The Rosary Garden

by Nicola White

  The boards that clad the outside of that end were vertical, and two of them were now lying on a flattened area of nettles and grass, leaving a gap into the dark space.

  ‘They were loose,’ Ali was saying. ‘I just put a hand to them …’

  Kneeling on the bruised ground, Swan twisted his shoulders and pushed his head through the gap. The air was colder inside, heavy with the smell of damp clay. The space was as small as a cupboard, no more than three feet deep and empty.

  Light crept in over his shoulder and his eyes adjusted. He hadn’t noticed the slate propped against the cottage wall. It was an ordinary slate, might have been part of the cottage’s roof once, but the bottom of it was embedded in the earth. As he tipped his head, a little light struck it and he could see marks scratched into it – the spidery double outline of a cross, and beneath it a heart. The ground in front was slightly mounded.

  He pulled back out of the small gap and started to wrench away the other planks. They came easily, the old wood crumbling under force.

  ‘And what exactly do you think is in here?’

  ‘I think it’s Joan’s baby – it must be,’ said Ali.

  Swan thought they were more likely to find someone’s dog or kitten beneath the slate than a child.

  He was so close to solving the mystery of one dead baby, but had somehow let himself get diverted into this other tale. The wise thing would be to leave this little slate as it was, get on with the matter at hand. Garda Fitzmaurice could come and check it out another day.

  ‘I’ll run back and get more help,’ said Ali.

  ‘Wait.’ A fuss was the last thing he wanted. He was only a couple of hours away from moving in on the Nolan girl.

  A flat stone lay in the weeds beside him, the size of his palm. He picked it up and started to scratch experimentally at the earth in front of the little slate.

  ‘I can’t watch.’ Ali walked away.

  Hopefully there would be nothing at all here, thought Swan, scraping methodically now. He was only an inch down when his makeshift spade encountered a small, pliable obstruction, a pale nub that had an odd pinkish tinge to it. He put aside the stone and took his penknife out of his coat pocket. By prodding about, he loosened the earth about this small protrusion and brushed it away in one movement. There, in the scooped-out hollow, a perfect little hand emerged.

  Swan’s heart missed a beat. Each finger was less than an inch long. Tiny pricks of clay filled a row of four dimples on the back of the palm. Warm relief trickled through him as he made sense of it. He pushed the tip of the penknife against the flesh-toned – it was obvious now – plastic.

  As he started to dig out the rest of the doll, he called out to Ali, ‘It’s only a doll.’

  She came to kneel beside him as he uncovered the whole arm, and next to it a forehead started to emerge. Here and there the plastic was marked with bright-yellow streaks, some kind of ageing. Once the head was free, he prised the rest of it from the soil, shook it free of insects and dirt and handed it to her. The body felt heavier than it should, as if soil had gradually sifted inside during the time it lay in the ground. The doll had a flannel nappy still wrapped around its bottom, a filthy scrap.

  Swan poked around below where the doll had lain, to check there was nothing else there. Behind him, Ali muttered something.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Baby Joy,’ she repeated, ‘this is Baby Joy.’

  ‘Was it yours?’

  ‘No, but it was supposed to be.’ Ali brought the grubby body up to her chest, embraced it.

  He should get her back to her family. The girl wasn’t right, it was plain.

  ‘I need to get on,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk you back to town, to where you’re staying.’

  ‘My aunt’s house is just near here.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to that, then.’

  He was glad to get away from the desolate cottage. As they walked, he rubbed his hands together to get rid of the soil that stuck to them. His trousers were mucky too. He offered to take the doll – to get rid of it for her – but Ali wouldn’t give it up.

  Halfway down the forestry track she stopped still. ‘Have you come here because of Joan?’

  ‘Joan? No.’

  ‘You have, haven’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know your Joan, Ali. I’m still after the mother of the Rosary Garden baby.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  Swan hooked his hand into the crook of Ali’s arm, forced her to carry on walking.

