The Rosary Garden

by Nicola White

  Before Christmas, she wondered whether she would get more presents that year because of her daddy dying. It just came into her mind, but she feared that Santy knew. You shouldn’t think that kind of thing.

  She sidled up to her mother’s chair.

  ‘Does Santy come again if he’s forgotten to bring something?’

  Ma laughed, but it wasn’t a kind laugh. It was sharp and drew the attention of the other grown-ups to her.

  ‘What are they like, these days! No, he doesn’t.’ Ma had a tiny glass in one hand. A tissue poked out of the fist of the other. Ali moved away, slipped into the hall and made her way up to the back bedroom.

  She hadn’t been snooping, not really, though that’s what Aunt Una said afterwards, angry with her. It was just that her cousin Roisín had told her about the big wardrobe upstairs. That she had seen presents hidden there. That Santy didn’t exist.

  The wardrobe was huge, separating two single beds. It had a mirror on its front and she watched herself approach, her moon-face looming above the velvet party frock that was painfully tight around her ribs that year, and so short that she could see her bare knees.

  She opened the door and her reflection slipped sideways and away in a shard of light. A smell of mould rose to greet her. She parted the heavy clothes that hung there, looked down among the wire hangers and shoes scattered across the bottom. There was no present. When she stepped back from the wardrobe, she saw there was a shelf above the clothes rail and could make out some folded blankets there, but no glint or flash of wrapping paper. Still, she felt a high shelf was the very place you would hide something if you wanted to keep it away from children, and it was also the kind of place where a present might get shoved to the back, might get accidentally forgotten in the rush.

  She was looking all round the room for something to stand on, when she found the box.

  It was under the left-hand bed, right up against the wall. It was larger than a shoebox. It was the size of a doll box. A box that someone had forgotten to wrap and had forgotten was under the bed. Ali lay flat on the lino and slid under, through a thick layer of dust, to pull the box out to the light. There was a curly pattern on the top and she could read well enough to make out the words ‘Baby Joy’.

  Her heart beat fast as she lifted the cardboard lid and saw a crumpled yellow towel covering the doll, its sleeping face just visible through a gap in the folds. She had been right all along, and that sense of rightness was stronger than any scratchings of doubt about the griminess of its wrapping or the odd appearance of the doll.

  Baby Joy was supposed to look a little ugly, Maura Griffin said so.

  Ali moved the towel. The doll’s chest and shoulders were naked, and the colour of the body was strangely mottled, like the skin of her legs when they had been too close to the fire; and although the doll was sleeping, it had a kind of annoyed expression too, as if the dream it was dreaming was something that called for huge concentration. Ali put a hand to the shallow valley on the front of its chest. Cold softness. Not plastic, more like rubber.

  She would bring it down and show her mammy.

  Ali scrubbed at her face with the towel until it stung, and flung the cloth on top of the others discarded in a basket under the counter.

  For twelve years she’d put it out of her mind. If she thought of that box at all, it was as some sort of a bad dream. But now it was back with her, as real as what she had seen in the shed.

  She would go back and find Mary. Try to limit the damage. Tell her not to mention the bruising on the baby, say she might have been mistaken.

  There was no one in the back bar, just their two abandoned glasses, conspiratorial on the table. But Mary hadn’t gone far – she was in a window seat in the lounge, leaning forward to talk to a man in a grey suit. Ali walked towards her, and the man turned in his seat as he saw Mary’s attention shift. Ali knew him. It was her mother’s friend Seán O’Loan, a chubby man whose straggly moustache looked like it was trying to crawl inside his mouth.

  Seán showed no surprise to see her there. He stood to shake her hand and kiss her cheek with a wet tickle.

  ‘Ali, pet. So sorry for what you’ve been through.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Ali made a mumble of thanks.

  ‘Fate’s very cruel. It was the last thing you needed.’

  His pouchy eyes were trying to dig into hers. The hand on her shoulder was a clamp. Seán’s attention was more than plain sympathy.

  ‘The girl probably needs to get home, Seán,’ said Mary.

