by Paula Martin
She turned when the door opened and Liz came into the lounge. She'd been slightly in awe of the tall, blonde girl when she first arrived at Mist Na Mara, but although Liz gave the impression of being glamorous and sophisticated, she was as friendly as the rest of the staff.
"Hey, Kara, you all on your own? Want to come to the cinema with us this afternoon?"
"Thanks, but no." Kara decided to be honest with her. "Actually I have a lunch date, and I thought I'd wait here until I saw his car, so I can run out, and save him from getting soaked."
Liz laughed. "Yeah, when it rains in Ireland, it pours. And you have a lunch date? Am I allowed to ask who 'he' is?"
Aware of her burning cheeks, Kara nodded. "Ryan Brady." When Liz narrowed her eyes, obviously not recognising the name, she went on, "He's the taxi driver who's taken us into Clifden a few times."
"Oh, yes, I remember. Blue eyes, dark hair, beard, rather good-looking, too." Liz gave her a mischievous grin. "How do you know him well enough to go for lunch with him?"
"He – erm – he drove me back from Galway a couple of weeks ago."
"You paid the taxi fare from Galway?"
"No, I met him by chance, and he offered me a lift home. He wouldn't even accept anything for the petrol."
"Good for him. Sounds like he's keen if he invites you for lunch."
Kara's cheeks burned even hotter. "We're just friends."
"Okay, if you say so." Liz glanced through the window. "A blue car has turned in at the gate. My boyfriend has a white van, so this one could be yours."
Kara waited a couple of seconds until the car reappeared around the bend in the driveway leading up to the house. "Yes, this is him." She grabbed her shoulder bag from the chair, and pulled up the hood of her waterproof jacket. "See you later, Liz."
She sprinted across the hallway to the front door, and waited until Ryan stopped the car near the house and leant over to open the door for her.
"Thanks," she said, as she slid into the passenger seat, pushed back her hood, and wiped the rain from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I'm so glad I didn't suggest meeting in Clifden. I'd be drenched before I even got to the gate."
"Aye, it's lashing down today all right."
"And windy, too."
"We call it a bit o' a breeze here."
"And what do you call a force ten gale?"
"A fierce breeze."
She laughed. "Okay, I'll remember that."
When they reached Clifden, he drove through the town to the N59, and she looked at him. "Where are we going?"
"Lough View. It overlooks Skelleen Lough, and in good weather there's a grand view across the water. Not that we'll be able to see much today, but I don't think you'll mind too much, because I have some interesting news for you."
Kara caught her breath. "You've seen the certificates?"
"I have, and it seems Declan may have found your mother. Mary O'Brien was born at Ballykane on April 2nd, 1959."
Chapter 7
Kara stared open-mouthed at Ryan. "You're kidding me!"
"Not at all. Declan sent me the certificates last night, and I had a quick look at them. Mary O'Brien's birthdate is the right one, isn't it?"
"Yes, but somehow I didn't expect—" She blew out her cheeks as she tried to collect her thoughts. "To be honest, I think I'd convinced myself that none of the dates would match, perhaps because the nuns didn't register her birth or she wasn't registered in Ballykane, or for some other reason, but this is awesome. Can you remember anything else on the certificate?"
"I've brought my tablet so I can show you when we get to the restaurant, but yes, the mother's name is Bernadette O'Brien, father's name and occupation listed as unknown, and the informant was the Reverend Mother."
Kara pressed her hand to her stomach as the implication of Ryan's words sank in. "Does that mean she didn't know who the father was?"
"Not necessarily. She could have refused to name him for a variety of reasons."
"Such as?"
"He may have been a relative – a cousin or uncle or even a brother – or he was married, or she was reluctant to bring shame on him or his family for fathering a child outside of marriage."
"She could also have been a prostitute, of course. That's a fraught topic in itself, but two other questions are going around in my mind. Is there any way of finding out if Mary O'Brien was adopted? And how do I even start to discover what happened to Bernadette?"
"O'Brien is a very common name in County Galway but there are O'Briens all over Ireland, so Bernadette's family could have come from anywhere."
"Josie said the Ballykane home took in girls from Galway and Clare, as well as Tipperary."
"Is that right? So maybe we concentrate on the O'Brien families in those counties."
Kara tried not to show any reaction to the way he said we, despite the spark of pleasure that ignited her nerve endings. "It would be easier if she had a more unusual first name and surname, of course."
"You're right, but Declan's given me a couple of websites, and he said he'll have a search for her, too."
"Is family history his hobby, or is he a professional genealogist?"
"He does a lot of research as part of his job, so he knows the best places to find information. Anyway, here we are. I'll let you out here so you don't get too wet, and then I'll find a space to park."
He pulled up near the door, and Kara ran into the lobby. Ryan joined her a few minutes later, shaking the rain from his hair and pushing it back with his hand. "It's a wonder we don't turn rusty with all the rain here."
