side, arms touching. They could feel the heat. She dropped his hand and stepped back inside.
“Do you want to make a start on the painting, or have we other jobs?” He called after her.
“The first coat’s not dry yet, that’s tomorrow’s job. Let’s get stuck into these chests, see what we can sling or recycle.”
“Good plan.” He agreed, not moving from his lookout post. The bewitching promise of a glorious sunset rooted him to the spot. “Look at this.”
She was poking through a pile of files.
“There’s so much that should have been thrown away, medical records from years ago.”
“Just bin them,” he advised. “Come and look at the sunset woman.”
She had a headache, her feet hurt. She dropped the bin bag and, kicking off her shoes, went to join him.
“At last,” he smiled into her face. A light breeze was coming off the water, the air sweet and clean. They stood shoulder to shoulder looking out. It stretched before them, a smooth of green, a rustle of blond and then the sea; deep, dark and glistening. She shivered. He put an arm around her shoulders.
She inhaled deeply and nestled into hi
m, his scent mixing pleasingly with the salt air. She put her head on his shoulder, he leaned down to her, rubbing his cheek briefly on her hair, breathing her in. She lifted her chin to speak, her lips almost touching the small, soft space of skin beneath his ear. The sun had turned into a huge, orange orb.
“This is so beautiful,” he whispered, staring straight ahead. “I could stay here, like this, forever.”
“Me too,” she replied, the breath from her words tickled his skin. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close, a gentle, brotherly embrace she was free to release herself at any point. She looked up at him, his eyes were soft, kind, loving. She was suddenly tearful.
“Hey, hey,” he said cupping her chin in his hand. “You’re too beautiful to be always so sad.”
She blinked the tears away, then standing on tiptoe she kissed him, the lightest kiss, her mouth just brushing his lips and releasing herself, she went back into the house. He turned to follow her and then stopped. Pushing his hands into his pockets he frowned out towards the sea, breathing deeply, willing the desire away. He watched the sun start to sink.
“Come inside,” she called out to him, “I’ve something to show you.”
The room was gloomy now the sun had dipped, he went to switch on the lights.
“Don’t, come here.” She said softly, her voice was coming from behind the screen, near the drapes. He could not see her, he followed her voice, his foot caught in something soft, he kicked it aside.
“Are you hiding?” He asked, with a smile in his voice. He pulled the drapes aside. She stood there in the half light, her hair loose around her shoulders, her blouse open to the waist, her breasts barely covered by a sheer vest top. She had taken off her long chambray skirt and her smooth legs shone like marble against the dark, full length curtains. She raised her arms above her head, leaning back against the wall so he could see all of her, every inch of her from head to toe. She was smiling, a low sweet smile, her lips parted.
He was stunned, too shocked to speak. His eyes flickered as his gaze swept over her. He tried to look away but his body was responding in a way he had not felt for years. Seeing him struggle, she gasped and pulled her blouse closed, stooping to collect her skirt.
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 32