  Ali took her chance to escape. She had no doubt that they’d been discussing her just before she appeared.

  7

  The nun who opened the convent door was dark and nervy. She looked to be in her twenties or early thirties. Swan’s eyes moved automatically to her belly. Could you tell if a woman had given birth, just by looking?

  The entrance hall that she led T. P. Murphy and himself into was a double-height space with a grand wooden staircase rising up from the centre and dividing in two, so that you had a choice of route to the railed gallery that ran around the upper area. A glass cupola brought in light from above, but it had lost most of its brightness by the time it fell to where they stood. The nun pointed at a row of ecclesiastical chairs against the wall. They were the least comfortable-looking pieces of furniture that Swan had ever seen outside a designer showroom.

  ‘Please, if you wait here,’ said the nun, and he sat. T. P. Murphy eased himself onto the adjacent chair with a suppressed groan. The nun clipped away up the stairs, leaving them in the gloom. Like Pavlov’s dogs, they were – obedient at the sight of a habit.

  Murphy was not Swan’s first choice of partner for a case like this, or any case. But he was the only other murder squad detective available. T. P. was not only a lead-swinger and a slipstreamer; he looked a right eejit too, with those sideburns and aviator specs, not to mention the wide tie just hiding the gaps between his strained shirt buttons. The best you could say for T. P. was that he didn’t take anything too seriously, not even his mistakes.

  Swan stood up, stretched his arms out unnecessarily and strolled about. The walls were crowded with paintings, a variety of saints suffering or beseeching behind layers of amber varnish. Only a few bright details shone out – the flash of angel’s wing, the white of an eye rolled heaven-wards, the glint of a sword. There were also portraits of nuns sitting at their desks with a Bible in handy reach or praying on their knees, their plain, redoubtable faces framed by elaborate arrangements of stiff white cloth.

  He hated this atmosphere, the varnish and cold tile incarceration. Clearing out the attic recently, he had come across a picture of himself in altar boy’s vestments. Ten years old. The pious solemnity of his younger face, his small unlined hands pressed together and pointing sky-wards. Before he understood what he was doing, he’d torn the photograph to confetti.

  The first stages of the investigation had turned up nothing so far. All the babies born in hospitals and in registered maternity homes had been accounted for. A few tip-offs were being followed up – a travellers’ camp by the Dodder, a hippy commune in some old mansion. Most likely the mother was local and had given birth in secret. That was the simplest explanation, and Swan liked to keep things simple until he was forced to complicate them.

  A small, precise cough drew their attention upwards. The nun had returned and was gesturing for them.

  They climbed into the light and followed her down a series of corridors featuring the same orange-stained wood everywhere, shiny panelling and rails and doors and benches. They finally stopped at the end of a wide corridor lined on one side with glass cases. Another row of straight-backed chairs stood to the side of a door on which a small card read Reverend Mother in crabbed Gothic calligraphy. It was hard not to imagine a line of fretful girls sitting there, awaiting punishment.

  The nun took it upon herself to knock and a voice within called, ‘Come!’

  Swan had been expecting Mothe
r Mary Paul to be alone, so he didn’t welcome the sight of her sitting shoulder-to-shoulder behind her desk with a priest. The man was wearing a well-cut black suit and a dog collar. A gold chain with a plain cross added to the elegant effect. He had close-cropped hair at the sides and a polished baldness on top.

  ‘This is Monsignor Kelly,’ said Mother Mary Paul. ‘The archbishop has been good enough to take a special interest in this tragic event and has sent the monsignor to assist us. Monsignor Kelly is trained in law.’

  The priest offered them a thin smile, verifying confidence in his qualifications.

  Swan introduced Detective Murphy, and they sat down on their side of the desk. Swan had hoped for an informal, wide-ranging chat. With God’s lawyer present, he doubted if there would be much in the way of that. The monsignor already had a pen in his hand, poised over what looked like a typed list of names.

  ‘I think it would help, Detectives, to get us off the ground as it were, if you’d outline the scope of your investigation so far – and perhaps indicate which areas you think we might assist with, and we can take the discussion from there.’

