‘But his father was here last Tuesday, wasn’t he? Came to meet the auctioneer. So I heard,’ said the Reverend Mother.
‘That’s right. I saw the auctioneer’s car go up the road at about three o’clock in the afternoon. Mr Mulcahy would have been there to meet him. So you can bet a prayer on it that young Fred got well out of the way.’
The Reverend Mother thought about that last sentence. An empty house next door, and a back yard. Did Fred leave once his father arrived or did he lurk in the background, perhaps hoping for more conversation with his mother? She decided to change the subject.
‘Was that man, Mr McCarthy, I think Mrs Mulcahy called him, was he her husband’s partner?’
‘Partner, not a bit of it. Not to say anything evil of the dead, but Mr Mulcahy wouldn’t be a man for a partner. Liked his own way far too much, Reverend Mother, I can tell you that. No, they were both in the same way of business, of course, Richard McCarthy was a good twenty years younger. There was talk about him marrying one of the twins one time, but it didn’t come to anything. Not as far as I know, anyway. Terrible place for gossip, Shandon Street, you’d never credit it, Reverend Mother. People always want to know their neighbour’s business.’ The woman stopped beside a hardware shop and smiled up at the window above where a girl was holding up a baby. ‘Well, this is my place, Reverend Mother, you wouldn’t come in and have a sit down and rest your legs? A bit of a climb up the stairs, but then you could have a good sit down and a cup of tea, too.’
‘No, I wouldn’t, I must be getting back to school, but thank you for the offer.’
‘Well, you’re a great woman for your age! Imagine you walking all the way from Shandon to St Mary’s of the Isle. Half an hour it used to take her to go and visit you at the convent, Bridie would tell me, but then she’d always have a couple of babies in a pram and another couple stringing after her. Poor woman!’
Poor Bridie, indeed, thought the Reverend Mother as she walked away, noting with relief that the pavement was less steep as she neared Pope’s Quay. There was always a feeling of guilt in the back of her mind about Bridie. Should she have kept her? Could she have kept her? Could she have kept the baby a secret from the bishop? She had feared not. The chaplain, she had known, would have felt it his duty to remonstrate and if she ignored him, to take the matter straight to the bishop.
At least poor Bridie did not have to go to one of those Magdalen Laundries.
Many times during the last twenty years the Reverend Mother had wondered about the speed with which Bridie had found herself a live-in position with the Mulcahy family. The baby, apparently, was going to be no problem. The Reverend Mother had asked no questions, had not felt that she had any right to do so. She had contented herself with bestowing on the woman several sets of underwear, petticoats, a thick, warm shawl, an extra pair of good leather shoes, old sheets and even a couple of newish ones, and a promise that she would always be there if Bridie needed any help for herself or for her baby.
But the baby did not live. The poor little thing was born dead.
And was buried in the cillín at the top of Shandon hill, within the walls of the ancient dún.
NINE
St Thomas Aquinas
‘Ordina, Deus meus, statum meum et quod a me requiris, ut faciam, tribue ut sciam; et da exsequi sicut oportet et expedit animae meae.’
(Oh my God, order my life, and grant that I may know what Thou wilt have me to do; and grant that I may fulfil it as is fitting and profitable to my soul.)
It was after six o’clock in the evening when Susan Mulcahy arrived at the convent. There had been no one to answer the doorbell when she arrived so she had very sensibly gone to the chapel where the Benediction hymns and solemn notes of the organ rose through the foggy air. She had slipped, unnoticed, into a back seat in a dim corner by the confessional stall and had stayed there while the nuns filed out for their evening supper and recreation time.
The Reverend Mother had delayed for a while to talk to the elderly chaplain. Long experience had taught her that he worried about little matters and if not given a regular opportunity to ventilate them, then he would come and disturb her in the middle of some task and, what between remarks on the weather, apologies for interrupting her and comments on the latest missive from the bishop, he would manage to take up a considerable portion of her valuable time. A quick word every morning and evening worked out to be an efficient arrangement and she did not grudge those few minutes from her busy day.
Nevertheless, she was quite distracted that evening. Who on earth was sitting there at the back of the church, waiting so quietly. Surely it was Susan Mulcahy. The Reverend Mother’s heart sank as she nodded and smiled at some story about the Holy Father in Rome. A plain girl, nineteen years old, may well have decided that boys were not interested in her and now, in the grip of sorrow, mourning a father’s violent death, and perhaps feeling guilt that she had not loved him … It was a familiar scenario and one that she would have to discourage as forcefully as possible.
‘You must go to Rome one day, Father,’ she said, interrupting the tale. ‘Why not? It would be a wonderful experience. Of course, we would miss you, but I’m sure that you would find someone suitable to take your place while you were absent. Think of the wonderful tales that you would have to tell the children when you returned!’ She beamed on him, wished him a pleasant evening and walked briskly down the middle aisle of the chapel.
‘Ah, Susan, how kind of you to call to see me. Come into my room, will you?’ She betrayed no surprise, but adopted a business-like tone which, she hoped, would make the subsequent conversation shorter and more fruitful.