  ‘There’s someone here we need to talk to.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ali, looking down at the movement of her feet. Then she said in a small voice, ‘Is it Sister Bernadette?’

  ‘What about Sister Bernadette?’

  ‘I saw her this morning.’

  It was Swan’s turn to stop walking.

  ‘She’s here?’

  ‘Yea, it’s stupid, but I never realised before that she’s from here – I even met her when I was small, only then she was called Antoinette Nolan.’

  ‘Antoinette Nolan. With a sister called Peggy?’

  ‘You know Peggy?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Swan.

  Now it made sense. Nuns had families – you forget that. Mother Mary Paul even talked to him about nuns taking new names. But families had loyalties that outlasted those new vows; a girl in trouble would naturally seek out her sister.

  Garda Fitzmaurice must be back at the station by now. They needed to make a plan for handling the whole Nolan family, Sister Bernadette included; get in some extra Guards from Kinmore. And there was Considine to collect.

  ‘Where’s your aunt’s house?’ They had reached the roadside, and the town was in sight.

  Ali raised a hand slightly from her side to indicate something not far away. The other arm still cradled the filthy doll. She looked a forlorn sight.

  ‘A bath is very good for the spirits,’ he said, hurrying away. ‘Ask your aunt to run you a bath.’

  29

  Cathal was blethering on about some woman he’d met in Limerick, about the unusual sexual offers she’d whispered in his ear at some drinking dive. Davy clutched his pint and watched the Dempsey family gathered on the other side of the pub, the centre of attention. It wasn’t the usual post-funeral lark of ham sandwiches and slices of cake in someone’s tidy front room. There was nothing to eat, and the Red Rock Saloon was the roughest of venues. Perfect for the Dempseys. He hadn’t really meant to come along, had sort of drifted in with the crowd.

  Joan’s brothers kept throwing him filthy looks. He had the feeling that a fight was brewing, and he welcomed it.

  Some aul’ fella appeared at his side. ‘Your sister says can you come outside.’

  Davy squinted at him. ‘Right you are.’

  The old man moved off.

  ‘I’m thinking maybe now she was only a prostitute,’ Cathal was saying. Davy studied the crush of people around the Dempsey family, offering drinks and words of wisdom about death. Their tiny, ignorant opinions. He looked at their mouths, their squirming wet lips. He understood so much now about the rottenness of it all.

  Davy tipped his glass to his lips, swallowed deep. Cathal had disappeared without him noticing. He was standing alone and people were staring at him openly now. The old man reappeared.

  ‘Go on now, son. Your sister needs you.’

  Una was waiting outside in her car, clutching the steering wheel but going nowhere.

  Davy walked over, put his palms on the car roof and hung down from them to peer in at her. ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘You’re drunk. Get in,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got a pint on the go.’

  ‘Please, Davy.’

  ‘Oh, please, is it?’

  The man who had ushered him out of the pub was standing in the entrance now, barring it. Davy started to laugh as he made his way round to the passenger side of the car. When he got in, Una rolled her window down, as if he stank, and maybe he did. She looked a
ll keyed up, like she could snap if you twanged her.

  ‘This feels familiar.’

  ‘Don’t bait me,’ said Una. ‘It’s not right for you to be in there.’

  ‘Free drink and weeping – it suits me fine.’

  ‘Who’s in there? Did anyone say anything?’

  ‘Ach … everyone’s scrambling for their bit of the blame. The ma’s not there, but the men are. I’ll bet you a quid there’s a fight before closing.’

  ‘Do they say she jumped?’

  ‘Sure, isn’t that what happened?’

  ‘Don’t mess me about.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dare mess about with you. Someone told me Ned Greevy’s saying he spotted her alone on the bridge that night. What do you make of that?’

  ‘My nerves are in bits. I didn’t push her, you know that.’

  Davy combed his hand through his fringe, cleared it from his eyes. ‘I was looking the other way.’

  Her mouth opened in protest, but she seemed to change her mind and swallowed it back. She turned the key and the engine shuddered into life.

