by Alison Walsh
She decided to phone Frances O’Brien this time. It wasn’t hard to find her number because she was on the town council, beaming out from the council website in her shiny Sarah Palin suit. Rosie didn’t want to arrive on her doorstep and be turned away.
Frances O’Brien answered in a kind of a trill, a telephone voice, and Rosie felt the oddest desire to laugh.
‘It’s Rosie O’Connor. Please don’t hang up,’ she said.
There was a long pause at the end of the line and Rosie had to say, ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m here.’ The telephone voice was gone.
‘Look, I need to ask you something. Can I come and see you?’
‘No!’ It was nearly a shout, then more softly, ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’
Rosie tutted with impatience. ‘Listen. My sisters have told me everything.’
There was another long pause before Frances said, ‘I’ll see you in the Moran Arms tomorrow at 12,’ and then the phone went dead.
‘Nice chatting to you too,’ Rosie muttered, pressing the red button on her mobile. Her hands were shaking.
I need to calm down, she told herself, deciding to take a cup of tea outside to the garden, the spring sun warming her face, and she sat on one of the brightly coloured chairs Pi had bought in the garden centre to put under the pergola. His garden was really taking shape now, the bright tulip buds pushing up through the soil, the fronds of the wild grasses blowing in the breeze. It looked lovely, and Rosie closed her eyes and listened to the rushes on the canal and felt her baby move inside her, a ripple of movement across her stomach, the shape of a foot or elbow pressing against her skin. She was going to be a mother now, too, a good one, she told herself. Even if she never found out another thing about herself, she knew that: that her son or daughter would be loved.
Frances O’Brien was sitting by the fire in the hotel in an electric blue suit, her hair sprayed into oblivion, those glasses on the chain around her neck. The expression on her face was forbidding, a tight granite mask, and when Rosie walked across the lobby towards her, her expression remained hostile. And then she saw Rosie’s bump and her expression changed. It softened, and she gave a smile which made her look twenty years younger, a glimpse of the girl she’d once been on those hard features.
Frances O’Brien stood up, put a hand on Rosie’s arm briefly, before taking it away. ‘I had no idea … congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’ Rosie didn’t say anything further, just sat on one of the comfy velvet armchairs, sinking into it, her bump pushing her down into the squashy centre of the chair.
‘Tea?’ Frances O’Brien was saying, waving the menu at Rosie, her glasses now perched on her nose. ‘They have herbal tea, if you prefer it.’
Rosie wrinkled her nose. ‘No thanks,’ and Frances O’Brien gave a small laugh. ‘I don’t blame you. Awful stuff.’
‘You don’t like it either?’ Rosie asked.
Frances shook her head. ‘Builder’s tea is the only one for me.’ Then, as if this amounted to some kind of admission, she rearranged her glasses on her bosom and folded her hands on her knee. ‘You wanted to see me.’ Her tone was businesslike and Rosie felt a stab of irritation.
‘I’ve been having antenatal appointments and the midwife wanted to know whether there was any family history of low blood pressure.’
Frances O’Brien put a hand to her throat, and when she spoke it was barely a whisper. ‘Oh.’
‘I’m sorry to ask, it’s just …’
‘No, no, it’s fine … ehm …’ Her eyes filled with tears and she began to rummage in her handbag, producing a packet of tissues, from which she extracted one, blowing her nose. ‘I do suffer from low blood pressure, that’s true.’
‘Right.’ If Rosie had been expecting some admission, some emotional outpouring, it suddenly dawned on her that there would be neither, that she was wasting her time: whatever she’d wanted from her mother, whatever she’d been expecting, something she’d been unable to put into words, would not be forthcoming.
‘I’m not sure really if I can help you any further …’ Frances O’Brien said.
Rosie shunted forward in the seat, putting a hand out on either side to push herself up to a standing position. ‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘You’ve told me what I need to know. Thank you for meeting me.’
Frances O’Brien made no move to help Rosie, and she had to turn herself sideways to lever herself up. ‘Don’t get up,’ she said pointedly. She turned and walked towards the door.
‘Wait.’ Frances O’Brien’s voice was suddenly loud, compelling Rosie to turn around. ‘Wait,’ she said more softly. She walked towards Rosie. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give you what you need, Rosie,’ she began.
