So it was just Irene and Bridie. And they promised to stay friends forever.
During the day they’d be down at Paddy’s with the rest of the gang. You could buy and sell just about anything there. Second hand clothes, old sinks, bits of bicycles, shoes – not pairs of shoes though, just shoes – fruit, vegetables, the lot. The food stalls were a godsend to most folk living close by.
She’d share the craic. ‘Aye these clothes are just in, fresh this morning off the Paris catwalks,’ she’d say. ‘Aye, yer arse,’ customers would laugh back. And, as she laughed with the others, she’d stab at her thigh with her keys, or anything else sharp that came to hand.
The physical pain gave her some relief from the mental torment that made her feel as though she would burst. Irene was haunted by the past. The euphoria at being free from the Magdalene Institute wasn’t enough to shake off the gnawing feeling that ate away at her insides. The guilt, the shame, call it whatever, it was a physical pain that settled in her gut and never went away. At night, when she slept, her dreams would be filled with her father, an enormous giant, towering over her; Little Isaac, a tiny scrap of a thing, before they carried him away; and baby Patricia dying in her arms. Wee Patricia, doomed forever to suffer in limbo because she wasn’t baptised.
Like most of the flats along Cumberland Street, they had an outside lavvy, where Irene had an occasional wee fly fag and a few moments with her own thoughts.
It was only when Bridie walked in on her one night that the truth was outed. She found Irene sitting on the grubby toilet pan, eyes tightly closed and face distorted in pain, a glowing cigarette end pressed into her flesh as she offered up her suffering to God, begging and pleading with him to stop baby Patricia’s suffering – to take her out of limbo and let her into heaven.
‘Fuck’s sakes, Irene. What’re you doing?’
Bridie slapped the cigarette out of Irene’s hand and stamped on it. She said nothing as she led her friend upstairs. All she had to ease the wounds was bicarbonate of soda. She dipped a clean rag into the watered down mixture and gently dabbed the burns across Irene’s breasts and shoulders.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, love?’
Her whole body shook as she told Bridie about Patricia and Heaven. ‘Don’t tell anyone, eh? They’ll think I’m a nutter for sure and put me away again.’
Bridie held her close, rocking her. ‘Shh shh, there, there,’ she said, patting her back and cursing Sister Agatha, God…, anyone and everyone she held in any way responsible. It was all a bag of shite, Bridie told her. God wouldn’t make a wee baby suffer, make it linger in limbo. Why would God make up a stupid rule like that? Irene wanted to believe her. But just to make sure, just in case…
The next day they were back down at the stall, making sure they had food on the table. Three evenings a week Bridie did a few hours at a pub in the East End. Irene was barely nineteen, and before now had never even heard of women going into a pub, let alone working in one. She’d roar with laughter at some of the tales Bridie told her. Bridie could tell a good story, had good craic. Thursday nights she’d bring home fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, and a bottle of cider, Bridie’s treat. And the two friends would gorge themselves on the hot greasy food.
One night she was picking the last pieces of crispy batter off the paper when she realised she was looking at a copy of the Irish Times. What the hell was a Glasgow chippy doing with a copy of an Irish newspaper? And then she saw it. A picture of her dad. She struggled to read the words through the grease. ‘… died peacefully at home…’ She showed it to Bridie, who didn’t know what an obituary column was and couldn’t read, period. So Irene had to read it out to her.
‘Bloody hell, hen, you were dead posh.’
That was all that was said on the matter.
One Thursday night she waited for Bridie, but she didn’t come home. She fell asleep, alone in the granny’s bed. When, come the morning, there was still no sign of Bridie, she went out to look for her.
No one had heard of a pub called The Sorry Head. Eventually a guy twigged. He was unloading fish packed in huge blocks of ice from the back of a truck. ‘Oh, the Sarry Heid?’ Even with his directions it took her another twenty minutes to find it. And only when she read the sign above the door did she realise it was actually called The Saracen’s Head. But the doors were locked tight. It was still early.