  ‘Hey, let me out,’ he said.

  Una pulled out of the car park, her hand clumsy with the gears. ‘I can’t trust you not to say something stupid when you’re like this.’

  ‘What you going to do – kill me?’

  The old Ford barrelled up the road towards Buleen, Una’s grip on the wheel as tight as her jaw.

  ‘Sorry. That was crude of me,’ he said. ‘It was just a convenient accident, let’s put it that way. First the child, then the mother.’

  ‘I’ve told you before. The baby was dead when I got to the kitchen. It was Joan’s hands on it.’

  ‘Drop me at Melody’s,’ he said as they passed the church, but Una ignored him, turning down towards the bridge at speed.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  ‘You don’t need any more drink.’

  The car bucked over the top of the bridge. Una braked hard and pulled into the grass verge beside the old chapel. With the car stopped, she turned to face him.

  ‘Do you want me up before the Guards – would that make you happy?’

  Davy met her eyes, found himself examining the black holes in the centre of them, the bit of someone that was supposed to show their true self. Nothing. She was staring back, right into his black holes. It was stupid to think you could know a person. The sound of the river flowing behind them grew in his ears, an unbearable noise.

  ‘A baby’s not really a person, is it, Una?’

  She shifted her eyes to look out the windscreen. ‘Of course it’s a person, it has a soul.’

  ‘Did you confess what you did to the priest?’

  ‘I protected Joan. Protected you. God will be my judge.’

  ‘You got away with it.’

  ‘You’ve no idea what it is to live with something like that. I got away with nothing.’

  They drove on towards the farm.

  ‘I’ll drop you at your house,’ said Una, ‘you can change, then you’ll come down to the farm for your tea.’

  A man was walking towards them on the roadside. He had a beige raincoat on, open and blowing back from a pale grey suit. Not the kind of clothes anyone wore around here. The knees of his trousers had mud on them. As they drew closer, Davy recognised the detective from the Dublin police station. He quickly raised a hand to his face. Una looked in the rear-view mirror. The man stood gazing after them, his coat billowing against the cow parsley that gushed from the hedge.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just drop me at the track.’

  As he got out of the car, Davy looked back down the road towards town. The man was no longer in sight.

  ‘Come down in about an hour,’ said Una.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Davy. He banged the car door shut and started up the track towards his bungalow.

  30

  Ali ignored Detective Swan’s advice. A bath would fix nothing, and she didn’t want to face her aunt. Instead of going to the farm, she walked to Davy’s house. He wasn’t there. She sat down on the cement stump that stood like a sentry by the unfinished threshold. The afternoon was mild, but she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. Down on the road, a car door slammed and soon afterwards Davy appeared through the trees, walking fast. He was still wearing his dark funeral suit, but it looked baggier than when she’d seen him at the graveyard, and his tie was gone.

  He started to raise a hand in greeting, but then blinked and stood still, looking at her with an expression somewhere between disgust and confusion.

  ‘What have you got there?’ he called.

  Ali looked down. The doll was lying across her knee.

  ‘It’s my doll.’

  He closed the distance between them. In the light of the clearing he looked ill, his skin doughy. He stood over her, staring down at the filthy remains of Baby Joy. He brought his hand up and swung it in slow motion towards her face. His fingers delivered a light flick against her cheek.

  ‘You little joker,’ he said, but he wasn’t smiling.

  Ali stood up. ‘You’ve been in the pub, haven’t you?’

  ‘Where did you find that aul’ yoke?’

  ‘This yoke is the doll I was supposed to get that Christmas. I found it buried in the cottage on the forestry road.’

  Davy started to laugh, low and empty. ‘So that’s what she did with it. What a retard. So you’re all on your own here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Only I saw a man on the road, heading for the village – he had city clothes.’

  ‘That’s Detective Swan – he’s from Dublin.’

