2004 - Dandelion Soup

by Babs Horton

  “Well, all this talking is fine and dandy but we don’t seem any closer to solving any mysteries,” Donahue said.

  “Your name was on the wedding invitation I found!” Padraig cried. “Wait while I remember the words…”

  The Old Pilgrim twisted his hands anxiously.

  “Padraig, what wedding invitation are you on about?” Leary asked impatiently.

  “I found it between the pages of a book that was in the trunk. Let me think now what it said. “Mr and Mrs Egbert Brennan…something or other…invite you to the marriage of their daughter Vera Mary Brennan to George Fitzallen…””

  “So did you get married?” asked Donahue.

  The Old Pilgrim shook his head.

  “That day at the station,” said Solly, “there were wedding bells in the background. I remember thinking what an awful day it was to get married…”

  Padraig’s mind was racing. He felt again as though he were inside a glass dome that someone had shaken madly and the snow, like his thoughts, was blizzarding, refusing to settle.

  He shook his head, waited for his thoughts to arrange themselves.

  “Florence Gallivan,” he murmured. “That was the name on the label in the back of Señora Hipola’s wedding dress…”

  Muli nodded at Padraig in encouragement.

  “I left her at the altar,” the Old Pilgrim mumbled.

  “Florence Gallivan?” said Donahue. “No wonder! No one will blame you for that. I went to her shop in Cork once with my mother. Florence Gallivan must have been ninety if she was a day and that was years ago.”

  “He wasn’t marrying Florence Gallivan, he was meant to be marrying Vera Mary Brennan,” Padraig continued.

  The Old Pilgrim shuddered and closed his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you want to marry her?” Nancy spoke quietly.

  “There was a very delicate situation I’d rather not speak about in front of, er, youngsters.”

  Donahue nudged Leary in the ribs and grinned.

  “Was this Vera Mary Brennan in the pudding club?” Donahue ventured.

  “She was pregnant, yes.”

  “That’s disgraceful, man, leaving a girl in the lurch like that with a child on the way.”

  “But she wasn’t pregnant by me.”

  “Oh right,” said Donahue, wrinkling his brow in confusion.

  “My father demanded that I marry her to save her reputation or he would let the world know of the, er, delicate situation…”

  Donahue jumped in.

  “I remember now, it wasn’t a woman you were caught with but a – ”

  Father Daley gave Donahue a kick under the table and smiled encouragingly at the Old Pilgrim.

  “He’s one of them momosapiens!” Donahue whispered.

  “Will you shut up, Donahue,” Leary muttered.

  Father Daley stared open-mouthed at the Old Pilgrim.

  “Well, er, who did put her in the family way?” Father Daley asked.

  Nancy Carmichael cleared her throat, and spoke.

  “I expect it was this man’s own father, Lord Fitzallen, who was the father of the child.”

  The Old Pilgrim stared at Nancy in incredulity.

  “She wouldn’t be the first younggirl he’d got pregnant, I for one know that only too well,” Nancy said.

  Michael Leary could hardly believe his ears.

  The Old Pilgrim looked steadfastly at Nancy as though he had just come face to face with a ghost.

  A ripple of shock went round the room.

  Dr Garcia drew back the grille on the cell door and looked in at old Brother Anselm, who was sitting motionless in a high-backed chair facing the iron-barred window.

  He selected a key, unlocked the door and entered the cell. Brother Anselm did not stir even as the doctor placed his hand on the old man’s cold papery one.

  When Brother Anselm had first been brought in he had fought like a madman, but now he was calm, he just sat for hours and hours staring at the window.

  Dr Garcia drew up a chair and sat down next to Brother Anselm, who stirred suddenly and turned to face him, his rheumy old eyes like lonely planets in an undiscovered universe.

  It was quiet in the cell except for the rattle of Brother Anselm’s chest. From somewhere outside came the sound of a caged bird singing.

  “Isabella, is that you?” Brother Anselm whispered in a faltering voice.

  The doctor did not reply, he was used to the inane chatter of the insane.