The girl followed her in silence as she ushered her into her room. She lacked the good looks of her brothers, took more after the father. The faithful Sister Bernadette had made sure to put the Reverend Mother’s supper tray all ready by the fire and the Reverend Mother took up the teapot with an inquiring look.
‘No, thank you, Reverend Mother,’ said Susan. ‘I’ve done nothing but drink tea all day long and I’m sick of the stuff.’
Her voice and her manner were assured and matter-of-fact and the Reverend Mother sat down with a feeling of thankfulness. At least she hadn’t burst into tears. That was often the first step in declaring a vocation, or a revelation sent from Mary, Mother of God, herself.
‘Take this chair, Susan, it’s relatively comfortable. Now tell me what I can do for you.’
‘I came for a bit of advice, really, Reverend Mother. It was Bridie that suggested it. I was wondering who I could talk to and she suggested you. I hope you don’t mind me coming so late, but the burial is tomorrow and there’ll be a lot to do during the next few days. I’m afraid that if I leave this business, I might be pushed aside.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best to advise you,’ said the Reverend Mother cautiously.
‘I want to go to university,’ said Susan abruptly. ‘I could do it, you know. I’ve gone on studying after my father made me leave school. I’ve used Fred’s old books and I know that I could pass the matriculation examination as easy as anything. John, my brother John, he’s helped me a bit. My father was happy for the boys to matriculate. He liked that, but he wouldn’t hear of me doing that. Sally and I had to leave school to help our mother to look after the younger children. I do know that I could pass the examination, Reverend Mother. I have studied Latin until I was blue in the face. I could easily do Fred’s Leaving Certificate paper. I’ve a very good memory and I loved translating Latin into English, it was just like working out puzzles. And I can do trigonometry and everything and once when John had a terrible headache I did an essay for him and he copied it out and gave it in and Father Duffy marked it as A+. Sent him down to the headmaster to show it.’ There was a great note of pride in the girl’s voice and the Reverend Mother smiled at her.
‘So what would you wish to study at university, Susan?’
‘I want to be a doctor. I’ve wanted it all of my life, as far back as I can rem
ember. My father wouldn’t hear of it, of course. All I was good for was saving him the price of a girl to look after the children. I didn’t matter. I’ve never mattered.’ The girl’s voice was harsh and the Reverend Mother decided not to speak. Allow her to get the suppressed bitterness out of her system.
‘And now he’s dead and I can do what I like,’ said Susan. There was a note of triumph in her voice and the Reverend Mother felt uncomfortable. Still she said nothing and now Susan appeared to notice her silence.
‘You probably don’t believe that I can study medicine, but I can,’ she said passionately. ‘I bought a book once from a second-hand bookshop down on Lavitt’s Quay. I read it in bed at night. I know most of it off by heart. Some student sold it off, look at it. She fumbled in a shabby handbag and produced a dog-eared book with a large tea stain across its cover. Anatomy for First Year Students was the name on the cover. The Reverend Mother took the book and leafed through it slowly, not wanting, in any way, to denigrate the achievement of this poor girl and also to give herself time to think.
‘I can get my mother to do anything I want. She’s no bother. But it’s that man, Reverend Mother. You saw him, didn’t you, when you came to our house this morning. Richard McCarthy. Standing there like a black crow, pretending to be in deep mourning. He says that he is the executor. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t trust him. Ever since Fred left, he’s had great influence over my father. He’s the one that persuaded him to set up a yard on the Shandon hill, he and that auctioneer between them. My father had been going to keep one house, keep it as an office and a business place and keep the yard behind, also. But then he changed his mind. Mr McCarthy has his own place near there so he persuaded my father to buy that land, the cillín, from the bishop and upset poor Bridie and my mother too.’
‘Your mother.’ The Reverend Mother did not insert a questioning note into the words. They sounded, she knew, as a mere echo, but they kept the door open for more revelations if Susan wished to make them. After a moment, the girl spoke again, a monosyllabic answer.
‘Yes.’
The Reverend Mother waited. And after a few moments’ silence the girl twisted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘I helped her. I was only fifteen. I had just been taken away from school. I didn’t even know that she was expecting again. We were never told anything. She was lying on the bed, crying with a pain and then there was a lot of blood and … and he came out and it was a little boy, tiny, a tiny little boy. I can’t help crying when I think about him and how small he was, tiny little feet. I was all on my own but she, my mother, kept telling me what to do, kept saying not to tell anyone, to get some old sheets, to get a bucket. She kept telling me things, making me do things and then Bridie came back and looked after her.’
‘And the baby?’ The Reverend Mother edged open the drawer in front of her, where she kept a clean handkerchief, but the girl was tearless.
‘Bridie put him in a box, a shoe box. I took him away with me, into my room and I tried to warm him in my arms, but he was getting colder and colder. I knew, really, that it was no good. There was a mug of water there and I sprinkled some on his little head and I said, “I baptize you, Joseph, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost”. I knew that the priest wouldn’t do it, so I did it. And you’re the only one I’ve told. I suppose it was a sin, but I don’t care.’
