Chapter 3
She considered running around with the Hoover one more time but there was no need, the place was spotless. She looked around at the dated furniture and carpet, the décor picked out by Gretta. All Laura Ashley flowery cushions and pastel borders. It was probably lovely at the time, but now it looked awful. She would have loved to go up to Dublin and go into Hickey’s Fabrics and buy material and make curtains and covers for the couch. She was very good with a needle and thread and made most of her own clothes in Trinity House from other people’s hand-me-downs. The nuns said she had a gift for needlework.
Not that the interior design of the house mattered really, she supposed. Nobody ever saw it except Bill, Julia and the girls. She had tried to make a few friends in Birr at the start, joining a book club and the church flower committee, but Bill didn’t encourage it.
‘I don’t want the whole parish traipsing through here, nosing at what I’ve got.’ He decreed, giving her that disappointed look again, at the stupidity of someone even suggesting such a thing.
She learned from Julia that Gretta used to do the church flowers as well, she was gifted at arranging apparently, so Carmel bowed out, not wanting to look like she was trying to replace Saint Gretta. Soon after she stopped attending the book club because the deal was the members had to take turns to host it. Bill would have had a fit if she had anyone in to sit around drinking tea and talking about books. So, nobody dropped in except Julia.
She checked the clock again. Bill was meeting somebody from the Irish Farming Association today to discuss compensation for the flooded fields of last winter, so he wouldn’t be needing his dinner at one like he usually did. She had until at least six before he’d be home.
She took the page furtively out of her apron pocket though she was alone. It was getting worn on the creases she had read it so often, but it was like a drug to her, like that bar of chocolate in the fridge calling you. Once you knew it was there, resistance was impossible, no matter how hard you tried. She had printed out the Facebook message she had received on Bill’s printer which he used for farm business. The terror of logging into her Facebook account on his computer, then using his printer, had nearly given her a heart attack. She slipped the single sheet out of its envelope and sat down on the kitchen chair. Carefully she read it again, though by now the words were etched on her mind.
Dear Mrs. Sheehan,
I hope this message finds you well. I also hope it doesn’t come as too much of a shock to you. I have been trying to find you for many years and eventually I believe I was lucky in my search, I will explain how when we hopefully meet. I believe your mother, your birth mother I mean, was a lady called Dolly Mullane. She passed away two years ago, I’m sorry to tell you, but she asked me to help her to find you. She spent years looking for you, and I can’t tell you how sad I am that she didn’t live to see you again.
My name is Sharif Khan and I run a nursing home called Aashna House in Bedfordshire, England, where your mother spent her final years. She was my mother’s closest friend so I knew Dolly very well, long before she came to stay at Aashna House.
I do not know if you would like to meet me, or if I have anything to offer except to tell you of your mother but if you would like to, I will be in Dublin on the 9th of April. I will stay at the Gresham Hotel and I will be in the lobby at 2pm. I will wait until 2.30 and if you do not arrive I will assume you do not wish to have any contact with me. I bear no bad news Mrs. Sheehan, but I have some photographs and some correspondence from your mother that I feel it is my duty to deliver to you.
I hope to see you on the 9th then,
Yours sincerely,
Sharif M. Khan.
She folded the page carefully and slipped it back into her apron pocket, her heart thumping. She glanced at the clock again. It was noon now and the bus was at 12.35. It would arrive into Dublin at 1.40 and if she jumped in a taxi she would be at the Gresham on O’Connell Street by two.
* * *
She sat in the lobby, trying not to pull at her dark green V-necked jumper that she now realized was too tight across the bust. It looked fine, nice even, when she was standing up in her black jeans and ankle boots but sitting down she felt like the Michelin man, her spare tyre bulging over her waistband. She should have had her hair done, but if she wandered nonchalantly into Clipz in Birr for a blow dry, Julia would be sure to hear of it, so she didn’t risk it. She tried to straighten her mid brown bob herself with a brush and the blow-dryer but it ended up a bit wonky. At least she had managed to put the boxed dye in her hair to cover her blonde roots. Julia said natural blonde hair was a bit trashy looking, and brown was a better colour, more low key. She put on a little make-up but felt uncomfortable since she so rarely wore any. She never had any occasion to get glammed up as they said in the magazines. She knew her eyes were nice, dark blue, her friend Kit in Trinity House always said Carmel’s mother must have been beautiful.
Kit was killed in a car accident in Australia, only a month after she got there, determined to make something of herself. She was so brave, she wanted Carmel to go with her, to take a job in Dunnes Stores and save up enough for the fare, and just take off, chance their luck and be someone, not a pair of orphans but young women with their whole futures ahead of them. But Carmel had been too scared, too institutionalised to follow her friend. She regretted that now. Maybe Kit would never have been in that taxi if Carmel was with her. They had written religiously every month, telling each other everything. Carmel remembered reading bits of her letters out to the nuns in the evenings, heavily censored of course, and their genuine distress when they got the word from the man from the Department of Foreign Affairs that Kit was dead. Carmel had been inconsolable, especially because the last letter she sent was full of hurt and anger. Kit had written to say she was mad to marry Bill, that she could do better than him, and Carmel reacted badly. Kit had been right of course, not that she could have done better probably, but that she should never have married Bill Sheehan.