  “You came after all, I told them you would…”

  Outside, the bells of Santa Anna began to ring loudly.

  “When I am well again we must escape…you and I, I have treasures, we can be together, the two of us, we can find the child…”

  Dr Garcia sighed as he listened to the old monk’s ramblings.

  “It’s the child I worry for, Isabella, our granddaughter…”

  The warder wondered did the childless, at the end of their lives, always grieve for the family they never had? When his time came to die would he too curse the fact that he had never married? Would he wish that he had children to leave behind as a legacy? Maybe, like this poor old man, he would fantasize about imaginary lovers and phantom children.

  Brother Anselm stirred.

  “Is that someone at the door?”

  “There’s no one there, Brother Anselm.”

  “Is that her?” he asked eagerly.

  Dr Garcia took hold of the old monk’s wrist. The pulse was weak, irregular, he wasn’t long for this world.

  “Is it my granddaughter come to see me?” Brother Anselm asked querulously.

  “It’s me, Dr Garcia, do you remember me?”

  Brother Anselm stared at the doctor vacantly.

  “Are you expecting your granddaughter, then?”

  “Is she here? I must see her before, before I die,” he said more urgently. He grew more agitated, drumming his heels against the chair, clenching and unclenching his fists, grinding his few remaining teeth.

  “How about if we go to the window, eh? See if we can see her coming?”

  Brother Anselm smiled.

  “She is coming then?”

  “Maybe, maybe, soon she’ll be here,” the doctor lied.

  It would soon be time for him to give Brother Anselm his medication, probably for the last time. What harm would a few minutes looking out of the window do?

  There was no stopping Nancy Carmichael once she’d started.

  “This man’s father, Lord Fitzallen of Kilgerry, was an out-and-out shite-hound who paid scant regard to anyone’s feelings other than his own.”

  “Steady on, Nancy, old girl, that’s this fellow’s father you’re talking about,” Donahue said, putting his hand on her arm.

  “I, too, hold a piece of this puzzle and for years I’ve kept it a secret. But this pilgrimage has taught me something very valuable: that at last I can be true to myself.”

  Leary looked from Padraig to Nancy and back again. God almighty, the resemblance was there for anyone to see.

  “I repeat, Lord Fitzallen was a philandering pig of a man. I make no apologies for what I say or for slandering this man’s father, for I’m sure that the whole of Ballygurry knows by now that Lord Fitzallen was also my father.”

  “My God,” the Old Pilgrim said, cupping his face with his hands. “That means, doesn’t it, that you are…”

  “A bastard,” said Nancy Carmichael.

  Padraig gasped and giggled with nerves.

  “No, no I didn’t mean that,” the Old Pilgrim stammered. “I mean, that you and I are related.”

  “I am your half-sister, I suppose,” said Nancy, and smiled shyly at George Fitzallen.

  “Bloody hell,” said Donahue, wiping the sweat from his brow, “I never thought that secret would see the light of day!”

  “You knew?” said Nancy, rounding on Donahue.

  “My mother worked up at Kilgerry, remember, with your mother. I’ve known for years.”

  “And you
never let on?”

  “It wasn’t my place and I thought you had enough on your plate with that bloody awful mother of yours.”

  “Martin Donahue, you are a true gentleman and I thank you for that.”

  Donahue beamed.

  The Old Pilgrim said, “My father had got Vera Mary Brennan pregnant. She was the daughter of one of his friends. He had a penchant for young snooty girls. She was a queer, dangerous sort of girl was Vera. She had her mind set on becoming the mistress of Kilgerry but my father would never have left my mother, because she held the purse strings.”

  “The dirty old dog!” said Donahue.

  “Anyhow, I’d had a fling with a, well, with someone rather unsuitable, and my father found out. He blackmailed me then and said I must marry Vera Brennan or else my secret was out. Vera would then eventually get her wish and become the mistress of Kilgerry when I inherited, and my father would be saved from scandal. But Ijust couldn’t go through with it!”

  “What a bastard!”

  “I know, I’m not proud of what I did.”

  “Not you, man, that father of yours.”