‘I don’t need anything,’ Rosie said, thinking as she said the words that they were true. She had what she needed, even if, until now, she hadn’t realised it. She had a family who loved her, even if none of them was speaking to each other and she wasn’t speaking to them, Pi excluded. She knew that and that everything they’d done for her had been out of love. They had a funny way of showing it, but it was still love. This woman, her mother, was just a stranger.
‘I told you. I just wanted to ask you a question for the midwife. That’s all. And if it’s all the same to you, I need to get on,’ she said briskly, about to turn on her heel.
‘Your mother was a remarkable woman, Rosie, did you know that?’ Frances’s expression was wistful, and she twisted the chain of her glasses in her hand. ‘Extraordinary. There was no way in the world I could have offered … a baby anything like what she could give. I just didn’t have it in me, that strength. And I never wanted a baby. I just wanted love. That was all.’
‘Well, thank you for clearing that up,’ Rosie said blankly.
‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, it hadn’t been in my plans. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I just saw what you had, your family and, well … I wanted some of it for myself. I never really had it growing up,’ Frances said sadly. And she gave Rosie a look as if to say, ‘Is that really so bad?’
When Rosie didn’t reply, Frances continued, ‘And then I had no one to support me when it did happen. I was all alone. My family had disowned me and I had to go to the nuns and it was just awful, an awful place.’
And you want me to feel sorry for you, Rosie thought, remaining perfectly still. I’m not sure I really can. I don’t think I have it in me.
Frances’s voice was almost a whisper now. ‘They wanted to take you away when you were born. That’s what happened in those days: they took babies away and they sold them to rich people in America. But your mother … she said no, that she’d take you, so you see she really saved you. If it wasn’t for her, neither of us would be here.’ She allowed the words to hang in the air for a while. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I really am.’ The woman was trembling now, all vestiges of Sarah Palin gone. Her mascara had smudged and there were silver tear marks in her foundation.
‘You don’t need to apologise,’ Rosie said, trying to picture Frances O’Brien in her mind; what it must have been like to have no one to turn to, not one single person, how frightened she must have been. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to understand, because then she wouldn’t be able to hang onto this righteous anger she felt. And then she thought of Mark and she wondered if history was repeating itself. If she would be telling her son or daughter about him in a few years’ time, trying to explain why she’d made the choices she had, expecting them to understand why she’d deprived them of a father. Would her son or daughter feel the same way she did, that she’d never really known who she was? And then she thought, but I do know who I am now. The mystery is over. And it hasn’t really changed a thing.
June 1983
Michelle
I have to hold Rosie’s hand really tightly because there are so many people milling about. I’m scared that I’ll lose her or that she’ll get taken by some stranger: you hear about that kind of thing all the ti
me. Her hand is warm in my own, warm and damp, and when I look down at her, her little face is red beneath her bonnet and coat. It’s too hot in Dublin for both of them, but it was still chilly when we set out, a damp mist on the canal, and I didn’t want her to catch a cold. She has asthma and the slightest chill makes her wheeze dreadfully.
My hands are shaking as I push the 50p into the slot, but when I look down, Rosie’s humming a tune to herself, happy in her own little world. I’ve promised her that if she’s very good, I’ll take her to the amusements in Bray. She hasn’t a clue what they are, but she can tell by my tone that they are something to get excited about. ‘The Musements’, she calls them. I’ve asked Maeve to meet me beside the waltzers. I feel like someone in a Le Carré novel, but I can’t risk John-Joe knowing where I am. God knows what he’d do.
I can see the phone ringing now in Prendergast’s. I’ve rung there because I know that’s where he’ll be. If the world was about to end, he’d nip in there for a quick one. Eoin Prendergast answers, a muffled roar in the background, and when I ask for John-Joe, he mutters something unintelligible into the phone and I can hear him yelling John-Joe’s name. There’s a long wait, and I panic when I hear the beep-beep of the phone telling me that my money is running out. I shove a handful of coins in just as I hear his voice.
John-Joe isn’t the beaten dog this time, slinking around the place, waiting for me to forgive him. His voice is loud, confident, the anger clear. ‘Where the fuck have you gone, Michelle?’