"But without it, you wouldn't have those forty shades of green."
"Aye, that's true." He led the way into the lounge bar, and gave his name to the girl standing at the small desk near the entrance to the restaurant. "I called this morning to make a reservation."
"Yes, your table's ready, Mr. Brady. May I take your coats?"
After she'd hung their wet jackets on hangers, the girl escorted them to a table next to a window overlooking the lough.
Kara gazed through the rain-spattered window. Everything apart from the stretch of water closest to the restaurant was blotted out by the relentless rain, grey mist, and low cloud.
Ryan grinned as he handed the menu to her. "You'll have to imagine the view of the hills on the far side."
"I'm sure it's beautiful in fair weather, but the mist gives everything a kind of ethereal quality. I can understand why the Irish have so many myths and legends about giants and fairies – and the little people, of course."
"And do you know what colour jackets the little people wear?"
"Green?"
He shook his head. "No, that's the modern version, probably invented by Hollywood. The traditional leprechauns wear red jackets, and here in the west, because of all the rain, they wear frieze overcoats over them."
"What's a frieze overcoat?"
"It's a coarse, woollen fabric with a raised nap on one side. Good for keeping out the wind and rain."
"Have you always been a taxi driver?"
His eyes widened. "Whoa, that's a quantum leap from the little people. Why do you ask?"
Embarrassed that she hadn't thought first before asking her impulsive question, she gave him a sheepish grin. "Sorry, but you're knowledgeable about so many different things, you could be a tour guide, or even a teacher."
"I'll take that as a compliment." He gave a quick laugh and went on, "I read a lot, and I enjoy finding out about Irish history. Anyhow, have you decided what you want to eat?"
As she studied the menu, an uncomfortable sensation tightened her stomach muscles. She wasn't sure why, except Ryan hadn't answered her question about being a taxi driver.
His voice broke into her thoughts. "Spoilt for choice, are you?"
She dragged her concentration back to the menu and nodded. "Yes, but I think I'll try the Connemara crab claws, and then the Atlantic seafood crepe."
"I'm going for the crepe, too, but I'll have the Skelleen m
ussels for starters."
After he gave their order to the server, Kara glanced down at his tablet in its leather sleeve. "May I look at the certificate while we're waiting for our starters?"
"Aye, of course."
He switched on the tablet and swiped the screen a few times before handing it to her. She stared down at the scanned copy of the certificate. Her mother's birth certificate. Mary O'Brien.
"It's such an Irish-sounding name compared with her adoptive name," she said.
"Remind me of her name."
"Linda Jane Howard – and I forgot to show you this when we were at Ballykane. It's the earliest photo I have of her." She scrolled through the photos on her phone. "Here you are. On the back of the original photo, someone has written, Linda Jane, May, 1960, aged 13 months. It was taken on the porch at my grandparents' house."
Ryan looked down at the phone. "She looks very serious, doesn't she? What's she holding?" He enlarged the black and white photo. "Is it a teddy bear?"
"I think it's a knitted rabbit. She's holding one ear, and it looks like the other ear has been chewed. I can't help wondering if her birth mother knitted it for her."
"Or it was the first gift from her new parents."
"If you scroll down, there are more photos of her."
She leant across the table and commented on some of the photos. "That was her first day at school, and I think that was her first bike, and that's her school Prom." She giggled. "Look at all the frills on her dress. No one would wear anything like that these days. It's hideous."
"Is that your dad with her?"
"No, he must have been a high school boyfriend. She didn't meet my dad until they were both at Notre Dame. I think the next photo is her graduation picture."
Ryan studied the photo. "You're very like her, you know. Same shape of face, and same colouring."
"Everyone says that." She took the phone from him. "There are several more photos of her and Dad with my brother and me when we were kids."
"Am I not allowed to see those?"
She chuckled. "No way. Too embarrassing. One of me making a silly face, and another with short pigtails that stuck out like this."
As she demonstrated with her hands, he laughed. "One day I'll sneak your phone from you, and take a look."
His words one day sent another shimmer of pleasure through her, but she went on quickly, "I made a folder of prints of all these photos, in case I managed to find her mother. I thought she might like to see her daughter growing up but—" She blew out a small sigh. "I think I assumed all I had to do was discover her name, and the rest would be easy, but this is only the start of the search, isn't it?"
The server brought their starters, and she concentrated on cracking the crab claws and dipping the meat in melted butter. "Mmm, these are delicious. Very tender, and sweeter than the crab we get back home."
"Bet these mussels taste different, too, from what you're used to. Want to try one?"
She nodded, expecting him to pass one of the shells to her. Instead, he grinned. "Open your mouth."
She did so, and there was something oddly sensual about him holding the shell against her lower lip so the mussel slipped into her mouth. Half-embarrassed by the flush that warmed her cheeks, she lowered her gaze as she enjoyed the succulent texture and taste. Only when she'd swallowed it did she look up again, and her heart missed a beat. He was watching her, his blue eyes a wondrous mixture of softness and intensity that caused her skin to prickle.