No one paid her the slightest bit of attention as she asked if anyone had seen her friend. People ignored her pleas as they rushed past to join a small crowd that had gathered further up the street. She could see the tops of policemen’s hats above the sea of heads. Women huddled together, pulling their shawls tight around them, arms folded. Some blessed themselves. Grown men took off their caps and shook their heads. Irene squeezed her way through just in time to see them lift Bridie Flanagan’s body into an ambulance. It didn’t bother sounding its bell.
She’d been strangled with her own knickers, the policeman said. One of the hazards of being on the game.
There had to be some mistake, Irene told them. Bridie had been a barmaid, she’d worked in the Sarry Heid, they could ask anyone.
The pub’s owner eventually admitted that she had worked there a few times a week. But it hadn’t been behind the bar.
They never did find out who killed her.
Once again, Irene was alone.
Then and only then did she contact her mum. A letter. A few lines. She didn’t say she was sorry her father had died. Didn’t mention him at all.
Her mum wrote back. Did she need anything? Money?
Irene was freezing to death in a damp flat in the Gorbals. Her only two friends in the world were dead. Of course there were things she needed. She didn’t say that though. Said she was fine. And she would be. Eventually.
And that was how it was. The odd letter, sometimes a Christmas card with a few pounds inside. No mention of little Isaac, no questions about baby Patricia. Nothing. It was as though they’d never even existed. And Irene was never invited back home.
Some days she would walk up Maryhill Road and stop at Lochbridge House, which by then was empty and abandoned. She’d say a prayer over wee Patricia’s grave, unmarked and long since overgrown with weeds. Even when the building itself was razed – even when the land was sold on and bright new flats were built and the memory of Lochbridge House was forgotten to most – she still took a walk past and said a silent prayer for her baby daughter who had lived and died that night so long ago.
And the years passed. It was an ordinary enough life. No one paid her too much attention. Only one time was she bothered. Three boys they were. Outside St George’s Cross underground. Thought they were men. One held a knife. ‘Gees’ yer bag. Haun it over ya old bitch,’ one spat out in his nasal whine. Irene looked around. The place was deserted. She rolled the sleeve up slightly on her raincoat, and stubbed her cigarette into the flesh on her forearm. She closed her eyes tight, and offered them a wide smile, with her teeth tightly clenched. When she opened her eyes, the boys were running up Great Western Road. The knife was at her feet, dropped in the panic. ‘Fucking psycho,’ they shouted after her. ‘Mad fucking bitch.’ Whatever else they yelled was drowned out by the noise of the underground train thundering into the station. She kicked the knife into the kerb before walking down the stairs to get the subway home.
On what would have been baby Patricia’s thirty-sixth birthday a telegram arrived. Irene’s mum was dead. She decided to go to the funeral.
It was the first time she’d been in Ireland since the age of fifteen. No one gave her a second glance as she stood and watched the coffin as it was lowered into the grave. No one recognised her as she mingled with the other mourners. No one saw her spit on her Father’s name engraved on their joint headstone.
She felt like a stranger going through her mum’s things. The housekeeper helped. All the important documents were in one box. Her will, title deeds for the house, insurance policies. And a letter for Irene. It had been written six months p
reviously. Her mum must have known the end was near. But she’d had a good innings. Better than most.
Her mum’s spidery scrawl filled four pages. Four pages of sorrow, begging for forgiveness, pleading for her to understand. Irene didn’t. She scanned her eyes along the words. All pretty predictable stuff really. But what was on the fourth page made Irene’s legs buckle from under her, and turned her bowels to water. Her hand shook uncontrollably as she sat on the bed. The words swam in front of her. Baby Isaac had not been sent to America as she’d been told. Her son had been adopted by her mother’s cousin and his wife, in Edinburgh. Names, dates, addresses, all were there in black and white. ‘The past belongs in the past, Irene,’ was how her mother finished before signing off.