‘Christ, himself, said that the greatest sin is the sin against charity.’ Not something that was always remembered by those who purported to speak in his name. The Reverend Mother sometimes wondered what Christ would have thought of the Church’s rigid rule against baptism of a dead baby and against the burial of an unbaptized child in consecrated ground, but she added nothing to her comment. Let the girl finish her tragic little story.
‘And that night Bridie and I went up to the cillín, Fred came with us and we buried the baby under one of the sally trees. They’re all cut down, now. My father had them cut down when his shed was built.’ There was another few moments of silence after she said that and then Susan seemed to shake herself as though pushing away the memories.
‘You see the thing is, Reverend Mother, my father was a rich man. He’s been making a lot of money, hand over fist. The war was good for him. He sold a lot of leather to the British army, for boots and belts, that sort of thing and wool too. I’ve helped with the books and I know how much has been coming in. And now lots of English firms trade with him. He ships stuff over to Bradford every few weeks. I’ve been sent down to the bank with a couple of hundred pounds stuffed into this handbag here. And then there’s been the sale of those two houses, the second one should be sold soon if Mr Hayes stirs himself.’
‘But, of course, the house in Montenotte …’
‘That’s been paid for. It’s been bought and paid for. He’s been putting money aside for years for that. Never even put it in the bank, kept it in a safe here and every time that he did a good deal, the extra cash went into that safe. It’s been his dream since I was about thirteen or fourteen years old. He wanted to live in Montenotte, there side by side with the best of them. He used to say that. No, there’s plenty of money now and I want to go to university. I’m tired of being a skivvy. Any fourteen-year-old from an orphanage could do as well as I could.’
‘What does your mother say?’
‘She says to ask Mr McCarthy. He’s got the will. He says he’s an executor.’
‘And did you?’
‘No.’ There was a pause for a moment. ‘I know that it would be useless. I know what he wants. He wants to marry me. It was a stupid idea that my father got into his head. They talked it over, the two of them, agreed a price, I suppose. And then my father called me into his office one day a few months ago and told me what had been settled.’
The Reverend Mother suppressed a smile. ‘What did you say?’
She shrugged. ‘I said no. He blustered a bit.’
‘Not too angry.’ The scene between Fred and his father came to her mind, but Susan shook her head.
‘I just told him, “No, not in a hundred years” and he just shrugged his shoulders.’
It sounded rather too simplistic, but the Reverend Mother allowed the statement to pass.
‘What about Sally? Was the offer passed on to her?’ This Mr McCarthy would have been more interested in the business link than in the girl. She thought back to that man with the heavy jaw and the bold, bright blue eyes.
‘My father probably had other notions for her. Sally is much prettier than I am. And not so awkward,’ she added defiantly.
The Reverend Mother studied the very white face in front of her; every single blemish was standing out. The girl looked at the end of her resources. Without asking, she poured a cup of tea, added milk and put a small slice of cake on a plate. This time Susan made no protest, but obediently nibbled and swallowed.
‘That’s done me good,’ she said when she had finished. ‘I’m making a mess of this explaining, didn’t mean to talk about the baby … Well, Mr O’Sullivan, the solicitor and Mr McCarthy, Mr Richard McCarthy, the pair of them are hand in glove, well, they say that everything is left to my mother, but that there isn’t much to spare and he’d advise her to keep on the house in Shandon, sell the business to him and sell the house in Montenotte. He says that if she doesn’t do that, she’ll have nothing to live on and that will be that. And as for there being money for me to go to university, well, he says that is nonsense.
‘And what do you say, Susan?’
‘Well, I say that he’s the one that’s talking nonsense when he advised her to sell the business. My mother is only forty-two years old. She could live another forty years. Is she going to be living on money from the bank all of these years? What if something happens to money, happens to the bank, it wouldn’t be the first time. No, she should keep the business. It’s a good one and she knows it inside out. Hire another man, but she could give the orders. And then there are all the boys growing up. John is like Fred, he’s a scholar and he should
have his chance, but Robert is seventeen now and he wants to leave school. He’s clever enough and he has a good head for figures. But he likes to be doing things. And he’s like us all, he knows what needs to be done. There’s none of us that don’t know how to run that business. And if Mr McCarthy wants to be helpful, he could put in the word of advice from time to time instead of trying to persuade my mother to sell him a business that’s worth three times his own. He’s just trying to turn my father’s death to his own advantage, Reverend Mother.’
‘I see,’ said the Reverend Mother, looking at the resolute face in front of her and thinking of the frightened nervous face of the mother. ‘I suppose that you wouldn’t want to run the business, yourself, Susan, would you? Perhaps you and Robert between you.’
Susan shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t, not that I couldn’t if I put my mind to it, but I want to start on my medical studies. It’s a six-year course and I’m getting on now. I’m nineteen years old.’
‘Have you seen your father’s will?’
Susan shook her head, again.
‘Do you know the name of the solicitor? You mentioned it, didn’t you? What was his name?’
‘He’s a man on Pope’s Quay. His name is O’Sullivan.’
A Gruesome Discovery Page 10