by Nicola White
Emer started to whinge, bored with her incarceration. ‘Yeah, well, the less said, the better,’ said Roisín. ‘My mother’s got a real thing against Joan, so don’t go reminiscing to her.’
She went over and lifted Emer into her arms just as a woman passed outside the window.
‘Shite,’ said Roisín. A knock came on the glass door. She put the baby on her hip and went to open it.
‘Peggy!’ she said, like she was surprised.
At first glance, Ali had the impression that the woman who entered was middle-aged, but soon she realised it was merely the heavy set of her body and her old-fashioned coat – a blue mac down past her knees, not right for the day. Her broad face was young, with full downturned lips, and her thick auburn hair waved backwards from her face, as if she were standing in a breeze. Ali wouldn’t have recognised her if she passed her on a Dublin street, but now – with the prompt of a name and this place – she knew her, could see the trace of the young girl she’d been. Dr Nolan had brought two daughters with him that Christmas, that’s right; neat girls in white socks and matching coats sitting side-by-side on the big sofa.
‘You remember Peggy, Dr Nolan’s daughter? This is my cousin, Ali.’
‘Yeah, hiya,’ said Peggy, unsmiling.
Roisín’s behaviour with her was careful, kind. She coaxed the ugly coat from Peggy and got her sitting on the sofa. Ali offered to make more coffee.
‘You haven’t seen the baby for a while, Peggy, hasn’t she grown?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Ali prepared the coffee as slowly as she could, leaving the two of them to talk. By the time she brought the mugs over, Peggy was haltingly relating a shopping trip to Limerick. Her eyes were on Emer, though, as were Roisín’s. Conversation sputtered between them, then converged on the baby. Emer wriggled on the carpet, and they sipped from their mugs and watched, calling out praise for every fat handclap or tumble. Ali could feel the energy draining from her.
She got to her feet and walked into the kitchen area, rinsed her mug under the tap.
‘Ro – I better be getting back up to town,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘If I had the car, I’d drive you,’ said Roisín, taking the opportunity to get up and move about. ‘But this one needs her nap anyway. Peggy, would you mind walking Ali up to the town for me?’
Ali started to protest, but Roisín gave her such a fierce look that she shut up. She already had Peggy’s coat out of the slim cabinet that served as a cloakroom.
‘Oh, Ali, I’ve got that thing for you. In the bedroom, I forgot.’
‘What thing?’
‘The thing I told you about.’ Her eyes were insistent. When they got to the bedroom, Roisín hissed, ‘There is no thing, ya eejit. I needed to tell you something.’
‘What?’ Ali was sure they could be heard.
‘Since you’re here on your own, you should pal round with Peggy a bit. She’s lonely. You could cheer her up.’
‘I doubt it.’
Roisín pushed her towards the door. Peggy was already outside the little fence, staring back at the caravan. There was something unnervingly still about her, like a post or a stone.
Ali and Peggy walked up the field in silence until they reached the bridge.
‘I remember you,’ Peggy said, ‘you wouldn’t let me play with you.’
‘What?’
‘It was a Christmas. You had a cookery set – was it? – and you wouldn’t speak to anyone or let them join you.’
It was hard to tell whether Peggy was annoyed or just teasing.
‘Sorry, I don’t remember that. I do remember the fancy coat you had on, though. Pale green, with a black velvet collar. You matched your big sister. I was jealous of those coats.’
Peggy stopped and smiled. ‘Brown velvet collars,’ she corrected, ‘and velvet buttons too.’ She looked down at her raincoat. ‘Wish I had it still. This thing’s horrible – my mother bought it for me.’
‘Take it off. It’s too hot for a coat.’
Peggy looked up at the blue sky for verification. ‘You’ll be thinking I’ve some kind of mad coat-fixation.’ But she unbuttoned the white plastic buttons, removed the coat and draped it over her arm.
Ali could see the end of the boreen ahead. They would be back in town soon; she could make her excuses and get away.
‘Where’s your sister now?’ Ali said.
‘Dublin.’