  Padraig, who had been quiet for some time, got up and left the room, then came hurrying back some minutes later.

  “What was she like to look at, this Vera Brennan?” Padraig ventured.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Michael Leary asked him.

  “Is this her?” Padraig asked, opening his sketchbook and holding up the page to the Old Pilgrim.

  The Old Pilgrim stared down at the page in horror.

  “Who is it, Padraig?” everyone asked almost at once, clambering to their feet to get a look.

  Donahue looked down at the page.

  “Suffering angels!” he cried. “Would you look at that!”

  “You’d a lucky escape, man,” Father Daley said with sympathy.

  “Vera Mary Brennan is Sister Veronica,” whispered Padraig, and shivered.

  While everyone was staring incredulously at the sketch of Sister Veronica, the Old Pilgrim was oblivious to the conversation going on round him.

  He was remembering a day long ago when he was standing in his new suit, shivering with fear at the front of a cold, flower-filled church.

  He’d turned and looked behind him at the congregation, a blurry sea of expectant faces. His mother’s head was bowed, her gloved hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. His poor mother, a tired, sad woman worn down by pain, deceit and misery.

  His father’s smug, arrogant face stared defiantly back at him. He’d heard the noise at the back of the church, the sound of the organist turning the pages of music.

  He remembered the startled faces looking at him in dismay as he’d hurtled down the aisle towards the open doorway. The angry shouting of his father, the strangled gasp of a choirboy, the noise of an altar candle spluttering.

  Averting his eyes from his intended bride, he’d looked down at his little sister, standing there in her bridesmaid dress, holding a posy of freesias. He’d bent and kissed her and that was the last time he had seen her…

  He was woken from this reverie by the sound of the boy’s voice.

  “The dress,” said Padraig. “That dress on the line at Señora Hipola’s, that was the same dress that this Vera Brennan wore on her wedding day, wasn’t it, Muli?”

  Muli nodded.

  “That enormous great thing that flew away in Camiga?” Father Daley asked.

  “Yes. The one that Marta was meant to be wearing for her wedding…”

  “Marta!” exclaimed Michael Leary.

  “That’s right,” said Padraig. “She was staying at Sefiora Hipola’s. She was a very pretty lady but dead miserable looking! She was meant to be marrying some chap but she ran away.”

  “She did?” said Leary.

  “That’s right,” said Padraig.

  “Thank you, God,” said Leary, punching the air.

  “What’s bothering me is, who is the fellow buried up at Santa Eulalia?” Solly asked.

  “I think I might know the answer to that,” Michael Leary said.

  All heads swivelled towards Leary.

  “Siobhan Hanlon told me that she’d found a pile of ripped-up letters in a cupboard in St Joseph’s. The letters were written by Padraig’s father.”

  Padraig looked at Michael Leary with wide eyes.

  “The letters from the box! I was meant to be able to read them when I left St Joseph’s.”

  “Well, someone, and it doesn’t take much working out who, had tried to destroy them, but luckily Siobhan and Donny had got into the cupboard to hide and Siobhan, being the nosey little article that she is, had picked them up.”

  Padraig smiled; she was a grand girl was Siobhan, apart from all the kissing and soppy stuff.

  “In one of the letters that Siobhan read out to me, Padraig’s father mentioned something about still having the army greatcoat that Padraig’s mother had given to him, the coat belonging to someone called George. And that he’d heard that someone had seen George in Paris.”

  “Oh my God, Laura…” the Old Pilgrim whispered.

  “Who’s Laura?” Padraig asked.

  “Laura is, was, my little sister.”

  “And Padraig’s mother?” Father Daley whispered. The Old Pilgrim looked at Padraig, resting his hands on the table for support.

  “Which makes Padraig your, oh hell I’m lost. Is there anyone in this room who isn’t related?”

  “My nephew, my sister’s child,” the Old Pilgrim said almost inaudibly, and he gave Padraig such a look of tender bewilderment that it made Nancy’s eyes fill with tears.