‘What do you care?’ I hiss.
‘I care because you have taken my child. I don’t give a tinker’s curse about you, but if you lay one finger on my child’s head, I swear to God—’
‘She’s safe,’ I say quickly. ‘I’d never harm her, you know that.’ There’s a long silence and I blurt, ‘She needs me, John-Joe. You don’t want her.’ And I need her too, I think. Without her, I have nothing. She’s the only thing I have left.
His voice is low now, a hiss into the phone. ‘For Christ’s sake, have you lost your fucking mind? It’s kidnapping. She’s not yours and it won’t be hard to prove, Michelle, I can assure you. Bring her home to me and I’ll say nothing more about it. But if you attempt to keep her, I won’t be responsible for my own actions.’
‘But I’m her mother—’ I begin, and then I stop, realising what I’ve said. There’s a long silence and for a moment I wonder if he’s there, and then he says, quietly, ‘Bring her home, Michelle. This is where she belongs.’
I haven’t lost my marbles completely. I know that she’s not mine, but I need to protect her. I need to make sure that she doesn’t suffer because of everything we’ve done. She is the innocent party here.
‘What about the kids?’ John-Joe is saying, a sly tone in his voice. ‘Are you going to abandon them too?’ He’s playing his trump card, but I’m not going to weaken, not now.
‘I have to go, John-Joe, but I’ll be back for them, they’re my children. They belong with me.’ And before he can say anything else, I put the phone down. And then I squeeze my daughter’s hand, my voice shaking, and I say, ‘Are you ready for the amusements?’
‘Musements,’ she squeals, jumping up and down on the spot.
‘That’s right, Rosie-boo. Musements.’
It never occurs to me to leave her, not until the very last moment, until Maeve has the ticket booked for Holyhead, the onwards train to London Euston. I know that we’ll arrive at the crack of dawn, that the station will be quiet and that the two of us will slip away, onto the Tube and under the streets of London. By this time tomorrow, I think, we’ll be far away from here, somewhere where John-Joe can’t find us.
We make our tea in silence, and we eat buttered bread and jam, the way we used to when we were teenagers, our feet up on the old range in her kitchen, and we listen to the six o’clock news, the two of us having used up all of our talk in the previous hours. I’d told her things I hadn’t told another living soul, not even Bridie. Maeve had just listened, her round face creasing in sympathy, and not once did she ask me if I thought I was doing the right thing. She just nodded and said that, whatever I wanted, she’d try her best to help me. What would I have done without Maeve?
The weather forecast is on, the man telling us both that a front is coming in from the Atlantic, when Maeve clears her throat. ‘Michelle, I need to ask you something.’
I look up at her, wary.
‘Are you serious about Rosie?’
‘What do you mean?’ The bread feels suddenly like rubber in my mouth. I try to swallow, but it won’t go down. I feel as if I’m going to choke, my eyes watering, and it’s all I can do not to spit it up into my napkin. Maeve is a great believer in napkins.
‘About taking her,’ Maeve says quietly.
I choke the bread down, taking a slurp of hot tea while I try to think. Eventually, I say, ‘Of course I am. How on earth could you think that I’d abandon my own chi—’ I don’t finish the word, and it hangs in the air between us. And then Maeve puts her hand on mine and gives it a squeeze and, for the first time since this whole thing happened, I allow myself to cry. And once I’ve started, I can’t stop. I howl and I roar for what seems like hours, even though it could only be a few moments, and Maeve pats my hair and says, ‘There there,’ and she just lets me cry. At that moment, I don’t think I could love anyone more than I do her.
Then she says, ‘Michelle, I’ve listened to your story and I haven’t said a word. I haven’t judged, because it’s not my place, and God knows, you don’t need it.’ She hesitates. ‘But your children need you. Don’t abandon them.’
I shake my head sadly. ‘I can’t be a mother to them anymore, at least, not the kind of mother they need. I’m so … useless to them, so … toxic. You see, I used to think that John-Joe was the problem, Maeve, but now I know it’s me. I just seem to poison everything around me. Don’t you see?’
‘Oh, love, that’s nonsense. You’re not thinking straight. It’s all the stress. You’re their mother. They only have you, can’t you see that?’