‘Does she like it?’
‘Suppose so.’
It made Ali wonder what her life would have been like if her mother had decided to stay on in Buleen. Would she have had the gumption to escape to Dublin, or turned out strange and morose like Peggy? She might even have gone mad, like Joan.
‘Sorry,’ said Peggy suddenly. ‘I’m not myself these days.’
‘Could be the sun,’ said Ali lamely.
Peggy managed a smile. ‘Could be.’
‘What do you do yourself?’
‘I do reception at Dad’s surgery some days, but that’s just for now.’
Ali couldn’t find anything else to ask and they walked on in silence. They reached the junction with the main road. Ali looked up towards the shops and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the phone box.
‘How’s your Uncle Davy?’ asked Peggy.
Ali looked up towards the phone box again. Davy had vanished.
‘He’s good,’ said Ali. ‘We came down yesterday in the train.’
‘Right. I’ll go this way,’ said Peggy, pointing at the road out of the village.
‘Okay. See you then, Peggy.’ Ali watched her walk away. Funny how people turned out. When you were a child, other kids were all of the same tribe; you could all get on together. Then they grew up and became really hard to talk to.
She started up the main street. Just past the phone box, Davy jumped out at her from a laneway.
‘Boo!’
‘Are you really older than me?’ said Ali. He drooped an arm over her shoulder and carried on up the street with her.
‘What were you doing with Peggy Nolan?’
‘I met her down in Roisín’s.’
‘Roisín’s too soft. How’s about a little libation for the Sabbath?’ He drew out some crumpled notes and a cluster of change from his pocket.
‘Maybe one. I don’t want it to turn out like yesterday.’
Cathal, the man with the baby-feet badge, was sitting on Melody’s windowsill with another guy, watching the world go by. The friend was tall, fierce-looking and fair as a Viking. Davy took his arm off her shoulder and walked ahead into the pub.
‘Are you needing some company, Ali?’ Cathal wheedled.
She flicked them the V-sign.
‘Ooo-ooo,’ they chorused, the mocking note swooping after her as she stepped into the dark.
14
Chief Superintendent Francis Kavanagh was big in every direction. He looked like the kind of man who should be out in the open air, striding the hills of Kerry with a sheep across his shoulders or a maiden in his arms. Even his hair was vigorous, a sprinkling of grey giving sparks to his straw-coloured crop. Yet Swan had never known Kavanagh to take exercise or leave the confines of a building or car unnecessarily. His rosy complexion was probably due more to a combination of bluster and drink than the wind coming in from the Blaskets.
When Swan walked into Kavanagh’s office on Monday morning he found his boss sitting behind the desk in a vest, revealing gouts of chest hair, shoulder freckles and the outline of nipples under thin ribbed cotton. It was all Swan could do not to raise his palms in front of his eyes.
‘Do you want to me to come back later?’
‘Get that prissy look off your puss, Swan. I spilled coffee down my shirt. Could happen to anyone. I asked Considine if she could wash it out, and the look she gave me would freeze a waterfall in spate. Your man Barrett stepped in, thank God; says he knows a laundry and he’ll have it back by noon. I’ve a lunch at the Castle today, the Dutch prime minister … or is it
Belgian?’
Kavanagh searched his desk for the invitation card, distracted by the possibility of a diplomatic faux pas. The current commissioner wasn’t much of a man for canapés and glad-handing, so it fell to his deputies to represent the force on ambassadorial occasions. It was a task that fitted Kavanagh well, with his man-of-the-people bonhomie and rampant ambition.
He waved a stiff card at Swan. ‘Belgian! – Brussels, mussels, pissing statues. Right. Let’s get on with it.’
‘Well, our enquiries are continuing on two fronts. We’re looking closely at the people on the spot: the religious community, former and current pupils—’
‘The nuns – have you won their trust?’
‘It’s been slow enough. They’re very resistant to any suggestion that anyone in their community might be implicated. Problem is, they think they’re above the law, or answering to a different law, and I can’t have that.’