Irene pulled the rest of the papers out of the box. Tore at them, scattering them over the floor. The photographs were at the bottom. She knew they would be. Hundreds of them. The baby picture was the easiest to recognise. His tiny little face. Just as she’d remembered him from almost forty years earlier. As she laid the photographs out on the floor, her son’s life unfolded before her. A gorgeous wee babby, a fine looking boy, growing into a handsome man. And the cruellest picture of all: her own mother holding Isaac’s hand as he stood proud in his school uniform. All this time they’d kept in touch while Irene had rotted her life away. Only the first few letters had an Edinburgh address on the top. The family had moved to Glasgow in the early sixties.
There were no tears in Irene’s eyes when she called and ordered that the headstone be removed from her parents’ grave. ‘No,’ she insisted when the man on the other end of the phone tried to reason with her. ‘The grave is to be left unmarked. From first thing tomorrow.’ Her mind was made up.
The will held little surprises. What little money there was had been left to the Church. The house was Irene’s but she didn’t want it. Instead she gave it to the housekeeper. At first the woman refused. ‘Dear God,’ she said blessing herself over and over again. ‘I couldn’t own such a grand house as this.’ Her rosary beads clacked together in her apron pocket.
‘Please,’ Irene said, ‘you’d be doing me a great favour. It would break my heart to think of strangers living here,’ she lied. ‘I have my own house in Glasgow.’ She thought back to the grubby bed and breakfast off Hillhead, paid for by the DSS. ‘Please, as a favour to me?’ That seemed to sway her.
‘But your dear mother, God rest her soul,’ again more blessing herself, this time with her rosary beads in full view – ‘your poor mother’s left me very well provided for.’
It turned out that ‘very well provided for’ meant another job as a housekeeper. It had all been arranged. There was a position waiting for her in Glasgow. Housekeeper to a priest no less. Again the woman blessed herself. ‘A very good friend of your mother’s.’
‘Good friend of my mother’s?’ said Irene. ‘In Glasgow? Are you sure?’ This time Irene did weep. Hot wet tears stung her face as she listened to Mrs Brady tell her how Father Kennedy really was a Saint among men – of how he did such good works in the parish. And he never forgot Dr and Mrs Connolly. Always visiting when he was back in Galway. And indeed, they were always very generous and made sure they spent time with him when they visited relatives over in Scotland. Irene was sick to her stomach. Mrs Brady’s voice droned in the background as she waxed lyrical about the fine work Father Kennedy did for those less fortunate than himself. Irene guessed that covered just about everybody. When she went on to talk about how he gave food and shelter to the fallen women of the Magdalene, all with the help of her mother’s money, Irene excused herself and threw up.
Irene arrived back in Glasgow the same way she’d left it: penniless, without a friend in the world. The only thing she took was the letter she’d found in the box. She didn’t even take all of it. Just the last page, which told her where Baby Isaac was. And the photographs of course. All of them, chronicling her little boy’s life. Everything else, including her mother’s house she gave to Mrs Brady, who was moved to tears by her generosity and seemed more than a little relieved not to be making the tip to Glasgow after all. According to her Irene was a credit to her parents.
*
She had no plan of action as she walked up the path. Had no idea what she was going to say. She held her finger on the bell until he opened the door. The sickness rose in her stomach.
She recognised him immediately. Forty years had done nothing to wipe his face from her memory. He looked right through her, didn’t know her from Eve. He was wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.
‘Yes?’
She waited just a few seconds. Gave him the chance to place her. Nothing. She held out her hand, carefully pulling the worn cuff of her raincoat down over her wrist to conceal the cigarette burns on her arms.
‘Father Kennedy, I’m… I’m Mrs Brady. Mrs Connolly made arrangements for me to come?’
And that was how it had come to be.