I nod silently, clutching my damp napkin. But I don’t see. Not at all. I can only see how they’d be able to breathe again without me. Without me, they’ll be free.
Maeve’s talking again now, a low murmur, and at first, I only half-hear her. ‘You need to leave Rosie here, Michelle.’
‘No!’ I yell, getting up so suddenly my teacup falls to the floor and rolls around, a thick puddle of hot tea steaming up from the carpet. Rosie lifts her head, her eyes wide with shock, but then her eyelids droop again and she’s asleep. ‘No,’ I say more softly. ‘That is not going to happen.’
Maeve shakes her head sadly, reaching out and dabbing at the tea with her napkin. She keeps her gaze on mine. ‘If you take her, John-Joe will come after you, you know he will, and so will the authorities. It’s kidnapping, Michelle, because she’s not your daughter,’ she says softly. ‘You understand that, don’t you, love?’
I think for a moment. I’m her mother. It says so on those pieces of paper, but I know that they are a lie. ‘I understand that, Maeve,’ I say bitterly. ‘Don’t you think I know? It’s just … she’s all I have,’ I wail. ‘Without her, I have nothing left.’
‘So go and find something,’ she says softly. ‘If that’s what you want. If the only thing you can do right now is go, go. For God’s sake, haven’t I helped you?’ she says ruefully. ‘But leave the baby. It’s the right thing to do, you know that. She belongs here, with her family.’
And suddenly, the final barrier between me and the world has fallen. Maeve was my only support, my only ally, and now she’s gone. The only way in the world I could have done this, picked Rosie up in my arms and taken her with me, was if Maeve was behind me, supporting me. But she’s not. And the reality is, I’m completely alone.
‘I’m not her family,’ I whisper, as if I have only just realised.
‘No. No, love, you’re not.’
Maeve asks Alan to drive me to the boat, with my single b
attered suitcase, because she says she just can’t bear to watch me go. We both know that we’ll never see each other again. And as she stands in the doorway, I remember the two of us on the steps of the church on Maeve’s wedding day, both our lives just beginning. When I told her that I was only going to Kildare, not to Timbuktu. I might as well, for all the distance between us since I left. And I feel sorrier about that than I can say. To wish I could rewind the years to that day and start again would be to wish my life and my children away, and I don’t want that. They are the only good thing to come out of this. Them and my darling Rosie. Maeve is standing there, waving, when Rosie appears behind her, her hair tousled from her nap, her eyes sleepy. For a moment, I weaken and turn to run to her, but I stop myself. No, Michelle, I tell myself firmly. No. Instead, I blow her a kiss and she catches it, the way I’ve taught her to, a puzzled look on her sleepy little face. Then I turn and go, and I don’t look back, not even once. If I look back, I know that I’ll stay. And if I stay, my life will be over.
18
June and Gerry were sitting on the end of India’s bed, waiting. India was curled into a ball on her pink duvet that Mary-Pat had bought her for Christmas when she was seven. She was facing the wall, her back towards them, her shoulders heaving with sobs. She hadn’t said a word when they’d both appeared at the door, just leaving it open and throwing herself onto the bed, a dramatic gesture which would have been worthy of her sister.
‘India, we need to talk to you, love,’ Gerry was saying and when there was no response he shot June a look over the top of his glasses. She made a face and shrugged to show that she was no wiser than he.
‘India, we can’t help you if you won’t talk to us,’ June tried.
‘Go away,’ India said, her back set, her voice thick with tears.
Without needing to speak, the two of them silently agreed to wait it out, sitting at the foot of their daughter’s bed just as they’d done when she was a child and they’d come back from some glamorous charity ball, and the girls would be waiting to hear every detail. Where had the years gone, June thought as she sat there, the spring sun streaming in through India’s bedroom window. How had her daughter grown up like that, before her very eyes? She’d always thought there was plenty of time: plenty of time to get around to playing with them or bring them to the beach, plenty of time to sit down in front of the TV with them and watch cartoons, plenty of time to play tennis with them in the back garden. Except it turned out that there wasn’t. Her time was almost up, and she’d wasted it. She wouldn’t get another chance at it, she understood. It was gone.