‘You can’t have that? Careful, Vincent, a little softness doesn’t go amiss – you don’t want to get into one of your intellectual struggles about what is Caesar’s and what is God’s, eh? Let’s concentrate on finding the mother.’
There was a knock on the door and Barrett swooped in with a pale-blue shirt on a hanger, draped in a gloss of polythene.
‘Good man,’ said Kavanagh, rising from his desk to grab the shirt. He tore off the plastic cover, threw the hanger in the corner and started to battle with the buttons. Barrett stood holding out the superintendent’s jacket by its shoulders, waiting to help him on with it, like some shop assistant.
Swan continued with his report.
‘We checked out the pupil who left the school earlier this year. Eileen Vaughan.’
‘She’s back with her parents in Terenure,’ offered Barrett.
‘Maybe you should tell the chief what we found?’
Barrett beamed for an instant, then Kavanagh turned towards him and grabbed the jacket from his hands, giving him a suspicious look. With a flick of his hand he directed Barrett back to the public side of the desk. Barrett took his place beside Swan and recited, in a flattened voice, ‘The girl was delivered of an infant six weeks ago in a refuge in Arklow …’ He stopped to dig out his notebook.
‘You’re not in court, Barrett – just talk,’ said Swan.
Barrett kept flipping through pages, so Swan took up the tale, sensing that Kavanagh’s growing agitation wasn’t solely to do with buttoning his cuffs.
‘We talked with the mother and girl yesterday. The baby was put up for adoption.’
Swan had given up his Sunday morning to visiting the girl at her home. The smell of frying lingered in their kitchen, making his stomach mourn for his own missed breakfast. The mother had refused to let them speak to Eileen alone, and kept answering the questions herself. The girl seemed monosyllabic with misery, a baggy grey sweatshirt pulled over her still-heavy stomach, her lank hair curtaining a face that wore a look of protracted shock.
‘And the baby?’
‘Yes. The agency that handled it gave us the details of the adoptive family, and Barrett went for a visit yesterday.’
‘He’s been keeping you busy.’
Barrett shrugged modestly.
‘No problem, Chief. It was a big house out in Sutton. The husband is a banker, the wife was too. They’re all thrilled to bits. I’d say the little chap is very lucky.’
‘So what’s your second line?’ Kavanagh addressed Swan.
‘Pardon?’
‘You said you had a second line of enquiry – come on.’
‘It’s very possible that the baby’s mother would go to her doctor for some medical attention afterwards. T. P. Murphy’s leading a small team talking to all doctors’ surgeries in the area, all Dublin hospitals too.’
Kavanagh was buttoning his jacket now. Looking around for his cap. Swan told him how they had identified a couple of families in the Dodder Vale area known to the social work department: one where a daughter already had an illegitimate daughter living in the home, the other where there had been two suicide attempts in the family in the past six months. There was no evidence of a baby in either case.
‘Murphy can tell you more. I thought he would be here.’
‘Ah yes. Meant to say – I’ve sent Murphy to assist with the Dundalk shooting; there’s a lot of pressure on that one, and the usual cross-border shenanigans.’
Swan’s first feeling was one of relief. He never could hit it off with T. P. and now he could coordinate things as he liked. But if they didn’t find the woman – if things didn’t work out – it would be entirely his responsibility. He carried on as confidently as he could.
‘Forensics have identified two types of fibre found on the baby’s body. There are carpet fibres, blue, woollen twist, good-quality; and there are also white polyester fibres, which Dr Flynn has identified as a type used in a looped stretch cloth, consistent with coming from a Babygro or other towelling item. She’s working on finding matches to specific manufacturers, but in the meantime it does point to the baby being kept in a domestic situation for some of the time that it lived.’
‘So what’s your theory?’
‘Something different from the usual panicked cover-up. Girl delivers baby at home, possibly with help. Things go normally for a day or two, baby fed and clothed, then either a change of heart or its existence is discovered by someone hostile to the child.’
‘You think it’s not the mother.’
‘Most likely it is, but the extent of the violence isn’t typical.’