  T. P. looked at Swan and crossed his arms.

  A knock sounded on the door, and the dark nun entered with a tea tray. No one spoke as she settled the tray on the desk, filled four cups and handed them round.

  ‘Thank you, Sister Dreyfus,’ said Reverend Mother as the nun exited backwards, the empty tray held to her chest like a shield.

  Once the door closed, Swan looked to the head nun. ‘Sister Dreyfus?’ He had decided to ignore the monsignor.

  ‘It’s an unusual name in these parts,’ agreed Mother Mary Paul. She dropped her voice and leaned towards him. ‘Family came here in the war. Converted.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the monsignor, ‘perhaps we could—’

  ‘Tell me, Mother,’ said Swan, overriding him, ‘why is it that some nuns have Christian names after the “Sister” and others have family names?’

  Mary Paul stroked her veil as he had seen other women smooth their hair.

  ‘Well, it varies from order to order. In the Sisters of the Annunciation, both apply. Nuns like Sister Dreyfus keep their family names while nuns such as myself and Sister Bernadette, who you’ve … erm … met, were moved to adopt the names of saints or holy people who had particular meaning for them. I took the name of our founder – Blessed Mary Paul Grammaticus.’

  ‘I never realised that.’

  ‘Most interesting,’ said Monsignor Kelly without a shred of sincerity. ‘I’m eager to know, Detectives, whether you’ve identified the poor child.’

  Swan let T. P. waffle on a bit about the case, how everything that could be done was being done, and so on. He told them the enquiries were concentrating on the community surrounding the convent grounds.

  ‘I wish now that we had put gates across the back lane,’ said the nun, ‘but we’ve never been in the habit of locking out the world.’

  ‘That may have to change,’ said Monsignor Kelly.

  ‘Gates wouldn’t necessarily have prevented this from happening,’ said Swan, ‘just caused it to happen elsewhere. Unless the baby was already in the convent. In that case, our task might be narrower in scope.’

  The monsignor and the Reverend Mother stiffened.

  ‘It’s a theory I have to consider.’

  ‘That isn’t possible.’ Mary Paul was adamant.

  ‘How can you be sure? This is a very large establishment, Mother.’ Swan suddenly realised how odd, and somehow disloyal, it felt to be calling an acquaintance Mother.

  ‘Out of term, it’s a very quiet place. We nuns live together in a community with only a few lay helpers for the grounds. We eat and pray together every day. Not much gets by me.’

  ‘So there’s been nothing different?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind when I speak individually to the nuns.’

  The monsignor and Mother Mary Paul exchanged a glance.

  ‘Is that necessary at this stage?’ asked the monsignor. ‘The disruption and anxiety have taken their toll on these women already.’

  Mother Mary Paul looked annoyed for an instant, but worked her face into an expression of passivity. Not a woman who cared to be patronised, even by a monsignor.

  ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t interview your community. There is no accusation to be inferred – it’s simply procedure.’

  Monsignor Kelly sighed, but didn’t press the matter further.

  ‘I’ll need a list of all the nuns, even if they weren’t here on Monday, and also names and telephone numbers of the hired staff that you mentioned.’

  Mary Paul jotted down some notes.

  ‘We’ll need that today, Mother,’ said T. P., ‘and it would benefit us if you could include each woman’s age?’

  The nun looked up. ‘Their age?’

  Swan’s patience vanished. ‘Look, we’re not suggesting a strip-search,’ he said. ‘We just need to know the age.’

  Swan watched her write ‘AGE’ and underline it.

  ‘The phones haven’t stopped ringing here, and at the diocesan office, since news of this came out,’ said Monsignor Kelly. ‘Journalists and busybodies. The last thing we want to do is fan the flames of any salacious publicity. The archbishop is concerned the police don’t encourage this kind of insinuation by the line of their enquiries.’

  And no doubt the archbishop had many friends in Garda HQ and in the Dáil with whom he was willing to share those concerns.

  ‘There is no insinuation, Monsignor. And for what it’s worth, flames get fanned when an investigation can’t progress quickly and journalists fall back on their imaginings.’