"Well?"
"Well what?" Confused for a moment, she hastily regrouped. "Oh, the mussel, you mean. Yes, it's good, very tasty. Would you like one of these claws?"
"Thanks." He laughed as he picked up one of the claws. "Next time we must ask for a sharing platter of everything on the starter menu."
Next time. That sounded good.
Once she finished the crab, she looked down at the tablet again. "Do you have the other birth certificates?"
"Yes. Scroll down and you'll find them."
Kara studied the two certificates. Patricia Madden, born May 10th, daughter of Theresa Madden, and Aileen Kelly, born June 3rd, daughter of Margaret Kelly. Both certificates had the father listed as unknown, and the Reverend Mother, Agnes Flaherty, was the informant.
"So all three babies were born at the Ballykane home. Would the others have been adopted, too?"
Ryan nodded. "Probably. Most were sent to good Catholic homes either here, or in America."
"I wonder if Patricia or Aileen have tried to find their mothers, or if the mothers have ever tried to trace what happened to their children?"
"I've heard the mothers were threatened with eternal damnation if they attempted to search for their children, or even if they breathed a word of their guilty secret to anyone."
Kara shook her head slowly. "It seems so wrong to use religion in that way."
"The nuns might claim they were protecting both the mothers and the children."
"Yes, Sister Gabriel said something about giving the mothers the opportunity to put their unfortunate experience behind them, so presumably she still thinks it was the right thing to do."
"Have you heard from her yet?"
"No, but I'm not expecting to, apart from a call saying she couldn't find anything, but there's something else I need to tell you." She hesitated for a moment. "When I talked to my mom last night, I was stunned and shocked by some of the things she said."
Briefly she told him about her mother's bitter references to the Irish woman who gave her away for adoption.
"I tried to tell her the women weren't given any choice, but she wouldn't listen, and said she didn't want to know anything more."
"I can understand that, in one sense. It can't be easy to accept that your mother may not have wanted you."
Kara frowned. "But the mothers were forced to sign that document, weren't they?"
"Your mother probably doesn't realise that, and, of course, some mothers may have signed willingly. They knew they couldn't support their children without a job or any family help, and honestly believed they were giving them a better future in America than they could ever give them here in Ireland."
"I never thought of that." Kara chewed her lower lip. "I wonder what happened to Bernadette O'Brien after she had her baby. Perhaps she had to work in one of those Magdalene laundries."
"Very likely, unless she managed to run away or some relative paid a huge fee to get her released. I read somewhere that the fee was a hundred Irish pounds, and that was at a time when the average weekly wage was about five pounds, so it's not surprising that most girls had to stay and work in the convents or laundries."
After their meal, they adjourned to the lounge bar for coffee, and Ryan opened his tablet again. "Declan suggested searching for Bernadette O'Brien's birth, marriage, or death on one of these websites. One's free, and he gave me his password for the other."
"Anything's worth a try, isn't it?"
He moved to sit beside her on the padded bench so she could see the screen. "Okay, here goes."
Once he found the search page on the family history website, he filled in the name, and glanced around at her. "Year of birth. What do you think?"
Kara struggled to ignore his arm brushing against hers, and especially his subtle, but very masculine, cologne. "Her daughter was born in 1959, but it all depends on whether she was over the age of consent at that time."
"Good point. Let's try 1940 plus or minus five years."
A couple of minutes later, they'd found twenty-two possible births between 1935 and 1945.
Kara sighed. "This is getting us nowhere."
"But if we delete all those who weren't born in Tipperary, Clare, or Galway, we're left with—" He went through the list, checking off the names. "Eight names."
"And how do we find out which of those had a baby at Ballykane in 1959?"
Ryan shook his head. "I don't know. Perhaps the Adoption Agency or the Sister will be able to tell you more about her."
"Ac
cording to Sister Mary Theresa, many of the records have been lost over the years."
"Or destroyed."
"That wouldn't surprise me. Their philosophy of protecting the mothers and their children might have laudable motives but, let's face it, Ryan, we're up against a wall of either careless record-keeping, or deliberate secrecy here."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I'm not sure. Thanks to your friend, I have what I assume is my mom's birth certificate, but I don't think it will be possible to find her mother."
* * * * *
Ryan heard the resignation in Kara's voice and put his hand gently on hers. "We're both novices at this kind of research, Kara, but I can ask Declan for his advice."
He couldn't tell her that Declan's Garda status allowed him access to far more records than were open to the public. If necessary, he'd use his own status to get whatever information he could from the General Register Office in Roscommon or from the National Archives in Dublin.
No distractions. The words echoed in his mind again, but surely even an undercover cop was allowed to take an interest in something other than the job. Especially when the job consisted mainly of five days a week tedious taxi-driving or sitting in the office waiting for the next call.