  Padraig was speechless, lost in a world of his own. He looked at the Old Pilgrim and then at Nancy. For a moment he remembered the wobbling reflection of his mammy’s face in the horse trough at Ballygurry.

  Nancy and this George Fitzallen were his family. He had a family like other people.

  His heart pounded painfully as the memories came rushing back. He spoke then without knowing what he said, words coming from a long time ago.

  “My mammy used to say that one day my daddy would come sailing up the river Liffey on the Sequana…She used to say that when he came he would take us back with him to Paris and we would look for her brother and find him and then the four of us would go wherever in the world we wanted to go…”

  The Old Pilgrim groaned and sat down heavily in a chair.

  “The first time I ever saw you in the square in Camiga I knew that you reminded me of someone.”

  “Of your sister, Laura, of course,” said Nancy softly.

  “No. He has the look of Laura round his eyes but he takes more after someone else.”

  “Who?” asked Nancy.

  “Raffy.”

  “Who in the name of St Peter is Raffy?” said Donahue.

  “Rafael Federico Luciano, the grandson of Federico Luciano, the painter.”

  “Blimey O’Riley,”said Padraig.

  “How in God’s name did he ever meet Laura?”

  “In Paris, I expect,” said Muli. “As soon as she was old enough she went looking for you, her long-lost brother, but instead she met Raffy. He lived in Paris for a while on the Sequana after his grandfather died.”

  “Federico and Raffy never knew my real name, they, like everyone else, called me the Old Pilgrim.”

  “After the death of his parents, Raffy had spent many summers at Santa Eulalia with his grandfather. Thafs probably why he was making for there just before he died. He probably felt that he would be in safe hands,” Muli said.

  “Brother Anselm would surely have recognized him, though. He’d been at Santa Eulalia for years and would have been around in the time when Luciano had stayed there,” Leary said thoughtfully.

  “It served Anselm’s purposes, maybe, to let everyone assume that this man was George Fitzallen.”

  “But why?” asked Solly.

  “Think about it,” Leary said. “Padraig said why would anyone want to pinch one of Anselm’s pain
tings when they could have a Luciano?”

  “Maybe Raffy knew that a lot of his grandfather’s paintings had been left at Santa Eulalia. He’d have become a very rich young man if he’d sold even a few of them,” Muli said.

  “What are Anselm’s paintings like, Padraig?” Solly asked.

  “Like those of a kid who can’t paint, like he was just trying to cover the canvas up as quick as he could.”

  “My guess is that beneath these paintings of Anselm’s you will find genuine Lucianos hidden. And each one will be worth a bloody fortune,” declared Leary.

  “The girl in the café!” said Padraig. The one who was pregnant, the one that we think was Dancey’s mammy. In the photograph, I remember, by the side of the table, mere was something large wrapped up in paper. I reckon Anselm gave her the painting! I bet they got rid of Anselm’s rubbish and underneath they had the real thing hidden; the Luciano.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  “Perhaps she was blackmailing him?” Nancy said. “If he was her father? Maybe he had to keep her quiet? Maybe she needed money to get away?”

  “And the jewels, Mr Leary. Do you remember what you said about the pawnbroker in Paris? That some of the jewels believed to be from the statue had turned up there! And that a Luciano painting was recently sold!”

  “My God, Padraig, so I do!”

  “I think we may safely say that this mother of Dancey’s is long gone and is probably a very wealthy woman by now.”

  Sister Perpetua came into the dining room and sent the two postulants scuttling back to the kitchen. Then she insisted that the Old Pilgrim return to the infirmary for a rest.

  Muli took Padraig out for a walk to get some air. They walked slowly together away from the convent of Santa Anna hand in hand.

  “Are you all right, Padraig?” Muli asked.

  “I am, Muli, just a bit shocked that’s all. There’s loads I want to say to Nancy and the Old – George Fitzallen, but I haven’t quite got the words in the right order yet.”

  “If 11 take time for it to sink in for all of you. Best to take things slowly for now.”

  “Muli, there’s a painting in Santa Eulalia of the monastery at night. There’s a boy in the window looking up at the stars, I always wished that it was me…”