  ‘It’s confidentiality that concerns me – things leaking out.’

  ‘Not from my investigations, they don’t.’

  Sometimes Swan wondered at his own idiot reflexes.

  Monsignor Kelly smiled. ‘You haven’t seen this morning’s papers then.’

  Swan looked at T. P., who gave him back a minuscule head-shake. They’d been shut in the case conference earlier, hadn’t had the time. But someone would have shown him if there was anything important. Eager to move on, Swan arranged to have the list collected and said they’d set up interviews with all the nuns within the week.

  ‘I realise that it’s hard for you – for all the sisters – coming into contact with something like this.’

  The look she gave him was fierce.

  ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking we sit in our holy tower arranging flowers and sweeping floors. Some of my nuns work with the least fortunate in the city. They see poverty and degradation and death.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  Swan rose to his feet, T. P. followed.

  ‘I just don’t want them subjected to suggestions of … promiscuity or whatever. It wouldn’t be … fair.’ She reached up her sleeve for the wad of tissue. He had wondered when it would reappear.

  Monsignor Kelly shifted one hand over so that it lay in front of the Reverend Mother. A restraint.

  ‘The Church will assist in whatever way it can. In fact the Reverend Mother has thoughtfully drawn up a list of girls she thought might be worth talking to, for your purposes.’

  The monsignor passed the piece of paper that had been lying on the table to Swan. He sat back down to study it. It was a list of girls’ names, divided up into little sections headed ‘sixth year’, ‘fifth year’ and ‘fourth year’. The second half was divided by year headings: 1983, 1982, 1981. There were about thirty names in all.

  ‘It wasn’t necessary to go any younger than the fourth year, I thought.’ Mother Mary Paul had recovered herself. ‘The others are girls who left in the last few years.’

  Swan simply looked at her.

  ‘We thought it would help,’ said Monsignor Kelly, ‘if you had a list of girls who, their teachers suspected, may have been in intimate contact with boyfriends and the like.’

  ‘How can they tell?’ said Swan.
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br />   ‘You can’t, for sure,’ said Mary Paul, in a reasonable tone. ‘But in every year there are always a few who test the limits, and no doubt test their parents too. They’re the risk-takers, and sometimes they wind up in trouble. They’re all off on holiday or graduated, but I had a feeling a girl in trouble might just seek the shelter of the school she knew and loved.’

  ‘Do you have a reason to believe that any of these girls were pregnant?’

  ‘Only one for certain. Sixth year … Eileen Vaughan.’

  Swan found the name on the list.

  ‘She’s not the one you’re after, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She left the school in March. I’ve enquired and she was delivered back in May.’ The nun pressed her lips together.

  ‘I’ll need her address. And all these others?’

  ‘Suggestions.’

  ‘Thank you, we’ll look into it.’

  Swan took the list, folded it and put it in his inside pocket. The hypocrisy of them. It wouldn’t be right to mention sex to any of the nuns, but here’s a bunch of schoolgirls you might want to grill instead. Again he rose to his feet, and this time the nun and priest rose too. T. P.’s hand was on the doorknob when Mother Mary Paul’s grave voice said, ‘Perhaps a little prayer for the baby?’

  They stood with clasped hands and bowed heads while the nun led them in a Hail Mary linked to some longer bit that Swan only half-recognised. Who was the hypocrite now? He mumbled the ‘Amen’.

  Monsignor Kelly walked them back through the maze of empty corridors, trying to interest T. P. Murphy in the history of the building. Swan’s mind was on the list of girls. Just because their teachers thought them a bit wild didn’t make them child murderers. Even if this Eileen Vaughan had been politely disappeared, that only proved the point. Most of these girls would be well taken care of, if they slipped up – a trip down the country for a few months or a shorter trip to England in some cases. Infanticide mainly happened in conditions of ignorance or secrecy. It wasn’t the bolshie, confident girls you wanted. It was the quiet, mousy ones with only a vague grasp of the mechanics, or the ones being abused at home, or by a neighbour or friend of the family. Friend of the family – that’s how they always referred to some old bastard with his eye on the kids.