A knock at the door announced that the superintendent’s car was ready. He ushered them out alongside him.
‘So you’ll have something for me soon?’ The boss liked to demand unfounded reassurance.
‘We’re still waiting on more technical reports. If Gina Considine could come in to replace Murphy, that would help a lot.’
‘Don’t be making too much of a favourite of her, now – her head’s big enough. You can have her if you promise me I won’t see another of your witnesses on national television. What was that girl at?’
‘She’s young. She won’t be doing it again.’
‘You make sure of it. What’s the story about her finding a baby before?’
‘We checked it out: something of a sad coincidence. A stillbirth at a relative’s house.’
Kavanagh grimaced, dismissed them with a salute and headed down the corridor alone.
‘Have a good lunch, sir,’ Barrett called after him.
Barrett was getting on Swan’s nerves. And Murphy seemed to have got nowhere with his social work contacts. They really needed a break.
If they could find a realistic suspect, the forensics could probably do the rest. Otherwise they were going to be reduced to sampling every blue carpet in south Dublin or seeking permission to do physical check-ups on likely women. Starting with the two unfortunate families in Dodder Vale, then the girls of the gardening club and the younger nuns. But they couldn’t go round palpating women without solid reason. He could just imagine what Mary O’Shea would do with that.
‘Boss?’ Barrett interrupted his thoughts. ‘I forgot to say your wife rang. She been called away to her aunt’s.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ Why did she have to go and do that? She could have just left a note at home, didn’t need to talk to anyone here about anything.
‘I hope everything’s all right,’ said Barrett.
‘What do you mean?’
‘With her aunt, Boss. I hope it’s not serious with her aunt.’
15
Ali had come to have a look, that was all, just to see what kind of place Joan was held in. The mental hospital, that’s what they used to call it. The nuthouse. A long grey building at the top of a grass bank. The bars on the windows were painted white, blending tastefully with the multi-paned windows behind. She imagined Joan appearing at a window, dishevelled in a nightdress, pale fingers raking at the pane.
The big gates to the grounds were open, and as she watched, a couple
walked out through them, chatting in an ordinary way, not hurrying or throwing fearful glances over their shoulders. The driveway climbed steeply up the bank and ran level along the front of the building. Maybe she would take a closer look, now that she had come all this way.
There was a glass entrance porch with a niche above it, where a statue of Mary opened her arms to all comers. Ali walked slowly towards it.
‘Excuse me!’
A woman pushed past her from behind, carrying a cone of yellow flowers, clacking her way into Damascus House on stubby heels. So they allowed visitors. She might check if there was a notice saying what the hours were. Mary O’Shea would never be this timid. Mary O’Shea would have phoned, demanded information, be sitting on Joan’s bed by now.
But Ali didn’t even know what questions to ask, even if Joan was capable of answering them. She wanted someone to make a separation between facts and nightmares. She wanted an explanation. Then the thing could be put to rest. Ali brushed her hands over her hair, pulled her pony-tail tighter and opened the door.
There were no details about visiting hours inside the porch. Beyond a second set of glass doors, a man sat at a reception desk. He looked up and beckoned her.
The inevitable smell of chemical pines threaded through blousy heat. The man at the desk was filling in some paperwork. When Ali got close, she realised it was only a newspaper crossword.
‘Can you help me?’ she said. ‘Only if you can help me,’ he replied, sucking on the end of his Biro. ‘Five letters, second one O, last one S – Weaver appears mistily.’
‘Sorry?’
He pushed the paper towards her and pointed at the last blank squares on his crossword puzzle. Ali shook her head.
‘You should get into it. Keeps the old brain together …’ His eyes drifted up towards the ceiling. ‘Looms!’ He scribbled the letters in, quick heavy strokes. ‘Got ya!’
He flung the paper aside and gave her his full attention.
‘I was wondering if it was possible for me to visit Joan Dempsey sometime?’
‘And you are?’
‘A friend.’
‘I’ve never seen you before.’
‘An old friend. I don’t live round here.’