Day after day she’d sit on the same park bench. Stealing at least a couple of hours in the hope she’d see her baby as he drove past. And occasionally she did see him. Her legs would ache from the cold sometimes. Purple hexagons formed on her shins. Her hands were often blue. Nothing she wasn’t used to. She got to know the regulars by sight. Joggers, walkers. Some with dogs. No one paid her much attention. Just the odd nod, a raised eyebrow. On the whole people were creatures of habit, and that’s what she banked on. He wasn’t such a creature though. Sometimes months would go by with nothing, not even a glimpse. Then she’d see him two, maybe three times in one week. Wednesdays were her best bet. She had Wednesday afternoons off, so could sit for hours on end, not having to worry about rushing back. She’d make a day of it, taking a flask of hot sweet tea and a few sandwiches wrapped in paper. She fed her crusts to the ducks. Hated crusts. Ever since she’d been a child. ‘They’ll give you curly hair,’ her mum had always said. ‘Eat up.’ Despite leaving them on her plate, her hair had still grown in masses of thick coarse curls that clung tightly to her head. Like the children of Africa, the nuns had said. Said she looked like a heathen. A curse, she thought. Wishing for soft waves like her sister’s.
46
Glasgow, 2000
Davies waited in the Cranworth’s house. He’d called for another officer to come, so that he wouldn’t have to join McVeigh in accompanying Jean Cranworth to the station. Now he had a chance to talk to Jack Cranworth. Off the record, of course.
Davies saw Cranworth wipe a tear from his eye and heard him sniff as the patrol car eased out of the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath its wheels. Cranworth watched from the window until his wife was out of sight.
‘Sit down,’ said Davies. He pointed to the settee opposite. Cranworth ignored the invitation and poured himself a large one. ‘Would you—?’ He held the decanter of whisky up. Davies shook his head. ‘Na. I’m fine just now.’
Jack stood in front of the fire. The scratches on his face were red and angry. A few drops of blood had stained the collar of his shirt.
‘Your wife work with you?’
‘Hardly!’
‘She doesn’t really seem like…’ Davies tried to choose his words carefully, ‘… a… a doctor’
‘Doctor! Don’t make me laugh. She carries out minor cosmetic procedures at a private clinic.’ Cranworth sat down. ‘The closest she’ll ever get to being a doctor is wearing a white coat!’
‘Does she get violent often?’
He touched his cheek. ‘No. No, it’s not like that. She’s not usually so… so passionate.’ He smiled a sarcastic smile and changed the subject. ‘Do you really believe she set me up?’
‘What, with the money and stuff? Well, I don’t know. That would mean she knew you were going to be in the church at that particular time.’ Davies tried to find a sign in Cranworth’s eyes. ‘Did she have any way of knowing you’d be there?’
The burning pain returned to Davies’ gut with a vengeance. He squeezed his eyes tight shut until the wave of agony subsided into a nagging heat
.
‘I can get you something for that.’ Jack left the room and returned a few moments later with a glass full of milky liquid. Davies eyed it with suspicion.
‘Here.’ He pushed it towards him, ‘I’m not about to poison you. I know better than to bump off a police man.’ His Kelvinside accent separated the words police and man.
Davies took the glass from him. ‘You wouldn’t be the first, you know.’ He downed the drink in one. The chalky draught immediately soothed his insides, creating comfort from chaos. He breathed in deeply through his nostrils, enjoying the freedom from pain. ‘My God, what was that? It’s bloody terrific.’
‘Nothing special,’ said Cranworth. ‘Available from all good doctors.’ Then he added, ‘Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you really do need to get that seen to. Before it turns sinister.’
Davies nodded. He was beginning to warm to Jack Cranworth. Maybe he wasn’t such a prick after all. But it didn’t change the need for his question. ‘Well, did she?’
‘What? Oh, know that I was going to be in St Patrick’s? I’ve no idea. I don’t think so.’
‘You never did explain why you were there.’ Davies sat forward, hunching over his legs, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘Look, these things have a habit of coming out in the wash. I know Antonio was a nasty wee shite. If he was blackmailing you, or your wife, then best to tell us about it now.’ He was out of practice with the softly-softly approach and hoped it didn’t sound too stage managed.
Cranworth ran his hands through his hair, and held his head. Davies said nothing. Just waited. As long as it took.
‘I got a cryptic phone call. I don’t know from whom. Just telling me to go to St Patrick’s. Told me to bring cash. Warned that Charlie Antonio could make life difficult if I didn’t pay up. That was the first time I’d heard of him. Had no idea who he was. Or that he’d—’ His eyes filled up.
The Lost Children Page 24