She dismissed the sad thoughts, they were not serving her well when she was jittery anyway. She ordered a cup of tea but realized when she sat down that nobody else was drinking tea in the lobby, they were in the bar or the coffee shop so she felt a bit foolish. The waitress looked none too pleased at having to carry it out and she almost slammed the teapot down, spilling some on the marble-topped coffee table. She thought about just walking away from it but decided that would look even more daft, so she sat on the overstuffed sofa and tried to look like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. She wished she wasn’t here before this Sharif Khan, the nerves were threatening to get the better of her.
Dolly Mullane, she thought, rolling the name around in her head, she’d even said it aloud a few times to see how it sounded. Her mother was called Dolly. She tried to picture a Dolly, lots of make-up and fancy clothes, a ‘good time girl’ as they might have said long ago. No wonder she got pregnant. Carmel never allowed herself to dwell on her birth mother. In the home it was a source of regular speculation with the others, the children inventing such amazing people to be their real parents. She never bothered with that. One day she was baking with Sister Margaret in the kitchen of Trinity House when someone came on the radio, looking to meet their child given up for adoption years earlier. The nun snapped it off immediately.
‘No good ever comes of that kind of thing. You’re a sensible girl not to be dwelling on it.’
Carmel nodded. She would have loved parents of her own, but it wasn’t to be. She was given up into the care of the state as an infant. Her mother had not been married, and as a result she had been abandoned. Her mother was never heard from again, and an opportunity for adoption never presented itself. That was as much as she knew.
‘Mrs. Sheehan?’
Carmel started as the man touched her shoulder, interrupting her daydream.
‘Ye…yes, that is she, me, that is me… I mean I’m Carmel,’ she finished weakly.
‘Sharif Khan.’ The tall India
n looking man stretched out his hand to shake hers. ‘May I?’ he asked, indicating the sofa opposite her, placing a leather briefcase on the seat beside him. He sat down elegantly, looking perfectly at ease. He was wearing a biscuit-coloured jacket with a dark shirt and dark trousers, and what surely must be handmade shoes. They didn’t look like shoes any Irish man would wear, slip-on, tan-coloured, in a sort of soft leather that shone. On anyone else they would have looked a bit feminine, she certainly couldn’t picture the outfit on Bill but on this man, it looked incredible.
‘Yes..yes of course.’ She was tongue-tied. He was so striking looking. She wasn’t the only one to notice either. Several women’s eyes were on him she noticed as she glanced around the lobby. He had short silver hair, a clipped silver beard and caramel skin, but it was his eyes that mesmerized her. They were perfectly almond shaped and almost black in colour, with long thick lashes.
He smiled at her, revealing even white teeth. Saying nothing.
Carmel felt uncomfortable under his gaze. She shifted awkwardly on the stupid sofa, wishing the coffee table was high enough to hide behind instead of the height of her knees.
‘I am sorry for staring, but it is quite remarkable. You look just like your mother. For a moment, it was as if she had returned.’ His voice purred, and his accent was very posh sounding, like someone out of Downton Abbey, but with a hint of foreign as well.
He clearly didn’t do small talk, no chat about the weather, no endlessly dodging around the issue as Irish people would do. Carmel realized he was the first foreigner she’d ever spoken to properly. There was the Polish girl in the shop in Birr of course, but that was just ‘Good morning’ or ‘Thank you’, and there once was a missionary nun who came from Ghana to visit Trinity House a few times, but she was Irish.
‘It’s nice to meet you Mr. Khan,’ she began, trying to sound normal.
‘Sharif, please. May I call you Carmel?’ That smile again.
‘Of course, yes,’ she swallowed. Her heart was thumping in her chest, she was sure he could hear it. She was definitely nervous about what he might tell her, but there was something else. There was something very unsettling about him.
He reached into his briefcase and took out a big padded envelope. He held the envelope in both hands and smiled down at it, nodding slowly.
‘I have waited for a long time to deliver these to you Carmel, and I feared it would never happen. I wish Dolly was here, I really do..’
He handed the envelope over to her. It contained something bulky.
‘There are forty letters in there, one for each of your birthdays, and several photographs. There is also a box containing a piece of jewellery. Your mother made me learn who each person in each photo is so I could tell you, if I ever got the opportunity.’
‘Can I get you something sir?’ The same waitress approached, looking the picture of sweetness and light this time.
‘Ah, a cup of tea like my friend here would be very nice, thank you.’ He smiled quickly and the girl beamed.
‘Certainly sir, just a moment.’ And off she tripped.
Carmel’s hands were shaking, she couldn’t open the envelope. Why did the nuns say her mother had never tried to contact her? Was it true that she wasn’t just dumped on the state, never given a second thought? That was her story, that was who she was, and now this man turns up out of the blue telling a very different story? Could she believe him?