  Davy took a small bunch of keys from his pocket and bounced them rhythmically in his hand. ‘I hope he’s not going to take you away from us again?’ He hopped past her up onto the doorstep and busied himself with the lock.

  ‘Nah, he’s here to talk to Sister Bernadette from my school. She’s Dr Nolan’s daughter. Well, you probably know that.’

  Davy was taking a while to unlock the door. ‘Why don’t you come in for a coffee,’ he said, his back still turned, ‘tell me all about it.’

  ‘Davy?’

  He looked round.

  ‘Who’s a retard? When I said I’d found the doll, you said something like she’s a retard.’

  He lifted his shoulders, then relaxed them in a long, exaggerated sigh.

  ‘Joan. God rest her soul. I gave her that doll to help her get over losing the baby that night. Something to hold while she was wailing. We needed the box. I didn’t think she’d go and bury it.’

  Ali shivered. We needed the box. So matter-of-fact. She did a sum in her head. Davy must have been sixteen when Joan had her baby.

  ‘Do you know about … where her baby ended up? When we found this doll, I was thinking, Where’s the real one?’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Detective Swan and me – he helped dig it up.’

  Davy stepped down beside her.

  ‘You’re some kid, do you know that? Okay, so …’

  Sliding an arm round her shoulder, Davy started to walk her along the rough path towards the farm. The doll hung from her hand, brushing through the grass. Everything was both ordinary and extraordinary, and she felt that she was being carried along on some kind of irresistible current, that even though she could speak and move, she couldn’t affect the flow of things. Even Davy seemed strange, full of flippant cheer.

  ‘Joan used to stay in that broken cottage with her little brother, like a pair of tinkers. I don’t know what you see in him, by the way; he’s closer to livestock than human. He thinks it was me that shafted her. Got her up the pole. An altar boy like me.’

  ‘I don’t think I feel right, Davy. Do you?’

  He squeezed her closer to him, but kept walking. ‘He’d rather think that than the truth. Better than knowing it was your old man or your uncle, or even one of your brothers, doing her. That’s why Joan used to stay over in the kitchen – she didn’t want to go ho
me. She knew an awful lot for her age, sex stuff. She was very keen to teach it, too.’

  The path widened and the trees gave way to farm buildings. Davy released his hold on her, looked about at the barn and outbuildings as if they were new to him, rubbed at his chin.

  Ali walked ahead onto the concrete screed of the farmyard, and the view opened up around her – the soft rise of hills, the lines of hedges and, closer in, on her left, the pig sheds. Davy came up to stand beside her.

  ‘Technically speaking, I might have been the father, but I know in my heart it wasn’t mine. It was a sickly thing, and its end was sad. I won’t have that one associated with me. I won’t.’

  Gold sunlight slanted across the fields, but here in the shade of the barn it felt cold. Ali tucked the doll inside her cardigan and drew the cloth tight around her. A tractor came into view, crossing the high meadow. Cut grass spewed out behind the reaper blades to form quilted lines.

  ‘Looks like everyone’s back from the funeral,’ she said, her own voice high in her ears. ‘Let’s go down to the house.’

  She took a step forward, but Davy’s hand fell on her shoulder, as she half-expected it would, holding her in place.

  ‘You asked me a question,’ he said, ‘at least let me answer.’

  Ali turned to look at him. Davy jumped to one side and landed on a drain cover. It rang from the blow, like a gong.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  As he said it, her nose opened to the familiar smell. Under the square drain cover was the tank that took all the pig waste. Cement channels ran down from the sheds and under the concrete rectangle they were standing on.

  ‘It’s the slurry tank,’ said Ali.

  ‘Good girl. Three fathoms deep of shit and piss. The magical thing is you never need to empty it, because the shit eats itself.’

  Ali remembered a fear she had when she was little, when she was helping to brush the slurry down the channels, that she would slip through one of the narrow slits at the end into a dark pool of stink. But that had been a groundless fear, the stuff of nightmares, easily dissolved in the light of day. Nothing like what she felt now, lurking, wide-awake.