Maybe it would be better if she never opened this envelope. Her life was what it was, she had a roof over her head, food to eat, what good could any of this do now? Thoughts raced round her mind, a myriad of feelings threatening to overwhelm her. Regret, fear, curiosity, resentment, anger, all vying with each other for supremacy to bubble to the surface. Suddenly she couldn’t stay there, in this public place with the whole of Dublin watching on and this man… she had to get away. She stood up, not caring if she looked rude or ridiculous.
‘I’m sorry. I need to go, I can’t…I’m sorry.’ She held the envelope to her chest and grabbed her jacket in the other hand. Almost stumbling in her haste to escape, Sharif put out his hand to steady her.
‘Carmel, please wait.’ He placed his hand on her arm. ‘This is overwhelming, I understand. Please, take the key of my room, it is on the third floor, 353. I will be busy for the afternoon, you may use it in privacy to read your letters.’
Carmel looked at him, then down at his brown hand on her arm, suspicion and panic were all she felt.
‘I can’t imagine what this must be like, but please, trust me, I mean you no harm.’
‘I just can’t…I’m sorry.’ She began, barely coherent. She felt her throat constrict, sweat beading on her forehead.
‘Breathe Carmel, deep breaths…’ he said quietly.
She tried, her breathing was shallow and panicked.
‘Slowly, empty your mind, just focus on your breath. Breath in cool clear air, expel the feelings of fear.’
She looked at him, her eyes fixed on his. She felt trapped.
‘Breathe.’ He said again. ‘Breathe in blue, breathe out red.’
Slowly her breath returned to normal as she followed his instruction, her eyes never leaving his.
Once she was calm again, he handed her the room key and smiled.
‘Take your time, my mobile number is written on the envelope. You can call me or send a text whenever you want to talk. If you are hungry or need anything have room service deliver it.’
He placed her bag over her shoulder.
‘It is going to be fine. Dolly loved you so much, and to all who knew her, you were a real person, she talked about you all the time. It must feel strange, of course, I feel like I know you and you have never heard of any of us, but it is all good I promise you. Read your letters and you’ll see.’
Carmel had so many questions but now was not the time. She nodded and took the key.
She couldn’t even start thinking about what it must look like to take a hotel room key from a man she had only just met in the lobby of the Gresham while her husband discussed flood plains and water pumps in Birr with some civil servant, oblivious to it all. She didn’t care. She wanted to read these letters, in peace, by herself, and maybe fill in the parts of her that were missing all her life. Parts she never even really realized were not there.
Chapter 4
She walked quickly towards the lift, feeling that everyone was watching her. Of course, they weren’t, people only care about their own drama, she told herself. In the lift she looked at the handwriting on the envelope again. ‘To Whom it May Concern’ in copperplate cursive. It looked vulnerable though, as if the writer was trying to sound official, not her real self. On the back, was Sharif’s number.
She inserted the credit card style key in the slot of room number 353 and to her relief the lock clicked, and the little light went green. She pushed the door and walked in. It looked just like any hotel room, she supposed. Well, she’d never actually been in a hotel room before, but she’d seen them on TV. There was a small leather suitcase on wheels standing in the corner of the room but other than that there was no evidence of Sharif Kahn or anyone else. The room was immaculate, decorated in muted shades of cream, terracotta and red and Carmel thought it was beautiful.
She sat at the little table beside the window that had two upholstered tub seats either side, perfectly coordinated with the décor, and placed the envelope on the table. Outside the busy thoroughfare of O’Connell Street, traffic and people went about their business, having no idea that something momentous was happening in room 353. She took a deep breath, trying to imagine what Dr. Dyer would advise at this exact moment.
‘Breathe, be still, understand that everything is as it should be, everything happens at exactly the right time.’ She could hear his voice stilling her fluttering emotions. Sharif reminded her of Dr .Dyer she realized, he was calm and warm and had a lovely deep voice as well.
She peeled open the seal and put her hand inside.
Extracting eac
h item slowly, she placed them on the table. There was a bundle of letters, tied up with a gold ribbon, all addressed to Carmel. There was also one of those little photo albums, the kind that only fits a few 6x4 inch prints, with a wood-effect plastic cover, and finally a small jewellery box. The box was heavy and encrusted with coloured stones.
What to look at first? She fumbled with the ribbon on the letters, eventually freeing them. There were several, all written on Basildon Bond unlined blue paper. She picked one up.
My dear daughter Carmel,
Happy Birthday to you, my darling daughter. It is 2013 and you are now thirty-seven years old. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you for thirty-seven years. I’ve written to you every year on your birthday and it is my dearest wish that someday you will read my letters. Writing them makes me feel a little closer to you. I used to write you so many letters in the early days, letters full of regrets and tears and pain, but I’ll never send you those. I hope you are happy and loved, wherever you are. I’m sixty years old, twenty-three years older than you, but I have cancer so I don’t know if I’ll see your birthday next year. It’s my own fault, the cigarettes did for me. I hope you don’t smoke my love, lung cancer is a horrible way to go. I’ll never stop looking for you, not while I have breath in my body, and even if I fail or run out of time, Sharif is determined to succeed. If you are reading this, you’ll have met him. He is a special man, my love, trust him.
With all my love today and every day,
The Carmel Sheehan Story Page 2